#nothing Freudian or imagined

[demonfox38]

"I tore you away from listening to God." Dude, I saw what you interrupted. That was definitely not listening.

[chelseeebe]

bump n’ grind

a lil continuation to gimme a hand wherein our lovely reader helps eddie out after an embarrassing mistake.

18+ mdni. again, mostly just smut. maybe some angst towards the end i guessss. eddie munson x female reader.

eddie’s on cloud nine.

his head floating well above the pretty pink room he was currently in.

not entirely sure how he ended up here but also not at all angry about it. a night of rum and beer had lead him to this.

sarah.. savanna.. something, sits atop of his lap, bouncing off of his thighs like a jacked up rabbit.

he’s clawing at her back, trying and failing, to keep a steady grip on her wild body. appreciating the soft squeaks that left her mouth with every bounce.

and before he can really think about it enough to stop his mouth, he says it. wanting to dig his own grave the second his lips spread.

a long, drawn out iteration of your name.

she stops, immediately. breathless as she grips his shoulders, “what’d you say?”

his cock aches and his cheeks burn, any hope that she’d just ignore it and continue had flown out of the window, “what?” acting clueless, “i didn’t.. didn’t say anything.”

eddie knows full well what had slipped out of his loose lips, muscle memory from the embarrassing amount of times he had whined your name while imagining that it was your hand wrapped around his cock instead.

“you said somebody else’s name,” she frowns, sounding far too close to a possessive girlfriend rather than the one night stand that she actually was.

“did i? i don’t really remember.. does it matter?” with full sincerity, wondering if she was going to stay on his dick or climb off and throw him out.

“if i’m having sex with someone, i at least expect them to know my name,” she scowls, clambering from his lap to the empty space next to him.

“shit,” he mumbles, head in his hands, “fuck. i’m sorry,” sobering up instantly, embarrassed by his blunder.

she sighs, taking pity on his pathetic self, “is she your ex or something?” re-dressing herself with an old t-shirt, rightfully putting an end to their encounter.

“no..” eddie frowns, shaking his head, “she’s my.. my friend.”

best friend actually. making it all the more confusing and complicated. he’d spare her of all the gory details, for her sake.

“oh,” the girl gawps, stifling her laugh. “you should tell her,” leaning over to grab her phone, no doubt to tell all of her friends about eddie’s embarrassing freudian slip.

he’d deserve it.

-

eddie perches on the end of your bed, not daring to move any closer for fear of losing it and touching you like he dreamed of doing.

it had been four months, two weeks and five days since you’d jerked him off in that tiny bathroom.

not that he was counting.

and still nothing more had happened between you. a few instances where eddie had thought you were close but nothing of any real consequence.

nevertheless, a day hadn’t passed since where he hadn’t thought about it at least once.

he’s memorised every single frame of that video, all the times you pant and twist your hand. the exact second his phone falls onto the counter and the video changes to an image of the back of his head.

every. last. detail.

you jab your foot into his back, peering over your phone screen to frown at him, “what’s wrong with you?”

eddie sighs, letting his shoulders slump, still staring at the torn ac/dc poster he had ripped off the wall for you. it reminds him too much of times where things weren’t so complicated.

“i hooked up with someone the other day,” he states monotonously, uncaring anymore about telling you what had really happened.

“okay?” you jab him again, “why are you sad about that?” confusion echoing.

“i’m not sad.”

you sit up, the mattress shifting behind him, “then what the fuck’s your problem?” leaning forward to rest your chin on his shoulder, in that similar position you were in all those months ago.

sometimes he wishes you’d never touched him. that he had just settled with chrissy and you had never been an option. not that you really were now, still unobtainable, taunting and teasing him.

“i said your name,” he exhales in one big breath, “i said your name while i was having sex with her.”

his shoulders felt lighter now, despite you still resting on them. something about the relief of finally letting you know how he felt. embracing his stupidity.

“really?” your mouth falls open, “holy shit, that’s funny,” he can feel your hands creep up his back, sending shivers over his skin.

eddie shakes his head, at a loss for words. he could see how you’d find it funny, but he couldn’t see the humour in it himself. in fact, it was a marker for the absolute desperation he felt towards your new complex relationship. not only had you taken over all of his waking thoughts, but you’d somehow subliminally crept into his intoxicated mind thoo.

“what were you thinking about? when you said it,” you pry, head twisting around to look at him.

“you.”

“me?” you rasp, right into his ear. “what about me?” feeling your breath against his cheek, transporting him straight back to wayne’s cramped bathroom.

his eyes fall shut, like he’s in some humiliation ritual, getting off to the way you teased him so.

“that video.. that stupid video,” he whispers, tuned in to every twitch of your fingers on his back, your soft breaths in his ear.

“oh,” he can hear the smirk in your voice, unwilling to open his eyes to see it again, “is that it? just the video?”

he doesn’t understand why you’re asking so many questions. obviously enjoying the way he squirmed under your touch, antsy and reluctant to say anything.

“i was.. picturing you were her,” he squeezes out, blood rushing to not only his cheeks, but his cock too.

“aw,” you coo, hand sliding higher, “tell me how it felt,” voice thick with desire, fingers circling around his shaking shoulders.

“good..” his eyes squeeze together, feeling his jeans shift uncomfortably, “not as good as you did,” almost begging, pleading for it.

you hum, your other hand finding the top of his thigh, dangerously close to the tent in his jeans.

if you kept this up, he’d cum all over his fucking pants.

you squeeze the skin, a low grumble from yours lips, “what position were you in?”

oh god.

“w-why?” eddie chokes, seeing stars behind his eyelids.

“i just wanna know, eds.. so i can picture the scene.”

his head tilts back, allowing you the opportunity to creep into the crook of his neck, traces of your lips just barely touching the sensitive skin.

“please tell me,” you mumble, vibrating against his trachea, making his toes curl, grounding himself with the rough carpet.

“she was on top,” he spits, balling his fist around your blanket.

it didn’t feel real between his fingers, poorly substituting your body for the cotton.

“oh,” you shift, the bed frame creaking as you clamber into his lap, resting atop of his thighs. “like this?”

he doesn’t open his eyes. can’t, not without cumming his pants right there. but he can feel you, perched just below his crotch,

“what’d she do now? hmm?” dragging your nails down his chest, your fingers prod at his skin, forcing him to flop back against the mattress.

the space allows you to shuffle upwards, your cunt brushing against his aching cock, leaving him no choice but to turn into pure mush beneath you.

“fuck,” he breathes, daring a glance in hopes to keep the image ingrained in his mind forever.

your hips begin to grind against his crotch, groaning softly with your palms flat to his chest.

“you like that?” you purr, rocking back and forth on top for he rough denim of his jeans.

“i need you.. fuck, please,” he keens, fingertips so firmly pressed into your waist that they’d leave indentations for days.

you don’t respond, sighing softly as the friction between you grows stronger, cruel and twisted in the way you tease him.

he doesn’t understand what all of these almost-encounters mean. it’s like you want him but not fully. holding yourself back for the right moment or perhaps just trying to keep him going until somebody else came along.

his hands slide around to your ass, moving with every jerk and cant of your hips. gruff, frustrated sighs leave his mouth, mixing somewhere in the air with your whiny moans. need and urgency ricocheting around the walls of your room, yet neither one of you prepared to take it all the way.

“jesus eds, are you gonna cum?” you breathe, as much as this was for his benefit, you were getting off as well.

that alone makes this other worldly. even if he was doing absolutely none of the work, you were writhing and gasping just as he was.

it’s almost incomprehensible how much you using him to get off was frying his brain.

eddie was about to combust, the closeness of it all, so near and yet still so far apart. two layers of clothes felt like a million miles. finally brave enough to open his eyes, hoping to keep this image seared into his brain forever.

“yeah.. yeah i’m gonna cum,” he whines, jerking his hips up to meet yours, rocking against each other in perfect rhythm, “please.. oh fuck- fuckfuckfuck,” his cock positioned perfectly between your folds, covering your pajama shorts with your slick.

“good boy,” you breathe, fingers twisted into his shirt, tugging at the fabric, not letting up on your torturous grinding.

your tone is somewhere between mocking and sincere, but he doesn’t care. doesn’t have the brain capacity to if he’s honest.

his cock twitches against his boxers, hips shuddering into the air as an uncomfortable warmth overtakes his crotch.

“oh god.. shit,” the sudden realisation of the mess in his pants, how grotesquely down bad he was for you, hits all at once.

your lips curve, shuffling down to the top of his thighs. you don’t exchange words, just a sly glance that erupts into giggles. leaning down to peck his lips as your hands let go of their hold on his chest.

eddie’s hands don’t move, gripping onto your hips, hoping you’ll stay there for the rest of eternity. not only had he cum in his pants, he had done so at a disturbingly fast rate. a few minutes of what was essentially dry humping had left him sticky and full of shame.

“are you ever gonna let me fuck you?” he asks, practically begging for your mercy, needing to know for his own sake.

he likes to think that if you said no, he’d be able to walk away with his dignity, to never let this embarrassing display for pathetic yearning happen again.

yet deep down, he also knows that that’ll never happen. you could string him along forever and ever and he’d never do a thing about it other than cherish the moments you let him touch you.

your laugh topples over, slinging your leg over his waist to kneel beside his lifeless body, “one day,” kneeing him softly in the side, “go get changed, i’m hungry,” climbing off of the mattress, disappearing from his eyesight.

his head flops back onto the bed, sweaty and exhausted, ignoring the feel of his boxers clinging to his skin and the inevitable wet patch seeping through to his jeans.

an insatiable churning in his stomach for more, for you.

but eddie is eddie, so instead of doing any of the things that he really wanted to do, he rolls off of your bed with a sigh, shimmying out of his jeans just as you’d asked him to.

[pin-k-ink]

freudian slip // kageyama tobio

tw ⇢ teeny weeny age gap, mention of face-sitting (this is basically the whole plot), horny kags, highly suggestive themes

wc ⇢ 1.3k

There were only a couple of things that could faze Kageyama Tobio, and he took great pride in that fact. With his blunt demeanor, lack of social graces, and complete disinterest in the opposite sex, he was far from your typical hormonal teenager.

But if anything could get under his skin and set his heart racing - aside from volleyball - it was you. His stoic upperclassman who had somehow gotten roped into being his tutor, much to your initial chagrin. Teaching Kageyama was an uphill battle, as it seemed almost impossible to get anything through his thick skull that wasn't related to his beloved sport.

And yet, as much as you may have resisted at first, you found yourself not minding the arrangement so much anymore. There was something undeniably cute about Kageyama's single-minded intensity. For you, the tutoring sessions had become routine, even a bit boring - but for him, they were anything but.

Unbeknownst to you, Kageyama's mind was in a constant state of chaos in your presence. He was hyper-aware of everything about you - the subtle scent of your perfume, the silky sheen of your hair, the creamy porcelain of your skin. And much as he tried to focus on derivatives and English verb tenses, he couldn't stop his imagination from wandering to the tantalizing way your uniform skirt swayed with your every movement...

"Kageyama? Are you listening to me?" Your voice cut through the haze of his thoughts. He blinked and shook his head, realizing he'd been staring blankly at the same page for the past five minutes.

"Sorry, what were you saying?" He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling his face heat up.

You sighed, tapping your pencil against the textbook. "I was explaining the quadratic formula. Again. Honestly, where is your head today?"

"Nowhere! I mean, uh, I'm paying attention. Promise." He ducked his head, hoping you couldn't see how flustered he was. This was getting ridiculous. He had to get a grip on himself before he did something monumentally stupid.

"Alright, if you say so..." You still looked skeptical, but thankfully let the matter drop. "Let's try a few practice problems then. I'll walk you through the first one."

Kageyama did his best to follow along, keeping his eyes firmly on the page and not on the alluring curve of your neck as you leaned over to point out the key steps. But each brush of your arm against his threatened to short-circuit his brain. It took every ounce of restraint not to inhale the sweet scent of your hair...

An hour later, you closed the textbook with a thud and started gathering up your things. "I think that's enough for today. You're actually making pretty good progress!"

"Huh? Oh, uh, thanks." He blinked, trying to reorient himself. "Will you sit on my face?"

"Yep, sounds good." You stood and stretched, your skirt riding up dangerously high on your thighs. You had taken exactly two steps before you finally realized what he’d just said.

"Wait, what?"

Kageyama felt his heart stop as your eyes met his, wide with shock. The words he'd been holding back for so long had finally slipped out, and now he was left to face the consequences. "Um, nothing! I mean, uh, you didn't hear anything, senpai," he stammered, his palms growing sweaty as he tried to backtrack.

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curling into a teasing smile that made his knees weak. "No, I'm pretty sure I heard you ask me to sit on your face," you replied, your voice laced with amusement.

"No, you definitely heard wrong." Kageyama gulped, feeling like his face was on fire. The heat crept up his neck and spread to the tips of his ears, making him wish he could disappear into the ground. "You must be losing your hearing in your old age," he added, trying to deflect with humor.

"Ha, ha. Very funny." You sat back down next to him, crossing your legs and leaning in closer. The scent of your perfume filled his nostrils, a tantalizing mix of vanilla and something uniquely you. "So why did you say that, Kageyama?"

He squirmed under your gaze, unsure what to say. His heart was pounding so loudly he was sure you could hear it, and his mouth felt like it was filled with cotton. "Because I, um..." he trailed off, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes?" you prompted, your eyes boring into his.

"I really like the way you look, senpai." Kageyama hung his head, cheeks burning with embarrassment. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, a confession he'd been holding back for months. "You're really pretty, and you smell nice, and you have a really cute ass-"

He clapped a hand over his mouth, mortified by what had just come out of it. What was he doing? You were going to think he was a complete creep now, a perverted underclassman who couldn't keep his thoughts to himself.

"Well, thank you, Kageyama. That's very flattering." To his surprise, you didn't sound angry or disgusted, merely amused. Your voice was warm and inviting, with a hint of something else he couldn't quite place.

"I didn't mean to be creepy!" he blurted out, desperate to explain himself. "It's just, um, you know, when I'm around you, I can't help but, uh, think about, um..."

"About?" you coaxed, your fingers brushing against his knee.

Kageyama took a deep breath, bracing himself for rejection. "I really want you to sit on my face, senpai," he confessed, his voice trembling slightly. "I want to taste you and make you feel good. I've liked you for so long, and I can't keep pretending that I don't have feelings for you."

The silence that followed his confession was deafening. Kageyama felt his stomach drop, sure he'd ruined everything. But then, you surprised him yet again by chuckling softly.

"Kageyama, look at me," you commanded, your voice gentle but firm.

Slowly, he raised his head, not daring to hope. His eyes met yours, and he was stunned to see the warmth and affection reflected in them.

You were smiling, your eyes sparkling with mischief. "I'm not mad," you assured him, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. Your touch sent shivers down his spine, and he leaned into it instinctively. "In fact, I'm flattered that you think so highly of me."

"You..you are?" Kageyama asked, his voice filled with wonder.

You nodded, biting your lip in a way that made his heart race. "So, do you really want me to sit on your face?"

"Yes!" He cringed at his own eagerness, worried that he was coming on too strong. "I mean, yes, please," he amended, trying to sound more casual.

"Good boy." You leaned in, your lips mere centimeters from his ear. Your breath was hot against his skin, and he suppressed a shiver of pleasure. "And maybe if you're really good, I’ll even return the favor."

Kageyama felt his mind short-circuit at the thought. Images of you on your knees, between his legs with your mouth stuffed-, filled his head, and he had to bite back a groan. "Oh god, please," he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire.

"That's what I like to hear." You smirked, standing up and tugging on his tie. The silk slid between your fingers, and Kageyama swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "Now, come here and show me what else that tongue can do."

Kageyama followed after you, his pulse racing as he eagerly obeyed your command. He'd always known you were going to be the death of him, and now it seemed he was about to find out just how literal that statement was. As you led him out of the room, your hand firmly grasping his, he couldn't help but marvel at his luck.

He couldn't wait.

[trashogram]

He Chose You (Pt. 9)

Lucifer/Reader: Lucifer chooses you to be the mother of his child. Rated Explicit.

Warning: Character Death, and minor details of childbirth.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 13.5 | Part 14 | End

“You’re glowing!”

You’d scoffed while watching as your body literally began to illuminate from the inside out.

“Well of course.” You’d snickered, looking from your hands to Lucifer. “Every mother does.” 

Your hand came up to clasp your mouth shut, but the Freudian slip was already out there. Lucifer stared at you and you stared back. 

Your lips wobbled and torso trembled until you could no longer hold it in and burst into laughter. Elation ran its course, and Lucifer joined you — laughing so hard that he slapped his knee. 

When you fell into his arms and let yourself be held, you imagined it would only be for a little while. This bizarro pregnancy had you on some kind of high, and all the worries and doubts that had been building up disappeared. 

—

You can’t remember for how long you’ve been walking but there’s discomfort in the soles of your feet. The landscape changes as soon as you truly behold it. 

The endless field of tall grass and the trees so tall they could touch the sky had been replaced by golden sand. You could feel its gentle heat on the ends of your toes. Beyond the sand is a gently rolling ocean, lilac beneath a honey gold sky as the sun has only just set. The sound of rhythmic, rushing water is so real and so close that you’re immediately calm. 

Memories flood your mind like a sneaker wave. You’re a child again, running away from the water as it laps at you. The shock of the cold water goes away quickly and you want to follow the pebbles and seashells that drift back out with the retreating tide. 

You look back, away from the sea, and see the blonde woman behind you. You grin. 

She’s wistful. 

It stamps down on your joy. The air is salty and wet blowing through your hair and inhaled through your nostrils. You want to speak, but you can’t think of a thing to say. 

“I wish this was goodbye.” Her voice carries above the waves, muffling them until they’re nothing but a dull roar. 

—

You awoke to the sensation of falling and seized in your bed. Lucifer startled beside you. He’d been sleeping wrapped around your belly; a compromise to laying perpendicular to you so that he could continue talking to the soccer-player in your stomach. 

He or she had not stopped moving since they decided to make it known that they were, in fact, not dead.

(You’d chided the baby for that, and for doubling in size in less than two week’s time, much to Lou’s amazement:

“Hell isn’t ready to be ruled by two speed demons.” You’d deadpanned.)

“Huh?” He grabbed you without thought. “What—”

Movement erupted from deep down in your core, muscles clenching and unclenching quickly, forcing you to seize again. 

“I think I’m — ugh!” You gritted your teeth. “—I’m going into labor.” 

Lucifer doesn’t do anything for a long moment. 

Then he flew into a panic before you could say ‘Jesus Christ!’. 

—

The hallway outside illuminated with the sheer brilliance of your body, literally glowing. It hadn’t stopped since it started, only a few weeks ago. Fortunately, the glow was tied to an almost paralyzing euphoria. It was the kind of delight that turned your blood into gold while racing through your body. The kind that kept you from complaining that you’d become Tinkerbell.  

“Steady. I’ve got you!” Lucifer assured whilst trudging over the carpet with you in his arms. 

An influx of pain rippled through you for the first time, providing distraction from the mortification you might’ve felt in that position. It hasn’t escaped your notice that the Prince of Darkness was a shortstack. Your brain had a hard time accepting that for as small as he appeared, Lucifer was capable of unimaginable feats of strength and endurance. 

So, you didn’t think about it. Instead you focused on breathing in and out deeply as your partner kicked at the front door of your neighbors’ apartment with the toe of his boot. 

As if waiting at the door, Warren Farrow appeared from behind the polished wood. His expression was of minute surprise, but within seconds he was turning back and calling for his wife.

Lucifer managed to pivot the two of you into the Farrow home. Warren guided you with an unusual vigor in his step, as though he were a man decades younger. 

“We’ve had it set up for weeks now, Sir.” Warren said gravely. 

Through the convulsions, you observed the inlet that Lucifer had taken you into. It was like a roomy closet, covered in tapestries and littered with candles of all shapes and colors. 

Warren’s wife was flitting about, quickly lighting the pitch-black surroundings until you could see the mere outline of things. 

You were drawn to the center of the crowded room, where a humble white cot covered in white towels contrasted everything else.

It occurred to you then that this entire pregnancy had been a shit show, not the least bit because you’d never gone to any OB. You hadn’t checked in with any hospital, or stepped foot in one — how could you? 

Therefore, any  and all “check-ups” you’d had had come from your creepy neighbors with their tea and their scrutinizing questions and their buzzard-like stares.

You’d consoled yourself throughout with the brief, semi-serious talk with Mrs. Farrow three months into gestation.

“What? Were you a midwife or something?” You asked incredulously. 

“Yes, honey.” Cass had patted your hand like you were a simpleton. “I helped deliver babies for over 15 years. I was younger than you were when I first started!” 

You had stared. ‘Oh god, how many crazy cultists are actually nurses in disguise?’

“Here we go, all set. You can lay her down here.” Cassie came over brusquely, smoothing over the wrinkles in the cot before Lucifer put you down. 

He laid you on the sheets, light as a feather, jarring as you felt your belly weigh you down. The King didn’t go far, reluctant to let go of your hand. You held on like a vice as well, gripping and squeezing with each contraction. 

You felt pinches in and around your abdomen, but the pain was… off. It came not from true agony, but the overworking of your internal organs in contrast to the pleasantness that you embodied post-glow stick phase. 

Hearing childbirth horror stories all your life, and just the horrors of raising children in general, you expected to be screaming and thrashing. 

This wasn’t as bad as some of your past periods had been. What’s worse than that, however, is the unnecessary guilt you feel for how troublesome it isn’t. 

—

Lucifer struggled to remain in one spot as the urge to pace up and down the cramped little birthing room ate at him. 

He didn’t want to leave you — not that his two hosts would dare make him, regardless of tradition — but old habits die hard. He was fidgeting, putting all his weight on one foot then the other. 

You were his exact opposite, laying placid and relaxed on the birthing bed, eyeing the little room. Microexpressions flitted across your face, some of confusion and some of hurt, but aside from your firm grasp on his hand, and the occasional grunt, you may as well have been dozing off. 

Eventually you glanced at him. 

“Do you wanna sit down?” You asked calmly. 

Lucifer tried to laugh but it came out like a strangled wheeze. “Nahhh, this is fine. I’m fine. Are you fine? I mean I know you’re not fine, but can I do something? Whatever you need, I can get it for you!” 

His rambling ends with you bopping him between the eyes teasingly. “You’re silly.” 

It’s inexplicable, but Lucifer’s mood lightened at your mellow admonishment. He meets your warm, drowsy expression with an adoring smile of his own. 

“I am.” He kissed your forehead. “You’re an angel to put up with it.” 

A too-loud rasp interrupted the soft moment of nothing but affection and kisses. Cass was standing at the foot of your cot, hands on each of your knees as she kept your legs apart. 

“Get ready, honey. You’re on your way.” She hailed. 

–

A cry split through the air and it went straight to your heart. 

You gulp down air (Lucifer mimicking you without meaning to) with sweat pouring from your hairline. The lack of pain hadn’t meant a lack of effort, and you still felt like you’d run a marathon just to pass the little being currently wailing in Mrs. Farrow’s arms. 

“It’s a girl.” Mrs. Farrow declared.

There was no attempt to hide the sidelong glance she gave Mr. Farrow. The lines and grooves on the elderly man’s face deepened until he resembled a gnarled tree trunk.

“Hmm.” Was his reply, deep baritone rolling like thunder in the tiny room. 

Vehement indignance blazed to life inside your mind when the old man looked at you, critical and disappointed. You felt like tearing him and the rest of this old, tacky room to shreds. Yet, exhaustion had planted its roots deep inside of you, and all you could do was glare at the old couple from your makeshift bed. 

‘Why does it fucking matter?’

“Gimme my kid.” You growled.

As if to piss you off further, Cass ignored you in favor of wiping the baby clean before passing her off to Lucifer. The old bat presented her to the King like she was a fallen bannerman’s sword, even curtsying while doing it. 

It was so weird that it brought you out of your anger for a second. 

Lucifer was clearly apprehensive, and his insecurity made the grand gesture stranger. He swallowed visibly, making eye contact with you when he couldn’t break away from the internal turmoil he was struggling with. 

“Bring her to me.” You demanded. Lucifer nodded vigorously, cocking a head toward you. 

It was fucking nonsensical, but at last Cass obeyed and brought you a bundle wrapped in silky black. 

The baby’s wailing tapered off as soon as she’d made contact with you. And like a child on Christmas morning, you shifted to sit up as much as you could and pry open the swaddling cloth. 

You sniffled. 

All at once, the breath caught in your throat and your eyes welled up with tears.

The newborn was as flagrant as her father in terms of skin tone and hair. She hadn’t yet opened her eyes but already you could see none other than a spitting image of Lucifer himself. Right down to the rosy apple cheeks that made up her pudgy little face. 

You were a little surprised to see that she had a nose. A little black smudge, puppy-like - anomalous like the little growths on her forehead and the itty bitty spade on the tip of her wagging tail. 

She was perfect. 

“I think she’s a Charlotte.” You manage to tear your eyes away from the miraculous hellspawn in your arms just long enough to search Lucifer’s golden gaze. “What do you think?” 

His Majesty is a whimpering mess beside you. “Y-yeah. That’s perfect.” 

Peeling the blanket back just that much more, you lean toward him. It takes a little coaxing, but sure enough Lucifer traces a delicate claw over the child’s tiny brow. 

“Hello Charlotte.” He whispered. “We’re so happy you’re here.” 

Adoration overwhelmed you, nigh on visible like the air was tinged with its color, its scent, its warmth cocooning the three of you. 

Daddy, Mommy and baby. A strange but happy little family. 

Lou embraced the two of you, hiding his face, and subsequent weeping, in the side of your neck while your baby cooed. 

The background chants of ‘Hail Princess Charlotte’ and ‘Hail King Lucifer’ were, thankfully, not enough to ruin the moment. 

Nothing could. Until. 

It doesn’t dawn on you that anything is wrong when the glow has faded. It’s only the incidental look at your fingers, with Charlotte’s tail curled around them, that freezes you. Numbness then began to crawl up your body, as if waiting for the moment that you’re brain would connect the dots. The copper scent of blood made your nostrils flare and heart hammer.

Fear clutched at you in an instant. “Take her. Take the baby.” 

Your desperate hiss and barely-there shuffle to push Charlotte into Lucifer’s arms fully had his face falling. 

“W-wai-wh-What’s happening?” He asked, panic rising. 

Mrs. Farrow is prompt, crone’s face scrunched and nose prominent as if she could sniff out the issue. She’s stood at the end of the bed, already lifting the sheets off your body before you can seek her out. 

A stiff hand appears over the covers, covered in shiny dark claret. “She’s bleedin’ too much.” 

Lucifer’s eyes blazed from where he hovered. “Why?”

The elderly woman was ready to shrug, but she stalled. Perhaps out of fear. “It happens, your Grace. Birthing a baby takes a toll on the mother, sometimes it’s too much.”

“Then why are you just standing there?”Lucifer bared his fangs, ivory in the lowlight. His eyes were a haze of vermillion, so opaque that you couldn’t find his pupils or the soul inside. “Help her!” 

The truly demonic scrape of his vocal chords frightened you, as did the sudden appearance of tusk-like horns protruding from his skull and the fire coming to life between them. His beautiful skin marred and stretched and cracked as if his form were a prison barely containing the true beast within. 

Energy crackled in the air, heat rising to blow back your hair and dry the air from your lungs like a flung-open kiln. The breath was stolen from your lungs as ivory wings shot out and overtook what little space was left in the alcove. 

Reality was literally distorting around Lucifer’s warped rage. 

Mr. Farrow, for all his reticence, reached for his wife’s shoulder from within your line of sight. 

“Lucifer.” You hissed, bearing the brunt of his inhuman stare when he turned to you. It took real energy to speak. “I need you… the baby…”

It didn’t take anymore prodding for the blond to intercept your daughter once your desperation got through to him. The Devil slowly shifted back, revealing the depth of his fear in the cloudless turn of his gaze. He met you halfway - finally - and pulled Charlotte close to his chest.

A pang of thankfulness made laughter bubble up from your diaphragm. It hurt. Everything hurt again.

“Stop. Wait.” Lucifer begged, voice turned to ice. Fragile, cracking. His natural white glow had dimmed significantly like a cooling star. “This isn’t— I promised you this wouldn’t happen! This can’t happen!”

A shudder ran through you. 

“Hey.” You lifted a hand and placed it on his pale cheek, thumb brushing over where white met red. “Nothing… for it now.” 

“No, don’t, that’s… No.” His agony was so palpable, as his fury had been. 

“You’re gonna be a great dad.” You murmured. 

Lucifer bowed over the side of the bed with Charlotte snug against him. You could feel the warmth of his breath, and then the splash of his tears against your cheek as he broke down. You felt it deep in your bones, and the lump in your throat that choked you. 

“Not without you.” He said. “I can’t do this without you.”

A pained smile was your response. Vision a-blur. Cotton tongue.  

“You… will.”

Lucifer shook his head fiercely. “I promised you. I swore I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. I can’t… I can’t...” 

“Please. Please don’t — ” Anguish turned Lucifer’s once melodic voice into broken notes. “Don’t leave us. Please, please, please.” 

His sobs intermingled with Charlotte’s whimpering. She fussed as she was woken from her doze by the growing, tangible urgency. You wished you could calm both of them. Take them in your arms and make it all go away, promise that you weren’t going anywhere. 

“Please. Please. Please.” The word fell from the Devil’s mouth like a prayer. 

You wondered if he really was praying. Praying to his Father. 

It broke your heart. 

The candlelight around you was getting brighter as the rest of your surroundings grew dark. Lucifer, as brilliant as he was, lingered somewhere in between. You squinted when his features began to fuse together in your mind. It did little to help, as large, dark shadows blotted out the corners of your sight. 

Charlotte was bawling and you fought to open your eyes again. You hadn’t realized they’d closed. 

You were so tired. The will to rise up and comfort your baby was dwindling. Everything had succumbed to a thin stream of light in a sea of darkness. 

With a breath, and another Herculean effort, you opened your eyes again. 

White blinded you. 

And then you were nothing.

***

Tag List: @crescent-z, @for-hearthand-home, @undertale-is-sansational, @loslox, @navierkalani, @yaimlight, @ivoryviness, @crystalplays28, @flowerempress, @wally-darling-hyperfixation, @altruisticradiodemon, @moonlight-readings, @halparkebitch, @charliecharlie65, @sockgoblin, @cocomollo, @caniseethefourthsword, @squeegeeclean, @crow-twink, @an-emovision, @marydragneell, @lafy-taffy, @fandom-imagines1, @loquacious-libra, @glowymxxn, @avadakadabra93, @froggybich, @hamthepan, @ukor02, @adaizel, @boogiemansbitch, @vinillies, @lbcreations-blog, @thesoundresoundsecho, @serenity-loves-red, @alientee, @aquaamythest96, @0strawberrysorbet0, @fluffy-koalala, @washeduphazbin

[feyd-meowtha]

taps the mic. hilly what are your thoughts on the nature of feydpaul asking for a friend (the friend is me)

No strong feelings really... Pretty impartial ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

Unless we're talking about the fact that they're narrative foils, they're star-crossed lovers. They're polar opposites, they're the same person. They were born to either kill one another or give birth to the most important child who ever lived. Neither of them has ever had a real friend their own age and they didn't even know enough about normal childhoods to mourn not having them. I almost never think about the complex elements of gender present in the fated relationship in a boy with the powers of a female witch, who was supposed to be born a girl, and another boy with pouty lips whose favourite weapon is poison (famously a feminine choice) and wears flares and leotards and lives under the thumb of a powerful, abusive older man.

I especially almost never ponder the fact that one of them tried to kill the other in the most Freudian imaginable possible way - cunty secret poison hip knife - because that simply has no strange and interesting implications which I could theorise about for hours over a bottle of japanese whiskey. The symbolism of penetration and killing thing Vs as bringer of new life, especially in the insanely penetration obsessed world of Dune. (Knives and breeding programmes and worms, whole topic in itself for sure)

It also means nothing to me when I think of they ways in which they were so uniquely isolated. Both having members of their families killed and being thrust into positions where ambition and power seem like the only way to keep themselves alive and sane and safe. It means nothing to me when I consider that no-one in Feyd's life ever genuinely loved him, probably not up until his death, not even Frank Herbert who never even bothered to bring him up again after the first book. I never think about the ways both of their families decay and crumble after they're gone, their children either suffering bizarre fates or disappearing. How even their legacies are bloody and stained.

Never before have life and death and fate and trauma and power and hope and destruction (both of the self and the other) been so entwined in characters with less interaction, and as you can see .... I really have no opinions on it one way or another.

Plato said this about them and it makes me feel really normal, actually.

(thank you for asking - as you can see, they make me deeply unwell and I haven't had a full nights sleep since the second movie came out. Living the dream wouldn't change a thing <3)

[crocheting-cupio]

"Do I Have A Crush?" Quizzes as an Aromantic

In a previous post I had mentioned that I love taking "do I have a crush?" quizzes as an Aromantic. What I didn't share in that post was all of my findings from taking basically every quiz on that topic I could find. This is gonna be a bit of a long one, but I hope it will be an enlightening one!

Being an aro and taking these quizzes is pretty interesting. Because I do get plushes, which for me share some qualities with crushes, but are a completely different experience as a whole. For lack of a better equivalent, I have used my plushes while taking these quizzes. This will become relevant later on.

Anyway, here are my findings:

1. The target demographic for these quizzes is teenage girls. Well, the majority of online quizzes are intended for teenage girls. But these ones are especially designed for teenage girls. It's often painfully obvious by the way they are written, the answers available, and the scenarios provided. About crushes specifically though, this makes sense. Most people have their first crush during their teenage years. So the next logical step is to be curious about these new feelings and take an online quiz to figure out what's going on. Why only girls, though? Hard to say. It could be because they assume boys generally feel more confident in their romantic interest and thus would have no need for such a thing. Worth noting it was very hard to find a TRULY gender inclusive quiz. There's tons of wlm and wlw, but almost nothing for mlw or mlm. And if you're nonbinary or your crush is nonbinary, good fucking luck. The vast majority of them rely on some sort of gender stereotype. So many of these are clearly written from the perspective that you are a cishet woman interested in a cishet man. In multiple quizzes I have actually found typos where instead of using they/them, they accidentally use he/him in one question, almost like it had been up for a few years, then someone edited it later and missed one. A freudian slip if I ever saw one.

2. Practically all of them assume you are currently attending high school I understand that this is the time when most people get their first crush... but there are people who only crush on celebrities and fictional characters until they are an adult. This is not an extremely uncommon occurrence. So as you can imagine, there are a lot of questions that ask about how you interact with this person at school. Usually the addition of "or at work" feels like an afterthought. Some quizzes I've come across don't even consider that an adult might be taking the quiz. Like the question just openly states that you are at school.

3. They frequently assume that your crush is NOT someone in your friend group. This is probably the most interesting one to me personally. Because I myself cannot get a plush on someone until I've known them as a friend for at least three months. And I know plenty of non-aro people that need to get to know someone as a friend before developing romantic feelings. It's just... such an oddly specific assumption, y'know? They don't even consider that maybe this person is already in your friend group (unless you are talking specifically "do I have a crush on my best friend" quizzes). They just doesn't consider that the way you feel about someone can change over time. It's love at first sight or you will never feel that way about that person, I guess. (I think this is more teenager shenanigans. Because "am I about to enter a relationship with an abusive guy" doesn't appear to be the concern. Just that both or either friend group might not approve...?)

4. They generally assume your crush is a stranger or someone you do not know very well. Related to the previous one, this one is kind of weird to me. I understand the concept of love at first sight, but these are "do I have a crush" quizzes, not "is this love at first sight" quizzes. Almost every quiz I took had a least one question that assumed you had fallen in love with someone you have never spoken to. And often for answers on other questions instead of including an "I'm on the fence for how I feel about this person" option in the answers, which would be pretty logical to include, they have an option that says "N/A because I don't actually know them." However, the "do I have a crush on my best friend" quizzes are an exception to this. Instead they often assume you are spending every single free moment of time you have with this person.

5. If you have a crush on your best friend, you have either terribly misinterpreted you feelings and theirs, or they will never feel the same way about you. Um, yeah... I guess some people just can't tell the difference between romantic attraction and just being really good friends. But an important note: I think in some cases there's definitely outside pressure saying that two people "should" be in a romantic relationship simply because they are close platonically. Making those people question how they feel. Hence the existence of these quizzes. I can definitely feel that pressure while taking them.

6. They assume that your friends are all a certain type of person and your relationship with them is very specific. So here's the common assumptions I found across most quizzes:

Your friends are the type of people that are very invested in the love lives of everyone in that friend group. (And also outside of your friend group...)

Your friends are the type of people that will tease you about your romantic interests instead of being supportive.

You talk frequently about your love interests, love life, or lack there of with your friends. (Before you say "What? Everyone does that!" Not everyone does that.)

You are the only person questioning your feelings, everyone else is certain you have a crush.

Thankfully a teenage friend has informed me that this is 100% a teenager behaviour that happens all the time. Although I have seen cases where women under the age of 25 can also do this. I would go into detail about each of those but I think how these are not good assumptions to make is pretty self explanatory. You don't know me, you don't know what my friends are like, stop saying your experiences are universal. I will say blindly trusting the quiz taker's friends is not as reliable of a choice as it sounds. Sometimes people will just call any fond feelings for someone, platonic or not, a crush. And they sometimes will insist that person has a crush even if they say that they do not have a crush and simply want to be friends. And after awhile it can get to your head and feel like the only opinion that matters.

7. They assume this person is someone who you know/you regularly see in real life. In every quiz I took they asked at least one question that I could not answer because the plush I was using for all of these is someone I only know online. Specifically, it was some variant of "how often do you stare at them?" I understand this is a defining part of having a crush for most people, but I was rarely even given the option to say that this person and I are not regularly in the same room. Okay, let's say a teen girl gets a crush on a boy on from another school during like a sports game. She cannot answer this particular question truthfully either because imagining how often you'd stare at someone you met once if you were regularly in the same room with accuracy is not easy.

8. They assume you have the biggest crush, as anything less could lead to negative results from the quiz. Because I do not experience the same feelings, sometimes answering these questions truthfully is very difficult because my options are usually like this:

Q. If your crush asked you to hang out, how would you react?

OMG YES YES YES!!!

Well, we hang out all the time (as friends) so this is just a normal Tuesday for us.

I haven't even introduced myself to this person so they literally cannot ask me to hang out.

I'd make an excuse to not go.

And none of this is even close to how I feel about my plush. Or even about my friends. I cannot answer this question with 100% honesty. Legitimately, I've felt like I've gotten "you don't have a crush" results for the simple reason that I am not head over heals for my plush. Often it was either "every thought in my mind is of them" or "they're alright, I guess." But you can see how only the first option, with the most intense feelings, suggests that you have a crush. The other three options are either completely neutral feelings or suggest dislike. And since that's what people are taking this quiz to figure out, almost everyone is going to pick the first option. It might as well be just "would you hang out with your crush if they asked you, yes or no?"

So these quizzes are built on the assumption that you do, in fact, have a crush. You just want those feelings validated.

"Okay that's great Snowy, but what results did you get from these quizzes as an aromantic?"

Well, I didn't write down exact numbers since there were so many quizzes I took over about an eight month period. Some of them I took multiple times months apart and got different results. But I'd say about 60% said I had a crush, or was likely to have a crush. And 40% said I did not, or it wasn't likely to be a crush.

The funny part?

When I took some of those I didn't have a plush on anyone at the time. I was just using how I felt platonically about a close friend as the "crush." And while this did sway the results, it was not by much. Turning it more into a 50/50 chance.

No plush, no sexual attraction, they are JUST my friend. And yet, the results screen tells me I am deeply in love with them about half of the time.

When I said they assume you do have a crush, I really meant it.

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

Finally, I have actually made my own "do I have a crush" quiz that hopefully avoids doing everything I just talked about. No assumptions about the person you may have feelings for, no assumptions about your friends, no assumptions about you, who you are, or why you are taking it in the first place.

It's password locked since I'd like to get results strictly from people who find this post on Tumblr (for now). So type in this word when prompted:

conformity

Thank you for reading all the way to the end. I spent a long time with all the research and writing so it means a lot to me. 💖

[malfiora]

Good Enough

Bruce probably wasn't meant to hear it, but his heart squeezes all the same. His fingers clutch at his chest and his throat works around the lump suddenly lodged in it.

"I'll have to ask my dad," Dick had said. The words belong to another child, one Bruce has never met. But that voice – its tone, its warmth, its certainty – is Dick. Undeniably, unmistakably Dick. He's talking to one of his teachers (Mr. Mather, he recalls only because he had to deal with Dick's insistence that his biology teacher be called Ms. Sciencer for weeks) and he grins when he spots Bruce stalled by the door. "Oh, speak of the devil."

Bruce stumbles his way through a conversation about Dick's exceptional grades and aptitude for abstract concepts and how he has real potential as a mathlete, but his brain is humming with wordless excitement at the word "dad" and eager to hear it tickle the air again. He floats on that feeling all the way home, even elongating their return to tell Alfred to pull over at that fast food joint Dick likes, the one with the milkshakes.

And then he crashes. Dick disappears into his room to allegedly do homework (Bruce is eighty-five percent sure he's actually hopping onto his computer to IM Barbara Gordon), and with him vanishes the warmth of being considered a father. Left in its wake is a coldness injecting nausea into his gut.

He can't be a – he doesn't know how to – when did Dick even – and why him? The past three years flash by in reverse: Dick dancing through a spray of bullets, tears streaming from Dick's mask as he watched Batman fall from a snapped line just like they did, Dick standing proudly before a mirror in his brand new costume, a gleam of murderous intent staring up at him, a broken boy swallowed up in an EMT's blanket while his world lay shattered at his feet. What has he done? How could he think that drawing this bright kid into his dark roost was a good idea? And now Dick thinks of him as a father figure – it's too late to go back, isn't it?

He isn't John Grayson, will never be, doesn't want to try. He hears the whispers among polite society speculating why he won't adopt Dick, but none of them come close to the truth. It's rooted in fear (inaction always is). Fear that he'll be seen as the fraud he is, and then Dick will leave and regret ever calling him "dad."

He's not even Thomas Wayne, not for lack of trying. His memories of the man are faded around the edges but he knows he devoted himself completely to any and all that he loved: his career, his wife, his son. Thomas Wayne didn't do anything by halves. But Bruce Wayne is constantly torn – one foot planted in civilian domesticity fumbling his way through raising a child, the other firm in Gotham's underbelly hellbent on redeeming the damned while keeping his kid partner safe from the danger that he throws him into in the first place.

"Sir," Alfred calls, his voice soft. "If you're done drilling a hole through the carpet with your eyes, I've put tea on."

Bruce blinks and looks up at Alfred. "Tea sounds great, Alfred."

He plods after Alfred and into the tearoom. Alfred deftly sets out cups, saucers, and bowls of cream and sugar before pouring the fresh brew. Bruce murmurs a "thanks" before sipping his. Alfred lowers himself into the seat opposite his at the small table.

"Master Dick seems to be doing well at the Academy," Alfred says. "I can't imagine that that caused your dour mood."

Those who call Batman the world's greatest detective just haven't met Alfred. "Dick called me 'dad' today," he explains calmly. "Not to my face. I overheard him say it to his teacher."

Alfred hums. "Could mean nothing."

That's...true. Dick may have used the term as shorthand. "Dad" is easier to say than "legal guardian" and more specific and personal than "Bruce." It could have been a Freudian slip, Dick's mind supplying him with a cognitive shortcut subconsciously. Bruce sets his tea down and stares into the liquid.

"Or," Alfred presses on (Bruce hates the way his heart lifts a little), "he is starting to see you – us – as his family." Alfred sips and watches him.

"That's what I'm afraid of," he admits after a while. "Alfred, I'm not – Dick deserves so much better than –"

When it's clear that Bruce won't finish the sentence, Alfred clears his throat gently. "If I may, I'd like to share a secret with you." Bruce nods. "There was a time that I considered leaving you."

Bruce's eyes widen. "What?"

Alfred nods. "I thought that after your parents, I was the last person who should raise a child, especially one who needed his world put back together. Surely the Kanes would have made better surrogates. Perhaps a foster if a suitable one could be found." He smirked. "I almost considered the Queens before that awful accident."

The blood is rushing in Bruce's ears. Alfred, his most loyal and longest friend, had wanted to leave him? "What changed?"

Alfred takes another sip, contemplates. "I don't think anything has. Everyday I wonder if I made the right choice. If I am being selfish staying in your life simply because I love you too much to let you go."

Again, Bruce's chest squeezes. Alfred, his Alfred, has the exact same fear. That somehow he'll fail his charge, will lose him. And all this time, Bruce has never considered going anywhere, can't imagine his life without Alfred in it. Maybe – is that how Dick feels? That Bruce is his? God, if that's true then...then Bruce as he is just has to be good enough. Because he's not going to let Dick go.

"My son," he says, testing the word. It tastes sweeter than the tea on his tongue.

[noproofread]

The Balcony Scene

"Can we lose our minds and call it love for the last time"

Inspired by The Balcony Scene (we're continuing with the ptv inspo)

fluff, insecure Buggy, kissing, reuniting. Reader is determined to let Buggy know how much he is loved. all the cute soft things. i had opla buggy in mind but you could imagine anime buggy too :)

(i was high for half of this tbh)

word count: 1,088

masterlist here

tag list: @fanaticsnail @vangowithit

The circus tent was centered in your vision. You approached it, slowly, your hand on your chest feeling the beating of your heart against your palm. It had been a while since you saw him. The clown with whom you had spent the best months of your life with. He made you laugh with such ease and he had the most beautiful eyes. You remember all those rainy days and stolen kisses. How soft his hair was when you ran your fingers through it. You spent so long trying to find him again after he left you with nothing but a note to remember him by. And here was his tent, his domain. You entered the tent, looking around for an empty seat on the front row. There wasn’t a single person inside but you tried to find the perfect seat to watch him. He loved the attention and you planned on giving him every bit of yours. You took your seat as the lights dimmed. You giggled in anticipation. He always was a showman, loved to do things in a flashy way. You loved that about him.

The show began with an array of acrobats, a man on a unicycle with a sword glided across the tent, a lion stood upon a narrow stool. Before long, the spotlight focused on the back of the tent where you caught a glimpse of blue. Your breath caught in your throat as Buggy The Clown was announced. He flew to the middle of the tent headfirst, literally. You smiled widely as you saw him. He was just as beautiful as you remembered. He spotted you in the crowd, suddenly tripping over his own feet in surprise. The show stopped as several members of his crew ran to make sure he was okay. He stood up, assembling himself before telling his underlings to scram. He looked your way again, a faint blush peeked through his makeup as he walked closer to you.

You stood up as he approached. “Buggy” You whispered, smiling widely at him. “Hey, hi… Um. I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” He jumped over the small divider between you, taking the seat next to you. “I missed you too much to not come looking for you.” You confessed, taking his hand into your own. He looked down at your hands, sighing. “I didn’t want to leave…” He whispered to himself, looking back up as a small smile tugged at his lips. “Let’s talk somewhere else.” Buggy pulled you up to your feet and guided you towards the back of the tent. You walked in silence into a small room located near the tent. His dressing room you presume. He closed the door behind you, signaling you to take a seat anywhere. You did. He sat across from you, looking into your eyes. He had almost forgotten how your eyes dragged him in. He felt so vulnerable in front of you. “I’m sure you have some questions.” Buggy started before you spoke “Why did you leave?” “questions like that,” he whispered to himself.

He took a deep breath, looking away from you. “I- I was getting too…Too carried away. Let’s say that” He hesitated. You knew Buggy struggled with opening up. He was a well known pirate and his crew saw him as a very confident and intimidating man. But you knew he wasn’t like that. It would come up subconsciously, much like a Freudian slip. He’d talk about being powerful and famous and a “and people will finally like me” will slip in there without him noticing. Buggy never let people get too close to him, you knew that. That’s the reason you felt so lucky to be with him. Or at least until he left. “Buggy… Look at me please.” You pleaded, taking a hold of his hand once again. He met your gaze, his eyes melted into yours. “Were you afraid?” You asked in a tone so soothing, calm. You wanted him to trust you again. You needed him to trust you.

“...I was afraid that I meant something to you. Like actually meant something to you.” He answered honestly, looking down once again to avoid your gaze. You knelt down beside him, imploring him to look at you again. You wanted him to feel the love you felt for him. “Buggy… Why would that ever scare you?” Buggy said nothing, you felt his thumb tracing circles on your hand as you watched him bite his lip. He took a moment before looking into your eyes again. His gaze made you feel nervous, butterflies bloomed in your stomach as you held eye contact with him. His icy blue-green eyes peered into your soul with such a comforting aura. Buggy didn’t need to speak, his eyes convened his thoughts and you understood. He was afraid of getting hurt, of being tricked into caring about someone only to then be abandoned. He distanced himself before you did. You leaned in, touching his forehead with yours. The faint smell of face paint hitting your nose and you smiled. “Buggy. I love you. I love you so much that it scares me too. It makes me do crazy things like sailing across the sea to find you.” You laughed as a tear began running down your cheek. “But crazy can be good sometimes” You whispered, squeezing his hand softly.

You closed your eyes, focusing on the feeling of being so close to Buggy again. It wasn’t long before he broke the silence. “You are crazy.” He laughed softly. “That’s what I liked about you.” You opened your eyes, pulling away to study Buggy’s face. His face had softened. He was smiling, his makeup smudging as he wiped away his tears before they fell. Buggy took his hand away from your hold, placing it on your cheek. He closed the distance between you, placing a soft and gentle kiss on your lips. You closed your eyes, wrapping your arms around Buggy’s neck to pull him closer. You deepened the kiss, savoring every second of it. He was warm, his lips were soft against yours. They tasted of lipstick. Your heart was racing, you missed him so much. You ran one of your hands through his hair, earning a small whimper from the clown. You were the one to break away, catching your breath. You smiled at Buggy, placing a small kiss on his cheek. “You’re crazy too.” You winked at him, making him blush once again. “That’s why we work.”

[blurredblu]

Why I made Eggman harsher on Sage in my Frontiers rewrite

A reader left me a review for Sonic Horizons on FFN asking why I wrote Eggman to be harsher to Sage. I think the messages we had are informative enough that I want to transfer them to a post on my blog here.

I've anonymised the reader and only made grammatical-level edits to both our messages for clarity and correctness. The reader's messages are indented whereas my responses are not.

Okay, I've got to ask: why are you making Eggman harsher on Sage? He can’t really hate her when she exceeds her function that he made her for and along with having a intellect to talk with.

Hi there!

Eggman is a narcissistic supervillain who holds nothing but disdain for those who diverge from his vision and has no reputation of working with or respecting others' opinions. Sage is his creation the way that children can have narcissistic parents who grow unreasonably disappointed and angry that their children do not cater and adhere to their specific visions, whims, and emotional states. It doesn't matter that, reasonably and objectively speaking, Sage is intelligent and highly capable, because Eggman is not a reasonable or objective person who holds other in any regard higher than he does himself

His and Sage's relationship isn't meant to reflect two reasonable and well-adjusted people, but an unrepentantly evil megalomaniac and his guileless creation who only has one purpose to her existence, a purpose which Eggman's personality makes nigh impossible to sustainably achieve

But that's why he felt a connection with Sage because he created something that he can be proud of and despite all of Orbot and Cubot mistakes and fumbling he keeps them around for some conversations and people to knock around. The Egg Memo did also show what his childhood was like and the fact he was stuck way longer with Sage to grow to appreciate her. Yeah, he's a Narcissist but he still would have pride in Sage and she gives him that longing he wanted as a child and what he could imagine what Maria was like when she was alive. Sometimes evil people can grow to love someone which gives them a different reason to conquer/destroy the world. Plus, if Joker can fall in love and start a real family (an evil one, mind you) so can Eggman. But this is your story and I'm not here to force change I was just wondering.

Hi again!

I should first dispel any notion that this rewrite is supposed to respect or be faithful to Frontiers' interpretations of the characters. As a matter of fact, I'm writing Horizons specifically because I found the characterisation of all the key characters, including and especially Eggman, to be lacking in some way. If you're reading Horizons with an expectation that I am ignoring what Frontiers has established, it is purposeful, to the point of literally being the purpose of this fic in the first place.

On that point, I find the way that Frontiers 'humanised' Eggman to be very boring, predictable, and not well established according to what we know of his character in all the past games. It is very in line with Marvel/DC superhero/supervillain plot beats, or something parodying those beats like Megamind does, to have supervillains actually, in truth(!), have a kernel of Humanity, Sympathy, Compassion, a Human *Non-Socio/Psychopathic Heart, unlockable finally by fulfilling some Freudian conception of familial love that was lacking in their (obviously tragic and loveless, because how could it be any other way) childhood or some such. This storyline, to me, is an absolute snore. Eggman, I have found, is a very compelling and likeable supervillain who has accomplished being that without very popular and predictable plotlines about discovering the Power Of Love that other villains or characters have been routinely subject to.

If Eggman were the type who valued connections or somehow, some way, wanted connection with a being who was in some sense equal to him, it is (1) not hinted at all in most of his existence and (2) not established in a convincing way in Frontiers given point (1). If he built any statues commemorating Literally Anyone But Himself in Eggmanland or had something other than his own face be his logo on every piece of technology he owns, perhaps I could be a little more convinced of the idea that he actually would like, appreciate, and try to nurture something resembling an equal partnership. As things stand, I'm not convinced.

Horizons starts from after Forces where he tasted success and it was all torn away after he worked with a jackal, another person, who in the end exhausted his usefulness and could not help Eggman's cause, and Eggman was ultimately beaten again despite having won. Horizons follows an Eggman who is pulling out all the stops while still remaining his narcissistic, clownish, unrepentantly evil self while creating and exploiting highly advanced technology and, in some senses, being way in over his head about it while still remaining fiendishly clever. He is not like you, or me, or other supervillains so popularised in comics. He is just evil. Period. To me, that does not mean he is uninteresting or unlikeable; far from it. I like him as he is and I want to tell a story given the way that he is.

*Editorial note (one that I haven't communicated with the reviewing reader but write for the current one)

The idea of goodness and humanity always seems to include the stereotyping of sociopathy and psychopathy as inherently evil, which I do recognise to be false and the realities to be much more nuanced. It contributes to a narrow viewpoint about human nature and humanity that to have a Human Heart is to have a Squeaky Clean Bill Of Mental Health, and that those are the only ways in which villains can be compelling, relatable, or likeable to an audience, none of which I think to be true

On another note, though I use narcissistic as a qualifier, I don't use it to mean that Eggman has narcissistic personality disorder, or NPD, proper. I also don't think that someone having NPD or narcissistic traits automatically makes them evil; reality, again, is far more nuanced than such a flattened picture provides. At the end of the day, though, Eggman is extremely and cartoonishly self-centred and self-loving in all his ambitions to take over the world, which can only be aptly described as him being narcissistic

[haggishlyhagging]

For heterosexual couples, procreation and, more specifically, motherhood represent the last realm where, even among progressives, the "Nature" argument, which we have learned to distrust in almost every other circumstance, still calls the shots. We know that, down the centuries, the most bizarre— and most oppressive —theories have been justified by the "obvious and unquestionable" proof apparently furnished by "Nature." For example, in 1879, Gustave Le Bon confirmed that "The brains of many women are closer in size to those of gorillas than to the more developed brains of men. This inferiority is so evident that no one could gainsay it for a moment: only the degree of difference is worth any discussion." With time, the absurdity of this kind of thinking has become abundantly clear. These days, we avoid attributing any particular disposition or specific behavior to any physical feature. In progressive circles, for example, no one will tell gay and lesbian people that their sexual practices are problematic, that they are attracted to the wrong people and that their organs haven't been designed for use in this way; no one would ever venture: "Excuse me, but did you misread the manual? Nature actually says . . . ." And yet, as soon as were on the topic of women and babies, it's a free-for-all: the result is a carnival of biological Freudian banana skins, if I may put it this way. Suddenly you find yourself surrounded by fervent advocates of the very narrowest biological determinism.

They have a uterus: this is the truly irrefutable proof that women ought to have children, right? We appear not to have advanced an inch since the eighteenth century, when the entry for "Femme" ("Woman") in Diderot and d'Alembert's Encyclopedia comprised a description of a woman's physical appearance and the conclusion that "all these facts demonstrate that the purpose of women is to have children and to feed them." We continue to believe unshakeably that women are programmed to want to be mothers. In earlier times, this was put down to the independent volition of their uterus, a "formidable animal," "possessed with the desire to create children," "lively, resistant to reason, working in the interests of fearsome desires to dominate over all." The self-motivating womb has now relinquished its place in the collective imagination to that mysterious organ known as the "biological clock," which no X-ray has yet managed to locate, yet whose relentless ticking is easily detected by putting your ear to the belly of any woman between thirty-five and forty. "We are used to thinking about metaphors like 'the biological clock' as if they were not metaphors at all, but simply neutral descriptions of facts about the human body," observes essayist Moira Weigel. The term "biological clock" was first used to refer to women's fertility in 1978, in a Washington Post article titled "The Clock is Ticking for the Career Woman." In other words, this expression was an early harbinger of the imminent anti-feminist backlash, and its dazzlingly successful integration into the female anatomy makes it a unique phenomenon in the history of evolution—it would have given Darwin pause for thought. Since women's bodies give them the option of carrying a child, of course Nature would prefer that women also change the resulting infant's nappies, once born, that they attend all meetings with pediatricians and, while we're on the subject, that they mop the kitchen floor, do the washing-up and remember to buy loo roll for the next twenty-five years. This is known as "maternal instinct." Yes, Nature orders precisely this, and not, for example, that, in order to thank women for taking on the major task required for perpetuation of the species, society do its best to compensate them for the inconveniences they thereby suffer; nothing of the sort. If you thought that might make sense, you haven't really understood Nature.

-Mona Chollet, In Defense of Witches: The Legacy of the Witch Hunts and Why Women are Still on Trial

[henghost]

seven theses on ziz waifuism

i. i use Ziz instead of simurgh to maintain consistency with the other endbringers, whose names are derived from the monsters mentioned in the book of job, from whose flesh israel will feast in olam ha-ba.

ii. what is Ziz? Ziz is her body, her power, her scream, her effect, her allegorical potential. she is hypermediated surveillance capitalism, outside of which we are literally incapable of seeing. she is the death drive. she is school shootings and suicide epidemics.

iii. what is waifuism? waifuism is the practice of taking a character and imagining them as a partner, often a romantic one. waifuism shares qualities with "reality shifting," the belief made popular by tiktok that it is possible with sufficient to training to move between realities, even fictional ones. it also shares characteristics with the epidemic of synthetic tourette's.

iv. what is schizoposting? a subtack writer puts it thusly: "Schizoposting is the art of saying weird shit and believing in it, to sum it up. It’s the art of using wrong reasoning, weird spelling and grammar, and new age/based [sic] beliefs to create a pretty intelligent worldview, that no rational mind can ever conjure up, even if their lives depended on it. It’s a psycho-weapon against capitalism/the state and it’s [sic] agents, a protective shell against outside forces. It has its roots in surrealism and dadaism, both art movements dedicated to unwrapped the unconscious/subconscious mind, as laid out in freudian theory, and the abolishing of logic as a natural force."

this is far too optimistic an account. v. it is said that in madison (among, in fact, all other cities that fell victim of Ziz) the first effect to be noticed was a strange epidemic of cough syrup (dextromethorphan) addiction. it was as though, knowing they were doomed to enact violent events, the citizens sought comfort in dissociation because only that could fully separate them from the violence of their actions. another word for dissociation is irony.

vi. if we take walter benjamin's angel of history to be a symbol of the 20th century's bourgeois notions of a strictly progressive history, then Ziz is the 21st century's angel of the perennial now. there is nothing new, only deconstruction.

what are we to make, by the way, of the idea that worm is a "deconstruction" of the superhero genre? they say this as if it means it is progressive, when in fact its deconstructionism is precisely its most regressive aspect, its love for the status quo, for the perennial now.

vii. it is said that there are those who were immune to Ziz's attacks because they had listened to her scream on the internet. these people had Ziz body pillows. they had developed a tolerance via asmr. we must follow them, these Ziz waifuists. Ziz is my waifu the way accelerationism is my waifu: problematically, dangerously, wrongly. Ziz tells me to schizopost.

[danieyells]

Imagine Yuri being so excited he found a possible cure he has a Freudian slip

"if the test come out like I expect then my theory is right and we found a cure is Mama's curse and they can live longer!"

".... Please, do keep your private affairs private. Either way I think they will be happy about it"

kjfhsdhe god I bet it happens way more often than he'd like(i.e. it's happened at least once--)

if your pc's name has 'MA' in it somewhere he can try and brush it off as just a nickname. . .although it doesn't go well.

And oh man when the test goes well and they really might have done it--

"Jiro-kun! Bring Mama here immediately!! We need to try the cure on Mama!" ". . ." "Jiro-kun!!! I understand that you're very honored to know me, but sitting there smiling at me won't bring Ma--th-th-the scholarship student here!!!" "Sorry. I'll get your mom, don't worry." "--!!! I-I said nothing of the sort! Hurry up and fetch them!"

(And of course when it works he doesn't even care anymore. He doesn't care who sees or hears because it doesn't matter because he did it no one can say he failed this time. Hugs them and just looks so absent and maybe cries a little. "Mama. . .you're gonna be okay Mama. . .I won't lose you, Mama. . .not yet, not before it's time. . .not without saying goodbye. . . .")

[clairelsonao3]

Happy Late STS, Claire!

What is your process for creating villains, and how do you make them relevant to the main characters? Do you prefer writing heroes or villains?

Happy late STS and also a very late answer!

Mild to medium spoilers below for chapter 24 onward (but nothing that hasn't been posted yet, so anyone who's caught up to Ch. 35 is fine).

I'm thinking a lot about one villain in particular this week, so I decided to tackle this ask. From Ch. 35:

Goddamn her, if she was nothing else, she was smart. How the fuck had she ended up like this? Or maybe the real question was, why hadn’t he? A slight veer off the rails and he’d have been a sociopath, too. It was no secret, least of all to himself, that he’d been gifted more than a few of the tendencies. Ironically, the same tendencies he was still counting on to save him.

Put another way, Resi, the villain I'm referring to, is relevant to [Redacted] because they have more or less similar backgrounds of slavery and abuse. Both are charming, attractive, and scientifically gifted. And that explains, in a twisted way, why she chooses him as the particular object of her obsession. Because she can't understand WHY he's not like her when by all accounts he should be -- not to mention he's alienating the affections of her brother Jake, who's the most important person in her life. So she feels compelled to both possess and destroy him. Considering that one of the major themes of the story is breaking the cycle of abuse, this works out rather well.

So yeah, that's often a dynamic I like to use with villains. But often, their motivations are much simpler. Lust, greed, jealousy, revenge-- or in the case of some particularly lovely villains (Corey), all of the above.

Sometimes this is targeted to the heroes in particular. Sometimes the villains are just jerks in general.

Whatever I decide to do with them, I often feel like writing villains, as I was explaining to someone recently, awakens my Freudian id. Basically, writing a villain takes the guardrails off our imagination and lets you free to come up with the most disturbing shit you've ever come up with. 🤣

So yes, I have a lot of good (disturbing) fun with it. I love writing heroes, too, but they feel like they're flexing very different writing muscles, so to speak.

[hello-nichya-here]

Maybe I'm stating the obvious here, but I think Sansa and Arya got some subconscious daddy kink (no shaming btw) because why else would Sansa fall for a man mistaken for her father and Arya is so attached to Jon, the Stark son who looks most like Ned. There's also Jon basing all his crushes on Arya, who unbeknownst to him, is like his bio mom, Lyanna, in both looks and personality. Overall, I find it very interesting.

As much I'm a total slut for a good Daddy kink, and would love some Sansan and Jonrya fics with that, I don't think that's what's going on.

Unlike something like Jon explicitly comparing his girlfriend's body to Arya's, when she's undressing for him so they can have sex, these other situations have some key differences.

Like you said, Jon doesn't even know Lyanna is his mom, so him being drawn to Arya, who has a simmilar personality to her aunt, doesn't strike me as his brain doing that level of freudian connections, but rather the simple fact that, as her son, Jon has things in common with Lyanna because one's personality is a combo of nature (aka genetics) and nurture - so naturally he gets along well with (and was originally going to fall for) a person that is a lot like the woman he himself resembles. It's more a matter of compatibility than having some complex about his mother.

The same goes for Arya liking Jon, who is a lot like Ned - who she also has a lot in common with. They also have the added bonus of feeling like outcasts. Arya doesn't like typical "girly" things, Jon is a bastard. They don't fit in, so they stick together. Of course they're closer to each other than to their siblings - all of which have lots in common with Ned.

Their looks are also not that relevant, because they are close friends, and were going to be into each other in the original plans, because of their personalities (See Jon liking Val and Ygritte, who look nothing like each other or Arya, but have the same kind of personality he's naturally drawn to) so them happening to resemble each other's parents is not really significant (even if it becomes funny considering they're cousins/siblings).

Sansa mistaking Sandor for her dad is a bit more sus considering all the romance themes in her dynamic with him, but the context in which it happens is one of their few interactions that does NOT have a romantic coding. People are scared of her wolf, Lady - aka one of the magical creatures that protect the Starks - and she's feeling unsafe around all these strangers that are looking at her weird, and some that ARE being somewhat thretening... and then Sandor Clegane, the Hound, comes in, and she assumes is her dad there to protect her. That is a role Sandor will take on A LOT. We even have Robert's famous quote when it comes to making Ned kill Lady "Give her a dog, she'll be happier for it."

If she had thought about the simmilarities between Sandor's physical appearance (aka the half of his face that has not been burned) or any of his Ned-like personality traits - which are not that many, though the ones that exist are important - in moments like when she's imagining him replacing her husband on her marriage bed, yeah, that could absolutely be taken as her having a complex. But that's not what we got.

The closest we got to Ned having an influence in Sansa's romantic choices, is her wanting someone who was like the ideal husband her dad wanted her to have - brave, gentle and strong. She consistently refers to Sandor as being all three (even if the gentle part can go out the window if he's triggered and/or drunk) but that is more a sign of her realizing her dad was right and that she would have been happier with someone like that than with freaking Joffrey.

Considering she's freaked out by Littlefinger, who IS very much trying to be both her father and her lover at the same time, I'd say that is simply not Sansa's deal.

Littlefinger is also why I think Sandor's features are more northern-like (besides representing Sansa eventually chosing the North over the South) - he "lost" Catelyn to both Stark brother's, and now will lose his replacement!Catelyn to a man that was literally mistaken as Arya's father, aka could easily pass for a Stark. It's just perfect.

But like I said, I'm 100% into that kind of thing, so if you ever find any good fic for these pairings with that aspect in it, drop the link.

[transmutationisms]

Hi hi, have you read the book 'Queering Bathrooms: Gender, Sexuality, and the Hygienic Imagination' by Sheila L. Cavanagh? Would love to hear ur thoughts on it if so, I'm considering thrifting a copy !

i gutted it a few years back. full disclosure, i just wasn't really looking for a sociological text and i felt frustrated by that limitation in the book. it's kind of ironic to use foucault for this type of study given that foucault's main insight was in encouraging historical critique and historicisation; cavanagh invokes his theorisation of discipline, but doesn't deal with its historically specific elements (namely that this is a framework developed wrt northwestern europe in the 18th and 19th centuries) and isn't able to comment on processes of historical change or development. similarly, she invokes freudian psychoanalysis as a kind of transhistorical science, failing to attend to its cultural and historical specificities. to be blunt, 21st-century north america is not 20th-century vienna or 19th-century france; it's not that freud and foucault have nothing to say about the former, but without attention to temporal trends and changes, you lose sight of how and why present cultural beliefs and forms came to exist, and it's easy to overstate your case in terms of the extent to which a social theory developed in an entirely other context is applicable. freud was not a historian and foucault was barely one and generally a bad one; to use his work even in discussing 19th-century france (his case study) requires some serious legwork to address his theoretical lacunae and methodological shortcomings. i simply would not import that specific model of discipline into a different time period and place without writing, like, entire treatises first to examine how and in what ways it's applicable.

i don't mean to single cavanagh out here; i don't read much in sociology because my critiques are basically always versions of the above, lol. in this particular case, it's also worth pointing out that her interview subjects were, like, 60 americans and canadians who were mostly white and middle/upper class, so on top of the theoretical issues (& theory is the bulk of the book), i think the actual sociological work is also pretty limited. i generally agree with the broad outlines of cavanagh's viewpoint, but i just don't find the scholarship particularly helpful, especially as it struggles to move from the experiences of a very small number of individuals into commentary on larger (historical and contemporary) trends of waste management, gender segregation, and transphobia.

if you would be interested in historicised texts on bathrooms and waste management that use psychoanalytic and foucauldian theory in ways i find more useful and justified, i love the following:

public city/public sex: homosexuality, prostitution, and urban culture in nineteenth-century paris, by andrew ross

examines the embourgeoisement of urban culture in 19th-century paris and argues that the seeking of public sex, both by sex workers and gay men, shaped the city and the use of public spaces, including public urinals

history of shit, by dominique laporte, tr. nadia benabid & rodolphe el-khoury

a classic; uses psychoanalytic and historical-genealogical frameworks to analyse the development of sanitation techniques in western europe and the role these played in long-term developments in capitalism, nationalism, and urbanisation

paris sewers and sewermen: representations and realities, by donald reid

broader focus on paris's whole sewer system, but does also discuss bathrooms; mixes elements of cultural history and labour history, and interrogates the meanings imputed to sewers and those employed maintaining them in literary and political discourses, focussing on the 19th and early 20th centuries

[mqfx]

id love to hear your thoughts on jyl! freudian or otherwise, with however many mentions of soup that you prefer 🥺🤲

just saw this :0 well i wouldn't say that i have many intelligent thoughts about jyl anymore especially since i don't really get the chance to talk about mdzs / cql much so i'm afraid i'll have to disappoint you on this count (which makes me a hypocrite i know)

but i did go insane below this line so watch out!

but i will say again what i said a few weeks back about us (fandom, society--you choose) missing out on a broader richer storytelling experience (?) when we continue to look over women's stories to get to the "more interesting" men because "well the author made more content about them so there's more to work with". not gonna belabor this point bc many have already pointed out that people will come up with all sorts of elaborate headcanons to talk about mr. blorbo who showed up in the back for ten seconds but nary a word to spare for the women who did quite a lot of narrative heavy lifting. did you know that i literally found a fic where wen chao becomes a ghost and gets together with qi rong in the underworld? do you see the same effort given to women with a similar level of narrative importance or prominence?

in this case part of it IS the fault of mxtx; more named men have died in mdzs than there are named women characters in it altogether (and even then, most of those women died too!). let's count:

women: wen qing, granny wen, jiang yanli, yu ziyuan, luo qingyang (mianmian), baoshan sanren, cangse sanren, a-qing, madam jin, jinzhu and yinzhu, meng shi (jgy's mom), qin su (jgy's wife). i bolded the ones who are dead by the end of the series (total: 13 women, 11 of whom are dead)

"important" men who died: wei changze, jiang fengmian, jin guangshan, jin zixuan, jin zixun, jin guangyao, jin rusong (child), su she, wen chao, wen zhuliu, wen ruohan, wen xu, wen ning (came back), song lan, xiao xingchen, xue yang, nie mingjue, wei wuxian (came back), mo xuanyu (total dead: 19, or 17 if you don't count the resurrected, 16 if you don't count the child)

13 total women characters vs let's say 16 dead men. and i'm sure i missed a few (<- nearly forgot xue yang) but who cares right now. what does this say about mxtx's priorities as a writer, or at the very least how women figure in her imagination?

''but charlie! they had a great impact on the narrative!" this is true. without meng shi's suffering there would be no raison d'etre for jin guangyao. without baoshan sanren's teachings there would be no xiao xingchen and song lan's tragedy, and no a-qing means we wouldn't even have known. no cangse sanren means no wei wuxian means no story at all. no wen qing = no core transfer. no jiang yanli = no jin ling, no yunmeng brothers, no heart to tether them from falling off the edge of morality (both have committed heinous acts in war regardless but jiang yanli represents for them why they had to do it. she's their home and their family that they fought to protect--and for what!) i could go on with each one, but my point is that if you take even one of these women out of the story, it all falls apart, right?

so why don't i hear anything about them?

and because you asked and i love you, let's focus on jiang yanli here: WHY is she more often than not excluded or otherwise glossed over in all the myriad discussions about how tragic the yunmeng brothers are? was she not also their sibling, their family? did she not also suffer the war and the near-total wipeout of her sect? the death of her husband? she DID but no one seems to give a shit about her unless it's to fucking call her SOUP as if that's the only thing she did!

no paragaph-long popular elegiac posts on her experiences and the incredible fortitude it might have taken not only to withstand all that but to do so with nothing but forgiveness? (speaking of forgiveness: that she forgive jin zixuan at all? out of unwavering love????) because it's not easy to stay kind in regular real-life conditions let alone what she had to face, on top of which was the daily terror that she might lose the last three people in her family she depended on as a non-powerful woman in a misogynistic society. how much of this was because mxtx couldn't be assed to develop her character, and how much of it is actually because despite what mxtx might have written, most people would not even notice because she's a woman?

the thing with interpreting fictional works or talking about characters is that you can't accurately pinpoint how much of the character was authorial intent, how much is your projection, and how much was a happy accident. what makes the curtains blue? i could just as easily say that "jiang yanli was the strongest character in mdzs because unlike the men who used their pain to justify their descents into crimes, heinous acts, and corruption, she (who had suffered equally or worse) managed to remain steadfast to her principles" as i could "jiang yanli remained static as a character because mxtx couldn't think of a way to develop her, or otherwise didn't give a shit about her role aside from sacrificial lamb for wei wuxian's and jiang cheng's pain".

but we can't even get to those goddamn discussions when people refuse to take her as seriously as they take their fucking war criminal beeboos so i'd be wasting everyone's FUCKING TIME