#he had to sacrifice himself in one way or another

[pedgito]

𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑 | Marcus Acacius x f!reader

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summary | A female gladiator plucked from the arena by the most powerful general in Rome, convinced to serve under his command. You learn that his taste for blood might not be so different from your own.

author's note | the horny demons strike again. this has a little plot, thanks to the beautiful minds of @ovaryacted and @kedsandtubesocks who deal with my crazy so generously.

content warning | 18+ mdni, set pre-gladiator ii, description of war & mistreatment of women in roman society, female gladiator, dark-ish!acacius, reader has minimal backstory, but is revealed to be nameless (uses monikers given to her: medusa, fury, minerva), fighting, m*rder, blood tw, gore tw, sa warning (i have it annotated further below with content, but nothing graphic) acacius covered in someone elses blood as he fucks you, copious smut, biting as a little treat

word count — 8k

“How much?” Acacius inquires, tapping his finger against the iron bars holding you prisoner, staring back at the men. The ginger twins and a man—no, a general. Dressed in a toga of thick material, embroidered with intricate designs, gold bangles at his wrist, a telltale sign of high honor. 

“Oh, she is…” The older one, Geta, teeth digging into his bottom lip as he shakes his head, “priceless—quite the fighter, too.”

“Does she have a name?” 

Geta smirks to himself, “They call her Medusa. She favors beheading, it seems.” Geta waggles a finger through the bars and smirks, nose scrunching as he addresses you, “Correct?” 

You ignore him, responding with a stare—much like your given moniker; if looks could kill.

“She’s bested them all,” Caracalla boasts from beside his brother, Dundus fiddling with his hair from where she was perched on his shoulder, “even our lion that we’ve had since kids.”

“It was a stupid idea, your fault,” Geta retorts, “but—again, she’s not for sale.”

“I’ll conquer India within the next few nightfalls, a handful of new gladiators fresh for the choosing, for your entertainment—how does that sound?”

Greedy as they were and entirely too incompetent, Caracalla agrees before his brother can open his mouth. 

“Will you bring her back to visit?” Caracalla inquires with an underlying excitement—the poor brother was nothing but a dunce, erratic and impulsive, but all too easy to manipulate. “The others may miss her.”

“Indeed,” Another swift but convincing lie, Caracalla and Acacius shake hands on the deal before Geta can retort, fuming with rage as he stomps away.

He’d taken a liking to your fighting style despite his distaste for the arena. Strategic and skilled, brute strength and a drive that was built around pure survival but somehow all while maintaining the perfect amount of gracefulness that men did not. Constant calculation, finesse, it was like an art.

He’s gone through several guards over his rule, some from sacrifice but others out of pure ignorance. He needed a strong base, malleable but resistant. He could shape you into a leader, he thinks. He knows.

Your hard stare is like ice as the keys jingle into the lock, a defining click a resounding echo of freedom and General Acacius extends his palm.

A gesture of freedom, a new life, trepidation fills you despite your yearn for a way out of this prison. Here it was, served up on a platter covered in intricate facets of white and gold, stubble brushing his cheeks and soft brown eyes offering kindness.

This was not a man of sheer violence, not the tales they tell about him—this was a man of trouble, conflict, and an instinct to protect himself. And he’d chosen you.

Your hands slips into his, a similar roughness to match his own and scars that Acacius knew well enough of—you were a true fighter, a warrior.

The two boys—calling the men would be too easy, they often acted like spoiled children, were already off to their own chambers, and Acacius had only dropped his hard facade slightly, still under the watchful eye of Rome’s guards, he led you onto your new life.

-

“I cannot accept,” You argue, as respectful as you could manage, hands crossed firmly over your front, near your waist as you spoke to General Acacius in his private office at home, a place few have stepped foot into, but yet somehow, again, you were given a free pass.

“Are you refusing my order?” Acacius counters, there’s pillowyness to his tone, almost taunting.

“Sir—er, General,” It was all new to you, formalities, structure, rules, “I…am a woman.”

“I am not blind,” Acacius squints his eyes slightly, before leaning back in the creaky chair, “my men—they will not question my choices. They listen, they do their duties. They need strong leadership. Gladiator, I believe you can bestow that upon them.”

“I am a stranger to you, you know nothing of me,” You tell him, a full truth, “General, I fear you may have made the wrong decision, I am not what you think I—”

Silently, Acacius fingers curl around the handle to a drawer hidden behind his desk, pulling out a sharp knife with a handle carved of bone, twisting it in his grip before he’s rearing his arm back, throwing it in your direction.

It zips by with force, the tip of the knife snagging and burying itself deep into the wall behind you, your head whipping to the side to follow it, the sharp blade barely missing the skin of your ear. 

Quick reflexes. You turn back to a smirking Acacius.

“I am positive, had I thrown that between your eyes you would have caught it without overthinking the consequences—most of my men would do the same,” Acacius lectures, standing with his brutish frame and walking toward the wall, the soft flow of a breeze kissing at your fists.

“Though, I have another proposition,” Acacius says lightly, twisting the knife in his hand, the pointing spinning against his fingertip as he circles around you, “—attack me.”

“Sir,” You argue, “that surely defeats the purpose of—”

His fist balls up tight and aims for your side. Acacius sees it, the anticipation as you block his hand. He chuckles underneath his breath, “Please, continue,” He teases, twisting out of your grip to pull another punch that you block with ease—he was going easy, you think.

Natural reaction takes hold and his test quickly turns into a full-out brawl, twisting and slipping underneath his grip until you have him pinned against a nearby wall, teeth bared with his forearm pressed against his throat, struggling to grip his free arm.

The real test is here, as Acacius bares the knife near your neck, an immediate reaction to protect yourself rather than go for the kill shot, knowing that anyone of normal skill would be too full of bloodlust to think of anything other than killing you. Protection and defense came first, taking the small nick of a cut to your own forearm before you’re knocking the knife out of his hand and wrestling him to the ground with a swift kick to his leg, rendering him helpless.

“Indeed, you are exactly what I think you are,” Acacius says with finality, “I want you to lead my personal guard. Whatever it is I must do to obtain that, my lady I will do—riches, bribery—”

You push away from him with a heavy exhale, standing and adjusting your clothes, brushing your hair away from your face, “No need, I will do it.”

Acacius rolls to his back, hand extending once more. 

This time, it is you offering the help as he uses the leverage to rise to his feet before speaking to you with a triumphant tone. 

“Commander,” He grins, “let us plan.”

–

He often asks of your lineage, your home. But, there is nothing to offer. A long conquered piece of land now under the rule of Rome and a home that was never a home. An orphan you had always been, nameless, taking greedily whatever name was bestowed upon you. 

In the arena it was Medusa, the tale of a vicious woman with god-like power. Caracalla had told you of the story, the boys having taken a liking to you in different ways. Geta was fiendish, hungry, often seeking you out for his own pleasure to which you wouldn’t deny. Couldn’t. He could be rough, but he wasn’t.

He seemed lonely, the poor boy.

Carcalla was only searching for a friend despite his unruly, chaotic nature. When he wasn’t ruling with tyranny over Rome, terrorizing the townspeople, he was telling you stories.

Other times it was only she. Or her. Or just girl. The girl.

You were only what people assumed of you, expected you to be.

“Medusa, ay?” A greasy looking man confirms, one of the six men who were to be under your command, “The gladiator?”

“You will respect her,” General Acacius had warned them, “or an apology will be your dying breath.”

It had struck most of them with fear. Most of them.

And for many nights, countless, it seems—the transition of leadership was smooth. You had an unyielding grip on them, awaiting direction, following your orders. It was the kind of rush most would only dream of, and as a woman, it was an unforeseen privilege. 

“They address you as Medusa, too,” Acacius notes during a roundtable session as the other men wander off for dinner, “do you wish for them to address you differently?”

“I have no name, General,” You admit, “I am whatever I must be. If they think of me as so, that is what I am. Though, I would love to turn a few of them into stone, given I was granted her powers.”

“I believe you could manage that feat without them,” Acacius jokes, “—but, nameless? Even at birth?”

“I know nothing of my birth parents. They told me I was found wrapped in cloth under the bridge that led into the town your army eventually turned to rubble,” A bittersweet feeling, speaking unusually out of term, facing him with the facts, “though, it does not matter. I enjoy the fear they have of me, keeps wandering hands at bay.”

Such an enigma, Acacius eyes you curiously. It was the most you’ve opened up to him since retrieving you from your cell, and even then, still forcing him to face the consequences of war.

The guilt followed him at every waking moment.

“Do you need anything further of me, General?” You ask politely, “You have spoiled my appetite as of late and your men are greedy with the stew.”

“You are dismissed,” He speaks distantly, turning over the thick, coarse paper with a drawn out map of the territory they were to invade soon, a lingering well wish leaving his lips, “sleep well, commander.”

Unfortunately, you’ve turned to sleeping with a knife under your bedroll—with a lingering ache of betrayal, you weren’t allowing yourself to lower your guard.

-

The attacks do not start at night. Rather during the day, when the General is off and away, scouting ahead further when half of his army while the other half sticks at camp, keeping claim.

That is when the insults come, the disbelief, the mockery.

Most of his men settled with the idea, having accepted your position even if it displeased them. 

But, there was one. Like a bull—hardheaded and stocky, fists and arms like clubs, testosterone radiating from his body in crashing waves. He wants you to fear him, submit to him. 

You feel it. You see it. And you’ve been through it before, other large and brutish gladiators thinking with their muscles rather than their brains. It wouldn’t take long for them to meet their demise, but this one was…different.

He approaches you with a smile than anyone could see right through, a finger brushing your cheek as he pushes a strand of hair behind your ear, leaning in to brush his lips against the shell of it.

“They are hungry,” He drips of vicious intention, “—I say, you give us a show. Entertain us, Medusa.”

Your eyes snap to him, staring him down.

“Pitiful Acacius isn’t here to save you,” He warns, “though, I have reason to believe he is as weak as most men—spread your legs and he’ll be begging for a taste, too.”

“I will gut you where you stand,” You warn, reaching for the thick machete at your waist, “you’re like a pig. Brainless and greedy for whatever you can get. Touch me, I dare you.”

The rest of the men are relatively quiet, but they do not stop him. Smirks and half-smiles hidden behind their cups, lounging on a log near their tents, enjoying the entertainment. 

It was nightfall, the fire crackling between you and them, a towering presence at your backside.

And as he dares to, his hand slides up your waist. 

Without hesitation you flip the weapon in your grip, grabbing at his wrist and slicing at his arm—a featherlight touch, it was merrily a glorified papercut, but his eyes widened in shock.

“Let us see how well you touch without fingers,” You threaten, flipping the machete until it is pointing in his face, death grip on the handle if he dared to take it, taunting him with the sharp end of your blade, “hands?”

That deep, rumbling sound of hooves approaches through the darkness, everyone slowly falling back into their paces as you welcome back your General with a forced smile.

Acacius hands off the reins to another rider, taking scope of the situation that seemed to be defusing in front of him, but still—he notices. His eyes trade glances between you both before he nods at you to follow him.

Speaking under his breath, “The others have coined you as fury,” He laughs softly at the pseudonym, “little fury, they tell me. Like the Furies. I cannot say I disagree with them. Has he been pestering you long?”

Your brow furrows at the reference, lost on your ill-informed mind.

“Long enough,” You answer honestly, “though, he was bestowed a parting gift this time.”

You raise your blade, his blood still painting the weapon.

He raises the curtain to his tent, allowing you to enter before him.

“Do you know nothing of the Furies?”

“I was not privy to bedtime tales, General.”

He nods, thoughtful as his lips pull together in a thin line, slowly removing his armor as he sits, directing for you to take a seat opposite of him, a few feet away on a decaying stump.

“Goddesses,” He states simply, “of vengeance, striking the wicked down. You have…fire, deep within you. Do not let them put it out, it is your weapon.”

You nod obediently, feeling the humidity stick to your skin, clothes glued to your body as you sit in the uncomfortable heat. There was no world in which you felt safe enough to strip down, quell your body of this unbearable summer weather. You would rather suffer, thick garb covering your body.

Acacius tilts his head, but does not comment.

“I require your protection tomorrow, we must scout an additional day and I fear danger is imminent—relay this to them,” He instructs, “and my lady, if you fear they will visit you at night, that they might strike when you’re vulnerable, you are welcome here.”

He already anticipates your response—he knows, but the gesture was an offer. A kindness. 

“If they try, you will be searching for new men by sunrise, General.”

Acacius smirks in amusement, nodding to your words.

“It would not be difficult to replace them,” He notes, “though, little fury, you are irreplaceable.” 

-

General Acacius wasn’t an easy man to protect, but you managed. Over the few weeks that you had taken point within his guard it has leant you plenty of opportunities to prove your worth, slaughtering opposing soldiers like cattle for the glory of Rome, his booming voice pronouncing vie victis as the dead are laid rest under fire and smoke.

But, conflict comes when you are faced with a decision as the camp was raided under complete, utter darkness. It was your shift to guard the General, perched outside of his tent with constant, roaming eyes. Eventually, you drift. It was peaceful, nature taking hold and pulling you under, awoken to the sound of blood curdling screams, the ground painted with the innards of both Acacius’ men and the others.

You were forced with a choice—defend the camp, something Acacius would have told you to do in a moment of desperation, a self-sacrificing man himself. Ironic, given your position, that you even think otherwise. Of course, your feet pull you toward him, whipping the flowing fabric of his tent door back.

There was a knife at his neck, a man towering over him. He’d snuck past—taken advantage of your exhaustion and your mistake was putting the General’s life at risk, his face stoic as he pushed back against the blade with his palm.

Without thinking, you rush toward the man, pulling back at his collar to plunge the knife pointed at Acacius into his own throat, a silent death through the notch of his neck, the blood flowing out like a river, tossing the lifeless man to the side before you’re reaching for your General.

“Do not worry,” He assures you as he rises, still groggy from sleep, “go—protect our camp.”

“But, General,” You plead, not realizing that your hand was grasping on his own, or that he had initiated the touch as a gentle push, a confirmation that he was truly alright, “it is my fault.”

His eyes peer behind you and to the man lying lifeless on the floor, blood pooling around his body.

“Though, it seems you have done your duty,” Acacius comments, head turned down as he stares at the body before his eyes peer up at you under his dark lashes, pensive, “now—kill them.”

-

You had lost a hundred or so men, nothing to the army of five thousand, but any loss was felt within General Acacius’ army—men of honor, with families or not, deserved a proper farewell. 

Covered in the blood of many, some of your friends and some of strangers, hair matted and reeking of death, you approach General Acacius who was sending off a group of men to begin digging the mass grave to dispose of the bodies.

Your body ached, bruised and nicked from battle—you had killed at least five hundred men alone. Pure rage and fury, not a memory of it as you approached him now, a blank stare void of emotion that concerns Acacius, his hand reaching for your wrist as you begin to pass him, heading for your own tent to collapse in exhaustion. 

“You did well,” He notes, catching your gaze as he turns his head to infiltrate your line of sight, “wash off before you turn in, you…reek. There’s a river beyond the bend—clean, warm.”

You nod despite only paying half-attention to his words, walking mindlessly toward the river before you are faced with the unfortunate crowd of men, undressed to their natural state, avoiding the watchful eyes and preying gazes, stripping your armor off down near the empty end of the river, pulling at your tangled hair, pulling off each remaining piece of clothing despite your body’s protest, screaming for relief.

It wasn’t unfamiliar, the looks—you bathed alongside all the men under the arena without a thought, knowing most of them were vying for freedom and wouldn’t dare risk it by allowing their cocks to work overtime, forgetting rational thought.

But, to them, you were a trophy. Someone—something, to be conquered.

The thin, flimsy undergarments come off last, stepping into the water and sinking down slowly. The blood washes away as you scrub, back turned as you dip your head into the water before committing  entirely, plugging your nose as you dip underneath the water, finding peace in the silence.

“I had my doubts, Medusa,” A voice bellows from behind as you rise, your eyes peeling open with a quickly growing annoyance, “of you being a true woman, but—”

“Careful,” One of the men warned, a stable boy, “she will run to the general.”

It was the same man from many nights ago, big and brutish, always looking for a fight, even with the other men. He hadn’t learned his lesson, clearly. 

“Acacius is busy,” He retorts, “so—what say you give us the show you owe us?”

You stand frozen in place, staring daggers at the man who seems only more amused as the anger in you builds, permeates.

(sa themes below: noncon touching, reader is naked in front of several men)

“Get out of the water,” He demands, “unless you prefer I come get you.”

You survey your choices, knowing that staying in the water wasn’t a safe option. They can and will wait you out. Your eyes track toward your clothes, further away than you had left them. Your eyes track the scar on his forearm and you smirk, teething peeking out behind your lips, “How beautiful,” You tell him, his eyes slowly following your own, “quite the scar, is it not? Fancy another?”

You spot the knife sheathed in his leather belt, taking your chances despite the vulnerability that remains with your naked frame on full display as you retreat from the water, he nods with confidence as you approach, a faint whistle in the distance that you’ve heard before. The oaf seems to ignore it, though. His large hand comes to your breast in an instant, body dripping wet and a sickness churning in your gut as the sticks of torch and fire approach amongst the murmuring crowd of men, less than subtle about the rowdiness that was ensuing.

He pulls you into his body with a greedy hunger as his opposite hands gropes at your backside, following the curve of your ass as your hand snakes toward the blade, but the voice that rips through the crowd is enough to wake the dead, silence falling over the area in an instant.

“Remove your hand,” Acacius voice travels, the same booming voice he uses to declare victory over a new territory, “or I will remove it myself.”

“General,” The man addressed in a drunkish manner, inviting, “she was offering—Medusa, tell him.”

Your silence is expected, his hand wandering toward your other breast, biting hard enough at the inside of your cheek that it draws blood—Acacius sees your hand wrapping around the blade and speaks again, approaches closer as the mud sticks to his boots, “I will tell you once more. Remove it.”

The man eyes you with disdain, dropping his hands away as you relinquish your hold of his weapon, allowing the breath caught in your chest to escape, but it doesn’t stop the touch that follows, taunting with its intention as his palm curls around the back of your head, tilting your head to the side as he squeezes, “I forget—you are the General’s property after all.”

(end of sa themes)

“Take him,” He orders the other lingering guards, men who’ve never shown you anything other than respect—they value their lives and limbs, as any sane person would, “and start the fire.”

Acacius looks around at the lingering eyes, “I suggest all of you return to camp. Now.”

That was all it took, most of them scrambling for their own clothes and armor as they retreated like scurrying mice or dogs with their tail between their legs, leaving you under Acacius' careful gaze. He reaches down to fetch you dirtied clothes, looking them over with disgust.

He removes the black cape around his shoulders without a word, opening it as an offering. Desperate to cover yourself, you slip your arms in the sleeves with his help, his eyes wandering no further than your face as you turn to him, tucking the cape around yourself. He reaches for the hood, pulling it down.

“Come,” He demands, “I would like you to witness.”

–

The screams are audible as you approach camp, a few feet behind Acacius as he rounds the fire and separates the crowd to create a path, approaching the man bound at his feet, one arm roped at his side and secured away, leaving him to fight the men that held him down.

“General, gen—general, I am sorry,” He pleads, “she—you do not understand, she taunts. She is poison, not a leader,” He continues, despite Acacius lack of response, making a motion with his hand to remove the man’s weapon and hand it to him, pulling it from it’s leather cover and examining the blade, he makes a soft sound to himself, “Acacius—you have known me for years. Do not let this woman trick you.”

“Gag him,” He ignores his pleading, leaning down to grip the hand of the man bound below, “your humility is amusing, but your greed is what is costing you. She has shown you mercy, but I will not.”

The cut isn’t a clean slice, either. It takes several swings before the limb detaches, blood spurting out of the appendage as the man screams in pain, dragged helplessly toward the fire before they’re cauterizing the wound—your body unreactive as you watch but silently stewing with frustration.

He had spared the man, sure. But, making a show of it? A mockery?

“Commander, with me,” General Acacius demands, waiting for you to snap back into reality, your eyes meeting his face, blood covering his armor and hands, somehow avoidant of most of the mess.

When you are alone, you don’t hold back.

“I would have handled him,” You tell him, “killed him myself.”

“This is not the arena, we do not go around slaughtering our men without reason,” Acacius retorts, “he will be demoted and replaced and be a reminder to the others that you—”

“I do not need you defending my honor, General.”

“Men will not change, this—society, it does not cater to your safety. To them, women are nothing but vanity and pleasure—”

“And property,” You remark, “lest you forget how you obtained me, General.”

Acacius approaches you near the table at the center of his tent, only a foot away as he removes his armor plate, pulling it over his head, “Had I not, you would have paid for your own freedom eventually. I needed a leader—strong, smart, powerful.”

“By punishing that man, you are sending the message that I need my battles fought for me,” You argue, “and as if these men did not already think I was the General’s plaything, what will they think now?”

Acacius sighs through his nose, pulling at the fabric of his tunic that bares his chest, “I believe they will behave,” He tells you, “because you will not be as kind when you take their heads. He was an example and a pain in my ass for years, he deserved more than that.”

“And what will they think of me now? I am naked under this cloak, your cloak. I must walk the path back to my tent surrounded by men deprived of the things your bestial minds crave.”

Acacius chuckles to himself, “I have been thinking,” He begins, “that you deserve a new name. Something indicative of all that you are. Some of the men award each other with monikers of war. Medusa seems to have become more of a taunt, in light of recent events.”

He unties the leather bands at his wrist, eyeing you with a mischievous gaze as he keeps you waiting, “Have you heard the tale of Minerva, my lady?”

It isn’t a surprise, but you shake your head.

“A goddess of many things—strategy, warfare, victory, and justice…but mostly importantly, wisdom. I have seen the way you command the battlefield, it is not lost on me.”

“You have…many stories, General.”

“My mother told me one every night as she tucked me, it seems they have stuck with me.”

Tell me more, the words linger in the back of your throat.

“I am barely standing, General. I must retire for the night.”

“Indeed,” He agrees, shamelessly stripping down to his undergarments to walk toward the clean bowl of water and wash away the drying blood, “and Minerva,” the name is completely foreign, but you respond with a hum, “your position is yours alone. You have earned it. Do not let them tell you otherwise.”

-

Like Medusa, the name sticks.

And thankfully, you were a few weeks away from a much-earned break from war, returning to Rome as a free woman for the first time, having finally fallen into a comfortable rhythm with the rest of his personal guards—a mutual respect that had been missing, men waiting for your command.

Long nights of planning spent in Acacius tent, surrounded by the other guards until they filter out one by one, growing curiosity and questions lead to many hours of conversation that you, for many months, had been deprived of in the arena.

“You did promise my return,” You remind him, “they will be expecting you to keep that.”

“They are young, fickle men,” Acacius berates with amusement, “I am sure they have moved on.”

“Do you fear them? The emperors?”

“They are spoiled brats,” Acacius responds, an answer in itself.

“They would visit me often,” You admit, “Caracalla seemed to be—it seems the syphilis in his loins was truly affecting his brains, often he would not even make sense. Or he would come to me, complaining of his brother.”

“You had built quite the rapor,” Acacius notes with a smile, sipping at the broth from his stew as he invites you to sit on his fancy, expensive bed cot. Much nicer than your own, cushioned and wrapped in velvet, “What of Geta?”

“He liked my breasts,” You begin bluntly, “and my—”

“He forced himself upon you?”

“I was property of Rome, Acacius,” You didn’t often say his name in such a relaxed way, blaming it on the full belly and exhaustion, “therefore I was his. I have suffered much worse than a lonely man searching for comfort.”

Acacius seems thoughtful, pensive as he stirs at his quickly diminishing stew. He does catch your lingering gaze on his face after a while, mesmerized by the scar underneath his eye, he encourages you.

“Ask, if you are so curious, my lady,” He places his bowl to the side, empty.

“Your scar,” You nod, pressing your finger in a mirroring way under your eye, “is there a story?”

“Nothing to be told with boast,” He chuckles, “a wound of battle, is all. Like many of the scars on my body,” He tells you, raising his naked forearm to display the various scars, noting the few that paint his clavicle, “and you, Minerva?”

It seems to have become a particular quirk of his, a lilt to his voice as he calls you by your given name—the others have become accustomed to it, too. But, with Acacius, it felt special. Treasured.

You raise your eyebrows at his question, quietly unlacing your top to pull it down your shoulder, sliding a hand over your breast to respect the dynamic between you both—him being your general and you, his subordinate. His eyes squint as he examines the jagged and staggered scar on the side of your breasts—not quite faded, healed but relatively fresh.

“He is a biter,” You warn him with amusement, “Geta.”

Only one scar, given by one of the emperors, somehow untouched from real battle. It was miraculous. You readjust your top, feeling the heat from your neck rise to your face at what you had just willingly offered over to Acacius. Unfortunately, he had a way of lowering your guard.

With that talk, it seemed like a true breakthrough in your partnership with Acacius.

He always allowed you to speak for yourself, never overstepping the boundary you had argued with him over, leading the charge with an iron fist and handling the younger, fresh faced soldiers who just seemed…lost. 

It was hard to ignore the lingering glances over time, often during meetings as you spoke, not a look of attention but rather…ravishing. Hungry, but in a subdued manner. You weren’t sure where the lines had blurred, but they had.

Possibly somewhere within the long nights of conversation or the lingering touches that shouldn’t have been as charged as they were, handing over a piece of armor or blade and his calloused fingertips would circle your wrist, pause, before his brain would catch up to his actions. 

“Go on,” He encourages after a final night of victory and triumph, many of the men howling and singing tunes around the fire, drinking from their cups and enjoying the pleasures of alcohol and comradery, “you are missing the fun,” He was unnaturally quiet, subdued to his quarters, leaning against the outside of his tent as he watched with amusement but subtle dismay.

A younger man approaches with his hand extended, a gleeful expression on his face, “Minerva, please—come, you must enjoy the party, too.”

The general gives you an expectant look as you let the young man lead you away, curling his fingers around your own and pulling you with vigor, cheering loudly to blend in with the energy of the men despite how you worry about the man several feet away, your eyes tracking his disappearing figure as he slips into his tent, eventually pulled away by another man, one of the guardsmen who adored you, asking for a dance.

You agree hesitantly as the crowd roars louder, eyes searching for the exact reason as you see a few men leading a line of women into camp, little clothing to allow them modesty, a less than subtle shushing come from the men as they lead them deeper into camp, and the fear in you tells you to run to the General.

“It is not what you think,” The young man tells you, “they are dancers—no harm will—”

You bypass him, straight toward the men leading the path, stopping them cold.

“They are not here against their will, my lady.” He assures you, though, that could be argued.

“Minerva, Acacius has made it clear that harming women, you—is far worse a crime than anything else. Truly, it is not what you believe it to be.”

“I am telling the General, informing him of their presence,” You admit, “so I suggest you and the rest of the cattle be on your best behavior?”

They both give crisp, curt nods.

As you make the direct line for Acacius’ tent, you are ignorant to his silent plea for privacy at the tied rope, intertwined with gold fabric, pushing apart the fabric doors without much of a thought, reality hitting you as you catch a glimpse of his naked frame, patting down his body with a clean cloth as he washed himself, other hand curved around his cock as he stretched his neck up and back, the water splashing as he dipped the towel into the basin, only aware of your present when you make a small, unrecognizable sound as a result of your own stupidity. 

“I—General,” Your eyes widen as they take on a mind of their own, straight down the valley of his chest as he turns to you, quickly spinning on your heels, “I should have—I apologize, uh, the men…they are—”

“I was informed,” He assures, “and they have been warned, I assure you.”

“Yes, hm—um,” It was the only time Acacius had seen you flustered

“I assumed the rope was a clear message,” Acacius teases, “but—it is not your fault. I should have informed you of their…antics.”

He pulls the tight, fabric shorts over his hips, clearing his throat, peering over your shoulder you breathe a sigh of relief, “General, I would like to apologize for—” You swallow, watching as he turned barefoot on his heels, the fabric of the immodest undergarments curving around the stretch of his cock, half-hard under the fabric and the outline of thick head pushing against the linen.

You don’t realize how long you’re staring until he’s approaching with a tap of his finger on the underside of your chin, “There is no need for that,” He assures you, your nose scrunching up in confusion at the sudden touch, feeling the subtle shift as he reaches behind you for the clothes folded on the table at your backside, “surely you must return to the party,” He encourages, “celebrate a well-earned victory.”

“Why?” You counter, “When you will not.”

“Minerva,” He warns.

“You are distracted,” You note, watching as Acacius now avoids your gaze, “it is worrying me.”

He cannot admit the reason why. That it may be you. 

“Acacius,” You call his name, hoping that will break through to him.

“Leave me,” He asks, rather than demanding, “I need to rest.”

It was a lie, but you do not fight him on it.

–

Silence blankets the camp in the early morning hours—the witching hours, as you’ve come to know them. Sleeping securely in your tent, bedroll tucked under your head as you drift. Unaware of the creeping men planning your untimely demise, assuring that the entire camp was asleep before they strike, arms and legs rendered useless as the third shoves a piece of cloth into your mouth and ties it around the back of your head, screams muffled behind the fabric, stripped of your weapons. Helpless, they think.

During the struggle, one of them grows frustrated, banging the hard rock against your skull and plunging you back into darkness.

When you come to, you are unclear of where you are, but it was outside, arms above your head against the thick limb, feet bound tight as well, a sting and a string of wetness running down the side of your face as your blurry vision becomes clear.

“Little Minerva,” the voice begins mockingly, all too familiar to your ears, “he has named you—you must feel special, ay?”

He kneels in front of you, the one hand he has left curling around the forearm of what was left of his other appendage, “And you expect to return back to Rome as a free woman,” He laughs, snorts wetly through his nose, “I assure you that will not happen. Rather, you will be a dead one.”

The other two lingering figures join in on the laughter.

“How did you say it?” He taunts, “I will gut you where you stand?”

“It took three of you to capture me,” You retort, “your confidence is lacking sorely.”

He clears the back of his throat, rearing up a ball of saliva in his mouth before he’s spitting at you.

“I will slaughter all of you with my hands,” You promise, “untie me, unless you are fearful.”

Driven by ego, it doesn’t take much for him to agree.

But, as he had underestimated you the first time, and the second, he would regret the third.

The two men come at you first, enough tussling and your teeth ripping into the ear of one of them, searching blindly for a thick, heavy and sharp edge branch that would handle the weight of piercing through skin and muscle, finding the right weapon at the perfect moment—the attacker rearing back as the other approached, driving the make-shift stake through his chest as the other tackled you to the ground, a poor miscalculation on his part as you get your legs around his neck, arms pinned at an painful, awkward ankle until his neck snaps from the force, the ox-like man awaiting in the shadows like a coward, blood spilling from your mouth as you scream.

The heavy hooves approach like roaring thunder and the instant your attacker catches on, his attempts to flee are ruined by the barricade of men at all angles, General Acacius at the head of the charge, a rageful expression on his face. Feral unlike you have ever seen.

He jumps off of his horse, ordering the men to capture the surviving man once again, looking around at the lifeless bodies beside you, assuring his men he would handle you and the mess, demanding they return to camp at once. 

You look around aimlessly, blood staining your face as Acacius struggles to capture your attention, eventually resorting to a strong, demanding hold on your face, cradling your head with his hands.

“Are you wounded?” He asks, then notices the trail of blood from your scalp, pushing away the hair to reveal with gash from the rock they had attacked you with, grimacing as he runs his finger over the wound in worry.

Suddenly, you are stricken with a need, “Give me your sword,” You tell him, eyes flicking up to meet his own, “I need your sword.” His movements are too slow, still concerned with you that you reach for the weapon yourself.

Pulling away, you approach one of the dead men with the sword, swinging it up over your head and down with force, beheading him in one go, before switching to the other man, less finesse as you swing—again and again, until there is nothing but a pool of blood, bone, and brain—Acacius steps in eventually, tossing the sword away as he holds you arms in his fierce grip, letting the screams rip from your chest as he sways with you, eventually falling to your knees in exhaustion. He uses his bare hands to wipe the blood away from your neck, your face, feeling the soft shake of your body as you sob in silence, overcome with an emotion you so rarely let surface.

–

The public execution follows the next morning, everyone rousing from their tents to the loud, blaring horn from the ship just off shore—Acacius had assisted you back to camp on his horse, slumped against his back as you rode until the trampling finally stopped, sliding off the horse and into Acacius’ arms as he led you inside his tent.

He didn’t sleep the entire night, watching over you instead—he rarely blinked, staring off into nothingness as he tried to keep the vicious rage at bay, by morning, he was itching.

“You may stay,” He tells you, “your head—I cleaned it while you slept.”

You shove his hand away as he attempts to help you sit, slowly dressing yourself, eventually putting together the fact that Acacius had undressed and bathed you at some point throughout the night, not a speck of blood or spit remaining.

“Are you ordering me to stay?”

Acacius shakes his head, his hand still hovering close by.

“Then I will attend.”

He doesn’t argue against it and there is, despite your weariness to admit, a relief of your chest as Acacius rears back his blade, silencing the final scream the man lets out, pleading for his life. The blood sprays over his face, a strong grimace at the sheer strength it takes to behead the man, but the general manages it with one strike of his blade.

His speech follows, a deep and unsettling warning to all of his men. A final one.

Men, wide-eyed with fear, agree without resistance before he sends them off to ready the ship for departure and a meal before they begin their long trek back to Rome—he is less than gentle as he grabs your wrist without warning and pulls you alongside him, back to his tent.

–

He ties the rope with a stiff tug, before turning to you, stumbling on your feet as pull off his cape, having offered it to you for a second time, assuring that dressing in your usually armor wasn’t needed today, not as you began your travels, a flowing dress tied at your shoulder and waist that you were used to wearing during the showings back in Rome, parading you around like a prize.

“Acacius, perhaps you should sit,” You suggest, watching his hands curl into fists at his sides before he’s spinning on his heels and toward you, cradling your face like he had the night prior, but even this close, it felt like he was trying to keep you at a distance, “—I am sorry, if I did something—”

“I crave you,” Acacius admits, “you must know.”

Your lips part, gearing up the courage to speak, but falling short.

“Nights I have spent,” He breathes, shaking his head, the curls tickling your forehead as they meet, “thinking—wondering—”

“Acacius, why now?” You question him, “As we are homebound, back to your wife. Surely, she would have my head.”

Acacius shakes his head with a soft, but fond laugh.

“Our marriage is complex,” He explains, “Something I do not care to explain in great detail at this moment, you see—,” His hand curves around the side of your neck, tilting your head up, lips grazing against his own as he speaks, “I had no such intention for things to get like this, but you have proven to make things…difficult, for me,” He breathes out through his mouth, his eyes opening slowly to meet yours, “and I need you, should you have me.”

You could easily deny him, knowing he would back off in an instant. But, like this, clearly driven by adrenaline and instinct, riding the high of such a charged execution, he was craving something deeper than an outlet to release the built up tension. 

He craved connection—through little moments of conversation and touches, someone at level-ground, an equal. You were his equal. He’d given you so much since, and you would be lying to yourself if you denied the thoughts that had riddled your mind too.

“I do not much prefer a soft touch,” You finally reply, “or gentle care.”

He silences you with a kiss, bruising and tense as he licks into your mouth, hungrily searching for more areas to taste and devour, licking along the column of your neck as the blood of another smeared into your skin, his fingers working quietly to undo your dress, in turn wrestling with his armor and clothes, nearly ripping the fabric of his shirt from his body as you claw at him.

Wet kisses and clashing tongues fill the silent room, a screeching sound as your back hits the roundtable before he’s lifting from the back of your thighs and scooting you onto the surface, naked and bare as he spreads your thighs apart to move between them, clearly restraining himself as he licks, teeth grazing carefully.

“I enjoy them,” You admit, “Do not hold back, Acacius. They are what I will keep with me, if this be the only time.”

Like a dog cut loose of his chain, his teeth sink into the breasts mirror the mark of the other, hissing as his teeth break through the skin just enough for the subtle trickling of blood to rise to the surface before he’s soothing the wound with his tongue, staring up at you through a half-lidded gaze, prowling for more. He dips lower, falling to his knees as he pulls you toward the end of the table, ass hanging near the edge as his teeth sink into your thigh, near the swell of your cunt as you moan, fingers digging into sweaty, matted curls.

“Acacius,” You plead breathily, “I want your mouth.”

Where—it did not matter. But, Acacius fulfills that need as he licks a broad strip through your cunt, nose buried in the coarse curls, still smelling of the fresh soap he had bathed you in, taking delicate care as he washed your body, letting you slump into him, soaking him in the process. 

“Yes, that—” You respond airily, eyes fluttering shut as his tongue dips inside of you, swirling your slick around on his tongue and sucking harshly at your clit, staring up at you daringly from his position beneath you, unwavering, “oh, gods above…”

Acacius chuckles below you,the sound vibrating against your cunt as your moans increase rapidly, thick fingers dipping inside your pulsating core, “This high—it feels like—”

He rises to press a kiss against your stomach, climbing, tongue licking over your belly button and between your breasts, “—like…” He encourages, “come on, my lady, do not sell out on me now,”

“Like a battle high,” You admit with a faint laugh, “though, different, but….”

He understands, driven by unbridled need, uncapped adrenaline. 

“Well, vae victis,” He taunts, “now—come here,” He squeezes at your hips and pulls you to him, his cock stiff, throbbing  between your legs before he is twisting and spinning you around, feet planting against the ground as he bends you over, fisting himself tight as he rubs his thick cock head between your folds, watching as your wetness coats him, sinking into your fluttering hole with little resistance, a sweet cacophony of noises releasing from your throat as you grip onto nothing, hand curling into a fist as you moan, open-mouthed and shameless.

“Harder,” You beg, forcing the word out between thrusts, blunt fingernails clawing at your hips, attempting to pull you in closer despite your proximity, as if he could consume and even that wouldn’t be enough, “Acacius, please.”

It was like instinct, his hand sliding up the back of your thigh to lift your leg up, pinning it up—up, until you feel the ache in your sore muscles as he holds you in place with a fist between the bend of your knee, heaving breaths at your neck as he fucks you into the hard surface of the table.

It was a pain you would feel in your bones, that would carry with you into the morning, marks that would last for longer, a remnant of this moment, the mess of blood smearing on your own skin as he melts against you, forehead resting against your shoulder as his gaze follows the movement of his hips, slow but powered thrusts that drilled into you, clawing at his skin to leave your own bruises. The hand that brushes against your core is your ultimate demise, feeling breathless as your orgasm pulls you under, muffled sobs into your fist as you bite down, fearful that it might draw attention. Though, Acacius seems preoccupied, still.

His hand seeks your neck, digging in as he pulled you up, “To your knees,” He demands softly, your body moving out a memory, dropping to the floor—though, the sight is much more tantalizing, Acacius fisting his cock tight, feral as he teeth were bared, like a man fresh from the slaughter, he comes with a deep and guttural groan, your tongue sliding against the underside of his bulbous head, thick spurts coating your tongue, his body shaking as you pull away, swallowing all that he had offered with a steady, locked gaze. He assists you upright, steadying you.

“For a man who has such a distaste for unnecessary violence, you wear it well,” It wasn’t a compliment, rather an observation, his eyes tracking your naked frame, fingertips tracing the curves of your body in admiration. 

“You are quite inspiring, Minerva,” He admits, gathering your thick dress and helping you redress in silence, tying the material around your body, “not everyone deserves mercy.”

Your smile is rare, but it is beautiful. And he wasn’t a man for such dramatics.

But, it could bring him to his knees, he thinks.

[eloquentlytired]

odysseus. sfw.

logan howlett x fem goddess reader

note: this is basically a circe x odysseus!au but also not moving according to the actual story. I've alternated the ending too. I've always wanted to write logan in such a theme/au so I'm happy that I did. it's short but still feeling satisfied. I also blame Madeline Miller for her amazing writing, just finished reading circe and I cried AGAIN. first tsoa and now circe.

warnings 4 this ?? bittersweet, hurt to comfort, reader is just a girl that's thousands of centuries old, logan is a worn out warrior, he'll never introduce himself in the story btw

“I heard my men came this way, my goddess. I mean no harm or to intrude but to only ask your assistance to find them.” His voice was soothing but raspy. His shoulders sunburned but prideful. Age was evidently catching up to him but he remained as handsome as other mortal men you'd witnessed before, although not plenty. You wondered if he would be any different but then you remembered the nature of all men before him and you mentally shook your head. He was just another pig to be.

You welcomed him to your home and offered him the best hospitality like you did to all of your guests. He ate as he spoke to you about a distant home he was missing, then his wife, and for a while you wondered if having a wife would make him less of a monster. But the men before him surely would have wives too, or loved ones, and if not most of them then some of them. Yet they had still been pigs.

He could sense your hesitation and you could sense his. At some point you noticed that he had not touched his wine — clever man he was. It was the wine that would cause him harm and he somehow knew. He kept twisting the full goblet in his hand without ever drinking from it, his mouth occupied by mere words of his trips and his suffering.

“You have not touched your wine.” You told him and his eyes glinted as he looked at you. He definitely knew.

“My goddess, if you'd allow me to speak honestly.” He said and you offered him a firm nod. You were fearless and he clearly liked that by the way he smiled at you. “My men. You have done something to them,isn't that right?”

A sly smile adored your features and to your surprise his own never disappeared.

“I let them in,fed them and cared for them. Yet they wished to steal from me.” You responded while circling him like a predator. That's what you were — and those stupid men were your prey.

“I have spoiled them. They're all idiots whose judgement has been clouded by the endless war.” The handsome man explained as he stroked his beard, his eyes following your every move. He turned with you as you circled him; as if this was a game. Perhaps it was.

“They are idiots and to that we may agree.” His smile grew at your words and he tilted his head slightly.

“I don't wish to fight you, my goddess. I see no reason to. Do you?” His goblet remained in his hand, untouched and filled to the brim. Despite him toying around with it, the wine never spilled from the cup.

“You knew about the wine.” You suddenly told him.

“And you know about the flower.” He shot back and the two of you exchanged glances longer than any season of time. Your face beamed with energy and warmth while your eyes moved like a prying serpent. His, on the other hand, were cautious but delightful to look at.

“Hermes gave it to you, did he not? And yet you haven't used it against me.” The man's next actions surprised you as he grabbed his satchel and threw it on the stoned floor. The roots of the flower, which was meant to go against you, were visible within the satchel.

You stared at the stranger in disbelief but he smiled again. Almost laughed.

“Like I said, respectful goddess, I see no reason to fight you. It's just not within reason to do so.” His words surprised you even more, how smooth of a talker he was but also how intelligent. Bards would die for this type of inspiration while others would sacrifice whatever for even half of his sentence’s worth. “My men are stupid but they mean no harm. The Trojan war has corrupted their minds but also I, their captain, have failed to properly teach them manners. They're young.” He took a step forward but you didn't cower. He appreciated that.

“Get to your point, mortal.” You said while raising your chin with pride, challenging him with your gaze.

He grinned and his teeth showed. “All I ask is to get my men back. In return, I will offer whatever I can to you.”

You thought about the events unfolded ever since your birth. How little you knew for your age; so old you'd forgotten it yourself. You were the daughter of a Titan, not newborn divinity. You knew what mistakes were better than anyone and you had learned, one way or another, to distinguish good from bad. This man was neither.

And then the agreement was made.

His men were back to their original humane forms and dined happily downstairs, finally at ease. You let them for the sake of the man that had charmed you with his words and brains.

“Our agreement.” That familiar raspy voice called out to you and you turned around, staring at his form on the doorway. He was leaning against it like he'd been here before but it didn't insult you.

He approached you slowly, one step after the other. His face hovered closely over yours as he spoke again. “One kiss.” The man repeated what you'd requested of him that night but before he could complete his pay, you stopped him.

He froze upon feeling your fingers upon his lips and his eyes stared at you — more worried than feared.

“I changed my mind.” You whispered as your fingers caressed his lips, chapped and rough. The man remained still as he listened. “I ,once, turned a girl into a monster for supposedly taking away a man I loved. I don't want to do the action which I punished someone for.”

The man nodded then smiled. “I have not met a woman wiser than you,my lady.”

His words brought a smile to your face, one that wasn't sly or contained hidden meanings. It was simply an act of delight.

“All this just to see her?” You couldn't help but ask, referring to his wife.

“Yes.” He answered with pride, and most importantly love, in his eyes. You dragged your fingers from his lips to his cheek and he leaned into your touch willingly.

“I don't know what that's like. To have a husband that actually loves you. All the men around me were never good to their wives.” You told him and something swirled in his orbs — rage.

“Then they were fools.” He whispered. “Even bigger fools for not treasuring you.”

You buried your face into his neck and he let you. His touch was warm and gentle, one arm hugging your waist while the other cradled the back of your head. The touch was so careful, almost fatherly, and you could not remember the last time someone had treated you so gently. So kindly.

You cried in his arms as he held you until the moonlight shed its final moments.

“I will need a few days to fix our ship—”

“Stay.” You cut him off. “As long as you need."

He nodded while tightening his arms around your smaller frame, his large hand still cradling the back of your head as if trying to ease the thoughts that weighed it down.

No matter what, you would help him and the others get home.

[idkyetxoxo]

Jacaerys Velaryon - Moth to a Flame

Summary - Bound by duty and trapped in a loveless marriage, her heart still belongs to Jace, the man she truly loves. The weight of her choices and the secrets she keeps threaten to tear her apart, while the tension between love and obligation grows unbearable.

Pairing - Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

Warnings - None

Word count - 2179

Masterlist for Jacaerys • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

'Cause he seems like he's good for you and he makes you feel like you should and all your friends say he's the one his love for you is true.

Jacaerys Velaryon had known from the moment he met me that I was the one.

His eyes held that quiet determination, a certainty that ran deeper than the tides that carried his bloodline, a certainty that defied logic.

It was as if the gods had whispered my name into his heart long before I even came into his life.

He didn't just see me—he understood me. There was something in his gaze that spoke of an unspoken promise, a bond that neither time nor circumstance could sever.

I felt it too, that inexplicable pull, that instant connection, as though fate itself had tied us together, long before we ever exchanged words.

From that first glance, my heart quickened in a way it had never done before as if it had been waiting for him all along.

I had heard of Jace long before we met. Stories of his valour, his grace in the air as a dragon rider, the weight of his lineage as a Velaryon, and his close connection to the Targaryen bloodline.

But none of the tales prepared me for the man himself.

The way his presence filled a room, not with arrogance, but with quiet strength. His every movement seemed deliberate as if each step he took was a dance between duty and desire.

There was no hesitation in him, no room for doubt. When he looked at me, I knew—I was his choice, not because he was told to make it, but because he wanted me, needed me.

In his eyes, I was not just a woman; I was the woman, the one who could match his fire with my own.

But life had always been cruel to Jace. It seemed as though the gods themselves took pleasure in denying him the happiness he deserved, casting obstacle after obstacle in his path.

From birth, he had been burdened with the expectations of his lineage, the whispers about his legitimacy, the constant reminder that despite his rightful claim to power, there were always those ready to question it.

His life had been a series of sacrifices, always doing what was expected, what was demanded.

And when it came to love, fate was no kinder.

It was not love or desire that would ultimately shape our paths—it was politics, a game played by those far removed from the human cost of their decisions.

I was promised to another before I could even comprehend what love truly meant.

To his uncle, Aegon.

Aegon, who was born with every privilege but none of the grace that should accompany it. Aegon, whose every action seemed to serve himself rather than the realm.

To him, I was just another acquisition, a pretty thing to claim and parade. He never tried to know me, never even bothered to see me as anything more than a symbol of power.

My hand in marriage was his prize, but my heart was something he would never possess.

How could he, when he didn't even attempt to understand the woman he had taken as his wife?

I would have endured it all—the cold indifference, the suffocating weight of being bound to someone I could never love—but now, I was trapped even deeper.

I was pregnant. Aegon's child. His legacy was growing inside me, sealing my fate forever.

The idea of it felt like chains tightening around my wrists, pulling me further into a life I had never wanted.

─── ���⋅♡⋅✦ ───

The hall was brimming with life that night, yet it felt suffocating, like a cage woven from silk.

The air was thick, cloying with the scent of spiced wine and perfumed candles that clung to my skin like unwanted caresses.

Laughter bubbled around me, but it felt distant, muffled, as if I stood at the bottom of the sea, drowning in the weight of expectation.

Even the candlelight seemed dim, flickering uncertainly, like the fragile hope I still held onto. The low hum of courtiers sounded around me all gathered to celebrate Aegon's latest achievement.

A title bestowed upon him by the King himself, something hollow like "Lord of the Realm's Peace."

Everyone knew he was no bringer of peace. He had done nothing to earn the title except exist as the heir.

The court was filled with false praise, their cheers hollow, just as hollow as the man they celebrated.

Aegon stood there, basking in the adulation as if he had single-handedly won a great battle. His smirk stretched across his face as though he had conquered nations.

But all he had conquered was me—through politics, through duty.

I sat beside him, a hollow smile plastered on my face, though my heart was far from here. My hands rested protectively over my stomach, hiding the secret that only I knew.

I felt the subtle signs, the tightening of my ribs, the unspoken changes within me.

Soon enough, everyone would know. Soon enough, this prison I was already in would become one I could never escape.

My future was no longer my own, tied not just to Aegon, but to the child that grew within me.

"Another toast!" Aegon shouted, his voice thick with the slur of too much wine. "To my beautiful wife, who will no doubt give me a strong son—soon enough."

He winked at me, and the room erupted in laughter. I felt the eyes of the court on me, appraising, judging, already imagining the son that would be born of our union.

They had no idea of the storm inside me, the turmoil of being trapped in a life I despised.

My smile faltered, but I forced it back into place.

Across the table, Jace sat silently, his dark eyes burning into me. He hadn't touched his cup all evening, his hands clenched into fists as if trying to contain the fury he felt. He knew.

He had always been able to see through me, to sense the turmoil beneath the surface.

His anger simmered just beneath the surface, not just at Aegon, but at the fate that had brought us to this place, this moment, where the lives we had dreamt of were slipping further out of reach.

His gaze flickered to Aegon, then back to me. A question lingered there, unspoken but clear. How long will you let him claim you?

"Are you not pleased, my love?" Aegon leaned in close, his voice lowering in mock concern, though there was nothing genuine in his tone.

His fingers brushed my arm, cold and possessive, sending a shiver of revulsion through me. "You seem... distant tonight."

"Perhaps I haven't been giving you enough attention." His lips curled into a smirk, and I forced myself to meet his gaze, even though it took every ounce of strength not to flinch away.

His face was flushed from drink, the wine staining his lips, his eyes glazed over with self-satisfaction.

"I am tired," I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath. "It has been a long evening."

Aegon waved a dismissive hand. "Tired! You're always tired." His lips curled into a smirk.

"Perhaps you need more rest." He leaned in, his breath warm and sour against my ear. "Soon enough, you'll be resting plenty—with my heir in your belly."

The words sent a chill down my spine, and I had to swallow the bile that rose in my throat. He didn't know the truth yet, but he could feel it. The claim he would have over me, over my body, once the child was born.

There would be no escape then.

No more stolen moments with Jace, no more dreams of what might have been.

As the evening wore on, I found an opportunity to slip away. The hall had grown louder, the courtiers more raucous with drink and merriment.

I sought solace in the shadows, slipping out of the bustling crowd and toward the tall windows that overlooked the darkened gardens. I pressed a hand to my stomach, the life inside me already feeling like a prison.

The weight of it threatened to crush me, to drown me in despair.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Jace's voice came softly from behind me, but it cut through the silence like a blade.

I didn't turn to face him. I couldn't bear to see the anguish I knew was there.

"What was I supposed to say, Jace?" My voice trembled, betraying me. "That I am carrying the child of a man I hate? That I am trapped in this marriage forever?"

He stepped closer, his presence a storm at my back. "I would've taken you away," he said, his voice tight with emotion. "We could have left—before it was too late."

I finally turned to him, tears stinging my eyes. "And gone where? To what end? We would be hunted, disgraced. Aegon would never stop until he had us both dead."

I pressed a hand to my stomach, the gesture feeling like both a confession and a condemnation. "And now... there's no escape."

Jace's face contorted with rage, with grief. His fists clenched at his sides, and for a moment, I thought he might hit something or someone.

"This isn't how it was supposed to be," he muttered, his voice thick with pain. "You were supposed to be mine."

I stepped toward him, desperate to touch him, to feel the comfort I knew only he could provide, but I stopped myself.

Reality crashed down between us, a barrier I could never break. "I was yours, Jace. I still am, in every way that matters."

But his eyes darkened with bitterness. "But you carry his child. His blood will live inside you forever."

"I didn't choose this!" I cried, the words spilling out of me, hot and raw. "You think I don't hate it too? Every day, I lose a piece of the life we could have had. But what can I do? There's no way out now. I am bound to him, bound to this child, forever."

Jace's gaze flickered to my stomach, his expression torn between love and despair. "And what of the child? Do you even want it? Do you love it?"

The question struck me like a dagger.

I swallowed hard, trying to gather my thoughts, but the truth clawed at my throat, refusing to be silenced.

"I don't know," I admitted, my voice breaking. "How can I love something that represents everything I've lost?"

The silence between us stretched painfully, heavy with the weight of everything we could never say aloud.

Finally, Jace spoke again, his voice barely more than a whisper. "And Aegon... does he know? Does he know that you still dream of me, that you think of me every time he touches you?"

Tears spilt down my cheeks. "No. He's blind to it all. He thinks he owns me. But he doesn't know where my heart truly lies."

Jace's hand reached for mine, and for a fleeting moment, I allowed myself to believe that maybe, just maybe, we could still defy the odds. But before his fingers could touch mine, a sharp voice shattered the moment.

"There you are."

Aegon's voice, thick with drink, cut through the air like a blade. He approached us, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene.

Jace's hand still hovered near mine, and I saw the suspicion flare in Aegon's eyes. He smiled, but there was nothing kind in it.

"I was wondering where my wife had wandered off to," he said, his voice laced with malice. He wrapped his arm around my waist possessively, pulling me close.

His fingers dug into my skin, cold and possessive. "You've been talking to my nephew, I see."

I stiffened in his grasp, the air between us thick with unspoken tension. I opened my mouth to speak, to explain, but Aegon's laughter cut me off.

"No need to explain," he said, his tone mocking. "We're all family here, aren't we, Jace?"

Jace's eyes burned into mine, but his face remained impassive as he stepped back.

"Of course," he said, his voice strained. "I was merely congratulating your wife. She is... radiant tonight."

Aegon's smile widened, his eyes gleaming with triumph. "Radiant, indeed. And soon, she'll give me the son I've been waiting for."

His words were a death sentence.

They sealed my fate as surely as any chains could. And as Aegon led me back into the hall, his arm still wrapped around me, I glanced back at Jace one last time.

His eyes followed me, filled with a longing that mirrored my own. We were both trapped, prisoners of a world we had never wanted, bound by duty and blood.

And as I was pulled further into the crowd, I knew that the life I had dreamed of with Jace was lost forever.

But does he know you call me when he sleeps? But does he know the pictures that you keep? But does he know the reasons that you cry? Or tell me, does he know where your heart lies?

Where it truly lies.

A/n - Abel does things to me, his music is just 🤌🏼

[rodanseys]

ok i finished my yearly reread of trc and i must say something!!! it is likely someone already said on the internet far before me, but i must say it!!!!

and that thing is how trb and trk mirror one another because of the inversion of adam and gansey's function within the narrative.

obviously, in trb, we see adam sacrifice himself to cabeswater. it is a huge risk, yes, but it's true to adam's character because he's willing to do what gansey isn't because he thinks choosing anything other than listening to gansey is freedom. as a result, he's the leader of the group for most of the series. the first thing gansey does when interacting with adam is ask adam a qeustion. adam is consantly called on over the course of the series to find an alternative solution when gansey can't- he even mentions that in his own monologing (i think in bllb). the gray man refers to the gangsey, as we all know, as "adam parrish and his band of merry men." in other words, he is the king, driven by duty, both that he cannot choose bc of his upbringing and that he chooses bc he can't understand what true freedom yet.

meanwhile, we see development of gansey as the poet. he's the heart of the quest, the person who believes in it to make others believe. this is especially true in trk, where its repeatedly pointed out that gansey can say things in his Gansey voice and making them true. this not only reinforces his place as the poet, but his own (and other characters') awareness of it.

so there's been established and really, really hammered-over delegation of adam as the king and gansey as the poet. then, in trk, we have the scene where adam is being taken over by the demon that's also taking over cabeswater. at the end of that chapter, he is able to regain control over the demon and separate it from cabeswater simply by saying his eyes and hands belong to him again- like gansey would. liek a poet would! his necesity to do this within the plot, the obviousness of him doing this as a chracter (he never wanted to be controlled, just gansey's equal, but he couldn't realize the difference yet) also means that he has moved into the role of the poet (and what could be more of gansey's equal than him becoming who gansey was within the plot?). this leaves the king role, as a narrative function, finally open for gansey to fill.

and it works because we've already seen gansey becoming increasingly anxious throughout trk. he's feeling this sense of power start to shatter, the fear of a life after glendower. but he knows he must finish what he started. how is this shown in the text? when he leaves in the middle of the night to find glendower- a literal repetition of adam leaving alone to sacrifice himself on the line. but, this time, gansey is the one to initiate. he's finally on his way to becoming a king, figuratively and literally. but then, we realize geldower is dead. and this is where this mirroring becomes so rich and fascinating to me.

but why? because gansey, after discovering glendower is dead, also discovers something contradictory to the way this story must go: "glendower was dead. gansey kind of wanted to live." the moment after he realizes it, he becomes so afraid of receiving pity because of his selfishness to live outside the bounds of responsibility thrust upon him. he never had that before. no one stopped him from searching for glendower, from being obsessed. he had the time, money, resources, and charm (unlike adam) to pull off this really kind of ridiculous activity. but, now, he finally uderstands what it meant to sacrifice and it brings up a vulnerability he doesn't know what to do with.

and guess who else dealt with reponsibilites thrust upon them that they didn't know what to do with? who was afraid of being pitied instead of respected as a response? adam! gansey's becoming more like adam. like the king! and the narrative literally acknowledges this: "for the first time, gansey understood adam parrish perfectly."

so, of course, like adam, he must sacrifice something to achieve the actual power of the king in the narrative. so he does. he kisses blue and sacrifices his life. and how is it written? "he fell from her arms. he was a king." he was a king!!!! he was actually a king!!! because, like glendower, he was dead. he couldn't be glendower (which is all he wanted to be- brave, respected, loved, remembered) without dying. because glendower died! and gansey wanted to live! but he couldn't. because he couldn't be who he wanted to be without also taking on the responsibility of what it meant to be that person. he never reallt understood this; adam always did.

i really appreciate this inversion because it gives precedence to their friendship on the plot level: both of them had to meet, to get to know each other, to fight for the plot to start. but then, they had to understand each other, to work hard to love each other, and actually end up on the inverted of the narrative in order to become who they needed to be for the plot to conclude. and it also reinforces another large theme of the series: time as something cyclical. gansey living adam's younger years while adam lives gansey's. that this was required for them to know and love each other fully and for gansey to come back to life and not "throw it away."

[cosmicjoke]

The Student Becoming the Teacher:

You know what I realized about this moment?

Kenny is envious of Levi.

He asks Levi, with naked derision, "What are you?! A hero?!", because Levi is what Kenny always wanted, but never managed to be, which is a good person, and Levi managed it without ever needing to gain ultimate power.

Kenny believed that the only way to be a good person was if you were so powerful, you could simply afford to be good. In other words, as long as it cost you nothing to be so. As long as you were untouchable and not at risk of losing anything through your acts of kindness. And that really exposes Kenny's own, selfish nature, that he believed goodness could only be attained through being in a position of total power. That he couldn't conceive of there being someone who would willingly sacrifice their own well-being for the sake of someone else. He sought the power of a Titan like Uri had because he thought that would allow him to be a good person like Uri. And, ironically, in his warped philosophy of how to achieve goodness, fueled by his selfish nature, and in his pursuit of that goal, he only became a worse and worse person, murdering whoever got in the way of him achieving what he wanted for himself.

And of course there's a fundamental flaw in Kenny's thinking.

He didn't understand that what makes someone a good person, what makes someone a hero, more specifically, isn't simply bestowing acts of kindness and mercy, such as Uri showed to him, but an ability and willingness to sacrifice something of ourselves for the betterment of others. Someone who is willing to give up what's most important to them if it means helping someone else.

A hero is someone who's willing to lose so that someone else can win.

And nobody embodies that willingness, that heroism, more than Levi.

Kenny accuses Levi here of "killing when it benefits (him)", too, and Levi agrees, but that's actually not true.

Levi never actually does anything in the story for his own benefit. He never acts toward self-advancement, but always toward the advancement of others. He's the only character in the series who doesn't carry a personal dream that he's fighting for, but instead fights for the dreams of others.

That selflessness is what defines him, along with his compassion, empathy and kindness.

Levi is willing to do bad things, things which take a personal toll on him, like killing, like committing acts of violence, as long as it means other people don't have to also carry that burden, as he explains in his monologue to the 104th. Levi is willing to lose one of the most important people in his life in Erwin, a person he's relied on for so long to guide him, because it means saving Erwin himself from becoming a monster and giving him peace. Levi is willing to give up a physical memento which would have brought him comfort in his grief, in order to bring comfort to another, grieving soldier, like he does when he gives Petra's patch to Dieter. Levi is willing to repress his own, natural instinct to save lives and carry the burden and pain of that choice because it means more lives will be saved down the line and because it's what his comrades chose to give their lives for, like when he makes the choice for Erwin and the one hundred other scouts to charge to their death against the Beast Titan, or when he stays the course of their mission to lead the Female Titan into Erwin's trap, even as he knows the soldiers behind him are being slaughtered. Levi is willing to destroy his body in order to save the lives of his comrades, like when he rescues Mikasa, when he rescues Jean, when he rescues Connie, and ends up disabled and needing the use of a wheelchair for the rest of his life as a result.

That's a large part of what differentiates Levi from Kenny. Kenny kills to advance himself, to achieve greater personal strength because he himself wants to be "good", all while being so blinded by that personal ambition and selfishness that he fails to see how his actions take him further and further from being what he wants to be, while Levi kills to save the lives of other people, to honor their choices and allow them agency, even when it costs him his own, personal comfort and may even cost him the ability to call himself a "good person". Ironically, of course, it's that very willingness that makes Levi a good person, that makes him a hero.

Again, that willingness to lose in order for someone else to win.

Nobody taught Levi that he could use his strength to help others, Kenny least of all. Kenny never taught Levi anything but how to use his strength for personal gain, how to be selfish with his strength, the same way Kenny himself was, wielding his gift only to get what he, personally, wanted, unwilling to lose or sacrifice anything for the benefit of others. Levi discovered on his own that he could use his strength to help others, and on his own, that's what he decided to do, because unlike Kenny, Levi's nature is one of selflessness. He instinctively understood, once he realized his strength could be used to help people, that because he had this thing that others didn't, he should share it and use it for their benefit. He felt an obligation even to use it for others, to give them what he had, the same way we see Levi give what he has to others all throughout the story, even when it leaves him with nothing for himself. Kenny only understood that the thing he had should be horded and used for further self-gain.

That's the difference between someone with great, natural empathy, with great, natural compassion and kindness, and someone without any empathy at all, someone who at their core is selfish and self-serving. The difference between someone who's good and someone's who's bad.

And what's so interesting about this, then, is that it wasn't ever Kenny who taught Levi how to be a hero, or how to be good, but Levi, in the end, who instead teaches Kenny.

Through his encounter with Levi during the Uprising arc, Kenny realizes that Levi has managed to become on his own what Kenny always strove to be. A good man. And he sees how that goodness expresses itself through Levi's selfless actions. Kenny learns, through Levi, that to be good is to sacrifice, to be a hero is to help others even when, and most especially when, it comes at great, personal cost.

It's no coincidence that at the end of his life, after he's born witness to Levi and his genuine heroism, that Kenny finally learns what it means to be a good person, and we see him commit the only, truly selfless act of his life, by giving up his dream and giving the serum to Levi.

Because he learns through Levi that it's not power or invincibility that makes someone good. It's not a lack of desperation or being in a position of having nothing to lose that makes someone's generous actions heroic. It's easy to do good when it costs you nothing. It's easy to be generous when you have more than enough. It's when being merciful, being kind, being compassionate actually costs you personally, and you do those things anyway, that someone can truly be defined as being a good person. As being a hero.

Earlier, Kenny bragged about "teaching (Levi) everything he knows", and talked about his pride in that, wanting to take responsibility for the person Levi was. But Kenny didn't teach Levi this. He didn't teach Levi how to be good. He didn't teach Levi how to be a hero.

Kenny's tone implies sarcasm when he asks Levi if he's a hero, and it's because Kenny is actually envious of Levi, and maybe even in awe of him. He's angry, because Levi managed to become the man Kenny could only ever dream of being, and he did it totally on his own, without Kenny's help or example.

It's a case of the student becoming the teacher.

In the end, it was Levi who taught Kenny the most important lesson of all, by showing him what it truly means to be a good person.

[mayuris-basement-dweller]

Ok I am finally ready. Ready to tell you what happened 100 years ago, Link.

I am ready to put ideas into words. To start, be aware I am the biggest Mayuri simp fan this side of the Equatorial line, so if I sound biased... People, that's Blorbo Beebus.

With that out of the way...

About the latest episode!

Let's start with what I liked. Everything. There's nothing wrong here and you won't find complaints with me, roll credits.

So this model won't work. Let's try again.

✨Highlight Reel! Part 1!✨

- Ryusei. friggin. Nakao

This man was always good. As a singer he is stellar (Angel Calling, my beloved, LISTEN TO IT) but as a voice actor? SON.

We all know he also voiced Caesar Clown (OP) and Frieza (DBZ/DBS) but if you notice, he voices each of them in a very peculiar way.

And Mayuri's voice always had me weak in the knees. Szayelaporro's fight, in particular, used to take me very near to the Soul King.

And I say "used to" because this episode kinda pushed Szayel's episode down a set of stairs for me.

Again, I have so much to say but words fail me. But we gotta start somewhere.

Let's start with the obvious?!

You watched the episode. You are hearing it in your head right now, aren't you? YEAH. It almost sounds like he held this in for eons just waiting to launch it on the unsuspecting crowd. This laugh... Every time I am sad now, I just remind myself this exists, and my depression respectfully lets me enjoy this fact for three seconds.

Am I also concerned babygirl might be having a particularly dangerous Mania episode and playing a bit of Russian Roulette? Yes.

Still in this episode... All of the times Mayuri talks with Zaraki, but I will elaborate on that further later.

Another example? Here.

The way he is talking about how Pernida should honor Zaraki's noble sacrifice and the way his voice keeps going louder and more insane by the minute, culminating in his best Yandere performance in the third frame, just to do a 360 and call Pernida a stiff?!

I still haven't recovered.

It goes from "Oh he is enjoying himself so much you guys" in the first half to "Oh damn, that is Captain Kurotsuchi now, eh" in the second.

This episode, for me, wasn't only a visual delight, i was literally boiling alive because Ryusei knocked it out of three parks, not only one.

Also I gotta include, since we talking about voice actors...

Pernida.

Dude. Bin Shimada, Broly, THANK YOU.

That's like two kings in a room, I swear. Part of the fact I kinda like Pernida is because of his voice alone. This part here, you can almost see a ? on his... Fingers. Gestures? I dunno! But he managed to give a soul to a hand. A HAND.

And how does he even talk?! Disturbing.

Now onto the next section! (Or else I will keep going about all the voice actors!)

- Kenmayu

Everyone that knows me saw this coming a mile away. Look, even disregarding my ship, please. Ever since the last episode before this one.

Mayuri talks. Zaraki doesn't listen. Shenanigans ensue.

You can see how they are literally opposites to each other. Mayuri is analyzing everything and all Zaraki wanna do is smack that thang (hehe) real hard. It backfires tremendously. TWICE.

Because Zaraki didn't listen!

(And no, Yumichika, Mayuri doesn't have a big bad plan to fuck your captain up. At least not IMHO, he might have a plan, yes. But it's not what you think, oh no.)

But lemme just...

The way Mayuri talks to Zaraki.

It's an amalgamation of things. There's sarcasm, there's contempt, and flirting. Yes, flirting, because look me in the eye and say this wasn't flirting.

If Mayuri looked at me like that he would have a new subject, me.

But I am jumping the gun here! The scene before this one?!

I will have to do a part two because I reached the picture limit but...

The pure. Unadulterated. Concern. In Mayuri's voice here.

Mayuri is concerned with Zaraki. Zaraki immediately tells him not to worry too.

The same Mayuri that is famous for being ruthless, a lunatic, and heartless as hell is concerned for someone else.

Not only that, when Zaraki is forced to cut his arm so Pernida stops doing the twist™, Mayuri asks Nemu to tie his arm and stop the bleeding.

Some of you will tell me "He stabbed him right after!" And yes he did, young Padawan, but there's a method in his madness. And if you go and listen to that scene too, Mayuri goes back to talk to Zaraki like... In a "I am so sorry for hurting you, babe" tone. Whatchamacallit.... Ah yes! Conciliatory!

And even so, he says "When I stab you again."

He expects Zaraki to survive. To go back to Seireitei after this fight. God, he is telling Zaraki, right near his paralyzed self, that he will return and that he will be there to stab him again. In his own twisted Kurotsuchi way he is giving Zaraki a bit of hope.

This hurts me on a physical level, because I have an idea about this whole thing, but you guys will have to hold onto the single dark clue I will leave behind:

*What if both of them didn't go back?*

Well, Part 2 I guess! I have too many thoughts!

[actualyves]

(Bringing this over from my Twitter because I’m always thinking about Benson ThePassenger.)

I fully do NOT believe that in his day-to-day life Benson would be aggressive and overbearing and generally, overwhelmingly angry. We see him smiling and laughing and expressing himself through fun clothes and silly body language, and that’s on an arguably extraordinarily, unusually horrific day. And that’s not to say that killing four people is something that a non-angry person does.

Looking at his reasoning behind his treatment of Randy, it seems obvious -to me at least- that this is a man who has never seen or experienced a healthy representation of love. His “don’t make me hurt you when I’m trying to help you” approach to Randy feels like the kind of “tough love” (read: abuse) that would lead someone to internalize violence as an acceptable form of expression. And if the people who loved you were violent toward you, then naturally that would be the case. And if we look at Benson through a queer lens, it would be even easier to think anything seen as “gay” would’ve attempted to have been removed from him with force.

Benson had a traumatic childhood leading to a traumatized adulthood. And while he maybe couldn’t quite see the forest for the trees in how heavily that had influenced his worldview, he could see Randy set up to go down the same path. And so he, angrily, tried to protect him and help him in the only way he knew how.

And then there’s Randy himself. Benson’s love was violence, and Randy’s was submission. This is an adult man whose mom counts the number of rings until he answers the phone and picks out his clothes ffs. We know that timidity isn’t his default setting, because we see him genuinely happy in the last scene. Benson and Randy were both capable of joy and silliness and love, but neither had been shown a healthy way to express affection (platonic or romantic) toward another person.

Even if only as coworkers, Randy and Benson cared about one another, and it became all the more obvious toward the end. The tragedy of it all was that they were both capable of feeling sincerely and genuinely for others, but they didn’t know how to express it. And by the end, Benson had figured that out. Not only that, but he knew it was over for him. So in a final, violent act of love, he sacrificed himself. Benson’s violent, loud love showed Randy not only how cared for he was but how not to express his love for others. And at the end we not only see Randy the best we’ve ever seen him, but we see him acknowledging Benson’s sacrifice in the form of the plushes gifted to Ms. Beard’s daughter -a healthy act of love- and the coat draped over his arm.

Benson and Randy were both soft-spoken, traumatized children trying to navigate adulthood. They could have been the best thing in the world for one another if they’d had a chance to realize how much they could’ve balanced one another out and brought out each others’s strengths. They were more similar than they realized until it was too late.

(And I know he’s not really supposed to be a relatable character, but as a victim of CSA whose PTSD didn’t kick in until adulthood when I realized how heavily it had impacted and stunted me interpersonally, Benson is a deeply important character to me.)

Anyway, The Passenger (2023) is a horror/thriller but also a tragedy.

[raayllum]

What if… the last quasar diamond is used for Callum…? To completely purge the dark magic from him…? After Rayla tearfully keeps her promise of killing him, and is devastated, before remembering about the spell…?

Short Answer: I don't think the quasar diamond will be used for Callum, that he'll literally die, or that Rayla will kill him.

Long Answer: (aka why I think the above)

I don't think Callum is going to be permanently/temporarily killed this season. Some of this is because resurrection magic is very complicated in-universe and can't be something that's easily done (otherwise we'll run into trouble with stakes later). Aaravos helping Callum save Rayla's life (magic, corrupted primal stone, etc) feels within his aims for me, but someone doing something like that without Aaravos feels less tangible. Even with a quasar diamond, Rayla isn't a mage, and while quasar diamonds can restore a body to a separated soul, we know they can't restore it to lost souls (of people who are fully dead) otherwise Aaravos would've been able to restore and bring back Leola by opening up the Moon Nexus and unleashing the dead.

The other main reason is that Callum literally dying isn't really needed, I think, when it comes to his character arc. If/when he willingly corrupts himself with dark magic, he is going to be metaphorically killing himself three times over: it means allowing himself to be totally corrupted (death one), turning himself over to Aaravos (death two), and knowing he made Rayla promise to kill him (death three). (This is also why I find the "he uses dark magic to destroy/coin Aaravos" less effective, since it means that Rayla isn't bound to kill him — she only promised specifically if he's under Aaravos' control — and it removes the biggest fear factor of why Callum is scared to do dark magic as well.)

Either way, Callum dying wouldn't add much to Callum's arc, so what about the other half of the equation? What would killing him give to Rayla's arc?

Well, it also wouldn't give much. There'd be irony in Rayla starting arc 2 wanting to kill a high mage of Katolis but being unable to, only for her to kill the high mage she wanted to save more than anything? If this would be closer to the beginning of her season arc, with time to grow after (the regret, or un-making her choice later when another opportunity is presented). Rayla has had six seasons of routinely sacrificing herself and what she wants (being with her loved ones) with precious few exceptions, even if we've seen her steadily grow more positively in S4 onwards in particular (god bless you 5x04). Killing him is what's expected of her as an Assassin and a Good Moonshadow Elf, which is set in opposition to her being a Hero ("Rayla saves people" / "It was rescued? By who?" "...Me").

So Rayla, who always sacrifices, continues to sacrifice. Even though — from a meta narrative perspective — she and Callum are set up to the be the inversion of Viren and Lissa. Viren sacrificed the people around him (including her) and did dark magic, so she saw him as a monster and left. Meanwhile, Callum and Rayla are set up for Callum to do dark magic because he refuses to sacrifice Rayla. Because of this, even though he sees himself as a monster (evidenced by the corruption and Aaravos' control), Rayla will not and she will refuse to leave him, bringing him back to himself (possibly with Ezran's help).

I also think some of this ground work is laid because Callum isn't just scared of being possessed and hurting people; he's also specifically scared that Rayla will be scared of him (6x03), that he will no longer be someone she knows and loves. However, we also know thanks to 6x03 (and 6x06: "You're a good person Callum. Maybe the goodest") that that's not true or going to happen. She knows who he is, who he Truly is, and that he's acting out of love. In saving him, not only does she reaffirm his identity, she reaffirms her own (more on Rayla being unable to kill without also symbolically killing herself here) with the most important bit dropped in here:

As long as Callum is Callum (“you’re the destiny is a book you write yourself guy”), he’s worth saving. As long as Callum is Callum, she can be Rayla (“Rayla’s brave. She saves people” / “Rayla. My name is Rayla, and I’m going home”). As long as she’s Rayla, he can be Callum. Because if Callum isn’t Callum, then he’s dead, and if he’s dead, she can kill him. And if Rayla kills him, if Callum is dead, then she won’t be Rayla anymore. Because to literally kill Callum would be to simultaneously symbolically/emotionally kill herself.

In going to save him, also (which Runaan might be primed to encourage or be a catalyst for), Rayla gets to demonstrate her growth by refusing to sacrifice herself and refusing to sacrifice him. Previously, she's sacrificed herself for him, sacrificing both her life and their happiness. In 4x03/4x09 and throughout arc 2, what we see what she wants most is not just Callum being alive, but having a life with Callum ("what I most deeply desire is what I could've had all along"). To be together, rather than being separated (6x09). So Rayla choosing him, and their life together, and what she wants, un-making her choice to leave at the beginning of the arc / timeskip — refusing to sacrifice him the same way he refused to sacrifice her, reaffirming both their identities, bringing them both back from the dark paths they thought they couldn't escape (being Aaravos' puppet or dead, being an assassin or dead) — that's the Character Growth, and where I think we're headed.

Conversely, if she kills him — she arguably hasn't changed, and not even necessarily changed for the worst. It'd work more for me if it was like end of S6 with S7 to go and wrap up her arc, but given that it's the final season of the arc that started with "no I'm not going to kill you, I came back For You and will keep coming back for / To You"... yeah, we're gonna end S7 on a high note, character arc wise, for just about everyone in the main cast, I think (likely excluding Aaravos, possibly Claudia, and potentially Karim).

Additionally, although quasar diamonds aren't seemingly affected by being used for dark magic (i.e. there's no corruption), there's no indication they can purge dark magic. And even if they could, and it'd give Callum another blank slate, presumably... But would that really matter on the tail of a season where he had a blank slate and (under my assumptions, mind you) threw it all away under the worst possible circumstances/consequences of doing so? Am I really going to believe he'd always be able to stay away from dark magic no matter what after going back on that promise at least two, if not three, times? (As always, prepared to eat my words later, but this is where my head is at / where I think the narrative set up is going in terms of him using it again with what we have rn; more alternative narrative legwork could happen in S7 that'd make the opposite outcome make sense to me.)

I think it's far more effective if Callum keeps (or doesn't) the taint of dark magic, but Aaravos can never use it to control him again. He can use it under extreme circumstances (like Viren did in 6x08, which was the right thing to do) but without the biggest consequence of doing so. He'll also have the certainty that no matter what he did or what he does ("It doesn't matter what you did before, I just want you to be okay again" / "None of this matters... It means I trust her. Unconditionally"), Rayla will be there and they'll accept and love and fight for each other, always, that they'll never sacrifice each other but go together in all things, and that freedom to exist and be loved is True Freedom from Aaravos and from the corruption of dark magic.

[pompadorbz]

I've been kinda on this quest to find a good way to tastefully retcon the brighton biter's character from qsmp but that's kinda a difficult challenge when he's very integral to another character's arc (Lullah). I've thought about making a placeholder character since with how little he logged on it wouldn't be hard (Might make him faceless, charlie brown parent style), but for now I'm just gonna refer to him as "W". *Characters not CCS, if that couldn't be more obvious, but i'll leave the rest of this under a read more if you don't wanna read about this guy for even a second! I don't blame you.

I bravely like the bravest Guppy ever went back and watched the stream where him and Phil argue after his return, and in my mind the conversation where the two originally made up went a lot differently.

W choosing to leave the mission is, be it subconsciously or not, a decision more so made out of a desire for moral superiority over Phil than it is for answers, because truly, him choosing absence over aiding others being brought up is one of the biggest holes Phil could have punched in his ego, and while he likes Phil as a friend, he doesn't like to imagine him as having done more for Lullah than him. It results in an act of inaction only done out of a desire to avoid responsibility while still seeming present on a surface level, and Phil's had enough of that.

In my kinda mental rewrite, Phil was done with his absence and gave him an ultimatum; either he can stay here on the island and at least temporarily stop touring to give Lullah the father she deserves, or he can go back with his band that's supporting the island's biggest tormentor financially, and never show his face around here again.

Phil is fully and wholeheartedly expecting him to do the former, because it is a choice and sacrifice so obvious that he knows any other person here would choose it in a heartbeat, but instead- and to Phil's disappointment, W gets cold feet, opting to avoid commitment for one final time.

When Lullah is finally back on the island, Phil tries not to tell her immediately, because he sincerely doesn't know how to even approach something like that. In a way, he becomes avoidant too, but for more selfless reasons in contrast. He's still trying to figure out how to let her down easy.

But unfortunately in the time she's been gone, Phil's said a lot about this situation to the other island residents. He's made jokes about it to cope and he's vented about it to his more trusted friends, so i think by the time Lullah and Phil have their big conversation (after her and Chayanne fight) where she opens up about her feelings, Lullah is already somewhat aware of what really happened with W, or at the bare minimum she has her suspicions and has been keeping quiet.

Even then, Phil can't fully bring himself to tell her that W effectively abandoned her, and so for better or for worse, Lullah seeks out answers on her own, and that's what leads her to finally stand up for her own individuality and stop living in W's shadow.

[luxheroica]

under your tree (3/3)

Part 3/3 - Ekko, ???, and the tree. An epilogue

Thank you to everyone who has enjoyed along the way, thank you for allowing me to express how much I love these two characters.

Part 1

Part 2

Also on AO3

---

How he drags himself back up after the memorial, Ekko will never quite be sure. 

The Firelights need him. Zaun needs him, now more than ever, and after everything he gave his promise. It’s harder than it ever was before, to get back up and keep at it. His fight was always about making the city better for his people– and now there are so few of them left. 

But he’s damned if he’s going to just give up. 

I’ve never seen you give up on anything, Ekko.

He wanders until he’s at the tree. The leaves are green and vital, the arcane spillover that was slowly poisoning the ancient tree gone with Viktor’s final sacrifice. The Firelights still call it their home– only it is no longer a closely guarded secret. Any who wish to come can, and there they can find a meal and a warm drink and a place to mourn their dead and a warm hand to hold. 

“How did you do it?” he’d asked that other-Vander, on one of his few-and-far-between breaks from building the Z-Drive. “How did you unify Zaun? With all the warring factions and everyone out for themselves…” 

And Vander had smiled and said, “Mostly, some cussed good luck. But I’ll tell you what, it started with building a community right here– and then fighting for it.” 

And Ekko is trying to build a community where he is. Some days it’s harder than others. 

There isn't any space left on the wall to depict those they’ve lost along the way, and he doesn't even know all their faces to draw them anyways. 

He easily finds the drawings that Jinx made, with their neon bright colors standing out from all the rest. He traces the paint with his hands. 

After the battle was over he looked for her. He found Vi instead, broken and grieving. Her reaction told him all he needed to know. 

How many times do I have to lose you? 

He still remembers the time they spent together. Too short, and an eternity all at once. It hadn’t been easy– her pain had come spilling out of her in explosive ways, and his caution had time to rear its ugly head– but in those scant days they had found a kind of equilibrium between them. Working on turning her lab into a flying weapon of war, intertwining their ideas together until at last they had something that might turn the tide of Ambessa’s ambition. In the quiet moments, Ekko dying her hair and Jinx altering his clothes (which didn't always remain on), and kissing her until they were both breathless. 

It reminded him sometimes, of that other Powder in the other universe. Building something together, something that would help the world. 

And now she is dead. 

He traces the lines of her drawing with his fingers. Misses her. 

Then he starts to paint. There is no space on the wall and so he covers the lines of Powder's portrait with Jinx. Changing her hair, updating her eyes, turning her at last into an older version of herself. 

At last his hands are covered in blue paint, but there she is– immortalized on the wall. Another one of his ghosts. 

“You really think I'm dead, huh?” 

Ekko whirls around. The figure coming towards him is wrapped in a cloak. She walks with a limp and her face is scarred. There is still a trace of telltale blue peeking out from underneath her hood. 

“Wha–how–?” 

He stares dumbfounded as she takes down her hood. She is unmistakably Jinx. There is a wide burn scar across half her face, but still she grins and she is as wild and as vital as ever.

“Miss me?” 

Ekko rushes forward. Envelops her in a crushing hug. She nearly buckles under his weight. “Easy there tiger–” she starts to say, and then he kisses her. She relaxes into the kiss. 

Ekko pulls back, not quite sure if she's real… but she is. He cradles her face between his hands. “How are you–?” 

“Alive? Blast knocked me clear,” Jinx explains succinctly. “Then I think one of those hexgate things activated and I got tossed halfway to Kumangra. It’s been a wild ride getting back, believe me.” 

Ekko laughs. It bubbles up out of him, unable to be suppressed. He’s just… happy. “You’ll have to tell me all about it.” 

“Someday, maybe.” And her tone isn’t like he’s ever heard it, not for years. It’s far off and quiet. 

Ekko takes her hand in his. Holds it tight. Holds onto her. 

“Have you told Vi?” he asks. “That you’re alive?” 

She shakes her head. And from the set of her mouth– wistful, resigned– he knows that she doesn’t plan to. 

“Jinx is dead, remember?” she gestures up to the portrait he’s just finished painting for her. “It’s better for her– better for everyone– if she stays that way. If she remembers me as the sister who saved her, maybe she can finally let me go. But, I wanted you to know.”

She turns towards him, and her expression is fond and faraway.  

Ekko understands in that moment that she’s not staying. He twines his fingers tighter with hers, like he might hold her here by the strength of his will alone. But holding onto her is light holding onto an explosion– the tighter you try, the more it will hurt. 

He relaxes his grip, and her fingers slip from his. 

“When am I gonna stop losing you?” 

His voice is choked. 

She smiles, leans forward and kisses the bridge of his nose. “Hey,” she says. “If you keep losing me, I guess that means I always come back, right?” 

He smiles slowly. Her fingers find his and they gently twine together. Not clutching or holding tight just touching. For this moment and this moment alone. 

“Like a lucky penny.” 

She laughs. Looks up, and her face is dappled with golden light. “Or a tree, that just keeps coming back.” 

“Where are you gonna go?” 

She cocks her head. Shrugs her shoulders. He thinks, she has finally shed the weight of everything weighing her down. “No clue. Somewhere far away. Someplace that’s never heard of Piltover or Zaun or any of this.” 

“I want to ask to come with you,” Ekko admits. 

Jinx smiles. She understands him, maybe better than anyone else ever has. “But you won’t. Cause you’re the Boy Savior, and this place needs you.” 

Zaun and Piltover are to be one city. A common enemy has forged them into one being. Sevika apparently got herself a place on the council. He hopes it will stick. But he knows that their problems aren’t so easily solved, and old hatreds have a way of rearing their ugly heads, and without some threat breathing down their necks people will remember the old ways of power and privilege. In the meantime, somebody’s got to be here to build something worth hanging onto. 

“You could do a lot of good here,” Ekko offers. 

Jinx’s answering look is wistful and sad. “I think I would have liked that– just building things with you.” 

Ekko nods. It hurts, right in that place to the left of his ribcage, but it’s a different kind of ache from before. This, he thinks, is more manageable. She laces her fingers between his and kisses him slowly and deliberately and he knows it is goodbye. Ekko savors the taste of her, presses back into her, making sure she won’t forget him. 

Then she pulls away. Untangles their fingers. She takes two steps away and hops off the platform, and Ekko remains at the tree watching her go. She wanders off, still dappled by that sunlight, light as the wind. 

Sometimes taking a leap forward means leaving a few things behind. 

What’s one more goodbye?

He isn’t expecting her to turn back, to look over her shoulder at him. 

“Five years,” Jinx calls. Ekko raises his eyebrows at her. “Give me five years– to get my head on straight, to see the world, to figure out who I’m gonna be next. If you’re here in five years– meet me here.” 

“I’ll hold you to that,” Ekko shouts back. “Shine the place up nicely for you!” 

“You’d better!” 

She throws a peace sign over her eye. Grins. 

And then she is gone. 

Ekko waits for a long time. Leans against the wall and watches the patterns of green-and-gold light from the leaves of the tree. Then at last he looks up at her portrait on the wall and sighs. Smiles.

“Well, time to get to it.” 

---

True to her word, she comes back. True to his word, he is waiting. 

[lambmotifz]

kripke era wincest does have that gothic horror vibe, the weirdness and the sexual tension that doesn’t exist in their post kripke dynamic so i think as a shipper that’s part of why i don’t really consider post s5 spn as canon. also swan song is a good ending that makes perfect sense narratively idc what anyone says

[turtleblogatlast]

[ cw: death mention / strangulation mention / stabbing mention / blood mention / self-sacrifice / codependency mention in tags / ]

I think a lot about how common it is for Raph to be the one to have direct focus put on him when Leo gets into all his near death experiences.

Like, when Leo is thrown off a building, it’s Raph who’s right there jumping after him, not even thinking about the consequences to himself when he does. When Leo almost gets skewered by the Krang, Raph’s right there to take the blow and send Leo to safety without a second thought. When Leo’s being strangled to near death, it’s a Krangified Raph doing the job, doing exactly what Raph would never, ever want to do. When Leo is telling Casey Jr to close the portal, it’s Raph who tries desperately to convince Leo otherwise.

Likewise, Leo is consistently very single minded when Raph gets forcibly separated from them. Both when in the sewers and by the Krang, Leo is dead set on finding Raph first and foremost.

I also think it’s interesting that during each of Leo’s near death experiences, the lightheartedness of his words during them goes directly hand in hand with both how close Raph is to him physically and how much danger Raph is also in in that moment. From a literal “I told you so” as Leo’s falling away from Raph to a soft joke about how “hero moves” are Raph’s style - both of these are on the more morbidly carefree side and both of these notably take Leo farther away from Raph and, in turn, have Raph not in immediate danger.

On the other side of things is the apology from Leo, heedless of the danger he himself is in as he seriously and genuinely speaks to a Krangified Raph face to face. Then there’s Leo’s freezing and desperation as Raph takes a hit meant for him and sends just Leo to safety, leaving Raph himself behind. Both of these involve much closer proximity and Raph being directly harmed - these together make Leo much more vulnerable in his words and actions, something not even the threat of death can make him.

These two care about each other so much, and they’re way too much alike for their own good.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

[OLD ART ALERT] A COLLECTION OF SCENES FROM THE GILLIONS CATSCRATCH ARC THAT BROUGHT ME GREAT JOY. i love fishy chips especially when its just gillion being delirious and violent and hostile

[withthewindinherfootsteps]

Wei Wuxian and Narrative Agency – Part Three

For Xiantober Day Five: Past and Present, in which the author gets very unhinged about what parts of the past are shown and how that’s affected by the present!

(Part One | Part Two | Full version on AO3)

The Power of Agency: Shaping the Narrative

When I've discussed Wei Wuxian's agency previously, I’ve talked about how what’s shown and omitted tells us about a character, and we’ve talked about the character himself. Though this is a niche topic, it’s not necessarily something out of the ordinary to analyse, and we can assume everything up to here has been in some way intentional.

This? Linking structure to a character’s in-universe preferences?

This is where we get unhinged.

Before I start, let’s quickly establish something which will be important later: although Wei Wuxian is the central character, MDZS isn’t strictly from his POV. While omitting events a character doesn’t like to dwell on and concealing things the character wishes to hide is common in books with only one narrator, MDZS has multiple narrators which it switches between relatively quickly. This includes Wei Wuxian, but it also includes nearly every major character that appears in the story, and omniscient narrator as well. As a default, this format doesn’t lead to this deliberate shaping and omission because of one character’s preferences, since we have many other sources of information and events – which is what makes Wei Wuxian’s influence over the narrative and structure so interesting. We could have access to a lot more information, and access to it at different times, than we do (and that’s not an insult, quite the opposite!).

To begin: we’ve established that times such as Wei Wuxian’s time on the streets, his three months in the Burial Mounds and his loss in the Siege aren’t shown because Wei Wuxian has little agency there. But that’s not the only special thing about them. They’re also the three most traumatic times in his life, and so moments Wei Wuxian himself either can’t remember, or doesn’t like to dwell on.

This is why discussing Wei Wuxian’s treatment of tragedy in his life was important. Firstly, it shows he doesn’t focus on the tragedy in his life, so the idea that the narrative not focusing on this tragedy relates to his character has merit; secondly, it affirms that this is not a passive trait, but a choice. Therefore, when the narrative omits events due to this aspect of Wei Wuxian, it’s respecting not only a character detail – which would be cool by itself – but also an active decision. One that shapes the story it’s made in.

In other words, its very structure is respecting Wei Wuxian’s agency!

Now, of course there are flashbacks to other moments of his past he probably wouldn’t like to dwell on, too. But within the structure, they’re only shown when Wei Wuxian is thinking about them (or when he has reason to)!

Wei WuXian hadn’t woken up yet. His eyes were still tightly shut, yet his hand didn’t let go either. He seemed to be dreaming, muttering, “… Don’t… Don’t be angry…” Lan WangJi seemed somewhat surprised. His voice was gentle, “I am not angry.” Wei WuXian, “… Oh.” Hearing this, as though he finally felt assured, his fingers loosened. Lan WangJi sat beside Wei WuXian for a while. Seeing that he was motionless again, he was about to stand up when Wei WuXian grabbed him with his other hand, hugging his arm and refusing to let go. He shouted, “I’ll go with you, quick, take me back to your sect!” Chapter 63, EXR translation

Which, of course, is him dwelling on…

Lan WangJi spoke one word at a time, “Go back to Gusu with me.” Hearing this, both Wei WuXian and Jiang Cheng were surprised. Quickly afterward, Wei WuXian laughed, “Go back to Gusu with you? To the Cloud Recesses? Why go there?” He immediately seemed to realize, “Oh. I forgot. Your uncle Lan QiRen hates crooked people like me. You’re his proudest disciple, so of course you’re the same as him, haha. I refuse.” Chapter 62, EXR translation

…the painful flashback immediately preceding this. The third set of flashbacks (which are also painful) are a similar case. Look at the contex:

He lifted the bottom of his robe, revealing a prosthetic leg made of wood, “This leg of mine was destroyed by you, that night in the Nightless City (…)” (…) “Wei WuXian, I won’t ask you if you remember or not. Both of my parents died by your hands. You owe too many people. You definitely won’t remember them either. But, I, Fang MengChen, will never forget! And never forgive you!” (…) “In the fight at Qiongqi Path, my son was strangled to death by your dog Wen Ning!” “My shixiong died by poison, his entire body festering due to your cruel curse!” Chapter 68 (immediately preceding the flashbacks), EXR translation

And Wei Wuxian’s own thoughts and words:

Wei WuXian looked at the cultivators before the Demon-Slaughtering Cave. Their expressions were the absolute same as those of the cultivators from the night of the pledge conference, pouring their wine on the ground as they took the pledge to scatter the ashes of the Wen Sect’s remnants and him.  (…) Wei WuXian, “Now it’s time to ask just whom it is that treasures it so much. It’s like Wen Ning. Back then, some certain sects or so were scared to death of the Ghost General. They said they’d kill him on the surface, but behind their backs they hid him for over ten years. How strange. Who was the one that said his ashes had been scattered back then?” Chapter 79 (immediately succeeding the flashbacks), EXR translation 

Once again, Wei Wuxian’s own thoughts relate to the flashbacks we’ve just been shown. And, as I previously mentioned, though all the events which are shown are tragic, they’re also events which Wei Wuxian’s own choices and actions shaped – which he has this to say about:

“The things I did, not only do you remember them, I remember them too. You won’t forget them, and they’ll stay even longer in my mind!” Chapter 82, EXR

Admittedly, this applies more to the third set of flashbacks than the second (which is still fitting as the third set was the most recent), as in the second, although he still had agency within and influence over his circumstances, the majority of the pain was caused by others’ actions (excluding, of course, the Golden Core transfer… which is something we know stays for a long time in his mind, albeit with a caveat we’ll soon discuss). But it’s still important to note – especially considering that otherwise, focusing on this very painful time in his life wouldn’t seem like something very in-character for Wei Wuxian to do.

Of course, this can all just be explained by good writing. It is best to insert flashbacks when they’re relevant to the characters and events in the present day! But it is interesting to compare these to the start of the (not painful) Gusu flashbacks, which open this way:

At a later time, Wei WuXian pondered upon the reason why his relationship with Lan WangJi wasn’t good. Getting to the root of the matter, everything started when he was fifteen, coming to the GusuLan Sect with Jiang Cheng to study for three months. Chapter 13, EXR

Again, considering the circumstances around which these flashbacks take place – returning to the Cloud Recesses for the first time since the lectures, and meeting Lan Wangji once more – it makes complete sense for Wei Wuxian to be thinking about these events*. So it does fit the pattern of Wei Wuxian dwelling on something, thus leading to the narrative dwelling on it, too (and being shaped by his thoughts)… but there’s another layer to this. Importantly, it is the only flashback where Wei Wuxian’s present thoughts don’t lead to this happening, with his thoughts at an unspecified future time leading to it, instead. I like to interpret this as the text saying that, since these events aren’t something Wei Wuxian wouldn’t focus on in normal circumstances, he can dwell on them at any time. Therefore, they’re free to come up in the narrative at any time as well, even if he’s not dwelling on them in the present moment!

So, to summarise: Wei Wuxian’s decision not to focus on the painful times in his life directly influences the narrative to not focus on these times. When painful times are brought up and shown to us, it’s in the context of him thinking about them in the present day, and even then, his most painful moments still aren’t shown to us. His agency in this regard is still respected by the narrative structure.

This is the main way his agency influences the structure of the narrative, but I’d like to talk about the revealing and concealing of information, too. For example, I said I’d talk about the Golden Core transfer – though Wei Wuxian does think about this many times, as evidenced by his internal narration in Chapter 103. But unlike everything we’re shown through the flashbacks, this is something Wei Wuxian is actively trying to hide from others. And the narrative respects this choice (Wei Wuxian’s agency, again), never reveals it even when it would be relevant in the flashbacks, and we find out not through narration, but through a character’s dialogue!

And to clarify – I know these aspects may not be in the book for this exact reason. Showing flashbacks in relevant moments is good writing, concealing an important plot point you want to do a reveal for is necessary writing, and MXTX has said she didn’t want to write about Wei Wuxian’s time in the Burial Mounds, due to not liking to write transformation sequences (and also because it would not be pleasant at all, which likely also applies to Wei Wuxian’s death). That doesn’t prevent it from also being intentional – MXTX’s intelligence is shown in many aspects of this book, and there’s nothing disproving it – but there’s no proof for either option, so I won’t pretend there is. I bring this up because I know this feels like I’m overanalysing, as I feel that way as well.

But, whether it’s intentional or not, it exists in the text, and I adore it – so, regardless, it’s something I’ll explore. Because taking this into account… We aren't just told about Wei Wuxian having agency, we aren’t just shown it in the text, we aren’t even just shown it through which parts of his past are shown and hidden in the structure of the text (as I talked about in Part One). The parts of the past that are shown and hidden also have an in-universe reason for being shown and hidden, this reason being the choices he makes! Agency is the ability of a character to influence the story they’re in, but Wei Wuxian’s agency, as a property of a character who only exists in-universe, shapes the out-of-universe structure as well! That’s how we’re shown its importance! How cool is that?

At The End Of The Road: Summary and Final Thoughts

In this essay, we’ve covered how important Wei Wuxian’s agency is not only to the events of the plot, but to the structure of the narrative as well. The narrative omits periods in which Wei Wuxian has little or no agency, in favour of showing us periods in which he does, even when important events happened in the former. This indicates that who Wei Wuxian is without agency isn’t important enough to be shown to the audience, and therefore that his agency is an integral aspect of his character in MDZS. We’ve discussed how both in-universe and out-of-universe, tragedy does not define him – out-of-universe, the tragic events in Wei Wuxian’s life are used not to build sympathy but rather to show his strength of character and who he still is despite going through them; and in-universe, he chooses not to focus on the negativity and resentment caused by his circumstances or others’ actions, instead staying true to his moral compass and enjoying his life in the present day. Finally, we’ve also explored how this choice is another reason for the omission of certain events from the narrative, resulting in his agency shaping the story in a very literal way – it affects the out-of-universe structure, as well.

It’s quite fitting, for a story whose essence is about defying a conventional narrative – that of righteous clans rising up and defeating a great evil – and about a character who defies many conventional narratives on his own – that of status defining how skilled you could be, that for a golden core being necessary for cultivation and other paths being unavailable, that of a tragic but complete story of someone killed for staying true to their moral code (instead, that character returns to life and has a happy ending) – to have its own narrative play a role in such an important and interesting way.

(Or, if an image would be preferable:)

Thank you for reading!

(Part One | Part Two | Full version on AO3)

--

*This strong relation to the present day circumstances is another reason I love the flashback placement so much (and why I think it’s such a loss both screen adaptions altered it so strongly)! 

[shannonsketches]

[astralhope]

- No, this is one duel I refuse to lose! -