alex is alive (all original text posts and additions to existing posts)
alex's writing tag (fics, WIPs, and discussion of current projects)
the music tag is here (music produced by me and discussion of current projects)
lewd/NSFT (AKA Not Safe for Tumblr. sexual content and general OSHA-unapproved content inside.)
fandoms i write for: Breaking Bad+Better Call Saul, POSTAL, Fate/Grand Order (inquire within for who i will and won't write from this series), and whatever else my brain may latch onto.
i might not talk to you or follow back if you're under 21. please respect this.
EDIT: i am now comfortable talking with minors, but please respect any boundaries i may bring up-- i'm an adult, but i'm also Just Some Guy.
writing commissions are also open at $10 per 500 words. DM for details.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Reunion (a 3-chapter update)
anatomical terms used: dick/cock, boypussy, inner walls
word count: 4,738
we can post the full. sidenote, not active on here, look on bluesky instead
content warnings for: Dude being an absolute fucking idiot, use of the word "transsexual" as a synonym for trans/transgender since we see it as such (meaning transmeds can get the hell outta here), and once again the return of calling Dude "daddy"
"Gnnnrghargh FUCK SHIT ASSBALLS."
"Just the Kung Pao Beef platter and a bottle of Sapporo, please."
"PIECE OF SHIT PUSSY FARTS."
"Wow, out already? Fine, I'll just have a Cock-a-Cola instead."
"ASS MONKEY BITCH TITSsshhhrrg."
"I'll have it to go."
It'd been, what, three years since the worst of the nuclear apocalypse? By now, it didn't really feel too 'apocalyptic' anymore. Humanity, stubborn species that it is, still persisted through Armageddon however it could. First came the settlements, then the claiming of past infrastructure, and now began the era of reconstruction. Some of the first things to return were restaurants, though the population had still taken enough of a hit to make cheap labor scarce. That's where these surprisingly compliant zombies came in, much like the one behind the counter at the rebuilt Greasy Panda-- The one you handed your money over to as it stared blankly, not at you, but past you. Through you.
That's something you're probably never going to get used to.
"RrraAAGH FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!!"
"Thanks. I'll wait over at that table over there."
You never really thought about how they get paid, or if they get paid at all, but frankly? It was probably better to not care. It was already unnerving enough to think back and recall the days where they could string together a few non-curse words. If anything, it would be easier to lament how ruthless this Mad Cow shit was in its progression if you weren't sitting at a table for one, so to speak; of course, the one source you had for human contact just had to go and mysteriously disappear. No 'goodbye', not even a note. One night, you fell asleep next to him, and when you woke up, he was gone, never to return. It was enough to harden your heart a little more than the world already had.
The sound of wet gurgling alerts you as it draws nearer to your table. You reach for the pistol at your side on instinct, yet when you look up, the zombie approaching you seems to only be coming to deliver your bag of food. You let out the breath you didn't know you were holding, and your shoulders fall.
"Thanks."
The only answer you get is an incoherent wail. You really do miss talking to people, or at least people capable of holding a real conversation with you. Your hand carefully pulls away from the firearm at your hip to compulsively stroke the fine goatee you'd managed to grow in the past few years as you stand, food in hand, and ready yourself for the trip back to your makeshift home.
Oh. On that note, actually, it'd probably be a good idea to swing by the clinic first. According to your best recollection (for whatever it's worth), you're a little low on your testosterone vials. You'll have to stop and commit a little larceny before you can relax. At least you don't have to break the flimsy suggestions of laws left in this forsaken land to access the needle exchange. That thought can give you some comfort as you strap on your respirator and head out onto the open roads, braving the harsh, deadly winds and the radioactive particles they carried still. When you step out and see a small number of dumbasses without a mask, you can't help but chuckle under your breath.
Do they know they're signing their death warrants? Do they care? Do you? It's long since been 'every man for himself'. A cat crosses your path-- A black cat. You never were the superstitious type, and yet, you find yourself hoping that the cute little critter spells an ill omen for those fuckers in particular.
You'd be concerned over how much more often you've silently wished death on others if you could find it in yourself to give a shit.
By the time you make it to the clinic, your timing proves to be the most serendipitous it's ever been. The back door is unlocked, and a glance towards the receptionist's window lets you see the protective grate between the would-be attending nurse and the patients in the waiting room; the light bleeds through the sign hung just behind those bars, illuminating mirrored letters that spell out 'LUNCH BREAK, BACK IN 5'. The whole building is quiet as the grave. You adjust your shades and let out a soft chuckle.
"I guess it's transsexual Christmas today," you joke, turning to enter the labyrinth of shelves that is the on-site pharmacy. Little did these idiots know, if this is indeed a labyrinth, you stand alone as its Minotaur. (No, really, you've found zombie nurses that had gotten completely lost back here before, and you were the one that had to covertly guide them out. That's a memory for another time, though.) By the time you find that familiar set of little paper boxes, knowing what lay within before your mind could even process the words 'testosterone cypionate' written on each one, you'd already found an empty pocket in your leather trench coat to hold open in wait of your bounty. You'd done this plenty of times, becoming good enough at this routine to make off with twenty-four boxes of...
How much were in these vials again? You pluck one of the boxes out of your pocket to check. 10 milliliters? 10?! You might need to watch the expiration dates carefully, but this should last you a good, long time. Just as you think to turn around and slink back out, however, the silence is broken so suddenly that it startles you, though not as much as the sound of the particular voice that'd broken it.
"Hi there."
Your heart jumps to your throat as you turn on your heel. You expect to see anyone but the man you expect to see, and yet, even that expectation is defied. When you turn around, hand pressed firm over your pounding heart, you're greeted with the sight of an all-too-familiar face.
Black shades. Red hair. Gauze wrap around the head. The only thing that's throwing you is the fact he's wearing a hospital gown covered in Krotchys, but that aside, that could be no one else.
That's the man that left you to fend for yourself in a wrecked Paradise as it shakily rose back to its feet. Worse yet, he doesn't even look like he recognizes you. You swallow in an effort to wet your dry, tight throat, desperate to force yourself to speak. When you succeed, only one word makes it through:
"Y... You."
And just like that, the Dude's brows then jump, jaw slowly hanging slack. He struggles to speak just as much as you did, yet when he finally does so...
"...Am I supposed to be flattered?"
Somehow, that's enough to nearly knock the wind from you. You can only answer him on a faint wheeze of a whisper.
"What?"
"That's what imitation is, right?" He gestures at you, at your trench coat, your shades, your goatee. "Flattery? The sincerest form of it, I hear."
Were you trying to imitate him? It's only when he points it out that you even notice the similarities between your look and his, or at least what you remember him looking like the last time you'd met. But why would you want to look like him? Why would you want to risk being mistaken for this low-life, no-good, back-stabbing, smooth-talking, fat-dicked...
No, you're not ready to admit that you've missed him, not yet. It takes quite a bit of effort, but clearing your throat does the trick for getting your mind back on the right track. That much confidence at least allows you to whisper a little more deliberately, even if it ends up sounding like a hiss.
"What the fuck are you even doing here?!"
"I was looking for the restroom," he sheepishly admits. "But I haven't been outside the hospital in ages--"
"Wait," you cut him off, eyes suddenly wide. "You were... In the hospital?"
"In and out. Like a revolving fucking door. You see--" He points to the bandage still wrapped around his head, "--this bullet wound's not really healed up properly."
"But you're not switching voices anymore," you note.
"Not externally. You should just be glad you don't hear what's going on up in my internal monologue. Or my dreams-- Fuck, you should be really glad you can't listen in on my dreams..."
You couldn't care less about whatever he was blabbering on about now. All this time, you'd held such a powerful grudge against this guy, only to find out he's only been away from you because he's been held up in the fucking hospital. Who the hell would even be around to treat him? Were there parts of the country the nuclear blast didn't reach? ...Fuck, what was the distance of a nuke's blast radius again? Your stomach starts to turn as you realize just how badly you've misjudged him, which distracts you still as he rambles on.
"...And honestly, I thought a place like Edensin would have some shady back-alley kinds of doctors, but as it turns out? I heard some of them were transferred from John Hopkins. I think. Or maybe one of them was named John Hopkins? I gotta admit, some of my memories are still a bit of a blur..."
"I thought you left me," you admit at last. That actually shuts him up, to your surprise.
"Sorry?"
You open your mouth, ready to repeat yourself until you hear the sound of a key sliding into a lock. Adrenaline surges through every inch of your body; if the two of you are going to catch up, it can't be here. You don't even really think when you suddenly take hold of his wrist.
"Hey--!"
His protest falls on deaf ears, even when you lead him into the bathroom. You can't exactly talk in there, either. Instead, you open the window at the top of the wall, scaling the wall before reaching back to offer your hand to him for the first time in years.
"Come with me if you want to work this shit out."
---
"You seriously thought I would just up and leave you?"
His voice sounds so offended, like he hadn't admitted to you so long ago that he was the one to drop the nuke that started all this bullshit. All you can do as you stand across from him in your home is shrug your shoulders, brows furrowed as you give him a look that dares him to tell you what else you should have expected. He pouts openly, arms crossed, as he turns away from you.
"I may be psychotic, I may even be a sociopath, but I don't lie when it comes to the things I care about. And even now," he motions towards you with his head in such a way that you can catch the sight of those stormy eyes staying locked onto you, "I still care about you."
"I didn't know that," you plead. "Fuck, I barely even knew you. When you told me you kicked off the nuclear apocalypse, that was the most you'd ever told me about yourself. I don't even know your name."
The silence that follows is deafening. You suppose you'll never actually know that. Judging by the look on his face, he may have genuinely forgotten, himself. The both of you shake it off, silently agreeing to move on to the next point of business, namely...
"Look," he pivots, facing you once more as he hangs his head to rub at his temples, "I don't know if you realize it or not, but it's actually kind of rare for anyone to want to sleep with me. It's even rarer that someone actually care about me, and you did both. Why would I wanna leave that?"
"I don't know." As much as you can tell he hates that answer, you can't help that it's the truth. "People do shit that doesn't make sense all the time. I thought it was something like that."
"Oh, yeah. I do shit that doesn't make sense." You don't have to see his eyes to know he's rolling them. "Meanwhile you're the one stealing testosterone. What do you need that for?"
...Is he fucking serious? You stare, searching his face for even a trace of a smirk or suppressed laugh, only to come up chillingly short. Holy shit, he's serious.
"Do... Do you know how being trans even works?"
"Being what now?"
It's hard to describe the overwhelming dread that suddenly slams you right in the stomach. You don't know, and probably don't want to know, how he rationalized your being a man with facial hair, an Adam's apple, and a vagina while not even knowing the word 'trans'.
He must have noticed the color draining from your face, as his indignation suddenly falls away to reveal a face teeming with equal parts confusion and regret.
"Uh, wait," he tries, "you mean like when a girl has a--?"
"I think I need to sit down," you mumble, slumping into the first seat your ass can find and bringing the back of your hand across your brow as a cold sweat gathers. He at least has the decency to rush to your side, offering his arms to you without any fucking clue what he'd do with them should you take them. Not that you even can just yet, not while you're still reeling from that bombshell.
"You don't know anything about me," you wheeze out on an incredulous laugh, propping your head up with one hand as you lean against the broken arm of your ruined couch. "I don't know anything about you. And we lived together-- And we fucked, holy shit..."
"We can try again." He's still trying, despite everything. "We can start living together again. The last time I was discharged, the doc told me it'd be for good. It can go back to the way things used to be." Alas, the offer can only hang in the air like a side of beef from a meat hook as you stare blankly ahead.
"I don't think that's a good idea." Your voice comes out as a weak whisper, and for a moment you can see something quite rare in his face: Pure, unadulterated fear. You at least quell that by continuing. "We can't live together if we don't know each other. You have to promise me you'll be more open--"
"I promise!" He doesn't even give you time to finish your sentence. "I was being serious when I said nobody else gives two shits about me, so anything you want, I'll do it! Fuck, I'll crawl on my belly through broken glass..."
"If you end up back in the hospital, you have to promise you'll tell me."
"I promise, holy shit I promise..."
"And," you raise your voice just enough to cut him off this time, "to keep things fair, I'll tell you about myself." That's when he suddenly becomes quiet; his gaze remains utterly transfixed on you, and you can feel as much even if his shades hide those no-doubt wide eyes. He remains silent even as he walks around to stand across from you, even as he drops down into a squat between your slightly-parted legs, and even as his face hovers ever closer to your clothed sex. You really wish the sight didn't make your dick twitch to life like it did.
"I'm listening," he breathes against you.
---
You weren't given too much time to explain before you ended up right back where the both of you started.
He really dos have a talent for working your sensitive little cock. Each bob of his head, each flick of his tongue against you, each little pop as his lips break the suction-seal around your swollen tip drives you just as wild as it had before. You groan helplessly towards the ceiling, your thighs closing around his head as your ankles cross at his back.
"Fuuuck--" That noise of pleasure trails with ease into a laugh. "I'm never gonna let you go again, I swear I fucking won't..."
That much is rewarded swiftly with a groan against your cock, the vibration running from the tip to what felt like the very core of your bones. You know he'd have no complaints at all about that, and he'd complain even less when your thighs closed in a little tighter against the sides of his face.
"Please," you whine down to him, "please don't leave me again, Daddy, please..."
That only makes him moan out louder, which only felt that much better for you. While he'd started teasing and licking you with both palms on your legs, by now his hands had fallen much lower. He wasn't even bothering to hide the sound of him furiously stroking himself, so needy that he'd nearly resorted to humping his own hand. The sight of him driven so pathetically mad with desire kept that fire in your belly alive, even as he desperately works to get you off; and that was just the sight, something only made better by the sound of that frantic lapping, that suckling, that occasional whimper. Your head cranes back again, eyes falling shut as you let that blissful feeling wash over you.
"I'm gonna cum," you breathlessly warn him, hips bucking against his face. In response, he digs deeper into you, practically enveloping the whole of your hole in his open mouth. His tongue swirls around your T-dick, and aided with just the right amount of suction, the heat in your belly climbs to a nigh-unbearable height...
"Y-- Yes, yes, yes, yes!!"
You can feel your cum pouring into his mouth as that micro-phallus spasms. His tongue curls at the sides, letting those juices flow directly down his throat before leaning back and standing at long last. Hazy though your vision is, as you stare up at the shadowy figure he casts when standing with his back to the one window in your living room that hadn't been boarded up. Perhaps it's just made more dramatic by your practically-prone position on the couch, but in this moment, you can truly appreciate just what a towering height he stands at. He hikes up his hospital gown, exposing his stiff length to you as it drips already with beads of pre-cum that fall on your stomach like warm honey, and you want to sit upright and spoil him just as much as he had you.
You want to, but it's clear he has other plans, if his other hand holding one of your legs over his shoulder is any indication. His palm, rough and calloused even after years of on-and-off observation, slides from your knee to your thigh far too slowly. Past your thigh, he reaches for your hip, then your waist, and that's when he takes a much firmer hold of you-- Your breath hitches when he presses that hot, slick tip against you at last.
The slightest forward motion of his hips is met with an involuntary yelp from you as the both of you are met with resistance that neither of you expected.
"Been a while, huh?" He lets out a laugh under his breath. "You didn't move on at all? Didn't even use a dildo just to fill the void? Uh, no pun intended."
"I didn't," you confess. Of course, you still fight through your blissful post-orgasmic haze to clarify: "I didn't feel-- D-Didn't feel a need to..."
"It's almost like you knew all along that I'd be back."
That's the second time he's said something that's made you reconsider just how you'd been acting for the past few years. You aren't given much more time to think about it, not before his tip finally pushes into you. Instead, you're seeing stars and gripping the worn-down cushions behind you as he pushes further and further in, groaning as the impossibly tight grip of your boypussy nearly strangles his every inch.
"Fuck," he groans, looking down to see he'd only made it halfway in. "Just as good as I remember. I don't care if this pussy's on PEDs, I still missed how it feels around my dick."
Okay, you really are going to have to explain how HRT works after this. At least for now you can just ignore his bullshit and drink in the sensation of him stretching you out. After one, two, three pumps forward, he finally hilts inside you, shuddering with pleasure before finally drawing his hips back. You're tight enough that, at first, he's forced to slow down in order to loosen you up; that torturous pace leaves you whining, leaving your spine feeling like a live wire for the shocks that come from each push, the sparks that twinkle along the muscles of your back with every backwards pull of his hips. Only when your body becomes accustomed to the feeling of his intrusion does his pace suddenly speed up, supplying the same carnal intoxication by way of his pubic bone colliding with your engorged cock or his tip scraping against that bundle of nerves at the top of your inner walls.
You're able to take some comfort in the fact that, from just a quick look, you can tell that he's still just as consumed by his unrelenting lust as you are. It feels as if the time and distance had made itself into a pulsing, aching itch within you, and the both of you can do nothing else but scratch and scratch and bask in the relief it brings. He keels over, desperately wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you as close as possible while his hips rut into you, fucking you as if his life depends on it. His heavy, panting breaths hit you in the face, and you know yours hit his just the same. Your hands pop off the cushions beneath you, instead wrapping under his arms to sink your fingernails into his back as you cry out to the ceiling.
This time, you don't even have to tell him how close you are. He seems to intuitively know, growling in your ear as his thrusts become quicker and more concentrated. He doesn't give you much warning that his orgasm's approaching, either, beyond catching your earlobe in his teeth. By the time you feel that thick, hot load pouring into you, the both of you had been reduced to nothing more than grunting, growling, yelping animals.
Your legs snap around his waist as your second climax hits and your juices soak his bright-red, wiry pubes. It doesn't matter whether you're capable of saying it or not.
He needs to know how much you meant it when you said you wouldn't let go. The both of you need it, honestly.
---
The Dude hoped that he'd be able to get some real rest once he'd made it back to a familiar bed, or at least a more comfortable one than the thin slab of cotton that Edensin General dared to call a mattress. Perhaps that was a little too much to ask for. It's not as if he couldn't fall asleep; on the contrary, both wearing himself out with his boyfriend and the impossible buttery softness of that boyfriend's bed had practically yanked him into the depths of slumber by his collar.
What spelled doom for his chances of a restful sleep was the fact that his subconscious had sent him into some twisted, nightmarish version of the same hospital he'd just been discharged from. He springs up off of a cold, grimy metal operating table, head whipping from side to side as he takes in the rust and dirt that'd accumulated on what should have been sterilized walls. His only source of light comes from a single lamp overhead, swinging even in the absence of any breeze.
"What the...?"
That's when it hit. A sharp, searing pain, surging from one side to the other beneath his skull. He grunts, hands coming up to the sides of his head in some futile effort to mitigate his own suffering--
And that's when he hears it.
"Honestly, I'm disappointed in you."
Its every footstep rings heavy as it emerges from the shadows. It almost needn't even reveal itself, not when he could see its piercing red eyes behind its shades; even so, it comes forward, revealing every one of its yellowed teeth in a grin that turned his stomach as much as it boiled his blood.
"You."
"Oh, so you are learning," it laughs. "Or you're remembering. Either way is an improvement, but it's still not going to absolve you."
"I don't need your absolution," he quickly retorts, though his confidence may end up undercut by how fast he turns to look away from the Other Dude. It's all in vain, anyhow, since the dickhead just appears directly in his face again.
"What makes you think I was talking about me? I'm not as stupid as you are, Dude. I know you hate me. You hate me enough to give yourself another gunshot lobotomy... Which, well, puts me on the same level as The Bitch, doesn't it?" It chuckles as it strokes its goatee, letting that laugh trail off into a nostalgic sigh. "But I know who you were weak enough to open yourself up to-- Who you were pathetic enough to love, and I know it's going to be veeeery difficult to explain this to him."
His breath catches in his throat, eyes widening behind his sunglasses. Its grin only gets wider as it hisses in his face: "It might be funny to watch you try, though. After all, we both know you're not really capable of loving him, not like that. You love the feeling of him, the idea of him, but you couldn't love him even if you tried."
He wants to deny it. He wants to, but another bout of brain-pain cuts him off, forcing him to grit his teeth as it speaks directly in his ear.
"And that's because of me. The one you fight so hard against, yet can never escape. The one who knows you really love to kill and nothing more. Remember?"
His eyes screw shut tight, fingers curling and digging into his scarred scalp. "Shut the fuck up," he mumbles, knowing he can't yet be heard, and that it was certainly not going to obey.
"Because," it so reliably continues, "say it with me, now: I am you, you are me, and..."
"Shut the fuck up!!"
It takes every last bit of strength he has. In the blink of an eye, he turns towards the Other Dude, teeth grinding and eyes shut tight as he blindly reaches for its neck. To his surprise, the effort is rewarded; he can feel the familiar shape and give of a tender, fleshy neck under his fingers, of blood rushing through the massive jugular veins on each side. His thumbs push down and inward, as hard as he can, desperately trying to crush the windpipe of his own shadow. For a while, the futile thrash of its body in his grip brings him an immeasurable joy, something only made sweeter by the sound of its panicked fight for breath. Surely, just a few minutes longer will rid him of this demon for good-- When he feels his victory is nigh, those eyes slowly crack open...
Only for his smile to suddenly drop. The face he sees locked in that silent scream, gasping for air like a fish out of water, is not the Other Dude's.
It's yours.
His heart's racing as he springs awake, head popping right off his pillow as he barely stifles the urge to scream. Before he can even think to check himself, his eyes dart over to his side; he can see you laying beside him, yet refuses to take his eyes off of you until he can see your chest rising and falling without difficulty. Only when he's certain you're unharmed does he let out a slow sigh of relief, slouching forward as the muscles in his body start to relax one by one. At least time it wasn't his bladder that was relaxing, so your sheets remain piss-free.
As always, he only has himself to worry about, and that will be enough of a challenge.
CEO of Tumblr, Matt Mullenweg, has started openly harassing tumblr users on other platforms. This dude is actually incredibly scary and malicious and should not be involved with this website going forward. Theres just no excuse for this behavior.
People will be all “oh trans men/other tme trans people just get infantilized and recruited by TERFs while trans women/tma people get murdered!!!”
until one of us actually dies.
And then when we ask, in the face of our murders actually tangibly happening, if people can finally listen when we talk about how issues specifically impact us, or at least be allowed to have a word to use to make these discussions easier for us to have.
this piece (“artist bio” by anna daliza) sort of perfectly sums it up. the emphasis on identity politics and tokenization in art/music/performance spaces feels reductive and exploitative- like it offers a sort of racial tourism for the wealthy white patrons. none of what im saying are original thoughts btw go see White by james ijames
[ID:A photo of a brick wall with a big cinematic light up box with with text that reads: "The writer (she/her) is a trans woman and lebanese-canadian who also identifies as queer. Her work is about" /End ID]
I just wanna know why the fuck trans men are just fucking erased from the discussion or worse told they're literally fucking privileged in the way cis men are
like, seriously, as a trans woman now incognito so I don't get my shit stomped (again) for daring to speak about this, I just wanna know what the fuck the problem is
no, this isn't a "can't we all makeup?" bullshit post. This is me looking at a problem where the trans community is actively fucking othering their own and visiting bigotry onto people that we're supposed to be in solidarity with
We should not be telling other trans people that their abuse is not real. That their oppression is not real. That they're somehow privileged despite very clearly not being privileged in the slightest
imagine if somebody said that trans women are privileged instead of oppressed. Oh wait, we don't have to imagine it, it's done by our oppressors all the fucking time! So why are we doing the same to trans men?!
I am sick and fucking tired of watching my trans sisters sit there and say the shit I've heard said to me by my abuser onto trans men. Sick and tired of it.
Get your shit together. I know a lot of you won't. But at least some of you, just fucking get it together and stop pretending like trans men don't matter.
Honestly I'm only really on Tumblr and the fediverse (I don't do reddit or X) so I don't know if it's widespread on reddit or X, but this isn't happening on the fediverse spaces I am personally a part of.
it’s also not just an online problem. it’s not as blatant but erasure, ignorance, and lateral aggression and violence are very real things in trans communities. i’m hoping the more people speak up, the more we question the ways patriarchy has engrained itself in our community and reject it, the better off we’ll all be. in many of our countries, the government is actively against us, so we cannot afford to be against each other.
its dope how the CEO of this website can casually drop the fact that he had at least one content moderator on payroll who was accepting bribes to take down blogs on request, without revealing who was affected by this or what actions were taken to reverse the damage, and were all just supposed to be like oh ok thanks for taking care of that :D
Whenever someone goes on and on about how you should divorce morality from what someone likes, it serves as a reliable dog whistle that they're into or involved in something especially heinous. Often pedophilia, but sometimes garden-variety SA/DV or animal abuse.
generally speaking people aren't pedophiles because they have a super basic philosophical opinion but rather because they're pedophiles, but if you want to make it morally reprehensible to talk ABOUT morality and further water down what words like "pedophilia" even mean go ahead, this surely won't have any consequences
Yes, your worldbuilding is thorough, your geography meticulous, your plotting elaborate, and your characterisation nuanced, but answer me this: is there a fucked up little guy?
