#adaptation:

Versión adaptada (es una fanart xd) para cookie run de la obra "El rapto de Psique" del pintor William-Adolphe Bouguereau, de 1895 al óleo.

friendly criticism is highly appreciated :3.

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Summary: I was listening to After The First Kiss by Faye Webster and I got a great idea for a fic.

Yumeko invites Kira to a gamble, stakes are high and Yumeko is having the time of her life. Kira is starting to feel things she definitely shouldn’t feel for her rival. Are a series of truth and consequence questions enough for Kira to win this? Will Kira come to terms with her feelings?

warnings: foul language, card games, freaky stuff and descriptions.

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On the topic of fanfiction, I find Sherlock Holmes and its adaptations fascinating.

Since Sherlock Holmes is in the public domain, we can do whatever we want with him. Not just for fanfiction writing but publishing, and for making movies and series of him as well. So technically, any Sherlock Holmes work that doesn’t strictly follow the original is a fan work such as fanfiction, a movie or an episode with a fanfiction script.

"A Natural Disaster in a Sunny Day" (V)

Now posted the next chapter of my romcom wolfstar fic!

I hope you like it, let me know here or in the comments ✿

Word Count: 2023

Warning: None

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DESERT ROSE || Part 2

Evening had fallen. In the harem quarters of the mansion, in a spacious room with carved curtains, you were sitting on cushions spread over the carpets. Latifa had left her hair down, draped a silk shawl over her shoulders, and was giggling as she told a story, holding a cup of mint tea in her hand. Zoraide was rummaging through a small chest in the corner, looking for an old hairpin.

You, meanwhile, had opened the door of a tall wardrobe made of walnut wood, tucked away in the corner of the room. Inside, embroidered dresses, sheer shawls, laced undergarments, and brightly colored garments hung neatly in a row. You ran your fingers over the fabric… and then noticed something striking.

A bright pink costume, adorned with golden beads and made of fine tulle, revealing the midriff. The shawl part was equally dazzling and ornate. You gently pulled the outfit out and showed it to Latifa.

“What’s this?” you asked, surprised.

Latifa stood up laughing, set her tea down, and walked toward you.

“That… I’m going to wear that on my wedding night. I’ll dance for my husband. A Moroccan woman’s first night alone with her husband is very special.”

Zoraide looked you up and down, then wrinkled her nose with a chuckle.

“Your mother… may God rest her soul… I’ve never seen anyone dance like that woman. She used to belly dance with her heart.”

Her voice softened.

“You’re like her, aren’t you? She taught you.”

You smiled, a flutter stirred inside you. You thought of your mother. In that little Japanese home, watching Egyptian dancers on TV, mimicking the movements together.

“Yes,” you said. “She taught me.”

Latifa’s eyes suddenly lit up.

“Then show us! Please!”

she begged, clasping her hands excitedly.

At first, you hesitated. But the room was filled with only women. They were all older than you or cousins. Latifa had already let her hair down. Zoraide called out, and someone inside started the music player. The door opened, and more women poured in. Some crouched on the floor, others settled on the cushions by the windows.

Holding the belly dance costume in your hands, amid cheerful laughter, you slipped into the changing area. You put on the costume, let your hair down. You grabbed the shawl and swirled it like a wave of mist. Looking in the mirror, you felt closer to your mother than ever before.

Then you parted the curtains… and stepped into the room.

Amid the applause of the women, you bowed slightly. The music began. As the chime-like instruments played, your body began to sway gently. You twirled the shawl like a snake, swayed your hips left and right. Your belly, hips, and hands moved in perfect harmony.

As the rhythm picked up, so did you. Your arms floated through the air, your head tossed, and your feet barely touched the ground. For a moment, you could hear your own heartbeat beneath the cheers of the women. It was as if your mother was watching you.

⸻

The main gate of the mansion creaked open with the sound of a heavy iron knocker. As they stepped into the wide courtyard, Hyoma saw a place more exotic than anything he’d ever encountered. Unlike the minimalist order of Japan, everything here was ornate and dazzling. Walls covered with colorful ceramic tiles, courtyards draped with vines, archways winding into one another… it felt like a tale from a bygone century.

Dr. Albieri led the way with his usual confidence.

“Ali and I go way back,” he had said earlier in the taxi. “He’ll be glad to see me.”

Ali indeed stepped into the grand hall with a warm smile. Dressed in white robes, he carried an air of respect. He hugged Dr. Albieri tightly.

“Ah, time has been kind to you!” said Ali.

“And this, is he your son?”

“No, Hyoma is a football star — a striker,” Albieri replied. “But he’s also a bit of a free spirit. I brought him here hoping the Moroccan air might do him good.”

The three sat on the grand divan. Silver trays of mint tea were brought in. They chatted in a mix of Arabic, Italian, and occasionally English. Ali’s tone was serious, but Hyoma found himself growing increasingly bored. He wanted to show himself, to play — not to sit through these heavy conversations.

Eventually, he stood up.

“May I look around a little?” he asked politely. Albieri nodded.

Hyoma wandered slowly through the mansion’s hallways. Every corner was a discovery: ornate mirrors, small lounges with divans, dim cool corridors… moonlight filtered through colored glass, casting patterned shadows on the walls.

Then, he heard music. At first, he thought it was the wind. But it became clearer. Rhythmic, stirring, like a call from another world.

His curiosity pulled him forward.

He didn’t even realize he had entered the women’s quarters of the mansion. As he neared the room from which the sound came, he saw a curtain-covered door. He hesitated. Then… a flicker of movement behind the curtain caught his eye.

He slowly reached out and gently pulled back a corner of the curtain.

And he saw you.

The room was full of women. They were laughing, clapping, cheering joyfully. But Hyoma’s eyes fixed on one person alone. In the center of the room, a young woman danced in a pink beaded, gold-embroidered costume. Her long loose hair whipped around her. The sway of her waist, the grace of her arms, the freedom in her eyes… time seemed to stop for her.

Hyoma held his breath.

He didn’t know you.

But he couldn’t look away.

Sweat dampened his back. His heart pounded in his chest like a bird. His feet felt rooted to the ground. He couldn’t go back — or move forward.

He could have mistaken this for a dream… but it wasn’t.

This was love at first sight.

And fate had winked at him through the veil.

He slowly crept closer behind the curtain. Hyoma stood there, silently watching you — dancing gracefully to the rhythm with your pink shawl. Every move told a story; the light shimmered on your skin, enchanting the room.

Then, at the most rhythmic moment of your dance, you veiled your face with the shawl and swayed to the music.

And in that moment… your eyes locked with Hyoma’s. He stood behind the curtain, watching you like a mirage, not blinking once. You felt your heart pound with a new intensity.

It was that moment — the one where words fail, and only gazes speak. Hyoma stood frozen, his eyes locked with yours. Time seemed suspended; only the two of you existed, the rest of the world had faded away.

But the other women in the room, realizing what had happened, began to scream in panic. The moment they saw the eye contact, they bolted through the other door in fear and alarm.

You remained where you were, still holding onto his gaze. You had fallen in love at first sight; no words, only that silent and profound connection spoke between you.

Hearing the women’s panicked cries, Dr. Albieri immediately realized what had happened. He thought Hyoma had unintentionally caused a major disruption. He rushed to the room, gently but firmly took Hyoma’s arm, and led him out.

As they walked through the mansion’s corridors, his voice turned stern: “Hyoma, the rules here in Morocco are very different. You must understand that. This isn’t Japan. Foreign men don’t have the luxury of seeing unveiled women. Entering women’s private spaces, especially violating their privacy, is strictly forbidden. Respect is everything here. What you did is a serious mistake.”

Hyoma slightly nodded, defending himself: “But I was only watching. That girl dancing… she was truly beautiful. I didn’t see anyone else. I only saw her.”

Albieri narrowed his eyes and studied him. “I understand your intention, but intention is not always enough. Here, traditions are strict, and breaking them can put you — or those who care about you — in serious trouble. Do you understand?”

Hyoma took a deep breath and nodded: “I understand. It won’t happen again.”

Albieri softened slightly and smiled, “It shouldn’t. Now calm down and show some respect. In this new life, the keys to success are respect and patience.”

That night, under the warm, star-filled Moroccan sky, the city had fallen silent. The stone walls of the mansion were wrapped in the night’s coolness as Hyoma stepped out onto his hotel room balcony. He couldn’t stop thinking about the girl who danced — about you. That moment when you veiled your face and your eyes met his — it had shaken him.

“An impossible girl…” he whispered. But deep down, his heart had a much simpler answer: “I couldn’t look away.”

He was surprised by this feeling. It had been a long time since he had thought of anyone like this. Sports, goals, discipline, recovery from his knee injury… there was no room for emotions in his life. But now, the gaze of a girl whose name he didn’t even know had overtaken everything.

He sighed. Before stepping back inside, he looked once more at the sky.

“Will I see you again?”

At the same time, in the harem quarters of the mansion, you lay on your bed. The wind from the window gently stirred the edge of the pink shawl you had danced with. Your heart still beat a little fast. That moment came back to you — a pair of eyes peeking through the curtain… watching you.

Should you be afraid? Perhaps. But a part of you felt that those eyes held more admiration than danger. You had felt safe — inexplicably so.

“Who was he?” you whispered into the dark.

And that night, in two distant corners of Morocco, a girl and a boy were thinking of each other at the same time.

As the moonlight softly lit the room, you lay on your back staring at the ceiling. But what your mind saw was that curtain being drawn and those eyes watching you. Your heart still beat faster than usual, and your thoughts couldn’t escape him. Who was he? He was clearly Japanese, but what was he doing here? There was not strangeness in those eyes… but something strangely familiar.

The door opened without a knock, and Latifa slipped inside. Her hair was loose, and she wore a simple nightgown. She held a plate of dates.

“Still awake?” she asked with a small smile. Then, seeing your dazed look, she frowned. “Still thinking… What happened? Why so quiet?”

You turned your head slightly. Your voice was soft.

“That man who came to the mansion today… the foreign one. The Japanese.”

Latifa smiled knowingly and placed the plate on the nightstand, then sat beside you.

“So you’re asking about him… I noticed too. He was tall, quiet, but his eyes said everything.”

You just looked at her. Latifa glanced at you sideways.

“Don’t tell me… you liked him?”

You turned your head quickly.

“What? No… it’s just… weird. He peeked through the curtain right as I was dancing…”

Latifa couldn’t hold back her laughter.

“I saw the look in his eyes. It wasn’t like a man seeing a girl for the first time. It was like he had finally found someone he’d been looking for.”

You were silent. You had felt that too.

Latifa smirked teasingly.

“I’m the one getting married, but looks like you’ll fall in love first.”

“Shut up,” you said, smiling and trying to hide your embarrassment.

But Latifa didn’t stop laughing. As she stood up, she shook her head.

“Go to sleep, Y/N. You’ll probably see your Japanese prince in your dreams tonight.”

As the door closed, you were still lying there, thinking about what had happened that night. Latifa had joked… but the feeling inside you didn’t feel like a joke at all.

⸻

It will be continued in Part 3

I’ve been meaning to scream about this for a while, so here we go:

Adaptations of novels, mangas, manhwas and webtoons — when done well, they slap. When done badly, they feel like a slap. 😮‍💨

⸻

🔥 Solo Leveling

(Just to clarify, I’m referring here to the original domestic Japanese release, not the international version.)

I get that the anime was made by a Japanese studio. I understand the choice to make the MC Japanese.

BUT BRO.

There are tons of anime with American/European/whatever-nationality characters that never felt the need to localize them this hard.

After people complained, they kinda… retconned it by making the subtitles reflect the original story while keeping the audio as is.

Which is wild.

It’s genuinely frustrating to hear one thing and read another. I’m not fluent in Japanese, but I understand enough to know when something’s off — and yes, it does affect immersion.

⸻

🥴 ORV (Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint)

I have no words.

Okay, I do, but they’re mostly screams.

First of all, thank god the new trailer finally included swords because that “Omniscient Reader’s Gunpoint” BS was criminal.

BUT — and this is a big but — I’ve literally seen fan artists on TikTok and Insta animate Bihyung better than the actual trailer.

Also? I love Kdramas. I’ve watched them forever. The actors? I respect them.

But they do not fit the characters. At all.

This isn’t just a mismatch — it feels like whoever greenlit this adaptation just said:

“ORV has a huge fandom. Let’s make money.”

It feels disrespectful.

No heart, no understanding of the characters — just cash grab energy.

⸻

🐉 The Beginning After the End

Honestly? I’m fine with the art style. The webtoon feels better but I guess it can reflect the early webtoon aesthetic and grows with Arthur.

BUT.

The tiny changes in the details?

The absolutely soulless fight scenes??

Why was it way cooler to read than to watch??

You know how upsetting it is when you finally see a beloved fight scene animated — and it’s dry, stiff, and completely lacking the energy the webtoon had??

It’s like ordering a cake and getting a rice cracker.

⸻

💍 A Business Proposal

Business Proposal: If I hadn’t read the webtoon first, I might’ve loved it.

But because I did? I just sat there going, “Where is half the plot?”

The acting was great. The vibes were fun.

But so much was removed that it felt like a parody of the source material. 🙃

⸻

🎬 In Conclusion:

Adapting a webtoon or manhwa into an anime or drama isn’t a bad thing.

Sometimes, it even turns out beautifully.

• Fullmetal Alchemist? Great.

• Tokyo Ghoul?… Anime who??

But if you’re going to do it — DO IT RIGHT.

Don’t:

• butcher the plot for “easier pacing”

• miscast characters because of clout

• strip the fandom’s favorite details for convenience

• or change entire contexts because you’re too lazy to animate them properly

If it’s too hard to adapt well?

Then maybe give it to another studio or just don’t touch it.

Respect the source. Respect the fandom. Or just… don’t.