#manically-melancholy

[manic-melancholy]

With two years and counting, it appears this hyperfixation isn’t stopping anytime soon, so I finally made a COD side blog! Life seems too short and mundane not to engage in hobbies and activities that bring you joy - so, “fuck it, we ball.”

I’m here to have fun, explore some interests, and maybe even create if the spirit moves me :)

Without the anxieties of being connected to a personal account and handle, here’s to my little corner of Tumblr where I can interact as freely as my socially awkward heart desires 🥂♥️ lol

Once I get the chance, I’ll add more substance to this blog, likely once finals are over and life slows down. ♡

[ebony-blu]

(IMO) The big three of being more than the manic pixie dream

[toothworxx]

you wake up, you look in the mirror, the face you see is not yours- your hair is the wrong color, your limbs feel all wrong- but you recognize yourself in those eyes- "this isnt real" everyone tells you- "thats not you" you look at the self in your mind and its oh so clear- thats you, youve been here, thats always been you "youre not acting yourself" but are you not another self than the one they last met? that wasnt you- thatll never be you- their voice sounds like "you" their face looks like "you" but that wasnt you- this body is wrong this body is wrong this body is wrong- your life is different- different world different friends different people different place and time and rules- you know who you were you know you know but its "wrong"- you try to change you try to be seen in a way where others will understand you but it always falls short- you fall back into old habits- the way you speak is so uniquely your own and not that of the others... the way you act speaks of a self youve long since tried to look past- the way you are- you will always be yourself- always always always no matter who believes you, you will always be you- and thats not "wrong", is it?

[musclesandhammering]

If the Loki writers absolutely had to have an unnecessary romance baked into the plot and weren’t cowards, they would’ve paired Loki and He Who Remains together.

He could’ve made it to the Citadel at like the beginning of episode 5 and had more time to build a dynamic between just the two of them- whatever dynamic it would’ve been.

And then that would solidify Loki a major role in the Kang storyline in the main mcu, because in addition to being the one to open the multiverse (sylvie doesn’t exist in this au shh) he’d have an emotional history with the only “good” variant of him.

[persimmonia]

let's watch harold & maude with mama and cry hysterically for the last ten minutes of the film and another five after

[bitingriskyrose]

You broke my heart, but I never let that hurt turn to hate. No matter what you took from me, no matter what I gave, at least I'll always have that.

[lavenderprose]

Emmrich is a morning person and Rook is only a morning person under duress, which becomes only a minor issue after the gods are finally dead because Rook's ideal wake up time is roughly noon, and Emmrich's up at the asscrack of dawn every day whether he works or not.

It's six thirty AM and Rook's face-down on the bed, titties out and hair splayed across three pillows, and Elgar'nan breathed this last breath less than a week ago. Emmrich gave the various factions of Thedas exactly three days to demand Rook's attention and, on the morning of the fourth day, grabbed Rook with one hand and Manfred with the other and asked the Caretaker if there was an Eluvian that might deposit one anywhere in the area of the Cumberland countryside.

Emmrich apparently maintains a small country house here, for 'Whatever occassion might arise' (demented) and it's modest but pretty. Manfred trampled straight into the rose garden when they got here and hasn't emerged since, but Emmrich claims that's normal for him. Rook personally believes that Manfred, even, is still processing their mutual ordeal, but she's content to let him do it with the caterpillars and the rose petals. Not like a skeleton can be pricked by a thorn.

The moment they arrived, Emmrich sought out the housekeeper and told her that her services would not be required for the coming week, and to stand by on the subject of next week as well.

"Go celebrate the world not ending, Helga!" he'd said, maybe a bit too loud and manic, as he closed what was surely much more than a week's salary into her hand. Knowing Emmrich, there was already a very robust system in place to assure that his housekeeper received her generous salary every week--this was merely some sort of consolation pay for the very difficult task of being given a week of vacation.

Helga was Elven, at least as old as Emmrich and blinked at him like a vaguely surprised cat. She swept her gaze over Rook as well before leaving. She'd been smirking, Rook thought, as the door closed behind her.

Thus, they've been alone in the house, and Rook has been sleeping, staring vaguely into the distance, sleeping, reading from Emmrich's extensive collection, looking at the ceiling while trying to forget the sight of Bellara's blighted eyes, sleeping, bouncing on Emmrich's dick like it's her job, and sleeping sleeping sleeping.

They've been here for two days, more or less 48 hours, and many of those hours were spent in his lap. Fucking him, yes, but also just clinging onto him like an extra limb because right now, she feels like she might disintegrate if he isn't touching her. He reads to her. Smiles and laughs through so many stories from his life. She thinks about Solas disappearing into the Fade, maybe never to be seen again. The last God of her people.

When she goes too quiet, sometimes he tells her a joke or puts a little chocolate in her mouth. Once, he ate her out while humming the Nevarran national anthem and she laughed as she came. Sometimes he joins her in melancholy and they lay together and cope. Sometimes she cries, mostly from exhaustion and relief and grief, and he kisses her face. Sometimes he cries. From exhaustion and relief and grief, probably. She tucks her head under his chin and rubs her small hand up and down his broad back, and then she swipes the snot and tears out of his mustache with her very own thumb because she loves him, she loves him.

This morning, she flutters her eyes open and enjoys the texture of the silk sheets against her bare body (Last night, and for lack of a better term, Emmrich fucked her to sleep--apparently, when the world isn't in active peril, he's very into the whole tantric thing. Hours of crazy hot, dragging sex that destroys braincells, but only the ones she's better off not having.) and she does that for about thirty seconds before she realizes it's just barely light outside, blue and cool. Then she starts wondering why the fuck she's awake right now.

The answer becomes apparent immediately: Emmrich is in the ensuite bath, running water and making the weirdest, loudest noises. She thinks at first that he's managed to gag himself with his own toothbrush, but then he sneezes, blows his nose with a honking noise like a malfunctioning horn, and clears his throat so thunderously that Rook thinks he must somehow be drowning.

She rolls out of bed and wobbles into the bathroom, birthday suit and all, because clearly he's become sick in the night and it's now up to her to guide him back to bed and care for him. She's surprised, then, to find him looking hale and healthy in front of the sink. He's wearing nothing but silk pajama pants and down slippers. He's making an absurd clicking sound and swirling a finger inside his ear.

"Are you okay?" Rook demands, propped on the doorjamb.

Emmrich jumps a foot on the air, winces as he jabs his own eardrum, and says, "Ow! Darling, please don't sneak up on--"

"You are being so loud," she says, because the polite section of her brain hasn't woken up. "Are you choking? Are you sick?"

"No," Emmrich says slowly. "I just--oh, the door must have fallen open. The floor isn't terribly even here. I'm sorry, darling--sound does carry in this old house." He twirls a finger behind his ear and clinks again. "I fear I suffer seasonal allergies, dearest, and it's been a long while since I slept more than a night or two outside of the Necropolis or the Fade. There's quite a bit of...mucus..." He clears his throat.

"Gross," says Rook, and then, "It's dawn, Emmrich."

"Mm-hm." Emmrich is now leaning across the counter, two inches from the mirror and examining his mustache like a jewel appraiser.

"Why are you making heinous old man noises at dawn?"

His eyes veer towards her reflection in the mirror, and they make eye contact in the glass. Very neatly, and with a raised eyebrow, he says, "Heinous old man noises."

Rook starts making hawking, gutteral noises in the back of her throat. It's a pretty faithful imitation.

"Dearest," he yells over the sound. "I apologize for waking you--"

"I cannot believe," says Rook, "that I'm going to spend the rest of my life being woken up at dawn by the hacks and sneezes of a man who wears wing tip shoes."

She's halfway through a half-asleep snicker at the hilarity of her own statement when Emmrich fixes her with a surprised look in his wet eyes and she realizes she's never actually voiced the idea that has become an unspoken certainty in her mind: That he's the love of her life, and her life may not be as short as she was thinking it might be this time last week, and that she wants nothing more than to spend the rest of her ambiguously-numbered mornings waking up to him.

She also realizes the truth of the situation. The baths in the Lighthouse were communal, and one never knew which companion they might encounter during their morning routine. Emmrich is fastidious and spends a great deal of his energy in broadcasting the image of a man who is utterly put together in everything he does. Never a hair out of place or a thread loose. It's a privilege of the highest order to witness him this way. Sleep-mused hair, shadow on his jaw. The bleariness of sleep in his eyes and, yes, even the throat-clearing and nose blowing.

Emmrich clears his throat and whispers, "Forgive me. I've...lived alone. For a very long time."

Rook's eyes water as she croaks, "Not anymore. I don't...want you to."

A smile spreads his face. It is wobbly, boyish, and so so beautiful. The absurdity of the situation finally reaches her--she is very naked and he's only slightly more dressed and there is a perfectly warm, perfectly comfortable bed steps away.

"Come back to bed," Rook says. "Please?"

He does.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

more words for characterization (pt. 3)

Mentality

abhorrence, absentmindedness, abstraction, ache, aggravation, agonize, alarm, allergy, amazement, angst, anticipation, apathy, assurance, attention, attrition, awe, bathos, behalf, belonging, bitterness, boast, bosom, breast, buoyancy/buoyance, capitulation, care, censure, cheer, clemency, cogitation, comfort, complex, compulsion, conception, confusion, consideration, constancy, content, contrition, corollary, credit, curiosity, darkness, decision, deference, delight, delirium, dementia, dependence/dependency, design, despair, difficulty, disaffection, discipline, discomfiture, discontent, discrimination, disinclination, disorder, disquiet, distraction, disturbance, dolor, dumps, ecstasy, elation, emotion, enjoyment, envy, esprit de corps, exaltation, excitement, exhilaration, expectation, exultation, fat city, felicity, firmness, fog, forbearance, foresight, forgetfulness, frame of mind, free will, fret, frustration, funk, fury, glee, gratification, grief, happiness, heart, heartbreak, heaven, hoopla, huff, humanity, humor, idiocy, impulse, indignity, insight, introspection, jealousy, joy, kick, lament/lamentation, letdown, levity, madness, mania, melancholy, merriment/merrymaking, mirth, monotony, mope, mortification, mourning, nausea, neglect, nervous breakdown, neurosis, objection, observance, obsession, optimism, outlook, panic, paroxysm, pathos, penance, perception, pessimism, pity, Pollyanna, pout, precognition, premonition, presence, psyche, push, qualm, rage, rapture, red herring, rejoice, repent, repose, resent, resignation, resolution, restlessness, ruckus, sadness, satisfaction, security, self-satisfaction, sensibility, sentiment, servitude, simmer, slump, solace, sorrow, soul-searching, status quo, strain, stress, surprise, sympathy, telepathy, temperament, tension, tolerance, torpor, trance, triumph, umbrage, unrest, vanity, waver, wonder, worry, zeal, zest

Attributes of Mentality: aback, absconder, absent-minded, absorbing, accustomed, affected, afraid, aghast, alert, amatory, angry, apathetic, apprehensive, assumed, attentive, averse, bad, beaten, believable, berserk, bewildered, bigoted, bleak, blue, breathless, broad-minded, brokenhearted, burning, captive, cautious, cheerful, chipper, clairvoyant, compassionate, concerned, confused, contemplative, contented, crabby/crabbed, crazy, cross, curious, daffy, dearly, dejected, delirious, depressed, desolate, desperately, disaffected, disbelieving, disconcerted, discontented/discontent, discouraging, disenchanted, disgusted, disillusioned, disinterested, dispirited, dissident, distressed, doleful, dotty, down, downcast, dumbfounded, elated, emotional, enamored, enraged, excited, exultant, fed up, firm, flushed, forgetful, forlorn, frenetic, frightened, fulfilled, furious, glad, gleeful, glum, grateful, grief-stricken, gut, half-baked, happily, hard, hard-boiled, harried, headstrong, heartsick, high, hopeful, huffy, hysterical, ill-tempered, impassioned, inattentive, inconsolable, indifferent, indiscriminate, insane, insecure, intent, interested, intoxicated, irate, irresolute, jaundiced, jovial, joyful/joyous, jubilant, keen, languid, lethargic, livid, lonesome, loony, low, lukewarm, mad, malleable, manic/maniacal, mental, mindful, mirthful, mixed-up, morbid, mournful, narrow-minded, nerveless, neurotic, new age, normal, numb, nuts/nutty, objectivity, observant, obsessed, off-guard, one-sided, on the fence, opposed/opposing, overjoyed, partial, pensive, pent-up, petrified, phlegmatic, platonic, pooped, predisposed, prepared, profound, provincial, psyched, psychological, pumped, punch-drunk, puzzled, rabid, radical, rapacious, realistic, regretful, restless, rigid, rueful, salacious, sanguine, saturnine, sectarian, self-assured, sensitive, sick, skeptical, small-minded, solicitous, sore, sorry, sound, spellbound, steady, strong, stupefied, sulky, susceptible, tearful, tender, testy, thirsty, thoughtless, tired, torn, tough, ugly, unbalanced, uncaring, uncommitted, undecided, unemotional, unfeeling, uninterested, unsound, untroubled, upbeat, versed, wacky, wary, weary, wide-awake, wishful, woebegone, wrathful, wretched

NOTE

The above are concepts classified according to subject and usage. It not only helps writers and thinkers to organize their ideas but leads them from those very ideas to the words that can best express them.

It was, in part, created to turn an idea into a specific word. By linking together the main entries that share similar concepts, the index makes possible creative semantic connections between words in our language, stimulating thought and broadening vocabulary. Writing Resources PDFs

Source ⚜ Writing Basics & Refreshers ⚜ On Vocabulary ⚜ Part 1 ⚜ Part 2

[powdcr]

you fixed it

୨୧ jinx x soft!reader

୨୧ summary: jinx fixes up your childhood stuffed animal

୨୧ word count: 1.3k

୭ ୨♡୧ ৎ

A few days ago, Jinx and you had been ambushed by a group of enforcers. They had been tracking your whereabouts for months and had finally planned an attack. They came into Jinx’s base with their guns a-blaze, very on brand for them at this point. Knowing that you weren’t exactly the most agile or even much of the fighting type, she dashed down and grabbed you quickly, dashing back out through a side vent. She held you close to her in the vent for a few minutes until the shooting ceased. You felt your heart beating through your chest. Usually, you were the type to stay out of danger. It wasn’t because you didn’t want to be in the action but because Jinx was very protective over you and also because you didn’t have much muscle in general. You were weaker, sensitive, and Jinx knew this well. She vowed to protect you since the day she first met you. 

Jinx met you in the streets of Zaun at a younger age. She was around fourteen and had just been taken in by Silco a couple years prior. She saw a few older boys beating you up in one of the back alleyways. She didn’t know you, but she saw herself in you at that moment and had to save you. You saw a weirdly-assembled tin can? No, it must have been a bomb. It rolled towards you. It had eyes and whiskers drawn on it with purple and blue ink. Smoke came off from the bomb before exploding. The boys screamed and tried to run away, a couple getting caught in the blast. You were far enough away from the blast that you only had a few scratches and dust marks, aside from the bloody nose the group had already left you. A shadow came out from amongst the smoke. It was a girl with mid-length, blue hair. She had a wide-grin on her face and manic, wide eyes.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here, buttercup,” she said softly, her rasp not yet reaching its full potential. She reached her arm out to help you up, which you gladly accepted. She then took you back to Silco and had you cleaned up. You had been by her side ever since. 

Jinx looked down at you as she held you in her arms. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” She asked frantically as she lifted up your arms, checking for wounds.

“I’m okay, baby. I’m okay.” 

“Okay,” she breathed out heavily, holding your face in her hands. “That’s it. I’m gonna show those Piltie goons a lesson, once and for all.” Jinx took a sharp breath before yelling, “They don’t touch you. No one touches you!” 

You grabbed for her hand, stopping her from leaving the vent. “Baby! I’m okay! Please don’t go.”

The melancholy, yearning voice that escaped from the back of your throat made Jinx stop in her tracks. Her eyes widened as she turned around. “Alright… Okay.” Her voice fell quieter as she cuddled back up with you. She then looked down into your lap to see the faint remnants of what was your childhood stuffed animal. “Oh no,” Jinx spoke softly. “Your little cat.”

You looked down into your lap to see it. You were holding it when the enforcers had come in. The head was disheveled and barely hanging on to its body. An eye was torn out and the stitching was pulled open. Stuffing enveloped the metal floor that you two sat on. 

“Shit,” you muttered with an awkward laugh. “I guess little Cosmo didn’t make it out with us.” 

“Is that what its name was? I suppose you never did tell me,” she laughed awkwardly with you. 

“Yeah,” you replied, wiping a tear shed from the recent event. “My [mom/dad/sibling] named him.”

“Right…” Jinx bit her lip, unsure of how to make this situation better. 

The two of you eventually made it out of the vent once the coast was clear. Jinx watched as you had a harder time sleeping at night without your stuffed cat. You tossed and turned each night. She couldn’t stand seeing you like this. She knew how important it was to you.

One day while you were picking up a small shipment for Silco, Jinx decided to pick up the damaged stuffed toy from its new place underneath your bed. She placed it on her workbench and got to work. She tried her best to redo the torn stitches, occasionally placing a patch or two of new material to cover up parts that were otherwise far from repair. It had a new button to replace the missing eye. Now it had two different colored buttons: one blue and one black. Jinx was proud of herself. Cosmo was far from perfect, however, he now resembled Jinx’s own stuffed rabbit and that brought joy to her. The two looked like the perfect pair when she sat them together on your guys’ shared bed. 

You returned home to see Jinx sitting at her desk, pretending to look busy at work. She swung her legs back and forth like a little kid. You threw your leather backpack to the floor and made your way over to her. Your hands were now on her shoulders, giving her a light massage.

“Hi, baby,” you said softly, kissing her neck chastely.

“Mmm,” she cooed, “I have a surprise for youuuu.”

You spun her around to face you. “And what would that be?”

Jinx bounced away from her desk and retrieved the stuffed animal from the bed, hiding it behind her back as she made her way back over to you. You had never seen her look so giddy. It made you happy, really happy. Seeing her looking so cheery and innocent made you think of all the times that she didn’t feel like this. Because when she didn’t feel like this, she could be a wreck: a ball of emotions on the floor, full of nerves. You didn’t like seeing her suffer like that. Today, however, was apparently a good day. You loved when she’d have her good days.

“What’re you hiding?” You said with a laugh, tickling her sides to get her to reveal this very secret gift. 

“Okay, okay!” Jinx called out with a giggle. “Here, I thought you missed him… I wanted to bring him back to you.” She held Cosmo out in front of her with both arms. He was being delicately clasped from underneath his arms like a new doll. You took notice of how gently she held him in comparison to her normal rough personality. 

“You… fixed him?” You asked, voice thick with emotion, grabbing Cosmo and holding him in your arms as tight as possible. 

“Yeah, it was something I could fix,” she replied softly with a smile. 

You jumped forward and hugged her as tight as you did the stuffed animal. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” you mumbled like a mantra.

Jinx played with your hair as you hugged her, unsure of what else to do. She loved being touchy, but hugs specifically seemed to evade her. She never knew where to put her hands or how tight she was supposed to hug someone. Nevertheless, she tried, raising her free hand up to rub your back. “You don’t need to thank me, buttercup,” she replied, shocked at your thankfulness. 

You nuzzled into her neck, still holding on to Cosmo. “Thank you, Jinx.” 

She softened after hearing you say her name. Usually, you used nicknames with each other, but hearing someone call her ‘Jinx’ instead of ‘Powder’ for once made her feel safe and loved by you. You would always be her number one cheerleader, and she knew it, but she never would know quite why you chose her. 

[bloodmoonmary]

𓃮 leopards break into the church . . . the morning air trembled—or was it she who trembled?—as sixteen-year-old mary medici stood barefoot on the dew-slick grass of the orvinae estate, her toes curling against the earth as if trying to root herself to the spot. the house loomed behind her, its renaissance façade glowing peach in the dawn light, its countless windows winking like knowing eyes. she adored it with the fierce possessiveness of youth, this grand stone witness to her solitary games, her secret readings, her midnight wanderings through galleries where ancestors in oil paint judged her every step. (for she was, above all, a creature of contradictions—both reckless and precise, melancholy and exuberant, changing her mind as swiftly as the wind changed direction over the tuscan hills.)

her mother—that spectral absence—hung over everything. the daughter of a duke, dead in childbed, leaving behind only a sapphire necklace and an endowment that weighed heavier than any jewel. mary wore both like armor. her father’s remarriage (to a man! and so soon!) had struck her first as betrayal, then as fascination, then as weary acceptance—for her moods shifted like the patterns in a kaleidoscope, never settling long enough to gather dust.

at sixteen, she tumbled into an affair with the gardener’s daughter—all sun-browned limbs and laughter like splashing water—only to abandon it weeks later for the village priest’s son, whose ink-stained fingers and trembling reverence she adored until she didn’t. (her passions were fierce but fleeting, like summer storms over the apennines.) the lamenta found her from the moment she was born, drawn perhaps by her restlessness, her hunger for something she couldn’t name. they were elegance incarnate—these night-walking creatures who quoted petrarch between sips of something dark and fragrant. she joined their revels with the same abandon she brought to everything, never questioning why they never aged, why their mirrors remained obstinately empt until she reached the age of 18, not understanding what they truly are besides a connection with her mother.

by twenty-two, she had written a novel (a slim, strange thing that critics called "brilliantly uneven"), earned a degree between fits of ennui and bursts of manic scholarship, and broken at least three hearts in rome without ever quite noticing. when modeling scouts from new york pursued her—drawn to her androgynous grace, that medici nose—she went without a backward glance, packing only a single valise and her unfinished second manuscript.

in america, they called her "enigmatic." she found this amusing. (was it enigmatic to simply be oneself, even if that self changed by the hour?) men and women flocked to her, drawn by her wealth, her titles, the way she could recite dante at dinner and then dance until her slippers split. she indulged them when it pleased her, forgot them when it didn’t. (and if sometimes, very late, when the champagne had gone flat and the admirers had drifted away, she pressed a hand to her strangely steady pulse and wondered—well, wonder was a habit she’d never shaken, not since those long-ago nights in orvinae when the lamenta’s laughter had curled like smoke through the olive groves.)

she was, in the end, exactly what she appeared to be: a woman of her time, and yet somehow outside of time entirely. a poet one moment, a coquette the next, a scholar by moonlight—forever restless, forever reinventing, forever mary.

mary's relationship with louis and lestat exists in that peculiar twilight between mentorship and obsession, that strange vampiric facsimile of fatherhood where centuries-old creatures find themselves inexplicably tender toward this fledgling who seems to hold all the contradictions of immortality in her delicate hands. louis watches over her with a quiet, melancholic devotion, seeing in her both the mortal fragility he mourns in himself and the poetic sensibility he thought long extinguished, while lestat's affection manifests as a series of glittering provocations, pushing her toward grander excesses with the pride of an artist watching his finest creation come to life—both ancients caught in the dangerous, delicious trap of caring for something that cannot be kept, yet cannot be abandoned, their paternal impulses forever tangled with something darker and more possessive, as is the way of creatures who love what they must eventually ruin, but together.

when came to armand, it exists in a different kind of twilight—not fatherhood, but something quieter, more dangerous in its intimacy. he was the mentor who had never been anyone's first choice until she chose him, slowly, deliberately, her devotion settling into his bones like sunlight through stained glass. their bond deepened not with declarations, but with the invisible weight of shared silences. they began to speak without words—glances that burned, gestures that trembled on the edge of something too fragile to name. she would rest her hand against his chest not to feel a heartbeat (for there was none) but to feel his stillness, which had become sacred to her. and he—he would trace the shape of her thoughts before she spoke them, always a second ahead, always knowing. it was love, but not the kind that needed saying. it was in the way he tilted his head when she entered a room, the way she turned to him instinctively, as if pulled by some silent gravity. they loved each other so much it ached—not with the sharpness of mortal passion, but with the slow, inevitable pull of two stars caught in the same orbit, destined to burn together.

[lesbianisamu]

Why Isamu Being Queer Could've Benefitted His Arc Of Courage: A Semi-Coherent Ramble (and Criticism)

Disclaimer: I have zero intent to attack any member of the development team, my criticisms are untargeted and will remain unnamed. I encourage discussion about this topic. I (OBVIOUSLY) do not want disagreement in the form of homophobia. Yes I'm queer my URL is literally lesbianisamu what did you think I was? Not a lesbian? I'll start writing now.

The Mimic has a fairly substantial and fairly egregious history with misrepresenting mental health issues. This is relevant. While TMO (The Mimic Origins) is no longer canon (thank god), its influences still remain. While it is no longer explicitly canon that Futaba, or Futao, has bipolar disorder/bpd (unclear), the stereotypes, mishandling and frankly ridiculous storytelling are still present in The Witch Trials. This point has been done to death, but I will reiterate anyway.

Making a character with a severe mental illness an evil, abusive, disgusting individual is not GOOD(edit) representation, believe it or not. At first it seems that Futaba is aware of her struggles and how it affects her daughter, though I still don't like this. By the end, she completely contradicts herself by doing a 180 and claiming that she is not at fault for any of her actions and instead blaming the demon inside of her. Woah. Sure. Also the split-into-two representations of being manic and depressive with the depressive constantly humming a melancholy tune and crying, while the manic, or the demon (Mote) is constantly cackling with inhuman laughter. It's odd. Left a terrible taste in my mouth.

Yasu is a character who is objectively non-abusive. Pretty non-problematic too. I don't have much to say on the character himself as I've never fixated enough to do a full analysis (sorry to my Yasoomfs), but I can say that his resulting mental health was also handled poorly. So thoroughly traumatised by the events of Control that he apparently? Has PTSD? DO NOT QUOTE ME ON THIS. Either way, I'm going to disregard that, I just had to bring up the hearsay. Regardless of whether he did end up with a trauma based mental health disorder or not, the way he was treated and left after Control by the writing is nothing short of bleak. All of his friends being turned into butterfly spirits and then him being forced to sacrifice them simply to move onto a new room of horror? His parents being caught with his mother hanging in front of him, only to find out when he saves them that they don't remember a thing? Being hunted down by nightmarish mutants that are his long-dead family members, forced to save them all and carry the burden of the curse on largely unsuspecting shoulders? You might think he was put in therapy, or had counselling, or maybe sought out other people who had gone through similar experiences so he could start to heal.

We don't know anything after the knowledge that his parents are amnesiacs about the event. Like I'm not kidding, zilch. Second edition of a character with obviously poor mental health being mistreated by the direction the writing either took or didn't take.

Senzai. Jesus fucking Christ. The next edition we have of mental health representation is a guy who canonically is a terrorist, murderer and conspirator who flattened, and aided to flatten the densest city in terms of population on Earth. I don't think I need to say much more on this topic. If I do, I'll get angry. I hate Senzai and I wish he was written about ten million times better than he is.

In the case of both Senzai and Futaba, they are victims of abuse/generational trauma, which led to or exacerbated their previously present mental health issues. Both wind up as. I don't want to be yelled at again for my wording. Abysmal people. That's 3/3 so far on mental health, all awful, all harmful, and all bleak which is not really the tone mental health representation should speak with.

I promise you it was relevant to the title. Now that we know The Mimic has an, at best, shaky representation with mental health issues and illnesses, we could probably hope that their queer representation would be bett-

They decanonised Enzukai being genderqueer (fluid? or agender? not certain) when JC4 came out. They did this, I think, in an effort to lift the possible implications of a genderqueer character being. Evil demon creature. I get it, like I do. There's also literally everything else. Like Senzai being implied to be queer.

A character who is queer being a bad person is not inherently a poor writing choice. Just because someone is queer, they are not exempt from being awful, they are not exempt from consequence, and they most certainly are not exempt from being criticised for their actions in media, or in real life. However. Senzai is a genocidal terrorist who, I'm not kidding, killed upwards of NINE MILLION PEOPLE. Yes while under the cults influence, and Yes gave himself up to the authorities after (another can of worms) but holy shit. nine fucking million. It's not the best message to give off and I hope I don't have to explain why. Edit: I should have stated that this is heavily implied rather than explicitly canon, but my main point still stands.

Yes, fucked up evil queer characters are sometimes fun, but its less fun when so far (and continuing) its the only gimmick that the queer characters get. Then it's weird.

My biggest gripe is honestly with the Nagemi character in Halloween Trials. OOOO god. It's agender. Win for agender's right? WRONG. WE LOSE. AGAIN. It is, if you haven't actually seen the character, half a body. It is a decaying freakish torso that crawls behind you and kills you like all other mimic monsters. In an old. Insane. Asylum. AN INSANE ASYLUM. What the actual fuck.

There are no queer characters who are happy with their queerness, no queer characters that actually even have an arc that remotely includes their queer aspect, and all of them are fucking oddball freaks. I'm not including Kibo Edouji as a queer character, even though he pretty much objectively is as much as I detest the Kizai propaganda that gets pushed, because he's essentially a brick with a jumper, with no actual character arc, and exists purely to be in love with Senzai. (HEAVY IMPLICATION)

Overall. Not a good look. Time for the main event.

Isamu is a character that hides. While it's obviously not intentional, Book 2 gameplay has an extreme increase in hiding spots compared to Book 1. He was neglected by his father and mother, and definitely is a victim of their abuse I genuinely will not take any of that "we didn't see him get hit" bullshit. Go read my other post about this if you want to argue. Neglected for the first 15 years of his life and probably beyond, hiding in plain sight from care, and this is also shown in the way the C3 teaser shows him deflecting blame from himself, trying to remain hidden, and being caught off-guard when involved in a conversation only to act as the deciding factor in the result of the event, the result being Senzai hit over the head with a glass bottle. His only method of reliable defence was to hide, and he continued to do so throughout the book, hiding or running from danger instead of fighting it.

Giving Isamu a queer identity, or more likely a genderqueer identity would've fitted his character if shown, even briefly, alongside the display of his upbringing. He knows how to hide, it has been instilled into him from the moment he was brought into the world. He was also neglected, meaning the attention was away from him and on his older brother anyway. He could've gotten away with existing as a queer person in his early teens, though it wouldn't necessarily have been readily accepted by his peers. When thrust into the spotlight after the incident, and focus placed on him, likely to "marry well and continue the family lineage", he would've struggled with the conversations.

The UK is currently a shitshow with protecting queer and trans people, but even in school when it wasn't so abhorrent as it is now, the bullying was horrific, and I was incredibly lucky to have firm friends alongside me. I cannot imagine how difficult and isolating it would be in a country such as Japan where gay marriage is still not legal.

This, however, would contribute to him being isolated as an early adult. Isamu has no friends or partners listed in his "relationships" tab on the wiki. In a country where there is an ongoing "loneliness" epidemic, being queer would only further isolate you.

I think him specifically being some form of trans (transfem/neutral) would've introduced yet another parallel to Enzukai. Youngest siblings vying for the attention of their family and going to extreme methods for it (destructive in Enzukai's case and semi-self-destructive in Isamu's). Informal and crass, making (and keeping) them both genderqueer would've introduced a neat parallel, showing us again that Senzai turned from his brother to a version that could give him power, instead of accepting the power that came from Isamu's encouragement. But they decanonised Enzukai being genderqueer. So whatever.

It also gives us an aspect to Isamu's character that's a personal struggle, even if it's in the background and barely touched upon, and derails the focus from being entirely on Senzai and the antagonists for THE ENTIRE BOOK. He wouldn't be a person going through shit in a queer way, it wouldn't be a central aspect of his character. He'd be a character going through shit who also happened to be queer but ultimately is busy focused on saving the world. It humanises him a little and shows how things operate in the real world. Being queer is important to me, undoubtedly, but I also have a job, I have responsibilities, I don't focus on being queer 110% of the time, because it's just one aspect of who I am. It would add another layer to his character that makes him more intriguing when his arc is all about COURAGE. and supposedly acceptance but the execution of that was dubious at best

Isamu's courage. Growing up, becoming stronger, saving his brother and saving the remaining people of Tokyo that he could at extreme risk to himself. I have points to make but they're not totally relevant. Stay Tuned Maybe.

Actually fighting the monsters, fighting a huge dragon with the weaponry equivalent of a very bright candle and barely breaking a sweat. But also having the courage finally to actually show his emotions, show his feelings to someone who isn't himself, and actually break down a little bit even if it was for five seconds, he had the courage to not be okay for a moment. If Isamu had gone through the journey of queer self-acceptance before all this had gone down, it would've GREATLY increased his ability to become courageous and stay courageous, as it is such a hard thing for many people to do, and would show his eternal strength and bravery to keep existing despite the world being against you for who you're attracted to or what you identify as.

We would also finally have a queer character who is genuinely a good person, who before the events had a stable job he enjoyed and got along with his coworkers, even if he wasn't the best at making friends. We would have a queer character who isn't a terrorist, who isn't just a creature or an insane asylum resident clump of flesh. We would have a queer character who is the HERO of the story instead of being a direct antagonist. We would have a complicated, naive and slightly flawed in his thinking queer person who felt the most like an actual, real human from this game.

I have contradicted myself and been aware of it the whole time, as it fuels my own point. Isamu is not a happy character. Even if he was queer he would not exist peacefully, but it isn't due to his queerness. This is less of a point about how queer people rarely end up happy in media - although it's also one I'm actively making - and more about how Isamu himself was treated anyway. A punching bag, a scapegoat for the writers and the fandom intentionally or not, abused, belittled, refused genuine peace at every turn, his one supportive figure snatched away from him at the very last moment, and the last thing he sees being his brother flinching away from him in fear, confirming to him that his self-hatred was correct, diminishing any and all character growth that they barely acknowledged before ripping it away. He died alone and unloved, and being queer wouldn't fix that, a complete rewrite would, and should be done.

To conclude: I'm always going to be angry about the mental health mishandling that happened and continues to happen in this game. Isamu's entire character focus should not have been on his brother. Your only queer characters should not be fucked up evil insane 100% of the time. I miss Isamu. He's a transfem lesbian to me always and forever.

Edit: I've received a little criticism on this post, and have made necessary edits and changes, particularly in my wording or indication as to whether something is implied or is canon, or whether something is representation or not.

[so-i-did-this-thing]

I haven’t seen the 2020 series but my absolute favorite show is ACGAS 1978! Siegfried is so iconic haha. Do you have any thoughts on Siegfried in the 2020 series vs the 1978 one? Actors, portrayal, opinions, etc.

(Totally free to ignore if you don’t feel like talking about it of course, my feelings won’t be hurt)

Siegfried Farnon, I love all his incarnations. As a kid, I saw a lot of my faults in him (and still do), but also a lot of what I aspire to be - clever, charming, and generous. All 3 of the Skeldale vets shaped how I internalize my masculinity. (James' work ethic & determination, Tristan's ability to go with the flow and roll with punches.) I binged both shows (not quite all of 1978, tho) within 8 months, having avoided them until last year. The books are very special to me and I was afraid to engage with either show for fear they wouldn't Get Siegfried. I was very, very wrong.

Robert Hardy had some very cool interests- him being a longbow expert is absolutely fascinating and I keep meaning to watch the documentary he was involved in. Wild he was a consultant regarding the longbows of the Mary Rose. Absolutely was living the dream.

His Siegfried is such a little shit and I love him -- Hardy really captures the "beautific" mode his book counterpart would shift into when giving his hypocritical lectures. His side hustle schemes are favs of mine, because he doesn't actually want to do the work, just come up with the idea.

1978! Siegfried has a fantastic manic energy he flips on and off like a switch, though seeing book!Siegfried's temper on-screen vs Tristan played for laughs makes me uncomfortable -- that's a change I think the 2020 show tackles better, as it explores why the Farnon brothers are Like That.

Samuel West also is a fascinating human. We're both Gen X kids and I've love to have a board game night or go birding with him. His Siegfried has a melancholy streak that speaks to me (I took book!Siegfried as having some brand of mood cycling) and I really enjoy seeing him soften into a family man as the series progresses.

Not to say West doesn't also inject Siegfried with an enjoyable kinetic energy, it's just a different brand than Hardy's. (I was very skeptical the 2020 series would be any good given how faithful the 1978 show was, but by the time S1E1 Siegfried first pulls that mangled job list out of his pocket, I knew West understood the character, even if other details about the show had been changed.)

I feel like S5 took some steps backwards wrt Siegfried's relationships with Audrey and his brother. I hope S6 finally allows certain seeds to sprout & flourish (a relationship with Audrey, and greater trust in Tristan). That said, I also hope Siegfried doesn't soften too much - he still needs to be boisterous and ridiculous and have a certain kind of anger -- book!Siegfried could be a terror towards those who abused animals, and I'd like to see more of that.

What's interesting is both TV Siegfrieds took on the role in their 50s, when the book character is like... barely 30 in the first volume. West plays Siegfried more as in his 40s (fun for me, because I headcanon him as my age, so, 48 going into S6), but the age difference still shapes how I think of each version of the man.

Siegfried's traits - good and bad - come off different based on what age you perceive him as. I think the 2020 show's decision to have a 19 year age gap between the brothers is a brilliant way to address why Siegfried is so hard on Tristan, being somewhere between brother & surrogate father -- the closer in age the boys are (and they are not all that far apart in the books), the weirder that hostile disappointment wrt his exams and work ethic feels.

For me, 2020 series S1 Siegfried is my favorite. He's a great blend of cocksure, self-doubting, charming, off-putting, self-aware, and absolutely oblivious. His contradictions are one of my favorite things about him. But I don't really like pitting the TV Siegfrieds against each other -- both actors have given the source material the most utmost of love and respect, and it shows in their performances. I own both series on disc.

I think a lot of one's preference boils down to which Siegfried you meet at what point in your own life; after imprinting on book!Siegfried as a 10-year-old, the fact I'm knee-deep in writing trans!Siegfried fics for the 2020 series at age 48 probably says a lot about which one I feel the most like. XD

Honestly, my ideal version of the man is an amalgam of all 3 of his incarnations: He'd be mid-40s when we first meet him, and we'd see more of the mood range -- from Hardy's manic energy to West's more soulful touch and what they both brought in-between.

[butchhamlet]

hi very sorry if you’ve answered this/talked about this before, but how do you picture hamlet? he’s the one character i cant keep a clear mental image of and i don’t know that there’s any physical description of him in the text (though he does describe his father), so im curious to know your thoughts!!

easy answer: i have vague opinions on hamlet's hair color (mainly, as inspired by kenneth branagh, that if hamlet had blond hair he would dye it black in a shitty 2am manic panic disaster event) but generally i do not care EXCEPT!!! that hamlet MUST have weird little freak energy and he CAN'T be a conventionally attractive masculine buff dude. he has to look like he would get shoved into at least one locker

more complex answer: the above is true, i honestly do not care, but i'm going to use this as an opportunity to say we should all be drawing and casting more fat hamlets. people love to bat that gertrude line back and forth to say it's about him sweating or whatever and i'm not saying that isn't true (many intricacies of early modern language still fly over my beautiful head) but most counterarguments i've seen boil down to either "well if he were fat why wouldn't he get mocked all the time like falstaff" or "ummmm. but if hamlet brooding intellectual and relatable. then why not skinny" and to those arguments i say...

in fact, i feel like the falstaff thing is actually even better reason to draw/write/cast fat hamlets, because otherwise the only fucking shakespeare character who consistently gets to be fat is the one who gets the brunt of the godawful (as in fatphobic, and also as in fucking boring) jokes. are we not tired of this. sorry for turning this ask into a polemic but are we not tired. cw in this article for some less than fantastic turns of phrase, but perpend:

and also, everybody read fat ham by james ijames right the fuck now.

anyway, i stand by everything i just said but unfortunately my true answer to this question is that hamlet looks exactly like me

[lurkingshan]

Japanese QL Corner

The winter season has begun, with two moody new dramas starting this week while a couple fall favorites came to an end. These shows are streaming on Gaga unless otherwise noted.

Our Youth

We got two episodes this week to wrap up this story, a finale followed by a special episode. It's been interesting to see the mixed reactions to the way the story played out; this show didn't quite land its themes and it left folks feeling varying levels of satisfaction. For my part, I didn't take much from the finale, but I really loved the special ep. The chance to see these characters as adults dealing with the realities of trying to build a life together felt like a gift, and I thought it brought back a much needed edge of melancholy that made the story feel grounded again. This show may not have been the total masterpiece I originally hoped for, but it did a lot of interesting things and Hirukawa will be hanging out on my favorite characters list in perpetuity.

When It Rains it Pours

Strap in because this one is gonna be messy. It was a bit of a mild start for this show, and I'm not sure how I feel about it yet. I’m pretty generally dubious about romances rooted in cheating plots, and none of the characters in this have really grabbed me so far. Everything feels bland and unfulfilling, which I do think is intentional because it's a reflection of how the characters are feeling about their own lives. How much you like this may depend on whether you're in the mood to sit in a vague and gloomy ennui. We will see where they take the story for this one; it may have some interesting things to say.

Call Me By No Name

Aka Manic Pixie Trash Girl the series! I was similarly mild on the characters for this show, though I thought it was visually dynamic and I’m open to seeing where they take the story. Kotoha is our resident Manic Pixie, and she is certainly fulfilling that archetype to the max. Megumi is the type of pushover character that I always struggle with a bit, but hopefully they'll fill her in a bit more--@bengiyo told me the game she was playing is difficult and indicates she may like a challenge, so maybe there’s a bit of an edge to her that we'll dig into. @avorbl and @respectthepetty already spotted some themes in the visuals, so I am seated to find out more.

The Fragrance You Inherit

This lovely show is now complete and fully subbed. Thank you very much to @isaksbestpillow for sharing it with all of us; it's now a late entry on my favorites of 2024 list. More of a queer family drama than a QL, it tells the story of two families connected through several interwoven plots: an unrequited love, an enduring friendship, a reflection on past regrets, a young love, and a mother and son who just want to take care of each other more than anything else. As @twig-tea wrote in her final review, "this is a show about good people who love each other doing their best to be kind to one another." I found it such a joy to watch, and all of the characters so lovable. Toki and Sakura have taken the crown for best mother-son pair in drama. If you haven’t checked it out yet, I can’t recommend it highly enough!

[opalobsidian-wolf]

"The elder is subdued! Tails have you found the off button?" Knuckles shouts from his position on top of the struggling but pinned form of Gerald Robotnik.

"It's been disabled. I can't turn it off!" Panic coats Tails' voice as his paws fly across the controls trying to find some way to stop the laser that Sonic and Shadow are holding barely back.

Growling to himself, Knuckles turns his attention to the other human present in room. There Eggman sits on the edge of one of the walkways staring at the world orbiting below. Something is...wrong...with how he stares out that glass.

"Eggman! Stop your melancholy about the elder's betrayal and assist Tails in preventing the earth's destruction!" The shout echoes throughout the chamber but the man makes no move to stand.

"It's fitting in a way...." Robotnik's voice is quiet as if he never meant for anyone to hear.

"Fitting?! Did you not claim to want to rule this world? You can not rule ash human!"

"Ash....hah....he always liked that idea. To burn the world down...to watch and see what grew back from the ash...Always told him ruling would be better..."

"Who are-"

"What about Mister Stone," Tails panicked voice interrupts Knuckles, bringing attention to the missing man, "he's not here right? If-if the world goes he goes with it...and you guys are friends so you've got to help so he doesn't-"

"He's already dead fox." The statement cuts through the air rage dripping off every word.

"W-what?"

"He's dead. Deceased. Departed from this mortal coil. Whatever other version you might understand. He's gone," With each word his voice gets louder, angrier, as he finally stands eyes locked on Tails with his back towards the earth, "and its. all. your. fault."

"Impossible we never attacked the goat-"

"You drowned him. You rerouted that water his way and flooded the crab and he drowned and you laughed! You killed the only person in this pathetic useless world to ever care about me and you have the nerve to try and use his memory to make me save it?!"

"I didn't...it shouldn't have....I-" Eyes wide, Tails paws pause their frantic movements as his mind tries to comprehend what the other is saying.

"My world....my world has already been destroyed...it's only fair the rest of the earth catches up."

As if Robotnik's words were the final push, the two golden lights holding the laser at bay fall away and the two aliens watch in horror as it pierces the world. Cracks of chaos spread from the impact and the world darkens and decays before their eyes. Gerald's manic laughter fills the room and Robotnik turns back to the window to further watch the destruction.

"Can you feel it Stone...it's just like you wanted."

[lxxahazel]

╰┈➤ Reality

[Lucifer x Reader]

✎ I've this idea is actually from @heart-of-the-morningstar TvT

You still remembered the day you met Lucifer, though he probably didn't. You were a fresh arrival in Hell, a sinner who'd stumbled into Charlie's redemption project at the Hazbin Hotel with a naive, stubborn hope for something better. You’d always been a glass-half-full kind of person, even when that glass was filled with eternal damnation, and you figured, what was the worst that could happen? So, you signed up, one of the earliest residents.

That's where he came in. Lucifer Morningstar, King of Hell. The reputation alone was enough to make lesser demons cower. Yet, beneath the flamboyant suits and the boastful declarations, you quickly observed a different side to him. He was surprisingly awkward, easily flustered, and possessed a quiet shyness that constantly poked holes in his meticulously crafted prideful facade. It was endearing, really. You, with your cheerful disposition and an uncanny knack for seeing the good in almost everyone, found yourself drawn to that hidden vulnerability.

You saw the way he fidgeted with his hands when nervous, the slight flush that would creep up his neck when caught off guard, the almost imperceptible flinch when a compliment slipped through his defenses. He was a paradox, a powerful fallen angel who still carried the weight of Heaven's rejection and his own perceived failures. You weren't sure when it happened, exactly, but somewhere between watching him excitedly show off a new rubber duck and witnessing his genuine, albeit clumsy, attempts to support Charlie, you realized you were falling for him. It wasn't a dramatic, fiery romance, but a slow burn, fueled by shared moments of quiet understanding, the occasional witty banter, and your unwavering belief in his capacity for genuine kindness.

He, on the other hand, was a conflicted mess. He liked having you around, he truly did. Your cheerful presence was a balm in the chaotic, often depressing, landscape of his afterlife. You laughed at his jokes, even the bad ones, and you always seemed to see past the bluster to the vulnerable core he desperately tried to hide. He found himself seeking out your company, lingering in conversations, and even, on occasion, feeling a strange warmth bloom in his chest when you smiled at him. But love? That was a terrifying concept. Lilith had left. Charlie, his own daughter, struggled to truly believe in him. His track record with relationships was, to put it mildly, abysmal. How could someone like you possibly feel anything genuine for someone like him? He was the King of Hell, yes, but he was also Lucifer, the failure. He remained locked in this internal battle, swinging between wanting to draw closer and pushing you away, all while attempting to make his affections obvious in the most convoluted, utterly baffling ways, which you, in your charming naivete, somehow always managed to miss.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

{Y/n's POV}

The shift in Lucifer had been subtle at first, almost imperceptible. He'd always been prone to dramatic mood swings, veering from manic enthusiasm to profound melancholy in a blink. But this was different. The manic bursts became shorter, more forced, like sparks from a dying fire. His laughter sounded brittle, his boasts hollow. You'd catch him staring into the distance, a faraway, haunted look in his eyes that spoke of old wounds bleeding fresh.

He started spending more time in his opulent suite, the heavy door remaining stubbornly shut for days on end. The usual faint hum of his tinkering, the occasional splash of water from a rubber duck bath, faded into an unnerving silence. When he did emerge, it was usually in the dead of night, his clothes disheveled, his vibrant complexion replaced by an ashen pallor that seemed to drain the color from his very aura. He’d grab a quick, unappetizing meal, barely touching it, before retreating once more into the quiet solitude of his rooms.

You tried to engage him, of course. "Good morning, Lucifer!" you'd chirp, trying to infuse some cheer into his withdrawn demeanor. He'd offer a weak, almost imperceptible nod, or a strained, "Ah, (Y/N). Delightful day for, uh,... nothing in particular." His eyes, usually gleaming with mischief or pride, seemed shadowed, distant. It was like he was there, but not really there.

Charlie was practically wringing her hands with worry. You'd often find her pacing the lobby, her usual optimism dimmed by a deep-seated fear for her father. "He's not answering my calls," she'd whisper to you one evening, her voice tight with unshed tears. "I just... I don't know what to do. He won't let me in. He's never been like this, not truly." You felt a pang in your chest for both of them. You saw the familiar pain of a child desperate for their parent's affection, and you saw the profound loneliness of the parent too broken to accept it.

One evening, you noticed him stumble slightly as he navigated the grand staircase. He quickly caught himself, his hand grasping the banister, but you saw the tremor in his grip, the way his shoulders slumped when he thought no one was looking. His magnificent white wings, usually held with such regal pride, seemed to droop ever so slightly, as if their very weight was too much to bear.

The next morning, the silence from his suite was absolute. Not a single peep, not a whisper of static from his mic stand. Charlie, who usually started her day trying to coax him out for breakfast, was standing rigid by his door, her knuckles white as she hesitated to knock. Her face was a mask of fear.

"I can't get him to answer," she mumbled, her voice barely audible. Her eyes, wide and terrified, turned to you. "(Y/N)... please. Can you just... check on him? He... he seems to listen to you, sometimes."

A knot of unease tightened in your stomach. You didn't like this. This wasn't just a mood swing. This was deeper, darker. You remembered the faint tremor, the slumped shoulders, the drained color from his face. Taking a deep breath, you nodded. "I'll go."

You approached his door, your heart thudding a nervous rhythm against your ribs. You knocked, once, then twice, a little louder each time. "Lucifer? Are you in there? Charlie's worried about you."

Silence. Complete and utter silence. It was wrong. Terribly wrong.

You tried the doorknob. Locked. Your mind raced. You remembered Charlie mentioning a spare key for emergencies, for when he accidentally locked himself out of his own wing while chasing a particularly ambitious rubber duck. You quickly found it tucked under a potted plant near the door, a small, golden key that felt surprisingly heavy in your hand.

With a trembling hand, you inserted the key and turned the lock. The click echoed loudly in the oppressive quiet. You pushed the door open cautiously, a sliver of light from the hallway piercing the gloom within.

The room was a mess, even for Lucifer. Sketches of inventions were scattered across the floor like fallen leaves, some crumpled in despair. Empty teacups with dried rings of tea sat on every surface. And then you saw him.

He wasn't in his bed. He was on the floor beside it, slumped against the nightstand, one arm outstretched as if he’d reached for something in his final moments. His usually immaculate clothes were rumpled, his hair disheveled. His face, normally a canvas of exaggerated expressions, was slack, pale, and utterly still. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly ajar. His radiant aura, the bright, golden glow that always surrounded him, was barely a faint flicker, like a dying ember. He was utterly, unnervingly motionless.

Your breath hitched in your throat. This wasn't him retreating into his thoughts. This was... something far more terrifying.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

{Lucifer's POV}

The smile felt like a physical strain on his face, pulled taut and aching at the corners. He knew it looked genuine to most, a flash of pearly whites and a twinkle in his eye. But inside, it was a hollow cavern, echoing with every insincere boast and every forced chuckle. "Oh, the latest invention? A mere trifle, darling! Just a little something to revolutionize inter-dimensional travel, no biggie!" He’d boom, waving a hand dismissively, even as his stomach churned with a quiet dread. He caught a glimpse of Charlie across the lobby, her brow furrowed in concentration over a new redemption pamphlet, and the hollow ache intensified. She believed so fiercely in her dream, and a part of him, the deepest, most vulnerable part, yearned for her to believe in him with that same conviction. But how could she? He was the King of Hell, yes, but also a monumental screw-up, banished, estranged, a king without a true kingdom, a father who couldn't even keep his own family together. The self-loathing was a constant, buzzing static beneath his carefully constructed persona.

He’d try to distract himself, throwing himself into ludicrously complex contraptions, designing new outfits for his rubber ducks, even attempting to orchestrate impromptu musical numbers. Each attempt was a desperate effort to fill the gaping void inside, to outrun the silence that truly haunted him. He craved the attention, the laughter, the validation, because when it stopped, when the applause faded, the reality was a bitter pill to swallow.

The silence in his grand suite was the worst torment. Each gilded, opulent inch of it screamed of Lilith’s absence. Her perfume, a phantom scent he could almost conjure, seemed to linger in the air. He’d pace the polished floors, the rhythmic tap of his cane against the marble the only sound breaking the oppressive quiet. He'd find himself standing before her empty vanity, touching a dust motes on a discarded hair pin, imagining her silhouette against the window. Seven years. Seven years since she'd left him, since she'd chosen her own path, leaving him to pick up the pieces of his shattered pride and a daughter who was slowly, painstakingly, building something he couldn't quite grasp. The bitterness was a constant, metallic taste in his mouth, indistinguishable from the pervasive scent of sulfur. He was the King of Hell, ruler of billions, but in that moment, he was just Lucifer, alone in a ridiculously large, empty bedroom, haunted by ghosts. Sometimes, in the dead of night, he would wake up in a cold sweat, reaching for the empty space beside him, and the reality would crash down on him like a tidal wave, leaving him gasping for air in the darkness.

The emotional torment had begun to carve deep grooves into his very being. His eternal, angelic form felt… heavy. Exhausted. The vibrant glow of his aura, usually a shimmering beacon of power, felt muted, like a flickering candle flame. Even the simplest tasks, like putting on his jacket or deciding which rubber duck to display, felt like monumental efforts. He'd find himself staring blankly at walls, his mind a chaotic maelstrom of regret and self-recrimination. Food became unappetizing, the most exquisite Hellish delicacies tasting like ash. Sleep offered no true escape; it was filled with fractured, taunting dreams of a perfect past that never was, or grotesque distortions of his failures. He'd retreat to his suite for days, barricading himself against the world, the sheer effort of maintaining his facade too much to bear. The physical toll was undeniable. His normally rosy complexion was pale, almost translucent, and shadows bloomed beneath his eyes. His movements, usually quick and sprightly, became slow, almost sluggish. He knew Charlie was worried; he could feel the weight of her concern, but even that felt like another burden, another expectation he was destined to fail. He was too tired to argue, too tired to explain. He just wanted it to stop.

He was in the middle of sketching a new, ridiculously elaborate contraption – a mechanical contraption that would serve pancakes, perfectly, every time. His hand shook slightly as he drew the gears, his vision blurring at the edges. He hadn't slept properly in days, and the knot of despair in his stomach had grown into a suffocating presence. He felt a sudden, sharp dizzy spell, the lines on the paper twisting into grotesque caricatures. He tried to blink it away, to steady himself, but the room began to tilt. The familiar scent of his workshop, a mix of ozone and metal, suddenly felt cloying, overwhelming. He reached out, blindly, for the edge of his bed, for anything to anchor him, but his fingers only brushed against empty air. A wave of profound, bone-deep exhaustion washed over him, pulling him down. The last thing he registered was the cold, hard floor rushing up to meet him, a faint, distant hum of static in his ears. And then, mercifully, nothing. Only the sweet, dark embrace of oblivion, where perhaps, just perhaps, a perfect dream awaited.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

You found yourself kneeling beside him, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "Lucifer?" you whispered, the word barely a breath. No response. You pressed two trembling fingers against his wrist, searching for a pulse. It was faint, thready, but there. He was breathing, shallowly, almost imperceptibly. He was alive, but something was terribly, terribly wrong."Lucifer!" you said again, louder this time, shaking his shoulder gently. His head lolled to the side, completely unresponsive. Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at your skin.

This wasn't just a mood swing or a fit of pique. He was truly unconscious. Your gaze darted around the room, feeling suddenly small and helpless. You weren't a doctor, you barely knew first aid beyond patching up scraped knees. This was the King of Hell, for crying out loud! "Charlie!" you shrieked, your voice cracking with genuine alarm, louder than you'd ever intended to be. "Vaggie! Someone, quick! In here!"The sound of your terrified shout instantly galvanized the usually bustling hotel. Footsteps thundered up the grand staircase.

The heavy oak door burst open, revealing Charlie, her face a mask of pure terror, followed closely by Vaggie, her spear already clutched in a defensive grip. Angel Dust, Niffty, and Husk weren't far behind, their faces a mixture of confusion and dawning horror as they took in the scene."Dad?!" Charlie gasped, her eyes fixing on Lucifer's still form on the floor. She rushed forward, dropping to her knees beside him, tears already streaming down her face. "Dad! What happened?! Dad, wake up!" She started gently shaking him, her pleas growing more frantic with each unanswered call.

Vaggie, ever the pragmatist, immediately took charge. She quickly assessed the situation, her gaze sweeping over Lucifer's unnaturally pale face and limp body. "Angel, get some blankets! Husk, get the strongest brew you can find – something to shock his system, maybe! Niffty, stay clear!" She knelt beside Charlie and you, placing a calming hand on Charlie's shoulder. "Charlie, easy, don't jostle him too much. (Y/N), what happened? Did he just collapse?"You nodded, still feeling a bit dazed. "He was on the floor... I just found him. He wasn't responding." Your voice was shaky.Charlie was sobbing now, her face buried in Lucifer's shoulder. "He's not waking up! What's wrong with him?! Is he... is he going to be okay?!" Her fear was palpable, radiating through the room like a cold wave.

The immediate aftermath was a blur of controlled chaos. Angel Dust, surprisingly agile for all his limbs, returned with a pile of plush blankets, dotingly tucking them around Lucifer's still form. Husk, grumbling but with a hint of concern in his eyes, brought a steaming mug of what looked suspiciously like pure demonic energy. Vaggie tried to force a few drops between Lucifer's lips, but he remained unresponsive, his breathing shallow and faint.

After what felt like an eternity, Lucifer was carefully moved from the cold floor to his opulent bed, looking impossibly small amidst the gilded pillows and silken sheets. His radiant glow, usually so blinding, was barely a flicker, like a dying ember. The room, usually so full of his boisterous energy, felt hollow and vast in his unconsciousness.

Charlie wouldn't leave his side. For the first two days, she was a constant, tearful presence, her hand clasped around his, her voice a soft, desperate litany of "Please, Dad, wake up." Her eyes were perpetually red-rimmed, and the circles beneath them grew darker with each passing hour. She refused to eat, refused to rest, convinced that if she left him, even for a moment, something worse would happen.You, however, found yourself strangely compelled to stay as well. You organized his care, ensuring he was comfortable, gently wiping his feverish brow, adjusting his blankets, and checking his faint pulse every few hours. You even started leaving small bowls of water and crushed ice by his bedside, hoping he might unconsciously reach for them.

You found yourself talking to him, softly, narrating the mundane happenings of the hotel, telling him about Charlie's latest redemption efforts, even reading aloud from the dusty, leather-bound books you found on his shelf – surprisingly, many were whimsical tales of invention and fantastical creatures, rather than demonic treatises.

You didn't know if he could hear you, if any of your words reached the distant corners of his mind, but the act of speaking felt like it might tether him, however faintly, to the world outside his own despair.

Vaggie, ever the steadfast protector, was also deeply worried about Charlie. She watched her daughter’s descent into exhaustion with growing concern. On the third night, as Charlie began to sway on her feet, Vaggie finally intervened."Charlie, that's enough," Vaggie said gently but firmly, putting an arm around her. "You're going to make yourself sick. Your dad needs you well, not collapsing beside him."Charlie shook her head, tears welling up again. "But I can't leave him! What if he wakes up? What if he doesn't?" Her voice broke. "He's been so... sad. I pushed too hard, didn't I? He never believed in me, and I just kept trying... This is my fault, isn't it?" Vaggie pulled her close, her voice a low, soothing murmur. "No, Charlie. This is not your fault. Your father... he's been through a lot. More than any of us truly know. But he's Lucifer. He's a celestial being. He's the first fallen angel, the King of Hell. He's stronger than you know, even when he doesn't seem like it." She held Charlie at arm's length, looking into her bloodshot eyes. "He's a divine being, Charlie. This isn't some ordinary illness. He’ll be fine. He just needs time. And he needs you to be strong for when he wakes up."You chimed in, your voice soft but firm. "Vaggie's right, Charlie. He needs rest, and so do you. You can't help him if you're completely exhausted. We're here. We're all watching him. He's not alone, and neither are you." You gave her a reassuring smile, trying to convey the sincerity of your promise. "Go get some rest. We'll be right here."Charlie hesitated, her gaze fixed on Lucifer's still form.

She looked from his pale face to Vaggie’s steady eyes, then to your own, which held nothing but genuine care. The exhaustion finally won. With a shuddering sigh, she allowed Vaggie to guide her out of the room, leaving you as the sole vigil.

In the quiet hours that followed, you continued your vigil. You saw past the King of Hell, past the flamboyant antics and the ridiculous pride, to the profoundly hurt individual who lay before you. He was lost, adrift in his own pain, and for some inexplicable reason, you felt an overwhelming urge to be the anchor that pulled him back. You adjusted a blanket that had slipped, gently brushed a stray strand of blonde hair from his brow, and continued to whisper the mundane happenings of the hotel. Your presence, you hoped, would be a steady, unwavering light in the darkness of his deep, troubled sleep.

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Lucifer was dreaming. He knew, dimly, in some far-off, forgotten corner of his mind, that this wasn't real. But oh, how desperately he clung to it. This was his perfect world, meticulously crafted from the deepest desires of his broken heart. Here, the sun always shone, a perpetual golden hour painting the sky in hues of amber and rose. The air hummed with cheerful music, the scent of popcorn and sweet cotton candy. This was his circus, not the wretched reality of Hell, but a vibrant, bustling spectacle of joy and laughter.

He was the Ringmaster, of course. Not the fallen King of Hell, but the celebrated impresario, the architect of pure delight. His white suit, sparkling with gold trim, felt light and unburdening. His top hat sat jauntily on his head, no oppressive crown weighing him down. He strode through the swirling crowds, a confident, boisterous grin plastered on his face, bowing to the applause that followed him everywhere. This was where he belonged. This was where he was loved.

And at the heart of it all, at the very center of his universe, were his family. Lilith, radiant and smiling, always by his side. She was dressed in shimmering silks, her eyes gleaming with adoration when they met his. She’d lean into him, her touch warm and real, whispering compliments that soothed the raw edges of his soul. "My magnificent Lucifer," she'd purr, "you are truly the greatest showman in all existence." He’d preen, of course, but the genuine affection in her gaze banished the usual hollow ache in his chest. She was here. She loved him. She hadn't left.

And then there was Charlie. Not the grown woman burdened by dreams of redemption, but his baby Charlie, perpetually small, perpetually pure. She giggled, chasing glowing butterflies that fluttered through the circus tent, her tiny wings a blur of innocent joy. She’d toddle up to him, wrapping her small arms around his leg, her bright, trusting eyes looking up at him with unadulterated awe. "Daddy! Look!" she'd squeal, holding up a shimmering butterfly. He'd scoop her up, his heart swelling with a warmth he hadn't felt in eons. This Charlie loved him unconditionally, believed in him without question, saw him as her hero. There was no rejection here, no agonizing questions about belief or abandonment. This was his little girl, perfect and untainted by the harsh realities of Hell or Heaven.

His circus was populated by the Seven Deadly Sins, but in this reality, they were merely his quirky, beloved performers, sanitized versions of their true, grotesque selves. Satan, the strongman, flexed impossibly large, painted muscles, lifting mountains of papier-mâché weights with a booming, theatrical laugh. Mammon, the clown, tumbled and tripped with an exaggerated, delightful clumsiness, his face smeared with vibrant makeup as he pulled endless strings of colorful scarves from his oversized pockets. Beelzebub, the animal tamer, commanded a troupe of impossibly fluffy, obedient Hellhounds and gentle, glowing imps, guiding them through impressive feats of agility with a gentle snap of her whip. Asmodeus, the fire-breather, sent controlled plumes of shimmering, harmless flame dancing into the air, his passionate cries echoing through the tent, eliciting gasps of wonder, not lustful thoughts. Belphegor, the sleepy acrobat, performed languid, graceful routines high above, his movements fluid and dreamlike, occasionally pausing mid-air for a theatrical yawn. And Leviathan, the aquatic marvel, commanded shimmering pools of water, creating dazzling fountains and intricate, swirling whirlpools that mesmerized the crowd. And Lucifer himself, the Ringmaster, embodied Pride, but it was a joyous, celebrated pride in his creations and his family, not a destructive, isolating one. They were his loyal troupe, his extended, eccentric family, always ready to put on a spectacular show.

Life was a whirlwind of colorful acts, joyous music, and the comforting rhythm of domestic bliss. Mornings began with Lilith waking him with a soft kiss, Charlie tugging on his sleeve for pancakes. Days were spent overseeing dazzling rehearsals, bantering playfully with the Sins, and watching Charlie grow, yet never truly age beyond her innocent childhood. Evenings were grand performances, followed by quiet, intimate moments with Lilith, sharing sweet tea and plans for the next day's spectacle.

He felt light. The crushing weight that usually resided in his chest was gone, replaced by a buoyant happiness. There were no judgments here, no failures, no past mistakes clawing at him. He was cherished, adored, successful. This was the life he deserved, the one he had always secretly craved.

But then, ever so subtly, the cracks began to form.

It started small, imperceptible at first. A momentary flicker in the vibrant colors of the circus tent, like a glitch in a projector. A word from one of the Sins, just a syllable, sounding oddly distorted before snapping back to their usual cheerful tone. He'd dismiss it, of course, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Just a little stage magic malfunction, folks! Nothing to worry about!" He'd laugh, a little too loud, and force the illusion to reassert itself.

Then, the dislocations in time began. One moment, he was in the ring, directing Asmodeus's controlled flames, the roaring fire vibrant and theatrical. The next, he was in his suite, a faint echo of Charlie's laughter still in his ears, clutching a blank, empty sketchpad, the smell of sulfur suddenly acrid, not theatrical. He'd blink, confused, and suddenly he'd be back in the circus tent, the crowd cheering, Asmodeus bowing. A shiver would run down his spine, a fleeting sense of wrongness, but he'd push it away, burying it under another grand gesture, another booming laugh.

The Sins’ acts started to show glimpses of their true selves, quickly suppressed. He’d see Mammon’s clown makeup briefly crack, revealing a chilling, avaricious glint in his eye before snapping back to playful silliness. Beelzebub’s trained Hellhounds would momentarily snarl with true, monstrous hunger, their fur briefly matted with something grotesque, before reverting to fluffy obedience. He’d feel a jolt of unease, a nagging whisper that this wasn't right, that something was profoundly off, but the cheerful music would swell, the laughter of the audience would drown out the doubts, and he’d force himself to believe in the perfection he had created.

Then came the profound, undeniable break. He was playing hide-and-seek with baby Charlie, her tiny giggles echoing through the colorful corridors of their whimsical circus home. "Ready or not, here I come!" he'd sing-song, peeking around a brightly painted pillar. He heard her faint laughter just around the next bend. He rounded the corner, his heart light with paternal joy, ready to scoop up his precious little girl.

But she wasn't there.

Instead, walking purposefully out of the front door of their circus home, her back to him, was adult Charlie. Her hair was long, her shoulders set with a familiar determination, and the very air around her thrummed with a focused, almost fierce resolve. She paused, her back still to him, and her voice, clear and resonant, sliced through the cheerful circus music like a knife.

"Why don't you believe in me, dad?"

The question hung in the air, a devastating accusation. It wasn't a baby's joyful squeal. It was the voice of his distant daughter, the very echo of his deepest failure, his inability to truly support her dreams. His breath hitched. He stared, frozen, as the adult Charlie walked out, the front door closing softly behind her.

"No... no, no, no!" he gasped, the cheerful circus music suddenly sounding jarring, discordant. He rushed to the door, his heart pounding in his chest, the phantom pain in his side flaring. He yanked it open, his eyes frantically scanning the impossibly bright, empty circus grounds. She was gone. Vanished.

Panic, cold and raw, clawed its way up his throat. This wasn't a glitch. This wasn't a malfunction. This was real. Or rather, the truth was bleeding into his perfect lie. He slammed the door shut, desperately trying to force the illusion back, but the colors in the room seemed to flicker, the background music turning staticky and warped. He ran back into the house, his mind racing, needing to find Lilith, to find reassurance, to find the comfort of his perfect family.

He burst into their shared master suite, his voice hoarse, "Lilith! Lilith, something's wrong, Charlie..."

The room was empty. The bed, once a haven of warmth and shared dreams, was pristine, untouched. And on the pillows, stark against the white linen, was a single, crumpled piece of paper. His heart dropped to his stomach. He recognized Lilith’s elegant, flowing script. With trembling hands, he picked it up.

The words blurred before his eyes, but he knew them. He had read them a thousand times in his waking nightmares.

"Goodbye, Lucifer. I'm sorry."

The paper slipped from his numb fingers, fluttering to the floor. The vibrant colors of his perfect circus realm bled into a dull, agonizing gray. The cheerful music faded into a cacophony of distorted whispers and static. The illusion shattered around him, revealing the stark, desolate truth of his empty room, the cold floor, the suffocating loneliness.

"No... no no no no no," he whimpered, his voice a broken sob. He dropped to his knees, the tears finally, agonizingly, falling. They hit the crumpled paper, soaking into the cruel words, blurring them further, but he didn't need to read them. He knew them by heart. "Please no... not again... I can't do this again... please..."

The world spun, no longer in the whimsical dance of his dream, but in a sickening spiral of despair. The last vestiges of his strength, his will to pretend, his very consciousness, gave way. The darkness that had been hovering at the edges of his vision finally swallowed him whole.

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Lucifer woke to the insistent, rhythmic press of something soft against his cheek. Not the silken pillow he remembered from his dream, nor the rough wood of his fabricated stage. This was... different. It was warm, yielding, and smelled faintly of lavender and something uniquely, subtly you. A dull ache throbbed behind his temples, a counterpoint to the profound emptiness that resonated through his core.

He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt impossibly heavy, glued shut by some unseen force. His body, usually so nimble and light, felt leaden, anchored to the bed. He was in his room, he realized with a jolt of recognition, though the memory of how he got there was a terrifying blank. The last thing he recalled was the shattering illusion, Lilith's cruel note, and the suffocating darkness. Was he still dreaming? Was this some new, more insidious torment?

He forced his eyes open, squinting against the muted light that filtered through the drawn curtains. The room was his, unmistakably. The gilded furniture, the overflowing bookshelves, the faint scent of ozone from his forgotten inventions. But something was off.

As his vision slowly cleared, his gaze fell upon the source of the warmth beside him. And his breath hitched.

There, nestled beside him, head resting gently on the pillow next to his, was you. Your eyes were closed, your breathing soft and even, a picture of peaceful slumber. One of your arms was tucked beneath your head, serving as a makeshift pillow, while the other lay draped across his chest, a light, comforting weight. Your face, usually animated with cheerful expressions, was serene in repose, a few stray strands of hair falling across your forehead.

Lucifer stared. Confusion warred with a strange, unfamiliar sensation. He wasn't alone. He wasn't in the suffocating silence of his broken dream. You were here.

He tried to shift, to pull away, but even that small movement felt like an immense effort, and he didn't want to disturb your sleep. He found himself simply lying there, watching you breathe, listening to the soft, steady rhythm. The pain of the shattered illusion, the raw anguish of Lilith's betrayal and Charlie's distant belief, still clawed at him, but your unexpected presence, so close, so unburdened by his expectations, offered a strange, fragile comfort.

Your hand, resting on his chest, felt real. Solid. Warm. It was a stark contrast to the phantom touches of his dream, and the chilling emptiness of his reality. He felt a faint tremor run through him, a mixture of bewilderment and a desperate, unfamiliar longing. He, the King of Hell, was utterly vulnerable, weakened, and the one person by his side, the one offering quiet solace, was you, a simple sinner from Charlie's misguided redemption project.

He didn't move, didn't speak. He just lay there, utterly still, committing your sleeping face to memory. The soft curve of your lips, the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the quiet trust in your slumbering form. It was a sight he hadn't known he desperately needed. The sharp edge of his grief, though still present, felt momentarily dulled by this unexpected, tender reality. He was awake. And you were here.

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This is discontinued, I'm sorry 😔😭