#and that he will never get over their death for as long as he lives

[sugucide]

Satoru Gojo has made it out of the grave.

In another life, he sits under the sun in the evenings and lazes for the hell of it, not for a ten minute break from the chaos. He enjoys the silence, unlittered by curses and fighting and white burning static. He smiles now and then, when he wants to and never to prove himself to be okay when he isn't.

In another life, there are still dark days. And when the nights are cold and memories of friends never forgotten become haunting, he is free to cry. He finds comfort in his peers, never judgement, and lets himself be sad until the sun rises and his slate is once again clean.

In another life, Satoru Gojo doesn’t have to learn to love his name and the weight it holds. He learns to love his body, his scars, his memories both good and bad. He learns that it’s okay to love, and its okay to fear loss- he learns how to share his meal time with others and accept compliments with one in return rather than a faux over-confidence.

In another life he finds a soulmate. You’re kind and strong and not with him for his name or glory. He doesn’t have to worry himself over protecting you because in another life there is nothing out to get him. You have loving sex each night and can’t keep your hands off each other the morning after either. He learns your body like it’s his own and treats it with the reverence that so many have given the Gojo name—though without the gory weight of responsibility.

Maybe, in another life, he has kids. Probably girls, but maybe a boy or two as well. He isn't a perfect dad, never will be, but he's one that stays and loves and leads by example, not by empty threat and misplaced anger and the expectation of power and greatness. He teaches his daughters what love a man should show his spouse through his affections towards to you. Teaches his son how to love himself before trying to lean on another for love. He raises a family, not a clan.

In another life, he buys a house with a garden. He commits to watching his garden grow, tends to the weeds when they become unruly after he's put it off a little too long. He stays in one place, doesn't feel an urge to move around and stay on edge. He builds a shed and turns it into his space: teaches his kids a secret knock to let him know they're in trouble with you for abandoning their chores and want to hide from the gentle wrath of your loving discipline.

In another life, Suguru comes to visit every weekend. He’s Uncle Suguru to his kids and they sit on the porch and talk over a drink as the sun sets. He doesn’t have to worry about his friend because they speak rather than act. Satoru isn’t so focused on himself. Suguru isn’t so reluctant to ask for help.

In another life, he enjoys the quiet of domesticity. He’s not facing death each day—not shaping students up to kill and exorcise. He eats good, and lots, and thanks you for every meal by doing the dishes wrong and growing confused when you take over yourself to do it right.

In another life, he keeps photo albums. They're off in some box in the attic he has to strain his back to find, and they're worn out and dusty and some of the faces he used to see every day are seen for the first time in years when he pulls them out to show the grandkids. They show interest in his stories, albeit half-feigned and more interested in giggling at how cute his friends were back in the day. He laughs along with them.

In another life, he’s old and gray and still makes the effort to dance with you in the living room to the old music he loves. He kisses you goodnight before bed and good morning when you wake him for breakfast. You go on date nights, because he’s never too busy fighting curses to be with his one love. He feels like a teenager in love every day, even well into his senior years.

In another life, all is well: he lays down in his grave with a smile, having lived a hard life, but one worth reliving over and over and over again. He does first, because he couldn’t bear to lose you, and he dies happy.

But thats in another life—one where he wasn’t doomed from the day he was born. Maybe his next life, if he’s so lucky.

[ficsbyrike]

Your Possessiveness Will be the Death of Me

pairing: caleb x reader

TW: graphic descriptions of blood and injuries, toxic relationships

Summery: caleb won’t let you go to the hospital

Word count: 3,833

Notes: I promised someone that my next Caleb fanfic would be fluff but apparently I am incapable of writing anything happy 😭😭 might be a little ooc

A wanderer. Claws. The stinging feeling on your abdomen. The rest was a blur.

The city had recently become more dangerous with an increase of wanderer sightings. You thought—foolishly—that because of your hunter training, this wouldn’t affect you in any significant way. More on site work, perhaps, but nothing more than a minor inconvenience. It never occurred to you that you could become a victim of a wanderer yourself.

You had been walking down the street when out of nowhere, in a cruel sneak attack, a wanderer had jumped out and ambushed you. Rendered defenseless for a few moments, it was able to leave a pretty nasty gash on your abdomen before it was promptly dealt with.

It stung badly.

It felt as if the sky was very low. It was cold as shit out. You could see your hot breath rise up in puffs of white through the inky black sky, and as if the universe conspired to spite you even more, it had begun snowing.

Your blood glistened brightly in the neon lights of the city.

It was around 2:30 in the morning. You have to be up early tomorrow. God…

You raked your brain for a moment. The warm blood seeping between your fingers made it hard to focus.

Linkon Hospital was too far away for you to walk to without collapsing half way through. And, in some cruel joke, your phone had been smashed on the pavement while you were fighting the wanderer so there was no way you could call anyone for help.

You only had one option. But it was your last resort.

Caleb lived close by, but he didn’t want to see you. It wasn’t just a hunch or a feeling, you knew. Although he didn’t outright say it, you ended on pretty bad terms last time you saw each other. Regrettable words were thrown, tears were shed. Even though Caleb tried to explain himself—why he left, why he lied about being dead—you called the conversation there, saying you weren’t in the mood to fight anymore. Since then, Caleb has sent you countless text messages in hopes of staying in touch. At first, he would apologize continuously. Then, when he perhaps realized that his attempts were futile, he resorted to simply sending short messages about how his day went, what interesting things he saw today, and good morning good night texts. You pridefully ignored all of the messages. They angered you, even. You felt as if he was trying to guilt you into forgiving him by using his status as a long-time best friend and pretending like nothing was wrong.

He knows what he did. And you couldn’t forgive him that easily.

With those thoughts in mind, you promptly blocked his number until further notice. Although sometimes you wondered whether he was still sending you messages despite knowing they weren’t getting through to you.

If you showed up at his door now, would he turn you away? Even if he was angry at you, he wouldn’t turn away a shivering, injured woman. Right? But even if he didn’t, it would be so awkward to confront the issue with him again. Perhaps you just won’t say anything unless he brings it up himself. Still, he could simply shut the door in your face and leave you on the street. And he had every right to do so, with the way you’ve been treating him. You probably would have done the same in his situation. Probably.

Swallowing your last bit of pride, you began shuffling over to Caleb’s residence, your hand pressed tightly against the fresh wound. He had sent you his new address during one of his routinely text messages, and you had unconsciously memorized it because it was a part of town you always passed by to get to the train station.

With every step you took, you felt pressure in your wound. It would open up again and again and fresh blood would seep in between your fingers. This only made you more antsy and you felt your heart speed up.

After what felt like an excruciatingly long walk, you finally stood at the front door of Caleb’s house. It was cute. A townhouse surrounded by similar looking buildings in the middle of the city. Even though the others had distinctions about them—flower beds hanging out windows, chairs and fairy lights dotting the balconies—Caleb’s house was the one with the least character. It stood there, gray with no lights in any of the windows, as if he had only just moved in a few days ago.

You brought your hand up to knock on the door, but then you hesitated. You were angry at him, but that was fine because you knew that sooner or later you would forgive him. But you couldn’t have the same assurance that he would forgive you.

You shook your head, eracing the image of Caleb’s darkened eyes from your mind, and knocked.

Whatever happens happens.

For a few moments, there was silence. It would only be natural if he had gone to sleep, considering the deep hours of the night. But then, to your surprise, you heard the noise of shuffling coming from the inside, followed by another short silence. Just as you thought that he was ignoring you, the door swung open, revealing Caleb’s tall frame in the doorway.

He was a bit paler since the last time you saw him. And a bit thinner too. You guessed it was just in your nature to worry about him, as you had done so many times in the past.

It was still cold as shit out. Your thin hunter uniform is doing little to protect you from the chilly air. But somehow, your skin still felt hot. Snowflakes still slowly glided down into your hair.

You cleared your throat, “Caleb.”

Just as the words had left your mouth, you wished for the earth below you to open up and swallow you whole. You come to his front door in the middle of the night looking like hell—exhausted, dirty, blood pouring out of your side and your nose—and the only word you can manage is his name? Were you stupid?

You scanned Caleb’s eyes for any emotions. Was he angry? Or at least disappointed in you?

He didn’t speak for a moment, his gaze falling onto your wound. You shifted self consciously.

“What happened to you?”

His question caught you off guard, prompting you to look up at him again.

“I got into a fight.”

“Yeah, I can tell. You look like shit,” he said, and you sighed.

Surely this was the same Caleb you knew. He wouldn’t just leave you out here.

“Does it hurt?” He asks.

You swiftly shake your head.

“It's minor. I’m not crippled. I’ll live,” you lie through your teeth, “can I crash at your place? I’ll be out of your hair by morning. It’s really cold out here.”

You dragged your one of your hands against the bottom of your nose, smudging the blood pooling there.

Caleb stepped aside, a familiar smirk decorating his face, “be my guest.”

***

Caleb’s residence was just as barren inside as it was outside. Only the bare necessities scattered his living room. But it was warm.

You tried taking off your shoes, but with your wound, it was a little hard to do. Once Caleb saw you struggling, he quickly leaned down and helped you.

“Thanks. Do you by chance have any disinfectant? And some gauze?”

“I thought you said it didn’t hurt.”

“No. It seriously doesn’t.”

“Don’t lie to me missy. You’re not getting rid of me that easily. Go sit on the couch.”

You did as he commanded, stumbling over to the couch before sitting down. Momentarily, there was the sound of running water and soon enough, Caleb came back with a clean, wet towel. He tried to gently lift up your shirt, but your hand stopped him.

“I’m fine. Really. Can I sleep on your couch? I’m really tired.”

Caleb’s worried eyes met yours, “you are not fine. You’re bleeding all over my floor. Stop being so stubborn and work with me here, yeah?”

He spoke in that same friendly voice, but it was obvious that there was concern in his expression.

You gently let go of his wrist with some hesitation, biting your bottom lip as he pulled your shirt over your head, discarding it somewhere on the couch next to him. Your wound was now completely exposed, along with your bare stomach. You knew he wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, but just having the wound out in the open was enough to put you on edge.

He inspected your injury. His brow furrowed before he brought the damp towel to your skin. You hissed and recoiled slightly. Caleb flinched, but held the towel gently in place.

“Sorry pipsqueak. It’s gonna hurt no matter what. Just… squeeze my arm if it gets too much.”

You didn’t say anything.

Caleb’s touch was warm. You felt his soft fingers on the tender skin of your side. It almost made you shiver.

“Why didn’t you call me sooner? Any later, and you would’ve bled out on the goddamn street,” he murmurs, and for a moment, you didn't know how to reply.

“My phone broke,” You say dumbly.

Then there was silence for a few moments. It was quiet. The only sound was his steady breathing and the clock ticking as the seconds slipped by.

“Are you angry?” You ask when he didn’t say anything.

Caleb shook his head, “no. You have every right to want to avoid me,” he sighed, “I just wish I wasn’t your last option.”

Silence again. Tik-tok… tik-tok…

“I thought you might turn me away,” you finally admitted.

“You know I wouldn’t let you bleed out on my doorstep. No matter how angry I get at you.”

“No, I don’t know that,” you whisper, “I feel like I don’t really know you anymore…”

Caleb finally looks up at you, a hint of hurt betrayed in his eyes, “Do you think… you think I changed that much?”

“I don’t know. But the Caleb I knew would never pretend to be dead for a whole year, leaving me by myself. So, yeah… I guess I don’t really know you anymore.”

“You had other people to turn to for help.”

“Sure. But in the end, who’s taking care of me?”

Caleb sighs again and turns back to your wound. Although he is trying to seem preoccupied, you can tell that he has a lot on his mind.

“We’ll continue this conversation later,” he finally says, “for now, let’s take care of your wound, yeah? The bleeding hasn’t stopped yet. I’ll need some water to wipe you down and see how deep your injury really is. Let me take you to the bathroom. It’ll be easier to do this there.”

Caleb helps you up. Then, he helps you walk over to the bathroom, his arm wrapped around your upper torso firmly but gently. Then, when he’s sure that you are able to stand upright on your own, he meticulously picks out the temperature of the water, making sure it’s not too hot or too cold.

He soaks the towel under the thin stream of water. Your old blood dyes the sink red, leaving a gruesome sight.

You feel dizzy from the blood loss. And slightly sleepy too. You grab onto the edge of the skin in an attempt to pull yourself together. The dim, buzzing light and the splashing of water continuously lull you to sleep.

Finally, when Caleb decided that he got most of the blood out from the towel, he wrings it, and brings it up to your wound again.

You take a sharp breath, colorful curses spilling out of your mouth unchecked, “haah… Caleb…”

He gently wipes away at the edges of the wound, trying hard to be as tender as possible. Despite this, he cleans up your wound with practiced efficiency leaving you to wonder how many times he has patched himself up during dark nights like these.

“You’re doing well,” Caleb says, running the towel under clean water again.

The cycle repeats a few times. By the time Caleb deems that he had cleaned the wound thoroughly enough, you are standing there, subtly trembling in pain. The sink, the floor, and both yours and Caleb’s hands are covered in your blood. You hope that it looks worse than it actually is.

“How is it?” You ask finally.

Caleb rustles through one of the storage compartments, and takes out fresh white gauze. However, your blood on his hands stains it as soon as he touches the bandages.

“It’s pretty deep. You’ll need to take it easy for a while,” he says.

Gritting your teeth as he wraps the gauze around your abdomen, you hold your breath.

“Relax,” Caleb utters, “the worst part is over.”

He wraps the gauze around you a few more times before securing it with a little bow at the end.

“There. Good as new.”

He lets out a sharp sigh, dusting his hands off like a mechanic, and straightens out to look at you again.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. But I’m worried. Should I go to the hospital?”

“No need. I’m here to take care of you, right?”

You nod.

You didn’t know what came over you then, but your body acted faster than you could think. You placed your hands on either side of his face and planted a small kiss on the edge of his lips.

He seemed stunned for a minute.

“You know I missed you, right?” You whisper, your fingers gently running through his raven hair.

“I thought you hated me,” he breaths.

“I do. But I can do both at the same time. These two things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“I missed you too.”

“I hope you never leave again. Because I won’t forgive you a second time.”

Caleb’s eyes flicker before he leans in closer and presses a firm kiss to your lips.

God, it was as if you were made for each other.

All of these years of yearning to the most recent worries that plagued your mind came bubbling up to the surface until they finally exploded like a volcano.

He wraps his arms around you. The need for him to be closer to you became stronger, to the point where it was almost animalistic. Your exhales became his inhales as he pushed you up against the skin, deepening the kiss. Your fingers tangled within his hair, and his hands slowly mapped out the bare skin of your back. You couldn’t help but shiver.

You hated him so much. But God… it was impossible to stay away. You were drawn to him like a moth to a flame, knowing that nothing good was going to come out of this. Maybe he would hurt you again. Maybe you were stupid to come running back to him at the first sign of affection. But that didn’t matter at this moment. Right now, you only knew him. He was your world. And you were his.

“Wait, wait. Caleb,” you gasp suddenly, “fuck.”

Caleb immediately steps back as if he was burned.

“What’s wrong?”

You look down at your wound. It was still bleeding. A faint dark red color peaked out from behind the bandages, a signal to it probably opening up again.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s okay. It’s very late. We’re both not in our right mind,” you say, heart still hammering in your chest.

Caleb hesitantly nodded. His face and t-shirt was smudged with the blood that undoubtedly came from your hands.

“Maybe I should go to the hospital,” you say again.

A dull throb pulsed over where your wound was, and although you trust that Caleb did a good job of cleaning it, you knew that he wasn’t a medical professional. Maybe you needed stitches. It would be a shame if you bled out in Caleb’s apartment for no reason other than your own carelessness.

“Damn it,” He curses, “I should’ve been more careful, you’ll bleed through these bandages too.” Frustrated, he ran his fingers through his hair. “You’re probably right, but I’ll be honest, I’m not really comfortable with letting you out of my sight just yet. I just… just let me try to add a few more layers of gauze, yeah? And if that doesn’t work, we’ll figure things out from there.”

Caleb takes out more gauze and wraps it around your lower torso again, a bit more tighter this time. He steps back to inspect how much of the gauze has already been bled through, his brow furrowing.

“Damn it…” he mutters.

You put your hand on his arm to stop his continuous fidgeting, “Caleb. Calm down.”

“You’re right. No… I just… You’re bleeding. How are you still bleeding? I’ve never seen you be this chill about an injury before. You remember when you were learning how to ride a bike when we were kids? You would cry so hard when you so much as scraped your knee against the pavement and would run to grandma so she could comfort you.”

“I remember. You were not the best teacher. It’s a miracle I haven’t gotten my front teeth knocked out.”

“You were sensitive as a kid.”

“I grew out of it.”

“Apparently.”

There was another pause. It seemed that every time you and Caleb found a common ground, there was something that would always bring you back and remind you that everything had changed. He was not the reckless little boy from your childhood that you remember. And, in turn, you were not the sensitive little girl that he remembers.

When did everything become so different?

Caleb’s apartment suddenly became cold again.

Caleb shook his head before speaking, “never mind. Have you had dinner? Are you hungry?”

“I don’t know if I can stomach anything right now.”

There was a beat of silence again, as if Caleb was choosing his words carefully, “not even rice? Or maybe some broth?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on. I’ll order you something. Whatever you want.”

***

Caleb lended you one of his shirts since yours was stained with blood.

As promised, he ordered you takeout from a place that worked late and forced you to eat dinner. Even though you felt a little sick, you still made yourself eat.

He didn’t have a dinner table, so you sat on the couch while Caleb fed you.

“Why don’t you have a dinner table?” You inquire, “haven’t you moved in months ago?”

“I just haven’t gotten around to it.”

It was nice to catch up with him, even though it was a little awkward at times. You would talk for a few minutes before falling into silence again. Then someone would say something and the conversation would strike up again.

No one mentioned the kiss from earlier.

The familiar and slightly domestic atmosphere was almost enough to make you forget your previous worries. Almost.

There was a slight buzzing in your head, and then a wave of dizziness overcame you, harder than before.

You calmly, although wobbly, got up from the couch, and looked down at Caleb.

“Caleb, take me to the hospital.”

Caleb followed you up, “Hold on. Wait.”

You started walking towards the door, feeling like you could collapse at any moment. Caleb beat you to the front door, blocking it with his body.

“You’re not in the condition to go anywhere. Look at you. You can barely stand!”

“Then you take me!”

“Listen. I’ll take care of everything. You can’t go anywhere, even with my help.”

“But—“

“Don’t argue with me on this, pipsqueak,” He grabbed your arm a little more forcefully then he intended, “You’re not leaving in this state. No one will take better care of you than me.”

You bite at your bottom lip. What has gotten into him? Was he really just willing to let you bleed out just because he didn’t want you to leave?

Mustering up your last bit of courage and strength, you forcefully tug back on your arm that Caleb was holding, causing him to stumble forward a few steps. The plan was to get around him when he was caught off guard, however, when you retreated your arm in such a sudden motion, the muscles on your abdomen contracted, causing you to shudder in pain.

You collapse onto the floor, unable to put up a fight any further.

“Damn it, pipsqueak. I told you not to argue with me on this.”

Caleb gently helped you up, not minding your little stunt. He helped carry you to his room, tucking you into bed, bringing the covers all the way up to your chin even though you were hot. His scent enveloped you.

He planted a gentle kiss on your forehead, “you know I only want what’s best for you.”

You nod.

You realized that perhaps you should’ve seen this coming from the very beginning. The way he clung on to you when you first came, the way he never let you out of your sight. He wouldn’t let you go now. No matter how much you struggled against him. And you couldn’t say that you hated the idea. This was the person you loved the most. The person who knew you best. The person who would take care of you better than anyone.

He was the person you turned to at the end of the day.

Caleb respectfully sat down on the floor across from you, resting his head on the edge of his bed. Lost in thought, his fingers met yours. Then he brought them up to his lips and placed a gentle kiss.

“I’m mad about you,” he whispers, “I think I’ll die if you ever continue to ignore me like you did.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. Sleep tight, pipsqueak.”

It was four in the morning and the door was closed and Caleb's breathing gradually evened out. The light sound of cars passing on the street below was the only sound. In the haziness of the deep hours of the night, you were back in grandma’s house for a moment. You had snuck into Caleb's room again because you were scared of the sound of cars outside and the shadows on the wall of your room.

The pain in your side is unbearably excruciating. You carefully peel the blanket up to see Caleb’s sheets covered in blood. Your shirt had completely soaked through, and there was no doubt that your gauze had done little to prevent the blood flow. You felt unbearably hot, and your heart was thumping out of your chest.

Without thinking much further, you covered yourself with Caleb’s blanket and turned to the side, scumming to deep sleep shortly after.

At least you were with the person who knows you best.

At least you were with the person who loves you the most.

Masterlist

[mkarchin713]

Bruce stares at his mark in the mirror, a mark that made no sense until he first saw that photo splashed across the daily planets front page. A mark he hid for feeling unworthy of his perfect match.

Despite his own feelings he took a secret pride in mark. It was a sign that his soulmate still lived, that there was a chance, a hope, of him getting over him self and one day telling his soulmate the truth.

To think that Jason, his sweet boy, the one who denies he still believes in the magic that is Robin, is now forced to bear a mark that symbolizes his matches death. How must his Jaylad feel, everytime he looked in a mirror and new his hope was as dead as his soulma-

Wait.

Wait one second.

Shared scars …

Shared pain …

Stopped being shared at the moment of death.

The only way Jason could have those scars…

Was if his mate was still alive when he got them.

This…

This was so much worse than Bruce imagined.

Did Jason know?

Did his dear son realize?

Now only was his soulmate dead

But Jason himself bore his matches death scars.

One of the most horrible death scars Bruce had ever imagined.

Those weren’t autopsy scars.

Those were vivisection scars.

His sweet boys soul mate, a person his child had never had the opportunity to meet. Was not only vivisected, but had lived long enough to be stitched back up.

Bruce felt sick.

Jason had told him, according to Catherine, Jason hadn’t started feeling shared pain until he was a year old.

Meaning his soulmate was at most a year younger than his Jaylad.

Meaning this all happened, not only to his child’s soulmate, but to a child himself.

Bruce knew Jason didn’t want to know who his soulmate was, most who lost that hope didn’t want to either.

But this wasn’t just about his son’s soulmate anyone.

This was about a child, little over 14, being vivisected and murdered.

Bruce could have let this all go for Jason’s sake, but Batman, Batman needed to get justice for this child.

Batman wouldn’t let the people who killed Robin’s soulmate get away with this.

Random thought…

So soulmate AUs right?

The wound swapping scar one. (I’ve been out of the game for a while)

What if. Danny and Jason died on the same day?

And Jason has an autopsy scar for reason I don’t know. It doesn’t make since to me, you preform them when you don’t know the cause of death or for research. Bruce knew what killed Jason. You could argue that it was Brucie Wayne but alternatively

Brucie would be crying so hard: Don’t hurt my baby any more! Please let’s lay him to rest with my parents..

So why would Jason randomly have the scar?

Danny’s Vivisection.

Everyone assumed it was an autopsy scar, but Bruce knows he didn’t do that.

Jason knows, he remember the night not long after the pits, he woke up screaming as his skin split apart blood pouring from his chest. He remembers his bones breaking and oh god somebody just let him die!

Damian remember watching his mother order people about as she tried to soothe Jason, from behind the cracked door. He remembers seeing the amount of blood pouring from his chest, and the sound of his bones snapping, from some magical force.

It was the night Damian decided to swear off soulmates.

[pricegouge]

prompt fill based off this request. can be read as a sister piece to unlucky foot

rat race

cw: simon x gn!fairy!reader. predator prey dynamic and i really mean it. implied deaths offscreen. MDNI

it's a new maze every time. peg board floor, the walls mounted to it shifting with each session to keep you confused and, lost amid the erratic angles and dead ends. sometimes they're mirrored, reflect your mounting dismay back at you with every turn. mostly, he likes other obstacles, small puzzles you have to solve before continuing on to the next part of the maze.

today's impediment is a little more dire.

you smell it before you see it, the familiar reek of soiled bedding and cloyingly strong aspen. you're not alone.

simon sees the minute you register your predicament, dark eyes becoming hyperfocused when you stiffen up, fear locking your joints. he looms overhead, bad omen hung double in the sky where the glass which prevents you and the rat both from climbing out catches his reflection just enough to mirror him again, superimposes his mask just there above you. inescapable.

you think maybe one of these days he'll make the maze the same and pray it's not this day. you'd rather starve to death within it's confines than let the rat live off your corpse for a few days longer. maybe that's where he'd gotten all those fairy specimen that lined his study, their little shadow boxes visible even now, his largest mount displayed proudly behind his desk, looking over his shoulder at you pityingly. maybe you'll get a spot of honor, too.

but not if the rat finds you, vicious teeth and ravenous appetite. it had come close a few times, clever little nose giving it a leg up on you. simon had never once moved to help as it had closed in, just leaning closer to watch as the rat closed in, eyes darting between the two of you with the sort of anticipation and excitement one usually reserved for a well-balanced match.

so you can't depend on his mercy - not that he's ever given you reason to, really, but you'd hoped -

the pegboard holes are just big enough to catch your toes. you trip as you scurry along, fingers trailing on the walls next to you lest you miss a turn in your haste. not that it really matters, not when each turn looks the same. simon used to leave you little hints, offerings of sweets which would guide you closer to the end. he'd long since stopped that, seemed content to watch you twist yourself into knots for hours before you found a way out if needed. you hoped that wouldn't be the case tonight. the rat rarely ever needed hours to find you.

you stop to catch your breath when you reach the next four-corners. it's a dangerous spot to be, what with all the straight shots where the rat might see you, but it also gives you the most options for an escape if it comes to it, something you've learned the hard way. your chest rises with effort, tiny cloud of condensation collecting on the glass above. beyond it, you see simon's eyes dart to your left with just a little too much excitement and you take off to the right before you can even collect yourself, wood paneling flying by as you run blindly, right, left, left again, one-eighty when you hit a dead end. you huff in frustration, a muted spark flying when your fists clench in frustration and fear. you have options, you know, but you don't like the odds and -

it's surprising how quiet your companion can be, when it suits him. you don't hear the quiet chuffing of his breathing, nor the gentle patter of his little paws as he creeps closer. it's not even the slithering of its tail that gives it away, but the subtle scrape of its whiskers against the paneling, the wall on your left seeming to swell closer as the beast stalks by on the other side of it.

simon had lied, that pointed look from before meant to send you scurrying in the wrong direction - right into the rat's clutches. you'd be more mad, if you had time to be.

the path to the right is short - doesn't let you wander too far away from the beast that dogs you before forcing you to turn left. you're running parallel with it now, or at least you would be if it had kept on its same path. but that's unlikely in this labyrinth, and one right hand turn could send it your way. another could have it barreling down the aisle at you. you dip right as soon as you're able, do it again at your next chance -

and stop dead in your tracks when you see the very end of its scaly tale disappear around a corner up ahead.

faltering where you stand, you take a minute to try and find your bearings, weigh your options as you see them. there's no exit behind, but death could be waiting before and it takes you a minute to remember that if it's not there, it will be around the next corner (or the next, or the next) until you find your way out of here.

so you creep forward, each step placed carefully lest you slip, bare skin squeaking off the cheap wood. you don't make a sound as you approach the blind, not even as you peek around the corner to find the rat still at the end of the path, strong nose raised as if to sniff out whatever might be on the other end of the wall before it. you keep your wits about you, pull your head back to collect a calming breath before darting past the gap while it's distracted, your footsteps coming a little more calmly, a little more confidently as you slink away. you can feel simon's heavy gaze on you, seemingly magnified by the glass overhead. he's rapt now, his unwavering gaze only adding to your stress, nerves a tangled ball of pollen you can't find the end of, can't get a grasp on.

maybe that's why you're too distracted to mind your breathing, the harsh pants of your panic alerting the rat to your presence. it chuffs in its excitement, long body struggling as it tries to turn around in the close press of walls that surround it. you hear the scrape of its little claws, a series of suppressed sneezes it would never emit if it was still in stalking mode. the gig is up.

you don't even bother to look behind you before you're off, feet slamming against the pegboard in your haste. simon's too excited to bother suppressing it, unwittingly leading you toward the exit by how he leans too far forward, a subconscious tell which you try to focus all your concentration on. anything to avoid looking back, avoid seeing the scurrying beast which tails you.

it's gaining is the worst part. you can take corners quicker than it, but it's faster on straightaways and it's only now, as you weave your way through row after row of them that you realize there are a lot of straightaways in this maze. simon's note taking wasn't just for show, it seemed.

right, left, straight, right and right again. teeth snatch at your clothes, sharp enough to tear instead of catch. a mixed blessing as it allows you to slip its grasp this time. you drive yourself harder, chest aching with your labored breath as you try to stay just outside of its range. it squeaks and squeals in its excitement, a terifying littany you can't quite drown out even with your blood pounding in your ears. you focus on trending right because that's the way simon's leaning, are just starting to worry you've misjudged him when you see it: sweet sanctuary, a perfect circle in an external wall, the sweet smell of candy sitting just beyond.

you leap through it as soon as you're able, shriek in fright when you swear you can feel teeth snapping at your toes. but simon shutters the door as soon as you're through it, dull thud of the rat slamming against it the last thing you hear of it for the night.

supine, catching your breath, you watch almost disinterestedly as simon stands and collects the massive box from off his desk, big meaty hands lifting it gently before carrying it off to the other side of the room where he takes a minute to extract the rat and return it to its cage. it nips him, retaliation for a pointless maze, but simon just chuckles darkly, calls it cheeky as he feeds it a grape from his pocket. when he turns back to you, he asks why you haven't had your treat yet and you just shake your head, stomach turning at the thought of sweets right then. or maybe it's because the thought of being treated like just another one of his lab rats leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

the chair groans under him when he sits back down, his fist heavy as it drags over the pad of paper before him, taking more notes. everything about him is heavy and he never lets you forget it - movements purposefully drawn out to emphasize it, as if he's any need for it. even for a human he's a large man, and there's nothing your paltry sparks could ever do against him. you're not stupid, despite what he thinks.

"almost got you that time," he grumbles as he finishes up. you're still laying on your back, processing your predicament. he just uses it as an excuse to slide the paper you're laying on closer, his palm planted frimly next to you, framing you between forefinger and thumb. you don't bother arguing with him, don't see the point.

over his shoulder, some long-dead kin seems to agree.

"you'll be a wet specimen, won't you?" his mask hides his expression when he says it, but his eyes are just as animated as they'd been when he'd lead you astray, gleaming darkly in the low light of his banker's lamp.

you can only pout up at him, confused until he picks you up, turns you so you face the cupboard, one of its door's hanging slightly ajar, the low glint of glass glowing from within. even static it seems to dance, and you imagine the jarred contents within rippling, the mangled little corpses preserved in formaldehyde bobbing along. you shake your head adamantly, fear bubbling back to life in your belly. you'd only seen inside the cupboard once but it had been enough, shelves full of gored little fairies haunting you ever since, constant threat.

simon tuts, as if you're being petulant and contrary. "you'd best shape up, then. can't mount a half-eaten fairy."

[raayllum]

Immortality & Longevity in TDP

Because season 7 brought up some very interesting Threads to contrast with the series' previous sentiments on immortality / ridiculously long lifespans. So let's go.

Those Who Naturally Live Forever(-ish)

There are three main camps of characters who experience longevity in TDP.

Those who experience it naturally, but can still die (the Archdragons, some elves)

Those who acquire it through dark magic means

Those who cannot permanently die (the First Elves, Aaravos)

I want to talk about the Group Number One first, because it includes the most characters and was the basis for this meta. Besides Lujanne and Akiyu, we don't know too many elves who have lived for hundreds of plus years, although it wouldn't surprise me if Aditi did. Lujanne and Akiyu are both mages as well, with Lujanne living at the most powerful concentration of Moon magic in the world, so that could be part of the reason why she's lived so long, and Tidebound elves (as Finnegrin had Sea Legs' sister for 40+ years) just naturally live much longer than other types of elves (Moonshadow, Sunfire) as far as we know.

The Archdragons themselves also don't talk much about the length of their lives, since it's a species-shared trait and so second nature to them. However, whenever they do talk about it, we get a very clear picture:

It's not exactly... positive. Now, some of this is because of their mental states. Sol Regem lost his beloved mate a thousand years ago, lost his position as the king of the dragons, and been effectively cut off from Xadia's political sphere / the other archdragons for a long time. Rex Igneous is similarly isolated (though it seems more self-inflicted) and we know he had a previous falling out with Avizandum (presumably over Zubeia). We also see Zubeia grow increasingly listless both times she falls ill / almost loses her family (S3, 5x09) so it seems that despite being very rare and accordingly isolationist, Archdragons don't tend to do well alone and without families (understandably).

But the verdict seemingly from at least 2/4ish known archdragons is that

In this way, the Archdragons' view of their quasi-immortality isn't that different from how Aaravos views his literal one:

The stars have never smiled upon their creations. This world was made by cruel, unfeeling hands. It is an instrument of pain, of torment. To exist within this world is to suffer. Even death is no reprieve.

So what about the characters who disagree to the point of doing terrible things so that they can exist forever?

Kpp'ar and Kim'Dael (Crafted Immortality)

Although there's only two characters in the "dark magic induced immortality" category, they paint two such completely different pictures that, in many ways, it shows the full spectrum of just how one can achieve an unnatural immortality.

On the one hand, we have Kim'Dael, who takes dark magic's canonically to its long believed natural conclusion of cannibalism. Kim'Dael takes parts (blood) from magical creatures (in this case, elves) and consumes it to enhance her own abilities and her livelihood. This doesn't always mean fully killing and draining someone, but often can (Bloodmoon Huntress) with multiple individuals / sometimes whole families at a time as she must experience semi-regular rejuvenation; it is unknown if she needs to eat or consume anything else in her day-to-day life.

Her magic use was also confirmed to be a form of dark magic in this interview:

the way that she does, is beyond primal magic. She’s found ways through dark magic to extend her primal moon powers. It’s very evil how she is able to do what she does and extend her life

Despite the dragons who don't have to work to be immortal being far more despondent about their long, long lives, it's not hard to think of reasons why Kim'Dael would want to be immortal. Death is a scary unknown, she (like Finnegrin) is out of tune with her primal knowingness on a fundamental level, and she can do so without harm to herself. Like most dark mages we've seen, her dark magic use requires using and taking from the people around her more, accordingly, than it's taking from her. She takes from others to give herself power: dark magic 101.

Kpp'Ar's search for immortality is way fucking weirder, IMO. It's not necessarily that dark mages, or dark magic, never uses the caster's body for spells. It inherently saps energy (hence the white streaks, nosebleeds, collapsing, etc) and drains life from the body; each spell harms the caster in at least a small way. It's also not like we've never seen a dark mage use their own body parts for a spell; Claudia uses and drinks her own blood mixed into the pentapus ink in 5x09, and Viren mutilates his own heart in 6x08 rather than use someone else's.

It's just, that if Kim'Dael has a way to chase immortality that does mean using somebody else's body... why on earth would you use your own?

It seems that before his change of heart, Kpp'Ar was experimenting with one of the darkest of all magics. A way of extending life. Indefinitely. A horrible and strange kind of immortality. The ancient and disturbing practice of self-eating.

Now, some of this may come down to access or skillset. Presumably Kim'Dael could drink human blood and use it for her spells, since the arcanum of the elf she's drinking from doesn't seem to matter. However, even if you can use human blood, Kpp'Ar at this point was older and used a cane (if we assume this was a later in life pursuit, and not over decades); he likely wasn't going to be able to kidnap and haul back anyone but children back to Puzzle House, and while we know he's willing to sacrifice children (6x06) it's not canonically clear if he's willing to use them.

Either way, we know Kpp'Ar was pursuing immortality as well as the location of the Garden of Innocents concurrently. We don't know if this was interrelated, but we do know that unicorns are connected to the Star arcanum, which is presumably what makes First Elves immortal-ish so... maybe? It's not clear why Kpp'Ar would want immortality in general, especially that type of immortality, for himself, but clearly there will be a reason. It could be that he wanted to transfer it to someone else (Soren) and gave up, but that's not fundamentally different than what Kim'Dael does, so... again: why himself?

(Arc 3 come home to me)

Cannot Die

Last but not least, we have Aaravos + the other First Elves in the 'cannot die' category, except when they can (Leola). I've written more before about how... odd the info surrounding what the Cosmic Council can and cannot do and what we may be missing, for lack of a better term. Quick rundown:

The Cosmic Council can execute Startouch elves. Aaravos did not have enough power to stop them. (*At the time of Leola's death, as things may have changed since then)

Aaravos seems to be utterly unconcerned that the Cosmic Council conceivably could, if they became aware of his actions, execute him in the same manner. Aaravos does not seem to care if they notice, given that he asks, "Are you watching?" in 7x08.

When Aaravos' mortal form (like the one Leola had/used on earth) is destroyed in 7x09, there are noticeable visual differences to the destruction of his daughter's.

Aaravos seems to want to bring the First Elves into "this world" as it is an instrument of pain that begets only suffering, and "I want them to suffer."

We also know that Aaravos believes the First Elves don't care about / love their creations at all, so destroying the earth can't be the endgame goal. We also know that something is keeping Aaravos from accessing/attacking them, otherwise he would've done so before being imprisoned.

Presumably, something in the interim has changed with either 1) Aaravos is no longer able to die or 2) He has found a way to be able to kill the other First Elves if they went after him, rather than the other way around. Potentially dark magic is the road to get there, or a form of ancient magic the First Elves tried to keep hidden that became the basis for dark magic.

Either way, we know that the First Elves are able to end an otherwise truly immortal being's existence permanently (at least so far) and that it's a power at one point Aaravos did/does not have. I'll be curious to see what we learn about all of this and self-eating in the future.

[katerinaaqu]

Telemachus probably had a good relationship with Laertes and Anticlea, at least until Anticlea's death, but what about his mother's side of the family? Since they lived in Sparta, they probably rarely saw each other, but it's a shame we don't get to read about the family dynamics. Even when Telemachus sets sail and visits Sparta, there's no mention of him possibly visiting Icarius (or at least I have never seen anyone mention it), then again, his grandfather might be gone by that point too.

Ohhhhh that is a very interesting observation! Thanks for stating it and beware this will be long!

Although his relationship with the rest of the family is not specified, it is possible. Although arguably Anticlea was way too depressed by her son's absence to be emotionally available with anyone (arguably we do not even know how far back her death goes. When she speaks to Odysseus in the underworld it seems that she was alive at least till the point where the suitors decided to turn their place into their hotel. Maybe that was what broke her; seeing her family and the fortune her son built brick by brick being eaten away by these men, Penelope holding on to whatever she has and an underage grandson that couldn't take over might as well be what made her mind sway completely in combination to Laertes also partially losing his mind in sorrow)

Either way there isn't anything in Homer to assume that her relationship with the rest of the family was warm or cold in the first place so your guess is as good as anything else.

Now the mother's side of the family is ab intriguing question. Culturally the woman technically cuts ties with the family side she had when she moves to her husband's house but of course practically that doesn’t mean stop speaking to them altogether so we do assume that she did keep contact with her family one way or another (thus she knew that Iphitime was far away so she was probably updated on her little sister's fate) but she doesn't seem to keep THAT regular contact with them either. Most likely the whole issue with Helen running away with Paris and starting the domino of this war mess might as well have made relationships of other kingdoms cold with Sparta for a little while.

Oh Icarius is very much alive in the Odyssey. The suitors repeatedly say to Telemachus to "send his mother back to her father so they can arrange the dowry". Icarius is also mentioned to the final rhapsodies having an active part to the selection of his future groom. It seems that 5he suitors were already in contact with him for Icarius sent his response to his preference towards Eurymachus because he was the richest of all the suitors courting his daughter. So no it is not that Icarius was dead. Just like Laertes (which is even more interesting given how I have no doubt that Odysseus is older than Penelope) Icarius is very much alive. My guess is that he for starters was not in Sparta

Sparta is one city in the central of the general area of Lacedaemona which is the region Sparta is located in, in Peloponese. Icarius could be in charge of any one of the minor palaces in the area outside Sparta so Telemachus wouldn't really bump into him anytime soon if we went straight to Sparta from Pylos. We also do not know the exact sentiments of Icarius for the Ithacan family given how he never wanted Odysseus for his groom to begin with due to the fact that his kingdom was not as rich or influential as others. Thus according to some versions the whole Oath of Tyndareus was with double objective on Odysseus's side. On once he wouldn't be embarrassed to lay off the courting for Helen and second he wanted to get to Tyndareus's good side so that he would either arrange the wedding or persuade Icarius to allow him to compete against him for the hand of Penelope. Either way Icarius was not very warm on the idea of having Odysseus as his daughter's husband at first.

In Pausanias he does seem to wish to have him stay (or at least his daughter) when he tries to stop them (again either because he wants to stop the wedding and let his daughter go back to him or because he believes he can use Odysseus and his knowledge for his own kingdom). It could be that Icarius still kept a grudge against Odysseus and his side of the family including his grandson. Potentially wishing that his daughter had a more suitable, according to his standards, match. That is of course a pure hypothesis but yes Icarius seems to be mostly uninvolved with his daughter (much less with Ithaca) till the subject of remarriage comes up, potentially so that he will continue have influence in Ithaca.

And he DOES seem eager to cut the line of Odysseus off given how he doesn't seem to support the last wish of Odysseus to let Telemachus come of age, take over and THEN Penelope remarry. He seems eager to accept the proposal of the suitors in general and Eurymachus in particular to go on with the wedding arrangement apparently ignoring his grandson completely and not support the idea that his grandson were to take over Ithaca even if it seems like his best interest to do so (he still has influence in Ithaca through Telemachus and if, in theory Penelope were to remarry some other king he could expand his influence even further). He seems to be holding a grudge against Odysseus to the point of wanting to block his own grandson from the line of succession exactly because he carries the blood of Odysseus

Hehehe sorry that was long but some random thoughts here!

[slut-strut-satan]

Hi 👋 I just saw your post about the inconsistencies in DA canon, and I very much agree: some things look like the writers themselves are unreliable narrators when it comes to some parts of the lore. But I wanted to ask something - and I hope you don't mind - as someone who isn't a Solas fan and hasn't spent as much time analyzing his story as maybe you did. I see so many vastly different interpretations re: the Veil I'm starting to feel like I'm losing my mind. A lot of people strongly believe that tearing down the Veil wouldn't end the world, but Solas himself says in Trespasser: "I will save the elven people, even if it means this world must die." If you ask him why he helped you with the Qunari plot if he intends to destroy the world anyway, he says he doesn't want people to suffer before it's necessary (which implies that at some point it will be necessary). He seems genuinely sorry for what he believes he has to do. Doesn't it mean he confirms the consequences of removing the Veil would be world-ending? If it doesn't mean the world would be literally destroyed and a great number of people killed, why did he phrase it like this? Why make an enemy out of the Inquisitor and make them believe he is planning to destroy the world if it isn't the case?

Solas rarely speaks in straight lines. He uses metaphors and is generally very vague, which is how he gets around lying. He doesn’t lie, he disguises the truth.

I’ve never understood why people thought he was speaking literally there, because Solas ‘destroyed’ the world of the Elves and yet Elves are very much still around. Changed, but around. Dwarves, too. There’s no reason to believe everyone would just drop dead the minute the Veil comes down, especially since people can go in an out of the Fade physically with no major consequences. I firmly believe Solas would not take action against the Veil if he thought it would just end all life on Thedas. That’s just not the character. People can hate on him all they want, but Solas values life. That’s just canon. He wouldn’t be trying to do what he views as saving the world if he did not care about the people living in it.

And if that’s not enough for you, Solas himself directly tells us that modern people would survive to see the new world. He’s had multiple lines implying that he fully expects the current inhabitants of Thedas to be capable of surviving in the Restored Thedas, hes just not naive enough to pretend casualties won’t be inevitable.

When you ask him what his plan was, he tells us that he took precautions to lessen the loss of life. The estimate he gives us in regards to potential casualties is ‘thousands.’ And whether or not you think a few thousand people is an acceptable sacrifice is irrelevant right now. The point is that he’s not recklessly throwing lives away for no reason. Solas believes that Thedas will not survive long term in its current state and that restoring it to its natural state is the ethical thing. The Veil is an ecological disaster. Think of it as something similar to a Climate Change situation.

We know that the Veil had been growing weaker and weaker over time because it’s been established that mass death and violence weakens it. And Veilguard might not want you rememver that part, but modern Thedas is a hell world of violence, disease, and oppression. It is not a healthy or nice place. Spirits, Mages, and Elves (Solas is all three of these things) are routinely, systematically, and horrifically oppressed, and the Veil has contributed factors which unfortunately lead to this state of oppression. Again, DATV doesn’t want you to know any of that, but they can’t sweep these things under the rug for anyone who’s played the other games.

Solas created the Veil because he’d been forced to make an impossible choice for the good of the world. No one in Thedas would be alive today without him. Now, he’s been forced to make an equally impossible one, and ultimately he decides that he is morally responsible for undoing the damage wrought by the Veil. This is not to make himself happy. This is not selfish. This is a character sacrificing their own sense of self for the sake of duty. His conscience compels him to try and right what he perceives as a terrible wrong. I’m not sure why this is meant to be a negative quality but I’m not a sociopath so I couldn’t hazard a guess.

[cordjefferson]

Hi! Not sure if you still answer questions on here, but I feel lost as a screenwriter right now. In my final year of film school, I’m afraid the “industry” we are about to be let out into no longer exists. I don’t want to go back to journalism, but I also don’t want to fail at screenwriting in vain. I’ll keep going, but just wondering if you’ve ever found yourself in a similar place. Hope you’re well.

A few days after Trump was elected the first time, I called my dad to complain and commiserate. He listened to me worry for a few minutes and then he said, "You know, when I was a young man, it was common to wake up and find out that Medgar Evers had been killed or that Malcolm X had been killed or that Martin Luther King Jr. had been killed, or that another person had been lynched somewhere not too far from where I grew up. It was terrible, but we had to go on living our lives."

It was a helpful reminder that shit's always sucked -- in many ways it used to suck worse. That doesn't mean your fear is unfounded. You have every right to be afraid as all the world's ghouls circle their wagons in an effort to eternalize their wealth and influence, thus making our already intractable problems feel even more intractable. But the great news is that now is the perfect time for you to make your art.

Hard times can make for excellent work. Consider that punk rock and rap blossomed under Reagan. I'm currently in the middle of a novel called The Oppermanns, which follows a trio of German-Jewish brothers in 1933 Berlin dealing with the rise of Nazism. It's a great book on its face, but the whole piece becomes even more interesting when you discover that it was written by a German-Jew in real time as the Nazis rose to power.

Even if what you write isn't taken seriously at first, making art is never a failure. Artists aren't athletes, meaning you don't need to produce your best work before you turn 35 and your knees give out. Creativity is a lifelong pursuit. You'll only get better at it the more you live, learn, and grow. And because the winds of industries and the world are always changing, allowing their vagaries to scare you into inaction would be a death sentence.

I had a very long dry spell in the year 2014. I went to meeting after meeting trying to get into a TV writers' room and was rejected over and over again. After almost nine months of being told no, I finally emailed my manager one night to say that I was going to quit "working" in TV and go back to what was left of my journalism career. He asked me to stick it out for one more month, and two weeks later I got an interview with someone who hired me. Work has fortunately been pretty steady ever since. So, of course, stubborn persistence is also a valuable tool in all of this.

I can't imagine I'm saying anything that you don't already understand somewhere in your heart. You know that you've picked a challenging career. The arts are infamously cutthroat and chancy, and many of your contemporaries are going to quit somewhere along the line. It's a tough road to hoe, and the only thing that makes it at all tolerable is the ability to find value and joy in the making of your thing, whatever that may be. If writing something feels like it's been done in vain because you don't sell it or it doesn't become a hit TV show, I recommend you don't do this work. Only do it if the doing of it is what sustains you, because the doing of it may be what has to sustain you forever.

I'm rooting for you from afar. XO

[kitzuukts]

a round of MCD headcanons for my eventual rewrite project:

Laurance never regains his sight. His face is mauled with void burns from Ungrth tearing the boundary of the Nether and the Overworld. In fact, he can only see when in shadow knight form :)

Garroth x Laurance x Aphmau frfr

Werewolves actually don't exist. They are replaced with Lu'pines, the wolffolk, who cannot turn people and morph between a teue wolf and wolf-ish human (think mystreet werewolves, leona, etc).

I lied. There are werewolves. But they are not the lu'pine. They were led by the Ultima, a cursed man, but were all slaughtered by decree of the High Priest of O'khasis.

Only two survived. The red-eyed ultima and a lu'pine-werewolf who follows him whispering that their cause is just and that they are the perfect lifeform and the ultima should turn or slaughter everyone in their path. The ultima is not pleased.

Witches and warlocks are not a weird seperate species of people. It's a profession, some have immense talent, but it's not a birthright.

Aphmau, Garroth, Lucinda, Laurance, Travis, and Aaron are reincarnations of Irene, Esmund, Menphia, Kul'zak, Enki, and Shad. Aphmau is NOT Irene.

The Irene Dimension is actually limbo. That constant chiming is actually to keep those inside from losing themselves in the nothingness.

Aphamu's total love interests are Garroth, Laurance, Zoey, and Aaron. No one else.

Garroth and Laurance treat Dante like a son. He's only a couple years younger than the two and HATES this.

The process of becoming a shadow knight is essentially being maimed, killed, and injected with shadow knight blood. Once ressurected, the knight is essentially undead, bloodlusted, drawn to the Nether and Void, and briefly physically weak. During that period of weakness, initiates are often abused and beaten in any way the others see fit to "break them in."

Zenix and Vylad were taken prisoner by the shadow knights to transform. They were frnding off the knights to save a small village and let them escape. Vylad sacrificed himself as a chance for Zenix to get away, and he ended up tripping and getting captured anyway.

It tooks years for Katelyn to get over Jeffery's death. She went into the Irene dimension to protect Abby and was horrified to learn that Abby had to geow up without her. It haunts her to this day.

Hyria knew the moment Lucinda was born that she was Menphia's reincarnation. She taught Lucinda magic against her father's wishes because of this.

Laurance is a meif'wa. It's funny.

Laurance can speak wyvern. After Ungrth's passing, he speaks with Raven for a long time about the event. Raven joins the trio's cuddle pile that night.

Zoey loved Aphmau. Aphmau might have loved Zoey, too. But after she was trapped in the Irene dimension for so long, Zoey realized that her love had not only weakened her but was futile, she had maybe three years left to live. She gave up, dying of a broken heart a mere year after Aphmau returned.

One day is eight in the Nether. One day in the Irene dimension is one year in the Overworld.

Levin and Malachi are about ten at the beginning of season one, and around 14-15 at the end of it. The gang is trapped for 7 years this time.

The gang trapped is Aphmau, Garroth, Laurance, Zane, Katelyn, Travis, Lucinda

Zane might have actually loved Kiki if he stayed long enough. They had sex, it wasn't a weird pendant that made Kiki pregnant :/

Alina is Aphmau and Garroth's daughter. Lillith Garnet is hers and Laurance's. It shatters Shad Aaron that Irene Aphmau chose them over him. He succumbs to the latent destruction of his nature.

The Divine Warrior's poweful magical prowess has also cursed each of them. Shad became a werewolf, the Ultima. Irene would always lose her emotions, in each lifetime she lived. Esmund would be last to die, alone and hated, unable to keep his family safe. Enki would lose his sanity to the demon Micheal he had sealed away in his mind. Menphia would suffer the same curse as Shad for defending him, as the first vampire. Kul'zak would be blinded to the knowledge he thirsted for, each and every time.

In modern MyStreet, "werewolf" is synonymous with lu'pine. The Ultima is a myth. Something of note is that there are also rumors that a Maxima meif'wa would exist, with eyes of silver-blue.

Sasha claims shadow knights don't feel, but she lies. She still loves Kenmur. She still looks up to Candenza. She still sees Laurance as a goofy older brother. She pretends she doesn't.

Gene did do all those horrible things. He probably kissed Laurance at some point too.

Much more species diversity, lore and overall explaining. Currently, we've seen humans, lu'pines, meif'wa, wyverns, vampires, ghosts, and elves in the series proper.

Her name is Nana Ashida.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

It started with a plane crash. A fiery wreck over Washington, the kind of tragedy that demands real leadership, real answers, real action. But what did we get? Donald J. Trump—our twice-impeached, four-times-indicted, spray-tanned emperor of grievance—pointing a greasy, ketchup-stained finger at “diversity.”

Never mind the grueling, years-long training required to become an air traffic controller. Never mind the chronic staffing shortages, the overworked employees grinding six days a week, and the outdated facilities running America’s airways into the ground. No, according to Trump, the real problem was that the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) had dared to hire people who weren’t white enough.

"This is just one reason why our Country WAS going to hell!!!" he screamed into the digital void, frothing at the mouth like a man who just discovered his Diet Coke button had been disabled. He ranted about “brilliant people” being replaced by “diversity hires,” as if air traffic control is some kind of woke art project instead of an actual life-or-death job.

And if that wasn’t enough, Trump took things further—because he always does. Like a vengeful god with a grudge against history itself, he unleashed a sweeping executive order banning the federal government from acknowledging that different kinds of people exist. Black History Month? Gone. Martin Luther King Jr. Day? Paused indefinitely. Juneteenth? Don’t even think about it. Holocaust Remembrance Day? Erased faster than a sticky note on Ivanka’s burner phone.

The message was clear: America’s government is now a safe space for people who want to pretend diversity never happened.

The Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA) dutifully fell in line, scrubbing its calendar of anything remotely inclusive. The Pentagon followed, declaring that "cultural awareness months" were now a thing of the past. The Office of Personnel Management sent out a grimly efficient memo ordering every department to purge “gender ideology” from public-facing websites by 5 p.m. sharp. No more pronouns in email signatures, no more employee resource groups, no more recognition of anyone who isn’t a straight, white, God-fearing man in a flag pin.

And just to hammer the point home, the Justice Department released a victory lap memo declaring DEI programs “shameful” and a “waste of taxpayer dollars.” Because apparently, nothing wastes money like hiring people who can actually do the job.

Even the CIA—an agency that relies on diversity for its literal survival—jumped on board. Former intelligence officials warned that strangling off diverse talent pipelines would cripple national security, depriving the U.S. of much-needed language skills and cultural knowledge. But who needs informed spies when you can have a monoculture of aging white men grumbling about the good old days?

All of this would be laughable if it weren’t so terrifying. This isn’t policy—it’s a tantrum. It’s Trump waging a personal culture war against reality, trying to bend the world back to a time when no one questioned his place at the top. He doesn’t want to govern; he wants revenge. Revenge against the ghost of Barack Obama, against the progress made under Biden, against the idea that America belongs to anyone other than the angry, paranoid voters who put him back in power.

And what about the people who actually keep the country running? The air traffic controllers working under brutal conditions? The intelligence officers risking their lives abroad? The civil servants trying to hold together a government that’s rotting from the inside? They get nothing. No support. No respect. Just a government-issued decree that their identities no longer exist.

Meanwhile, Trump is still expected to sign a proclamation for Black History Month—because nothing says deeply held values like banning an event on Monday and celebrating it on Tuesday. It’s a grift, a con, a flimsy cover for the fact that his only real goal is to make America feel like one of his golf courses: exclusive, overpriced, and entirely staffed by people he doesn’t have to think about.

This is the new reality. The federal government is no longer allowed to recognize the diversity of its own citizens. The air traffic controllers who keep our skies safe are being thrown under the bus in the name of racial resentment. And Trump, as always, is playing to the cheapest seats, hoping his base is too blinded by rage to notice that none of this actually makes their lives better.

America isn’t going to hell. But under Trump, it’s going somewhere worse: backward.

(Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail)

[avayarising]

No but let’s talk about the whole Apokalips thing in Our Worlds At War. Young Justice 1:35–37, Superboy 1:91, Impulse 1:89.

Kon really, really screwed up. His impulsive and insubordinate actions, expressly against Robin’s orders and in full opposition to the rescue mission they were engaged on, led directly to:

the permanent death of one team member (Slobo is not Lil Lobo even if he does have his memories, and neither are any of the other regenerated Lobos, most of whom also die; original Lobo remains dead)

the partial death of another (Bart is in a coma for over a week after experiencing the death of his speedforce duplicate)

the start of Greta’s corruption arc via Darkseid

and the torture and thorough traumatisation of the rest of team (they are held in VR worlds where they are forced to live through the deaths of their loved ones and their own deaths, repeatedly).

Tim leaves Young Justice over this. Bart stops being a hero altogether for a while.

And we never see Kon apologise.

Okay so yes he acknowledges to himself he is entirely at fault for this. He spends a whole issue agonising over what he’s done and yes, he resolves to apologise to Robin.

But he never does. He gets distracted by some fallout from the war and by Joker’s Last Laugh. Tim gets involved again in World Without Young Justice, when reality has been altered and none of them are who they should be.

And then after that, Tim, who is relieved that his identity has been revealed (something he wanted to do long ago) in a way that he couldn’t control or be blamed for, asks to rejoin the team.

And.

Kon and Cassie do this:

(I’m not blaming Snapper, Ray, or Slobo, none of whom were there when this went down even if Slobo does have the memories of it. They are just following Kon and Cassie’s cues.)

And Tim reacts like this:

Which is not the reaction of someone who has already received a heartfelt apology.

And yes, then they hug and welcome Tim back into the team. But I think Tim ends up fully internalising that his leadership (and his refusal to share his identity, like they have any right to it) is to blame for the whole debacle. And Kon lets him go on thinking that.

[fatiguedcoffee]

something I have been thinking about:

although Jem turning into a Silent Brother felt like a huge loss, I found comfort in the knowledge that it increased his lifespan significantly, so much so that when Will passes, Tessa would not have to be alone for a very very long time.

but then Jem returns and it feels like a miracle and a loss all over again. a miracle because he gets the live as Jem and gets to build the life that had never before been available for him, be it due to sickness or Brotherhood. but at the same time, it means that he will pass much sooner, and Tessa will have to grieve all over again, this time without Will nor Jem present in any shape or form.

but then I thought about when Jem said that he wished to burn as brighly for Tessa as he could, no matter how short of a time that would be. and I'm happy that finally, he gets to do just that. and I think of what Will said when he was grieving Jem: that if life's a Wheel, they will meet again; and if life and death are seperated by a river, they will wait for one another to cross.

now all I can think of is that against all odds, Will and Jem will meet again and get to be together (which would not have been possible had Jem remained a Silent Brother), be it in another lifetime or at the shores of that river. and oh my this realization is nearly killing me.

[vii0so]

[BSD 120.5] Theory/Analysis

NOTE BEFORE READING: 90% of this post was written on the day of the chapter's release but got forgotten in my drafts. As I'm too lazy right now to read through and edit, expect things that: make no sense, are worded as if the chapter came out today or recently, stop in the middle of the sentence/incomplete etc. Also for some reason I added stuff not directly relating to the chap...I'm sure I wanted to lead into a bigger point but by now I have no idea what I was going for.

I realised it's almost time for the new chapter and that's how I remembered this was still in my drafts...

So I'm posting it more for me rather than anyone else (which I sort of already do anyway).

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Well well well...it's been another month so I'm here again to put my 2 cents in on this month's chapter.

I'm sure there's no need to say it but the following will contain spoilers for BSD chapter 120.5.

And as always with my long posts...expect me to sidetrack a lot.

This includes a deep dive into Fyodor's title as well.

Today's Topics:

Humanity & Fyodor's outlook

Fyodor's title

Fyodor's humanity

Ability Users & Humans

The page isn't with Fyodor

Thoughts on Fukuzawa's "death"

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Humanity & Fyodor's outlook

Today's chapter gives us a great insight on Fyodor's goal, or at least confirms the one we already knew of and bathes it in a new light. But let's first start with what his outlook on humans is.

"An unlearned outlook befitting of your short lives."

"Your" = humans "Short lives" = human lifespans

This is basically saying: "You haven't lived as long as me so you don't know/understand" Or better yet, "You will never have enough time in your short lives to learn like I did."

Fyodor in his immortal life has seen things, witnessed eras come and go, same with wars. He has had nothing but time to observe humanity and their many flaws.

He believes no one with a short life-span (humans) will understand his learned outlook.

Note: We don't know how old Fyodor actually is. I personally believe that he's over two thousand years old but I only have one small piece of unrelated evidence that supports this. Though, no matter the age, he has lived a long time, that doesn't change.

Fyodor looks genuine in this scene. The look of "acceptance". Accepting the fact that humans won't understand or change, no matter how many centuries pass.

Note: It should be remembered that acceptance does not mean compliance. Fyodor is the perfect example of this.

It honestly feels lonely. Trust me, I don't even like Fyodor but this is just depressing, even for the villain. Imagine your ability has made you pretty much immortal and you watch humanity make the same mistakes, have the same flaws, see them drive themselves to ruin multiple times and no one will ever understand you as they haven't lived as long as you. (Arguably, I'd say Dazai got close)

TLDR: Imagine living forever and watching humans ruin themselves repeatedly and having no one who will understand what you're thinking. That's Fyodor's life.

He lost faith in humanity a long time ago.

Anyway...on a different note (slight backtrack), our boy Atsushi seems to agree or at least understand that "Humanity cannot bear such enormous virtue." Based on his expression here and the panel.

It's like his expression is saying, "Damn, he's right, I've gone through so much to stop this but it's just way too much even for me (an ability user)." or something...idk honestly.

Atsushi is emotionally tuned in with the world so maybe he just saw Fyodor's expression and was like: "holy shi-" again, idk.

"Pure evil"...not like anyone has said otherwise about Fyodor.

His calm yet determined(?) expression when Fukuzawa tells him this shows that he finds what he's doing as necessary and planned.

What Fyodor wants is a world war. Specifically, one that will eliminate all ability users. Instead of getting his hands dirty, it'll be done by humans.

Now, I know that ability users get separated a lot from your every day average human but Fyodor's choice of words shows that he doesn't view ability users as humans at all.

Though, the way he uses the word "humanity" may be more as in those of the greater population, or just "The ones without abilities."

With [One Order] though, does "humanity" include ability users? In theory it should, and yet it doesn't seem that way.

Fyodor believes there will be peace if ability users are gone...Looks like he either has never seen a world without ability users or there's more to this plan than he's letting on.

"What...are you...? I can't possibly see you as human."

Fyodor has never once claimed to be human. Or at least he has never seen himself as human.

And he clearly separates himself from those with short lives (humans) as a different being.

He has been considered a demon throughout the whole series.

Now for my monthly: "Analyse the original Japanese even though I don't speak it."

Today's segment will mostly be my curiosity taking word form, so feel free to skip to the next part or enjoy.

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Fyodor's title

First off, I didn't manage to get the raws to see the spelling of the title. I only heard the spoken Japanese version in the anime, which was "majin".

[ Dazai says it around 12:33 in Season 3 Episode 8 ]

So feel free to interpret it as either [魔神] or [魔人] (both are pronounced as "majin" but have different meanings).

Due to the official translation calling him "conjurer", I thought that maybe it was [ 魔人 ] but the fact that the fan translation calls him "demon", points closer to [ 魔神 ].

Left: Fan translation (DazaiScans) | Right: Official English translation

When you break it down more into individual Kanji, you start to see the difference and similarities.

Both are pronounced as "jin" when in "majin".

[ 魔 ] / "ma" is in both [ 魔神 ] and [ 魔人 ]. And it's from "ma" that we get the more demonic/evil meaning.

So, in a way, even [ 魔人 ] could be seen as "demonic person".

[ 魔 ] / "ma" is in "majin" and "akuma"

Now, when Dazai was called a "demon" he was referred to as "akuma".

As you can see, [ 悪魔 ] is way more serious than [ 魔人 ] or [ 魔神 ] .

This obviously gets lost in translation, as both become "demon".

One instance where Dazai is being referred to as 悪魔 is in the 15 light novel and manga adaptation. For some reason, it's not in the anime.

I'm not here to talk about Dazai's humanity though. I just wanted to show the difference in seriousness of "demon" between the titles*.

*Correction, "Demon" is not Dazai's title. While he has been called as such, his only known title was "Black Wraith" (Kuro Yuuki - 黒幽鬼).

Yuuki [ 幽鬼 ] - ghost; revenant; spirit (of the dead); departed soul

Kuro [ 黒 ] - black

So back to the topic at hand!

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Fyodor's humanity

Fyodor being referred to as "majin" instead of "akuma" makes a big difference even if both can be "demon".

In this chapter - as I stated earlier - we see Fyodor talk as if he isn't human. Akuma would refer to a demon - not human, but majin refers more closely to an "evil being", and if it's [ 魔人 ] it can especially be seen as a "demonic/evil human".

Therefore, Fyodor's title shows that he is human, no matter how much he separates himself and the rest of the ability users from the greater human population.

...Wait a minute...just remembered something.

I should have trusted my memory and checked the raws from chapter 120 earlier...it was literally only a month ago and yet I almost forgot Fukuzawa literally used Fyodor's title at the end of the chapter!

So Fyodor's title is [ 魔人 ]

[ 魔 ] for "witch", "demon", "evil spirit"

[ 人 ] for "person"

...Remembering this earlier would have saved me so much time ;-;

I will still keep what I wrote from earlier - my rambling about wether it's [ 魔人 ] or [ 魔神 ] - as I spent way too long on it and don't have enough mental energy to change it.

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Ability Users & Humans

(Specifically in the eyes of Fyodor)

Now that we know it's [ 魔人 ], I can analyse further into Fyodor's view on ability users.

In short, Humans are...humans, I won't go into the foolishness and ugliness of humans, because in life there's death just like there's pain in love, it's yin and yang. Basically: where there's good, there's evil.

人類 - mankind; humanity

異能 - unusual power; superpower; ability beyond that of humans

者 - person (rarely used without a qualifier)

I understand 者 as the user in "ability user"

So 人類 vs 異能者 = Humanity vs Ability users.

[Section Incomplete] - I remember wanting to talk about how Fyodor sees himself and then talking about how that shows how he views humanity and ability users. First off, he doesn't care what he becomes or is seen as. He is the type to "willingly become a demon for future peace" (at least "peace" in his eyes). I remember having a plan (in my head) for this section but...by now I've forgotten and are too lazy to continue it.

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The page isn't with Fyodor

This may sound strange since we see Fukuchi hold the page too but remember: we never saw them actually use/write on the "page" that we've seen. It's basically just a normal piece of paper.

Fukuchi claims the paper he's holding as the page. [Chapter 83.5]

There's no proof of it actually being the page though.

Fyodor offers the page to Atsushi [Chapter 119]

This was Fyodor's plan to show Atsushi that the page is there with them. So that he has no reason to question where the page is.

If you see an apple in front of you, you won't be thinking "I wonder where the apple is" but instead believe that it's right there.

I had a far fetched thought that maybe the page was with Fyodor in the prison and then made to be found by Sigma in the guise of the note claiming he needs help:

When Sigma picks it up, it looks like there are two papers.

And yet, when he shows it to Fyodor there seems to only be a one:

Now of course, this could just be artistic error or even mere perspective but I don't think so. Every detail is usually intentional.

So what's the second paper?

The page.

...possibly

"How did Sigma not realise?" I don't know...Maybe it's been changed to appear as a blank page somehow.

This would tie in with my theory from last update that Fyodor is in a rush to get to Sigma before he wakes up.

Atsushi thinks Fyodor has the page and that he'll have to take it off him (steal it) somehow. He has no idea that the page isn't even close by but instead in Meursault.

A lot of people think "How could Atsushi's day get any worse?"

Well...fight a literal god-like-level being who is controlled by a 2k+ old evil mastermind who wants to get rid of all ability users by manipulating the general public and then never even get the page that you were fighting for because you were being manipulated this entire time and the page was never there...

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Thoughts on Fukuzawa's "death"

First off, I don't think I've mentioned it in my theories so far but I don't believe that those "killed" by ame-no-gozen will stay dead. At some point, all of them will be alive again with no issues.

Anyway, Fukuzawa's "death" reminded me of Rampo after the "Kamui is Fukuchi" discovery. Is this a sign that we'll see him in the next chapter? ...probably not, but it did feel like a parallel, at least to me.

Also, I know last time I said "maybe next chapter he'll die" but no, this is not the death

Btw, this feels like a parallel to me even if it's not exactly the same:

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██████████ Complete!

Note: The following segment was written around a week after the chapter released.

The moment I finished reading the chapter (a few hours after it released) I started typing this immediately. So I've been writing this on and off for a week now...

First, I was tired IRL, then the next day was busy, and the next and the next and...you get it. I probably wrote most of it on the first day while tired so don't mind if anything makes no sense.

This must be the longest theory post I've written for BSD so far...

Should I stop doing long posts? Would you guys prefer short ones? I try to do one long post per chapter, but I feel like not many people read them, precisely because they're long. I like doing it like this as it's more compact (in my opinion) but if you guys would like me to stop the long posts let me know.

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To the people who actually read this post, if anything doesn't make sense or seems incomplete, it's because I wrote all this while tired (35% with a headache) and whenever i came back to write more I couldn't remember what I was trying to say...

It was in my drafts partially incomplete so since we're expecting the new update soon, I remembered this and posted it.

[justaz]

a spell is cast on camelot that thins the veil enough for ghosts to appear. the catch? the ghosts that appear are spirits of people that were killed by the person they’re haunting. the knights have a good amount of bandits/raiders/whatever that they took down in battle, maybe a few shady knights have genuinely innocent people that they murdered and got away with. the executioner’s killings are transferred to the king since he was simply acting out the king’s commands. arthur has quite a few. uther has hundreds of sorcerers in various states of gore and horror. those who were hanged have perpetually bent necks, those who were beheaded have either no head or just a head floating a bit above their body, and those who were burnt are more charred remains (the most grisly of them all). merlin has more than anyone expected (which was zero) and all of them keep calling out for arthur/uther’s death and camelot’s downfall while also turning to merlin and calling him a traitor.

[chaiaurchaandni]

4 year old Ahmad Shabat - an israeli airstrike hit him, his parents & 4 siblings; he survived, they didn't - then they hit him & his father's relatives; he survived, they didn't - then they hit him & his uncle; he survived, his uncle didn't - both of Ahmed's legs have been amputated because of injuries. He survives.

i hope Ahmad gets to live. i hope he has a beautiful and fulfilling life. i hope he finds love and safety and comfort and success. i hope he finds happiness. i hope he heals. i hope he continues to survive. in spite of the violence, in spite of the trauma, in spite of the horror. in spite of the world.

[gingermintpepper]

As usual I read your tags always and so you said Apollo did not ask for resurrection of Asclepius and Hyacinthus so i just wanted to share this. About Asclepius death I read it on theoi.com, that earlier authors don't make him resurrect as a god but that's a later development mentioned only by Roman authors like Cicero, Hyginus and Ovid. But still Apollo has a role in Ovid's version

Ovid, Fasti 6. 735 ff (trans.Boyle) (Roman poetry C1st B.C. to C1st A.D.) : Clymenus [Haides] and Clotho resent the threads of life respun and death's royal rights diminished. Jove [Zeus] feared the precedent and aimed his thunderbolt at the man who employed excessive art. Phoebus [Apollon], you whined. He is a god; smile at your father, who, for your sake, undoes his prohibitions [i.e. when he obtains immortality for Asklepios].

So here it is actually because of Apollo the decision was taken to resurrect him as god. And with Hyacinthus, I don't think I've read about Artemis playing the primary role. I know in Sparta there was a picture of Artemis, Athena and Aphrodite carrying Hyacinthus and his sister to heaven.

This is not on theoi.com but I saw on Tumblr it's from Dionysiaca by Nonnus

Second, my lord Oiagros wove a winding lay, as the father of Orpheus who has the Muse his boon companion. Only a couple of verses he sang, a ditty of Phoibos, clearspoken in few words after some Amyclaian style: Apollo brought to life again his longhaired Hyacinthos: Staphylos will be made to live for aye by Dionysos.

So since he is singing inspired by amyclean stories it probably means in that place it was believed Apollo was the one to bring back his lover to life.

Apollo as god of order was very important so i think it shows how special these people (and admetus too) were to him that he decided to go against the order for them 🥺

ANON!! Shakes you like a bottle of ramune!! BELOVED ANON!!!!! I'm littering your face with kisses, I'm anointing you with olive oil and honey - you absolutely made my night with this because, not only did I get the pure serotonin shot of having someone interact with my tags (yippee, wahoo!!) I also got to have that wonderful feeling of "oh wow, have I misunderstood something that was integral to my understanding of this myth/figure this whole time or is this a case of interpretational differences?" which is imo vital for my aims and interests as someone who enjoys mythological content and literature.

I'll preface my response with this: Hyacinthus is by far the hardest of these to get accounts for because his revival itself, as you very astutely point out, is generally accounted for in painting/ritual format which muddies the waters on who interceded for what. I wasn't actually familiar with that passage from the Argonautica - and certainly didn't remember it so thank you very much for bringing it to my attention!

That said, what I've come to understand, both about Hyacinthus and about Asclepius is that in the accounts of their deaths, Apollo's position is startlingly clear.

For Hyacinthus, it is established time and again that Apollo would have sacrificed everything for him - his status, his power, his very own immortality and divinity. Ovid writes that Apollo would have installed him as a god if only he had the time:

(Ovid. Metamorphoses. Book X. trans. Johnston)

Many other writers too speak of how Apollo abandoned his lyre and his seat at Delphi to spend his days with Hyacinthus, but they also all agree that when it came to his death - he was powerless. Ovid gives that graphic account of Apollo's desperation as he tries all his healing arts to save him to no avail:

(Ovid, Metamorphoses Book X. Apollo me boy, methinks him dead. trans Johnston)

Bion, in one of his fragments, writes that Apollo was "dumb" upon seeing Hyacinthus' agony:

(Bion, The Bucolic Poets. Fragment XI. trans Edmonds)

Even Nonnus in the Dionysiaca speaks constantly of Apollo's helplessness in the face of Hyacinthus' fate where he writes that the god still shivers if a westward wind blows upon an iris:

and when Zephyros breathed through the flowery garden, Apollo turned a quick eye upon his young darling, his yearning never satisfied; if he saw the plant beaten by the breezes, he remembered the quoit, and trembled for fear the wind, so jealous once about the boy, might hate him even in a leaf...

(Nonnus, Dionysiaca, Book 3. trans Rouse)

And the point here is just that - Apollo, at least as far as I've read, cannot avert someone's death. He simply can't. Once they're already dead - once Fate has cut their string - all Apollo's power is gone and he can do nothing no matter how much he wants to. And this is, as far as I know, supported with the accounts of Asclepius as well!

Since you specifically brought up Ovid's account, I'll also stick only to Ovid's account but in Metamorphoses when we get Ovid's version of Coronis' demise, he writes that Apollo intensely and immediately regrets slaughtering Coronis. He regrets it so intensely that he, like he does with Hyacinthus, does his best to resuscitate her:

(Ovid, Metamorphoses Book Two. Apollo's regret)

And like Hyacinthus, when it becomes clear that what has happened cannot be undone, Apollo wails:

(Ovid, Metamorphoses Book Two. Apollo wept.)

Unlike his mother, Asclepius in her womb had not yet died and so, with the last of Apollo's strength, he does manage, at least, to save him.

(Ovid, Metamorphoses Book Two. Apollo puts the 'tearing out' in Asclepius.)

But it goes further than even that because Ocyrhoe, Chiron's daughter, a prophetess who unduly gained the ability to directly proclaim the secrets of the Fates, upon seeing the baby Asclepius, immediately prophesies his glory, his inevitable death and then his fated ascension:

(Ovid. Metamorphoses, Book Two. Ocyrhoe's prophecy. trans Johnston)

Before she too succumbs to her hubris and is transformed by the Fates into a horse so she can no longer speak secrets that aren't hers to share.

These things ultimately are important because it establishes two very important things: 1) Apollo can't do anything in the face of the ultimate Fate of mortals, which is, of course, death and 2) even when Apollo is Actively Devastated, regretful, yearning, mournful, guilty or some unholy combination of all of the above, when someone is dead, he accepts that they are gone. Even if he is devastated by it, even if he'll cry all the rest of his days about it - if they're dead? Apollo lets them go. In Fasti, when Zeus brings Asclepius back, he does not say Apollo asked him to - Zeus, or well, in this case Jove, brings Asclepius back because he wants Apollo to stop being mad at him.

(Ovid, Fasti VI. Apollo please come home your father misses you. trans. A.S Kline)

Even Boyle's translation which you used above in your findings hints that Zeus made Asclepius a god because he wanted Apollo to stop grieving. (i.e 'smile at your father', 'for your sake [he] undoes his prohibitions')

And like, Apollo was deeply upset by Asclepius' death - apart from killing the Cyclops in anger, in book 4 of the Argonautica, Apollonius writes that the Celts believe the stream of Eridanus to be the tears Apollo shed over the death of Asclepius when he left for Hyperborea after being chastised by Zeus for killing his Cyclops:

But the Celts have attached this story to them, that these are the tears of Leto's son, Apollo, that are borne along by the eddies, the countless tears that he shed aforetime when he came to the sacred race of the Hyperboreans and left shining heaven at the chiding of his father, being in wrath concerning his son whom divine Coronis bare in bright Lacereia at the mouth of Amyrus.

It all paints a very clear picture to me. Apollo did not ask for either of them to be brought back. Though bringing them back certainly pleased and delighted him, they are actions of other gods who are moved by Apollo's grief and mourning and seek to mollify him. Him not asking doesn't mean he didn't want them back which I think is a very important distinction by the by, but it simply means that Apollo knows the natural order of things and, even if it hurts, he isn't going to press his luck about it.

Which, of course, brings us to Admetus. And I'm really not going to overcomplicate this, Admetus is different because, very vitally, Admetus is not dead. Apollo can't do a thing once Fate has been carried out and Death has claimed a mortal but you know what he absolutely can do? Bargain like hell with the Fates before that point of inevitability. And that's what he does, ultimately for Admetus and Alcestis. He sought to prolong Admetus' life, not revive him from death or absolve him from death altogether and even after getting the Fates drunk, he's still only able to organise a sacrifice - a life for a life - something completely contingent on whether some other mortal would be willing to die in Admetus' place and not at all controllable by Apollo's own power.

All of these things, I think come back to that point you made - that Apollo's place as a god of order is very important and therefore these people are very special to him if it means he's willing to go against that order but, I also wish to challenge that opinion if you'd let me. Apollo's place as a god of order is very important and therefore, I would argue, that it is even more important that it is shown that he does not break the divine order, especially for the people that mean the most to him. The original context of my comments which started this conversation were on this lovely, lovely post by @hyacinthusmemorial which contemplated upon Asclepius from the perspective of an Emergency Medical personnel and included, in their tags, the very poignant lines "there's something about Apollo letting go when Asclepius couldn't that eats my heart away" and "you do what you can, you do your best, but you don't ever reach too far" and I think that's perfectly embodied with the Apollo-Asclepius dichotomy. Apollo grieves. He wails, he cries, he does his best each and every time to save that which is precious to him but he does not curse their nature, he does not resent that they are human and ultimately, he accepts that that which is mortal must inevitably die. There is nothing that so saliently proves that those who uphold rules are also their most staunch followers - if Apollo wants to delight in his place as Fate's mouthpiece, he cannot undo Fate. And, if even the god of healing and order himself cannot undo death, what right does Asclepius, mortal as he is, talented as he is, have to disrespect it?

The beauty of these stories isn't that Apollo loved them enough to bring them back. The beauty is that Apollo loved them enough to let them go.