#keys to the demon prison

[sees-writes]

I love that Dale and Warren Burgess full on took their role as older cousins to Kendra and Seth so seriously, becoming as protective of them as older siblings would. I mean:

“‘Maybe you should just feed me to him (Olloch),’ Seth said.

‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ Grandma said…

‘He’ll have to eat me to get to you.’ Dale said. ‘Whether you like it or not.’”

This is Book 2 RotES

“The knife at her side had Kendra’s full attention. She realized that the wrong words or action might get her stabbed.

…

Warren stopped into view, hands in his shopping cart, eyes on Civia. Kendra had never seen him look quite so serious.

…

“Warren stopped. ‘I don’t care who you are,’ he said. ‘You harm Kendra and I’ll break your neck.’”

This is Book 5 KthDP

-

Dale was fully ready to fist fight a whole ass demon to protect Seth. Warren told the LAST Eternal that he did not give a shit and would end her to protect Kendra. I just love how ride or die these to are, pure Burgess blood right there.

[teenageread]

Review: Keys to the Demon Prison

Synopsis:

After centuries of plotting, the Sphinx—leader of the Society of the Evening Star—is after the final artifacts needed to open the great demon prison, Zzyxx. If the legendary prison is opened, a tide of evil is certain to usurp control of the world.

In an effort to intercept the final artifacts, Kendra, Seth and the Knights of the Dawn race to strange and exotic preserves across the globe. The stakes have never been higher. The risks have never been more deadly.

In this explosive series finale, allegiances will be confirmed and secrets revealed as the forces of light and darkness collide in a desperate, climactic battle to control the keys to the demon prison.

Plot:

Seth and Kendra had a mission to save everyone they loved, they needed to stop the Sphinx, a once-thought ally, who was actually the leader of their rival group known as the Society of the Evening Star. The Sphinx wanted to use the artifacts to open up the demon prison because he believed he could control the demons, which those at Fablehaven knew was impossible. Kendra and Seth had an extra reason to hate the Sphinx, as he was responsible for the kidnapping of their parents, who were blind to the world of Fablehaven. Starting off with a mission to collect the final artifact, the Knights of the Dawn ran into trouble as the Sphinx was hot on their tail. Kendra and Seth found themselves separated as Seth was captured by the Society, Kendra managed to escape with a few friends. In prison is where Seth met Bracken, a unicorn in their human form, who promised to help Seth escape and follow the Knights in stopping the Society. Kendra and friends were tasked with getting Warren back and rescuing those the Sphinx have taken from them. Along the way, Kendra and Seth meet new friends, reconnect with old friends, and be betrayed by those they trusted. As the Knights of Dawn head to face off with the Society of the Evening Star, Kendra, and Seth must work together, alongside their friends, to save the world as they know it, protect those they love, and hopefully restore Fablehaven, and their home, in time. 

Thoughts: 

Brandon Mull wraps up the Fablehaven series with this banger of a novel. The longest yet, Mull continues to write from a third-person perspective as they follow Kendra and Seth around on their various missions, leading up to the final battle where everyone is together and all remaining questions are answered. With fast pace writing, this novel being the longest of the series, really flies through your hand as you are itching to figure out Kendra’s storyline, or Seth’s, and waiting for our sibling pair to be reunited to take on the bad guys' head on. Kendra is always an amazing character, and Mull really brings her out of her shell in this novel, making her normal thoughtfulness and hidden bravery seem on full display. For our romantics, having Kendra develop these deeper feelings towards the special people in her life, allows us to see Kendra growing up, as her crushes develop into something more, and gives you a glimpse into the emotional side of what is going on in Kendra’s life. Seth, on the other hand, is still a child, and where his bravery counts for some things, his stupidity is holding him back. A large theme Mull has been working on within Seth is having Seth not make rash and reckless decisions. For the first three novels, it seems that the entire plot revolved around Seth messing up and the Fablehaven crew having to fix that. With this being the last novel, I figured Mull would retire this plot device and give us a mature Seth as he has with Kendra. But nope, the plot device was recycled, and now the gangs are working together to stop a monster Seth created. Great job Seth! Still, Mull made Seth into a hero, giving him death-defying mission after mission, where Seth’s bravery and righteousness saved the day. With this being the final novel in the Fablehaven series, Mull really went all out with the battles, missions, and a conclusion that was worth waiting for. Despite keeping Kendra and Seth separated for the majority of the novel, our sibling duo are in their prime with this one. With a satisfying ending, I know Mull is not done with the world of Fablehaven, or with Seth and Kendra, and I am excited to see what they do next with them!

Read more reviews: Goodreads

Buy the book: Amazon

[zzyzxtourguide]

On theme with my username:

And on our right we’ll see a young boy absolutely demolishing several demons with a legendary sword

[umeumeumee]

masterlists!

my hero academia

[imminent-danger-came]

Hi. I'm wondering about one thing.🤔

Are you remember I asked you if there was a possibility that the Lady bone demon was a pawn of our mysterious guest? And you said it might be a possibility. So...

So I think Mayor was created by this mystery guy. To keep an eye on the Lady bone demon. Bah! I think he even made sure she would dance to the rhythm of our mystery person's plan.

Because how is it that there were glaring differences between Mayor and Wukong when it came to body possession? Because look. Sun wukong kept fighting with lady bone demon because of course he wanted freedom. And the mayor what? Didn't he want to either? It may also be that the mayor fought at first, but eventually gave up. It might be like this. I'm not saying there's no such option.

ㄟ( ▔, ▔ )ㄏ

Oooor it is that he was specifically created to be easily possessed. You never know when your supposedly loyal companion will suddenly stab you in the back because he was ordered to kill you because you would thwart his plan.

And those white eyes! Did no one notice that suddenly their general had eyes like that? Or maybe… maybe he had it like that from the very beginning? 😏

If it weren't like that. I don't know. (ヘ･_･)ヘ┳━┳

Why didn't he free his lady? Damn. He literally had the key to freeing her and instead he gave it to MK.

Why doesn't anyone mention him in season 4? Or why they didn't show what happened to him in season 3?

So, I think the Mayor was 100%, completely loyal to LBD!

I think he was someone who shared LBD's ideals, and that they grew close during LBD's time as an Ivory Lady. He came to see the flaws with the emperor he served, and chose to follow someone he thought had the world's best interest in mind, selecting her as "his lady". He wanted to help LBD and destiny create a world "no longer plagued by pain".

The difference between Wukong and the Mayor is that the Mayor was possessed willingly:

Emperor: "You! Sieze this traitor, now!" Lady Bone Demon: "You'll find your Chief of War takes his directive from me now." Emperor: "You- you've been planing this from the beginning haven't you! To work your way to the top, to overthrow me! And you *turning to the mayor*, you helped her! Traitors! Deceivers!" Lady Bone Demon: "I did not deceive you. When I came into your service, my intent was to aid in perfecting this world."

(3x13 Time to Be Warriors)

-

My interpretation has always been that like LBD, the Mayor worked as the Chief of War to help make the world "more perfect", or "a better place". When that wasn't the case, he had the same revelation that Azure did working under the Jade Emperor, then deciding to follow a different person of high status, aka the Lady Bone Demon (like Azure then chose to follow the Monkey King).

So quite simply, the Mayor didn't need to be controlled because he was already willing to do whatever his Lady asked of him.

When it comes to "why didn't he free his Lady if he had the key", I think part of it was that he was helping to set plans into motion. LBD was a believer in patience, and that destiny would fulfill itself "soon enough" (though she becomes distinctly impatient by the end). He didn't need to take action immediately—the pieces had to come together first.

LBD needed to collect very powerful items to create her mech, one of which was from the celestial realm itself. LBD never worked directly, always using some pawn to do it for her. She used Spider Queen and her henchmen, she used DBK, she used MK, she used Macaque, she used SWK—it's a long list. So, it's not surprising that she didn't just have the Mayor come and free her (assuming the Mayor even knew where she was before DBK found her), and it's not surprising that she didn't just bust out of her prison guns a-blazing. She worked in far subtler ways.

I've also totally wondered what happened to the Mayor post EYD! The answer to that is either it's not important, or it's not important yet—who knows, maybe he's in prison with Yellowtusk!

But other than that, I think the Mayor was just a guy who was loyal to the end.

[thethiefinwhite]

"Are these pancakes only for the doomed?"

- Art Request (I'm sorry if the quote isn't quite right, it's been awhile since I've read Fablehaven 😅)

Thanks for my first request, Vellatra! And not to worry! I knew which part you were talking about! :)

"Coulter strolled into the room. 'Uh-oh, Stan is fixing pancakes! Must be time for another death-defying mission!'

'Way to ease the tension,' Warren muttered.

'Can I have some?' Coulter asked. 'Or are they only for the condemned?'

'No pessimistic geezers allowed,' Warren declared."

[merrinla]

I've been asked several times recently if there's confirmation in the files that the first room in the Fade Ossuary is related to Rook. Yes, there is. But actually, it's also mentioned in the game. That's what Spite is talking about.

To get past the locks you have to get past the guards. The first room has a lock, but no guard, which surprises Rook. And Spite explains why.

Rook: Nobody's here. Spite: Of course not. Rook can't be here. Rook: Me? Why not? Spite: You open doors. You don't close them.

Lucanis can't imagine Rook as his guard. Rook is the reason he's free. And if he imagines Rook as the key, which they are, then for him it means releasing a demon.

Symbolically, the first room is Lucanis' cell. The place where he and Rook first met.

Compared to the real Ossuary, there is a table with playing cards and fewer ice crystals. Alas gambling Rook is a hidden detail. Not everyone will know about this. If you romance Emmrich, you'll hear that he's afraid to play cards with Rook. If you romance Lucanis, Rook will say they can play cards with Spite while he sleeps. Elek in Minrathous calls Rook a killer in wicked grace. Maybe it's mentioned somewhere else, dunno. So I think the cards are also hinting at Rook.

As for the files, in the Ossuary the entrance to Lucanis' cell named Lucanis Cell Door.

But in his mental prison, this entrance has a different name. Door to Rook.

[360iris]

Feeling as though Rook is secondary to Neve? You shouldn’t, not really at least because Rook is irreplaceable for the same reasons people are holding animosity towards Neve.

‘Neve gets him without doing any of the hard work.’ Rook is the only person alive who could even be able to. That’s the whole point.

Saving Minrathous results in the Inner Demons quest never happening.

Meaning an unhealed Lucanis never makes peace with Spite.

Meaning he goes on to enter a relationship with a woman (to no fault of her own) who could never, and would never, force him to face his fears and give him the unyielding encouragement needed to live without compartmentalizing every important thing to ever happen to him.

Without Rook completing that quest— Lucanis remains chained down by his debilitating fear of disappointing Caterina, the shame of being made into an abomination against his will, the guilt of being the one who got off easier than Neve and the pain and anger Illario’s betrayal brought onto him.

“Thoughts live here. Ideas. Feelings.” Disappointment. Shame. Guilt. Betrayal. All of which Lucanis felt were too big, too messy to face.

Solavellan is Rookanis’ foil. Except Rook is if Lavellan had succeeded in persuading Solas to face his regrets.

And what was the crux of the replacement Fade prison Solas crafted for the Evanuris? It was a prison built on regret, and the only way to leave would be to face them. Which Ghilan’nan and Elgar’nan would never be able to do.

Spite says “Lucanis is here. Behind locked doors. I can’t break through.” But Rook can.

In his mind’s eye, Lucanis makes Caterina, Harding, Neve and Illario his jailers of negative emotions in a prison of his own creation.

And in all that inner turmoil, his idea of Illario says, “Rook, you’re too good to be here.”

Rook isn’t one of his jailers, not because they don’t matter enough compared to the others, but because Lucanis’ thoughts, ideas and feelings for Rook are too good.

Rook opens doors, they’re not a jailer who throws away the key. In Lucanis and Spite’s eyes, Rook is the key. They are a liberator, a hero, the only one he’ll listen to.

Love, understanding, the unwavering promise of companionship (platonic or romantic) despite the risk to themselves sets Lucanis free.

I’ve seen people who are disappointed in his storyline complain that it feels as though ‘Rook strong arms him into a committed relationship’ that he somehow ‘feels obligated to indulge’ and engage in as a result of saving Treviso. I believe these claims just end up ignoring the really good diamonds in the rough we’re given in terms of Rookanis relationship development.

A romanced!Lucanis gives way to lines like “I don’t know what Rook sees in me. I’m happy to just be around them.”

And paralleling scenes like when Caterina chastises a kneeling Illario with “A Dellamorte never kneels.” Only for Lucanis to later walk over to a post-Fade trapped Rook and literally kneel at their feet like they’re the only deity he cares to worship like this is Take Me To Church by Hozier.

And what is Rookanis as a ship, if not Rook teaching him it’s okay to assert himself, which leads to Lucanis reclaiming his humanity through an act of love? Just saying. Given time, and love, he turns into a Gomez Addams sort of romantic figure.

If Rook were associated as any feeling to Lucanis then they’d be love. Affection. A state of understanding. Purpose? Freedom?

Better yet, Rook could be determination. After all, Rook’s defining characteristic is that they ‘just can’t seem to quit’— in the face of the man they care about saying ‘give up on me, i’m damaged goods’ why wouldn’t they win him over in the end?

[vampirecorleone]

"During an interview Doug Bradley described hell as a prison; the Cenobites are the prison guards, Pinhead is the prison warden, the puzzle box is the key to the prison cell, and the demons are the escaped inmates." Horror Character Appreciation - Doug Bradley as Pinhead in the Hellraiser series (1987) dir. Clive Barker

[pedgito]

𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑 | Marcus Acacius x f!reader

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

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.

[lostintransist]

Hell's Spawn | It Means Fuck Off

I wasn't planning on posting this yet but I need some feel good chemicals going in my brain before I give my professor the award for being the single most unhelpful teacher I have ever had in my entire life. Mans is actively making my life harder and not easier.

AO3

CW: Mommy issues, lots of negative self talk, general staring at women's bodies even though they just want to be left alone.

Trading shifts, what a simple way to alter the course of one’s life. Something akin to missing a train or a flight delay causing you to miss a connection, some exterior force course correcting you to where you need to be.

Leaning on one elbow on the stainless steel counter studying your text book you can feel your brain melting in your skull. Being a fourth-year medical student had taught you that while one could get a fever hot enough to “cook” the brain in the skull it wouldn’t occur from studying for too long. The voice of your mother itched in the back of your mind, telling you to give up and move on, you’ll never be more than a whore.

That had always been her favorite insult to hurl at you. Puberty hit you like a truck from a number of your favorite animes, transporting you into a woman-like body over the course of one summer. You still had the stretch marks.

Your mother hated it and hated you. She would never say that though. The high-powered pick-me lawyer could never let it be known that the only love she had in her soul had to be provided by the attention of a man. Psych 101 had been an enlightening class. You had nearly decided to go for a psychiatric residency before the chemistry classes debased that idea in your head.

When residency was over and you were settled somewhere you had decided to find a therapist to help you unpack all the shit that your mother had endowed you with. Her snide comments, wool-encased bricks lobbed at you from her high tower where she held both the power and the autonomy to keep you a prisoner, pelted you even now despite the years and distance between you.

The only escape you had found had been concurrent and AP classes in high school and a scholarship to finish your bachelor’s degree in one year directly out of high school and across the country. You worked your ass off for a few years to be old enough to never need her money again and passed the MCAT on the first try. The local medical school had accepted you at twenty-six, an old maid in that first class filled with nineteen and twenty-year-olds. That is how you had landed at a late-night cafe as a barista. You took as little student loans as possible and that meant working late and rising early for classes.

Coming full circle, you had traded shifts with the owner. Lucky bitch had five of the hottest boyfriends who were also boyfriends you had everseen and the bitch was ace. All that luck wasted on someone who didn’t ride their boyfriends until they whimpered night after night after night. God, you needed to get laid.

She had told you when you agreed to switch though that a group would be coming in to use the private room around midnight. She had warned you not to be alarmed but they would all be covered head to toe and would pay with cash. What she had failed to mention is that all four men who would appear at midnight, like wraiths wrapped in darkness, is that they were fucking jacked. They were ripped. To be frank you weren’t sure how any of them put shirts on or how the fabric didn’t rip like they were Bruce Banner turning green. Every one of them wore a surgical mask.

They all stepped to the counter, menacing vibes a miasma that eddied around them. Several patrons were scattered about the space, in quiet conversation or the clacking of keyboard keys, offering the illusion of safety. Aiming a well-trained smile any customer-facing worker would recognize at the men you greeted them.

“Hi welcome in, what can I get started for you?”

The tallest, broadest one, scanned the menu before glancing down. The demons in your mind began howling when instead of landing on your face his gaze landed firmly on the shadows of your cleavage peaking above the edge of your shirt. You had forgotten you had agreed to this shift until it was too late to change into the high-necked band tees you normally wore. The soundtrack of self-hate had always been easier to ignore if you could avoid drawing attention to your body.

“Four large black coffees, sugar and cream on the side.”

No please, no thank you. Fine, whatever wouldn’t be the last person tonight even that wouldn’t treat you with the same respect a wandering cat would receive.

“And you want all of those hot?” You tap away at the screen as you wait for his answer.

“Yes.” His voice should be much lower than it is, but it is still pleasant on the ear. The curl of his tongue around the words tells you English was not learned at his mother’s breast.

“Okay, your price is pulling up, this system slows down after midnight.” You roll your eyes at it, “If you give me a moment I can get that ready for you and let you into the room you have reserved.” You catch sight of the one with blue eyes that burn trailing those selfsame irises down one collarbone, to the bunching of skin, and then trailing back up to the other side.

The sniping words, whore, bitch, no good wench, nothing more than pussy, tits, and a mouth, fly through your mind, debris in the storm picking up speed. Grown and a world away her words still cut at you like glass.

Four hot coffees are settled on the counter as you count out change and return it to a leather-gloved hand. Did he have to buy specialty gloves to ensure that they fit?

The third man shifted his head toward you from behind his sunglasses before turning back to observe the room. A smudge of black hair peeked from below his hat.

Carrying the key along with several packets of sugar in your apron pocket and the carafe of creamer you can feel the fourth man’s eyes digging into your spine directly above your bra strap. No skin had been visible on him since the moment they entered the shop. That level of dedication impressed something in you.

You would have stayed impressed except the man couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Unlocking the door you stepped aside and let the men trail in, careful to keep your back to the wall by the premise of holding the door open with your foot. Once everyone found a seat you set the creamer on the table and turned to leave.

The completely covered one caught your wrist, fiddling with the ties of your bracelet. A friend had given it to you last Christmas when your mother had tried to reach out to ‘mend fences’. Turns out she was getting married again and her fiance wanted to meet the prodigal daughter.

The dainty silver beads pressed into your flesh as he dragged a thumb over them.

“What’s all this about? From a lover?”

The accent on his words tickles your senses. Then the understanding of his question settles home.

Customer service mode leaves your face and body, the bitch your mother always claimed you to be coming out.

“It reads fuck off,” you wrench your hand from his grip and slam the door shut behind you. When you settle back in the kitchen you fire off a text to your boss.

<Heads up, ended up snapping at one of your special customers.

Next, you fire off a message to Quinn, seeing if he could come in a half hour early so you didn’t have to close alone if the layered lechers stayed until closing.

Quinn confirmed he could be in early.

The parade from the conference room occurred as Quinn was arriving, leaving him to hold the door open for them as they passed. Closing duties went faster with Quinn collecting all the dishes for cleaning and you were home and in bed, books prepped for class in the morning on the table.

You woke a few hours later to a reply from your boss.

>Whatever you did they probably deserved it. You know I will back you 100%. But John says they seemed to like you better for snapping.

If you didn’t have to rush to avoid being late for your eleven am class you would have rolled your eyes. They liked being snapped at, that you were mean to them? Yeah, right.

Hell Masterlist | Masterlist

@demothers-empty-blog @beloveds-embrace (boo I hope you like your surprise.)

[sugar-grigri]

Denji no longer has access to his heart

The golden rule in Chainsaw Man is to focus on the title, since it's the key to reading the story.

Rain, Brothel, Removal seem to be three absurdly unrelated elements, and Fujimoto likes to put it that way, because the challenge for the reader is to find a way of reading that links them together.

This chapter is funny as well as disturbing, deeply sad, and in itself this collection of sensations just makes you uncomfortable, since the tone is always reversed, and the protagonist himself refuses to allow his situation to be a comic spring.

Fujimoto confirms an interpretation that is fundamental to understanding Denji: his character thinks only in terms of short-term objectives, incapable of projecting himself, just as he responds only to the satisfaction of needs without being able to verbalize and think about his unhappiness in a more abstract way.

Denji, for example, isn't thinking about whether sex is actually a solution to his problems, no, it's more concrete than that: he's thinking about whether he's masturbated recently.

Another piece of evidence is the rain. I've always thought that when it rains in Fujimoto's works, it's proof that no lies are being told.

Whether in Look Back with a silent victory, the school moment with Reze and Denji.

But that's not what we're interested in here, because there's no doubt that Denji is sincere, or at least the rain only shows us that he's sincerely desperate.

There's a subtlety....

Denji complains that he only thinks with his dick, but there's another, more philosophical and certainly less funny idea behind this: Denji only thinks through his body.

The rain, the amputation, the brothel - they're all proof that Denji only thinks with his senses.

Denji thought the brothel was the solution to his distress, it's when it started raining that he collapsed, as if the change in weather had evoked his own emotional change. Yoru's solution is amputation, another physical sensation and solution.

Amputation is a solution all the more symbolic because it's antithetical to what Denji is: a demon man capable of regeneration.

To amputate is in itself not to regenerate, and not to regenerate is in itself to be more human.

What distinguishes us from animals (although science relativizes this) is the way we think about our own emotions, something Denji is incapable of doing, or at least has great difficulty in doing.

This doesn't mean he can't verbalize it at all, but when he evokes, he evokes a sensation, a dish (a shitty hamburger, a steak, a ton of sex).

Even when he wants to be loved, Denji formulates it in the form of wanting his heart, almost organically.

No one wants Denji's heart because it's gone

And it makes sense, because Pochita has reassembled his entire body, except for Denji's heart, which has literally been left in that garbage can.

That's why, when Pochita lets Denji access his feelings, the place is symbolized by a garbage can.

When Denji asks Pochita to wake up to find Nayuta, Pochita asks him where his legs are, because Denji's only function is to be a body.

And now everything makes sense again

When Denji spoke his dream to Pochita, being Chainsaw Man, I think there was a certain feeling in every reader: what exactly does it change?

What if it changes nothing? It's normal for Denji not to be able to project himself in the long term, as he should symbolically listen to his heart.

Denji's inability to have a dream, a goal for the future, is symbolized by him and Pochita as children.

It doesn't mean that Pochita is an antagonist (although that could be cool), but that Denji and Pochita are prisoners of their own situations.

Denji doesn't have access to his heart, but Pochita is contractually bound to what Denji wants.

This is also why, when Denji reproaches himself, it's his child self who's addressing him, because the only way to reproach himself, to feel guilty, is symbolized by his old self, the Denji that Pochita may have known. Just as Denji doesn't have access to his heart, Pochita has difficulty gaining access to the person Denji has become, all of which only leads to stagnation.

Denji as a child is also the symbol of a scumbag, the remnant of a lost heart, always dressed in poor, dirty clothes, a past that Denji seeks to escape, but a past that is the only time Pochita has been able to get to know Denji.

I know it's a pretty crazy line, but it's precisely because Denji is Chainsaw Man - a being both fused and disconnected - that he thinks with his dick lol

Saving Chainsaw Man by killing Chainsaw Man has never been a truer statement

Chainsaw Man is Denji's prison but also his only hope

A cage

[zamadness]

--- --- --- --- ---

GenZ! AuDHD! Reader : Having autism and ADHD is like having a huge library in your head but reference numbers and librarians

--- --- --- --- ---

GenZ! AuDHD! Reader : The neurodivergent experience is talking about your brain as if it’s a separate entity from yourself.

Lucifer : Oh my golly! I feel the same!

[Lucifer has ADHD and I stand by it]

--- --- --- --- ---

- When GenZ! Reader was alive -

GenZ! Reader : [searching frantically through my pockets] sh*t, I’ve lost my keys. Lemme borrow yours?

Prison Guard : No

GenZ! Reader : Danm it, man. Come on!

--- --- --- --- ---

GenZ! Reader : Radio Demon, I must confess my sins…

Alastor : [in nun costume] What’s the tea, my child? *aggressively sips tea*

--- --- --- --- ---

[yunsound]

Some drama from Ne Zha 2 and Ao Bing Zhuan (Tale of Ao Bing)

For those of us that watched Ne Zha 2 or Ne Zha 1, I'm sure Ao Bing was one of our favourite characters: he's polite, cute and strong. In 2021, after the success of Ne Zha 1, they released a side webcomic about Ao Bing titled Ao Bing Zhuan (or the Tale of Ao Bing) focusing on Ao Bing's backstory.

It didn't get very much attention: in fact, it kind of flopped, even with the huge amount of Ne Zha 1 fans. This can be attributed to a number of reasons.

The hype for Ne Zha 1 sort of died down during and post-Covid.

Ao Bing Zhuan wasn't advertised very well

Other reasons that I don't know

However, with the huge success of Ne Zha 2 in China, Ao Bing Zhuan started getting a LOT of attention recently. I'll summarise some key stuff from Ao Bing Zhuan without spoiling too much of it. It is a paid webcomic, by the way.

Confirmed canon (in movieverse/mythology):

Ao Bing has two older brothers (canonical in both the movies and the myth, since he's the third prince of the East China Sea). His father, Ao Guang (canon) hid his egg for a thousand years so he wouldn't be killed by the Heavenly Court. Since Ao Bing was born after the dragons were imprisoned under the sea, he doesn't have the chains on him, and can move freely, unlike every other dragon.

Not confirmed canon (ABZ original):

Ao Bing Zhuan gives the backstory of his family. His two older brothers and mother are not canonically confirmed in the movieverse, but ABZ gives them identities.

His mother, in ABZ, is 应龙, or Ying Long. In the myths, Ying Long is the only dragon with wings (even though all Chinese dragons cal fly) and is a dragon deity. Ying Long is male in classic Chinese mythology, and is a supremely powerful rain deity whose descendants/distant relatives are the dragon tribe we know in most myths. In ABZ, Ying Long is female, and was imprisoned for reasons I won't spoil after giving birth to her children with Ao Guang.

Ao Bing's older brothers in ABZ are called Ao Jia and Ao Yi after the Chinese phrase 甲乙丙丁 Jia Yi Bing Ding, which isn't an idiom, just a way of describing order (Jia is first, Yi is second, Bing is third, Ding is fourth). So Ao Jia is like Big Ao, Ao Yi is like Second Ao, etc etc.

ABZ was hugely popular for almost a month after Ne Zha 2 dropped. Now here's where the drama begins.

Back in 2019, before ABZ ever released, fans of Ne Zha 1 began shipping Ao Guang and the Heavenly Emperor (Haotian Emperor). For an explanation on who Haotian Emperor is, please see my post linked here. In 2019, to keep in mind, neither Ao Guang nor the Haotian Emperor's human forms were revealed, and the Haotian Emperor was only mentioned in passing when Ao Guang laments the past glories of his dragon clan.

This was never a hugely popular ship as much as Oubing (Ne Zha x Ao Bing) was, and everyone shipping it acknowledged that it was half a crack ship and half just a brainchild made up of only headcanons (sort of like the Marauders ships in Harry Potter). Its dynamic, though, is hugely popular in Asian BL media: powerful seme who's a jerk to the uke, the uke says fuck you and leaves, then the seme regrets it- 追妻火葬场 (wife-chasing fiery disaster)

The general dynamic of 地笼 (Dilong, Ao Guang x Haotian Emperor's ship name) was that when Ao Guang was young, he met the Haotian Emperor, and the two began a romantic and sexual relationship. Ao Guang, being young, fell in love with the Emperor and spent a lot of time and energy exorcising demons for him.

However, for varying reasons, the Emperor betrayed him and cast him down into the underwater prison. Ao Guang thus resents him, and the Emperor, after seeing how much he's suffered, feels bad.

Dilong is an old ship as far as the Ne Zha fandom is concerned: it existed well before ABZ, and since ABZ wasn't popular, there was never any conflict between ABZ fans who shipped Ying Long and Ao Guang vs Dilong fans.

Ever since Ne Zha 2 went big, however, ABZ became big as well, and Dilong fans and Guangying (Ao Bing x Ying Long) fans began to fight each other. Guangying fans began attacking Dilong fans for ignoring canon and making up a ship that wasn't even implied, and Dilong fans attacked Guangying fans for being nosy.

This sort of battle went on for about two weeks. About three days ago, Dilong fans began finding out some things about ABZ that didn't look so great for ABZ.

First off, is ABZ even canon? It was always regarded as canon for its fans. The official movie's account endorsed it, and it was labeled as "Official Fanwork", which is a bit of an oxymoron. The author themself replied to a question asking if Jiaozi the director of Ne Zha 1 and 2 gave them the script by saying "Jiaozi's team gave me the general idea and I do the drawing", leading people to believe ABZ was canon.

Most Dilong fans are very spiteful towards ABZ because Guangying fans tend to do something called keyao (which means to specifically attack a ship in the comments of a video or work endorsing it, or to mention a ship when it's not mentioned in a video or work. It's seen as very bad fandom etiquette in China and Asia).

Recently, since there's been ship wars, Dilong fans found several things about ABZ that are a little sus.

ABZ's author is an Ao Guang yume.

What's a yume? A Japanese term for "Dream" which in fandom refers to a person who ships themself with a character. Usually being a yume is very widely accepted in Chinese fandoms, but to be a yume for a character and then also produce official content is not accepted seeing as it's disrespectful to other fans. This is different for fanwork, as yume fanwork is accepted.

2. ABZ contains very little Ao Bing content.

About half of ABZ's chapters do not include Ao Bing, and instead focus on Ao Bing's two older brothers. The author has expressed that they initially wanted the work to be titled The Tale of the Dragon's Sons, which is more fitting, but thought that name was too chuunibyou, so they changed it to The Tale of Ao Bing, or Ao Bing Zhuan (ABZ). Even ABZ fans have expressed discontent with the lack of Ao Bing content in ABZ, which is meant to be centered around Ao Bing.

3. ABZ's plot conflicts with the plot of the Ne Zha movies

One of the plot points in ABZ is that Ao Bing's weapons, the two round hammers that look like lollipops, were weapons Ying Long left to him. However, in the Ne Zha movies, the weapons break multiple times and are reformed by Ao Bing, and the official account's character synopsis state that Ao Bing created the weapons himself. Additionally, in ABZ, Ao Bing's older brother Ao Yi is able to enter and exit the prison underwater, even though it was explicitly stated in Ne Zha 1 and 2 that not a single dragon can leave (except for Ao Bing, who has never had the chains on him).

Ao Yi also tells Ao Bing that he's going to attempt to separate the Lingzhu (Spiritual Pearl) from his body because he's afraid the pressure will be too much for him, which is impossible in canon.

In the movies, Ao Bing has been isolated his whole life- he's only ever interacted with his father Ao Guang, his master Shen Gongbao, and his aunt and uncles. However, in ABZ, he constantly fought with the abyssal monsters, and even tried to make friends with one of them (and was taught a lesson as to why that's a bad idea).

In Ne Zha 1, Shen Gongbao explicitly says Ao Bing's dragon horns can't be covered up, but in ABZ, a random person can cast a spell on him to cover up the horns.

3. ABZ's characters are very OOC

Ao Yi, Ao Jia and Ying Long have not been mentioned in other official works, but in Ne Zha 1 and 2 it has been established that Ao Bing and Ao Guang have a very good relationship with each other and care about each other very much. However, in ABZ, Ao Guang explicitly tells Ao Bing to his face that he is very disappointed in him, and is generally very strict and uncaring towards him.

Additionally, Ao Bing is very strong in the Ne Zha movies (he's canonically a little stronger than Ne Zha since Ne Zha wears a seal to suppress his powers), but in ABZ he's pretty weak, even though Shen Gongbao, Ao Guang and even Master Wuliang praise him as a prodigy from birth.

4. Ying Long is a badly-written character

Ying Long in mythology is a male supreme deity the likes of which Ao Guang and Ao Bing cannot be compared to. This is not the main gripe against the ABZ Ying Long: it's that she's portrayed as a caring mother, but after she gave birth to her children she abandoned them.

5. Ying Long is the author's self-insert OC

This one actually surprised me since all the previous complaints seemed kind of dumb. Prior to the release of ABZ, the author posted an art of their female dragon self-insert OC. They mentioned that "you can think of her as me, and you can think of me as her." This OC has the exact same face, hair and clothing as the ABZ Ying Long. TBH, Ying Long and the OC look literally the exact same. A self-insert OC being the love interest of the author's yume partner is obviously not a good look for any webcomic that claims to be the official spinoff of such a widely-beloved movie series.

The author of ABZ used to be a production assistant on Ne Zha 1, but quit for unknown reasons.

6. The biggest thing: the author plagiarised Dilong art despite creating the Guangying ship

The author's Weibo account was found and they sent many hateful comments under Dilong posts saying how disgusted they were by the ship. Dilong was very commonly attacked back then, but the author also commented that they even bought a Dilong doujinshi even though they hate Dilong because they thought Ao Guang and Ao Bing were drawn attractively.

Back in 2019, there was a viral genderbend Dilong art (remember, this was back when Ao Guang's human form was unknown) that depicted Ao Guang in a specific pose and with specific colouring. This is the exact same coloring, pose and clothing that Ying Long wears.

Additionally, since the Heavenly Emperor (Haotian)'s appearance is unknown, there was another viral Dilong art that depicted him as having teal hair and horns. This is the exact coloring and design of the character Ao Yi in ABZ.

A third viral Dilong art (from before Ao Bing's brother's names were confirmed to be Ao Jia and Ao Yi in ABZ) depicted a family of five with the Emperor, Ao Guang, Ao Bing, and two older brothers also called Ao Jia and Ao Yi. Since Jia Yi Bing Ding is a phrase, this isn't an exact confirmation of plagiarism, but the designs of Ao Jia and Ao Yi are probably 95% similar to the designs in the Dilong fanart.

In essence, Ao Bing Zhuan (ABZ) is like, 75% "cancelled" or whatever. I'm not going to lie, I never felt a desire to read it since I really dislike the artstyle and I'm not a fan of Ying Long's characterization. I agree with most of the complaints about the story and the art: it's never acceptable in fandom to criticise fan artists over the so-called "quality" of their work, but if you're going to claim your webcomic is canon material, then at least make the art good. It's very obvious the art is done in a half-assed manner, and the storyline is... IDK, it's not good.

I'd never heard of Dilong before the ABZ drama- I'm a little confused as to how that ship ever happened, but whatever. This drama is mostly inconsequential and stupid fan wars, but I'm not gonna lie, ABZ is probably one of the worst-executed spinoff webcomics I've ever seen in any fandom ever. ABZ also isn't even confirmed to be canon despite what the author and fans say- it's not on the list of Ne Zha spinoff canon works (there's another spinoff comic that IS listed as official) and it was labeled "Official Fanwork".

Just another example of how crazy shippers can get, I guess. I kind of feel bad for Dilong shippers, even though half the "allegations" against ABZ seem dumb. TBH, I don't think most of this is worth "cancelling" a webcomic over, I just don't think people should think of ABZ as canon (it probably isn't) and I wouldn't recommend paying to read it if you're looking for Ao Bing backstory.

It's probably considered the same as Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. Ignorable. Lmao. Whereas Dilong is like the Marauders ships: almost 100% headcanons, but beloved.

There is an OFFICIAL (this one is 100% official, it's on the Ne Zha website) spinoff comic that includes some of Ao Bing's childhood years. 三界往事 Sanjie Wangshi (Stories in Three Realms) is 100% canon, the official accounts are selling it, it's a picture book and includes a letter from Jiaozi in it. It has extra art and scenes.

[raptorladylover6969]

JWCT S3 SPOILERS (It’s Raptor Lady yap time.)

The Handler Dying The Way She Did Is Perfect, And Why.

So, I’ve been thinking about her death. A lot. (No surprise there). And I’ve rewatched her death scene like a thousand times, and in all honesty, I can’t imagine a better way to go out for her.

The whole concept that even Brooklynn brought up about her running away with the raptors, never to be seen again, as much as I hate to say it, it wouldn’t work. Not in this society, nor in this universe.

She has nowhere to go. She can’t live in the middle of nowhere with her raptors, because she’d never be able to keep up with them. They need the freedom, the space, the need to be wild, but clearly as we’ve seen, she physically and mentally can’t bring herself to be apart from them at all. She can’t live around civilization because the raptors wouldn’t be able to keep up with her. She’d have to constantly look out for her raptors but no matter where they go, where they turn. They’ll never truly be safe, or free.

She’ll end up being found. She has ties with BioSyn, and French Intelligence knows about the Atrociraptors and how Soyona was trying to sell them. She’ll end up arrested and her raptors would be taken away, or in a worst case scenario, killed. And she’d be left in prison full of grief, sadness, anger, frustration, and ultimately end up taking her own life.

If she ended up escaping the Carnotaurus after it had killed Ghost, she’d still go down the same path. She, like every other Jurassic World/Park character who lived through tragedy, would go down a mental health rollercoaster. And knowing her, and now broken she already is, she’d go down and down and down to the point where she’s hit rock bottom.

This life was never meant for her. We’ve seen this quite clearly. She’s too animal to be human but too human to be animal. Too empathetic but also too apathetic; too non-linear, and unpredictable for this society. chaos theory if you will.

The shackles of human society were constantly holding her and the raptors down. She could never fully blossom, or express herself in the way she wanted too. This world, this society, it’s too linear for her. Too unnatural.

Which is why I’m glad she met her end to that Carnotaurus.

Her dying at the hands of an animal, a dinosaur, something that matches her nature, it’s a perfect way for her to meet her end; offering herself to the Carnotaurus. Eat or be eaten, just now nature intended since the beginning of life.

She was never meant to be human, and was always seen as such; being non-human. The way Davi described her: "This person, if you could even call them that…"

She's never been seen as a human being, and never will be. She was treated the same way as the dinosaurs were. Something without thought nor feeling, because that's how she was perceived as to normal people. Soyona sees her as this, the Camp Fam, partially Brooklynn, Davi, and the rest of society. Which is why she resonates more with dinosaurs, because her unpredictability matches theirs. They see her as one. If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, then by god, is it a DUCK.

We never predicted that she’d raise her hand to that Carnotaurus, it comes off as OOC for her, but that’s just the thing; she’s never OOC because we don’t know her character, and never will, because she’s too UNPREDICTABLE. We can never fully solve equation or read the graph. Why? Because it’s NON-LINEAR. (#ILoveJurassicParkBookIanMalcolm)

That Carnotaurus did not only eat her, it saved her. Freed her. Demon was the key to her finally being free from the shackles of humanity. This whole season we constantly saw her struggle, fight, and try to protect the ones she loved, and she did just that. Ghost may be dead, but she too is free. The other raptors may be alive, but they are now free from any sort of control. The fall of her whistle from Demon’s mouth, being the only thing left intact, that was the symbolism of the raptors being freed from their tasks, what they were born to do. They got away free from the shackles of what people wanted them to be, just like The Handler, and just like Ghost.

Soyona met her demise to the system, French Intelligence found her and now she’ll rot in prison as a nobody. The Handler doesn’t need to live to “win”, she won by being eaten. She’s finally free from the grief, the stress, the control, the burdens that humankind has forced onto her.

She won this battle, and went out gloriously. She protected her young from the big large hungry predator, and in the end, was eaten. And now her legacy will live on with the remaining raptors.

Just how life really intended.

“Morituri Te Salutant” — “We who are about to die solute you.”

[renthony]

🏳️‍🌈preferably the watchable kind bc energy is so so low nowagays

(Drop a 🏳️‍🌈 in my inbox and I’ll respond with a queer media recommendation!)

Wendell & Wild is a 2022 stop-motion animated Netflix film directed by Henry Selick and written by Henry Selick, Jordan Peele, and Clay McLeod Chapman. It follows main character Kat Elliot (voiced by Lyric Ross), a punk 13-year-old Black girl who can see demons and gets sent to a Catholic girls' boarding school after her parents die in a car accident.

It's a very political movie with lots to say about about systemic marginalization and the prison-industrial complex, but beyond that, it's a damn good story about a traumatized teenage girl coping with grief. And zombies and demons and an undead priest voiced by the ever-amazing James Hong. Also, Key and Peele voice the titular demons, and it's awesome.

Kat allies with another student at the school, a Mexica trans boy named Raúl Cocolotl (voiced by Sam Zelaya). Raúl transitioned before the film begins, but is allowed to remain a student at the girls' school instead of being sent away to an unfamiliar place. We get to see his mother stand up for him and support him unconditionally, and it's wonderful.

If I have any complaint about the movie at all, it's that there's a lot of story crammed into a fairly short runtime. I wish it was, like, half an hour longer. But it's also stop motion animation that was produced during the first waves of covid, so I imagine they had to keep things pretty tight in order to get it made.

Here's the trailer: