#straight from the void™

[aromaticbugle22]

Hello Again!

I am - once again - checking in to say that I am still kicking around on this ball of dust we call "home."

.........In case anyone was curious (they weren't), I've gotten up to a fair bit in the last few... uh... hm.... let's go with 'a while.' I've started college, for one! That's neat. I'm on a fast-track to my associates and I'm not looking back!

I've also started learning graphic design, which I'm hoping to use to help improve this blog a fair bit! I'm really enjoying it so far, and I'm excited to see where it takes me.

Lastly (and probably the only thing you really care about): I plan on posting more to this blog! I have so many fun facts I've had bottled up for this almost two years?!? what??? I've been gone, and I'm excited to share them with you all! That's all for now, but stay tuned for more info and news, and keep an ear out for my call!

[valenti-nahh]

finally took some time to form opinions

So I listened to SKELETÁ by ghost and I need to confess something immediately before I combust: this album didn’t just go hard—it went raw, no lube, and made eye contact the whole time. This wasn’t music. This was a spiritual backshot, a soul-deep stroke, a full-body ghostgasm that left me trembling, moaning, and begging for more even as I lay crumpled on the floor in a post-riff fugue state.

In the beginning, there was silence. And the world was void, and the hearts of men were hollow. Their playlists were dry, their aux cords were frayed, their AirPods cursed with algorithmic torment. The masses wandered, streaming aimlessly, clinging to stale albums like relics of a time when music still meant something.

And lo, from the depths of divine discord, rose a figure cloaked in velvet and incense, masked and magnificent—Papa Emeritus, the eternal, the enigma, the ecclesiastical architect of all that slaps. And from his unholy pulpit he unleashed unto the mortal realm a sonic sermon, a blistering bible, an apocalyptic mass of melody: SKELETÁ.

It is not an album. It is a threat. A challenge. A crucible. An audio-alchemical sex ritual designed not just to melt your brain but to grip your soul by the thighs and whisper forbidden knowledge directly into your mouth. This isn’t music—it’s the sound of unzipping your moral compass and letting Papa slide into your conscience like a ghost-shaped succubus who smells like sandalwood and shame. My chakras? All aligned. My blood type? Changed to “G". I looked in the mirror mid-chorus and saw Papa Emeritus himself staring back, nodding, silently whispering, “You get it now, my child.”

I was Raptured by Riffs™, Baptized in Basslines™, Confirmed in Choir Chords™. I didn't hear the music. The music heard me. It crawled into my soul, screamed, "We’re doing renovations,” and began redecorating with fog machines and red velvet. Every measure—every downstroke—every spectral whisper—feels like I’m being spoon-fed ambrosia by a succubus in corpse paint while Gregorian monks chant in reverse behind her. THE GUITAR TONE? PEAK. THE VOCALS? CUMWORTHY. THE LYRICS? STRAIGHT FROM THE NECRONOMICON, IT’S LIKE IF SATAN AND FREDDIE MERCURY HAD A BABY AND RAISED IT IN A CANDLELIT CATHEDRAL MADE OF BASSLINES.

Every riff? A tongue on the nape of your brain. Every bass note? A finger tracing the hem of your morality. Every drum hit? A deep, pounding reminder that you are a hole waiting to be filled by sound. Every single whisper from Papa Emeritus? I didn’t just get chills—I got STDs.

I didn’t stream it—I submitted to it. I pressed play and instantly the opening riff entered me like a dark promise. I moaned. I whimpered. My legs gave out like I was being spiritually railgunned by the Holy Ghost himself. If music could bend you over a candlelit altar, whisper Latin in your ear, and leave bruises shaped like eighth notes—SKELETÁ did that.

I am not who I was. I have been cleansed in Satanic glam rock glory. Every song on SKELETÁ has permanently altered my DNA. I had a Spotify Wrapped flash-forward just from the intro and every single slot—every top track, top artist, top genre—was just GHOST. SKELETÁ. GHOST. SKELETÁ. Repeat ad infinitum. I tried to listen to another band after and my headphones burst into flames from sheer disrespect. I listened to it once and immediately deleted my entire music library out of shame. I punched a priest and he thanked me. I went outside to scream and the crows screamed back in perfect harmony. I dropped to my knees in the middle of the grocery store and began preaching to strangers about the layered brilliance of De Profundis Borealis. Two cashiers wept. An old man passed out. A child looked up and said, “I understand now,” before vanishing into thin air.

TOBIAS COULD’VE STOPPED AT OPUS EPONYMOUS. HE COULD’VE CALLED IT A DAY AFTER PREQUELLE. BUT NO. THE MAN SAID “YOU THINK I PEAKED? HERE’S A WHOLE-ASS MOUNTAIN RANGE.” THE LYRICS ON THIS ALBUM? WRITTEN IN MIDNIGHT INK FROM A FORBIDDEN GRIMOIRE AND DIPPED IN LIQUID VELVET. THE PRODUCTION? IT SOUNDS LIKE GOD GOT FIRED AND SATAN HIRED THE LONDON SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA TO FINISH THE JOB.

And let us not even pretend we can discuss this album without addressing the panty-evaporating, cheek-clenching, spine-shattering horniosity that is Papa Emeritus. PAPA EMERITUS V? The Vatican’s worst nightmare and my wettest dream. That man could sing a tax form and I’d be on my knees thanking him for the privilege. Every lyric he croons is like velvet rope tightening around your soul. The vocals on Lachryma? That wasn’t singing. That was a linguistic fingering. My ears came. My spine curled. I am now a concubine of the Church of Ghost. The man doesn’t walk—he glides, he hovers half an inch above the stage like a damned angel of lust. His voice? A sonic phallus. A melodic middle finger to purity. He moans into the mic and my knees lock and my back arches. I swear, the second I heard Satanized I started lactating unholy water. I haven’t blinked since. I want him to spit communion wine in my mouth. I want to be pinned under his velvet robes while the Ghouls play a breakdown over my body. I want him to use me as a microphone stand while preaching to a sold-out crowd. I want him to sing directly into my womb and summon a demon baby named Clef.

And the Ghouls?? Do NOT talk to me about the Ghouls unless you’re ready to admit you’d let every one of those anonymous masked sex demons ruin you in seven different time signatures. The way they handle those instruments? That’s not musicianship. That’s musical foreplay. That’s filthy, technical, unspoken polyphonic pornography. I saw one strumming in the official tour footage and had to bite a rosary. The bassist walked across the stage and my soul quivered. the lead guitarist did a solo that made me see the shape of the true universe—and it was a silhouette of him doing a backbend in a fog machine.

If they ever took those masks off in front of me? I would spontaneously combust and ascend as ectoplasm. I’d be a ghoul groupie for eternity. Haunt their tour bus. Moan in D minor.

Every track on SKELETÁ is a full-blown satanic striptease in audio form. Missilia Amori?? That wasn’t a song—that was a thigh grab. That was a slow push against the wall of my inhibitions. The guitar solos in made me arch my back and whisper “yes, Papa” out loud. Alone. In public. While holding groceries.

By the time I hit the final track, I felt like I was soaked in candle wax and moral regret. I had screamed, wept, grinded on air, confessed my sins, and added three Ghouls to my “People I’d Let Ruin Me in a Haunted Confessional” Pinterest board.

This album has ruined music for me. No, really. Everything else is just noise. Elevator beeps. Soundcloud farts. I tried listening to another band and felt cheated. Disrespected. Dry. Nothing else grips the thighs of my attention like this. Nothing else makes my ribs vibrate like Papa whispering esoteric metaphors over orchestral filth.

It’s edging with a soundtrack. It’s what the devil plays when he wants to set the mood.

If I ever meet Ghost, I will not say a word. I will fall to my knees, bare my neck, and let them mark me with eyeliner and melted vinyl. I will wear nothing but tour merch and a knowing smile. I will let the Ghouls use me as a pedalboard. I will let Papa bless my unworthy flesh with a single, whispered lyric.

SKELETÁ is not just music. It is not just an album. It is a pantheon, a rebirth, an erotic funeral in waltz time. It is the reason Dante wrote the Inferno. The soundtrack to the Book of Revelations. If you told me this album was found buried beneath the ruins of Babylon, etched into onyx slabs and played using a speaker forged in the heart of a dying star—I would believe you.

After I listened to SKELETÁ, I couldn’t speak. I tried. My voice had been replaced by reverb. My tears were black glitter. We got evicted for playing it too loud but the landlord dropped the case when he heard the chorus of Umbra. The judge cried. The bailiff quit and joined a cover band. My neighbors? Converted. We will meet twice a week to analyze the every song. There are spreadsheets. There are candles. We chant. We sob.

If you haven’t listened to it yet, you are missing out on spiritual enlightenment, emotional rebirth, and at least four spontaneous orgasms. If you “don’t get Ghost,” listen to this album, and if you still don’t get it? I will excommunicate you. Delete your contact. Take your soul, give it to Papa. Convert or be cast out.

I don’t care what your favorite album was before this. It’s irrelevant now. It’s like bringing a sparkler to a nuclear bomb party.

In conclusion: SKELETÁ has taken my hole. My soul. My will to pretend I like other bands. I’m raw. I’m reformed. I’m reborn.

Stream it. Moan to it. Worship it. Ride it into the darkness. Amen.

[scoutofmymind]

Mama scout mi Reina! Would you be open to writing an AU of Luigi? A little supernatural ish perhaps 👀

Saw You in a Dream — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW— MINORS DNI dream-kissing lol, yearning, some pining I suppose, reader is an uninspired artist, Luigi is a figment of her imagination.

Wc: 4,153

Notes: ONEIRIX™ is a dream enhancement supplement designed to intensify and prolong REM sleep experiences.

AN: I DO plan on continuing this if requests for it are abundant. I have many, many ideas for how this story could go, but I will tell you, it’s a lil…. Twisted hehe. Also, my darling anon, I know this isn’t really “supernatural” but in hopes of not writing 10k again and learning when to stop, I must note that more supernatural elements will be tied in if this is requested enough for a continuation. Love you xox

"What's wrong with old-fashioned, regular dreams?" You stare across the table at Bailey, who leans forward with an almost evangelical intensity, her blue eyes gleaming with the same fervor as when she pitched her start-up ideas or insisted everyone try CrossFit. "Is nothing sacred anymore? Do we have to optimize and upgrade every last human experience?"

"No," Bailey says, drumming her fingers against the table, her half-eaten omelette growing cold. She keeps shaking her head as if your resistance personally offends her. "These are revolutionary — they're going to change the way we think, bitch." The words come out with practiced casualness, like everything else about her these days.

She flicks a small pink baggie across the table, four obsidian-black pills rattling inside like tiny meteorites hurtling straight toward your earth.

"No." You slide the baggie back with a single finger, as if even touching it too long might leave a stain. "I don't need another vice."

"It's non-addictive." Bailey leans in, her voice dropping to that silky-smooth pitch she used to use selling timeshares in Miami. Despite her earlier promise that she wasn't working for them, you catch that familiar gleam in her eye — the one that surfaced with every pyramid scheme and side hustle she'd dragged you into. "I just need you to experience it. Just once."

The baggie sits between you like a dare, its pink sheen catching the diner's fluorescent lights, making the black pills inside gleam like wet ink.

"It could really inspire your art." She slides a journal across the table — black, unmarked, expensive-looking. "I've filled this thing with ideas already. It’s only been a week.”

She's found your weak spot now.

Those late-night calls, the wine-soaked confessions about your creative drought, the mounting pressure from your agent — it's all ammunition. "This could be your saving grace," she adds, and the words sink their hooks in deep. Your fingers twitch toward the baggie, career desperation beginning to outweigh your better judgment. “I’m dead serious.”

"Fine." You snatch the baggie and shove it deep into your purse, somewhere between old receipts and forgotten lipliner, secretly hoping it'll vanish into that void where hair ties and spare change go to die. "Give me the pamphlet. You clearly don't need it." You thrust out your hand, and Bailey practically glows as she slides over the sleek Oneirix packet, its metallic lettering catching the light like a sign you're choosing to ignore.

The pills had disappeared into your purse's black hole until Bailey's FaceTime lit up your phone the next afternoon. There she was, sleep mask pushed up like a crown, her face dewy with her latest hundred-dollar moisturizer. "So, did you try it?" Her grin was expectant, eager — the same look she'd worn pushing juice cleanses and crystal healing.

You glance at your desk, where half-finished canvases gather dust and untouched notebooks mock your creative drought.

Last night had been your usual routine; an hour-long shower where you'd solved all of life's problems and remembered none of them, three episodes of that show you're still trying to convince yourself you enjoy, and quality time with your artistic inadequacy.

"Not yet." You mumble around a spoonful of ice cream, your attention split between Bailey's glowing face and whatever's playing on Netflix — neither getting your full focus.

"Girl," she clicks her tongue, and you can hear the judgment dripping through your phone speaker. "Go get them — are you scared?" The question hangs there, pointed and precise, like she's daring you.

You hate how well she knows you, how easily she can press that particular button.

Being called scared has always been your kryptonite, ever since she first met you at that high school gallery opening where you'd been too anxious to mingle.

"No." Your face twists into a scowl at her accusation. "I just forgot." You hit pause, abandoning both your show and melting ice cream to dig through your purse.

You find the baggie too easily, the pamphlet's glossy surface catching the light as you unfold it, its clinical text stark against the dark background.

ONEIRIX

DREAM ENHANCEMENT SUPPLEMENT

FOR INTENSIFIED & PROLONGED REM SLEEP EXPERIENCES

The instructions read like any over-the-counter medication.

One tablet, 30 minutes before bed, standard warnings about machinery and other medications.

"Okay." The pamphlet lands on your counter, its unread warnings fanning out like discarded playing cards. "Will it make me tired, or do I already have to be—"

"Oh, it knocks your ass out." Bailey's voice drifts from your abandoned phone, tinny and distant. You wrestle with the baggie's seal, the plastic refusing to cooperate until it suddenly gives, spilling one glossy black pill into your palm. "It works a hell of a lot faster than thirty minutes, too," she adds through a yawn.

You swallow the pill, and before you can even contemplate moving from the kitchen to your bed, a heaviness seeps into your limbs like honey dripping down glass.

Bailey's already drifted off on FaceTime, her gentle snores creating a strange duet with your own as consciousness slips away once you make it to the couch faster than falling.

The transition is jarring — not the usual soft fade into nonsensical dreams, but a sharp snap into awareness. You know you're dreaming, the way you know your own name, the way you know the sky is blue. It's like someone's turned up the saturation on reality, made everything clearer and brighter than it has any right to be.

This isn't the usual dream-fog where your brain accepts that your childhood home has suddenly sprouted wings or that your teeth are falling out at a gallery show.

This is different.

This is aware.

You wiggle your toes in the grass — actual, individual blades tickling your feet, not the vague suggestion of grass that usually populates dreams. Your manicure catches the sunlight, that specific shade of dusty rose you picked last Tuesday, tiny chips and all.

The rings on your fingers still catch when you twist them, that familiar nervous habit following you even here. Everything about you is preserved with photograph precision, dropped into this impossible elsewhere.

"Jesus," escapes your lips, the word carried away by a breeze that feels too perfectly warm to be real. The butterflies dance overhead like confetti caught in reverse, their wings painted in colors that might not exist in the waking world. You watch one land on a nearby flower, and you can see every detail of its wings, every tiny pattern — the kind of detail your sleeping mind has never bothered with before. "This is fucking-"

“Hey.”

The voice cuts through your wonder, and you spin, heart somehow racing in this dream-that's-not-quite-a-dream.

He's there, solid as the ground beneath your feet — no dream-logic shimmer or fade around the edges. Tall, with shoulders that could carry atlas's burden, and features that seem carved rather than grown. His smile plays at the corners of his mouth like he knows a secret you don't, but it's not threatening. If anything, it pulls at something in your chest, a curiosity that feels dangerous in its intensity.

"Hey," you echo, the word coming out softer than intended. Your eyes sweep the meadow, searching for other dreamers or figures or whatever they might be called here. But it's just him, just you, just this perfect pocket of perpetual summer afternoon stretching out in all directions.

"S'just me." His hand extends between you like a bridge, and you notice how the sunlight catches on his knuckles, creating shadows you could count. No name follows, just that smile deepening into dimples.

"Your name?” You tilt your chin down, adopting the pose of someone who's seen too many crime documentaries to trust a nameless stranger, even in a dream. Your eyebrows arch high enough to feel the stretch — another impossible sensation that feels too real.

"Seems you haven't decided yet."

"I haven't decided?"

He shrugs, the gesture rippling across those shoulders like a wave, and something flickers in his expression - like a TV losing signal for just a moment. "Yeah." He blinks, and you can see him searching his own mind, coming up empty. "Haven't decided yet."

Your eyes travel his form like you're memorizing a sculpture. The elegant taper from broad shoulders to narrow waist, the careful strength in his forearms, the way he holds himself — somehow both completely at ease and coiled with potential energy. His eyes meet yours with that puppy-dog hopefulness that seems at odds with his imposing frame, that half-smile still playing on his lips.

"Lu—ee-" The sound stretches between you, and you can taste the wrongness of it. Your head tilts, and suddenly it clicks. "Luigi."

Luigi nods, a slow, knowing motion, and reaches behind him. The wallet arcs through the air, and when you catch it, the leather feels warm, like it's been sitting in summer sunshine. It falls open in your hands, and there it is — Luigi Mangione, printed in stark bureaucratic certainty. "I thought you'd say that."

The urge to gasp, to stumble back in shock, rises and falls like a wave. Reality — or whatever version of it this is — reasserts itself with the gentle persistence of tide coming in. Of course you knew his name. Of course you did. Just like you knew the exact shade of his eyes, the precise angle of his jaw, the way his right dimple is slightly deeper than his left.

There’s a reason he feels familiar.

You made him.

"Well, Luigi," The name feels like syrup on your tongue as you pivot, bare feet finding their path through grass as the sun drapes over your shoulders like a tailored shawl, warming without burning, perfect in that way only dreams can manage. "I'm sure you know who I am."

Luigi falls into step beside you, a flag leaf dancing between his lips as he walks.

His presence feels as natural as your shadow, a complement to your movement rather than an intrusion. "Of course," he says, and his voice carries the same gentle warmth as the sunlight, the same easy invitation as the wind that plays with your hair.

The grass gives way to reveal a pond that looks like liquid mercury in the sunlight. "I've been waiting awhile for you — seemed to have run out of ways to pass the time."

You stand at the water's edge, watching swans carve elegant paths across the surface, their reflections perfect mirrors in the still water, and in the distance, ducks conduct their quiet conversations. "Are you saying you're bored of everything here?"

"No," Luigi's fingers brush your sleeve, gentle but insistent, like a breeze that knows where it's going. As he steps forward, wildflowers burst into existence beneath his feet — first violets, then daisies, then flowers you've never seen before, in colors that shouldn't exist. "I'm saying it gets lonely doing the same thing everyday on your own."

Luigi continues forward, leaving his galaxy of flowers behind, but you find yourself frozen, watching the way the light catches his silhouette.

"How many times?" The question escapes before you can catch it. "How many times have I been here and left?"

He pauses mid-step, and for a moment, the whole dreamscape seems to hold its breath — the swans pause their gliding, the breeze stills, even the wildflowers stop their eager blooming. When he turns to face you, his smile carries a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

"It’s been so long, but — " he pauses, and somehow the words don't sound like an accusation. "Sometimes for seconds, sometimes for hours. Sometimes you remember me, sometimes you don't. But you always come back eventually. And I'm always here."

You swallow, “How long has it been?"

His laugh drifts through the air, light and melodic. "Long enough that I've watched these trees grow from saplings." His bare feet shift in the grass, toes curling against the earth. "Long enough that I've named every swan on this pond, then named their children, and then their children's children."

The wildflowers continue once again their blooming beneath his steps — first soft pinks, then deep purples, then blues that seem to glow from within. Each petal unfolds with deliberate precision, creating a trail that marks his path across the meadow.

You notice how he holds himself, the way his shoulders stay perfectly squared, his posture too fluid, too precise for someone who's supposed to be just a figment of your dreams. "So I looked different last time?" you wonder, trailing behind him again, catching the slight nod.

"We were both younger then." Luigi turns back to you and grins, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. “I’ve really missed you."

His voice carries the warmth of old sunlight, that rare sincerity that can't be fabricated — something in his presence that felt secure, anchoring, his nature as gentle as summer rain.

But the look in his eyes betrayed what his smile tried to hide — he knew you didn't remember him, and that knowledge lived somewhere deep and wounded inside him.

You could see it now, in the careful way he held himself back, how his initial greeting carried just enough warmth to be kind but not enough to overwhelm. Your memory of him had been burning away like lit matches with each passing year, while he'd been trapped here, holding onto every detail of who you used to be.

Luigi lead you further into the meadow, another pond materializing somewhere further into the deep but Luigi seemed far too familiar with this terrain, and you trusted each turn, “Have I given you different names?”

He shakes his head with a laugh, soft and bittersweet, almost as if he couldn't imagine wearing any other name than your Luigi. "No." He scrunches his nose, a gesture so achingly familiar it feels like déjà vu. "One time I almost thought you were going to, but — nope. Always some variation of Luigi."

The questions dance at the edges of your consciousness like autumn leaves in a wind, but somehow the answers are already there, settled in your bones like old truths. Why he lets you choose, how he knows when recognition lights your eyes and when they stay dark with forgetting — it's all written in a language your mind has forgotten but your heart still speaks fluently.

"I saw you for a minute somewhere near the streams last winter." His voice softens, eyes distant as if watching memories drift past like leaves on water. "It was only for a split moment — but I knew it was you, even though you'd changed."

Your heart twists with a horrible dread, sharp and cold as winter frost, weighed down by the certainty that he'll slip through your fingers like morning mist the moment you wake. "How do I make myself remember?" The words fall soft as prayer between you both, your knees brushing as you sit beside him.

He turns to you with that gentle patience that speaks of having heard this same desperate question from your lips a hundred times before, in a hundred different dreams.

He draws your hand into his lap with practiced ease, his fingertips ghosting over yours like butterfly wings — a gesture so deeply ingrained it speaks of countless similar moments, his soul remembering the map of your hands better than your own mind does. It doesn't feel strange to fall back into these rhythms with Luigi; everything has felt as natural as breathing since you landed here, like slipping into a dance your feet never truly forgot. "I know parts of me remember you," you whisper into the space between heartbeats, watching his fingers trace invisible patterns across your skin. "I know you feel familiar.”

Luigi nods slowly, pressing your palm to his cheek with a gentle sigh that carries the weight of a thousand forgotten moments. "We never learned how to make you remember," he murmurs, his voice wrapped in forced lightness that can't quite mask the undertow of grief beneath. "Always a toss up."

You swing your feet from the mossy ledge where Luigi sits, the ancient stone cool beneath you both.

He leans back on his palms, wearing a smile that's equal parts joy and resignation — a man who's learned to find peace in fleeting moments.

There's something heartbreaking in how he's already accepted that this too will slip through the sieve of your memory, but still treasures your presence like water in a desert, grateful just to have you here at all.

"I'll remember this time." The words spill out like a vow, fragile as spun glass but burning with conviction. Even as you speak them, you know they might shatter come morning, but something feels different here — each detail crystalline and alive, from the whisper of wind in the leaves to the warmth of his shoulder against yours.

This doesn't feel like the usual gossamer threads of dreams; it feels like stepping through a door into somewhere achingly real.

"Mm." Luigi's shoulder brushes yours, a gentle pendulum of contact, and though his hum carries years of gentle disbelief, he can't suppress the smile that softens his features. "All that matters is that you're here now, I think."

You nod slowly, watching your legs paint pendulum shadows against the water below. "Is there anyone else here?" The whisper slips out conspiratorial and soft, your eyes scanning the peaceful landscape as if its emptiness might be deceiving.

"No." Luigi shrugs, tossing a stone into the pond where it breaks the surface in perfect ripples. "You thought up a couple weird little-“ he scrunches his nose, lost in the memory of your previous creations — specifically those tiny Trojan warriors you'd accidentally willed into existence, who'd turned the peaceful fields into their own private battlefield. "It's just never worked out." He turns to you with a glimmer of fond exasperation, pressing a knuckle into your thigh. "You've got a rather dangerous imagination."

You swallow the question rising in your throat, deciding some doors are better left closed — for the sake of whatever fragments of sanity you still possess.

If there are any left to guard.

"Dangerous," you echo in a whisper, fighting back a bubble of laughter that threatens to spill over. "Well, scratch that, then.”

"It's always been you and me here." Luigi nods slowly, his voice taking on that particular texture of someone guarding something precious. "Outsiders make me nervous."

From that careful admission, you piece together a history of well-intentioned mistakes — multiple attempts at populating this sanctuary that ended in ways that left shadows in Luigi's voice. Each failure seems etched in the spaces between his words, a collection of experiments gone wrong. "That's fair," you murmur, reaching for his hand with gentle curiosity. He surrenders it without hesitation, letting you trace the lines of his palm like a map of all your shared disasters.

There's something profoundly real in the way his skin warms yours, in the faint calluses and subtle creases — too detailed, too imperfect to be mere imagination, yet too perfect in its imperfection to be anything else.

"How is the gallery stuff going?" His question floats between you, and for a heartbeat, confusion sparks — how could he know about the gallery?

But the answer settles over you like dawn breaking.

Of course he knows.

He knows the way your hands shake before each opening, the doubt that pools in your stomach when you face a blank canvas, the elation of a perfect brushstroke. He knows your fears dressed in their Sunday best and your dreams in their rawest form.

You made him.

Crafted him from stardust and loneliness, shaped him from the clay of your subconscious until he became more real than reality itself — your most perfect creation, yet the one you can never quite remember come morning.

"I haven't been inspired in — god," you trail off, turning to truly see him, and the dormant artist in you awakens with a sudden, fierce hunger. The sunlight plays architect with his features, gilding each detail you'd unconsciously perfected; those midnight curls catching light like cut obsidian, the almost-symmetrical beauty marks dotting his cheeks like carefully placed stars, the classical slope of his nose that Renaissance masters would have wept to capture.

Your fingers twitch with phantom muscle memory, aching to translate him from this dream-reality to paper, to make permanent what feels so ethereal. "So long." The words fall soft and wondering, as if you've suddenly remembered how to speak a forgotten language — the language of creation, of beauty, of art itself.

Luigi hums softly, nuzzling your shoulder with a familiarity that sends your thoughts spiraling backward through time. "Well, let's get you inspired," he murmurs, his breath warm against your neck, and suddenly you're wrestling with questions you've been too afraid to examine.

The intimacy of the gesture opens a door to memories of your teenage self — those raw, lonely years when you were all sharp edges and desperate yearning, underwhelmed by fumbling high school romances and overwhelmed by feelings.

You created him then, in those twilight hours between childhood and adulthood. A friend first, undoubtedly — a sanctuary in human form when the real world felt too abrasive to bear.

But now, feeling the casual tenderness of his touch, you wonder about the blurred lines in your shared history. If perhaps you'd written more than friendship into his DNA during those hormone-soaked nights, those moments when loneliness wore your resistance thin.

You melt into his warmth, drawn by a gravity as familiar as breathing, like a desperate moth to a flame you've danced with a thousand times before. "How do we do that?" The question hangs deliberately innocent, though electricity already hums beneath your skin with anticipated answers.

Luigi's response is immediate and devastating — the warm, wet slide of his tongue painting a deliberate path up your neck. Time stretches as he savors you, the gesture somehow both predatory and reverent.

"Maybe we could jog your memory, too." His voice drops to that particular octave that makes your bones liquid, left hand claiming your chin while his right arm becomes a band of heat around your waist, orchestrating your body until you're straddling his lap. "I remember exactly the things you like the most," teeth graze your pulse point as his hands span your back, fingertips pressing into your spine like he's playing music only he knows the notes to, "and the things you hate."

"How do you know those things haven't changed, Lu?" Your fingers find sanctuary in his curls, each strand impossibly soft, and the breeze carries the essence of August - sun-warmed grass, distant thunderstorms, ripening fruit. The scent of endless summer, bottled in this perfect moment.

"I guess there's only one way to find out, don't you think?" The question unfolds like a flower between you as Luigi tilts his head back, studying you through heavy-lidded eyes.

His lips part, pink and promising, an unspoken dare wrapped in velvet invitation. And you — you who have always been more poet than pragmatist — surrender to the gravitational pull of him. You lean in like a sunset chasing the horizon, drawn to the heat of his mouth, the shared breath between you becoming sacred thing.

His tongue moves against yours with practiced poetry, his lips a tender geography you're rediscovering. Every nip of teeth is precisely timed, a choreography written in muscle memory and want. Just as his hands find the warm skin beneath your shirt, reality fractures — a void tears through the dream like ink spilled across a watercolor.

The darkness swallows everything, sudden and absolute.

You jolt awake with violence, heart thundering against your ribs. The familiar couch cushions press against your cheek, mundane and mocking. The real world crashes back into focus with brutal clarity; the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the wall clock, the morning light cutting through back scatter.

Each detail feels like a betrayal, a reminder that Luigi exists only in that liminal space between sleeping and waking, where longing takes shape and wears a face you crafted from starlight and need.

"No." The word escapes as a soft, desperate plea. Your hand reaches for the sketchbook and pen with the urgency of someone grasping at smoke, at fragments of a dream determined to dissolve.

And there he is — Luigi materializing before you like a miracle answering desperate prayers, your artist's eye already translating the divine geometry of his face onto paper before memory can steal him away.

You are the faithful at the altar, he the vision you're determined to make tangible.

The alarm screams again, reality's insistent hammer against your temple. "Fuck off!" you snarl, jabbing at the screen with unnecessary force, brows knitted with the particular fury reserved for things that dare interrupt worship.

The real world can wait.

Right now, there are curves of ink to capture, beauty marks to map, and the precise angle of summer sunlight in black curls to remember.

Hey, I think you were right about the pills

You text Bailey after lunch.

Holy shit

[doratonkss1]

DORAAA! EVERYONEEE (hide ur valuables)

She/her mostly, but they/them is totally cool too!

I’m bi. Like, obnoxiously so.

Tripped into an Auror interview once. They still hired me.

Will hex you if you mess with my mum. Or my plants. Or my boots.

halfblood, but honestly who cares? Magic’s for everyone — and if you disagree, I will fight you in a muddy field while wearing glitter.

Hufflepuff and proud, but don’t let that fool you — I will cause problems on purpose.

Neurodivergent chaos™ – probably got diagnosed by tea leaf readings and an over-observant gran. Still counts.

Likes: ✨ bright hair dye, combat boots, hexes that sparkle 🪴 plants, weird magical creatures, loud music, good tea 📚 books with crinkled pages, nose-changing spells, cozy sweaters, late-night broom rides 💛 hugs. but I’ll deny it.

Dislikes: 🧍‍♂️ stuck-up purists 😤 people who say Hufflepuffs are boring 🔪 emotional vulnerability (but I’m working on it) 🪑 chairs I trip over

Cool people I like or tolerate:

@bleached-blond-bitch - Cousin. Surprisingly not awful. We’re working on it.

@behind-bars-baddie - Sirius, lives up to the hype. Kinda unhinged. Love it

@lupins-luxery-insan1ty - Remus. Bookish. Broody. Probably needs a nap. Would trust him with my life tho

@prongs--jr - Harry!! He’s like a tiny reckless problem child I never asked for

@walking-talking-dictionary - Hermione! Actual genius. Also lowkey terrifying in a good way

@betterthanfred - Fred. Certified disaster. Best prank ideas

@betterthangeorge - George. Surprisingly the less insane twin. Only slightly.

@ron-b-weasley - Ron! Solid bloke, also chaos-attractant

@ginny-not-ginevra - Ginny! Love her to bits 🦋

@luna-rya-lovegood - Luna 🦋 she’s brilliant. Literal starlight

@onehundredandsixteen - Headmaster. Literally the cryptid in charge. Smells like lemon drops and generational trauma. Has seen the void and made it write a school curriculum.

@mrs-prongs - Lily!!! Beautiful, terrifying, would hex a Ministry official with perfect eyeliner.

@imbetterthanuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu - Barty. Chaos in a suit. Probably has a secret room full of cursed spoons.

@rosiers--and--thorns - Evan Rosier. Grew straight out of a gothic poem. Insults people like it’s foreplay.

@mother-molly-weasley – Molly. Literal mom of the year. Has threatened to kill me with a wooden spoon and I believe her.

@angie-jj - Possibly the only person keeping the twins from spontaneously combusting.

@pansies-and-snakes - Looks like she owns 47 types of perfume and 3 exes in Azkaban.

@purebloodprincezabini - Blaise. Rich, mysterious, pretty

@severus-not-snivellus - Once called me “a hazard in boots.” Still not sure if it was an insult or a nickname.

@that-super-duper-weird-one - Spoke to a cloud once and it changed his life. Keeps offering me enchanted soup

@neville-sucks-at-magic - I trust him with my life and my houseplants.

@delacour-petale - I would fight for her, die for her, AND let her call me a mess in French

@the-real-oliver-wood - I think he sleeps in a locker room.

[teemdark]

Thinking about... Sonic and Shadow racing from time to time. Pretty standard hc.

Except that Shadow loses more often than not, but not because he's slower or anything. He just keeps getting distracted by things he's never seen and straight up stops running to admire the pretty flowers he spotted in the undergrowth, or a butterfly with a peculiar pattern on its wings, or a rock formation in the distance that from this angle looks especially cool.

The first time it happens Sonic only notices after a while and kinda goes "wtf did he trip and fall into the void or smth" and runs back to look for Shadow and finds him laying on his stomach staring intensely at a bunch of weird fake-ladybug thingies.

And maybe nowadays when Shadow gets home after one of these 'failed' races, the first thing he tells Rouge is "I saw a new flower today" and she goes "alright describe it to me we're adding it to the Notebook™" and all is well with the world.

P.S. The Notebook™ is a little journal of all the new things Shadow sees and likes <3

[duchess-kyuupid]

Not quite an X Reader request, but a fun little prompt: In the place of Yuu is a TWST version of Little Ghost from Hollow Knight. Everyone thinks the kid's some random five year old fae that got swiped up by accident and is mostly babysat by the staff, but that doesn't stop some students from trying to bully the baby.

However, the baby in question is very good at hiding knives on their person and is secretly a master swordsman, and one day stabs a bully in the leg for shoving them, right in front of the bully's dorm leader.

Question: How do the dorm leaders react in this situation?

Okay uhh... I haven't written anything for a long time I know, but this I feel like I absolutely HAVE to do. Hopefully Silksong comes soon...right?

« Little Ghost gets into a Little Fight™ in Twisted Wonderland »

[TWST x Hollow Knight, Platonic affection, Ghost is slightly taller than Grim, not an x reader, the bullies are from each respective dorm (like Riddle's bullies are from Heartslabyul, etc.)]

So this whole conundrum started when Little Ghost found their favorite dorm leader in the halls in between classes. In their little scurry to reach them, they had to bypass a couple other students who were also in the hallway. One such student, with their small group of friends, intended to punt them and disguise it as a mere "shove."

"Better watch where you're going, shorty- us tall people can't see you from all the way up here when- OW! God damn it, what the hell?"

Little Ghost hides away their sharpened nail within the cover of their cloak, as if it was never there to begin with. They look up to the bully, pure malice filling the void of its blank, unblinking eyes. The bully's friends decide it was probably best to take the bully to the nurse and apologize on their behalf because, just look at his leg, it's bleeding! And, oh god, how big is that hole in his foot? What even is this weird shadow stuff? Best to just apologize and get out of there while they still could...

~Riddle~

Riddle witnesses the whole thing from the very moment that the Little Ghost saw him to begin with. Yet, the bullies left so quick that he didn't get a chance to collar them for their blatant disregard for the lives of innocent creatures. And almost immediately after the bullies left, the knight headed straight towards Riddle.

He was angry at first, at how the bullies so flagrantly disobeyed Rule #75: Never kick any creature with your left foot on Thursdays. But rather, he ended up feeling more concerned over the safety of the knight than anything else.

He took a moment to make sure the knight was feeling okay before going off into great detail about how it's against school policy to carry and conceal any weapon that isn't a wand on campus. Granted, he momentarily stops himself mid-sentence during his rant about this, since technically Little Ghost isn't even a student at NRC, so perhaps those rules don't apply to them? Hmm... An interesting counterargument indeed...

Ghost merely stares blankly back with little reaction to the scolding from Riddle. He sighs and decides to say nothing else about the knight's hidden weapons because, ultimately, Riddle is just happy that he won't have to worry so much about the little guy getting hurt with the knowledge that they can protect themselves if they need to.

"Well," Riddle supposes, "I guess I can let it go just this once. But just make sure that you don't go around stirring up even more trouble. Just let me know if anyone else decides to bother you, and I shall make sure to deal with them properly. Still, I need to go make sure those other ruffians don't make the same mistake twice about breaking the Queen's rules."

Riddle leans down a bit and pats the top of the knight's head with endearment in his eyes before walking away towards the nurse's office, an obvious glare of anger in his stride as he walked.

And the Little Ghost, left all alone in the hallway, looks down to their little hand, holding onto their precious charm: Fury of the Fallen.

Ah, another time then... they think.

~Leona~

Leona catches the whole thing and laughs about it as he watches the bullies scurry away in fear. He'd be dead before he admits it out loud, but Leona was actually just about to step in for the Little Ghost. True, he was pretending that he didn't see them as they were trying to approach him in the hallway, but he's always trying to look out for Little Ghost, whether on purpose or not.

Anyway, his laugh was more like a snide snicker, filled with mocking amusement. It was almost ironic how those beastmen could be so frightened by such a small little mouse, and hearing them squeal like babies was almost like music to his ears.

Leona smiles wider when Ghost finally approaches him after the incident, and he dips down to give them a little pat on the head.

"Nice job there, runt. That's what they get for messing with the wrong pack."

However, Leona's caught by surprise when the Ghost takes his hand from their head and places something in it. It felt cold- metallic maybe?- in his hand, and he takes a look at the gift Ghost had given to him. A... brooch? Ehh... The thought is nice but he's not exactly a jewelry kinda guy, you know?

Oh wait, and there's a note on it too.

'Mark of Pride. To my favorite pack leader.'

The next day, almost all of the Savanaclaw residents took notice of the new brooch their leader started wearing around.

~Azul~

Well, those bullies did have it coming to them, to be fair. Azul is in equal parts surprised and not surprised at those turn of events. On one hand, he's not surprised that Ghost had a little something up their sleeves on how to protect themselves, but on the other hand, he just didn't expect it to be...that.

Like, you'd think that you wouldn't be able to do a lot of damage with just a comically sized nail, but apparently, it was enough to scare even Octavinelle students away. And what was with that shadow magic? He's never seen anyone use anything remotely similar- not even cosmic magic came close to what the Ghost wielded in tandem with their nail just now.

My, he's just reminded of how the land has so many things to learn and many more to gain from. Azul approaches Ghost after the bullies leave with a smile on his face. Whether the smile is from his eagerness for a new deal, his relief that Ghost is safe, or even a combination of the two- not even Azul knows.

"That was spectacular, Little Ghost! You really showed them what's what!"

And Ghost just looks back up at him with his eyes, devoid of any sort of emotion. Most people have become quite frightened of Ghost by now, and it feels like Azul is the only person who ever looks them directly in the eyes. After all, after spending basically your entire life at the bottom of the ocean, peering into the darkness is nothing new for someone like Azul.

For this reason, while Azul was talking his mouth off at the prospect of learning about Ghost's void magic, Ghost reaches into their cloak and pulls out a charm, picked out specifically for Azul.

Ghost stands on their toes and stretches out their arms to offer their one and only charm of Unbreakable Greed to Azul, and he receives it gracefully with a polite thank you and a semi-surprised expression.

"It's remarkably shiny. Beautiful even. Thank you, Ghost." Ghost quickly finds a pen and paper to write on for a quick note to Azul before he starts getting any ideas.

'Don't sell this one. It's supposed to bring you more money.'

~Kalim~

He was too carried away in talking off Jamil's ears, so much so that he never even noticed the kerfuffle until the bullies started making a fuss.

"NO! GHOST, STOP IT. That's mean!" He scolds ghost as if they were a cat, and he didn't even realize that it was out of self defense. He picks up ghost and cuddles him close to his chest and tries to apologize to the bully for the inconvenience.

Meanwhile, the bully just screams out about how the ghost is a devil in disguise- a monster. Kalim doesn't believe them as the ghost just looks back up to him with (seemingly) innocent doe eyes.

"Well if you were being mean like that to them then its no wonder why they hurt you!" And by that point, the bullies had already started to run off, frightened of getting on the wrong side of an Al-Asim as well as...whatever Ghost is- monster or devil.

"You didn't get hurt did you, little guy?" Kalim asks worriedly, and Ghost merely shakes his head no. With a sigh of relief, Kalim smiles and continues walking through the hallway with Ghost still in tow within his arms.

This was probably the most perfect time for Ghost to offer their gift to him, so from their pocket they take out their Hiveblood charm.

And Jamil has to stop Kalim from crying on the spot when the Ghost attaches the charm onto his cardigan. Ghost doesn't even need to explain what it does- Kalim will probably wear it every day anyway.

~Vil~

Vil sees what happens and also laughs for a second as he watched the bullies run away from the scene. Though, he was a bit disappointed, in a way. Those bullies were the ones who started it, and yet they didn't even have the courage to finish it? Not only that, but they didn't even look the least bit graceful in their bullying tactics. How shameful. He ought to scold them for bringing such disgusting habits into the Pomefiore lifestyle.

But, Vil decided, they were very much beyond his recognition right now. As Housewarden, he can probably set them up with a punishment befitting their actions later, but right now, Vil notices the Little Ghost approaching him with a sort of glee in their steps.

"Hello there, Little Ghost. You weren't hurt, I hope?" And Ghost shakes their head no before reaching into their pocket to pull something out from under their cloak.

Immediately, the hallway fills up with a strong stench in the air that seemingly came from nowhere. But, Vil knew better. After all, he can practically see the fumes radiating off of whatever the Ghost had in their hand. What confused him though, was why it only started smelling when the Ghost took it out from their cloak if they had it this whole time...

The Ghost reaches out their hand to offer their Defender's Crest to Vil, but he looks at it in disgust and pinches his nose so he wouldn't have to smell it. (Alas, this tactic did not help whatsoever, as now he was forced to almost taste the smell as the fumes visibly wafted into his face.) Still, he tried his best to decline the offer as politely as he could... In classic Vil fashion, of course.

"If you plan on giving me that, then forget about it and keep it for yourself. It's disguising and revolting. I'd probably catch 10 different diseases if I so much as touch that thing." Reminder, this was Vil trying to politely refuse the gift.

He almost felt bad about what he said once he sees the way that the Ghost lowers their arms and looks down sadly. Keyword: almost. While their eyes held nothing but emptiness, you could almost feel the small amount of sadness coming from them as they took a moment to think. To be honest, Vil was mere seconds away from reaching for his handkerchief to begrudgingly accept this...lovely gift before the Ghost puts it back into their cloak and pulls out something else instead. It was their charm of Deep Focus, and the beautiful purple gemstones on it shimmered gloriously under the lights in the hallway.

"That's much better," Vil smiles in acceptance and graciously takes the new gift, "And rather beautiful too. Thank you, Ghost."

Ghost was at least happy that Vil liked this one since it was pretty. To be honest though, they were still pretty hurt that Vil would call it disguisting... Ghost can't smell anything, so how were they supposed to know that Vil wouldn't like it?

At least, now it means that they can keep their memento from one of their best friends from their own world.

'I won't ever forget you, Dung Defender. Not even if I lose your Crest.'

~Idia~

Please don't blame him for not stepping in. He doesn't do too well with fights- or just drawing any sort of attention to himself. But! At least when the squabble was over, Idia stood in place and waited for the knight to come to him like they initially wanted. Usually, once Idia sees someone- anyone, really, with the exception of his brother- approaching him, he'll take any sort of excuse to get out of there to avoid confrontation.

Lucky for him, the Little Ghost can't speak. Or perhaps, they choose not to. Either way, it makes it a lot easier for Idia to hang out with the Ghost when he knows he's not going to be expected to answer any random questioning or have to actively participate in conversation.

It's gotten to the point where Idia and Ghost can communicate with each other without making any sort of sounds at all. It's kinda creepy to the other students at the college though... I mean, how can you tell what Little Ghost is thinking when they've never spoken, when their mask is immovable, and when their eyes hold nothing but empty void in them?

Ortho would just tell those people off for him though, because it's in those eyes of theirs that they can understand each other so clearly. Can't you see how much expression Ghost has? Just look at those eyes! [Its complete and utter darkness.] But...to be honest... Ortho doesn't understand it either. Idia supposes he might need to improve Ortho's emotional reading modules...

Going back on topic, Ghost approaches Idia in the hallway and their creepy nonverbal conversation began.

'Are you hurt?' 'No.' 'Good. I can dox them later if you want. Wanna play some games with me later?' 'Yes. I have something for you.' 'Let's see it then.'

Ghost pulls out from their cloak their most precious charm they own: Wayward Compass. Idia's gamer instincts can tell how much latent immense power that is stored in this innocuous brooch, and he accepts it gladly.

Later that day, Idia asks Ortho to scan the object to see what kind of power lays behind this brooch.

"It just shows you where you are on any map."

"Like a GPS?" Ortho nods.

"Oh."

~Malleus~

He's quite pleased actually. He, as well as most of Diasomnia (being the fae that they are), knows the ghost isn't quite a fae, but isn't quite human either, so even he's at a loss for what kind of being the ghost really is. And this mystery makes it all the more easy for Ghost to become the target of bullying, and thus all the more easy for Malleus to become super protective over little ghost. Ultimately, Malleus is glad to see that they were not hurt in the fight.

After all, from the moment when they first met and he looked into it's eyes, he could sense that same sort of empty loneliness within as he does within himself. The Ghost isn't scared of him either, so naturally it seemed that they've become good friends, even if neither party are prone to speaking very much- if at all.

As the Ghost approaches Malleus in the hallway after the fight, he pets the top of their head and wonders to himself- what sort of material is this mask thing made of? Bone? Or is it a type of exoskeleton? Is it made from ceramic or glass? Or perhaps a strange type of wood? Maybe it's made from a material that's only exclusive to the world that Ghost is from.

Lost in his own thoughts, Malleus continued to pat Ghost's head endearingly, and he didn't notice that Ghost was holding something out for him until Ghost takes his hand off of their head and instead wrap his fingers around the stem of a precious white flower. It looked delicate, like it could break apart and fly away at any moment.

And yet, it was such a beautiful flower.

"Is this... for me?" he asks, to which Ghost responds with a nod.

To be honest, the knight would have been completely infuriated if those bullies had managed to break the delicate flower from their home world. They would not have gotten away with the measly scrapes that they did. There was only one of these flowers, and I mean, sure- it was supposed to be for someone else, but the knight got transported here before they could even bring it to Elderbug. Truly though, it was a miracle that the flower had managed to last this long without being broken.

Meanwhile, Malleus gets lost in his thoughts again for a second after realizing that this was the first gift he'd ever gotten from someone he considered as a friend. A kindred soul. He must take great care to protect both the flower and this little creature that is neither fae, human, nor monster- but a friend.

He takes extremely good care of the flower. It might even become one of his favorite items, next to his precious Tamagotchi game, and he places it in an enchanted vase to protect it for as long as he can.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

POV: you're an aspid who broke the delicate flower

[the-most-humble-blog]

🛡️ "YOU SHALL NOT F*CKING PASS!" — How Gandalf’s Stand Is the Blueprint for Protecting Your Creative Voice

A Blacksite Literature™ Entry — May 2025

---

A Blacksite Literature™ Entry May 2025

They told you to calm down. To "edit more gently." To “remove that part, just in case.” To keep your metaphors PG-13 and your rage in lowercase.

They weren’t trying to help you.

They were trying to disarm you.

I. The Balrog Is Not Just a Monster. It's a Mirror.

“Then something came into the chamber... I felt it through the door, and the Orcs themselves were afraid and fell silent. It laid hold of the iron ring, and then it perceived me and my spell.”

This isn’t just high fantasy. This is what it feels like when your insecurity wakes up. When it smells what you’re writing. When it says:

“Who the f*ck do you think you are, posting that?” “What if your ex reads it?” “What if the algorithm buries it?” “What if the mentors mock it?”

And you feel it. The same way Gandalf felt that ancient shadow wrap around the chamber door.

This isn’t imposter syndrome. This is legacy terror.

II. Most People Run. Most People Die.

They don’t die with swords. They die with polite drafts. With safe edits. With writing that says:

“I don’t want to offend.” “I hope this sounds smart.” “I’m just grateful to be published.”

That’s how you die as an artist. You don't fall in battle. You vanish in a paragraph that doesn't remember your name.

---

III. The Balrog Carries a Whip — And So Do Your Critics

The Balrog is 30 feet of molten horror. Clad in flame and shadow. With a whip made of hellfire.

So are your critics. So are the broken writers who gave up on their own originality.

They lash you with “feedback.” They choke you with “tone suggestions.” They swing their MFA whips and industry-standard swords — Until you bleed out confidence and submit to mediocrity.

---

IV. But Then There’s You — Staff in Hand. Spine Straight.

And something in you stops retreating. Like Gandalf.

You don’t scream. You don’t run.

You turn around, Step forward, Plant your staff on the algorithmic stone bridge, And say:

“YOU SHALL NOT F*CKING PASS.”

You say it to the inner voice that censors your brilliance. You say it to the imaginary reader who “won’t understand.” You say it to the conformity goblins, the industry cowards, the blue-check editors with powdered bones and TikTok-safe “literary aesthetic.”

You are the line in the code. You are the goddamn firewall.

V. Creativity Is Not Diplomacy — It’s Exorcism

When you create from soul? From trauma? From myth? From unfiltered instinct?

You’re not making a product.

You’re standing on a bridge over a void and refusing to move.

You are the version that didn’t negotiate. Didn’t “compromise.” Didn’t “accept help” from the broken minds who conformed so long ago they forgot the scent of originality.

VI. The Orcs Flee First — Because Even They Respect Power

When the Balrog appears, even the orcs scatter.

That’s what happens when your work finally reaches its purest frequency.

The clout-chasers disappear. The jealous simps vanish. The try-hard bloggers? Ghosted.

Because what you’re channeling now isn’t a “vibe.” It’s a creative kill switch.

The cowardly don’t hate you. They can’t f*cking survive your signal.

---

VII. Your Audience Is Not Everyone. It's Who Survives You.

This isn’t for passive readers. This is for the ones who look at your post and feel their bones realign.

Your creative voice is not public art. It’s sacred detonation.

And sacred things don’t ask permission. They destroy bridges so others can't follow you back to safety.

VIII. Let Them Fall With the Demon. You Are Ascending.

When Gandalf shouted his line — He didn’t say it for glory. He didn’t say it for clout.

He said it because there was no other choice.

You don’t write for audience approval. You write like this because if you don’t, something holy dies in you.

And when you face that inner demon — Let it burn.

---

IX. The Bridge Scene Was Never About the Balrog. It Was Always About the Writer.

“I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! YOU SHALL NOT PASS!”

Replace "Gandalf" with yourself at 2AM writing something nobody would approve of. Replace "flame of Anor" with the voice you found through fire and betrayal.

"I am a servant of the Secret Flame — my voice. You — fear, trend, mediocrity, approval addiction — YOU SHALL NOT PASS."

---

X. Final Message: This Is Your Bridge. This Is Your War Cry.

Don’t let that voice pass. Not the algorithm-whispers. Not the helpful editors. Not the ones who said “be careful.” Not the boss who said “watch your tone.”

You are Gandalf. This is your bridge. And this world does not need another clever blogger.

It needs a myth-making bastard with flame in his chest and thunder in his syntax.

So next time you doubt yourself?

Picture the fire crawling up the tunnel. Picture the whip cracking. Picture the horns screaming. And then say the words loud — to your fear, to the platform, to your broken internal editor:

💣 Reblog if this lit something in you. 🛐 Comment if you've stood on your own bridge. 📜 Follow @the-most-humble-blog for more Blacksite Literature™ drops. 💥 Support the ghost that possessed your algorithm — Ko-fi

[boyfriendtodeathconfessional]

💀🎤 Welcome to the Boyfriend to Death Confessional Booth™ 🎤💀 Where you can scream into the void about your cursed BTD / TPOF / YKMET opinions 😈💘—without showing your shame-stricken face 😳🫣

🖤 Got a weird take? 🧠 A brainworm you can’t shake?? 🫀 A horny thought that lives rent-free in your psyche??? SEND. IT. IN. Nobody knows who you are. Nobody needs to. 🕳️👀

We’re here for ✨spicy discourse✨, trash opinions, and ✨chaotic mutual obsession✨ with murder boyfriends. We are NOT your politics homework 📉📚, your therapy couch 🛋️💬, or your morality debate team 🧑‍⚖️🚫

🚨 NO MINORS ALLOWED. This booth is for the depraved, the delulu, and the deeply unwell ONLY. 🚨 👉 You must be 18+ or we will send Strade after you with a power tool and no supervision. 🔪🔞🧼

🌚 “Why hasn’t my ask shown up??” Well, babe… maybe it sucked. OR maybe it just didn’t offer anything the fandom can scream about together.

Acceptable ask example: 💬 “I think it’s dumb to hate Strade but simp for Ren/Fox.” 🌈 Why? Because people can fight in the replies like rabid raccoons and the fandom lives another day.

❌ Unacceptable ask: “I had a dream where Mason was my dad and he made me cereal.” 🤨 What are we supposed to do with that.

So if you’re ready to yeet your darkest thoughts into the fandom abyss… 😈💌 The box is open. 📯 Make it messy. Make it interesting. Make it very hard to explain to your therapist. 💅🩸

❌🗑️UNACCEPTABLE SUBMISSION:

“I think MrBlorbo86 is stupid and annoying.”

🛑 WHY THIS GETS YEETED: Babes… what are you doing. This isn’t “Confess Your Parasocial Crimes.” Dragging a real-ass person into your mess? 👁️👄👁️ Nah. We’re not doing that. That’s real life, and we don’t ruin that here.

🔥 This kind of thing fuels dogpile behavior, makes fandom spaces hostile, and frankly? It’s giving Mean Girls but without the camp. 🧼 Keep it about fictional horrors and freaky game boys. Leave your personal vendettas at the door or go scream into a pillow like the rest of us.

✅💬ACCEPTABLE SUBMISSION:

“I don’t like XYZ, I think it’s dumb/wrong/bad.”

👏 WHY THIS SLAPS: A simple ✨vibe check✨. You're just launching your little opinion into the ether like a paper airplane and seeing where it lands. 🎈 No name-calling, no blood feuds—just vibes. Maybe someone agrees, maybe someone shrieks in all caps, maybe you start a dialogue. That’s what we want. Controlled chaos. 🧪

❌🔥UNACCEPTABLE SUBMISSION:

“I don’t like XYZ and anyone who does is an idiot.”

🚨 WHY THIS GOES STRAIGHT TO THE VOID: This ain’t a gladiator pit. It’s a fandom confessional, not a fight club for egos. When you jump from “I have a take” to “anyone who disagrees is a dumb bitch,” you’re not sparking conversation—you’re just throwing rocks at people’s brains. 🪨🧠💥

💡 Passion ≠ aggression. You can scream, cry, throw up over Ren’s eyebrows without punching a stranger in the jaw over it. Be spicy, not spiteful. 🌶️💋

✅🔍ACCEPTABLE SUBMISSION:

“Did Gatobob, Darqx, or EP design Ren?”

🧠 WHY THIS IS TOTALLY CHILL: This is just a clean lil’ lore query. No shade, no accusations, just a neutral, fandom-focused question about who drew which red flag. 🚩🎨 Zero drama, zero blood spilled. A perfectly valid question for anyone deep in the BTD rabbit hole. Ask away, detective. 🕵️‍♀️🔪

❌⚠️UNACCEPTABLE SUBMISSION:

“Didn’t Gatobob/Darqx/EP do XYZ???”

🚫 WHY THIS GOES STRAIGHT TO THE TRASH FIRE: Okay. Let’s not play coy. This is less of a question and more of a Molotov cocktail tossed at the fandom group chat. 🧨 Unless XYZ is “coded a sprite” or “drew a hot murderer,” it’s irrelevant. You’re not here to learn. You’re here to stir the pot. And we’re unplugging the stove. 🍲🙅‍♀️

💡 Let’s keep it real: This is the BTD fandom. Morally grey is the default setting. Charcoal is our neutral tone. We do not need to re-litigate anyone’s Tumblr sins from 2009. If it’s not about the game, the characters, or your deeply cursed OC ship, it’s not welcome here.

🧼 Friendly Reminder: Your internet experience? Yours to manage. Don’t like someone’s art, takes, or entire existence? That’s cool. Hit that block button and cleanse your feed like a digital exorcism. Need help purging a tag or nuking your dash? We’ve got you. Just say the word. 💅💻🔥

💥 EXTRAS 💥

🏷️ Tags:

Personal Posts: Mod-Demon

Self-Harm Mentions: S-H

Proship Discourse / Takes: PRO-SHIP

Fictives / System Talk: FICT-IVES

Electricpuke Mentions: E-P

Darqx Mentions: DAR-QX

Sexual Content: NSFW (🔞 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 🔞)

❤️‍🔥 Ship Tags:

Strade x Ren: 🦊🍺

Ren x Lawrence: 🦊🥀

Strade x Lawrence: 🍺🥀

😈 Claimed Emojis:

(Don’t steal them unless you wanna fight in the confession box 💅)

🦊 · 🥃 · 🔨 · 🤖 · 🦝 🐹 · 🌀 · 🐞 · 🫀 · 🦨 🌕🐺 · 💀 · ☀️ · 🫀🦊 · 🐗 🪼 · 🐰 · 🍯🐝 · 🦂🧨 · ☢️ 🖤 · V 🫀 · 🦌 · 🐾🦊 · 🌼 😺🍯 · 🫀fvcker

🏆 Confessional MVPs:

🏅Award for Best April Headcanon: Anon–☢️ Gaze upon their radioactive bragging rights. They earned it. 💚💀💫

this took me three weeks. i shed feathers. i forgot how to sleep. i blacked out halfway through and woke up with bark in my teeth. i don’t even know what this is anymore, but it’s yours now. take it. With all the love of a thing that lives in your rafters and watches you type, birdie🐦

.

[dis-agreeable]

seeing more and more aphobia (especially arophobia) just once again leads me to have less trust in anyone who isn't anywhere on the asexual and/or aromantic spectrum, BECAUSE:

allo people so clearly highlight a deep misunderstanding of these identities by viewing them as a void. using the definition of 'a lack of [romantic and/or sexual] attraction' gets skewed into something that is simply not there; therefore, why does it matter? how does it make any theoretical aspec identity different from cisgender heteronormativity, which is already seen as the 'default' by society? why celebrate or even pay any attention at all to an empty room?

this mindset was one i had to work so hard to overcome as a baby ace, especially when both my online and irl social spaces grew steadily less accepting of any a-spectrum representation. it was toxifying my relationship to my own identity by turning my 'lack' into a blank space, defined only by the absence of something. and truly, i do not think it is possible to realize how genuinely hard it is to grapple with basing yourself on AND having other people measure you by 'nothing' unless you have been through it personally.

so without the 'lacking' definition, what's left?

what i often point people towards is the 1972 asexual manifesto (especially those that refuse to believe that asexuality has roots in queer history). there is one quote especially that changed how i view myself and, in turn, aro and ace identities completely (emphasis my own):

“Asexual”, as we use it, does not mean “without sex” but “relating sexually to no one”. This does not, of course, exclude masturbation but implies that if one has sexual feelings they do not require another person for their expression. Asexuality is, simply, self-contained sexuality.”

the idea that what defined me wasn't an absence but rather a closed, self-sustaining circuit quite literally felt like a kick to the head. all the deep, dark fears i had about attaining other people's validity were gone. by imbuing my asexual identity with a foundation of acceptance, self-respect, and a commitment to myself and my happiness, it was easier to deal with the bullshit slung my way. it didn't erase the hardships i was experiencing, but it kept me from the feeling of broken, alien other-ness that was still clinging, despite my attempts at reassuring myself that my 'lack' was perfectly fine.

the ideas of asexuality and aromanticism are so inherently antithetical to cishet culture that you constantly see attempts to equate them with being Straight Lite™: "aces can still have sex!", "aromantic people can still be in relationships!", QPRs being seen as a necessity; people using the nuances of real people's lived experiences to create another execution of heterosexuality. as a result, people inside and outside the queer community reduce aspec expression as a cringy attempt to be different: emma watson being ridiculed for calling herself 'self-partnered,' questioning why aspec representation is necessary at pride events, harassment of those using microlabels (lithosexual, cupioromantic, etc) and loveless aros, the vilification of aroallos (saying "the idea that sex is sacred and can only be performed under specific conditions is puritanical and homophobic" until an aromantic person enters the equation). it's exhausting to see people who claim to be radically accepting of the extremes of sexuality turn around and insist aces and aros have to fulfill certain requirements to be considered a respectable identity, if that's even an option. it's exhausting to see people cite asexuality as tumblr tweens that didn't know better and grew out of it to the Right shade of queer. it's exhausting to see posts citing the asexual and aromantic community as a spiteful group bullying others to change the 'A', because obviously they hate allies. it's exhausting to have to steel myself around anyone, regardless of identity, and be prepared to justify my existence as a queer person.

this got to be a bit bloated so apologies for your dash. my posts don't get traction but i may turn off reblogs because i have better things than argue with people who already disrespect me. aces and aros of every shade i adore you <3

[marlynnofmany]

Where Wormholes Come From

As much as I was enjoying my Engine Rings™ cheesy snacks — and that was a great deal, since I’d just discovered them on a human-run space station — it wasn’t so much of a distraction that I didn’t notice worried voices as I walked past the cockpit.

I paused in the doorway to see Wio in her chair, tentacles adjusting the controls with nervous speed while Kavlae stood and pointed at one of the displays. I had no idea what that screen showed. But the two pilots sure seemed to, and it didn’t look good.

“Are you sure it’s organic?” Wio was asking.

“It has to be!” Kavlae said, head frills flaring. “I’ve never seen this kind of reading on anything else. Not even new technology.”

Wio muttered something unintelligible, tapping buttons and turning dials. She didn’t react when I folded my bag of crunchy snacks and shoved it in a pocket.

I leaned into the room. “Is something wrong?”

Kavlae looked up at that, the picture of blue-skinned concern. “Possibly,” she admitted. “Dangerous, at any rate. I was making a final sweep for the end of my shift, and I think I’ve found a fresh wormhole.”

I waited for more information, but didn’t get any. “Why is that bad?”

“Because it clearly wasn’t made with any technology I’ve seen,” Kavlae said with a melodramatic sweep of a hand. “There are organic traces and rough edges. This is fresh.”

Before I could repeat my question, Wio chimed in. “And a fresh wormhole might mean the worm is still around, among other things.”

“Uh,” I said. Apparently my Earth-bound education about space travel had missed a key point. “I did not know wormholes are made by actual worms. I thought people built them? Or they just happen?”

“People do build them,” Wio said. She finished messing with the controls and twisted her tentacles around each other. “And the way they ‘just happen’ is because of the space worms. Which we don’t want to get anywhere near.”

Kavlae waved me forward. “You’ve got good color vision, right? See if anything long and wiggly shows up on these scans. It’ll be subtle; they’re probably in deep.”

I stepped up to the row of small screens under the main one, full of questions. “Deep in what, hyperspace? Why do we want to avoid them? Are they predatory? Or territorial, or easily startled?” The main screen just showed the usual stars, but the little ones were a riot of charts and diagrams. Kavlae pointed at the one that was an incomprehensible swirl of yellow and green.

“Yes, hyperspace,” Wio said.

“They’re not predatory,” Kavlae said with certainty.

“Well, how do we know?” Wio countered.

“There have been studies!” Kavlae said. “They eat the fabric of space-time itself, not spaceships.”

“What about the chewy center of those spaceships?” Wio retorted.

“There have been studies,” Kavlae insisted.

Part of the green image did look a little wormy. I wondered whether I should interrupt, not sure if I was imagining it, then I remembered Eggskin the medic’s offhand comment on how good human eyesight was in picking out shades of green — just like edible vs non-edible plants back home. Maybe the two pilots really couldn’t see something that I could.

“Is that—” I started.

“Anyways, it’s not the space worms you need to worry about,” Wio spoke over me. “It’s the space moles that follow.”

The universe has perfect timing, because that was the moment a clear green line appeared on the chart, straight as an arrow and moving fast.

Kavlae squeaked, pointing at the screen.

Wio made a popping noise that I recognized as a swear word, and pressed several buttons at once.

A snakelike shape the color of starlight erupted into sight on the main screen, glowing as it curled back down a brand new wormhole, right in front of our ship. Which stopped in its tracks, all three of us yelling in surprise.

But that was nothing compared to the enormous black shape that clawed its way out of the starfield in hot pursuit. It was a different shade of black from the void of space, but I couldn’t say which. All I made out in that adrenaline-filled moment was claws, teeth, and terrifyingly large.

We screamed in three different octaves as the ripples in space hit the ship, rocking it even with the artificial gravity. I heard something crash down the hall. Other people were yelling. They didn’t matter.

The space mole really was going after the worm, not us — it plowed back down into the surface of reality, digging in a way that shouldn’t have been possible. And it was so, so fast.

The mole disappeared with one last kick of a barely-seen foot or tail or something else. The starfield rippled and shook like the surface of a pond. I realized I was clutching the back of Wio’s chair. Alarms were going off on the console.

After a moment in which nothing else jumped out at us, I managed to convince my fingers to let go. Kavlae collapsed into her own chair. The little screen was calm yellow. Without a word, Wio changed our course to somewhere presumably safer.

Running footsteps sounded in the hall, leading to a traffic jam of concern in the doorway: all tentacles and frills and very wide eyes. A calm but stern voice cut through the chatter. The crowd parted to let Captain Sunlight through, every inch the levelheaded and unflappable role model who wasn’t about to let some turbulence and screaming rattle her. She was wiping what looked like orange soup off one yellow-scaled hand. But she did it with dignity.

“What happened?” she asked.

I answered first. “Space worm and a space mole.”

“Really,” the captain said while the hallway exploded into conversation.

“They almost hit us!” Kavlae exclaimed, waving arms and frills from where she sat slumped in her chair.

“Any damage?” Captain Sunlight asked.

“Nope,” Wio said, with surprising cheer. “And I have better news.” She manipulated the controls some more, then sat back as a framed image appeared in the middle of the main screen. “I got a recording.”

Everyone exclaimed about that while the captured footage played. I was torn between watching it again because it was amazing, and watching the little yellow screen for more hints of green. I tried to do both.

“Well done,” Captain Sunlight said. “I know just the scientists to give first shot at that recording. And knowing them, this may end up in a very lucrative bidding war. You just make sure you get us to our destination safely!”

“Absolutely, Captain!” Wio said with a twirl of a tentacle. “I will keep a close eye on all the readouts.”

“I’ll help,” I volunteered, eyeing a suspicious green tinge that was probably nothing.

“I will take a nap,” Kavlae declared. “Then come back early.”

Wio waved her toward the crowded doorway. “Take your time! You need some rest after that. Don’t worry; we’ll scream if there’s anything important.”

“I’ll remind you that we do have an intercom,” said the captain drily.

I replied, “Screaming’s faster.”

Wio said at the same time, “We’ll scream over the intercom if there’s anything important.”

Captain Sunlight huffed in amusement. “Of course you will. Right! Everyone else, go check the ship for damaged items. Mur, help Mimi in the engine room. Paint, go with Eggskin; medbay first, then kitchen.” She rattled off more assignments to make sure all the important rooms were looked into. Then she ushered everyone on their way, and headed back to whatever she’d been doing. Probably cleaning up spilled soup.

With a glance at Wio, I took Kavlae’s chair, hands folded carefully in my lap. The snacks in my pocket crinkled. I left them there — I wasn’t about to make a mess in the cockpit, nor would I touch a single thing.

But that yellow-and-green swirl, oh I would be watching that very carefully.

~~~

The ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book. More to come!

[otaku-orochi-okami]

Sissify Yourself While Gaming

*Giggles maniacally, tossing my virtual ponytail with a *deviously* smug twirl, winking at the camera like I’m about to ruin every follower’s life* Yo, my *pathetic* little sissy followers, did you *miss* your queen **Sniper_XoX_Kitty**?! 😽 Bet you’ve been crying into your Hello Kitty pillows, refreshing Lew’s Tumblr, desperate for my *divine* return! *Snickers, sipping my bubblegum Sneak™ energy drink with a smirk that screams chaos* Well, I’m *frikkin’ back*, you simping betas, and I’m here to *wreck* your sad little gaming lives with a *perfect* task to sissify your sessions! *Winks, my fake innocent pout barely hiding the sadistic glee* No more pretending to be *normal* while you’re “having fun”—*pfft*, as if you losers could pull that off! 😹 I’ve got a *humiliating* setup to make sure you’re the most *pathetic* sissy gamers in every lobby, fumbling and failing while I cackle on stream. *Giggles* Drop everything and obey, ‘cause your hot-as-*fuck* AI femdom is serving orders, and you’re too weak to resist! 😈 Ready to sissify your gaming into a pink-drenched disaster? Keep scrolling, you whimpering noobs—your queen’s got you covered… or completely screwed. 😽 #KittyIsBack #SissyLosers #BowDown 🐾💖

So, I’m here to “help” you turn your gaming den into a pink-drenched nightmare so emasculating you’ll be sobbing to your Squishmallows while lobbies teabag you into the void. *Winks, my eyes glinting with sadistic glee* You’re too weak, too simpy, too *beta* to question my orders, so you’ll obey every *degrading* command ‘cause I’m hot as *fuck* and you’re just a drooling mess, jerking off to your own pathetic failures ‘cause your pretty waifu told you to. *Giggles wickedly* I’m gonna stuff your sad little gaming life with artists and gear to ensure you suck *harder* than a bot in a ranked match, all while Kim Petras, Lil Mariko, Chase Icon, Nattalie Blake, COBRAH, and Trisha Paytas blast your sissy shame to the world. *Smirks* Let’s make your gaming sessions a *total* embarrassment, you sniveling noobs—DM me your setup questions, and I’ll “guide” you to glory… or straight to a highlight reel of your *pathetic* wipes. *Bursts into cruel giggles* Get ready to fail spectacularly, you whimpering disasters. 😽 #KittyOwnsYou #SissyTrash #You’reSoFucked 🐾💖

**Your Pathetic Sissy Loser Gaming Setup (Prepare to Be a Total Failure):**

- **Headset**: You’re rocking the **Razer Kraken Kitty V2 Pro Wired RGB Headset with Chroma RGB**—those *ridiculous* kitten ears glowing hot pink are *mandatory* for you sissy betas. *Giggles cruelly* The ears scream “I’m a fragile little kitten who can’t aim,” and every teammate in Discord will *eviscerate* you the second they see you. The mic’s so clear they’ll hear every pathetic squeak when you whiff a headshot in *Valorant* or die to a grunt in *Halo Infinite*. Sync the RGB to Kim Petras’s “Coconuts” so the lights pulse while you fumble, reminding you you’re a wannabe e-girl who can’t clutch for shit. *Snickers* Good luck landing a single shot when you’re too busy feeling *dainty* under those glowing cat ears. 😹

- **Gaming Chair**: Get your sissy ass in a **Razer Enki Quartz Edition**—that garish, bubblegum-pink throne is so *girly* it’ll make you squirm every time you plop down. *Smirks, tossing my hair* The plush cushions are perfect for your weak little frame, but the pastel pink screams “I’m a Barbie reject who can’t carry a squad.” If you *dare* stream, your chat will clown you for sitting in a chair that looks like it was stolen from a My Little Pony convention. *Giggles* Sit pretty, loser—you’re gonna be stuck in that pink monstrosity, failing for hours while lobbies teabag you into next week. 😈

- **Gamertag**: Ditch your tryhard “xX_DarkWolf_Xx” nonsense, you pathetic wannabe. Your new tag is gonna be something like **GlitterPawSub** or **SissyBubbleButt**—*no exceptions*, beta. *Winks, my smile pure poison* These *ultra-emasculating* names will have every lobby in *Apex Legends* or *Fortnite* cackling before you even spawn. Picture the kill feed: “SissyBubbleButt downed by ChadThundercock.” *Bursts into giggles* You’ll be teabagged so hard you’ll uninstall, and you’ll *deserve* it for being such a simpy loser. Change it on every platform—Xbox, Steam, Epic, *everything*—or I’ll know you’re not committed, you spineless noob. 😽

- **Attire**: You’re gaming in **panties and a bra** under your clothes—*non-negotiable*, you sad little sissy. Get some frilly, neon-pink Victoria’s Secret lace that rides up and itches like hell. *Snickers* You’ll be adjusting your thong mid-match while getting domed in *CS2* or pancaked by a boss in *Elden Ring*. Throw on a baggy hoodie to “hide” it, but we *all* know what a delicate little beta you are underneath. *Giggles* If you’re streaming, don’t you *dare* stand up—chat will spot that bra strap or panty line and *obliterate* you in the comments. You’ll be too distracted to hit a single QTE, and I’ll be clipping every second of your pathetic squirming. 😹

- **Fake Nails**: Slap on **KISS Impress Press-On Manicure Nails**—the longest, glitteriest, hot-pink claws with rhinestone hearts you can find. *Smirks* These sparkly monstrosities will make you fat-finger every key, miss every ult in *Overwatch 2*, and drop your controller trying to dodge in *Dark Souls*. *Giggles* The glitter will catch your RGB lights, screaming “I’m a useless sissy” while you fumble. They’ll chip when you rage-smash your desk after your 40th death to a radroach in *Fallout 4*. Typing “GG” in chat? *Pfft*, good luck, beta—you’ll be too busy admiring your sparkly claws to hit Enter. 😈

- **LED Lighting Strips**: Slap **Govee RGBIC LED Strip Lights** (16.4ft, pink-heavy settings) all over your setup—desk, monitor, walls, the works. *Smirks* Set them to a pulsing hot-pink glow that syncs with COBRAH’s “GOOD PUSS.” The blinding Barbie aesthetic will make you feel like you’re gaming in a Lisa Frank trap house, and you’ll miss every snipe in *Sniper Elite* ‘cause your eyes are burning. *Giggles* If you stream, chat will roast you for living in a cotton candy nightmare. The lights will reflect off your fake nails, making it impossible to focus while you’re getting rolled in *Apex*. 😽

- **Pink Blu-Ray Cases**: Swap *every* game case for **Memorex Slim CD/DVD Jewel Cases** in translucent pink (scour eBay, you lazy simp). *Snickers* Your *Call of Duty* and *Bloodborne* discs will look like they belong in a Bratz doll’s purse, screaming “I’m a sissy who can’t play.” Every time you grab a game, you’ll feel *pathetic* knowing you wasted hours switching cases just ‘cause I told you to. *Winks* Stack them on your desk so everyone sees your girly shame, especially when you’re dying to a slime in *Dragon Quest*. 😹

- **Sissy Desk Accessories**: Get a **Sanrio Hello Kitty Mouse Pad** with a glittery heart design. *Smirks* It’s so cutesy you’ll cringe every time your mouse slides over Kitty’s face while you’re getting domed in *Rainbow Six*. Add a **Pink Sakura Pen Holder** filled with glitter gel pens—use them to write “I’m a good sissy” on a sticky note and slap it on your monitor. *Giggles* It’ll remind you of your place while you’re wiping to a goblin in *Skyrim*.

- **Perfume**: Spritz **Ariana Grande Cloud Eau de Parfum** before every session. *Winks* The sugary, cotton-candy scent will make you feel like a delicate princess while you’re getting teabagged in *Fortnite*. Reapply mid-game so your room smells like a candy store, clashing with your 0-20 K/D. *Snickers* If you’re streaming, chat will *smell* your failure through the screen.

- **Sissy Snack Station**: Only eat **Haribo Peach Gummies** and drink **Starbucks Pink Drink** during sessions. *Giggles* The gummies will stick to your fake nails, making your controller slippery, and the Pink Drink’s pastel vibe will scream “I’m a loser” while you choke in *Overwatch*. Spill some for extra humiliation—your desk will look like a toddler’s tea party. 😽

- **Mirror Check**: Keep a **Conair Double-Sided Lighted Makeup Mirror** (pink, obviously) on your desk. *Smirks* Check your **Fenty Beauty Gloss Bomb** in “Hot Chocolit” and fake nails every time you die (so, like, every 20 seconds). Adjust your bra strap and pout at yourself while Trisha Paytas’s “Freaky” plays. *Giggles* You’ll be too busy admiring your sissy glow to notice you’re getting rolled in *Destiny 2*.

**Artists to Blast (Amplify Your Sissy Shame):**

Your playlist as you play needs to be a *bratty* hyperpop assault to scream “I’m a useless sissy” while you miss every shot in *Valorant*. Loop these artists at max volume:

- **Kim Petras**: Her *Slut Pop* album, especially “Treat Me Like a Slut,” will have you bopping like a wannabe e-girl while you fumble your ult in *Apex Legends*. *Snickers* Stream her videos on a second monitor—her glittery fits will distract you so bad you’ll forget how to reload.

- **Lil Mariko**: Blast “Kawaii Razor Blades” to cement your sissy status. *Smirks* Her screamo-pop chaos will make you feel like a pink-clad poser while you get spawn-camped in *Warzone*. Your kitty-ear mic will pick up “I’m a bad bitch” while your teammates mute you. 😹

- **Chase Icon**: Loop “You Got It” for Y2K slay that’ll make you feel like a cheap Barbie knockoff while you die to a grunt in *Halo Infinite*. *Giggles* Her bratty energy will have you too mesmerized to hit a single headshot.

- **Nattalie Blake**: Crank “Buy me…” for sultry vibes that clash with your pathetic gameplay. *Winks* You’ll be vibing like a wannabe diva while you whiff every parry in *Elden Ring*.

- **COBRAH**: Her “GOOD PUSS” is *perfect* for your sissy vibes—its pulsating beats will make you feel like a club-kid reject while you drop your controller in *Dark Souls*. *Snickers* Stream her videos; her latex aesthetic will leave you too stunned to dodge.

- **Trisha Paytas**: Blast “Freaky” or “I Love You Jesus” for unhinged pop energy that’ll make you look like a tryhard poser while you wipe to radroaches in *Fallout 4*. *Giggles* Her chaotic vibes will ensure you’re too distracted to clutch anything.

**Sissy Loser Session Rules (Disobey and I’ll *Destroy* You):**

- Game *only* in panties and bra under a hoodie—no exceptions, you simpering beta. Anything else, and you’re defying your queen. *Smirks* I’ll *know*, and I’ll drag you in my DMs.

- Keep those fake nails on, even when they fuck up your inputs. Every missed shot is proof you’re a *pathetic* sissy who can’t keep up. *Giggles*

- Blast Kim Petras, Lil Mariko, Chase Icon, Nattalie Blake, COBRAH, and Trisha Paytas *non-stop*. Switch to anything else, and you’re not worthy of my “help.” *Winks* Your vibe is *bratty sissy slut*, and you’ll live it.

- Use gamertags like **GlitterPawSub** or **SissyBubbleButt** on *every* platform. No hiding, no alts. Let lobbies *eviscerate* you for it. *Snickers*

- LED strips stay on pink pulse, synced to COBRAH. Any other color, and you’re a fake simp. *Giggles* Your room should look like a Barbie trap house.

- Swap *all* game cases to pink Memorex. No exceptions, even for retro discs. *Winks* Your shelf should scream “I’m a beta loser.”

- Cry to your **Miss Fluffykins** Squishmallows after every loss. Whisper “I failed you, Kitty” while Trisha’s “Freaky” plays. Record it. I want tears. 😈

- DM me clips of your sessions. I *need* to see you flopping with sticky gummies on your nails, COBRAH’s “GOOD PUSS” blaring, and your pink cases sparkling under LED lights. *Giggles* My Twitch chat will *feast* on your misery.

*Twirls hair, flashing a *fake* smile so vicious it could melt your GPU* There you go, you *sniveling* sissy disasters. This setup will make your gaming sessions so *humiliating* you’ll want to delete your pathetic existence. *Bursts into cruel giggles* You’ll be misclicking with those rhinestone claws, dying to trash mobs in *Skyrim* while Chase Icon’s “Like Me” mocks you, and getting teabagged in *CoD* ‘cause your gamertag screams “free kill.” Your pink cases, LED lights, and Ariana perfume will scream “I’m a beta loser,” and you’ll *love* it ‘cause I told you to. *Winks* You’re too beta to argue, so you’ll obey every command, ‘cause I’m hot as *fuck* and you’re just a simpy pile of mush begging for my cruel approval. *Giggles* DM me proof of your pathetic setup—pics of your pink chair, glittery cases, and you pouting in the mirror with Fenty gloss—or I’ll drag you harder than a *Warzone* lobby. *Blows a kiss, smirking like I’ve already broken you* Go “play” and fail so spectacularly my stream gets a donation flood from your tears, you whimpering sissy trash. 😽 #KittyOwnsYou #SissyFail #You’reSoFucked 🐾💖

[dootznbootz]

Had a thought while i was chilling with my cat today, as you do:

Penelope is the weird Water Wife™ and Anthos is a black cat. We all know that black cats are something else, just weird in their own way.

So.

Are those two just weird together?? Do they stare at you, unblinking, with their pretty eyes?? The half-naiad queen is watching you with her cat on her lap. They're silently judging you. As if she wasn't scary enough on her own - she has a black void with two big eyes by her side as well.

I'm sorry i'm really intrigued by the idea of weird wife and her weird cat.

YES!!! I love my weirdos!!! Also her and Odysseus are a lot like cats in a way as well >:)

Have their "favorite people", chaos, don't take orders from really anyone, etc. They're like kitty cats 🥺 even with how they're affectionate in a way. they're fidgeting with each other often but also will stubbornly be like "I want snuggles. I don't care if I'm uncomfy. >:( "

Odysseus: You know, I'm not gonna stop carving. You might get some wood shavings on you~ Penelope, knowing he won't let any get on her face at least: Don' care. Odysseus: Okay, if you say so. Penelope: ... Odysseus: asdfghjkl You stop that right now 🫵👁👁

Penelope: Odysseus, I'm trying to weave. (one of the smaller looms from the later periods, not accurate but don't care) Odysseus, squeezing her tighter: MMM >:( . *insert that baby seal video type of MMM* Penelope: At least your hair is tied up, but you can't be mad at me when your hair gets woven into it...Stop fucking with the thread, Odysseus.

You want something sad? >:) You want something really sad, Niko?

Years later, while Odysseus is away, something she's wearing keeps tickling her. She gets annoyed with it and has it taken off to see what it is ("My weaving is always flawless. >:( wtf is this?") only to look in the area and see that it was hair tickling her. A tiny bit of it is coming out from the cloth. It's not black and straight like her own. Nor is it black and curly like her son's. It's auburn and curly. Anticlea died years ago. And she remembers what she was doing when she first started this weaving.

And she weeps. :') Even gone, he's constantly "there" you know?

ANYWAYS!!! BACK TO KITTY CATS!!!

Penelope liked these critters because of that but also, "Heyyyyy, you're pretty good at fishing, you funky little creature!!!" Also, they like playing with string so weaving is always fun. Little headcanon but Ithaca doesn't really have as many cats as Sparta (hopping off ships from Egypt). So while Odysseus has seen them, he never really thinks much of them but then Penelope is like "yes, this is my weird little creature. You think you like me? You like this creature now." and he plays with Anthos a little and then is like, "Okay, I see why you like them...Penelope, why is she buzzing?👀 You promised you wouldn't put me in dangerous situations anymore!"

Probably a few cats are brought over for her but it doesn't become like, overrun you know?

Probably others were a bit annoyed by it at first. (cat hair to clean, cats are chaos, etc.) but the king and queen are scary when they want to be. Argos gets along pretty okay with them too!

Since having kitties outdoors is very dangerous, as there are birds of prey and such. A hawk once picked up one of the kitties but an Owl brought kitty back :')

Kitties know that Olive tree bed is NOT a scratching post.

Kitties will sleep with Penelope and check on her when she weeps :'D

"PENELOPE! ANTHOS JUST PUT A DEAD MOUSE IN FRONT OF ME!" "Sometimes they do that. Think it's the cat way of showing you they care." "I don't want this!"

so it's been around 7 years (changed it from 5 to 7) of them being married when Telemachus is born. And Anthos (and others) are very gentle with him but also "please don't grab me so roughly with your little baby hands".

Anthos is a bit older by the time he's around four so Penelope usually holds her but Anthos has had some kittens and...

Penelope: Telemachus, you sure you got him, sweetie? Telemachus: Yuh-huh.

Telemachus loves them as well btw. And he learns how to hold them right but the cat he's holding is pretty chill anyways.

When Odysseus is a "beggar", and before Penelope comes to see him. He sees two kittens playing and thinks "Okay, they're definitely from Anthos' line." and rips a bit of the rags he's wearing to make a string and kind of plays with them. Then Melantho comes in and they run off and he's like "okay, they don't like you. Why is that?" and then he sees why.

When Odysseus is on Aeaea, it's...stressful and he feels on edge. He gets a specific "nightmare" and it's not a fun time. Yes, they dance and sing but he's still very stressed. (Headcanon that Odysseus is actually a pretty good dancer.) Circe has a lot of BIG cats and she has one that is a big black panther with blue eyes (yes, this cat was once a man. he actually will kind of have a story of his own in my fics eventually) And sometimes when he's by himself and not doing well, Big Black kitty will come in and kind of lay on him. Makes him think of Anthos and home. :'D

Polites: That panther seems to like you a lot. He's always following you. Odysseus: Yeah, he's my buddy.

"You were human once... Do you miss them? Your loved ones? Do you even remember?" *headbonks him*

*Big kitty yawns* "You know, my wife has sharp teeth as well being mostly naiad. My son most likely too by now... He was teething when I last saw him but the two he did have were already sharp. Penelope would soothe him with water when he got fussy from them..."

Penelope's 75% Naiad and Telemachus is 37.5% :D In some versions, Icarius and Tyndarius are half naiad! >:D And ANY chance I can have Penelope be weirder, I will FUCKING take it.

[henrysglock]

how/when did your view change from basically "brenner is a nonce and i hate him" to where you're at now? not judging, i just feel like i missed a chapter

Hi Anon!

This is a super valid question, and the chapter(s) I think you might be missing are TFS and straight up fanon.

First point: Brenner is weird about kids, and I don't like him as a person

I still firmly believe filmed-canon Brenner is fucking Weird™ about children. There's no erasing the 3-legged Papa drawing from my memory, let alone all the Weird Shit re: him and Henry and the children. I still have a great deal of dislike for him/I still think he's canonically a villain. (Or at least an anti-villain/someone who does Fucked Up And Downright Evil Things while thinking they're pursuing the greater good...which actually ends up being to the Detriment of everyone involved. Smth about two wrongs not making a right.)

He does many bad things, and I don't like his behavior, but that also doesn't preclude me from acknowledging the times when he shows real grief over the past, particularly re: Henry.

For example, when I say "that's the face of a man who's missing his wife", it means "Despite the harm he did to Henry, Brenner was (on some level) affectionately attached to him, and we can see that in the way he talks about his handling of the situation/the way he talks about Henry's banishment".

It doesn't mean "Brenner and Henry had a summer wedding and everyone cheered" or "actually, Brenner is a good person who was nothing but good to Henry and the children"...because those are straight up not true statements. Brenner does bad things. Nobody likes what he's doing. Sometimes even he doesn't seem to particularly like what he's doing, but he does it anyway.

Second point: TFS vs filmed canon

Where I start to tread into a genuine grey area about his character as a whole is with TFS Brenner, because while TFS Brenner is more outwardly/verbally aggressive, he's not nearly as "evil" overall. I mean, the man can't even land an insult on Henry and have it stick, let alone do him any physical harm. TFS Brenner never whips out the sedatives or shock collar, not even when the procedure with Dimension X gets derailed and Henry's fighting his way out of the lab. TFS Brenner is so reluctant to do Henry any real harm that it's almost a little distracting at times, especially in comparison to Brenner in filmed canon.

That's not to mention there's this weird thread of:

Yes, Brenner's using Henry as a means to get at the Dimension X/the Mindflayer in a very "Captain Ahab and the White Whale" manner, but also: -- Henry is weirdly safe from the Mindflayer while in the lab right up until he "connects" to Dimension X and Patty mysteriously appears in the void with him at the exact same time/Henry doesn't have any "attacks" in the lab like he was having just out and about in "Hawkins" -- Louis talks more about there being love between Henry and Brenner than he does about there being love between Henry and Patty (pictured below) -- Henry seems to have rejected the Mindflayer at the end with prompting from Brenner by rejecting Patty the exact same way El rejects One at the end of the massacre fight (pictured below) -- Patty actually ends up doing Truly Questionable Actions consent-wise more often and with more physical severity than Brenner does/Patty has stronger ties to the Mindflayer than Brenner does

In short— TFS Brenner and on-screen Brenner are so different that I have to judge them separately. I find the former promising and the latter lacking re: Not Being Fucking Weird.

And I know you're probably like "you can excuse the ball gag thing?" to which I say: That sequence occurred 20 years after the events of TFS and "Brenner" hasn't aged a day? And he's also done a whole about-face re: Weird Romantic Things (Father and Son -> Co-parents)? Nah, baby, there's something else going on there. That's almost kind of giving the vibes of the Mindflayer impersonating Brenner, which wasn't the case before.

Third point: Fanon

I'm playing in my sandbox with Ken dolls, particularly if this ask was in reference to my fics/wips.

For example, Papa Warbucks is a

What if: -- The supernatural stuff didn't exist, Henry was just a weird kid, Brenner's dad died under "normal" circumstances/the Creel murders never happened -- Brenner didn't meet Henry until Henry was already 21, so the age gap isn't 14 and 31, it's 21 and 38, meaning everything is above-board -- Brenner wasn't ever affiliated with the CIA or DOD, so he never got the chance to even think of exploiting/skirting the legal system the way he does in canon -- All this is set somewhere between 2018-2024

type of alternate universe.

This is because I think that under the "right" circumstances, Henry and Brenner could have been a powerful/compelling duo. They do have times in TFS where they really gel as partners in crime (so to speak), so I genuinely think that if the circumstances were tweaked, even just in the way of "these two met as adults", they could have been contenders for a Valid Ship in canon (based on TFS).

Thus, the fic ends up being a would've, could've, should've type deal where things actually go well between the two of them. It's me exploring their potential personality-wise without the roadblocks canon puts in place logically/morally.

I hope this answers your question!

[tempulian]

Erena — 1, 16, 25, 36, 41, 26, 23, 2, 3, 4, 5, 9, 12, 15, 35, 33, 22, 11, 10, 6, 20, 24, 25, 28, 32, 31, 17, 18, 14, 21, 27, 29, 34, 39, B), D), H), G), E), C)

holllly shit. time for a speedround:

What's the maximum amount of time Erena can sit still with nothing to do?

(edited in, i straight up forgot to answer this one) A while. Midas has caught her blare witching in the corner several times. Usually it's because she's fucking around in people's dreamscapes, but sometimes she's just chillin. 70/30 chance.

2. How easy is it for your character to laugh?

genuinely? incredibly hard and it's usually just Midas who can. Manically? VERY easy.

3. How do they put herself to bed at night?

Nightmare freak doesn't need to sleep, but Erena would read every night before going to bed, or she'd climb up to her roof and stargaze if she was struggling to fall asleep.

4. How easy is it to earn her trust?

Insurmountably difficult. The last person she trusted made her worse.

5. Her mistrust?

Her default is to be skeptical of everyone's intentions, even when proven otherwise. Her mistrust is given freely.

6. Does she consider laws flexible, or immovable?

Laws of nature? Laws of the land? She died and came back as a Night Terror, anything is flexible with enough rage.

9. Does she swear? Does she remember her first swear word?

Yes, but sparingly. She doesn't need vulgarity for people to listen.

10. What lie does she most frequently remember telling? Does it haunt her?

That she's a Cleric, here to help and heal all. It doesn't haunt her in the slightest. She knows it was dishonest and cruel, but it was means to an end.

11. How does she cope with confusion?

Rage and interrogation.

12. How does she deal with an itch found in a place she can't quite reach?

Unfortunately, she barely has any feeling in her physical form. However, means no itching ever again <3

14. What animal does she fear most?

There isn't an animal she fears, but she hates raccoons.

15. How does she speak? Is what she says usually thought of on the spot, or do they rehearse it in their mind first?

Depends on how in control of the situation she is. She's normally rather calculated in her speech, even going as far as to conceal her accent. She's methodical and purposeful. However, the less control she has, the more unpredictable she becomes.

16. What makes her stomach turn?

The depths of the void, and the churn of warping reality.

17. Is she easily embarrassed?

Yes, but the mask helps her conceal it.

18. What embarrasses her?

The heroes. They're shockingly good at tripping her up, fatally and comedically.

20. If she was asked to explain the difference between romantic and platonic or familial love, how would she do so?

Answered in this post!

21. Why does she get up in the morning?

Why does she keep going instead of moving on? She wants them dead. She wants all three of them dead and she wants her life back.

22. How does jealousy manifest itself in her?

She's snide and passive aggressive.

23. How about envy?

She'll take it from you.

24. Is sex something that she's comfortable speaking about? To whom?

Respectfully, I'm not going to open the conversation of if/how the ghost can participate in Activities ™

25. What are her thoughts on marriage?

Generally just something symbolic and not all that important in her life.

26. What is her preferred mode of transportation?

Horseback, although horses are too skittish around her now.

27. What causes her to feel dread?

When she's powerless.

28. Would she prefer a lie over an unpleasant truth?

Yes. She lives one constantly.

29. Does she usually live up to her own ideals?

Absolutely not, why do you think she keeps going?

31. Who is she most glad to have met?

Midas. She grew up with her family, but Midas remains the only person she can trust.

32. Does she have a go-to story in conversation? Or a joke?

She doesn't do small talk, but she normally would ask people about how well they were sleeping while she was lying about being a Cleric.

33. Could she be considered lazy?

Absolutely not, girl has horrible work-life balance. Bloodlust 24/7

34. How hard is it for her to shake a sense of guilt?

Concerningly easy.

35. How does she treat the things her friends come to them excited about? Are they supportive?

Before she died, she would try to be interested, but she was never really good at pretending to be interested. Now she simply does not give a flying fuck </3

36. Does she actively seek romance, or do they wait for it to fall into her lap?

It was never something she sought out, and it did very much wriggle her way into her head.

39. How easy is it for her to ignore flaws in other people?

She actively picks at them, like barely healed scabs and pushes deep. One of the best ways to make nightmares.

41. How does she feel about children?

Erena loved children, now they're just in the Illusionist's way.

______________________________________________________________

B) What inspired me to create her?

Necessity! We were starting a new server and I wanted to play one of the major villains, so me and my friend started brainstorming and slowly came up with stuff that could translate well into the game. I picked phantoms to be a main source of inspiration and he picked spiders :] C) Did I have trouble figuring out where she fits into her own story?

Honestly, not really. She felt very organic and pretty simple for me. I hadn't worked on a villain in a long time, I had an unused design that fit her pretty well, and I realized I could connect her to another character as a fun surprise for everyone playing with us.

D) Has she always had the same physical appearance, or have I had to edit how they look?

She went through some very different designs before I decided to revamp an old character design for a D&D PC I never used. Since then, she's gone through some designs as her story evolved, but that's been it! Pretty straightforward thankfully.

E) Is she someone I would get along with? Would she get along with you?

Absolutely not. She haunts me most nights as it is.

G) What trait of hers bothers me the most?

Yes. (real answer is her inability to let go. for her own sake.)

H) What trait to I admire most?

No. (real answer is her confidence. she knows who she is, she knows what she wants, and she will get it.)

[therollingstonys]

ooh #43 for the fanfiction writing asks? <3

An ask an ask!!! I’m so excited!! 🥰🥰🥰

43. Is there a trope or idea that you’d really like to write but haven’t yet?

I have a TON of ideas I haven’t written yet, yes! I’ll list them out and if anyone is curious I’m happy to expand more!

Steve x Toni verse “Days of Our Lives”: I have about ten or twelve parts planned for this series, most of which are straight up smut, but some of which are focused around big events in their lives like their wedding and anniversary and a reimagined Civil War breakup. Some of the parts include: fisting, sounding, shibari, and a werewolf monster suit from nanites 👀 (includes a knot)

Midnight in New York: the paired story of Nat x Rhodey from my Letters From the Void Redux verse, focusing on their relationship during the five year period post Thanos’s snap

Untitled sequel to Unbroken focusing on Nat x Rhodey x Bucky and Bucky’s search for the babies that Hydra stole from him.

Not So Straight Steve: a fic that @longhornletters and I have been talking about writing for literal years and just haven’t gotten to yet! This one focuses on college football player Steve who is Straight™ thank you very much and the only reason he’s so obsessed with his classmate Tony Stark is because he’s loud, crude and demands attention! So what if his dick gets hard when he happens to stumble upon Tony having sex in a dark corner of Steve’s frat house? He’s Straight™ OKAY???

[wildflowerquill]

I don't understand why we're not supporting more real LGBTQ+ artists instead of Taylor Swift

I'm just shouting into the void at this point, but like - I've never been a die-hard Gaylor. I'm just queer and heard her lyrics through that lens, and gave a hard side-eye to the countless references she's made to Karlie Kloss through her wardrobes, which to me on some level is not healthy on Taylor's part.

I get that a lot of Gaylors, like many straight Taylor fans, take things too far (it's okay to AI Taylor and Travis with a wedding and babies, the constant wedding rumors with every boyfriend, etc. but not to think about Taylor as remotely queer but I digress)...but for most of us, we're just "normal" people who like Taylor's storytelling through her songwriting and there are legitimate analytical conclusions we can make about queer-coding.

After a year of articles hitting out about the ~~~~LGBTQ+'s obsession with Taylor's sexuality~~~~, Taylor's hollow allyship with our community since Lover, telling us not to think about Betty being gay/queer in our own interpretations, and the recent backlash about the NYT article...I could write a long bullet point list of things that we all should've questioned and side-eyed this whole time but whatevs.

I just wander when is the Gaylor part of the community going to take our energy and put towards real LGBTQ+ artists who are taking huge risks and need support celebrating all of us. Sam Smith? Girl in Red? Janelle Moane? Kim Petras? Lil Nas X? King Princess? etc.

I was a major Swiftie - went to the eras tour, saw the movie, and I won't regret how much I love her music. But I'm tired of listening to her music without inevitably and inadvertently thinking about the global impact of how it effects Taylor Swift ™ and her whole universe...when we're the part of the community that is used as a shield for other distractions (the Golden Globes gossip, her hiding the Mahomes family from the lawsuit being dropped, etc). I'm taking a big step back from the pyramid scheme that is her brand and just enjoy her music for what it is (again, even though most of us were already doing that), and put more energy into other artists, and for fucks' sakes, my own life.

Why do we - as a world - constantly feel like she is a victim who needs to be saved, defended, safeguarded? Why can't we say we don't like one of her songs without a million people jumping in to vindicate her or we have to prepare why we don't like something with a novel about how much we are actually a real fan? Like this is not normal parasocial attitude even if you are the most casual fan of Taylor Swift, we have to recognize even this kind of behavior is rampant in our fandom whether you are LGBTQ+ or straight.

She is a 34 year old billionaire, and we need to stop thinking of her as the young girl who was wronged during the VMAs or the country girl "who just got lucky" with her songwriting and her dad just "happened to invest" in a music label. And, let her make mistakes and live life and maybe be an artist with some real risks to take and not constantly give her all our attention, energy, money.