#incorrect his dark materials

[uselessgreatcometbi]

Lyra: My mother saved me. She didn't want me to get hurt.

Asriel: ???

Marisa: I can't come with you. I want to stay with Lyra.

Asriel: ???

Asriel: So when did we all decide to start bonding?

[skywalkr-nberrie]

Yeah so Anakin and Padmé didn’t actually want to stay in a servient state of position for their entire lives, they came to a point during the Clone Wars where they both mutually decided that they’d leave behind duty and start a real life together. What put them in place in the beginning was their loyalty to the Republic and the Galaxy. But they didn’t want two things that contradict each other. The tragedy isn’t that their positions was the main issue of their demise, the tragedy was Anakin falling to the dark side and it leading up the death of his one true love.

Anakin and Padmé both expressed over multiple material such as the comics and novels and even in the films that they want to come out someday and live happily together, specifically in ROTS, they discuss on the balcony that when they have their baby they’ll go away to Naboo where it’s peaceful. They’ve had talks about running away together to live happily ever after. So the idea that an “happy au” or “fix it” isn’t “possible” is just false and incorrect understanding. The tragedy was that they were so close to finally being together but Anakin’s fears and anger took over, prompted by none other than Palpatine.

[yourownutopia]

Chapter 3: "The Price of Protection"

When the Shadow Monarch adds you to his ranks, he has no idea what he's in for. Not only are you uncontrollable, but you also harbor a secret that even the System keeps hidden from him. As he searches for a way to bring you under control, it becomes clear that your existence exposes a flaw in the perfect structure of the shadows—one that no one could have foreseen. Why don’t you yield to his will, and more importantly, why doesn’t the System want you to remember? [Jin Woo x fem! shadow! reader]

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Chapter Index :

[Prologue], [1] ,[2] , [3ʰᵉʳᵉ]

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Song: Shadowborn - Hiroyuki Sawano

Calm before the storm - It's me they all are coming for

Be my shadowborn

We're back to take the pain - My soul is indestructible

I steal you from the grave - So cursed to be a slave

»»———-»--•--«———-««

make sure to read the previous Chapters!

Notes: I want to clarify that English is not my first language. I’m sorry if there are any mistakes or if I sometimes use incorrect word

Hey there! Sorry for the long wait T-T I went through a creative slump and just couldn’t come up with anything good! I hope you still like the new chapter though <3

Chapter 3: The Price of Protection

"[Y/N]!!" The voice rang muffled in her ears, the pain in her head sharp and unpleasant. Why did this feel like déjà vu? Only this time, it wasn’t a warm voice warning her—it was a worried one, belonging to none other than Jin-Woo, who was supporting her upper body and calling her name again and again. What had happened?

-‘๑’-

"Arise."

Jin-Woo’s voice vibrated softly, ominously, as the word left his lips. The way he said it sent chills down [Y/N]’s spine. Her whole body reacted instinctively, the fine hairs on her neck standing on end. Her grip around Baruka’s Dagger tightened ever so slightly. She felt it before she even saw it—the way the energy in the room shifted, the electricity in the air, just before the floor gave way to an ocean of black, inky shadows from which Jin-Woo’s army began to rise. Hundreds of creatures emerged from the darkness, their forms slowly taking shape. Right next to [Y/N], Igris rose from the shadows, while Beru—the Ant King—materialized beside Jin-Woo, clicking his claws menacingly. Perhaps it was due to their shadow connection, but [Y/N] could feel the raw desire of the other shadows to serve their master. Even though she knew just how powerful Jin-Woo was, she could barely believe her eyes as she looked around his army - and found herself locking gazes with Igris. His expression—or what passed for one beneath those glowing eyes—remained unreadable. But for a split second, [Y/N] sensed it… that piercing glance of doubt he threw her way. It wasn’t telepathy. Not really. It was more like… she knew what the others were thinking.

Aeternus watched it all unfold, and despite his skeletal, expressionless face, there was calmness about him. With a twitch of his bony index finger—frail, almost sickly—his soldiers began to move.

[URGENT QUEST: DEFEAT THE ENEMIES] [There are enemies nearby who intend to kill the player. Eliminate all threats and secure the player's safety. If you fail to comply, your heart will cease to beat. Enemies remaining: 426 Enemies defeated: 0 ]

The system window floated in the air in front of [Y/N] and Jin-Woo. No one else seemed to notice the transparent interface—none of the shadows, at least. But it clearly told [Y/N] that she would die if Jin-Woo did. It made sense—if he died, the shadow extraction would vanish too—but the realization that her life was entirely bound to his felt bitter. Her eyes flicked to the black-haired monarch, who was already preparing to attack. The tension in the air was almost tangible. His eyes had changed color, his aura colder—sharper, almost slicing through the atmosphere. A shiver ran down her spine. This wasn’t Jin-Woo’s aura anymore. This was the Shadow Monarch’s. But this time, that crushing presence wasn’t directed at her—it was focused solely on Aeternus, whose army was already on the move. [Y/N] adjusted her grip on her dagger and took half a step forward— —only for Jin-Woo’s arm to block her path.

"This fight isn't yours" Jin-Woo said sharply, not even sparing her a glance. His voice was low, serious—carrying an authority that allowed no argument. [Y/N] parted her lips, but no words came out. Something in his tone held her back. She wanted to protest, to fight by his side, to prove herself… But Jin-Woo was already moving. In a flash—so fast the normal eye could barely keep up.

The moment their powers clashed, she realized the truth—she wouldn’t have stood a chance.

The first impact shook the very structure around them. The ground trembled beneath her feet as Jin-Woo charged at Aeternus with inhuman speed. His shadows danced like flames in a storm, his silhouette blurring in the chaos of darkness. Aeternus rose slowly—measured, dignified—as though he had all the time in the world. Runes glowed along his bony chest, and a thunderous boom echoed through the chamber as he raised his arms and conjured a magical barrier to block the Shadow Monarch’s strike.

The resulting shockwave was massive, tugging at [Y/N]’s clothes and nearly knocking her off her feet—if not for Igris, who stepped in front of her protectively. The dark knight had driven his sword into a crack in the floor, his cloak whipping wildly, the metal of his blade groaning beneath the immense power of his master. Jin-Woo moved in jagged zigzags through the air, slamming relentlessly into the magical barrier.

[Y/N] saw nothing but blinding flashes of light and cascading shadows leaving tears in the air. The raw energy between the two combatants was overwhelming. Every blow, every movement shattered the floor, extinguished runes—or reignited them in furious bursts of magic. She held her breath for a second. And when she looked again, her [E/C] eyes widened in awe. She stood frozen, unable to look away from the infernal duel. Her body trembled—not from fear, but from sheer reverence.

Jin-Woo was faster, more precise—a storm of darkness and steel. But Aeternus was immovable, like an ancient law of nature that refused to bend.

Each of his movements carried millennia of experience, and the magic surrounding him followed no known rules of mana or logic.

“You are in the way.”

The strange voice snapped [Y/N] out of her trance. She turned her head—only to see the massive ant pushing aside one of the skeletal soldiers, his claws clicking ominously.

"THE ANT CAN TALK?!" [Y/N] exclaimed in disbelief, jumping to Igris’s side. He cast her a sidelong glance, and strangely, she felt safer near him than that insect.

Beru looked offended by her blunt comment, his antennae twitching. "Useless female", he said coldly. [Y/N]’s eyes narrowed. What the hell did that pest just say?

She opened her mouth to fire back, but before she could, Beru leapt past her—straight at a soldier who had tried to ambush her from behind.

The ant tore the skeletal warrior apart effortlessly, clearly enjoying himself in a grotesque display. That’s when [Y/N] noticed the floating name above his head.

[Beru. Rank: General]

The question of why he could speak could wait. Beru turned back to her, green blood dripping from his claws.

"How about not standing around, useless half-shadow?" he hissed, moving forward again. "Let’s see if the rest of the battlefield finds you worth the trouble."

That was apparently enough for Igris, too. He turned to engage in battle—but [Y/N] stopped him in his Tracks.

"We have to support Jin-Woo" she said, glancing at the chaos still raging nearby. The structure continued to tremble under the sheer power of their clash.

Beru let out a sound that almost resembled a laugh—but wasn’t.

"Show some respect to our master. If he doesn’t call for us, we have no place there" , he replied coldly before vanishing into the fray.

[Y/N] wasn’t so sure. How could Beru be so certain?

Her gaze flicked from the two blurred figures locked in combat to Igris—almost pleading, as if silently asking for his opinion.

But the knight only spared one last glance toward his master… …and then turned and followed Beru into battle. [Y/N] was torn. On one hand, she understood why the two were acting this way – it was their Master's command – but on the other hand… But she couldn’t finish the thought as the ground trembled once more and the two Monarchs clashed. Shaking her head, [Y/N] muttered: “Nope, definitely not.” She didn’t belong there. Spinning on her heel, she followed Igris, swallowing the lump in her throat. These soldiers weren’t as easy to defeat as the spider creatures, and yet – despite her racing heart and the uncertainty she felt – there was something else that grew within her as her eyes swept across the shadow army. Confidence. She had a feeling that, together, they wouldn’t have too much trouble destroying Aeternus’ army.

With fire in her chest, her grip tightening around Baruka’s Dagger, she picked up her pace and threw herself into the battle.

Number of Enemies defeated: 57

With every passing minute of the battle, the counter of defeated enemies increased. The room was filled with smoke, rubble, and the continuous sounds of combat between the shadow soldiers – and not to forget, Jin Woo and Aeternus. But the thick cloud of dust made it nearly impossible to see anything more than glowing flashes of light.

Number of Enemies defeated: 109

[Y/N]’s attention, however, was focused on her own fight. Her steps were light yet deadly as she darted back and forth between enemies, repeatedly striking them with her dagger – only to spin on her heels after landing to strike the next one.

Number of Enemies defeated: 211

It was a strange sight – she moved with such grace and deadly precision, as if she had never done anything else in her life. Mana surged through her veins, and her [H/C] hair whipped through the air as she jumped from the back of one of the bone soldiers and landed calmly on her feet. Her breath was fast but not uncontrolled, her heart pounded hard in her chest, and a bead of sweat sparkled on her forehead.

“At least you’re still alive. Or something like that” [Y/N] suddenly heard a deep voice beside her. Her head snapped around just as Beru landed next to her, retracting his wings and looking at the young woman who straightened herself up and wiped the ‘blood’ – a strange green goop seeping from the bone creatures – from her blue dagger. Beru’s tone was mocking, and yet [Y/N] figured that this was probably his way of giving a compliment? “Uhm… yeah?” she replied, glancing at the transparent window hovering in front of her.

Number of Enemies defeated: 345

“Not too many left…” she murmured, more to herself than to Beru, as her eyes scanned the battlefield. Not just the soldiers – even the shadows had thinned out considerably. She had no idea what happened to the shadows when they were “killed.” In the distance, Tusk was currently blasting one of the bone creatures away with a fireball, the heat hitting her face and sending her hair flying – only to be cooled again by the chill of the room.

“Do you hear that?” Beru asked, his antennae twitching slightly. She had been so engrossed in the fight, she hadn’t noticed anything around her. At his words, she paused and listened. There was nothing unusual.

“No,” she finally responded, about to get back to work when the realization struck her. Aside from the sounds of the few remaining shadows, it was silent – far too silent. She had been so focused that she hadn’t spared a single thought for Jin Woo and Aeternus, whose mana was still present – but less overwhelming than before. But she couldn’t see anything trough the thick dust. Without thinking, [Y/N] took a deep breath and yelled in the opposite direction:

“TUSK, PLEASE BLOW THE SMOKE AWAY!” Her voice was so shrill that Beru tried – unsuccessfully – to cover his ears with his arms. Tusk just stared at her, puzzled, which [Y/N] responded to with a deep sigh. He was… clearly not the brightest star in the sky.

She looked around and suddenly an idea hit her. A stupid one – a really idiotic one she should’ve discarded immediately, but right now, she didn’t care. With a precise throw, she hurled her dagger, hitting one of the bone soldiers squarely between the eyes – not enough to kill it, but enough to get its attention.

It turned to her, its eye sockets glowing as it yanked the dagger from its cracked skull, now bearing a narrow hole. It looked… angry. Very angry. It immediately shifted its target and charged at [Y/N], who turned and ran – straight toward the dust cloud that blocked her view. She had no weapon now – so all she could do was run and hope her plan worked. Taking a deep breath, she sprinted across the room, debris crunching under her feet.

“TUUUUUSK HELP ME PLEASE!!” she screamed, glancing behind her to see if he finally understood this time.

The red giant turned his head slowly in her direction, his eyes resting on her for a moment before spotting the enemy chasing after her. Without hesitation, he raised his hand, and a massive fireball launched toward them.

[Y/N]’s eyes widened – she had definitely underestimated the sheer firepower. The bright flame reflected in her eyes for a split second before she dove forward in a desperate leap. The fire blazed past her – the heat singed a few of her [H/C] strands and the blast wave slammed her onto the stone floor.

Number of Enemies defeated: 346

She landed hard on her side, sliding several feet across the ground before coming to a stop, clutching her aching head.

“...ow” she muttered, opening the eyes she had instinctively shut during the impact.

Without hesitation, she pushed herself back up. But when she looked toward the dust cloud that had just cleared, her breath caught in her throat.

Jin Woo’s arms were shaking slightly as he pushed both his daggers against the Monarch’s scythe, which he held back with near-effortless ease. His clothes were torn, scratches marred his skin – soot and grime covered him head to toe, with black strands of hair sticking to his forehead. His eyes glowed purple, and [Y/N] could feel the tremble of his mana. She now noticed the trembling of her own body, which seemed to respond to his current condition. Nothing was decided yet, but a sense of dread settled in her stomach.

Jin Woo stared into the hollow eyes of the Monarch, who looked back emotionlessly. His mana was draining with each passing minute, and his fatigue bar was fillinh. He felt himself slowing down, just barely. There had to be something – an opening, a weakness – but this opponent wasn’t like the others. He gave him no chance to land a heavy counterattack. Jin Woo’s thoughts raced, searching for a way to end the fight. But right now, he saw no way out. An unspoken truth hovered on the tip of his tongue.

“We are equals.” His eyes widened for a brief moment as the voice echoed his thoughts. Again, he heard that strange combination of bones cracking and leaves rustling. A voice that was neither male nor female. The Shadow Monarch’s eyes narrowed at Aeternus’ words.

“That’s what you were just thinking, isn’t it, Shadow Monarch?” There was no emotion in the voice, yet Jin Woo could’ve sworn he sounded amused. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you.”

He raised his free arm, a beam of blue light forming rapidly in his palm. Its intensity increased at alarming speed. Again with that? Jin Woo had already dodged this attack before. Why would this time be any different—

“I don’t play fair.”

His eyes barely widened as he heard the words and realized Aeternus wasn’t aiming at him. His gaze darted sideways – the battlefield lay in clear view now. [Y/N] stood not too far away, directly in the line of fire.

He wouldn’t— “[Y/N]! GET OUT OF THERE!” he shouted.

[Y/N] froze in her tracks and stared at the bright light aimed directly at her. “Huh?!” she gasped, just as Jin Woo came into view, having stepped back. He now stood in her line of sight, holding his daggers protectively in front of her.

But Aeternus aborted the beam and instead launched an unexpected strike with his scythe, as if that had been his plan all along. Jin Woo couldn’t dodge in time and was knocked backward. With a groan, he crashed into [Y/N], sending her flying to the ground as well.

For the second time in mere moments, she found herself on the floor – only this time, she felt the crushing weight of Jin Woo partially across her legs, and the air knocked from her lungs.

“Ahhh…” she groaned in pain as she sat up and realized what had happened.

“Jin Woo!” she cried, her voice laced with worry as she reached for his shoulder – only to be stopped by his sudden movement. He was already back on his feet – showing no clear signs of weakness. But [Y/N] could sense his exhaustion and saw the slight furrow of thought across his face.

"Stay behind me" , he said, positioning himself protectively in front of her as he watched the figure still lingering at the same spot, staring at them for a brief moment before launching into another attack. Despite the trembling ground and the biting air, crackling with sparks and magic, it was the silence between the strikes that [Y/N] noticed most. A silence in which Jin Woo’s movements—normally razor-sharp and precise—carried a barely perceptible heaviness. A breath too long. A sidestep just a fraction slower than usual. [Y/N]’s heart clenched painfully as she stood frozen, unable to tear her eyes away. Jin Woo was powerful—words could barely capture the might of the Shadow Monarch—but he still had one critical weakness: He was still made of flesh and blood. A body through which blood coursed. A body that knew exhaustion. He was still human. And Aeternus, that ancient nightmare, noticed it too.

His voice was calm, like the whisper of a dying wind. "You cannot win this battle." No mockery. No glee. Just a cold, inevitable truth. [Y/N] felt something deep within her rebel. A part of her screamed to stay out of it—she knew she couldn’t defeat Aeternus.

She knew it. And yet, despite everything. Maybe they were strangers. Maybe they couldn't stand each other. Maybe they were two lost stars in different galaxies—but Jin Woo hadn't betrayed her, hadn't sacrificed her just to save himself. And for that reason alone... she couldn't just stand by and watch.

Her heart pounded against her ribs as she watched Jin Woo being driven into a corner. Aeternus had left him no openings to counterattack. His scythe swung again—and this time, Jin Woo saw no way to block it. He saw the blade, the scythe whose edge devoured the light and swallowed any hope of victory. His body rebelled against him, heavy, exhausted from a fight that knew no end. But the blow never landed— Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the movement—far too fast to react. For a moment, the world seemed to freeze around him. With a determination burning brighter than any fear, [Y/N] intercepted the magical strike. The scythe left a searing, glowing gash across her chest. A shower of sparks exploded between her and Aeternus. The air tore apart with a deafening crack as their energies collided. For Jin Woo, the world felt foreign one endless heartbeat. His eyes widened in shock and Adrenaline surged like wildfire through his veins, sharpening his senses to the point of pain. His Instinct took over. He saw it—that fleeting moment when Aeternus faltered. No visible expression—and yet, a shadow of surprise flickered across his posture. Jin Woo didn’t hesitate, with a final surge of strength, he lunged forward, his daggers like lightning born from desperation and unwavering will. His attack struck Aeternus' ancient body with the force of a storm, and the impact made the entire space tremble. Stone shattered, walls cracked, as Aeternus was hurled back like a lifeless meteor, crashing into the wall.

For a heartbeat—or maybe two—Jin Woo stood there, chest heaving, daggers still raised. His breath was ragged, muscles burning, his forehead drenched in sweat and blood. He ignored the floating notification announcing that he had defeated the Monarch of the Eternal Cycle—his focus was entirely elsewhere. On the unmoving body lying on the ground.

He swiftly stored his weapons in his inventory and knelt beside her within seconds, cradling her upper body. His shadows could regenerate automatically if he had enough mana—but she? She was different. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt something beyond the cold emptiness inside him.

The sudden silence was deafening, blood roaring in his ears. He called her name again, his gaze falling to the gaping wound across her chest and His eyes widened slightly. Instead of torn flesh and bone, her wound was filled with blinding light. He could feel the pulsing of mana—but it was unlike his own. Unlike the shadow mana he shared with all his shadows, and unlike what he had felt from her before. It was... less dark.

"You’re not dying here!" His voice cracked more than he realized, his fingers clutching the fabric at her shoulder as if she might slip away if he let go. But suddenly her Face Muscles twitched. "So loud..." she croaked, her eyelids fluttering weakly. But that tiny response was enough for relief to flood through him. Her vision blurred as she blinked several times, and her vision slowly grew clearer again. She looked up into a pair of stormy blue-grey eyes gazing down at her. No trace of the icy danger that had burned in them during the battle. For a moment, she felt disoriented before she tried to sit up—only to fail miserably. Her body felt as heavy as lead. Her chest felt heavy, almost suffocating.

"You don’t have to yell, Jin Woo. I can hear you just fine," she muttered weakly, her lips twitching into a faint smile.

Jin Woo’s face went blank. Had she hit her head too hard? What the hell was wrong with this woman? How could she still joke at a time like this?

His grip on her shoulders tightened briefly before he took a deep breath, locking eyes with her. Her [E/C] irises clear as she looked up at him.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded, disbelief bleeding into his otherwise steady voice, as if he could force some sense back into her.

She didn’t answer immediately, simply staring at him for a moment. What had she been thinking? Nothing, really. Like with the spiders—it had been pure instinct, not a conscious thought.

Her mouth curved into a weak smile. "Isn’t it my job as a shadow?" she asked, half amused, half sarcastic.

The tension drained from Jin Woo’s shoulders, and he couldn’t help but drop his head slightly. A short sound escaped him—something like an amused snort. Not quite a laugh, but enough to show [Y/N] something he hadn’t shown anyone besides his family and Jinho in a long time: Humanity. Something that had slowly been buried deeper with every battle, every level up. Her words could have been just a casual joke to lighten the mood. But it was more than that. Her hostility toward him now felt almost like a lie.

Jin Woo wanted answers, but a sudden flare of presence—and a noise—made his head snap around, tension seizing his body. It couldn’t be—

And yet, the once lifeless body of the other Monarch rose, and a cold wind swept through the otherwise still space. Jin Woo’s eyes narrowed to slits. No. What stood before him was no longer Aeternus. The oppressive weight was gone—only the afterimage of his being remained.

"I understand." The voice was no more than a whisper, slipping into the cracks of the ruined space. His hollow eyes gazed down at them, yet the coldness had faded—replaced by something else. Something hard to grasp.

"A bond even I can not sever" His words floated through the air like dust—light yet heavy with meaning.

His gaze flicked briefly to [Y/N], then back to Jin Woo.

"Shadow Monarch" He spoke the title as if it hadn't passed his lips in centuries—even though only minutes had passed. As if it was something older than words themselves.

"Your loyalty... it’s worth more than any crown, any throne. I acknowledge it."

A soft current stirred the room, bringing with it a sense of finality. Aeternus' form began to flicker, as if he would vanish at any moment with the next breeze.

"The cycle never ends... We will meet again. This is for sure"

A faint glimmer flashed through the air, barely perceptible— and [Y/N]’s interface flickered with a soft pling, barely audible in the heavy silence. A new notification: An item had found its way into her inventory.

[New Item: Mystery Box Description: An unremarkable box with unknown contents. Will open when the time is right.]

Jin Woo noticed the shift in her expression when she saw the interface, but before he could ask anything, Aeternus' form began to fade completely. No explosion, no blinding light—just the quiet collapse of something older than time itself.

With him, the remains of his army vanished too, dissolving as if they had never been there. Only silence remained—heavy and tangible, weighing on their shoulders. Only the destroyed walls, the deep scars in the ground, and their battered bodies spoke of what had happened.

[Y/N] had been so distracted by what had just unfolded that she had forgotten the gaping wound in her chest.

"What—" she started to say, feeling a strange tingling sensation im her chest. Jin Woo followed her gaze to the spot on her body where the light had once shone. The light had vanished beneath thick clouds of shadows. It looked almost as if the shadows were swallowing the light, pushing it back—or consuming it. Within seconds, the cut was gone, and the stabbing pain had faded. All that remained was a destroyed top, revealing her bare skin underneath. For a moment, she stared at her exposed skin before realizing Jin Woo was also staring at her chest.

Her face turned scarlet, and she shoved him away with all her strength, covering herself with one hand.

"Look somewhere else!" she hissed, turning away from him. Why the hell was he blushing now—he hadn’t even seen anything! Or... had he? "That wasn’t— I didn’t mean—" he stammered, running a hand through his black hair, shaking loose dust and dirt.

The tense atmosphere had shifted, leaving both of them awkwardly flustered. [Y/N] knelt on the ground, trying desperately to hold her destroyed top together, her face as red as a tomato. She really was just an ordinary woman after all.

Before Jin Woo could say anything, they heard footsteps and a voice approaching.

"My Liege, we have eliminated all enemies" Beru landed at Jin Woo’s feet and knelt before him, Igris following suit shortly after.

Beru’s compound eyes flicked briefly toward [Y/N], and a low, unmistakably disdainful click came from his mandibles.

"Tch. Useless Half-Shadow’’, Beru muttered without even looking at her. "Still breathing, surprisingly."

[Y/N]'s head snapped toward him, eyes flashing. "Excuse me, you overgrown mosquito?" she snapped back. "At least I don't look like something you'd kill with a flyswatter."

Beru’s wings vibrated, his entire posture stiff with offense. "You should be grateful our Liege allows worthless scraps like you to stay near him."

"Oh, I'm sorry, are you mad because I don't need to buzz around like a desperate housefly to get attention?" [Y/N] said sweetly, flashing him a poisonous smile.

Beru's mandibles clicked sharply, and he stepped forward, clearly ready to escalate—

"Enough."

Jin Woo’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. The air itself seemed to tighten, heavy with command.

Both Beru and [Y/N] froze instantly. Beru dropped to one knee without hesitation, head bowed low. [Y/N] bit her tongue, fists clenched at her sides, but she wisely stayed silent—though not without an angry huff.

Jin Woo looked at both of them, his gaze cold and unamused. "If you have enough energy to bicker, you can use it for the next fight. I don’t have time to deal with internal nonsense." Beru and [Y/N] muttered under their breath but didn’t dare argue. Jin Woo finally checked his new level with a sigh. "Good work. The experience points were high, but since no bodies remain, there are no resources to collect," he mused. Under normal circumstances, he might have considered it a waste of time—but... His gaze drifted to [Y/N], who still sat with her back to him. His expression was unreadable. Maybe it wasn't a waste after all. The sudden hum and flare of mana signaled the appearance of a Gate, marking their exit. "You can go now," he said, and Beru nodded stiffly before vanishing into the shadows with Igris. [Y/N] mumbled curses under her breath until she felt something warm land on her head.

"Huh?"

A confused noise escaped her lips as she grabbed the fabric. Instantly, warmth spread through her, and his scent filled her nose. "Just for now," Jin Woo said without looking at her. She wrapped the cloak around herself and looked at him. Without his cloak, he somehow looked less like a god of war and more like... a stubborn young man, barely out of boyhood. She raised an eyebrow skeptically, sighed, and stood up. Jin Woo took a few steps toward the Gate and raised his hand. "You can join the others. I’ll summon you when I need you." "Okay," [Y/N] answered, but Jin Woo was already halfway through the Gate when her voice stopped him again. "And... how do I do that?"

"..."

˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ! ꨄ︎ ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

✿ Hm...[Y/N] can't enter the Shadow Realm. What kind of Difficulties could this bring for our Shadow Monarch? ☽

Thanks for all reblogs, likes & comments.'*•.¸♡ I really appreciate it <3 ♡¸.•*' ˋ°•*⁀✎ 𝑢𝑡𝑜𝑝𝑖𝑎

[two-entire-bits]

Deaf Outsiders Headcanons

I'd like to preface this by saying I'm hearing, and I've only been studying sign language, deaf history, and Deaf culture from a Deaf professor for the past couple months, and I do not know everything. I've researched the medical backgrounds for the genetic conditions and injuries mentioned, but some information might be incorrect and/or I might've misunderstood some things. If it is or I have, please tell me! I don't mean any misinformation or disrespect and I apologize if I cause any offense.

These also include some other disabilities!

Some world-related stuff:

There's no deaf schools in Tulsa, but the Oklahoma School for the Deaf was founded in 1908 so the time periods would hypothetically work out

In this alternative story there would be a deaf school in Tulsa and the Curtis brothers would all attend/have attended said school

I know it's Gallaudet University, but before 1986 it was a college

For the Curtis family: all of them are deaf. I think they'd have Autosomal Dominant Non-Syndromic (DFNA) deafness, maybe a variant in the MYH14 gene, which causes those with the variant to progressively lose their hearing within the first 3 decades of their lives. The Curtis parents taught their boys how to sign ASL, which they'd use at home, speak English, which they'd only use for hearing people, and lip read, also for hearing people, to an extent when they were young. The Curtis parents encouraged their boys to talk in sign as much as possible, but also were very upfront about ableism and how the world is built for hearing people.

Ponyboy:

Completely loses his hearing around 7-10

He's good at talking but doesn't like to, and very good at lip reading so he can watch movies

He still likes to write and caught onto English spelling and grammar quick

He often carries a notebook around to write in but mostly writes quick in ASL's grammar

He also uses it to write things to hearing people when he doesn't want to speak

He signs REALLY fast, he has a lot of things to say and good motor skills and sometimes even his parents have to ask him to repeat himself

Lexicalizes words all the time on accident

Signs to himself all the time, especially when he's alone

Likes to try and figure out what the actors are saying in movies and figure out the plot without the dialogue and sign along with the lines he can follow

VERY visual storyteller

Darrel:

Completely loses his hearing around 12-15

He can talk and lip-read very well, which he doesn't prefer but it's useful at work

Always kind of dreamed of playing football at Gallaudet, but always knew it wasn't really possible

Also signs to himself, but only when he's alone

Soda:

Completely loses his hearing closer to 3-5 and struggles with speaking compared to Darry and Ponyboy.

He always had hard time understanding English, and that plus being deaf and dyslexia contributed to him feeling stupid and dropping out of school (especially compared to Ponyboy)

He and Ponyboy talk in tactile sign at night before bed when everything's dark

His parents told him "Darry" rhymes with "Dairy" in English when he was really young and half the time he just signs "milk" instead of Darry's sign name to tease him. He got Pony in on it too

Johnny:

Hearing, but has apraxia of speech and selective mutism

His parents hate him for it and sent him to public mainstream school anyways

The Curtis parents taught him ASL after they met him

His apraxia and mutism contribute to why his teachers "give up on him" and to him having to repeat a grade in addition to other learning problems he was having and struggling to get the material quick enough for the curriculum

One reason why he was so scared in the hospital was because his hands were so burned he couldn't sign

Steve:

born with x-linked recessive deafness to hearing parents. His mother carried the gene and passed it to him

An especially good driver because of this

He goes to the same deaf school as the Curtis brothers and met Soda when they were in grade school, same as the book

Doesn't know how to speak English and doesn't want/care to learn it

When he was younger, he almost got caught stealing a car's hubcaps because he didn't realize how loud it was until he was telling the gang later about how the owners came outside and spotted him and Two-Bit told him that they probably heard the clattering of the metal hubcaps on the tarmac

Two-Bit:

Hearing, but his mom and sister (Tammy) are both deaf, he just didn't get the gene

Speaks English and ASL fluently but still stutters while signing because of motor skill issues

Purposefully messes up his grammar or signs sometimes just to annoy Tammy

Dallas:

Born hearing, but has Ménière's disease because he was jumped or in a car accident (something that wasn't his fault) when he was around 13-15 and the head trauma caused bleeding in the inner ear and his hearing is fluctuating at the time of the book

He's scared and angry because it'll get better and then worse and he never knows how or when it's going to change

He gets annoyed by the tinnitus and dizzy spells, and will often hole up somewhere when he feels a vertigo episode coming on and won't leave until it's over

The Curtis parents start teaching him basic sign and things to expect and things to know if he ends up permanently loosing his hearing, but he stopped trying to learn anything after they died

On one particularly shitty day when he didn't realize how loud he was being and Two told him he was yelling and he got so pissed at everything and that he didn't even realize he was being loud that he punched Two in the face

He's angry that it was something he could've stopped, that it happened when he wasn't actively looking for a fight or driving recklessly, or that it wasn't genetic because then he'd have someone/something to actively hate and blame. He never found out who jumped/crashed into him

Bonus: Socs!

Marcia:

Acquired hearing loss due to a recent head injury while barrel racing

It's not too bad at the time of the book, but they don't know if it'll get worse or not yet

She's not too worried about it, but every once in a while when she thinks about it a lot she gets really scared about what will happen if she loses her hearing permanently

She's scared she'll have to quit dance

Her mom kept her in high school and got her hearing aids eventually when it got worse

When she starts dating Two-Bit, it's another reason why she gets along with his mom and Tammy so well

They help teach her some basic sign and about Deaf culture, and kind of quench any fears she had about not being able to be happy/live if you're deaf because she didn't know anything about being deaf

Once she's learned enough sign to have conversations, she starts taking her hearing aids off at their house

Cherry:

Hearing

She was there when Marcia crashed and comforts her when she gets really worried about her future, but she doesn't really get it or know much about it

She wasn't rude about the way Pony pronounced things or later that night, when she was waiting for Ponyboy to write out what he wanted to say at the Drive-In and he got tired enough he didn't want to have to speak, which really surprised him

Bob:

Hearing

Knows nothing and could not care less about d/Deaf and generally disabled people

Thinks he can make Johnny talk if he beats him hard enough (partial motivation behind him and the Socs jumping Johnny before the book)

He knows Marcia's losing her hearing and is kind about it

Rolls his eyes sometimes when Marcia asks Cherry to repeat herself

Randy:

Hearing

Has no clue how to deal with Marcia's crash or her losing her hearing

Just tries (key word) to comfort her but doesn't do much else, just kind of goes on as normal

Similar to Bob, he'll get annoyed if she asks him to repeat himself too many times but feels a little bad about it

Paul:

Hearing

Learned some signs when he was friends with Darry

He didn't care to remember them when they stopped seeing each other

Felt "betrayed" when Darry said he dreamed of going to Gallaudet to play football because Paul just always assumed they'd go play together at some hearing mainstream college and he doesn't want to "learn all that shit" or "be around those kinds of people that much" just to play football at the same college as Darry

Bev:

Hearing

Knows about Marcia and says she doesn't care, but every once in a while she'll say something or make a joke that's just rude and shitty

Like Bob and Randy, she also doesn't cut Marcia a lot of slack if she doesn't hear something one of them says (Cherry is pretty much the only one that does)

She purposefully tries not to think about Marcia's future because she knows she'll get really upset about it, cos she thinks (and pretty much all the Soc's and hearing population, including Marcia) being deaf means you can't live or be happy

[yanderestarangel]

♡ 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐓 | 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑!𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐗 𝐅𝐓𝐌 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

TW: dom!nanami kento, objectification, humiliation, degradation, v!sex, oral (f!re), dark themes, extreme smut, nsfw, reader is himbo, power play, manipulation, corruption, erodark, master x sub, teacher nanami x student reader, virgin reader, aggressive sex, porn plot, dark!nanami kento, sadism.

You didn't like him, and he couldn't understand the logical reason for such actions. Nanami Kento was your college biology teacher, he was a polite and serious man, but you simply didn't respect him! You didn't attend his classes, you always rolled your eyes in disdain when he scolded you, even suspensions didn't work anymore, Kento had reached his limit, for several reasons. The main thing about him was that your lack of interest in everything and especially in him, made him grind his teeth in anger and a sadistic desire to make you suffer, to make you suffer by his hands.

You were pretty, young and bratty, a dangerous and perfect combo in Kento's eyes, he hated how hard his dick got when he saw you walk by. How beautifully you smile at your friends in class. How you challenged him, as if he wasn't important enough for your attention. That awakened his fury and darkest desires, how he wanted to bend you over some table and spank your pussy until you screamed and cried his name, apologizing for having treated him so badly.

So, he soon discovered your weak point, your grades.

You needed to go straight to the other semester of college, but his grade was the main thing to define your failure or your success. He smiled brightly at the discovery, he could take revenge on you and still get what he always wanted... You.

"-Well (Y/N) it seems that there are a few mistakes in your test." Nanami said, retrieving your paper and glancing at the "incorrect" answers - They were all correct, but he had the power to simply clear everything and fail you - you were confused, swearing you had studied hard to pass his class.

"-But don't worry, I'd be more than happy to help you understand the material better." He leaned closer, his voice lowering to a whisper. "-I could give you some private tutoring sessions, if you'd like. Just between us, of course." His gaze was intense, suggesting a different kind of tutoring that went beyond academics. You tried to leave, do what your mind was telling you, run away, but the blonde man's calloused and strong fingers grabbed your hair and Nanami's grip on your scalp tightened, a mixture of dominance and desperation in his eyes. His desire for you seemed to consume him, his facade crumbling under the weight of his lust.

"-Do you think you can resist me little brat?" Nanami growled, his voice laced with a raw intensity. "-You've tempted me for a long time and now it's time to submit, I'm tired of you."

He knelt before you, your gaze fixed on his, while his other hand grabbed your thigh possessively. "-And if you think your grades won't suffer if you resist, you're sadly mistaken."

As Nanami spoke, his fingers crept up your inner thigh, teasingly close to your most intimate area. He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over your thigh, he placed a dangerous, loveless kiss on your skin - just a bittersweet threat to your position there. Nanami's intense gaze locked onto his, palpable dominance in him as he let go of your hair and praised you for your submission. The mixture of fear and excitement coursed through your veins, sharpening your senses and leaving you breathless, it was a dangerous situation, but something there, something in the veins of anger, his gaze filled with hate and desire, his eyebrows furrowed into a line, the trembling lips, the veins pulsing in his muscular arms - all of that gave you an aesthetic pleasure, a forbidden pleasure -

"-Good boy" he continued, as he handed him the bottle of lubricant. His own arousal was evident as he unzipped his pants, releasing his hardened erection, his fat, pulsing cock popping out of his clothes, presenting itself to your gaze.

"-Get ready doll boy." The teacher ordered, his voice firm but tinged with a hint of need. "-Use the lube to make the way easier for me."

He watched you intently, his eyes full of expectation and even a sadistic vengeful pleasure, an ununderstood anger, however, was there - as you applied the lubricant to yourself. The smoothness of the gel against your skin sent waves of pleasure throughout your body, mixing with nervous excitement.

Meanwhile, Kento stroked his length, his fingers moving in rhythmic motions as he watched you prepare yourself under his guidance. Every touch, every movement, was meticulously calculated to increase his desire and make you crave his touch even more.

Nanami's eyes became transfixed on your intimate display, his own arousal intensifying with every movement you made. The sight of your tight virgin pussy and your struggle to slide a finger inside only further fueled his eagerness to have you soon for him, he felt like a god, he had never felt so powerful.

He continued to stroke his erection, his eyes never leaving you, his gaze filled with a hunger that mirrored his own.

As you moaned sweetly in front of him, Nanami could no longer resist the temptation. He needed to feel you, taste your exuberant sweetness.

With a primal grunt, he stood up and quickly advanced towards your, pressing your back against the table. His hands grabbed your hips possessively, taking control of the situation.

"-Enough preparation, be a good boy and spread those thighs wide for me."

He quickly coated his fingers with more lube, making sure your entrance was slick and ready for him, the thought of burying himself deep inside you made him almost lose control.

With an authoritative yet gentle touch - The sight of your swollen entrance and your pulsing clit made his mouth water with anticipation - Unable to resist any longer, he leaned in, his tongue darting out to taste your essence. He savored the sweet taste of your arousal, his lips and tongue working expertly to bring you pleasure.

As he paid attention to your sensitive nub, he could feel your body responding, your moans and tremors urging him to thrust harder, the taste of juices and lubrication staining the older man's lips - his tongue danced over your throbbing clit, shaking and turning deftly. He could feel your breathing quickening, your moans getting louder, and it only fueled his own hunger for you.

"-Fuck pretty boy, I need to fuck you here and now." He leans over and spits on your pussy, not a gesture of lubricating your little hole even more, but rather a demonstration of power, placing you on a pedestal of just a cheap whore, but Kento's brown eyes said something else, something confusing. Yes, he wanted to take revenge on you, but to what extent had he not used his feelings of anger to cover up a passion or obsession for you? He wouldn't have that answer there, and he didn't want to.

He disregarded your resistance, his need and dominance overriding any protest you might have made. "-Do you think you can resist me? Do you think you can deny me what I want? Do you think you have a say in how this happens?"

"-With every thrust, I will remind you of every moment you thought you could resist. When you dared to defy me, despising me like trash, as if I were nothing to you." Nanami spoke with one of the veins bulging from his neck and forehead, pinning you to the hard wooden table, he didn't even put on a condom, With a sudden surge of strength, Kento penetrated deeper into you, hitting that hidden spot that sent shockwaves of pleasure for your body.

"-Well, let's see how much of a 'good boy' you really are when I take everything from you." - You could feel everything, the feeling of pain from your ruptured hymen, the pulsation of his cock in your core, the thick girth stretching you with each slow movement of having total entry into your cunt, which led you to hold onto him, desperately looking for support, in the hard muscles covered by the thin fabric of his dress shirt -

Nanami's eyes were filled with a dangerous lust as he watched you, the sight of your legs shaking and your body arching against him, was too much for him to handle. It had been so long since he had pleasure like this - not just physical, with your tight pussy, but mental, seeing you submit to him like that, was like paradise for him. "-My chérie ..." Kento murmured, his voice full of pride and satisfaction. "-You see? This is what you were made for. To surrender to me, to crave my touch, my dominance."

His thrusts were demanding, with no room for you to even adjust to his size. His fingers moved fast on your clit, the rhythm matching the rhythm of his cruel thrusts, he could see the bulge in your womb because of his cock.

"-Fuck look at that, such a good pussy... Fuck you are a hungry little slut, just waiting to be fucked like a cute and needy himbo that you are, aren't you?" He smiled, sweat falling from his forehead, as he moaned next to you, every inch of him buried deep in your most secret intimate. "-I am more than just your teacher. I am your master. Your god. Your savior from the mundane life you so long to escape." His fingers moved faster on your clit, his rhythm matching the rhythm of his thrusts, as if they were dancing an erotic waltz that only the two of you could understand.

"-You're mine, my good boy, even if you're a fucking slut." he murmured, his voice low and seductive but filled with a dangerous undertone.

"-Yes, cum for daddy" He whispered again, the nickname full of possessiveness and control, he felt your tremors, he knew you were going to cum, the sweet taste was of knowing he had taken your virginity and it had been your first to make you reach climax.

"-You're so wet, so tight... I can't even..." Kento moaned loudly, his balls hit your ass cheeks, leaving them with bruises from the speed and rough treatment.

He thrust one last time, burying himself deep inside you as his cum dripped down his shaft and onto the table below you.

When it was all over, when he had given her everything he could, Nanami leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers.

He paused for a moment, watching you lay beneath him, covered in your combined essence, the evidence of your surrender and submission etched into your body, your makeup smeared, your short skirt messy.

"-Look at you... You don't look so brat now, right?" Nanami pulled out of you slowly, each inch eliciting a moan from your lips.

He picked up your panties that had fallen to the side, holding them for you to see, with a smirk. "-When you lie beneath me, broken and begging for more... Those panties will be the only reminders of who really holds the power here... Me, you will come back looking for more." With those words, Nanami tore off your panties, tearing them into two halves.

"-And so" He continued, holding half of the torn fabric. "-Your virginity will never be complete again. You will carry that reminder wherever you go, a constant reminder of what happens when you dare defy me."

He tossed the panties aside, his eyes lingering on your nakedness for a moment before turning around, reaching into his pocket.

"-Your grades stayed the same, don't worry, clean yourself up and get out of here, I think you learned your lesson." He spoke coldly, quickly turning to face you, he opened his lips to say something, but changed his mind, returning to his cold and calculated expression, leaving the room, with a loud thud.

©YANDERESTARANGEL 2023

[boopshoops]

TWST OC INTRODUCTION - TCOAV

Salem Lee - The Profane and the Sacred

Name: Salem Lee

Nicknames: Maybell, Ichthys

Gender: Female

Pronouns: She/her

Sexuality: Bi-Sapiosexual

Birthday: June 29 (Cancer)

Age: 19 in canon TWST age, 21 in TCOAV AU

Height: 5'3 or 159cm

Voice Claim(s): Carolina Ravassa

Twisted from: ;)

Unique Magic: "The Witches' Sabbath" The witches' sabbath was once described as a nocturnal gathering to perform rituals for demons, now it is used by Salem to call upon others for aid. Using her familiar, Eugene, some of the surrounding nature can be pulled towards his body, morphing into what is essentially a black hole. Once absorbing enough material, Eugene can transform into a pitch black beacon. This solely alerts other magic users in a twenty-five mile radius to her location, and those who are around the beacon during its activation receive is a significant boost in power, along with less blot accumulation. However, the spell cannot be activated while she and Eugene are separated.

Grade: N/A

Job: Waitress (with hairdressing and baking commissions as a side)

Hobbies: Writing, baking, cooking, tarot reading, good old-fashioned reading, magic study.

Likes: Chocolate Pave, anything chocolate really, spring, summer, herbology, mycology, witchcore, goth music/style, lunar science.

Dislikes: Improper self care, being dismissed or ignored, nutella, mainstream sns, the dark, a messy environment, too much free time.

Fears: Losing loved ones due to negligence, being ghosted, not being taken seriously by those she loves, heights.

Summary: Moon fae, known for maturing similarly to humans and forgoing excellence in magic to trade for even longer life spans, are rare. Even rarer, however, are those like Salem, who work tirelessly to reclaim their magic in a magicless land. The results of her efforts? A sputtering, gooey, feline familiar with a tendency to absorb anything and everything.

Despite her typically serious and down to earth personality, this has landed her in trouble a good handful of times. She's no stranger to chaos, or the cops for that matter, but despite all of this, she is a gentle old soul with an endless capacity for care. She believes magic is the perfect means to keep her friends and family out of trouble. "No magic" seems like a stupid law in comparison when it could keep them all happy, healthy, and safe.

This belief does come with more downsides than simply breaking the law, though, as her abilities are quite... limited. While Salem has an unending passion for the craft, she also tends to overestimate herself. With her main focus being on fortune-telling and clairvoyance, she will often find herself extremely paranoid by the little things, given the (more than likely) chance her predictions are incorrect. Even with how much this may drive herself and her close ones crazy, she is, in the end, just trying her best.

Character Playlist - Outfit Inspiration - Moon Fae Info Post (TBD)

Author's Note: Salem has been around for awhile- though I never quite use her as often as I should. It felt like everytime I tried to insert her into some new AU, something would come up :P Anywho, She is a rather neutral character. She doesn't care a bunch about morality as long as it follows her own code- which, hey, I guess explains how she could end up with and be exes with Yuu Shi. Aftermath of doomed yuri? ya. Unfortunately she has not been transported outside of Dusk Summit like my other characters, so it will be awhile until there is more content with her. bUT i still wanna do more with her rather than just have her be "Yuu's ex."

[gunsandspaceships]

Fandom: definitions

Since the mangling of fandom terms has gotten out of hand among the fandom itself (or fandoms), here are their original (correct) meanings with examples from the MCU:

Canon - official source materials (films, books, etc.) describing official timelines.

Examples:

The MCU is part of the Multiverse.

Peter/MJ is a canon pairing.

Tony Stark had arrhythmia and a pacemaker.

AU (Alternate Universe) - an alternative universe (timeline) in the Multiverse (or in another Multiverse, if there is more than one). AUs contradict canon. If you change anything from canon, you are writing an AU.

It can include significant differences from canon (Mafia AU/College AU/Medieval AU, etc.) or relatively minor changes (a character's middle name is changed, two characters who dislike each other in canon become friends, etc.).

Examples:

The Avengers in a steampunk setting.

MCU Thor became a doctor.

Tony and Natasha survived Endgame.

Headcanon - a fan's personal interpretation or addition WITHIN the canon. Headcanon should not contradict canon. It can only fill in the gaps left by official sources. If something you write contradicts canon, it is AU, not headcanon.

Examples:

The Grandmaster was killed by the Sakaarans after Thor: Ragnarok.

Tony, Pepper, and Morgan had a cat.

Steve Rogers' became a father of 10 children in his own timeline.

Remember, if at any point official sources confirm that your headcanon is correct or incorrect, it ceases to be a headcanon and becomes canon or AU (or false information), respectively.

Fanon - is simply a headcanon that's widespread in the fandom. It becomes so popular that sometimes fans forget that it has no canonical basis.

Examples:

Maria Stark is Italian.

Stark Industries makes phones.

Thor loves Pop-Tarts.

OOC (Out Of Character) - any deviation in internal characteristics of a character. Automatically creates an AU.

Examples:

Steve Rogers who doesn't swear.

Trans Peter Quill.

Dark! versions.

P.S. As you may have noticed, headcanon is actually a pretty narrow thing that is not so common, and instead is VERY often misused when people mean AU.

Please do not use these terms interchangeably. The words are different for a reason.

[yusuke-of-valla]

The thing about conflicting headcanons re: Yusuke's financial situation post Madarame (ie is he actually poor, does he make money but spends it all on art because he has poor impulse control, is Kosei a money laundering scheme etc.) is that like Yusuke's financial situation is written to facilitate a running gag so it's not consistent.

The school gives him an allowance, but he's also being charged for utilities despite being on a scholarship and so showers in the cold and works in the dark and worries about the electricity bill.

We know he bought those lobsters that one time but realistically how much of his money is being spent on supplies for class vs non-necessities he feels inspired by? Because canvases are expensive and if there's a certain size expectation/requirement you can't save by getting a smaller canvas. So when someone says "he just spends all his money on art" what are we really talking about?

By Strikers he's very excited to have money from an art contest to spend on his friends but was that true during the course of the base game when he was in his slump? Because I have a hard time believing he was even entering competitions

The details don't really make sense because most of these details come from jokes that are never elaborated on into cohesive worldbuilding.

And even if you want to say the issue is just he's got bad spending habits, that's still a situation that would require intervention by an adult probably because uh, no shit?

Yeah of COURSE Yusuke is completely unprepared to live on his own and is incidentally starving himself, he was raised by a dude who convinced him that the only purpose he served was helping his Sensei. In what way would it have benefitted Madarame to prepare Yusuke in any way to live on his own or know how to balance finances, he actively wanted Yusuke reliant on him, because that's how abuse works.

I'm pretty sure Yusuke has never even conceptualized living on his own, and that's not even adding in the detail of Nakanohara being concerned he'd commit suicide if he stayed with Madarame. NO SHIT HE'D BE BAD AT IT? People don't just emerge from the womb capable of money management

In that situation is the proper response really "oh that Yusuke, he just doesn't understand money, it's not a big deal"?

And like regardless, he IS still starving. Like the extent to which you think it's self inflicted aside, he's a 16 year old who will constantly talk about skipping meals and eating sprouts from the park and that sucks. Someone should maybe like talk to him about the root cause of that!

TL;DR: Yusuke's financial situation doesn't make sense because it's not supposed to, so it kind of doesn't matter to me how people headcanon the nature of it, and I fundamentally think it's incorrect to say one option of "poor vs has bad impulse spending habits" is more correct than the other because arguably they both raise the question of "holy shit why is no one stepping in here" if you think about it all the way through

PS. Also I wrote this whole thing because I saw a tweet that was like "one big misconception i see about yusukes character and how he’s treated is people saying “Why doesn’t Joker/Haru give him money when he’s poor?” and the real fact is that he’s not poor (post madarame). He’s just EXTREMELY irresponsible with his spending and spends it all on art," and I was like "idk if that's a misconception really I think a case can be made for both because it doesn't make sense" and then AFTER I wrote it I remebered that I have repository of every Yusuke scene uploaded into my brain and was like "wait if you call Yusuke poor in PQ2 during the Akihiko/Shinjiro/Yusuke quest he'll agree" and then there's also the scene in Tactica where Marie calls him dirt poor and he doesn't disagree with the poor part, just that she insulted dirt

So like my point still stands but I'd ESPECIALLY not call it a misconception to say he's poor when canon material supports it.

[letsatomicbanana]

Ink!Sans Cultural Character Coding (OUTDATED)

art by @/sakuramochi64 on twitter

Disclaimer!

This post is meant to present and analyse obvious and obscure East Asian (Jpn-Chi) ethnic and cultural influences on Ink!Sans character. If any of the material in this essay is incorrect and/or considered morally offensive, please contact me!

Ink!Sans by @comyet

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/Despite the fact that Ink is a non-human monster skeleton character, he is often portrayed with human-like traits and characteristics that range between a bunch of topics. One of them that's portrayed as very predominat to his character is his etchnic cultural background/inspiration. Again, this post is meant to analyse and to discuss such inspirations and how it affects his character./

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INSPIRATIONS

According to Ink's creator, Comyet, the concept of Ink!Sans was conceived by a Japanese and Chinese ink calligraphy brush. These are known as Fude brushes (筆) and Xuan brushes (宣笔 Xuān bǐ) respectively. This ultimately inspired his ink abilities and powers, just like his concept of being an 'artist' (In simple words, it inspired Ink as a whole).

'The history of ink brushes and the ink material is a long and complicated journey to cover, but it's important to know that these were invented in ancient China around 300 B.C (traditional Chinese: 毛筆; simplified Chinese: 毛笔; pinyin: máo bǐ) and are used in a vast variety of East and Southeast Asian countries, like Korea; Vietnam and Japan.

example of the brush Ink!Sans was inspired by.

At glance, ink (the material) is an enduring medium that still surrounds society till this day and it's used in multiple cultures across the world.

Writing with ink calligraphy brushes are common in the Europe and the Middle East as well, but the material was crafted of iron salt and oak galls. When written, ink is often a dark color but fades to brown tones of rust'. Such phenomenon was detectable in the Middle Eastern Bible manuscripts and even ancient European literature as an example.

Ink!Sans was based of the ink material created in East Asia, most commonly made with carbon-base black substance, which preserverd the dark coloration even after hundred of years.

↑ Example of an ancient Japanese painting, such arts are called 'Sumi-e' (Japanese, 墨絵) or ' Shuimohua' (traditional Chinese,水墨畫).

Unlike iron gall ink, carbon based inks are still very common to this day.

'Throughout the long history of East Asia, writing with ink was a very important ability to have. The Materials were made with precision, long traditions of training in calligraphic skills were developed, and writing and literacy were often wrapped up in questions of social status and class.

Although the development of major Chinese calligraphic scripts was completed by the fourth century, the art of calligraphy continued to evolve over the millennia. Master calligraphers with years of training and dedicated practice were recognized for their personal styles, and later generations of artists often adapted brushstrokes and designs to their own style. This stylistic evolution of scripts continues to enliven Chinese calligraphy to the present day.

Calligraphy was an important mark of personal learning and aesthetic sensibility in Japan. Portable, lacquered wood boxes were designed to hold an inkstone and water dropper in the base, with trays to hold writing brushes and solid ink sticks. Inkstone boxes (硯箱,suzuribako 'ink stone box' ) could be easily carried to a pleasant location, even outdoors in fine weather, to write correspondence, diary entries, or poetry.'

Fun fact: Ink's font 'Note This' is inspired by such ancient writing.

Example of Ink's canon speaking font and Japanese calligraphy (書道, calligraphy)

'However, when it comes to the subject of painting with the material, different schools of painting existed in China, the scholar-painters of Song-dynasty China generally preferred ink-based paintings over the more colorful, pigment-filled paintings produced historically and at the painting academy. Chinese painting manuals and commentaries from the Song (Sung) and Yuan dynasties (rarely mention pigments, possibly because it was assumed a painter’s skill shouldn’t depend on the use of colors.

Japanese artists are known for using media appropriate for the subject matter. Images depicting traditional Japanese narrative tales were typically rendered in opaque colors with outlines created in ink and later obscured by color overlay. Ink monochrome was closely associated with Chinese styles, particularly those transported to Japan via Zen Buddhism. Ink-based forms created with modulated strokes and layered washes suggested introspection and spiritual exploration.'

Ancient Japanese paintings that uses dull colors and ink outlines.

Exhaustive examples of ancient Ink paintings. Dragons and Clouds 雲龍図屏風 （左隻）and Seitei kachō gafu 省亭花鳥画譜

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DESIGN

Also clarified in an ask on her main blog, Comyet describes that traditional Japanese clothing inspired Ink's 2020 outift redesing, such inspirations are very obvious in first and second analysis.

Ink!sans reference sheets for the 2020 design, which can be found in Ink's official F.A.Q

Starting off, the pants.

Ink's pants were inspired by Hakama pants (袴), a traditional Japanese garment designed as a skirt-like pants often worn over any type of kimono. His pants seems to be inspired by umanori (馬乗り)Hakamas, whose had a division in the middle and often used in horse-riding activities.

Example of a Hakama.

The Hakama is a wide pleated pants (seven pleats, five in front and two behind), with a rigid backrest (腰 板,koshi ita) placed at the level of the lumbar region. It is tightened with four straps, on the left and on the right, as well in front as behind.

Historically, the origins of the Hakama dates back to the Sui and Tan dynasty were this garment was worn by the Chinese imperial court. Later, the Hakama exported itself to Japan during the Kamakura period (1185 to 1332) and became a traditional garment for the upper classes of Japanese society as well as for samurai warriors who wore it over a kimono (Hakama-shita).

During the history of Japan, the Hakama took on different styles and was mainly made for men, although in the beginning it was a unisex garment. During the Asuka and Nara era (6th to 8th century), the Hakama came in two versions. The first one was open on the front and was tied on each side of the waist with two straps. The second one was open on the left side and closed on one side only.

During the Edo period, the Hakama was worn by the nobles as a complement to the outfits of the time such as the noshi and the kariginu (狩衣; a sleeveless jacket with very pronounced shoulders). Very functional, these pants were also adopted by samurai warriors who usually wore them as Kamishimo (上下/裃). It is a combination of kimono, Hakama and kataginu. When the warrior visited the shōgun, he wore a Hakama called naga-bakama which greatly restricted his movements.

Edit:Currently, hakamas are both worn by men and women.

However, under the scarft, Ink also seems to use a jacket that features a collar that has striking similarities to a Mandarin collar (or Mao collar)

Ink!sans reference sheets for the 2020 design, which can be found in Ink's official F.A.Q

Mandarin collars originated in ancient China and were worn  by Qing-era bureaucrats.

Picture of a Chinese man in a traditional Mandarin collar (early 1900's)

These are short, stand-up collars and sometimes fasten in the center with a small hook. Such collars are still used today for both fashionable and practical reasons. One example of modern usaged of the clothing is seen in the U.S Amry combat uniform, that features a stand-up collar of Chinese origin.

Picture of the U.S Army combat clothing

Regarding of color palette, Ink!Sans redesign uses soft but dull colors and a sinple silhouette and fabric for the outift, such design choises are similar to male kimono's dressing codes which uses dull colors (like dark blue, grey, green and occasionaly brown). Male kimonos are always more simple in design compared to female kimonos.

Photo that shows the difference of kimonos used by men and women

Although not specified, Ink seems to wear brown thigh-high socks, also known as 'tights' under the outfit. Japan has a long-standing cultural tradition of wearing such piece of clothing, this trend is particularly popular among young people and is often associated with the "gyaru" subculture, which emphasizes fashion, beauty, and individuality. Additionally, thigh-high socks are often worn with school uniforms, and are considered a symbol of youth and innocence. Additionally, it is also considered fashionable and trendy in Japan, and you can see many young people wearing them.

In regards of physical appearance, Ink also seems to follow ancient Japanese and Chinese beauty standarts, specially one's targeted towards women.

In ancient japan, specially towards the Nara (奈良時代, Nara jidai), Heian (平安時代, Heian jidai) and Edo period (江戸時代, Edo jidai) the beauty standarts for Japanese women were of those with slim eyebrowns, flat oval face shape and narrowed eyes.

Such attributes can be observed on Ink!Sans apperance.

Visual representation of old Japanese beauty standarts

/Keep in mind that some of such standarts presented are now out of fashion due to the westernization of asian countries. Specially regarding eye shape/

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MUSICAL THEMES

Ink!Sans has a long history of being associated with East Asian music, specially those of Japanese origin.

Themes that comyet associated with him includes, 'Code Wu- Asia River Album 江水/Asia River' ( post can be found here), 'Dullahan under the willows' and 'Futatsuiwa from Sado (二ツ岩で佐渡) both from the japanese game 'Touhou'. (post can also be found here.

He's also associated with East Asian musical instruments, something quite noticeable in Ink!Sans theme for the the web-series 'Underverse'. Such theme is called 'Brushwork'.

The theme starts with an instrument similar to a Shamisen (Japanese-三味線) and a Guzhen (Chinese-古筝) and also uses a traditional flute.

Photo of a Guzhen and a Shamisen, respectively

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TRIVIA

On Underverse's opening for season 2, Ink!Sans can be seem between a field of Sakura trees or Cherry Blossoms (桜).

Cherry blossom trees are an icon of Japan. Some people even call the cherry blossom Japan’s informal national flower. The Japanese school year starts in April, during cherry blossom season. The flowers symbolize good luck, love, and springtime. Since they bloom for such a short time, cherry blossom trees also represent human mortality. They remind us how short and precious life is.

In the same series, Ink is also drawn in a Sumi-e inspired style for the 'Soulless Heart Instrumental' video. Such artwork features Japanese writing in black ink.

Ink's canon instrument is the flute. Although invented in ancient germany, the flute is highly associated with East Asian cultures and it's music, chinese and japanese culture are the main ones . Other than that, Comyet already made a connection to Ink's asian influence and the instrument itself.

According to research made by the University Microfilms International (UMI) affirms that the moderny performance and melody of the instruments has clear East Asian roots, mainly from Chinese and Japanese style of music.

'The flute is a particularly appropriate instrument for such a

study because of its versatility of pitch and timbre, the latter being

one of the most important elements in Eastern music; it is capable of

'pitch-bending' and infinite changes in tone quality which are impossible

to achieve on instruments of set pitch.

The flute music selected for stud/ shows varying degrees of Eastern

influence. Depending on the nature of the composition, the Eastern

elements may be extremely subtle and difficult for the untrained to

decipher; in other instances the composer makes clear those sounds or

concepts with Eastern roots, either through accompanying explanation or

within the context of the music.'

Sources

1.National Museum of asian art (materials & techniques. Ink section)

2. Asian Brushpaper (an-overview-of-chinese-ink-history)

3. Wikipedia (wiki Hakama-pants)

4. Aikido Journal (Hakama-101)

5. Wikipedia (Mandarin-collar)

6. Kirrin finch (What-is-a-mandarin-collar)

7. University Microfilms International (UMI) (east-asian-presence-in-modern-flute-music)

[v1bestillax]

House Of Cards

Mafia!Mammon X reader

Writer note;HEYYY,Hope yall like it<3! Support my fanfics(if I will post others) by reblogging or liking this🖤

Listen to this when reading,probably may spice up the fanfic

"Out Of all individuals, you fetched the incorrect one!" Mammon yelled at one of his men, nipping the bridge of his nose as he inhaled deeply and let his arms fall to his sides.

The air in the dark basement was thick with tension, the silence except for Mammon's biting tone punctuated only by the soft sound of dripping water from somewhere in the ceiling. His men were rigid, their eyes downcast, not venturing to meet his gaze.

Mammon sighed loudly, frustration etched in the manner in which his shoulders had slumped. He turned around, his eyes shining bright as they locked onto the metal-barred cell at the rear of the room.

“Fine."

His voice was apathetic, unenthusiastic.

"Who are you even, anyway?"

You pressed yourself into the chilly wall, arms crossed, a defiant scowl meeting his. The dancing light above sent serrated shadows across the room, making him look even more dangerous than he already was.

"Perhaps the one who's going to make your life a living hell," you retorted, raising your chin.

Mammon chuckled dryly, walking towards the cell. His tailored black suit hugged him like a second skin, the pricey material doing nothing to deflect the deadly aura that clung to him.

"Big words from a person chained in a cage.” He sneered and cocked his head.

"Big mistake for a guy who kidnapped the wrong person," you exclaimed, clinging to the cold bars. “Let me out, and I won't destroy your whole operation."

Mammon's smile widened, a dark and impenetrable glint appearing in his eyes. He moved closer, near enough for you to notice the faint scar that arced along his jaw.

“You've got fire, I'll give ya that” His voice was nearly on the verge of amusement, and underneath, there was something else—something which twisted your gut in expectation.

You did not know much about the man standing before you, but one thing you were certain of. This was the beginning of something perilous. And maybe… you were not so eager to escape after all.

“Tch. You have a serious attitude problem, huh?" he snarled, but with no real bite in his tone. He stepped back, a hand running through his white-blond locks, frustration giving way to something else—interest.

You leaned back against the cot in the corner of the cell, leg crossing over the other. "Sorry, I wasn't really expecting to get kidnapped today." Sarcasm oozed from your tone, and for a split second, you could have sworn that you saw the shadow of a smirk tug at his lips.

Mammon took a sharp breath, his head shaking. "Y'know, for someone who ain't supposed to be here, ya sure talk a lot."

"For a guy who's alleged to be some big, bad mafia boss, you certainly do make a whole lotta mistakes."* You retorted, cocking your head to the side.

That got his attention. His eyes grew darker, but not in anger. No, this was something else altogether. Interest. Perhaps even amusement.

For the first time since you woke up in this awful basement, he did not return fire right away. Rather, he examined you, arms folded across his chest as he drummed a finger on his forearm.

"Heh."

He let out a chuckle and spun around on his heel.

"You're a real pain, y'know that?"

"And yet, here you still are."

His step hesitated for just a moment.

That was the first sign.

The second was the following day when, instead of having his men deal with you, Mammon himself delivered food to you. Not the bread and stale water you had been given that first night. No, this time it was hot.GOD DAMN.

"Don't read too much into it," he snarled, pushing the plate through the bars."I just don't want ya dyin' on me before I decide what the hell I'm gonna do with ya."

Yet the manner in which his eyes stayed on you, a beat too long, spoke another story.

The third sign was even more telling.

You were pacing in your cell, running a hand through your hair, mind cooking up methods of getting out of this situation. That's when Mammon came back in, looking at you like he was seeing something new—something unexpected.

"You're different," he muttered..

You blinked, your eyes completely turned to him. "Gee, thanks. That means a lot coming from the guy who kidnapped me."

"That mouth of yours is gonna get ya in trouble," he said to you, but the edge you recognized in his voice was more obtuse now, as though he wasn't quite sure if he was warning you… or himself.

And then—sign number four.

There was a battle in the second-floor warehouse. You heard the shouting, the gunfire. Mammon had fled, shouting orders at his men. When he returned, battered and furious, you figured he would brush you aside. To blow past as if you didn't exist.

He stopped in front of your cell instead, knuckles still swollen, shoulders tense.

“You alright?” These words escaped before he could prevent them.

You stared at him. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

Mammon sneered, shaking his head. "Ya really are somethin' else, huh?" But the manner in which his fingers drummed against his leg, the manner in which he paused a second longer before moving off— That was the biggest sign of all. Mammon had started to care. And for the two of you, that was dangerous.

The shift was subtle at first—stolen glances, lingering touches when he passed you food, the way his gaze darkened when you challenged him. You had seen the signs. You knew something was coming.

But nothing could have prepared you for this.

It happened fast. One minute, you were in that damn cell, taunting him like always, pushing at his patience just to see how far he’d bend before breaking. The next—Mammon was unlocking the door, grabbing your wrist, and yanking you out.

“Shut up and come with me," he muttered, his grip firm but not painful.

"No ‘please’?" you teased, but your heart hammered against your ribs. Something was different tonight.

Mammon didn’t answer. He pulled you through the darkened hallways of the warehouse, past his men, past the offices, past everything. Until you were outside, where the city lights flickered against the wet pavement, neon reflecting off puddles from an earlier rain. The air was thick with tension, with something electric.

He didn’t stop until you were in a secluded alley, where the world was muffled and small, where only the two of you existed.

Finally, he turned to face you.

His eyes burned into yours, intense, unreadable. His chest rose and fell, the muscles in his jaw tightening as if he were holding something back.

"Do you ever shut up?" he murmured, voice lower, rougher.

"Make me."

You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was him. Maybe it didn’t matter.

All you knew was that the moment Mammon’s lips crashed against yours, the world tilted. (DANGGGG)

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was raw, consuming—like he had been holding himself back for too long and had finally snapped. One hand gripped your waist, fingers digging in as if he was afraid you’d disappear. The other tangled in your hair, tilting your head just the way he wanted, deepening the kiss until you had no choice but to melt into him.

Your back hit the cold brick wall, but the heat between you made you barely feel it. He kissed you like he needed it, like this wasn’t just a want but something more dangerous—something desperate.

You gasped against his lips, and he used the moment to slip his tongue past your parted lips, taking, devouring. A low growl vibrated in his chest when you tugged at his jacket, pulling him closer, eliminating what little space was left between you.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against yours, breath ragged, his eyes blown wide.

“You’re gonna be the death of me," he murmured, thumb tracing your jaw.

You smirked, despite the way your own breath came uneven. “Then I hope you’re ready to go out with a bang."

Mammon let out a rough chuckle, pressing another quick, bruising kiss to your lips before pulling away completely.

“Tch,Trouble”

But he didn’t let go of you.

And you knew, in that moment, you were already his.

[supermeiko]

First: This post is the premise.↑

Note: This review was not made with the intention of "judging skin color." On the contrary, it was made to point out the double standard that you non-Asian people "judge Asian skin color," but "in reality, you guys are getting the skin color wrong." Personally, I think people should be free to even change their skin color. I made this because I hate people like you who enforce a lack of tolerance.

Verification: Materials were copied and pasted to make everything the same. Area lights were used so that there would be no difference in lighting. Shang Tsung was used as the base, and everything except the skin was temporary or reused. What was surprising was that in yellow tones, Shang Tsung was the brightest in his class. This means that it is not wrong to draw Shang Tsung in lighter colors. In red tones, Sub-Zero is bright, but Scorpion is also surprisingly pale. Below are my own speculations

Among them, Johnny is the only one who is white, and because he is white, his coloring reflects his complexion, but if you look at the color of his face alone, you wonder if there is a difference between him and Kenshi. In terms of simple whiteness, Sub-Zero is by far the whitest.

The color around Kenshi's collarbone is slightly redder, and I feel like we should get rid of the jinx that white people = whiteness.

No matter how much I review Kenshi's materials, the results always seem to have some kind of error, why?

I thought Smoke was a bit high-toned even in the game screen, but surprisingly, Subsco ends up looking paler than him. I think the reason Smoke looks high-toned is because the light in photo mode is also yellowish.

So when drawing these three, it's correct to use the same tones and make Smoke yellower.

Scorpion is a little redder and darker than Smoke, but it's wrong to make him a clear black and white contrast with Smoke. So, artists like that should be blackwashed! (But don't forget that Scorpion has Japanese roots and gets sunburned easily. He looks like he'll get sunburned.)

As for the problem with Raiden, he ends up being a darker tone than Liu Kang, so it's not wrong to point out that he shouldn't be colored with lighter skin.

However, that Westerner "draws Havik with normal skin tone," so if the face alone is about the same tone, Raiden should be drawn with the same skin tone as Havik.

By the way, please draw Scorpion with lighter skin♥

I think Takeda's skin is dark because, as a personal preference, he is half Thai. On the other hand, I think Kung Lao's skin is too yellow, not dark, because NRS made him too yellow because of a lack of Asians, so I've decided that Kung Lao is an Asian stereotype created by white people and black people.

I've said before that Liu Kang's tone is light, but in reality, he's only a few tones different from Kitana. (I thought the complexion was better on screen, too, but Liu Kang's is better.)

Basically, women's tones are higher than men's, even if they are the same race, but Kitana's tone is a little more beige than Shang Tsung's.

As it turns out, this assertion is incorrect, since Shang Tsung is lighter skinned than Johnny.

No matter what you guys say, Japanese people tend to draw better by putting basic bright colors first, so if you follow that rule and adjust the contrast, you can put colors like this. Use it as a color chart! I'll add character comparisons with my critiques if requested.

[superkooku]

Dionysus' iceberg

This post is what remains of an initially very long rant idea. That means there will probably be a part 2 😏.

Here's the reason for my title :

In theory, you can stop there since my meme pretty much summarizes my complaints. But since I like ranting, I'll continue 😈

The tip of the iceberg

When you think "Dionysus", which words come in mind first ?

Probably "wine", "party", "alcohol" "fun god".

These words are what most people remember about Dionysus. And yes, I'm not going to deny, they fit.

Unfortunately, my problem comes with the fact that 9.5 times out of 10, Dionysus' personality will exclusively revolve around these aspects.

Since the issue is about modern adaptations and perceptions, I'll use a modern term.

I'm sure most of you are familiar with flanderization, right ? If not, the link to TV Tropes' article on the subject is available.

Many adaptations fell into that trap for, I think, every single Olympian.

Hades, god of the dead, lord of the Underworld = Satan, evil death god, darkness and sorrow

Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty = Superficial bimbo who only cares about her pretty face

Zeus, king of the gods, lord of the sky and thunder = 100% pure God OR more recently : evil king god who constantly abuses women.

The gods are stripped of their complexity to fit simpler and more "digestible" characterizations. It doesn't help that the cultural context surrounding them is also taken away...

But this is about grape boi, right? Well, Dionysus is no exception to that rule. In fact, he might be one of the worst cases.

So far, he was never really portrayed in an "insulting" light, like Apollo in Lore Olympus or Hades in the Percy Jackson movie. Fortunately.

But, from all the popular adaptations I've seen, none of them manage to portray Dionysus ! None ! Does that make them automatically bad ? No, of course. It's just something I noticed.

God of war ? Doesn't appear, only mentioned

Disney ? Don't even try 🤣. Just a drunk goofball. Yes, that includes the fantasia segment and Hercules.

Lore Olympus? Well, he's a baby for 99.99999% of the time, so it doesn't count. But he's still a quiet little Gucci bag for Persephone.

Hades I ? Just a nice guy. But hey ! He can give us useful boons ! And I like his sass.

Maybe he'll do more in Hades II. They're usually more accurate than most, right ? Though that's not a very high bar. And they know about Zagreus ! Surely that's a good sign, right ?

Nevermind...

Here's what all these adaptations tell us :

Dionysus is the god of wine, feasts and parties

He's an Olympian

He likes to get drunk and party 🥳

And that's it.

Again, I'm not blaming anyone, but if the myths stopped with those three points, wouldn't everyone wonder why he's even an Olympian ? I sure did when I was a kid.

We have the god of thunder, the goddess of wisdom and war strategy, god of music/arts/medicine/100 other things, the god of the oceans ! Many cool gods !

And some drunk dude. He's not given any particular power, except the power to stay super passive no matter the stakes ! If the story revolves about epic godly fights (which is often the case), he's absolutely useless.

Heck, Hades II even actively depicts him as a pacifist who can't handle war. While he's not physically a weakling, he sure psychologically is.

Why is this a problem ?

I am not going to beat around the bush: this gives us a very incomplete and incorrect perception of the god.

Even the things that aren't forgotten about him (like his link to wine) aren't explored.

The thing with Hades II (that's the last time I'll mention it) is that it tries to deepen the flanderized version of Dionysus. He's not stupid, but afraid. He drinks to forget his issues.

While this characterization can be very interesting taken separately, we must remember that this isn't an OC, but an interpretation of a cultural figure.

It must be accurate ! While I can accept some liberties, I think that those should mostly be an extension of the original material, not a total deviation.

Dionysus isn't a scared little boi or a stupid drunkard you can manipulate. In fact, that's quite the opposite. And he's not afraid to get his hands dirty.

(even if the "dirt" in question is the blood of his enemies).

Under the surface

Though it's rather "stuff you can find on Wikipedia". Or by reading the myths.

More about it in part 2 of the rant...

It'll be about theater, madness, travels, link between mortality and immortality and... pirates turning into dolphins.

The actual interesting stuff about Dionysus.

Edits :

1. Thanks to @st4riel-the-w1tchling for clarifying the situation about Percy Jackson. I made my own research about BoZ. My opinion is basically still the same. Again, nothing terribly offensive, but nothing that interesting for Dionysus either.

2. I made part 2 a while ago, might as well add it here :

[ossidae-passeridae]

I'd be fascinated to hear more about gnosticism in tlt if you ever feel like writing about it.

I honestly don't know what's already been written r.e. gnosticism and TLT, so might be reinventing the wheel here, but I'll do a brief description of the overarching themes present throughout the books?

The uh, first layer of the gnosticism onion, as it were.

So to start this off I'm going to give a broad and at least partially incorrect overview of gnosticism:

Gnosticism is a tenth century mess that's loosely based off of Christianity, but then gets Weird. Thanks to some fun political situations in the Gulf, the Christians in the South were isolated from other Christians for decades thus spun off wildly from "mainstream" Christianity. We mostly have fragments left, and a lot of them contradict each other, so working out exactly what they believed/meant is Very Fun and also Somewhat Impossible. (Like the fragments of documents left in Canaan House, you could say...)

That being said, parts of their beliefs we do know better than others. They have the bible, of course, but on top of that they also have this pre-Bible creation myth regarding how God came to be in the first place.

It goes something like: In The Beginning there was a sort of primordial god-soup. This god-soup occasionally emits binary pairs of entities, also known as aeons and (later) twin flames. These binary pairs are two souls made for one another and with one another, and together they are balanced, and perfect, and full of Holy Light(tm). Each binary pair had one grammatically-masculine name, and one grammatically-feminine name. These names do not necessarily relate to perceived gender, and in fact the binary pairs are often referred to as if they are Beyond Gender Altogether. (*stares pointedly at the Lyctors*, *stares even more pointedly at Gideon's name*) [I could probably write a whole thing on this alone, honestly, they're sometimes referred to as like, the fingers on God's hand which, yeah.]

Anyway, in this pure and godly space, there is no matter, only Holy Light. But one of the entities, known as Sophia, goes off on her own and interacts with the shadowy chaos that exists outside of the godly soup. She's half of a whole, unbalanced. And through her meddling she (unintentionally) creates another half that's not pure and holy and full of godly light, but instead a dark reflection of what he Should Be. This is generally referred to as the Demiurge.

Unlike all these other beings, the Demiurge is made of matter. He is the first thing of matter to exist and he looks around the void that he's birthed into, bare aside from him, and concludes that he and he alone is God. (Hi Jod)

Then he makes earth, and heaven, and a bunch of other things besides, the things we know as the universe today. In the immortal words of Douglass Adams — this has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move.

The problem is — all of these things that the Demiurge has created are made of matter. And being made of matter, they're cut off from the light of Godness (which is incorporeal and made of Pure Energy), thus inherently flawed. What's more, they're never meant to have existed in the first place. The Demiurge is tormented by his failure, but unable to create anything that is not inherently Wrong. (oh look it's the Nine Houses, I'd bet money that there's a link between being cut off from Godly Light and the Nine Houses being the only stable thanergenic planets here)

Sophia, who has watched these unintended consequences unfold and the suffering they've caused, cannot undo what's been done, but she can descend into the material world to share the light of wisdom and try to alleviate what suffering she can. So she does.

The story culminates with Christ being born and teaching all of humanity Gnosis — a special, mystical knowledge that can only come from the Divine, we are not really given specifics here — before he's sacrificed in order to make humanity's ascent beyond their material prison possible.

So that's the broad strokes of gnosticism as a religion, and also first layer of the TLT gnosticism onion. Just the really broad spectrum thematic *waves hands around* Stuff. I've refrained from speculating on the end because until Alecto comes out we really don't know.

If you want anything more specific anon, let me know?? I've been in the gnosticism soup for so long I can't always tell what's common knowledge and what isn't.

[ferigrievous]

what the earth could not bury.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ a wolf, a sanctuary, and the quiet that holds them both..

a.n. graphic depiction of injury, injury recovery, sutures (incorrect sutures) and everything else . not for the squemish and not for me

⤷ masterlist ; requests open ; 6.3k

the morning whispered, soft as breath, the sky painted in aching hues of lavender and gray. clouds hung low over the mountain, their bellies full, the scent of rain lingering just out of reach. the cottage stood small and forgotten, its wooden bones tucked beneath ivy and the creeping embrace of moss, as though the earth itself had begun to reclaim it. inside, shadows stretched thin beneath the early light, spilling across weathered floors where books lay half-open and herbs dangled, brittle and dry from their hooks.

outside, the air clung damp against your skin, cool despite summer’s promise. the watering can felt heavier than it should have, but you welcomed the weight, the ache that made your arms burn with something solid, something real. droplets sang against the soil, the rhythm steady, comforting. green tendrils reached toward you, leaves trembling beneath the touch of water, as though the earth itself leaned closer in quiet gratitude.

you moved barefoot through the garden, watering can heavy in your hand, the rhythm of water a hymn against the soil. and then—there, a rupture in the stillness.

a body.

you dropped the watering can. the sound barely registered, drowned out by the harsh, ragged breath you didn’t know you were holding. he lay crumpled, twisted awkwardly on his side, blood seeping from gashes torn deep across his chest, his arms. violet bruises bloomed against skin pale as frost, the kind of bruises that didn’t come from accidents but from violence, raw and merciless.

he was sprawled among the tender green, staining it red. pale skin mottled with violet blooms of pain, blood crusted at his lips, his chest barely stirring.

a storm, broken.

and yet, you knelt.

the man’s lashes trembled, fluttering against his cheek. a soft sound, barely a whimper, a protest against pain. something tight and anxious coiled inside your chest, threatening to spill over. 

carefully, you reached out. fingers trembling as you reached for his head, carefully cradling it in your hands as if he were a newborn fawn.  a small, shaky breath caught in your throat, eyes tracing the violent streaks across his chest, the gashes that wept red into the soil. you forced your voice soft, not allowing the fear that convoluted cold and sharp in your belly to show. 

“can you… hear me?” you murmured.

his head lolled, heavy in your hands, as you pressed slender fingers through his tangled hair. the strands were damp and matted, the faint scent of blood and sweat clinging to his skin. 

the man stirred again, a faint shudder. the shadows beneath his eyes looked almost like bruises, dark as the forest cast across his face, sweat-damp hair sticking to his brow. a small, soft sound, and then his eyes slowly opened, half-lidded, uncomprehending. 

for a long, horrible moment, he didn’t move. and then - a flutter of the lashes, the sharp intake of breath through parted lips. he jerked, eyes widening slightly, one hand coming up to curl around your wrist, grip weak and trembling.

his breath came sharp and wheezing. pale, slender fingers trembled against your wrist, thin and delicate despite the obvious power in each sinew, each bone. but his eyes were soft, as if the gods themselve hid inside them, hazy with pain. he looked half dead, a pale, porcelain doll in your arms. a broken and bloodied thing.

you wouldn't lie and say you weren't scared. there was a man you’ve never seen in your life, collapsed in your garden. he was massive, nearly six feet tall, with broad muscles and stark white hair. his top was torn in places, and as much as you tried to ignore it, you couldn't help but notice the pure muscle that strained against the thin material. you were sure that he could be able to snap your wrist in half without breaking a sweat.

he tried to speak, the sound broken and weak. his hand tightened on your wrist, shaking as he attempted to speak again, voice rasping - “water.” 

at first you didn’t react, frozen, eyes on the way his chest seized when he spoke, the way his grip trembled, fingers wrapped taut around your wrist. you forced yourself to move, gaze flickering over the watering can lying beside you, discarded.

without thinking, you grabbed it, pressing the cool metal to his lips.

he drank, throat bobbing as he swallowed, the sound harsh in the quiet. he drank as though he couldn’t get close enough, water trickling down his chin and throat, staining his top darker. you held his head up as for him not to choke, and when his eyes held yours, you felt, suddenly, a wave of fear wash over you. they were pale as frost, inhumanly cold, and it made your pulse quicken.

when the watering can was empty, you set it aside. he’d slumped back slightly, head lolling to the side in your grasp once more, gaze fixed on you. something twisted in your chest at the look in his eyes, the way they searched yours, as though looking for something.

you shifted, moving closer without thinking. his fingers hadn’t let go of your wrist, hand still curled tightly around it as if he were afraid you would disappear as soon as he let go. you knelt there, torn between the urge to pull away and the need to stay, to soothe the strange, trembling tension you could almost feel beneath his skin. 

slowly, he spoke, his words slightly slurred as though he was struggling to form them. “where..” he started, voice rasping with pain. “where–? ” his eyes slid over your face, unfocused, confused. he tried to sit up and you tensed, instinctual, one hand reaching out, pressing him back down onto the barren earth. you were sure he had a concussion, at the bare minimum, if not multiple broken bones and open wounds.

“don’t move,” you murmured. “you– stop– you’re hurt–!”

surprise flickered across his face at your touch. his gaze fell to where your hand pressed against his shoulder, keeping him still. for a moment, he just looked at your fingers, then at your face. his eyebrows furrowed slightly, the shadows under his eyes darkening.

a breath shivered through him, a shudder that wracked his entire body as though he were cold, even in the warm summer air. he closed his eyes, eyelashes shuddering against pale cheek. a low, pained sound escaped him, a whimper that seemed unlike him.

“just…” you faltered, easing up to sit on your haunches. “stay– stay still, okay?” you felt as if you were trying to calm a wild animal, a wild animal that could tear you into shreds in the blink of an eye.

god, you couldn’t leave him there.

something sick twisted in your gut at the thought of leaving him there, lying shattered and trembling on the ground, his lifeblood pooling in the soil. you bit your cheek, hesitating for a moment before speaking. 

the thought struck hard, a knot of dread curling in your stomach as you stared down at him—pale, bloodied, so heavy with pain he looked more corpse than man. but his chest still rose, shuddering. the hand on your wrist quivered, fingers trembling through the fabric of your shirt. his gaze dropped, falling to the dark red staining his fingers. some of it stained your sleeve as well, the stark color a brutal contrast to the pale skin of his hand.

he was too heavy. every attempt to lift him left you breathless, arms shaking beneath his dead weight. he was built from sinew and muscle, all coiled strength despite the ruin carved into his skin. so you did what you could—kneeling lower, slipping your arms beneath his, dragging him inch by inch through the damp grass, crops you’ve spent months growing being pulled out from underneath him.

blood smeared the earth beneath him, a vivid scarlet trail painting the garden. it clung to your hands too, warm, sticky, seeping into the creases of your skin. you hated how small you felt beneath him, how he could break you in half if he wanted. and yet, he stayed limp in your arms, head lolling back, eyes closed as if he’d already surrendered to the pain.

the door shut behind you with a click! the scent of rain-damp earth lingering in the air as you half-dragged him across the worn wooden floor. the blood clung to your hands, your clothes—warm and sticky, staining the fabric as you struggled to bear his weight.

with a small gasp of breath, you managed to stagger over to the sofa. the legs of the old, ragged couch groaned in protest as you pushed him down, half-laying, half-sitting against the threadbare cushions. 

he exhaled, the sound shuddering and pained, his body a tangle of limbs and torn cotton. you stood for a moment, breathing hard, blood still covering your arms, the front of your shirt. you didnt dare look down at your hands.

the couch was small, too small, but it was all you had. you yanked the old quilt from the backrest, spreading it out beneath him, desperate to keep the blood from seeping into the cushions. it was patchwork—hand-stitched, fraying at the edges, pale blue and cream now soaked red where his body sank into it. you didnt want to think about getting the stains out.

your fingers trembled, fumbling with the fabric, struggling to keep it from slipping. the quilt felt too small, too thin, completely and utterly useless. it bunched up under his body, thin lines of blood immediately staining the pale fabric a dark, wet crimson. 

you kneeled next to him, trying to gather your wits. his eyes were closed, lips still parted, and for an instant, you thought he’d passed out. the breath shuddered through him again, so faint you would’ve missed it altogether if not for the rise and fall of his chest.

he sprawled there, too large for the space. broad shoulders pressing into the worn fabric, legs too long, tai chi slippers dangling over the armrest. he looked... wrong. so out of place among the softness of your quiet home, all muscle and ruin, violence stripped bare beneath bloodied skin.

you studied him, your gaze tracing over the torn shreds of his shirt, the tangled mess of white hair splayed against the faded couch. violet bruises bloomed across his cheek, the lines of an old scar crossing his jaw. 

the man’s hair scattered across the couch, stark white against the pale blue of the quilt. he was pale and slender beneath the torn clothes that clung to him, skin marked with dark, mottled bruises. his hands were slender, knuckles slightly bloody, as though he had been using them to crawl through the underbrush.

his chest heaved in shallow, uneven bursts. breath catching like something broken, raw and wet with each exhale. sweat beaded along his temple, tangled white hair plastered to his pale skin, lips parting on a sound too faint to be a word. you knelt beside him, hands hovering, useless, uncertain where to touch.

god, what do i do?

you didn’t know how to fix this—this ruin of flesh and blood spilling so freely, the tremble in his limbs like his body was fighting itself, every muscle taut and twitching in pain. the smell of iron hung thick in the air, clinging to everything.

you were shaking a bit, skin sticky with blood and sweat. the thought of leaving him alone - even for a second - made your stomach twist, but the need to get something - anything - to help him was too strong to ignore. 

the house was small, just a single-room cottage, the small kitchen separated from the living area by a counter. the pantry held what limited medical supplies you had - most just supplies to take care of small cuts and scrapes. nothing that could have helped you in a situation like this. the closest hospital was miles away, all the way down the mountain. you could barely drag him a few feet to your couch, much less down such a steep incline.

forcing yourself to move, you stood up. not thinking, just acting— quickly grabbing the damp cloth from where it hung near the kitchen sink. the water was icy cold and you flinched at the temperature, trying not to notice the way your hands trembled. it didn’t take long for the water to grow pink as you slowly soaked the old towels.

your fingers shook as you hurried back to the couch, sinking to your knees beside him. your heart hammered in your chest, the silence broken only by the soft sound of your breath and the thunder of your own blood in your ears. 

his eyes flickered open as you approached, tracking your movements. the pain was still there, a sharp edge in his gaze, but he didn’t protest when you began to slowly, carefully, press the cloth against the wound on his chest.

a sharp, ragged breath tore from his throat, teeth bared in a grimace as his hand jerked, weakly pushing at you, flinching violently away from your touch.

“stop,” his voice—broken, hoarse, more breath than sound. “’m fine…”

“you’re not.” the words left you before you could stop them, trembling. “you’re—” you swallowed hard, the burn of it sharp. “you’re dying.”

his fingers twitched, curling briefly into the fabric of the quilt beneath him. he didn’t answer.

you didn’t have time for his stubbornness.

he hissed out a breath, body tensing as the cloth touched his bare skin. you flinched, instinct urging you to draw back, but you pressed down again, your hand shaking against his wounded chest. 

blood stained the rag, blooming pink and red as you cleaned the deep lacerations, each shallow gash and bruise slowly coming into view. the edges of his shirt were torn, ragged. blood smeared across the fabric, staining it a dark, rust-red.

your hands moved on their own, peeling back what was left of his torn, blood-soaked top, the fabric sticking to the gashes torn into his chest. your teeth sunk into your lip, bile bitter and sharp in your throat. the gashes ran across his chest, staining his pale skin in livid scarlet. more dark purple and green bruises splotched his skin, like the aftermath of a brutal beating. the wounds were ugly—deep, angry, the kind that should’ve killed someone. torn skin, flesh pulled apart like something feral had ripped into him. you had nothing for this. no training, no salves strong enough.

you pressed the cloth against the worst of it anyway.

a shuddering wince, his muscles going rigid as the cold cloth pressed against the bloody cuts. his jaw clenched, eyes screwing shut. for a moment you thought he might scream, cry out, strike you, but he didn’t. he just lay still, tremors shuddering through him, the only sound the pained sound of his breathing. 

the blood was warm, staining your hands, the couch, the air thick with copper. it just kept coming, soaking the towel, dripping onto the quilt, warm and sticky on your fingers as you tried your best to keep the wounds clean. he closed his eyes, jaw clenched tightly shut, and you knew he was trying desperately to hold back any sound of pain. 

he opened his mouth, as if to speak, but nothing came out, the sound strangled on a broken breath. he reached for you, fingers shaking, and you instinctively caught his trembling hand. you wanted to cry, to scream, to throw up. but you couldn't. not while he was still here. so, instead, you pressed a kiss to his knuckles. they were rough, calloused, most likely from years of abuse.

his breath caught in his throat, gaze flickering to where you clutched his hand. his skin was pale, almost grey, the tremors moving through his frame so intense you could feel them through his hand and up your wrist, sending tremors through your own.

he stared at you, confusion mingling with the pain in his eyes, though he didn't try to pull his hand back from your grasp. his fingers were long and slender, cold, trembling in your own.

this man, this monster of a man, in your own home, looked so small for once. skin pale, expression so vulnerable, eyes staring up at you as though he could scarcely believe you were there. it was as if he had never experienced the touch of another in his life. not even from his own mother. 

your breath caught, the reality of the situation crashing down on you, the weight of everything pressing against your chest. he was bleeding, still, despite all your attempts to stop it. the pale skin of his chest and arms still gleamed wet and red, stained with blood and water from the cloth. his breathing was too fast, too shallow, his frame shaking so violently you feared it would break him.

the blood wouldn't stop.

you pressed harder, hands trembling, trying to remember something—anything—about what you were supposed to do in a situation like this. pressure. keep pressure on the wound. that was right, wasn’t it? but how much pressure was too much? could you make it worse? the blood just kept welling up, soaking the cloth, seeping between your fingers, warm and relentless.

his breathing was labored, each ragged exhale leaving his body in a shudder that wracked his entire frame. he was pale, so pale, like the faint light from the nearby window washed out the color in his skin, leaving only a thin layer of ashen grey behind. 

he was shivering, his fingers trembling in your grasp, the tremors from his body passing through his hand and up your own arm. you clutched his fingers all the harder, trying to keep both him and yourself steady.

“please,” you whispered, voice barely audible. please stop bleeding.

the towel was already crimson, useless. you needed something clean. sterile. but your cottage was just that—a cottage. not a hospital, not even a clinic. the closest thing you had was a spool of gauze tucked beneath the sink, half-forgotten, along with an old bottle of antiseptic, unopened but past its date.

“i’m so sorry,” you whispered, grabbing the bottle with blood-slick hands, twisting the cap off with teeth bared in frustration when it stuck. the sharp, chemical scent filled the air as you poured it over the gash. “im so sorry.”

the pain was instinct. wild. his body, all sharp angles and raw wounds, moved before his mind could catch up—an elbow catching your jaw hard enough to send you reeling back.

the force of the blow sent you sprawling, the bottle of iodine clattering to the ground, forgotten. your head spun, vision blurred, pain exploding across your jaw. you stumbled back, landing on your behind, one hand flying to your face as you tried to blink the stars from your eyes.

everything spun, your breath torn from your body, your heartbeat suddenly loud and thunderous in your ears. your cheek ached, your jaw already tender beneath your fingers as you tried to grasp what had just happened. 

the taste of blood bloomed on your tongue, copper bitter and startling. and in front of you you, he shuddered, his body coiling like a wounded beast. breath ragged, pale eyes wide and half-wild, unseeing.

you held out a hand, hesitantly, as though trying to calm something wild. he stilled at the movement, gaze snapping to focus on you. his chest heaved, his expression still so sharp and feral that for a moment, you thought he might strike you again.

dont run. dont startle him.

you forced yourself to stay still, trying not to let fear show on your face. his fingers gripped at the edges of the quilt, knuckles white, and for a moment the air felt thin, charged, as though the slightest movement might set him off.

he was still staring at you, gaze wide and sharp and burning, looking at you as though you were some small, fragile animal, something to be hunted and devoured. and you were, you knew it, felt the weight of it settling as heavily on your chest as the fear in your veins. you were weak, small, fragile. so easily torn apart by something so much stronger than you. no match for this wild, feral thing you’d somehow allowed into your home.

your eyes flicked to the open window, but you dismissed the thought immediately. there was no way you could make it past him. no way you could reach the door. his gaze was tracking your every movement, feral and intense, and some ancient, primal instinct warned you not to try.

“hey,” your voice wavered, soft, careful, speaking as though to calm something with teeth. your hand rose, slow enough not to threaten, trembling as you touched the edge of the quilt beneath him tentatively. “it’s—i’m not going to hurt you. i’m just… just trying to help, okay?”

there was tension in his shoulders, his muscles coiled like a snake preparing to strike. his breath came in fast, shallow pants, the tremors still wracking through his frame so violently you wondered how he was even still conscious.

he said nothing, only watched you with those unnerving, feral eyes, like the predator he was, as though calculating whether you were a threat, a meal, or something else entirely.

you reached for the gauze once more with careful fingers, trying to ignore how your pulse pounded loud in your ears. the drumming had slowed but not enough. your hands trembled as you reached for the gauze, wrapping the last, dry piece around his wound. his skin was cold and slick, the tremors in his frame making the task that much more difficult. despite your best efforts, your fingers still brushed over his skin, his breath hissing through his teeth as you did so. your clumsy attempts had done nothing to stop it. you needed to be better. to think.

he needed stitches. a hospital. a surgeon. things you didn’t have.

what you did have was a sewing kit, too small, too lackluster needle, thread, alcohol. antiseptic, trembling hands.

you didnt know what you were doing.

you tried again, pouring more of the antiseptic over the wound, watching the way his muscles seized, the shudder rippling through his entire body. a hiss escaped his lips, jaw clenched so tight you swore you heard teeth grind.

his head tipped back as the antiseptic ran over his skin, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief, his hands–claws?–tearing your couch apart. the tremors returned, stronger than before, wracking through his entire body as he tried to stifle the instinctive cry of pain. but through it all, he didn’t try to push you away, not even as you applied as much pressure as you dared to the wound itself.

the needle felt foreign in your fingers, the sterile thread too thin, too fragile to hold together something so broken.

the thought coiled, cold and sharp, twisting in your chest as you pressed the gauze down again, knuckles white. you weren’t strong enough. you weren’t trained.

you cursed yourself for your inadequacy. you’d never been good with blood, had never even received any real medical training to speak of. you had no supplies for stitches, no medical expertise. nothing that would help him.

staring at the needle in your trembling hand, you watched as the fine steel caught the low light. you’d stitched a thousand things—soft fabric, delicate patterns of thread woven into the quilt beneath him, tiny blossoms embroidered into the edges of scarves when your hands needed something to do on the quiet winter nights. 

but this wasn't fabric. this was flesh. this was skin, and bone, warm and trembling beneath your fingers. this was a person, a thing that could die under your clumsy, trembling hands. this was a responsibility you’d never had to face before.

you didn’t have a choice.

the needle hovered in your hand, a sliver of cold steel trembling between blood-slick fingers. the liquid didnt go away no matter how much you wiped it on your shirt. it felt heavier than it should, though it was nothing but a tool—an extension of yourself, like it always was. except this wasn't soft cotton or fine silk beneath your touch. this was skin, torn open and bleeding, and you were the only thing standing between him and the quiet, creeping end.

the world seemed to slow then, the moment drawn out into something so still and quiet that the only sound was that of your own breath. the needle trembled in your hand, your heart beating so fast that it almost hurt, your mind screaming for you to run, to flee, to take your life away from this creature that you had stupidly allowed into your home. 

you threaded the needle on the third try, the fine white blooming with pink thread trembling, nearly invisible against the pale stretch of his chest. your hands shook so badly you almost dropped it. the skin around the wound was ragged, edges uneven where flesh had been ripped, the deep split red and glistening under the low light. the antiseptic had slowed the bleeding, but it hadn't stopped.

“i’m so sorry,” you whispered, the words a mantra as you pressed the needle’s tip against the torn skin.

the first puncture was the worst.

the needle sank into his skin with more resistance than you expected—flesh tugging against the intrusion, warm and too real. he jerked, a sharp inhale, the cords of his neck standing out as his fists curled tighter into the quilt, and you flinched at the loud tear of his hands against your couch. blood welled around the needle as you pushed it deeper, your stomach twisting when it finally broke through the other side of the gash with a sickening pop.

the flesh resisted. it wasn’t like fabric at all—tougher, warmer, trembling beneath your touch. you fought the urge to gag, pressing on, forcing the needle through again. the thread looped tight, binding flesh where it had been torn. there was something brutal about it, the needle dipping in and out, blood seeping with every pull.

the thread followed, trembling as you pulled it through, tugging the edges of the wound closer together with a grotesque wet sound. his breath hitched. you could feel the way his body flinched under your touch, every shudder, every strained inhale like the threat of a breaking point. the thread cut pale lines against your fingers as you drew it taut, knotting it with a clumsy, desperate twist of your wrist.

there was too much blood. it coated your hands, sticky and warm, soaking into the quilt you had stitched so carefully months ago.

he made no sound beyond the ragged pant of his breathing, the occasional shudder when the pain must’ve burned too sharp. you kept going, focusing only on the rhythm—pierce, pull, tie. each stitch a prayer. each knot a plea. a hope that you would not be the cause of a death. when the worst of the chest wounds were closed, you moved to his arms, hands still shaking, though steadier now. the cuts there were shallower but still demanded care.

you forced yourself to keep working. the next stitch was just as hard—skin resisting, the needle tearing through layer by layer with awful precision. the thread was already red, slick where it passed through, sticking to your fingers. it was hard to tell what was blood and what was sweat anymore, your pulse roaring so loud you could barely hear his ragged breathing.

you thought of all the things you'd stitched before—delicate floral patterns on the hem of a dress, the patchwork flower you’d embroidered onto the very quilt beneath him. you thought of how simple it had been then, how quiet, how safe. this wasn't safe. this was a body tearing at the seams, and you were sewing it shut with nothing but trembling hands and the frantic hope that you weren’t making it worse. you weren't even using the proper thread for sutures, just some twenty yen poly thread you found at the konbini.

the wound was closing, that was a given. jagged, ugly, but closed. you cut the thread with the blade of a paring knife, wiping your shaking hands against your pyjamas though it did nothing but smear the blood further.

you could still feel his pulse beneath your fingertips, weak but there, as though his body hadn’t quite decided if it wanted to keep holding on.

it had sealed, a rough, uneven path of now-red thread snaking across a pale, mottled expanse of skin. you held your breath as you cut the thread, wiping your hands against your clothes—though it was a pointless act, the blood staining your hands and your clothes both. the tremors had faded from his frame, and in the soft light through the open window, he looked older than you’d originally thought. worn.

your mind swam, your breath shallow and trembling, staring at your work. you’d done this. you’d stitched his skin back together with your hands, mended his flesh, put him back together. it was shoddy work, nothing like the careful, even sewing you did on fabric, but it was, at the very least, done.

but the blood was still there. thick under your nails, drying in harsh, cracked lines along your wrists where it had soaked in too deep. you rubbed at it again, frantic, but it had already begun to cling. already a part of you.

you tried to scrub more of the blood off your skin, but like you had known it would, the blood stayed. it stuck, stubborn and viscous, beneath your fingernails and across your shaking hands, refusing to go no matter how desperately you tried to remove it. your skin was stained red from the force of your efforts, raw and aching and red.

still, you didn’t stop, frenzied now with the need to remove the blood, refusing to touch anything else, refusing to accept that you couldn’t go back to the way things were. before, when you hadn’t known this creature, when you hadn’t helped him. back to the soft, safe way you had lived before.

but that was gone now, stolen in a moment of weakness and foolishness. you’d been too nice, too caring, had reached out when you should have run away. and now he was here, in your home, and you’d touched him, had helped him, stained yourself with his blood until it was part of your very skin.

your gaze drifted back to him. his chest still rose and fell—too shallow, too weak, but moving. the worst of the bleeding had stopped. it should have felt like a victory. it didn’t.

he looked worse now that the worst of the damage had been sealed shut. the pale stretch of his skin was littered with scars, some faded into silver lines, others fresher, jagged, just barely healed over. each one told a story you didn’t have the answers to. brutal, violent history carved into flesh.

and now you’d added your own thread to the tapestry.

you felt like you were going to be sick.

your eyes blurred again, the copper tang in the air making your stomach twist tighter. he hadn’t made a sound in a while—too quiet now, his head lolling to the side, cheek pale where it pressed into the bloodied quilt. you wanted to check his pulse again, to know for certain he was still alive. but your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

you could feel your stomach roiling, nausea like a living thing rising in your throat, acidic and bitter. your head was spinning now, your limbs trembling with an adrenaline you hadn’t realized you had. the world felt strange, almost surreal, as though you were seeing it through a haze, and you couldn’t stop yourself from staring at the wounds, at your own work, at the monster in front of you. you’d done that. you’d been the one to close the wound, the one to help him, the one to care. and now, he was here, in your home, and he wasn’t going anywhere.

and, worst of all, you wanted him to stay. somehow, someway, you didn’t want him to leave.

instead, you forced yourself to move. the basin of now-pink water beside you had long since cooled, the rag floating limp on the surface. you dipped it in again, wringing it out too tightly, and began wiping the blood from his skin with delicate, trembling strokes.

the water only spread it at first. thin, pink streaks over his ribs, between the dark ink lines of old bruises already beginning to bloom. your hands trembled as you wiped the blood from his skin, your every movement slow and cautious, your breaths coming harsh and short. your eyes were fixed on the movement of the rag, the way the blood came off in thick, slow rivulets, as you tried to keep your gaze from lingering on the scars that peppered his skin

there was something out there big enough, strong enough, to do this to someone like him.

the thought sent a shiver down your spine, your eyes still fixed on his skin as you carefully cleaned the last, smears of blood from his stomach. the marks on his skin, so many of them, told a story of pain long drawn out, of fight and violence. 

he was strong, clearly, to have lived through such things. his muscles were like carved stone, lean but strong, his skin smooth and pale, his frame lithe like a feline predator.

and all of that strength, all that power, had almost gotten him killed. something out there, somewhere, had hurt him, something that could have destroyed him. and it could return again.

your hand brushed lower, along his side, and he stirred—barely, just a twitch, a low, broken sound dragging from the back of his throat as his body instinctively flinched from the touch.

his breath hitched, a low, pained sound escaping him as your hand brushed against his side, his muscles tensing and shying away from the touch, almost instinctively. your eyes snapped to his face, watching as pain twisted his expression, his body going rigid as the touch stung against already fragile, wounded flesh.

“hey,” you whispered, soft. a lullaby voice, the way you spoke to frightened things with wings too fragile to hold. the sound barely carried in the stillness of the room, fragile as a breath, and yet it felt too loud. “shh… it’s okay. you’re safe now.”

the words tasted foreign, like something borrowed. heavy in your mouth, weighted with doubt, each syllable dragging behind it a truth you couldn’t believe. because it wasn’t okay. not really.

he wasn’t safe. and neither were you.

his body lay broken and battered, but there was nothing weak about him. you saw it even in his stillness—the tension in his frame, the faint quiver in his muscles. a coiled spring ready to snap. you caught sight of his hand then, pale knuckles locked around the edge of the quilt like a lifeline, trembling as though he was anchoring himself to something, anything.

those hands could kill you. he could kill you.

even like this, fragile in a way that defied logic, he was strong. his strength wasn’t something that could be stripped away by wounds or exhaustion; it was something that lived inside him, something carved into his bones. beneath the ruin of him, that power still hummed, restless and wild, waiting to tear free.

but he hadn’t. not yet.

your pulse thundered, a frantic rhythm that filled the room, filled your head, filled the fragile quiet between you. you couldn’t shake the thought, circling like a predator: he could kill you. the knowledge settled in your chest like a stone, cold and heavy. but it didn’t stop you from reaching for him.

you set the rag down, fingers stiff and clumsy, and shifted to adjust the blanket draped over his frame. it wasn’t much, just a simple thing patched with years of wear, but it was all you had to give. you pulled it higher, careful not to disturb the crude stitching that barely held his wounds together. the fabric brushed his chest, and for a moment, you thought he flinched.

he didn’t stop you.

the thought should’ve brought comfort. it didn’t. it only made your hands shake harder, the weight of your choice bearing down on you. what had you done? what were you doing?

you hadn’t saved a man. you’d let a wolf into your home.

and now, you were trapped.

you could feel it in the air—something thrumming, something electric, something just shy of snapping. he wasn’t awake, not really, but his presence filled the room like a storm on the horizon. and you, so small, so soft, were nothing more than a mouse. trembling, helpless, guarding something you didn’t understand. something with teeth sharp enough to devour you whole.

your eyes lingered on his face, hollowed and bruised, still twisted with defiance even in sleep. you wondered if his dreams haunted him. 

you wondered if he dreamed of blood.

you hadn’t saved a man. you’d let the wolf into your home. and now you were trapped, trembling, nothing more than a mouse standing guard over something with teeth sharp enough to devour you whole. 

and part of you feared, deep in your bones, that once he was strong enough again—he would remember what he was. 

and tear you apart.

[quitealotofsodapop]

More incorrect quotes from the delightful @justweirddino

Organising these in a set so I respond to all of them, also I have the transcripts in the image descriptions.

Oh gosh so many to react to /pos

Macaque spent a lot of time either on the moon, in the Jade Palace, or in the wilds. He thinks Wukong's sense of enviromental hygiene is appaling for a monkey with his own treasury. Is def the one of the pair who starts organising/tidying up anywhere they go. Pigsy starts yelling like Gordon Ramsey if there's any mess in the kitchen or pantry area - chef habits.

2. Nezha mentions that he's part lotus around Sandy, and the big blue softy cant bring himself to eat lotus roots ever again. Wukong stayed vegan for a long time, but sometimes a monkey needs some protein. Macaque meanwhile has infact eaten other sapient beings, granted if they were already dead.

3. MK whenever they have to go somewhere vaguelly horrifying; "This Is fine." :) Can't wait till this little guy stumbles into Diyu.

4. Nezha holds the family braincell whenever Pigsy isn't available. I love how it's 100% in all their characters; Macaque would be the type to steal a car if it helped with the situation (no matter how petty). Wukong does not fear personal injury. And MK is basically a trash disposal unit when it comes to materials.

5. Wukong is 100% a "if my knee is gonna give me chronic pain, just amputate the leg"-kinda guy. Probably thinks its acceptable to take out your body parts for maintenace. He legit jokes about it during a Jttw chapter where he has to gut himself to show up some taoist priests.

6. Pigsy. Family braincell holder, and very tired of Wukong's nonsense.

7. It took Mei and MK a while to question anything in the TMKATI au. Mei chalked her comparatively dark complexion up to Macaque or Tang, and the scales and fire to whatever Big Bro Nezha was. Kid logic. There was def a period of time where Mei just knew she wa adopted, but the parents hadn't broken the news to her yet. It was an awkward conversation.

8. Erlang is stress incarnate. That third eye gives him images he does not want to see. Just radiates stress like a salt lamp. XD

9. Tbf we are talking about a manipulative murder monkey. MK introduces anyone to Macaque and it's like;

10. I don't know why, but I adore the idea of the Spider Gang post-S3 joining up with Red and the Demon Bull fam. Red probably admires Syntax's programming skills on the Spider-Bots, and offers him a job maintaining the Bull Clones... but DBK and Red are still a bit sore from New Years so they don't 100% trust or respect the spiders just yet. XD

Ty so much for sending these in! These weer really fun to read and to think about.

[uselessgreatcometbi]

Lyra: *knocks the tokay out of Asriel's hand*

Asriel: This is why your mom doesn't fucking love you!