#Book 6 spoilers

[jacktypo]

do you ever think about how awkward that one trip back home in book 6 must've been for these two

[lotuswish]

𑁍ࠬܓ how they react when they see you hurt (housewardens & jamil)

synopsis: pain is not something he ever wanted to associate with you. but seeing you injured—knowing someone dared to harm you—shatters his composure. for some, it’s rage; for others, panic. and for a few, it’s cold, terrifying control—until he knows you’re safe. but one thing is certain: someone will pay for this.

featured character(s): riddle rosehearts, leona kingscholar, azul ashengrotto, kalim al-asim, jamil viper, vil schoenheit, idia shroud, malleus draconia.

content warning(s): angst, mentions of violence and implied revenge, mild injury descriptions (ex. bruises, wounds, pain etc.), spoilers for book 6 in idia’s part.

a/n: they’re just being silly, guys. <3

link(s): (masterlist)

riddle rosehearts

riddle prides himself on maintaining control.

his entire life has been shaped by discipline, by structure, by the belief that emotions must be ruled by logic. he does not allow himself to be reckless, does not allow himself to be overcome. everything he does is precise, calculated, deliberate.

but the moment he sees you hurt—

everything unravels.

his breath catches in his throat, his heart slamming against his ribs, his mind instantly abandoning all reason. his entire world sharpens to a singular point—you—and all at once, every ounce of restraint he’s spent years perfecting is hanging by a fragile, fraying thread.

“who did this?”

his voice is sharper than you’ve ever heard it, trembling with something raw, something dangerously close to rage.

he’s beside you in an instant, dropping to his knees without hesitation, his hands hovering—not touching, not yet, because what if he makes it worse? what if he hurts you somehow? his fingers tremble, itching to reach out, to make sure—

“tell me where it hurts,” he says, but his voice wavers. “tell me what happened.”

his hands are gentle but firm as he checks you over, his usually practiced movements clumsy with the weight of panic. he doesn’t even realize his breathing is uneven, doesn’t even notice the way his shoulders are shaking as he looks you over, as he takes in every bruise, every wound, every sign that something happened—

something he didn’t prevent.

“you should have been more careful,” he scolds, but the words come out thin, forced, like he’s trying to hold something else back.

you try to tell him you’re fine, try to brush it off, but he doesn’t believe you. his eyes flicker with frustration, his jaw tightening, his grip on your wrist just a fraction too tense.

“don’t be ridiculous—you’re hurt,” he snaps, and then immediately exhales, forcing himself to breathe. “just… stay still. let me handle this.”

he refuses to let you wave it away. refuses to leave it alone. you are not fine, and he will not let you convince him otherwise.

but even as he focuses on making sure you’re okay, something else burns at the edges of his mind, pressing against his temples like an unbearable weight—

who did this to you?

his hands clench into fists. his breathing evens out, but his posture remains rigid, coiled tight like a string about to snap.

because once you’re safe—once he’s certain that you’re okay, that you’ll recover, that he didn’t fail you—

then, and only then, will he deal with the one responsible.

his mother may have taught him restraint, but some things are unforgivable.

and hurting you is one of them.

leona kingscholar

danger.

his body registers it before his mind does, his instincts kicking in the moment his eyes land on you—hurt, vulnerable, not okay.

his vision tunnels, his pulse spikes, and suddenly, the world around him doesn’t matter anymore.

“what the hell happened?”

his voice is a low, guttural growl, thick with something dark, something uncontrollable. his hands clench at his sides, every muscle coiled, his body ready—ready to fight, ready to destroy, ready to eliminate whatever put you in this state.

but then he sees it—sees the way you’re holding yourself, the way your breath hitches, the way you flinch just slightly—and suddenly, the anger has to be forced down, swallowed like bile in the back of his throat.

because right now, you come first.

so he moves, closing the distance in a single step, his hands reaching for you before he can stop himself. his hands are gentle from the start, unusually so. these hands of his are capable of devastation, of turning flesh to dust, of summoning ruin with a mere touch. but against you, they are careful, restrained. the second he feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the tension in his hold eases, his hands softening, steadying you instead of breaking you.

“who did this?”

his voice is still dangerous, still thick with that barely restrained fury, but now there’s something else underneath it.

concern.

fear.

he hates how it makes his chest tighten. hates the way it lingers at the edges of his thoughts, nagging at him, clawing at something buried deep beneath his usual indifference.

he kneels in front of you, his sharp, emerald eyes scanning every inch of you with terrifying intensity. his fingers ghost over your injuries, his jaw clenched so tight you can hear his teeth grind together.

“tell me.” his voice is dangerous now.

and then—when you hesitate, when you try to brush it off, when you lie—

his patience snaps.

“don’t give me that.” his grip tightens just slightly, his expression darkening. “you’re hurt. don’t act like it’s nothing.”

there’s no room for argument in his tone. no patience for your stubbornness, no willingness to accept anything less than the truth.

if you try to keep it from him, if you refuse to say who’s responsible, then fine—he’ll find out himself.

because someone did this.

and once you’re safe—once he’s sure you’re okay, once he’s made damn sure you’ll recover—

then he’s hunting.

“stay here,” he mutters, standing to his full height, his tail flicking behind him in barely restrained aggression. “i’ll take care of it.”

and if you try to stop him?

his gaze flickers down to you, something sharp, something scorching, like the unrelenting heat of the desert sun at its peak—blistering, unforgiving, merciless.

“no one lays a damn hand on you and gets away with it.”

and then he’s gone, a storm of unbridled wrath, a lion on the hunt.

azul ashengrotto

azul is a man of careful calculations.

every word, every action, every decision he makes is deliberate. he has spent years crafting a persona of charm, wit, and effortless composure—one that allows him to stay in control, no matter the circumstances. he does not flinch, does not waver, does not lose to uncertainty.

but then he sees you hurt.

and suddenly, all of that control is gone.

his breath catches, his body locks up, and for one horrifying moment, his mind is utterly blank.

“you—what happened?”

his voice doesn’t sound like his own. it’s too sharp, too raw, lacking the usual smoothness he prides himself on.

he rushes to you without thinking, but the second he’s close enough to touch, he hesitates. his fingers hover inches above your skin, his knuckles white with the force of his restraint. his mind is screaming at him to act, to do something, but a terrible thought wedges itself into his panic—

what if i make it worse?

he doesn’t trust his own hands, doesn’t trust his own judgment, not when the sight of you like this is unraveling him from the inside out.

“tell me what hurts,” he demands, his words tumbling out in a way that’s almost frantic. “is it serious? how bad is it?”

his thoughts spiral immediately, jumping to the worst possible conclusions. is it critical? should he be calling for medical attention? what if you’re downplaying it? what if he’s not fast enough?

and then you try to brush it off.

“nothing?” he echoes, breath hitching. his voice almost cracks—and he hates that. “how can you say that when you’re—when you—”

his hands clench into fists, shaking slightly as he forces himself to breathe.

“just—just stay still,” he mutters, voice tight with strain. “i’ll take care of it.”

because if there is one thing he knows, one thing he can control, it’s fixing things. making deals. offering solutions.

“i’ll call a healer. i’ll get whatever you need—whatever you want.”

his words come too fast, his mind still racing, but through it all, his hands never leave yours.

his grip is too tight, fingers wrapped around yours like a lifeline, like letting go isn’t an option he’s willing to consider.

because if he lets go—if he loses you—

he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle it.

and when it’s over—when he knows you’ll be okay—he still doesn’t let you out of his sight.

“you scared me,” he murmurs, quieter than before.

his voice is steadier now, but you can still hear the remnants of his fear, lingering in the way his thumb brushes absentmindedly over your knuckles, in the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath this entire time.

and for the first time since you’ve met him—since he built the persona of azul ashengrotto, the untouchable businessman, the man always one step ahead—

he lets you see just how fragile he becomes when it comes to you.

kalim al-asim

kalim is always smiling.

he is a beacon of joy, a burst of light in every room he enters. when things go wrong, he looks for the silver lining. when people are hurting, he lifts them up with his boundless energy. sadness is something he refuses to dwell on, something he fights against with warmth and laughter.

but when he sees you hurt?

his entire world stops.

“oh no, oh no—”

the words leave him before he can think, his breath catching as his heart lurches in his chest. he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pause to process what he’s seeing—his body moves, fast and instinctive, rushing to your side.

his hands cradle your face, warm and steady despite the frantic tremor in his touch.

“are you okay? what happened? does it hurt? how bad is it?”

his voice is shaking. he’s shaking.

and when he finally really looks at you, when he takes in the way you wince, the way you hold yourself like you’re trying to hide the pain—his chest tightens, his stomach twisting into something awful.

“why didn’t anyone stop it? why didn’t i stop it?”

guilt. overwhelming, suffocating guilt floods him like a tidal wave.

“i should’ve been there! i should’ve protected you!”

his grip on you tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to let you know he’s here. he isn’t letting go. he won’t let go.

and then, before you can stop him—before you can tell him it’s not a big deal—his eyes start to glisten.

“kalim, are you—”

“i’m not crying!” he absolutely is. “i just—you scared me!”

his voice wobbles, and suddenly, he’s pulling you into a hug, arms wrapping around you too tightly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“don’t move, okay? just stay right here! i’ll get someone to help—i’ll fix this, i promise!”

if it’s something small—just a minor scrape, a bruise—he still treats it like it’s life-threatening. he refuses to let you walk it off, refuses to let you act like it’s fine.

if it’s something worse? if you are seriously hurt?

he panics, but his movements are certain. without hesitation, he lifts you into his arms, holding you to his chest like you’re something precious, like you belong nowhere else but safe in his hands.

“i’ve got you,” he whispers, voice breaking. “i won’t let anything happen to you.”

and when he finally gets you to safety, when he finally knows you’re okay—

he still won’t stop fussing.

“you need to rest! do you want pillows? i’ll get you pillows! or tea! do you want tea? i’m sure jamil will—jamil! we need tea!”

“kalim, i’m fine—”

“no, you’re not fine! i was so scared!”

his fingers squeeze yours.

and later, when you’re patched up, when the worst of the moment has passed—

he presses his forehead to yours, closing his eyes.

“don’t ever scare me like that again, okay?”

his voice is softer now, the usual excitement dimmed into something deeply sincere.

“i don’t ever wanna see you hurt again.”

jamil viper

jamil was raised to handle crises.

he has spent his entire life being the one who steps in when things go wrong, the one who fixes things while everyone else panics. no matter the situation, no matter the chaos, no matter the pressure—he is always in control.

so when he sees you hurt, when he registers the way you’re holding yourself, the way your face twists with pain—

his stomach drops.

but his body moves on instinct.

“where?”

his voice is steady. too steady. his mind is screaming, but his tone doesn’t waver, his movements are calculated, precise. he crouches in front of you immediately, eyes scanning you with sharp, assessing precision.

“how bad is it? let me see.”

he doesn’t waste time. doesn’t ask what happened—not yet. because right now, the only thing that matters is making sure you’re okay.

his hands are warm but firm, brushing over you carefully as he checks for injuries. his fingers ghost over your wrist, your arm, the side of your face—everywhere that might be hurt—his touch gentle but filled with purpose.

“it’s not broken,” he murmurs under his breath, half to himself, half to reassure you. “no major swelling… does this hurt?”

and then—when you flinch, when you let out the softest hiss of pain—

something inside him snaps.

his jaw clenches. his breathing slows.

“who.”

his eyes flick up to meet yours, and for the first time, there is something dangerous in his gaze.

“who did this?”

if there is a culprit—if someone is responsible for this—then they are not leaving unscathed.

but even as fury thrums through his veins, even as his mind races with ways to handle the situation, he forces himself to prioritize you first.

“can you walk?” his voice is softer now, his tone slipping back into something controlled, something measured.

if you say yes, he doesn’t let you prove it. he supports you immediately, one arm around your waist, guiding you effortlessly as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

if you say no, he lifts you without hesitation. no warning, no asking—just picking you up, his hold secure, unshakable.

“don’t argue,” he mutters, barely sparing you a glance. “just let me take care of it.”

because he will.

and once he gets you somewhere safe, once he’s made sure you’re being treated properly, once he knows with certainty that you are okay—

then, and only then, does he allow himself to breathe.

“you’re reckless,” he mutters, his voice a mix of exasperation and something far too raw. “i don’t have time to deal with this every time you get yourself hurt, you know.”

but his fingers tighten just slightly where they rest against your arm, betraying the truth behind his words.

because if something had happened—if things had been worse—

he doesn’t even want to think about what he would have done.

vil schoenheit

perfection is vil’s standard.

not just in beauty, not just in his work, but in everything—his composure, his discipline, the way he carries himself. he does not allow himself to be reckless. he does not make careless mistakes. he does not let emotions rule him.

but then he sees you hurt.

and something inside him fractures.

his lips press together, his expression unreadable, his body rigid—the only betrayal of the storm brewing beneath his flawless exterior is the way his fingers tighten just slightly at his sides, the way his breath is a fraction too controlled.

“where are you hurt?”

his voice is steady. cold. clinical. but his eyes—his eyes—

they burn.

he crosses the distance between you in two strides, his gloved fingers already reaching for you. his touch is firm but delicate, brushing over your skin with the kind of precision only someone like him could possess.

“sit down.” it’s not a request. “don’t move until i’ve assessed the damage.”

you try to downplay it, try to insist that it’s nothing, but his sharp gaze cuts through you instantly.

“do not insult me by pretending this is fine,” he snaps, his voice sharp as glass. “you are hurt. i can see it. so let me handle it.”

his fingers ghost over your injuries, his touch meticulous, searching. he catalogues everything—the severity, the placement, the way you react when he presses too close.

he is silent as he works, but the tension in his shoulders speaks volumes.

“this never should have happened.” the words slip out low, almost a whisper, but the weight behind them is undeniable. “i should have—”

but he cuts himself off before he finishes the thought.

vil schoenheit does not dwell in should haves.

he fixes things. he prevents disasters before they happen.

but right now, all he can do is make sure you are okay.

“i’ll handle this,” he says smoothly, already preparing to tend to your wounds himself. “stay still.”

his movements are precise, every action perfectly executed—cleaning, bandaging, ensuring no imperfections remain. but his touch lingers just slightly longer than necessary, his fingers brushing over your wrist, your palm, the curve of your shoulder with a tenderness that is almost imperceptible.

and when it’s over—when you are properly cared for, when the worst of the moment has passed—he finally exhales.

“you worried me,” he murmurs, and it is softer now, less controlled, less rehearsed.

and then—just for a second—his fingers ghost against your jaw, tilting your face up toward him.

“i won’t let this happen again. not ever.”

his voice is gentle. his eyes are not.

because if anyone had a hand in this—if someone is responsible for this pain—

then they will regret ever daring to touch you.

idia shroud

idia doesn’t do well under pressure.

he was not built for high-stakes situations, for stress, for emotions so raw they leave no room for second chances. he hates unpredictability, hates chaos, hates not knowing what to do.

so when he sees you hurt—

his mind shuts down.

for a full second, he just stares, his breath caught somewhere in his throat, his fingers twitching but unable to move.

no, no, no, no, no—

his brain latches onto the worst possibilities immediately. how bad is it? is it fatal? what if you’re bleeding out? what if it’s internal? what if he doesn’t react fast enough?

what if he loses you?

his stomach twists violently, a familiar, awful panic rising in his throat, threatening to choke him.

because this—this exact fear—is something he’s lived through before.

he remembers the first time. the real first time.

losing ortho was something he never saw coming. something he never thought could happen. and even though he’s built him again, recreated him, brought back a version of his little brother—

he still remembers.

remembers what it felt like to be too late. to fail someone he loved. to stand there, frozen in horror, helpless to stop it.

and now—

now it’s you.

you, the only person who matters to him besides ortho. you, the person who understands him, who stays, who chooses him despite all the reasons not to. you, who has somehow become his entire world without him even realizing it.

“oh seven—okay, okay—don’t freak out—no, wait, i’m the one freaking out—”

he rushes toward you but stops short, his hands hovering inches away, shaking.

“w-wait, should i touch you? would that make it worse?? oh seven, what if i make it worse—”

his mind is short-circuiting. too many variables. too many possible failures.

“idia,” you start, but he whirls on you, wide-eyed and frantic.

“y-you have to tell me exactly how bad it is, okay? give me a numerical rating—no, no, wait, i don’t trust the pain scale, um—can you move?? do you need a doctor??”

his breathing is erratic, his fingers clutching at the edge of his hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

but then—just like before—you try to reassure him.

“i’m okay.”

he stops.

his whole body locks up, his mind struggling to catch up.

”…are you sure?”

his voice is so small. so uncertain.

because he’s already lost someone before.

and if he lost you too—if this was his fault, if he wasn’t fast enough, smart enough, good enough—

he doesn’t know what he would do.

even when he’s finally convinced that you’re not dying, he still refuses to leave your side. he hovers awkwardly, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, clearly itching to do something to make himself useful.

so he does what he knows best—

“d-do you wanna lay down? i, uh, set up a recovery station in my room. blankets. snacks. medkits—y’know, just in case. w-we can watch something comforting, i won’t even complain about the genre. promise.”

his voice is still wobbly, still slightly frayed at the edges, but the tension in his shoulders finally eases when you nod.

and later—when you’re safe, resting, and no longer in pain—

his fingers brush against yours, hesitant, unsure, before finally intertwining them properly.

“never scare me like that again, okay?”

his voice is quiet. but this time, it doesn’t shake.

because he won’t lose you too.

he can’t.

malleus draconia

malleus has lived longer than most.

a century and more has passed since his birth. he has seen generations rise and fall, watched mortals grow old in the blink of an eye. nothing unsettles him. nothing disturbs his calm.

but then he sees you hurt.

and the entire world stands still.

his breath halts, and the air around him shifts—the very atmosphere bending beneath the weight of something primordial, something as vast and unrelenting as the storm-laden skies over the land of briar.

his first instinct is not panic.

it is rage.

“who did this?”

his voice is low, steady, but beneath the surface, something dangerous lurks.

his emerald eyes gleam, faintly glowing in the dim light. the shadows stretch taller, the wind outside stills, the very earth itself seems to pause, as if the land itself knows what kind of wrath is building within him.

his hands twitch at his sides, claws curling, magic crackling faintly at his fingertips—not for you, never for you, but for whoever was foolish enough to harm you.

but he stops himself. forces himself to breathe.

because you come first.

he is in front of you in an instant, his movements as fluid as shadow, his expression unreadable. his hands—hands that could command storms, reduce castles to rubble, shatter the very sky—reach for you with an almost unnatural gentleness.

“let me see,” he murmurs, his fingers ghosting over your injury, tracing the bruises, the cuts, the places where pain lingers.

his touch is featherlight, his movements precise, but beneath it all, his body is rigid with barely restrained fury.

“who did this?” he repeats, quieter now, but infinitely more terrifying.

if you don’t answer, if you try to downplay it, if you lie—

his gaze darkens, something thunderous in his silence.

“do not shield them from me.”

he is not so easily deceived. he sees the hesitation in your eyes, the way you waver, the way you avoid his gaze. if you refuse to tell him, it does not matter—he will find out on his own.

but first—

“hold still,” he murmurs, raising his hand.

a pulse of magic hums through the air, a whisper of ancient power curling around your form like a protective shroud. the ache dulls, the wounds begin to close, the pain fades.

“better?” he asks, softer now, something tender hidden beneath the weight of his fury.

but even as he tends to you, even as he ensures you are safe—

his mind is already elsewhere.

because someone hurt you.

and for that, there will be consequences.

malleus does not act rashly. he does not lash out blindly.

but the guilty party will know fear.

“stay here,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your cheek for just a fraction of a second, his touch lingering. “rest. recover.”

and then, as he turns, the air thickens, the weight of his presence pressing down like the hush before a storm, like the crackling stillness before lightning splits the sky.

because someone has made a grave mistake.

and if the gods are watching, they would be wise to offer their mercy—because malleus draconia will not.

congrats on making it to the end! if you enjoyed this, likes, comments, follows, and reblogs are always appreciated—they help motivate me to keep creating and sharing!

[dicenete]

The cruel angel's thesis Will soon take flight through the window With surging, hot pathos If you betray your memories Embracing this universe and shining, young boy, become the legend!

After a huge cataclysmic event, S.T.Y.X. will have Idia pilot a giant biomechanical mecha to fight original Phantoms known as Titans who have escaped the Underworld.

Okay so this hyperfixation has consumed me for 3 days or so. Right now as I write this I don't know how to put this to words, but Shroud brothers would fit so nicely to NGE story and vibe. And the themes of isolation, loneliness and the search for connection. And cool mechas. :) There was many iconic screenshots I would have wanted to draw too but I really want to get this out and move on with my hyperfixations. Hopefully : D

Thank you for @snbn for helping me with the designs, giving feedback and most importantly: Listening to me yap about Twisted Wonderland even tho he doesn't play it. <3

[eternalsnowfan02]

✨Theatre Kid Rescue Squad✨

[the-twst-cast-needs-therapy]

I wonder how terrifying the first weeks of Idia and (robot) Orthos existence must have been.

Imagine building this machine with your lost brother's voice, face etc. But this machine gradually learns, and it only came into existence mere moments ago. So far only reproducing information it has been given. It has his voice and face, but it's manner of speaking and emoting is stiff. It's uncanny. They cannot hug like they used to. It feels wrong to feel cold metal around you when you expected a warm embrace. It can only watch or run analytics on you, while you hysterically cry whenever you are confronted with the fact that your brother is truly gone and this machine, despite years of work, will never replace him. It has all of his features, but it is not your brother and it will never be him. You are stuck between hating it for what it isn't, and longing for closeness because it has your brothers face and memories.

Imagine experiencing life for the first time, with implemented memories, that aren't your own. Of a boy you have never known, who no longer exists. Now having to look after a boy who is absolutely horrified at what you are but also in need of comfort that you are not able to give him. His reactions are unreasonable and erratic, because you do not understand the concept of mourning and guilt yet. There is nothing you can do for him, yet it is your purpose, your responsibility to be an object of comfort. You can hold him, you can talk to him, you have learned that these actions are meant to be comforting, but you don't understand then yet. but it isn't enough. You are a replacement with no identity of your own besides the memory of someone long gone, but no matter how far advanced you will become, you will never be able to perfect his brother's image. You are a machine who will never be able to fulfill the only task it was built for.

They are both confused, isolated, lost, not being able to comprehend their situation. Stuck in a perpetual cycle of trying to bond and staying away from eachother.

[mellosdrawings]

Hey~ Welcome to "Mello thinks too much about Jamil at 5am coz they can't sleep!"

Today's subject: Pride!

I've just been obsessing over it for a while and had a random enlightening last night.

So NRC is a school full of prideful students who know they're hot stuff, right? Aside from maybe Trey and Cater who are more mild mannered and don't boast much like others, and maybe Rook who is more interested in others than himself, Pride is the one sin that is common amongst all the characters.

Jamil's case is pretty singular though, especially amongst the overblotted gang. Because while others' pride usually comes from knowing they're hot shit, Jamil's is a defense mechanism against the fact that he's nothing.

Yes I'll be especially harsh against Jamil, but that's kind of the truth.

Riddle is one of the greatest mages of his generation because of all the work he's done since he was basically born, he knows he's hot stuff.

Leona is just... OP. Canonically the cleverest in all NRC, OP powers, the one guy even Idia doesn't understand why he overblotted in the first place, he's even royalty. Like, if it weren't for his bro he'd have everything. Leona might be self depreciating a bunch, he still knows he's hot stuff and his pride comes from that.

Vil is both powerful and one of the biggest stars worldwide. He's the same as Leona, while he has his moments of self hatred his pride does stem from just being that bitch.

Will it surprise you if I also call Idia prideful? Sure, he's meek and introverted and has too much anxiety for his own good, but he did get his Housewarden position because he thought he was better at the job than others. He knows he's a technomancy genius and one hell of a gamer. What little pride he shows comes from those talents.

And Malleus, well, he's just the devs darling so he's even more OP than Leona.

I purposefully skipped Azul because I think his case is more similar to Jamil's than to the others.

Azul and Jamil's pride are artificial. It's here as a defense mechanism, either to be perceived as better than he thinks he is (for Azul), or to convince himself than he is more than what he actually is (for Jamil).

Sure, Jamil is clever and pretty strong and has lots of qualities. But 1. He's far from the genius he thinks he is. And 2. As soon as people point out he's a fake he immediately goes into depression mode.

Book 6 was a very insightful moment for both Jamil and Azul. They both get paired with people who (not so) accidentally chip away at their pride until they have to face the fact that they are just not as great as they think.

And that's where Azul and Jamil differ.

Because Azul knows he's "not that great". Or at least, he thinks he's inferior to others. That's why people he considers above him punching down on him hurts so much (plus the obvious bullying trauma he's got).

Jamil genuinely thought he was better than everybody else until Book 6, where Leona knocked him down a peg. He convinced himself through inflated and artifical pride that he was more competent than his peers. And the second he realized that wasn't the case, he started flipping back and forth between self depreciating and trying to inflate his own pride again. As a defense mechanism.

Because for someone who's always been pushed down to take the least amount of space possible, for someone who's always known he had the possibility to be/do better but was never given the occasion to shine, admitting that he's mid hurts.

He needs to make himself useful and show off to Leona, not just because it's a reflex ingrained in him since forever or because of the repercussions that could befall him should he let royalty get hurt under his watch, but also because he needs to reassure himself that he is something.

Because he's been nothing his whole life.

And that hurts.

That's why it was so hard for Leona to get through to him, while Riddle and Azul managed to work together midway through their descent into Tartarus. Because for Jamil to accept criticism and help, he'd first need to drop his pride. And he just can't do that.

Even by the end of their descent, Jamil still found a way to twist Leona's preaching in his favor. Even then he still managed to put his pride up to reassure himself. He has more potential to grow than others, sure. That's a first step in accepting his mediocrity, but that's also very validating for his pride. He might not be the best now, but just you wait-

And that's why Jamil was all talk and no show before that point. Because unlike the others, his pride is artificial. He has nothing to back it up.

I'm sorry if I repeated myself a lot or didn't make much sense. I'm afraid me trying to explain my thought process tends to be stunted by the fact I don't have enough vocabulary to back it up :'D (And the fact that I'm writing all that while sleep deprived doesn't really help lol)

I usually tend to obsess over the 'sin' of Envy for Leona, Vil, and Jamil, coz it's one hell of a sin, the only that brings no pleasure whatsoever. And I just love watching characters make their own lives miserable over the pettiest things.

But damn is the subject of Pride interesting. I see most people, myself included, tend to tone down the Pride aspect of NRC when writing fanfics or drawing fanarts, even though it's one of the core points of the story.

And as said earlier, it's hard to make a character change and develop when Pride is in the way, so I totally understand why people downplay it for the sake of narrative.

Coz otherwise we'd only get tragedies.

And I love tragedies~

[sussysatann]

WHOEVER ON THE TRANSLATION TEAM DID THIS-

I CAN'T TELL IF I WANT YOU TO GET A RAISE OR TO REFLECT ON YOUR CHOICES

"OUR LEGEND! POP OOOFFF!"

[feralbrainrotter]

Idia, the king that you are, lol

[it-happened-one-fic]

Any Weight - Idia

Author Notes: So I really didn't know what I was going to post today in terms of oneshots, so this happened. This fic has been sitting my google docs for quite while and honestly started out life as practice for writing Idia. I wrote this and edite it while listening to the song "Heavy in Your Arms" by Florence in the Machine. As per usual, reader is gender-neutral. I hope you enjoy!

Type: Gender-neutral reader/ sfw/ fluff with angst/ comfort/ romance highly implied/ Spoilers for Ignihyde Chapter

Word Count: 1539

Idia shifted slightly as you leaned against his back, reading some book as he farmed one of his games. And in easy, quiet moments like this, with the weight of your body resting gently against his, feeling like a silent but ever-present promise, it was easy to forget the truth of his situation. Of his life.

But Idia was cursed. It was a weighty, but simple truth that had hung over his head for his entire life. Because he’d never known a life where he wasn’t cursed.

Idia was cursed to remain chained to the Island of Woe, to S.T.Y.X., and to guard the remains of those who’d fallen prey to their own magic and dark thoughts, just like he almost had back when you’d come all the way to S.T.Y.X.’s headquarters after Grim and your friends.

Idia was also cursed to never be able to feel darkness’s embrace, which could hide even the greatest of shames, until the light inevitably came. Because his hair always shone that cold blue light on him. Never letting him hide away from the gaze of all those who looked upon him in horror or disgust and saw all of his many flaws.

Idia was even cursed by his own personality. Unable to tolerate being around others without shutting down and drowning in their silent gazes. Judgmental, fearful, and sometimes pitying, no matter how he felt about it.

It was disgusting, infuriating, and so many other things that left him filled with ire towards anyone and everyone who didn’t understand him or his life. If they were going to gawk at him, then he would mock them for their naive, stupid views, and avoid them. There was no use in bothering with people who would never care.

After all, his life had been decided for him from the very moment he’d been born.

And all of those reasons, as well as so many others, were why he’d pushed you away initially. A laughable thought now, considering you were sitting on his bed, with your back pressed to his in a gentle reminder of your presence that, rather than causing him to tense like so many did, made him relax into the silence that rested easily between the two of you.

But when he’d first met you, he never would have imagined this. Not with how you’d seemed so strange. 

A weirdo, to be sure, with the way your gaze had never held that crushing weight that threatened to smother him that so many others had.

Some person from another world who apparently had far greater concerns than a flame-haired freak that lived in some other dorm. And, to an extent, Idia had been able to respect that.

It had quickly become obvious that you were more than just a weirdo, though. If nothing else, you were capable of handling and surviving numerous overblots. And even as he was getting to know you, it had already been clear to Idia that you were capable of so much more than him.

And that was still clear to him even today. Because if he was a curse, then you were more akin to a blessing.

A blessing who stepped in and stopped overblots from destroying their victims rather than studying the remains of those who were already done for.

A blessing who could see people at their very worst, and still accept them.

And finally, you were a blessing in that you had a personality that was like a balm to introverts. A person he could just be himself around without having to be surrounded by the multitude of people who’d already noticed your calming demeanor.

In reality, Idia knew you weren’t a blessing. Something so good could never survive in a school like this one. And he’d experienced firsthand exactly how much of a pest you could be.

But even with that knowledge, there were still moments when you were like a protagonist with the way you stood out so glaringly from the crowd.

Of course, Idia stood out from the crowd as well, but never in a remotely good way. 

At odds with this, your only supposedly negative quality was that you lacked magic. And while it did make your life a pain sometimes, you never let it bother you. Not like how Idia let his negative qualities and anything he lacked burden him.

And it was a heavy burden. A heavy burden that Idia knew made him equally heavy and unpleasant to be around. Because Idia was no fool. He knew his presence, his friendship, and even his very existence was a weighty one. He could easily drag a person down to their doom with the curses that trailed after him, like an entourage that couldn’t and wouldn’t go unnoticed.

And all of those reasons, plus a myriad of others, were why your presence here, with him, right now ought to be strange. But it wasn’t. In fact, it was perfectly normal for you to hang out with him in the solace of his room. Sometimes gaming with him, and sometimes just doing your own thing in silent companionship.

The selfish part of him clung to both you and your presence even as he continued to face his game in silence. 

Were he just a bit bolder, it would be easy to imagine himself turning to face you and wrapping his arms around your neck, with his fingers curling around your temple as if they could crown you as he cradled you to him.

But what could he ever crown you with other than the knowledge that you deserved far better?

It was his way of betraying you, and he knew that. His betrayal was one of the reasons he never tried to cross the dotted line that strained to keep you and him from growing any closer. Similarly, it was the reason the silence remained between the two of you as Idia pondered all of the oddities that were your relationship with him.

Because you supported him. Embracing him in your arms like he was weightless, rather than the way he knew he had to be a chain tangling itself around your ankles, threatening to trip you up and drag you down.

But you didn’t let him sink, and you didn't get pulled down by him. 

It was like you were a hero in some tropey anime. Willing to plunge into the very deepest of sorrows and pull him out. Never fearing the chances of drowning in the deep darkness of his curses, but also not shunning the light that revealed all. Good and bad.

Or if you did fear it, you didn’t let that fear hold you back. And perhaps that thought was even more alarming. Because that meant you cared about him enough to not let fear hold you back.

Either way, you seemed to just accept both his good and bad traits. Taking it all on with a smile not unlike the one you’d worn when you’d first forced your way into his life.

You’d shrugged off his moody words and met his gaze with your smiling one, “Nobody’s perfect, and it’s not like you’re the only guy at NRC who has overblotted or has caused me problems.”

You were definitely still a strange one, but Idia could no longer view that strangeness as bad. How could he when you could somehow look at the chains that surrounded him, binding him to his curses and doing their best to condemn him and those he chose to tie himself to, and smile in the face of it all? 

But as frustrating as your strange but oddly charming weirdness was, it made him want to do better.

To support you just like how you supported him. To let you know that even in this world that was not your own, you weren’t alone.

If you could willingly walk into that never-ending light that constantly showed his every weakness to the entire, unforgiving, and uncaring world, then he would hide you in the darkness and carry you when it hurt too much.

Because he knew it hurt, even if you hid it well with that smile that only seemed to truly fail you when you were facing an overblot or when the mention of your home came up.

Even if you were strong enough to carry him and all his curses, Idia knew it hurt and that the nights were long for you. 

In fact, it was obvious to him.

Because that weight you carried was why, even after having made friends and forged yourself a family, you still sought your own world. And he recognized that weight’s presence. How could he not when he was all too familiar with carrying a burden all his own?

But you would never be too heavy for him. Not when he was used to carrying the weight of his own curses.

He could carry you, and you would never drag him down. In fact, he doubted your feet would ever even touch the ground. Because, just like how the weight of you leaning against him was more of a comfort than a burden, he knew that, if it was you, he could carry any weight.

[3lliesan]

Never give a tired person access to guns

Yuu during the first few Overblots: *trembling & nervous laughs* That was a wild ride, huh? Haha... I'm gonna throw up-

-Book 6-

Yuu with a gun they swiped off of a STYX staff member: Fuck you, little shit. *pulls the trigger on a phantom without hesitation.*

Yuu: *Shoots another blot phantom ambushing from behind without flinching.*

Pomefiore trio: ...

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

hi im kinda new to twst (i started in October, idk if thats considered new) but Im just wondering, is RSA co-ed or just all boy school?

Welcome to Twst ^^

As I’ve said in this post (which also includes relevant screenshots), RSA is implied to be an all-boys school. We’ve yet to see anything that otherwise outright contradicts this. However, technically NRC is the only magic school we know of by name and that is confirmed or explicitly stated to be entirely boys.

I’ve already covered this topic extensively in this post. You can also take a look here and here.

There is no reason given in canon for only showing either Ortho’s eyes or mouth but not both. A popular fan theory is that Idia purposefully designed robo!Ortho this way because he considers it traumatic to stare into his dead brother’s entire face. Unfortunately, I don’t think this theory holds water, as many of Ortho’s later gears are not even designed by Idia and yet continue to hold this pattern. There is little to no reason why Ortho (Rabbit Gear), Crewel (Fairy Gear), or even Mrs. Shroud (Cerberus Gear) would intentionally obscure the eyes or the mouth; none of these characters are indicated to carry the same intense guilt and shame that Idia does regarding Ortho’s passing.

The more likely explanation for why Ortho appears this way is to differentiate robo!Ortho from the original within the story. The latter’s entire face is shown to us, and it’s the only instance in which we see “all” of Ortho.

I’ve discussed my own theory for what Rook’s family does here.

I basically proposed that the Hunt parents are international spies, assassins, or hitmen. See the post linked above for evidence I was able to glean to support my idea. (Please note that even though I brought up this theory, we still lack strong evidence for it and it’s mostly just me extrapolating from what little we know.)

[jacktypo]

welcome back home, ortho

[takeachillpillshawty]

Me when I finally beat book 6:

[dicenete]

Helloooooo0, some more Idia Shroud fanart, now inspired by screenshots from Disney's Hercules. Because I HAVE A THEORY! = I'm rambling again. :) Note that at the time when I'm writing this I have just finished Book 6 and I haven't started Book 7 yet. So this will contain some spoilers for Book 6. And everything under the cut as always :)

Also Disney's Hercules took a lot of creative liberties with the Greek mythology. Like Hera being the one trying to kill Hercules, rather than Hades because Zeus was being a horny bastard. And Hades being pretty straight up guy compared to his contemporaries. But I will be using the Disney movie as the basis since that is where the game takes its inspirations.

THESIS:

Idia Shroud from Twisted Wonderland is more like a twisted version of Hercules rather than Hades from the Disney movie.

Here me out:

Sure, his visual design is pretty much inspired by Hades and I love it. And the fact that he has a job that was bestowed upon him by his bloodline rather than by his own choice. (Zeus forcing Hades to take care of the Underworld full of dead souls and so on. ) And how Idia is pretty sarcastic like Hades when he is avoiding serious talking or pointing out absurd things. Let's just say, I take this as the surface personality of Idia.

But underneath it all, what do we have? We have a person who wants to be normal. What did Hercules want to be in the start of the movie? A normal person. Someone who was accepted and someone who could fit in among his peers. That is ultimately what Idia wants. Idia wants to be liked. That's why I think he was inspired to be a hero when he was young, something Hercules also wants to be to gain acceptance. (Hercules does it to be with his biological family again and so on.)

They are both awkward in social situations, other kinda in this himbo way and other in this nerdy awkwardness kinda way.

They both go into Underworld to find the person who was the most important to them. Hercules - Megara / Idia - Ortho

BUT ALSO! At the end of the movie, Hercules wants to stay as a mortal because he found acceptance with Meg. Idia could have stayed with S.T.Y.X. If he really wanted. I'm pretty sure with that. But he chose to go back to NRC because he, with encouragement with Ortho, wanted to experience life before he has to go and be the Watchman of the Underworld. He has a long way to go, he really harbors so much self-hatred and uncounciously self-sabotages himself. It is good thing that he has Ortho calling him out on it.

I really hope to see him grow and like himself more in the future :)

(I just loved all the Greek mythology names and references in the Book 6, it is such *chef's kiss * Like how Star Rogue is pretty much the tale of Zeus fighting against his father Chronos who has eaten all his other siblings and so on.)

[roxan1930]

Who would be the best character to point out Feyre, Rhysand and the IC's toxic hypocrisy not just to their faces but in front of all the other High Lords too?

Let's be honest, Feysand and th IC are NOT good people. They love to act like they're supposed "freedom fighters", but don't actually help female Illyrian or other "dreamers" in the Hewn City, they lie, they steal, they manipulate and literally destroy villages and whole courts out of pettiness more than anything else without any regret, even for the innocents caught in between

I really feel SOMEONE needs to call them out, and it needs to be in front of the other High Lords, cause I feel too many are too willing to too easily forgive the NC's bullshit and can get their eyes opened.

Also, let's be honest, just whoever does it against the IC will just result in the IC only gaslighting and making excuses how they're supposedly "in the right"

[the-twst-cast-needs-therapy]

I saw this text post and IMMEDIATELY had a vision