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theonlyqualitytrash · 18 days ago

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Ultima Sacrificium - Fyodor x Reader

Synopsys: The wolf and the lamb, it all comes full circle. Living in a cult was a beautiful lie, woven by those that claimed to love you.

Warnings: Fyodor, no ability au, graphic violence, mental and emotional manipulation, possessive behavior, cult themes and brainwashing, religion, moral ambiguity and ethical dilemmas, death (just lots of it)

A/N: This took two white nights to write I was high for most of it. I took a lot of inspiration from Midsommar and Kindred's lore (league) — thought it fit the relationship dynamic between Fyodor (a wolf in sheep's clothing) and the protagonist (a lamb). Enjoy :)

Word count: 8,800

"Once, long ago, there was a pale man with dark hair who lived in a world much like ours. But the pale man was terribly lonely. Why was he lonely? Well, you see, all things must meet this man one day, and so they feared him. They shunned him. They whispered his name with trembling voices and hid behind locked doors, hoping he might forget them. The pale man was patient, for he knew that time would bring all things to him eventually. Still, he wished for company, for understanding, for love. But how could he ever find such things when everyone turned away from him?"

"The pale man grew tired of his solitude, so one day, he took up his axe and made a choice. With one swift swing, he split himself in two, right down the middle. From his pale form, two figures emerged. One half became a lamb, soft and gentle, with warm eyes and a voice like a lullaby. The lamb would comfort those who came to the pale man, wrapping them in its embrace, whispering sweet assurances: 'Do not fear, for I will make your passing gentle.' The lamb brought peace and stillness, a quiet that felt like a soft bed on a cold night."

"The other half became a wolf, fierce and watchful, with sharp teeth and piercing eyes. The wolf would guard those who came to the pale man, protecting them from fear, doubt, and anything that might harm them in their final moments. 'Do not fear,' the wolf growled, 'for I will keep you safe as you walk into the unknown.' The wolf brought strength and courage, a shield to carry into the great beyond. Together, the lamb and the wolf made the pale man less frightening. No longer did the people shun him, for they saw in him not an end, but a promise. A promise that their journey would be gentle and strong, warm and brave, all at once."

"Now, the pale man is never lonely. All things come to him in time, and when they do, they do not turn away. They open their arms to the lamb and the wolf, knowing that both will guide them to their destiny."

Children are the fruit of society, and children were taught to see the world through stories like these. Some grew to be rotten, while others became little lambs—gentle, obedient, perfect for the herd. It was what society hoped for, and as a child, you were no different. Your parents told you bedtime tales of faith and sacrifice, and you learned that life in your community was a blessing. You had food and shelter. You were loved. You were taught to be kind and giving. These were virtues, they said, and to give back was the greatest blessing of all.

But as you grew older, the ways of giving back began to unsettle you. Were they truly necessary? Must they be so cruel? So violent? The gods demanded it—or so you were told. Your parents would never lie to you. The Shepherd would never lead you astray. He was chosen by the gods, blessed with their wisdom and charged with guiding you all. Surely, he only wanted what was best for you, for the community.

Yet, the thoughts prevailed, whispering doubts that you dared not voice. It must be your fault, you decided. Everyone else was content, even joyful. If you could not share in their faith, then something was wrong with you. These thoughts were dangerous, blasphemous, and you tried to bury them. But they had already taken root.

Your reflection was broken by the splash of something warm against your skin and applause that rippled through the crowd. Your senses snapped into focus, and you saw where you stood: the red square. Such a lovely place most days of the year, yet on days like today, bearing grim weights of tradition.

Before you lay a woman’s body, her head severed and resting at the base of a stone table. The table was stained with layers of sacrifice: black, brown, and the fresh crimson of her blood. Her hair, once long and red, was cut in two—strands still clinging to her head, framing her lifeless eyes, and another resting softly against her back, swaying in the breeze.

It was Gift Giving Day.

On paper, the celebration was a joyful offering of thanks to the gods for protection, for fertile harvests, for mercy from disasters. In truth, it demanded a human life, and however you looked at it, you could not find peace in it.

The Shepherd’s voice boomed across the square, smooth and commanding. "My dear children, my fleecelings… another good harvest is upon us! We thank the gods for welcoming Karolina into their kingdom and for keeping us safe…”

You forced yourself to listen, masking your unease with a polite smile. He was a good man, wasn’t he? He stayed among the people, with the guidance of selflessness your mother so often spoke of. He loved your mother when they were all younger, but he took on the mantle of leadership because his people needed him, allowing your mother to be given to another. Yet was that ever truly a thought of your own? Or had it been drummed into you since you had gained a sense to understand it?

When you’re branded as part of the flock from childhood, perhaps it’s easier to believe the brand is part of you as an adult.

"... As for next year's gift," the Shepherd went on to say, "I plead with the ewes and wetherlings to come forth for the choosing!"

You stepped forward alongside others your age, the motion automatic, your breaths shallow. A part of you yearned to be chosen, to end the cycle of watching others die year after year. But fate was neither kind nor cruel—merely indifferent.

"Fyodor! My dear boy, come forth!"

The same fate fell, by a flick of an eye, on a dark haired and paled skinned boy. Fyodor had always seemed distant, as though he existed in a world apart, he rarely spoke, his expression unreadable, his eyes unfocused. His frail body could barely wield an axe, unlike the other boys. Yet now, a faint smile graced his lips as he stepped forward to accept the flower crown from the Shepherd.

You clapped along with the crowd, your forced smile hiding the churn of emotions in your chest. You hadn’t spoken much with Fyodor, but you didn’t want him—or anyone—to meet this fate. Yet the community’s expectations weighed heavy, and you were one person, too insignificant, to defy them.

---

Bath time—a sacred ritual in your home. It was a communal act where you sat shoulder to shoulder in the steaming water, exchanging quiet words with your neighbors and washing one another. It was meant to cultivate unity and cohesion, a sense of belonging. No one felt shame; the sight of everyone bare before each other was considered a blessing, a return to innocence as God had intended. It symbolized the absolution of the first sin—disobedience—and the renunciation of shame and knowledge of good and evil.

The bathhouse was vast, its walls lined with mosaics of the pale man, the lamb, and the wolf. Light poured through the domed glass ceiling, fracturing into kaleidoscopic patterns on the marble floors and casting the room in a serene glow. It was a cocoon of peace, but you found no solace in it. You sat in the water, apart from the muted hum of conversation around you, their words blurred together, echoing faintly, as your thoughts churned. Someone else would soon be sacrificed. Fyodor. How much weaker would his fasting leave him? How frail would his already frail body turn? The questions weighed heavy on your mind.

You cupped your hands, splashing the salted water onto your face in an effort to shake yourself loose from your thoughts. The warmth of the bath should have soothed you, but instead, it only managed to heighten the restless ache in your chest.

“(Y/N)…” A voice, quiet and almost gentle, pulled you out of your reverie. The gentle ripples in the water announced his approach before his words did. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Slowly, you glanced over your shoulder to meet sharp, dark eyes—Fyodor’s eyes. There was something magnetic about him, an allure that transcended his frail appearance. Perhaps it was his intellect, the spark of something greater that placed him at the forefront of the Gift Giving list. He could have been a leader, you thought, had he not been chosen to die so young.

“May I help with your back?” he asked, his voice soft but steady.

You nodded, a quiet hum of approval escaping your lips. It wasn’t unheard of for people to help one another wash, but it should have been the other way around. Fyodor, as the sacred fleece, was the one meant to be tended to, venerated. People would clamor for the chance to serve him, yet here he was, offering to serve you. The gesture struck you as strange, even kind. Perhaps you had misjudged him. Maybe he didn’t dislike you, as you’d once thought. Maybe you were simply two people who had never truly known one another.

His hand settled lightly on your shoulder, steadying you as he began brushing your back. His touch was soft, almost hesitant, yet firm enough to create a sharp contrast with the roughness of the bristles. The juxtaposition brought you back to your thoughts, unbidden questions rising to the surface. Why was he doing this? Why you? You were just another lamb in the flock, no more significant than the others waiting their turn for slaughter. Did anyone matter in the grand scheme of things?

“You flinched today,” Fyodor murmured, his voice cutting through the quiet. “During the prayer.”

He was right. When the axe fell, you’d instinctively closed your eyes, to shut yourself from the scene. You hadn’t realized anyone had noticed it. The memory brought a flush of heat to your cheeks, and the oppressive warmth of the bath made it hard to breathe.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, shame creeping into your voice. “It’s just… it felt wrong. Celebrating this.” The words were out before you could stop them. Panic flared—what if he took this to the Shepherd or the Judge?

“Then you’re not as blind as the rest of them,” he said, his tone gentle, almost coaxing. His focus seemed more on his task than on your confession, but his words seemed to be more substantial, as if he held you in place. Your throat tightened, you could not vomit nor gulp down your words. “Do you really believe this is what the gods want?” Fyodor continued, his voice barely more than a whisper. “That spilling blood will make the crops grow, or keep the storms at bay?”

“It’s what we’ve been taught,” you replied, your voice trembling. “It’s what… everyone believes.” You wanted to defend your words, but they rang hollow even to your own ears.

“That may be what they believe,” he murmured, leaning closer, his hair brushed against your shoulder, his breath ghosting against the skin of your neck. “But not you. You see the sickness in this system, don’t you? You’ve felt it all your life but were too afraid to name it. Did you notice the storm last year, after the sacrifice? The gods didn’t seem pleased, did they?” He pulled back slightly, resuming his gentle strokes with the brush. His words were heresy, yet in his tone lay no fidgets, no show of discomfiture; quiet, almost serene.

You stared at the rippling water, your fingers now wrinkled and pruned. “I’ve noticed… things,” you admitted, the words soft, hesitant.

Fyodor hummed low in his throat, the sound more content than accusatory. “Good,” he said simply. His words wrapped around you like the steam rising from the bath, invasive yet oddly comforting. To the others in the room, it was nothing more than a simple act of communal care. But for Fyodor, it was something far more deliberate.

His gaze flickered briefly toward the Shepherd, visible through the mosaic-glass walls, speaking with a small cluster of elders. Fyodor leaned closer, his breath ghosting over your shoulder once more. “He watches you sometimes,” Fyodor murmured, his tone thoughtful, the words slipping into your mind like a dagger “I wonder why. It’s as if he’s searching for something.” You blinked, startled by the observation. Had you noticed? Maybe. There had been moments, fleeting and strange, when his gaze seemed heavier than it should have been. But no—no, it couldn’t mean anything. You didn't reply and tried to dismiss it—tried to bury the unease rising in your chest. His words, like everything else he said, felt both dangerous and true.

The last sentences words lingered, like a noose in the air, as Fyodor quietly tended to your back.

---

It is tradition for the sacred fleece to be adored for the year. The chosen family is granted elevated status, moved to a new living space overseen by the Sheppard and Judge. Being selected as an offering is considered the highest honor, and the community celebrates it with fervor, but Fyodor saw it differently. He recognized long ago the sacrifice’s true purpose: It kept the population docile and loyal because of fear and conditioning.

My taciturn had tipped them off, he thought bitterly. Perhaps if I seemed more brain-washed, then they wouldn’t have chosen me.

The selection, he knew, was rarely random. It was political, targeting those who dared to think too freely or challenge the system in subtle, unsettling ways. He despised their hypocrisy—the cunning way they cloaked control in the guise of divine will, using fear of the gods to tighten their grip over the community. But perhaps it was the only way to keep people from turning away.

As for you, the thought of the sacrifice made your skin crawl. Your hair stood on end every time it was discussed, and your chest settled in a place of deep discomfort. But you never voiced your doubts. The community seemed so content, so pios. Surely, it was you who was wrong. Surely, you needed to be reformed.

Days turned into weeks as you found yourself looking at Fyodor differently. Something lingered in your mind—an ache, almost a longing. You remembered the way he spoke that day in the bathhouse, his words sounding like echoes that refused to fade. He understood something about you, about the restlessness you couldn’t name. Soon, though, he would be gone, sacrificed in a few months’ time. He was the only one who had ever made you feel less lonely, and now he would be lost, like so many others before him. The loneliness this thought stirred in you was deep and unshakeable.

You couldn’t help but cast lingering glances in his direction, hoping—foolishly, perhaps—that he would catch your eye and say something to you again. But he never did. At the next community feast, the monthly celebration following days of fasting, you stole another sidelong look at him. He was seated with his family at the center table, each of them adorned in flower crowns crafted by you and the others in the village.

Fyodor wore the one you had made, the only one woven with cornflowers. The blue-purple hue complemented his eyes, a detail you had noticed while weaving it. You didn’t realize you were staring until his gaze met yours. His gentle smile, soft and welcoming, sent your heart stuttering. You returned a small, hesitant smile before quickly looking back at your plate.

You didn’t want to think about his death. A year could pass so quickly, slipping through your fingers before you even realized it.

The soft clatter of plates echoed in the grand dining hall was a far cry from the cheerful celebration that had filled it hours ago. The other young women and men hummed and chattered as they worked, their hands moving in a practiced rhythm. You, however, labored in relative silence, a heaven in the monotony of it. Each swipe of the cloth, each stack of plates, served to dull the noise in your head—if only for a moment.

But the reprieve was short-lived.

“You made this one, didn’t you?”

The voice, low and unmistakably familiar, startled you. You whipped around to find Fyodor standing right behind you, holding the wreath of flowers between his slender fingers. The cornflowers stood out against the pale hue of his hands, the same way they had against his dark hair and fair skin earlier.

Your heart quickened. “I—I did,” you stuttered, not quite knowing what to say.

His smile deepened, soft but deliberate. “It’s beautiful. The craftsmanship is… meticulous.” He turned the crown gently in his hands, as if admiring its every petal and weave. “You’ve a gift for creation, I see.”

You felt yet again a suffocating heat rise to your cheeks at his praise, and you quickly looked down at the plates you were drying. “It’s nothing, really. Just something small. Anyone could have done it.”

“But they didn’t,” he countered, his tone smooth and confident. “You did. And it shows.” You bit the inside of your cheek, unsure how to respond. Compliments were not uncommon in the village, but something about the way Fyodor spoke to you felt different—personal, intentional. “May I help?” he asked, gesturing to the plates.

You blinked at him, confused. “You shouldn’t… You’re the sacred fleece. It wouldn’t be proper.”

“Proper,” he repeated, his smile faltering for a moment as his eyes darkened. “I tire of what’s ‘proper.’ Surely it wouldn’t offend the gods for me to lend a hand, would it?”

You hesitated, unsure whether to agree. But he didn’t wait for your answer, stepping closer and picking up a damp cloth. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though testing the boundaries of this small rebellion. The two of you worked in silence for a moment, the air between you charged with an unspoken tension. Finally, he broke it.

“Do you ever wonder,” he began, his voice low enough that only you could hear, “why we fast before we feast? Why we deprive ourselves, only to indulge?”

You glanced at him, taken aback by the question. “It’s… to show devotion. To the gods.”

He hummed thoughtfully, as though weighing his decision by your words. “Devotion,” he repeated. “It’s a curious thing, isn’t it? How easily it can be mistaken for fear.” His words sent a shiver down your spine. You glanced around, suddenly aware of how close he was standing, of how his voice seemed to put you in a trance.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” you said, though the slight tremor in your voice betrayed you, you knew exactly what he was talking about.

He paused, setting down the cloth and turning to face you fully. “Perhaps you do,” he murmured, his gaze piercing. “Or perhaps you will, in time.” For a moment, neither of you said a word. The sounds of the other people cleaning seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the heavy weight of his words hanging in the air between you, pulling you under and drowning you.

“You have a gift,” he said finally, his voice soft but firm. “Not just for making flower crowns or weaving cloth. You see things others don’t. You feel things we’ve been taught to ignore.” You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. Instead, you found yourself looking into his eyes, searching for some hint of what he meant, of what he saw in you. “I only hope,” he continued, his tone barely less wistful, “that when the time does come, you’ll trust what you see—and trust me.”

Before you could respond, one of the older women called you for help with the larger platters, breaking the moment. Fyodor stepped back, the faintest smile playing on his lips as he bowed his head slightly.

“Good night, (Y/N),” he said, his voice carrying a warmth that lingered even after he turned and walked away.

You stood there for a moment, clutching the cloth in your hands, your mind aflame. His words echoed in your ears, stirring a very strange mix of fear and hope. Trust what you see. Trust me.

---

For the next few nights, sleep eluded you. Fyodor’s words replayed in your mind over and over again, each phrase eating away all other thoughts. His certainty disturbed you—not because you doubted his sincerity, but because it awoke something within you. The realization was almost too heavy to bear: if you wanted change, you would have to reach for it yourself. But how could you, alone?

When the message came—a whispered request to meet him in the forest clearing—a thrill stirred uneasily in your chest. It wasn’t proper to meet him like this, not when he was supposed to be praying and meditating in solitude as part of his sacred duties. But propriety seemed increasingly irrelevant at this point.

The moonlight bathed the clearing, lending a ghostly glow to the figure who awaited you, it seemed almost surreal. Fyodor stood at the center, his white garments clinging to his frail frame, his flesh paler than usual—proof of the toll fasting had taken. You did not know where his kosovorotka ended and where his skin started. He turned as you approached, a weary soft smile oozed onto his lips.

“You came,” he murmured, his voice carrying a quiet warmth that made the hair on your arms quiver.

You stopped a few feet away, uncertain of how close was too close. “You asked,” you replied softly. “I… couldn’t refuse.”

His smile widened slightly, though his amethyst eyes glinted with something deeper, sharper. “You’ve been restless,” he said, more a statement than a question. “Our last conversation... it’s been weighing on you.”

You hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. “I’ve been… thinking,” you admitted. “About what you said. About… everything.”

“Good,” he said simply, taking a step closer. “That’s the first step—thinking. But thinking alone won’t change anything.”

Your breath hitched. “And what would? What can I do? I’m just one person.”

“So am I,” he countered, his tone firm yet kind. “But together, we’re more.”

You frowned, searching his face for some hint of what he meant. He met your gaze unflinchingly, his eyes piercing through your uncertainty. “I know the way,” he said, his voice low and steady, each word a promise. “Let me show you. And we can cleanse them together.”

His last word echoed in your mind: together. He wanted you to help him. To stand by his side in this unthinkable mission. He wanted to make the community a better place—to rid it of the Gift Giving Day and its sacrifices. It was what you had secretly longed for, what you had thought impossible. Yet hearing it spoken aloud felt like standing on the edge of a precipice.

“Fyodor…” you murmured, your voice barely audible. His gaze held yours, firm, almost devouring. “How… how do you plan to do this? With only the two of us?”

He smiled weakly, as though he’d expected the question. “Trust is a luxury few can afford,” he said. “Especially in this place, under these circumstances. But you—” he paused, studying your face intently, “—you don’t realize it yet, do you? You’re different from the rest of them. You see the cracks in their perfect little world. That’s why I chose you.”

Your heart was racing from his words. "Why me?" you whispered.

His expression softened, and he reached for your hand. Slowly, deliberately, he turned it over, tracing the lines of your palm with a fingertip. The touch was featherlight, yet it sent an electric jolt through you. “This,” he murmured, his voice low and contemplative, “is the hand of someone who wants to save the people.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. He lifted his own hand, pressing his palm to yours, as though comparing them. “We are the same,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of conviction. “We want to make a change—for the betterment of our community.”

His fingers laced through yours, and he gave your hand a gentle squeeze. The intimacy of the gesture, the way his eyes searched yours for an answer, left you breathless. “You’re right,” you whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. “We are alike.”

His smile returned, softer this time, but no less determined. “Do you trust me?”

You hesitated, the weight of the moment pushing down on you. But as his words, his presence, filled the silence between you, something inside you shifted. “I trust you, Fyodor,” you finally said, your voice steady though a tempest swirled in your chest.

His smile deepened, and he squeezed your hand again, as though sealing an unspoken pact. “Good,” he said, so plainly.

---

Winter

Every great plan has steps, though Fyodor felt the need to gradually explain everything, taking one baby step at a time—his words, not yours. The first step was simple, really. He wanted to show the people that the doctrines and preaches of the Sheppard and Judge were nothing but empty words. They were fundamental to this community, to the ‘salvation’ of the people, yet they didn’t walk the path they preached, and certainly, they didn’t know every word by heart—again, Fyodor’s words.

A part of you was still unsure, still clinging to the belief that the larger community was right, and maybe, just maybe, you and Fyodor were the just outsiders. Maybe we are wrong. But every time Fyodor spoke, that doubt felt more and more remote, buried under the weight of his unwavering certainty. “Those are the words they use to control us,” he had said, quietly but with sharpness in his voice. “They preach salvation, but they never walk the path they claim to, do they?” There was something unmistakable in the way he said it, a quiet accusation that seemed to grow louder with each passing day.

You didn’t speak at first, but a part of you—one that had always questioned, always wondered—began to listen. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps the things you’d been taught, the things you’d always believed, weren’t what they seemed.

Fyodor’s plan was simple, almost too simple. He would subtly distract the Sheppard during the church service, while you sneaked away before the sermon to rip a few pages from the tome the leader was meant to preach from. Disarm him of his words, Fyodor had said. It wouldn’t hurt anyone—not directly. And if Fyodor was wrong, if the Sheppard did indeed know the words in the book by heart, then perhaps you could walk this path of reform together. You could still fix everything. You could undo what had been broken.

The weight of the plan pressed down on your chest as you quietly took the pages from the tome, the paper crinkling beneath your fingers. You slipped them into the pocket your heart racing. The deed was done, and you weren’t quite sure if it was a victory or a betrayal. You felt that familiar pull of doubt claw at your insides, but Fyodor’s steady presence beside was enough to slightly anchor you to the present. We’re doing the right thing, his eyes seemed to say every time they met yours.

When you sat down beside him on the pew, you didn’t even realize how tightly you were pressed against his side. You were still tense, the guilt from what you’d just done gnawing at you, your chest burned — oh how you wish you could burn everything down and not have to bear the weight of your actions. Fyodor didn’t say a word. He merely let you lean into him, his silence an unsaid reassurance. He knew you were ill at ease, but he didn’t push you, never urged you towards speech. The sermon started, and your mind wandered right back to the missing pages, your stomach tight with the knowledge that the Sheppard would notice soon.

As the Sheppard reached the point where the pages should have been, you saw the flicker of panic in his eyes. He faltered for only a second, but it was enough. His smooth composure cracked down like a Prince Rupert's drop, and he tried to cover it up, but you could see it—could see him struggling to maintain control in front of his congregation. Your stomach dropped, the tension in the room thickening.

Fyodor sat beside you, still and calm. You caught in his eye the faintest glint of satisfaction, something darker behind the quiet pride. The faintest hint of triumph danced in his expression, as if this was only the beginning. “See how fragile the illusion was?” His voice was low, barely a whisper “How quickly it falls when you expose their lies.”

You couldn’t help but glance at him, his words ringing in your head. Was it really an illusion? The Sheppard had looked so untouchable—so sure of himself. You had never dared to question his authority, never thought to doubt the very bedrock of your faith. But now, as Fyodor’s gaze met yours, you wondered if maybe—just maybe—the world had been built on nothing more than lies.

Your heart beat loudly in your chest, the weight of what you’d done sinking in. This wasn’t just a small step anymore. You had helped tear down something sacred, something people had built their lives upon. And yet, Fyodor's presence beside you steadied your resolve, as if his belief in this mission was enough to carry you through the uncertainty.

---

Spring

Vernal came as a season of ephemeral promise of renewal, the fields suddenly bursting with color and air alive with the pulse of warmth. The community prepared for the flower dance, a sacred tradition meant to honor the gods for favors received during in the harsh winter and reaffirm their devotion. The villager folk adorned themselves with garlands of freshly plucked flowers, their laughter echoing in the air as they wove intricate crowns and looped floral chains around their wrists.

You, too, wore a crown—a delicate circle of violets and daisies that your friends had insisted you wear. It felt heavier than it should, its vibrant beauty clashing with the weight of your thoughts. For tonight, Fyodor had chosen the next step in your shared quest. The supply house, a monument to what the leaders took from and doled back out to the people, was to burn under the cover of darkness. But for now, you stood amidst the celebration, caught between the life you knew and the path you had begun to walk with him.

The dancing of flowers began at twilight, when the village square glowed with the light of torches and the Shepherd and Judge took their seats on an raised wooden platform. They watched the revelry unfold with expressions of practiced benevolence, their presence a subtle reminder of the community's rigid structure. The dancers, linked hand in hand, moved in concentric circles, their feet beating a steady rhythm against the ground. The steps were simple yet hypnotic, a weaving of bodies and flowers that seemed to pull the onlookers into its spell.

You joined the outermost circle, your hand clasped tightly in a neighbor’s, but your eyes strayed to Fyodor. He lingered on the edges of the crowd, a wraith in white. Even if he wanted to join he couldn't, the physical strain the dance had on the body was too much for his condition, leaving him lightheaded and prone to fainting. He watched the leaders with barely concealed contempt. But when his gaze met yours, something softened in his expression. He inclined his head slightly, a wordless reminder of the task ahead.

Your feet flared for one short second, breaking the rhythm of the dance for the briefest moment. The woman beside you glanced at you in concern, but you got your footing back, forcing a smile as your heart pounded in your chest. Fyodor’s eyes stayed on you for a second longer before he slipped away into the shadows.

When the dance ended and the villagers started to scatter, Fyodor found you near the edge of the square. He didn’t speak at first, his presence a quiet anchor amidst the revelry. It wasn’t until the distant sound of the Judge’s laughter reached your ears that he finally said, “Do you see how they watch us? How they bask in their power, even as they pretend to celebrate with us?”

You looked toward the platform where the Shepherd and Judge still sat, their eyes sweeping over the dispersing crowd like hawks watching their prey. The unease you had felt all evening finally bubbled to the top, but you nodded. “Yes,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Fyodor stepped closer, his voice low and deliberate. “They control everything—what we eat, what we believe, even how we dance. Tonight, we take that control away from them. It’s a small step, but it’s necessary.”

His words wrapped around you like a shroud, silencing the part of you that still hesitated. “But the people…” you began, your voice faltering. “The supplies… won’t they suffer?”

Fyodor’s expression softened, and for a moment, you thought you saw genuine compassion in his eyes. “Yes,” he admitted. “But sometimes, suffering is the only way to wake people from their complacency. They need to see that their leaders cannot protect them, that the gods they worship are powerless to stop what’s coming.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing against yours in a fleeting touch. “Trust me. It is essential...”

As the echoes of laughter and music faded into the night, you slipped away with Fyodor, hearts pounding in tandem with the thrill of what was to come—and the weight of what it meant. The storage cabin loomed ahead, limned by the moonlight on its wooden frame. It seemed almost alive, a sentinel of the community’s lifeblood, and your hesitation felt like a betrayal of its quiet presence. But you pressed on, following Fyodor’s unwavering lead.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of dried grass and stored grain. You worked in tense silence, stuffing chaff into corners, cramming the cracks of the small room with anything that would catch quickly. Your hands moved on autopilot, though every movement screamed at you to stop. This would hurt people. Families. Yet each time doubt clawed its way to the surface, you’d glance at Fyodor—his calm, his resolve, his quiet conviction—and something in you would steady, if only for a moment.

When the cabin was filled with enough tinder to guarantee its destruction, Fyodor stepped back, surveying the space with a critical eye. His gaze landed on you, and he lingered, a strange warmth flickering in his expression despite the coldness of the act. He struck a match, the hiss of ignition startling in the silent room.

His eyes met yours, the flame dancing shadows over his keen features. “This is necessary,” he murmured, as much to himself as to you.

He held the match a moment too long, its light trembling between his fingers before he let it drop. The fire caught immediately, spreading with an unnatural greed, and you flinched as the heat licked at your skin. Fyodor didn’t flinch. He grabbed your hand and led you out swiftly, his grip firm but not unkind.

You emerged into the cool night, the smell of smoke chasing after you. By the time the fire fully took, you were standing among your families and neighbors, blending into the crowd as if you had nothing to hide. The cabin was an inferno, flames twisting and writhing against the dark sky. The air was filled with the acrid scent of burning supplies and the muted gasps of your fellow villagers.

You watched the fire burn, your heart heavy and your stomach twisting with guilt. What had you done? How many would go hungry now? Would they blame you—if only they knew—or the gods?

The Shepherd and Judge stood before the crowd, their faces masks of authority as they did their best to placate the people. The Shepherd’s voice rang out, promising reassurance, spinning stories of divine testing and unshaken faith. But his words fell flat. You could see it in the eyes of the villagers—fear, not of the leaders, but of their helplessness. If the Shepherd and Judge couldn’t protect them, if the gods they worshipped demanded so much yet gave so little… what was left for them?

Beside you, Fyodor’s expression remained composed, his features illuminated by the flickering glow of the flames. Yet, as the fire crackled and the crowd’s uneasy murmurs grew, he turned slightly toward you, his voice low, intimate. "This... it couldn’t have happened without you.” His gaze met yours, steady and intent, as if he could see the storm of emotions roiling within you. The faintest trace of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips—not smug, but almost tender. His hand brushed against yours briefly, the touch grounding in its subtlety.

“You were brave,” he murmured, his voice carrying an almost dangerous sincerity. “More than anyone else here. They’re still trapped, still blind. But...—"

"...—We will show them the light" You softly cut him off. He smiled gently, his hand brushed lightly against yours once more—so fleeting it could almost be imagined—yet it stayed you in ways words couldn't.

The crowd began to murmur, uncertainty rolling through them like a restless tide. The Shepherd barked orders to his Judge, but there was a crack in his commanding tone, a tremor that betrayed his fear. He was losing control, and everyone could feel it.

You looked back at the fire, the embers glowing like distant stars, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to believe that this was more than destruction. Perhaps it was the start of something new.

---

Summer

You had come so far, yet progress felt agonizingly elusive. Each act you and Fyodor committed against the cult chipped away at the illusion of its sanctity, but the larger structure stood resolute. Fyodor’s sacrifice loomed just two weeks away, a date you couldn’t ignore no matter how hard you tried. Every mention of Gift Giving Day wrapped a tight coil of dread around you.

It couldn’t end this way. Not after everything.

Desperation drove you to find Fyodor one sultry summer night. You found him beneath the canopy of an old willow, his slender form outlined by the moonlight. He turned at your approach, his amethyst gaze softening when it met yours. “We’ve done so much,” you murmured, your voice trembling as your fingers twisted the fabric of your garments. “And it’s still not enough. I... I don’t want to see you go.”

Fyodor studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before stepping closer. His hands, delicate yet firm, reached for your chin, tilting your face toward him. “It will be okay,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something softer, almost tender. “I’ve prepared something for us. One last step to free everyone. I will not abandon you, dearest.” His thumb stroked your cheek, sending a shiver through you. “You have no idea how precious you are—not just to me, but to this cause. I won’t let anyone, or anything, take that from us.”

His words wrapped around you, both a balm and a tether, as he revealed the final phase of his plan: the elimination of the cult’s leaders. For the betterment of the community: They must fall

You choked on your own saliva, pulling away from him, every inch of your body tense. The suggestion felt like a violation of the very ideals you were fighting for. “Are we not doing the same as them?” you argued, your voice cracking under the weight of your conviction. “Taking a life to suit our own needs?”

Fyodor remained composed and patient, though urgency flickered in his tone. “This is not the same,” he said, his voice measured. “They’ve built their power on the lives of others—on fear, manipulation, and blood. This is a small sacrifice to honor those who’ve suffered and to free those who remain shackled.”

His stayed with you, finding cracks in your resolve over the following days. Memories of last season when the shed burnt down, the suffering of the people, their hunger while the Shepherd and Judge indulged in excess, gnawed at you. The weight of time pressed down, and you couldn’t ignore the urgency. With Fyodor’s sacrifice approaching, you found yourself reluctantly agreeing to the plan.

The Shepherd would be the first.

Fyodor, weakened by fasting, lacked the physical strength to carry out the act himself. He guided your trembling hands to the axe’s handle, his voice low and encouraging. “Do it for them. For their salvation. You’ll see—it’s the only way.”

It was a chilly quiet night.

The Shepherd’s chambers were dark, thick air with the scent of wine and old parchments. Fyodor stood outside, his figure barely visible through the crack in the door as you stepped inside with the axe concealed behind you. The Shepherd sat slumped in a wooden chair, a half-empty goblet of wine swaying in his hand.

“Ah, child,” he slurred, his gaze fighting to focus on you. “What brings you here at this hour? Troubles of the soul?”

You nodded, your throat dry. “I... I needed to confess something. To speak with you alone.”

He waved his hand lazily, gesturing for you to approach. “Then speak, my child. The Shepherd is always here to guide his flock.”

As you inched closer, the axe hidden behind your back, he rambled on, his words becoming less and less coherent. Then, suddenly, his tone changed. “Do you know,” he began, his voice slurred with wine, “that I’m your true father?”

Your heart went cold, and you nearly let the axe fall from your grasp.

He let out a bitter chuckle and reached for another drink. “Left you with that fool, your mother’s husband. Had no time to raise a child when the gods demanded my service. But I suppose it’s all... come full circle.” Shock seized you where you stood, the metal felt impossibly heavy in your hands as his words echoed in your ears. He was your father? The man whose sermons had shaped your entire life? The very leader whose tyranny you sought to destroy?

He rambled on, his words grew softer until he nodded his head forward, asleep in his chair. The room fell silent except for your ragged breaths. When Fyodor entered, sensing your hesitation, his sharp gaze darted between you and the sleeping Shepherd, and you explained the situation in a whisper. And for the first time ever, you saw something like surprise in his expression, but it hardened quickly into resolve.

“The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,” Fyodor whispered, his voice sharp, sharper than what you are used to hearing from him. His words pierced through the haze of your confusion, his presence a cold, steady force grounding you in the suffocating weight of the moment. “He may have fathered you, but he abandoned that role long ago. He is as valuable to this world as a walking corpse.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry and aching. “But he—he’s my blood. What if he—”

Fyodor stepped closer to you, his hands hovering just above yours as you clutched the axe. “He has taken everything from you, from us, from them,” he murmured, his voice softening just enough to feel personal. “Do you want to go back to being their lamb, waiting to be slaughtered? Is that the life you choose after everything we’ve done?” He gestured to the sleeping man before you, his voice turned urgent, almost desperate. “This is your moment. Take it.”

Your vision blurred with tears, but his words echoed in your mind, warring with the voice that screamed against this violence. The axe trembled in your hands, its weight unbearable. The man before you, your supposed father, lay slumped in his chair, wholly unaware of the maelstrom raging in your heart. You tightened your grip, breathing shallow and rapid. The room seemed to tilt around you, the seconds crawling into eons while the world narrowed to the rise and fall of his chest and the chilling presence of Fyodor at your side. Slowly, you raised the axe, tears streaking your face.

When you brought it down, the impact reverberated through your entire body, a sickening crack filling the room. You gasped, stumbling back as the Shepherd slumped forward, lifeless. The silence that followed was deafening, your breaths ragged and uneven as you stared at your blood-stained hands. The axe slipped from your grasp, clattering to the floor. You turned to Fyodor, your legs trembling beneath you. “I... I...” Words failed you as sobs overtook your body.

Fyodor stepped forward, his arms encircling you in an embrace that was unexpectedly warm and steady. You buried your face against his chest, shaking uncontrollably. “Shh,” he murmured, his voice softer than you’d ever heard. His hands rubbed soothing circles against your back. “You’ve done so well. It’s over now. It’s over.”

But it wasn’t over. The next morning, they found the Shepherd’s body. You hadn’t even tried to hide it. You didn’t care. All you could think about was the blood on your hands and the look on his face before you swung the axe. The Shepherd’s death sent shockwaves through the community. Whispers spread like wildfire, murmurs of unease weaving through the congregation. The Judge, desperate to maintain his grip, moved Gift Giving Day closer, hoping to reassert control. But the cracks were already visible. The people’s faith in their leaders, once unshakable, had begun to unravel.

As the day of the ritual arrived, the air was thick with tension. Fyodor knelt in the red square, his frame frail from fasting but his presence unyielding. The Judge stood behind him, addressing the crowd with fervor that bordered on hysteria. His voice thundered over the square, but there was a desperation in his tone, a fragility beneath the surface.

You stood hidden among the throng, the weight of the axe once again heavy in your hands. Every step forward felt like wading through quicksand. Your mind raced, the memory of the Shepherd’s death haunting you with every heartbeat. The crowd swayed, their heads bowed in solemn reverence as the Judge raised his arms, calling for unity and sacrifice.

This was it.

Your breath hitched as you stepped out of the shadows, weaving through the congregation. Nobody noticed you at first, your movements swallowed by the sheer number of bodies. The closer you came, the louder the Judge’s voice grew, his words grating against your ears. Finally, you stood behind him, so close you could hear the strain in his breathing. Your fingers tightened around the axe, your pulse roaring in your ears. The world seemed to hold its breath as you raised the weapon, the weight of the moment bearing down on you.

With a swift motion, you brought the axe down, lodging it into the back of his neck. The sound of steel meeting flesh was sickening, a visceral, wet crunch that silenced the square. Blood sprayed in a gruesome arc as the Judge lurched forward, collapsing onto the stone table. His body twitched once, then stilled, his voice silenced forever. The crowd erupted in chaos, gasps and cries rippling through the congregation. For a moment, you stood frozen, the bloodied axe still clutched in your hands, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might break free through your ribcage.

Then, Fyodor rose.

Despite his weakened frame, he exuded an aura of quiet authority, his voice cutting through the panic like a blade. “The gods have spoken,” he declared, his tone calm yet commanding. “The leaders were corrupt. Their reign is over.” The crowd fell silent, their fear and confusion turning to awe as Fyodor stepped forward. His gaze swept over the congregation, landing briefly on you before returning to the people. He extended a hand, beckoning for you to stand beside him. “We have seen the truth” he continued, his voice rich with conviction. “And together, we shall guide you to the promised salvation.”

The people’s eyes pierced into your very soul, their expressions a mix of hope and uncertainty. Fyodor took your hand in his, the gesture both possessive and protective, grounding you yet again in the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

---

The air was heavy with the scent of incense and the faint metallic tang of blood, the detritus of the chaos that had led to this moment. The congregation outside still whispered Fyodor’s name with a mix of awe and fear, their voices carried by the wind into the quiet chamber. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a solitary candle, its light casting a long shadow across the newly ordained leaders of the flock.

You sat on the edge of a plain wooden bench, the ceremonial white garment draped over your frame feeling heavier than any armor. Its pristine folds were a cruel irony against the weight of your sins. Fyodor stood before you, his dark attire stark against the pale hues of your robes. The intricate wolf motif embroidered into his cloak seemed to ripple with life in the wavering candlelight, a predator looming over its prey.

He stepped closer, the movement slow and deliberate. His pale hand reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with a gentleness that felt both comforting and unnerving. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, softened for a moment as he looked down at you. “You’ve been my strength through this,” he murmured, his voice as smooth as silk yet edged with something darker. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

You leaned into his touch, seeking peace in the familiarity of his presence despite the emotions roiling inside you. His lips brushed your forehead, the gesture lingering—an offering of comfort, yet unmistakably possessive. It was as if he claimed you in that kiss, silently binding you to him in a way that words never could.

As his arms encircled you, a shard of the Pale Man’s tale drifted to the surface of his mind. The wolf protects the lamb not out of kindness, but because he cannot bear to let anyone else devour her. Fyodor’s thoughts mirrored that very sentiment as he held you close, his expression almost content. To him, you were no mere lamb to be devoured by others; you were his lamb, precious and irreplaceable. The world could burn, the gods themselves could fall silent, but he would not let you go.

You closed your eyes, resting your head against his chest. The beat of his heart was steady, grounding, but it did little to soothe the ache within your own. You had survived, yes. Together, you had dismantled the foundations of this twisted faith. Yet, as Fyodor stood poised to guide the cult into a new era, the sin staining your hands felt like it would never wash away.

When the murmurs of the crowd grew louder, Fyodor pulled away, his hand lingering on your shoulder. “It’s time,” he said, his voice commanding yet calm. He turned to his right, with that inky mantle billowing out behind him as he moved to address your people. You followed, your white garments out of place on the dark path before you. The symbolism was unmistakable: the wolf and the lamb, stepping out as one. As Fyodor ascended the steps of the altar, his gaze swept over the gathered flock. “The gods have chosen us,” he declared, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Together, we will lead you to salvation.”

The people bowed their heads, their faith in their new leaders palpable despite the lingering unease in the air. You stood beside him, the vision of purity and sacrifice, your presence cementing the narrative he wove so expertly. As Fyodor raised his hands to the sky, the crowd chanted his and your name. You couldn’t help but glance at him, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering torchlight. Despite everything, a small, bitter smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

Finally, the wolf and the lamb had found their place at last. But at what cost?

#bsd #bsd fyodor #bsd fyodor dostoevsky #bungou stray dogs #fyodor bsd #bungo stray dogs fyodor #bsd fyodor x reader #fyodor x reader #fyodor x y/n

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skiller0dani · 2 years ago

Text

Touch | Kaz Brekker

M A S T E R L I S T Other Masterlist Shadow and Bone Masterlist

smut | mutual masturbation requests info w.c | 4.4k summary | Kaz is convinced you're angry with him, angry enough to leave him. Despite Jesper's reassurance, Kaz is utterly convinced you're about to leave him. He sends Inej to spy on you, he needs to understand what he did wrong...so he can win you back.

I've only read half of Six of Crows and have seen Season 1 of the show (rewatching it before I watch Season 2). So I apologize if I get things wrong Lore-wise. If I do get something wrong, please feel free to help correct me so I don't get it wrong again. I don't know much about Ketterdam or about the correct terminology about how to describe Ketterdam, please be patient and bear with me while I'm learning.

Possible part 2? ;)

Song

You were angry with him, Kaz was sure of it.

He didn't know what he said or what he did, but he knew he did something. You had been avoiding him, tucking yourself away in the back corners of the Crow Club, or running off with Jesper. You usually spent most of the day wherever Kaz was, in his office, or lounging in your shared bedroom until Kaz needed you. The two of you had been together for about a year now, and he knew you better than you knew yourself. That's how he knew you were angry with him, and by the lack of attention you were giving him you must be really angry with him. It made his stomach churn uncomfortably.

Jesper, who happened to be your closest friend, tried to reassure Kaz that you weren't upset with him but Kaz didn't believe him. Surely if you weren't angry, you'd tell him that yourself. Yet you sent Jesper to talk to Kaz on your behalf, had he really screwed up to the point of receiving the silent treatment? What on Earth had he done? Was he spending too much time away from you? There was a rather complex job he had been swept up in recently, along with someone with sticky fingers skimming from the pot. Or worse, were you finally becoming impatient with his touch aversion? Despite being together for as long as you two have been, he has yet to touch you at all. Not even a light kiss, nothing.

Kaz has briefly opened up to you about Jordie, about the firepox, and of course about Pekka Rollins. You knew why Kaz couldn't bear the feel of skin, but maybe you finally had enough. He knew you had sexual needs not being met, knew you were quite promiscuous before you had begun dating him. He felt insecure about that sometimes, about how it felt like you were sacrificing something to be with him. What if the sacrifice wasn't worth it anymore? Were you cheating on him? No, you wouldn't do that. You were many things but cruel wasn't one of them, Kaz has never known you to do a single cruel thing to anybody.

Still the fear kept clawing at the inside of his head, is that why you were spending so much time away from him? Why you kept sneaking off with Jesper? Did Jesper know about this? Was he covering for you? Kaz knows that Jesper is quite promiscuous himself, in fact that's how you met Jesper. A exciting night on the town before you had joined the Crows, which led you to Jesper's bed. Of course, the two of you realized you had no romantic or sexual chemistry and opted instead to see what trouble you could get up to in Ketterdam. That's how you ended up meeting Kaz, Jesper had brought you to him when you were in need of work. You joined the Crows, and the rest is history.

Despite how hard he tried not to, Kaz fell in love with you. He didn't show it, or say it really other than the one time he did say it. But he thought you knew, that's how you two worked. Neither of you required words or actions to know how you felt, but maybe Kaz had been wrong. Was he neglecting your needs? Did you feel satisfied and loved by Kaz? Were you seeking companionship and affection elsewhere? He couldn't stop his mind from spiraling, it was beginning to impact his ability to run the Crow Club. He often found himself distracted when his eyes landed on the empty spot you usually occupied next to him. It's what led him to seek out Inej, and ask her to do something he wasn't particularly proud of.

"You want me to what?" Her voice was incredulous, you were also a close friend of Inej's. She didn't feel right spying on you, and the seriousness in Kaz's gaze unnerved her.

"I need to know if...if she's seeing somebody else." Kaz explained, his head hung low and his gloved palms pressed flat against his desk.

"She isn't." Inej states firmly, she knows you're head over heels for Kaz. You've been utterly enamored by Kaz since you first laid eyes on him.

"She's been distant. Is asleep before I come to bed and is gone before I wake up. Spends more time with Jesper than she used to, hardly looks me in the eye. Something is wrong. I've done something. I've driven her away somehow, I need you to tell me who she's been seeing." Kaz says, his teeth gritting at the thought of someone else touching you, seeing your bare skin. Kaz needs to know who he is... so they can talk. Inej can't help but admit that your behavior has been odd lately, though she still doesn't think you're cheating on Kaz.

"Kaz-"

"She's going to leave me. It's a matter of time. Can I count on you to do this for me?" Kaz interrupts, this isn't a discussion. It's not something he's keen on discussing in depth either. He just needs to know. Kaz knows he's being unfair, he can see the way Inej has always looked at him. He feels guilty for taking advantage of her affections for him to ensure she spies on you, but he can't last another second without knowing.

"Yes, of course. I'll report back to you once I've learned who he is." She's out the window before Kaz even hears her move. He sucks in a shaky breath, he loves you. More than he's comfortable with if he's being honest, and the thought of you leaving him for someone who's comfortable touching you makes him angry enough to kill whomever the man is on sight. Angry enough to beat him until he's bloody and damn near unrecognizable. Kaz is a bastard of the barrel after all, they don't call him Dirtyhands for no reason.

Inej has been shadowing you for most of the day. You spent most of the day with Jesper, gambling, having drinks, searching for trouble. You had spent a bit of time quietly talking with Jesper, but the two of you know better than to talk loudly. You know spies like Inej exist, Kaz made sure to teach you how to keep your voice hushed. There was a pained look on your face as you sat with Jesper outside a pub. He had one of his classic warm expressions on his face, the one he uses to coax the truth out of you. He'd been victim to Kaz's anxious pestering and had decided to confront you about it. Inej hugged one of the nearby roofs, and tried to get close enough to listen.

"You can't tell anybody this Jes, I'm not joking." You say seriously and he nods instantly, scooting closer to you as your voice drops. You'd been having a problem lately, one you desperately wanted Kaz to fix but knew he couldn't.

"C'mon you know I wouldn't blab your secrets." He says with a playful smile, doing his best to ease your nerves. Jesper has also noticed you were spending more time with him than usual, but never questioned it because you were practically his sister. He loved spending time with you, but had begun to wonder if your relationship with Kaz was struggling. His concerns only heightened once he noticed how wound up Kaz seems to be about it.

"Is...everything okay with Kaz?" Jesper asks carefully, watching the look of disdain cross onto your face. Inej strains her ears, only catching Kaz's name.

"Yes. No. I don't know. It's all my fault." You push your head into your hands, feeling your entire body flush. The reason you'd been spending so much time with Jesper wasn't because you're angry with Kaz, it's because you feel no sexual attraction to Jesper. You could finally relax around him, being with Kaz all day has slowly gotten more and more difficult. You find yourself following the lines of his body with your eyes, the space between your legs dampening when you see Kaz's jaw tense or his fingers curl around his cane. He was driving you mad, you needed him so badly it was hard to think about anything else. You craved Kaz but you know you can't ask him to help with this particular problem...he isn't ready yet. That's fine, you'll wait forever if that's what it takes, but you don't want him to feel like he's neglecting you. Which is why you'd been avoiding him.

"Talk. What's bugging you? You're really starting to freak Kaz out." Jesper says softly, tilting his bottle back to swallow the alcohol inside it. Your heart sinks.

"I am? Shit." You didn't think he noticed with how busy he's been lately. Clearly he paid more attention to you than you originally thought. "Nothing is wrong, really. I'm just...frustrated."

"Why? What has he done?"

"No Jes, I'm frusrtated." You say, cheeks heating once the look of realization crosses onto his face. He chuckles.

"Oh. A year of unexpected celibacy hasn't done you any good has it?" Jesper teases, and you reach over to shove him. Inej is only catching pieces of the conversation, but the word 'celibacy' stands out like it's been outlined in neon lights. Okay, so if Jesper is teasing you about being celibate, you're clearly not cheating on Kaz.

"The first thing you need to do is be honest with Kaz. He's starting to spiral, I think." Jesper says and you feel guilt surge through you like you'd been dumped in cold water. You didn't want to worry Kaz, you just didn't want him to feel guilty for something that isn't his fault.

"Second thing you need to do is figure out a way Kaz can help you get off without having to touch you." Jesper says, as if that's the easiest thing in the world. Your cheeks color red, and you take the bottle out of Jesper's hand to take a drink. Inej definitely heard that, the more drunk you two get the less careful you are. She slinks back over the roof, knowing that she no longer needs to follow you.

"How on Earth can Kaz make me cum without touching me?" You know you should probably feel more bashful talking to Jesper about this than you do, but the first time you met him you nearly had sex with him. He's seen your entire body bare and it was halfway through the evening that the two of you came to the conclusion that it just wasn't working for either of you. Thus is the reason why you're probably more comfortable with Jesper than you should be.

"Two words my naïve friend, mutual masturbation. That way both of you can get your rocks on without having to touch each other." Jesper says, sly smile making its way onto his face once he sees the gears turning in your head.

"I am not naïve." You complain, drawing a laugh from Jesper.

"You know if Kaz ever finds out we spoke about this, he'll kill you." You mention and Jesper rolls his eyes.

"I'd like to see him try, gonna go talk to him now?" Jesper asks and you stand with a sigh.

"Yeah, I can't make him worry any longer."

Kaz was pacing back and forth in his office the entire time Inej was gone. He barely heard her re-enter through the open window, and when he laid eyes on her the first thing he noticed was her flushed complexion.

"Well? Who is he?" He asked expectantly, his heart already sinking in his stomach. She caught you sleeping with another man, that's why she looks so bashful. Why she has a hard time meeting his eye. She caught you cheating on him.

"Kaz...she isn't cheating on you." Inej says finally, and Kaz feels his eyebrows pull together.

"No, that's the only logical explanation. She has to be. What did she do today?" He demands, not at all believing Inej.

"Went drinking with Jesper, and I overheard their conversation." She begins, and Kaz stays silent, urging her to continue. There's tension in his shoulders and on his face, though Inej doesn't really know how to explain what she heard.

"I think it would be better to let Y/N explain. Trust me when I say she isn't cheating, and she should be on her way here now." Inej says and as if on cue there's a knock on his office door. He turns to face Inej again, but she's already gone. Kaz turns to open the door, and is unsurprised when he sees you standing in the hallway with a guilty look on your face. He opens the door wider to let you in, and you enter his office quickly pacing in front of his desk. Kaz closes the door behind you, watching you with nervous eyes.

"My love, please talk to me." He hates pleading, hates how weak he sounds but he can't help it. He can see the distress on your face, can see the tension being held in your body. He wants to fix it, and for a second he goes to pull you against his chest. He wants to hold you, but he feels panic crawling up his neck at the thought of touching you. Curse Pekka Rollins for damaging him the way he has, for causing this rift in his relationship.

"Kaz I promise I didn't mean to make you worry. I still love you." You rush out, needing him to know that first. Some of the worry eases then, but the concern is still there.

"I love you too darling, what's wrong? Talk to me." Kaz pushes again, taking a step closer to you. His eyes study your face, your cheeks are flushed, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you nibble anxiously.

"I'm well...I just feel uh frustrated." You say, putting it the same way you described it to Jesper hoping that Kaz catches on as Jesper did.

"Are you angry with me, love?" Kaz asks and you want to kiss him all over his face when you notice the adorably confused look on his face.

"No, not that kind of frustrated." You try again, and Kaz's eyebrows pinch together. Finally you see a look of understanding dawn his features and your cheeks turn even darker. So he was partially right, your sexual needs are not being met and you've finally begun to feel wound up. Kaz knew this would happen eventually, he's been hoping you don't leave him because of it.

"B-But I have an idea... if you're up for it." You start carefully, and Kaz swallows thickly. He's not sure he's ready to touch you, he wants to, can feel the urge bubbling beneath his skin. But he isn't there yet.

"Sweetheart I'm not sure I can touch you just yet," Kaz begins gently, guilt on his face as his eyes soften.

"You don't have to, just hear me out...please?" You beg, and the needy look in your eyes nearly makes his knees buckle. You feel like you could combust at any moment, the heat coursing through you is suffocating. Kaz has seen you naked by now, but neither of you have ever done anything like this.

"You could make me feel good, b-but I'll be your hands. Your voice alone could make me cum Kaz." You say shyly, watching his eyebrows shoot up at your words.

"You could make yourself feel good too, w-we could do it together." You explain, watching warmth crawl up Kaz's neck. A look you don't recognize crosses onto Kaz's face, it makes your entire body feel boneless at the intensity in his eyes.

"My pretty girl wants me to help her masturbate? Is that it?" His voice is low, a near purr and it sends heat straight between your thighs. Kaz knows you need more from him, and if his voice is how he can help meet your sexual needs then he'll do it. He'll do damn near anything if you ask him to. You nod instantly, already feeling tingles going south.

"Sit on the couch." He says, his voice rough as he pulls his office chair out to sit down in front of his desk. Before he sits, he turns for his office door.

"Undress." His voice is commanding, as is his presence in the room. You feel your heart hammering against your ribcage as your shaky palms shed your clothing layer by layer. Kaz also closes and locks the window before he sits back in his office chair. His eyes drink up every inch of bare skin that is slowly being revealed to him. You sit back against the couch once your undergarments fall to the floor and you're naked before him. You feel nervous, but the heat in his gaze is enough to make arousal pool between your legs.

"Spread your legs for me my love, I want to see you." He says, his voice still holding its commanding tone. It was obvious that despite the fact that he isn't touching you he's still very much in charge here- totally in control of your pleasure. You do as he asks, shyly spreading your legs and revealing your glistening folds to him. Kaz feels his pants tighten at the sight of you, you're practically dripping onto his couch.

"My poor girl, look at you. Must have been in desperate need of release for days. You should have came to me sooner, love." Kaz says softly, his voice making your body heat up. You nod fervently, your skin buzzing and you haven't even begun touching yourself yet. Subconsciously you seem to have submit to him already, accepting that he's the one in control. That you can't do anything without his say so, you should have known that he would be domineering in bed.

"Show me how you touch yourself when I'm not around." Kaz instructs and you send him a bashful look. You've never had such a direct audience to such an intimate moment before, but there's nobody else you could imagine doing this for. You lean back comfortably against the couch, your eyes landing on Kaz and you seriously have to bite your lip to keep from moaning at the sight of him. He's lounging back in his office chair like a King sat upon his throne. His legs are spread, and there's an obvious bulge in his pants. His eyes are dark and lust blown, his gaze glued between your legs.

You snake a palm down your stomach, your fingers lightly teasing your clit causing you to throw your head back.

"Keep your eyes on me." Kaz demands and you can't help but obey. You lift your head to keep your eyes on him as your fingers swirl circles on your clit.

"Tell me what to do Kaz, please." You whine, and the desperation in your voice makes his dick twitch. You see him subtly adjust himself as your fingers continue to play with your clit and run down along your slit. Kaz swallows harshly, his mind feeling unfocused and all he can do is watch the way you play with yourself.

"Push one finger inside yourself love, just one." He says breathlessly, and you obey and push one lithe finger in. You moan softly, pumping your finger but it's not enough. Your hips wriggle against the couch and Kaz can see that you need more.

"Play with your clit darling, and keep pumping that finger." Kaz instructs and the smooth undertone of his voice is making shivers run down your spine. Your other hand rubs harsh circles on your clit, and you feel like the temperature in the room has risen at least 10 degrees.

"You are breathtaking my love, an absolute vision." Kaz praises softly, he can't take his eyes away from your beautiful cunt. Your finger is wet with your slick every time it leaves your heat, and your lips are parted as soft moans escape you. He learned a long time ago that you like to be praised, that you crave those words of affection. He isn't big on being affectionate in public, but he usually compliments you every so often. If only to watch your cheeks darken and the goosebumps raise along your skin. He watches a shiver run down your spine at his words.

"You're doing so good my love, add another finger for me." Kaz says, and you push 2 fingers into your soaked cunt. Kaz palms himself through his pants, he's beginning to strain painfully against his pants.

"Kaz touch yourself, please I want to watch." You beg and Kaz swears in that moment he's died and gone to heaven. How could someone as beautiful and perfect as you be spread out naked on his couch? And yet he's still too afraid to touch you. He swallows thickly as he continues to watch you thrust your fingers into your cunt, and he's scrambling to open his pants enough to pull himself free. As soon as his cock is freed he's releasing a sigh of relief.

"Go faster my love, I want to watch you ruin that tiny little cunt." Kaz nearly pleads and you instantly pick up the pace, slamming your fingers into yourself. You moan again once you feel that coil winding in your stomach and heat sears through your entire body when you watch Kaz wrap a gloved hand around himself. You watch with lidded eyes as he begins to pump his shaft slowly, a soft groan escaping his lips. This is by far the most erotic thing you've ever done, and you've had your fair share of lovers before you begun dating Kaz.

"I'm- I'm gonna cum Kaz, can I? Please?" You ask, needing his permission before you let yourself release. Kaz growls softly, his own hand speeding up and jerking himself faster. He can see how fucked out you looked, he could hardly fathom how you'd look once he actually works up the courage to touch you.

"Yes sweetheart, cum for me. Look me in the eyes darling." Kaz says, and your eyes lock onto his as you feel your orgasm wash over you. You cry out softly, your body convulsing as you gush all over your fingers. Kaz feels his own orgasm creeping up on him as he watches you cum, you've never looked more beautiful. You suddenly get an idea and pull yourself onto your knees before him, making sure to keep your hands to yourself. You sit between his spread legs and look up into his eyes, blinking your doe eyes up at him makes him groan softly.

"Cum on my face." You say it so casually Kaz almost doesn't hear you. He feels heat sear through him once he registers what you've said, and he keeps quickly pumping himself. His head tosses back as the pleasure builds, but he can't help but pull his gaze back to you. You're waiting with your mouth open, eyes fixed on his.

"Fuck, you look so beautiful on your knees before me. Don't move my love, let me cum on your face." Kaz gasps, feeling his orgasm hit him suddenly. His chest heaves as white ropes of cum land on your face, mostly in your mouth. You hum happily as you swallow it down, wiping it off your cheeks and licking it off your fingers. Kaz watches with hooded eyes as you smile up at him, and then he does something you don't expect.

He leans forward and briefly presses his lips against yours to give you a quick kiss. It's quick, but its the first skin to skin contact with Kaz you've ever had. You beam up at him, and he's never seen you look happier than you did in that moment. He feels guilt seeping into his mind, has he really deprived you so much that a simple kiss brings you so much joy? Do you feel satisfied with him or is he damning you to a lifetime of longing for more? Kaz feels his skin prickling uncomfortably, but he leans down and presses a more firm kiss to your lips. He wants you to feel fulfilled. His lips move softly against yours until he feels nausea turn in his stomach and he pulls away. His heart is racing and he has to repeat to himself that it's just you, just you sitting naked in his office. He's safe, everything is fine. He has to repeat this to himself to keep the oncoming panic attack away.

All because of a simple kiss.

"Don't push yourself my love." You remind him softly as you lift yourself from the floor. He wants to reach out and take you in his arms, wants to press his face against the soft skin of your tummy. But he can't and he hates himself for it. Hates that you have to baby him and deprive yourself of the intimacy he knows you crave.

"Was this good my love, was it enough?" Kaz asks softly, hating how vulnerable he sounds. You turn, surprise on your face as you look at him.

"It was perfect Kaz, what's wrong?" You ask softly, reaching down to start pulling your clothes on.

"Are you happy with me? Am I fulfilling your needs?" Kaz tucks himself back into his pants and watches as you put your clothes back on. You look like a Goddess as you do.

"Kaz being with you has made me the happiest I've ever been in my life. You always make sure I want for nothing, where is this coming from?" You ask sadly, and your heart is breaking. How could he ever think he isn't enough for you as he is?

"You were sexually frustrated but didn't feel comfortable telling me because...because I can't touch you. Doesn't that bother you?" Kaz asks, hesitantly meeting your eye when you move to stand in front of him.

"Kaz...I just didn't want to make you feel bad. I don't mind that you can't touch me, I love you as you are." You reassure him but he still holds so much tension in his shoulders.

"You say that now. But can you handle not being touched...forever? I don't think you'll feel the same way 10 years from now." Kaz says, already having made his mind up on the matter.

"Kaz-"

"I want to take that step with you Y/N, I will overcome my...aversion...to ensure I meet all of your needs. Especially your sexual needs. Just be patient with me, please." Kaz says softly and you feel your heart swell at his promise. You nod with a soft smile, wishing you could wrap your arms around him and inhale his scent.

"I love you Kaz, always." You promise and you finally see the tension ebbing away from his shoulders.

"I love you darling."

#shadow and bone fic #shadow and bone #shadow and bone smut #kaz brekker #kaz brekker smut #kaz brekker x reader #six of crows

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the-artist-grimm · 4 months ago

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Hi, I have just discovered your AU and I like the design, also the name made curious about what's the AU about

(Note this Lore Post is HIGHLY Outdated!!!! See the masterpost for current lore!)

Thank you! And for the ‘Crimson Angel AU’ think of it as translating to ‘Blood-Soaked Angel AU’, since I think that’s more of a better visual/description, but crimson just sounds prettier for an actual title. This is gonna be a little long for more-in-depth lore dump so see the READ MORE for well, more! And my apologies for the rambles that have slowly taken over my brain, it's a little chaotic but the basic gist of it XD

(Note Anthea goes by she/they and I alternate between the two so if that causes reading issues let me know)

In this case, the ‘Blood-Soaked Angel’ is my lamb, Anthea, who starts off the story as being a seemingly kind, friendly, and optimistic person just wanting to help, but is really just someone who is trying to understand why they lived when their family and people did not, and just going with self-sacrifice and self-destruction as the only way to ‘prove’ they deserved to live.

Got a mini backstory comic here with some explanations, though TLDR Anthea already had this sense of being responsible for keeping everyone else’s spirits up after losing their father, and when heretics destroyed the rest of their family/village at age 12 and they survived by the shear luck of just being out on a routine supply run, they feel as if they don’t deserve it.

From there Anthea bottled everything up and wandered the forests for a bit until being found and taken in by Ratau, who taught her not only how to fight but also told her stories of his time as vessel, of which any involving The One Who Waits were the most interesting. A lonely, bitter, and kinda angry god of death, despite his appearance, kept and appeared to care for the two young kits by his side. TOWW sounded different from the other bishops Anthea had only ever known to be violent, and thus she began to worship him as a sort of comfort-since thinking a gentler god greeted her family and would one day greet her was a better thought than the horror they must’ve faced prior to death. She lived day to day just pretending everything was fine, being a good kid, and helping out around the shack, while internally treating every moment like borrowed time, thinking she had to keep being useful to everyone else. (Ratau knew she had people-pleasing issues but didn’t realize the extent for a long, long time)

Cut to Anthea being 26, and after she and Ratau were heading back one afternoon after some errand or visit were ambushed by heretics who managed to injure Ratau when they tried to escape, and though they got away, they were pursued. Thinking she’d lived on borrowed time long enough and wanting to prevent another person she loved from dying, Anthea took advantage of Ratau’s injury keeping him from stopping her and drew the heretics away, being captured as a result.

Bishops, execution, Anthea gets the shock of hearing that they’re the final lamb prior to sacrifice, then suddenly they’re waking up in the gateway to the god they’ve worshiped for years, and he’s just as Ratau described. A lonely, bitter god with two young kits (I place Aym and Baal as teens since it leads to some interesting moments), by his side. Yet where that’s all Ratau saw, Anthea also saw the chains. The wounds bleeding an endless stream of ichor. The way TOWW struggled prior to their approach, how his voice and smile were strained. This god they’d built up as this better to the bishops is trapped and painfully so, and when offered the chance to help him, Anthea jumps at it. They must’ve lived for SOMETHING, must be the last for some greater purpose because there were so many other lambs who ‘deserved’ to live more, so if it’s for this prophecy then so be it.

Game plays out, Anthea begins to see past the bitterness/anger Nariender puts up to see someone genuinely hurt by those he cared about and struggling to trust after while also seeing he’s not exactly perfect, whilst Nariender in turn starts to call Anthea out on the whole self-sacrificial stick as them just trying to die to make themself feel better instead of just facing the fact that they lived, others died, and that’s all there is to say. Slowly the two become friends, got an idea for example that Anthea starts to use the crown to show Nariender what he’s missed in the world as a means of comforting him/helping him remember not all was as bad as he recalls (aka they’re unintentional dates lol), Anthea also starts befriending the twins since they remind them of their own brothers which gains more Nariender friendship points at someone making his kids happy, and that friendship slowly turns to a genuine love from both sides.

Anthea plans to keep her feelings hidden until after Narinder’s free, though secretly starts to work on an engagement present to confess by leaving the crown at the temple and going to the Lonely Shack at night. (the engagement also meant to be a symbolic ‘hey you don’t have to feel the same but just know I’ll be with you from now on I won’t leave you’). Is also Anthea finally taking steps to live life for herself and move on to something that makes her happy. Meanwhile Narinder has no idea what these feelings he’s having are-just that this weirdly kind, cheerful, but also melancholic and frustratingly self-sacrificial lamb makes his heart race, and is now for some reason being a little distant. He’s been trying to figure out how to return to the world above without sacrificing Anthea, but now has whatever this is distracting him, and thus has the crown follow one night, only hears part of Anthea discussing/being teased about planning a proposal but not who said proposal is for, and being unused to jealousy but very used to being cast aside and betrayed gets angry/scared/heartbroken and decides to just go through with the sacrifice anyway since it’s easier than trying to figure out why he’s feeling like this.

Endgame battle hits, during which Anthea feels very confused/hurt by his order to sacrifice themself, as just the other day here was their dearest friend lightly scolding them for willingly dying just to visit. They try to reason with him and Narinder doesn’t want to hear it, so he orders the twins to fight Anthea which neither are willing but are forced, and Anthea has no choice but to kill both since Nariender refuses to hear reason. The anger, grief, guilt, and heartbreak they’ve bottled up finally boils over as red wings appear on their back like they briefly do in-game when the lamb refuses (this all started when I saw the scene in-game and thought the visual/symbolism was really cool), and they fight and defeat Nariender.

When back at the compound Nariender’s just lashing out and cursing Anthea on the dais because he’s angry and hurt at her betraying him until Anthea just calmly tells him why he was spared-she loved him. Nariender finally looks at her and is hit with the realization that this lamb who’d always looked at him so warmly with adoration is now giving him the most blank, lifeless expression as she tells him he’s free to do as he pleases before leaving. And he now realizes that because he didn’t stop and think things through and instead let anger take the focus he completely neglected to realize that here was someone who loved him-who loved him even as they learned of his faults, saw his lowest, ect, and he just threw it all away over a misunderstanding he could've EASILY just asked about. He even sacrificed his guards (read sons) just because that was somehow easier than talking. Which begs the question, who else loved him? Who else did he miss? Was his imprisonment really all on the bishops, or was he also to blame? Whilst Anthea’s now stuck with a godhood she didn’t want, two more loved ones dead, and a broken heart.

The two gotta learn where to go from here, the now blood-soaked ‘angel’ who’s begun to realize just how much giving pieces of yourself hurts, and a fallen god who’s begun to realize things aren’t as black and white as he thought. They get better! Eventually...

Might try making a fic, might just keep this as drabbles and rambles along with art, but right now I’m having fun making fanart/aus for the first time instead of just watching from the sidelines, so I hope you enjoy the ride. But for now enjoy some angsty doodles :D

#cotl #cult of the lamb #crimson angel au #writing #writing ideas #narilamb #cult of the lamb au #cotl au #my writing #excuse the length im just spinning in my chair throwing ideas around lol #ask

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interclair · 1 month ago

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The principle of magic, which I will be discussing as you read further, is a recurring motif throughout Arcane.

First of all, thanks to her brilliant mind, I would like to credit my sister for coming up with 90% of these ideas and theories.

Now before going to the main point, let’s touch first on the history of runes.

Ryze, once a mage apprentice and later an adept sorcerer with immense arcane power, first learned about the ‘runes’ from his mentor, Tryus. These runes are a collection of shards that hold incredible power. Soon after their existence became known, power-hungry individuals sought to possess the runes for themselves, leading to the devastating ‘Rune Wars.’ When the conflict ended, Ryze took it upon himself to gather all the runes to prevent further abuse.

Moving on to the events of Arcane S1, I propose that the hooded figure who approached Jayce was Ryze. In an effort to save his mother, Ryze used the most stable form of ‘arcane’ magic to its fullest extent until its power diminished (as it no longer glowed) and then entrusted it to Jayce without educating him about its history—likely for safekeeping purposes. This way, Jayce could not use or abuse the stone as others had before him. The question, though, which I think is essential given the latest episodes of S2, remains: why did Ryze choose to give it to Jayce?

Years later, Jayce’s curiosity and admiration pushed him to create his own ‘arcane’ technology in collaboration with Viktor, which became known as Hextech. I believe that the creation of Hextech caused a thinning of the line between the physical and spiritual worlds, which means that magic was now easy to practice or perform.

The main point is that, in many fantasy narratives, the principle governing magic is that whatever you desire comes at a cost. With Hextech or Hexcore, when Viktor wished for a healed body—an intense desire—Sky was inadvertently consumed in the process, representing that necessary “sacrifice.” That’s when the Hextech technology started to devise its own capabilities (not to mention the fusion of Viktor’s blood and Shimmer with it too). This also aligns with Jayce’s analogy when discussing wild runes with Ekko (most notably his audible ‘sigh’ when passing a tome) where a second reaction (sacrifice) is needed to perform an action (magic). I think that was how the wild runes were made, in a sense.

As for Viktor himself, he’s become the medium for the physical and the spiritual world given that his body was nearly completely consumed, save for his face. Essentially, he embodies a sort of living martyr. The way he heals others seems to erase their ‘impurities’ through spiritual means; this creates a void that should have resulted in their death due to its physiological impossibility. However, because both realms must fulfill their part of the ‘deal,’ this physical void is filled with materials from the physical world represented by metallic enhancements. Later on, he’s nicknamed the ‘Herald.’

In the scenes where Jayce, Ekko, and Heimerdinger enter the underground Hextech chamber, visible smoke comes out from their mouths as they speak. This suggests two possibilities: they are alive (which is obvious) and the chamber has a cold temperature. Salo, who was ‘healed’ by Viktor, also went into that chamber one episode later but did not produce any smoke when breathing. It could indicate that he may be lifeless to some extent—less alive than humans. This contrast is further emphasized by Jayce, who, having just returned from his journey, still exhales smoke.

Those ‘healed’ by Viktor appear to serve him as puppets. During the healing process, their souls seem to be extracted in exchange for a more functional body. This concept connects back to the principle of ‘magic,’ where a troubling trade-off occurs: the enhancement of their physical forms comes at the expense of their essence.

Lore-wise, this principle is also present among the Void creatures, known as the Watchers, with an intent to destroy the universe. Lissandra, the Ice Witch, struck a deal with them for immortality, dooming—or rather, sacrificing—her world in the process. As the Watchers prepared for destruction, Lissandra’s sisters opposed this threat which parallels the current situation of Hextech. In Arcane, the gradual corruption of Hextech under Viktor’s influence can be seen as a modern parallel to the Watchers’ creeping influence. Viktor, akin to the Watchers, represents a force of destruction masked by innovation, while Jayce, much like Lissandra’s sisters who resisted the Void, stands as a reluctant counterbalance to the looming threat.

I’m not very sure yet with the time-travel theories, particularly about Viktor and Jayce travelling and meeting in different timelines and portals, but they’re plausible all the same. I’m just incredibly fascinated with the recurring themes and parallels of betrayal and sacrifices made for power. Can’t wait what the last three episodes will give! :)

#arcane #arcane season 2 #jayce talis #arcane jayce #arcane viktor #jayvik #arcane jesus #can't believe arcane is gonna end next week...#hextech #lore #league of legends #yapping #kudos to my sis #yapyapyap #theory #is caitvi gonna do the boombayah #maybe the caitvi boombayah is the friends we made along the way #act 3 please be good to me #i miss you isha

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loudclan-clangen · 6 months ago

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Yay! More lore!

They in fact cannot! Leadership is a lifelong commitment in Loudclan. Maybe they could sacrifice all but one of their lives and then just live as a normal warrior, or step down while keeping their lives, but the next leader wouldn't be able to receive their lives until the former leader was fully dead. Same goes for the Lead Healer. When they receive their lives they give up their "normal" life and become inextricably linked to Starclan/The Black Water and that's not something that can be undone.

Yes! Exactly like that! They have to die to see starclan the 1st time, this costs them their "mortal" life, so when they come back they are using their first "divine" life. When they sacrifice a life to speak to starclan they must die again in order to give the current life back, as opposed to giving up the chance of using a future life. This does mean that everytime they come back they come back slightly...different. Nothing major, they're still the same person, just like a different iteration of them. Maybe their favorite prey is different, or their dominant paw changes, minor things that no one but their closest friends and family would notice, but the leader rarely seems to notice the change.

This is going to be very vague, and I apologize for that, but if I was ever to explore one of the other clans in a blog it would be Freezingclan, so I don't want to say anything too definitively and lock myself into something I haven't fully thought out. But the answer is that no one from the other clans really knows? Freezingclan is weird, they've existed longer than all of the other clans, in fact longer than anyone can really remember, and they only decided to take the clan naming system for the ease of everyone else. They meet at gatherings and are generally quite friendly and shockingly generous, but they don't discuss their religious practices with the other clans too much, because it usually only results in confusion and fear. What I can tell you is that Freezingclan's ancestors don't go to the Black Water Pool with the rest of Starclan, as they've never been seen there and Freezingclan predates the discovery of the oil. Based on the logic of why Starclan lives in the oil (it's a pocket of eternal night) it would make sense for Freezingclan's ancestors to live in the depths of the ocean, but since their leaders don't receive lives there's really no way to prove it. It's equally possible that their ancestors just stop existing when they die and that makes the rest of the clans VERY uncomfortable so they've just stopped asking for the most part. Freezingclan certainly believes that they can communicate with them, leaving offerings of prey and herbs on the shore in exchange for plentiful hunts or healthy kits, and their Healers often slip into trances where they speak in strange languages, but no one can agree whether they are just faking it or not.

Okay, so, a lot of this ask touches on stuff that I want to cover later in backstory drops for the founders, but, I'll try to answer everything I can without spoiling anything for that! Wildfirecry is the only one who came from another Clan, he was a healer in Forestclan, which eventually collapsed, leaving him on his own. He met Fiercestripe along the way, she joined up with him, and they made their way to the valley territories. Meanwhile Owlstar and Siltsplash were born and raised in the valley. Generations of rogues, descended from kittypets who were abandoned when the mine closed, lived and died across the valley, of which Owlstar and Siltsplash were two. Owlstar was sort of a folk-hero amongst the rogues, so when he and Wildfirecry got together and decided to form a clan, many others followed. Owlstar asked the studious and strict young Siltsplash to help him keep the clan in line, and they excitedly accepted, becoming his mate and deputy. The mountain was chosen because they were seeing signs of an especially harsh winter, and it's one of the few places where the wind keeps the snow from piling several feet high. Shadedclan and Ghostclan formed for similar reasons, only they disagreed about where they should go to escape the deep snows. They absolutely did leave behind people that they miss/feel deeply guilty for leaving, but those are details for a later post!

#loudclanasks #loudclanlore

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themattress · 3 days ago

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The Dragon Prince's Biggest Flaw

Now that I've finished Season 7 (the end of the Mystery of Aaravos arc and quite possibly the series if they don't get a three season renewal), I once again must reaffirm the biggest albatross around The Dragon Prince's neck. It's not the lore and worldbuilding so reliant on side material, or the never-ending Avatar: The Last Airbender references, or the inconsistent animation quality, or the tonal whiplashes, or the sketchy pacing that results from all seasons being only 9 episodes long. It's the fact that while most of the heroes are likable enough, their conflicts aren't as interesting or satisfying as the villains' at best, and their goals and beliefs are downright not preferable to the villains' at worst. And this season highlighted that again!

Callum doesn't end up going dark or dying despite all the build-up, Rayla gets closure with her biological parents and then gets to have her adoptive parents back and status back and doesn't end up needing to kill Callum, Ezran is pulled back from his tyrannical path by Aanya and forgives those he was angry at, Runaan is among those forgiven and gets to find out he didn't kill King Harrow after all, Soren doesn't have to find out troubling truths of his past or confront the mother who abandoned him or have to kill his sister, Terry keeps his innocence and doesn't have to be burdened by Claudia dying, Lujanne doesn't die, and Janai doesn't end up needing to make the hard choice of executing her brother. The only sacrifice made by a hero is by Zubela, who at least gets to be with her husband in death and tell her son she loves him before dying, with said son appearing to be just fine afterward. Ezran practically boasts about how nobody had to sacrifice anything in the end despite having prepared to!

Meanwhile, Claudia loses her innocence, her brother, much of her mental health, her leg, her biological father, her boyfriend, her adoptive father, and if I'm reading it right even her humanity. Viren gave up everything to atone for his sins and died a painful and lonely death as he reiterated that he's "a servant", as if his problem was that he didn't "know his place" and dared to want more rather than his actual heinous actions in the pursuit of what he thought was justified. Aaravos lost his biological daughter, spent countless years crying over it, spent countless more years imprisoned, and now he has been temporarily killed and separated from his adoptive daughter in the process. (Oh, and Karim was squished to death, but fuck that guy). The villains actually lose things, they actually have to make sacrifices to achieve what they want! This makes them more compelling than the heroes, even if their aims aren't always on the morally up and up...but this season screws up that caveat as well!

Not only is Aaravos' plan at worst something that will create hardships that are perfectly endurable, but at best it's something morally justified because it strips power from a cosmic order that we have been shown is corrupt, composed of self-righteous bigots who will execute a child for daring to share magic with a race they deem inferior and unworthy of it. While the heroes want to create a better world, their solution doesn't address the root causes for the problems in any meaningful way. It's supposed to be framed as them acknowledging the hurt but moving on from in rather than let it bind them to the past, but that only works with the Karim plotline. Aaravos not moving beyond his hurt isn't binding him to the past, it's making him fight for a future where such cosmic atrocities can't be inflicted again...and more to the point, it's making him fight for a reality where his child's unjust execution isn't rendered meaningless. He refuses to accept "bad shit happens and we all just have to move on" when the ones making the bad shit happen move on without paying a damn consequence for their actions. And he isn't even a hypocrite about it: he knows he's also doing bad shit, and that's why he plans to die at the end! He can be with his daughter and his victims can have justice.

Meanwhile, this season is full of heroes also doing bad shit that they justify as for the best, with the difference being they have no self-awareness about it and, as said before, pay no sacrifices for it. From Callum trying to use dark magic and commit the very kind of vile act Viren was demonized for, to Rayla betraying her allies by breaking a rightfully convicted criminal out of prison, to Ezran going full Oppenheimer with the creation of a dangerous new weapon....and, perhaps worst of all, Soren, Terry and co. magically disguising Lujanne as Claudia's long-lost mother in an attempt to trick her into standing down from helping Aaravos. Yes, to get her away from Aaravos they resorted to something far more underhanded and manipulative than anything Aaravos ever tried with her. Why should I root for these guys!?

Honestly, I think if there is one scene that perfectly encapsulates the problem, it's Terry's big Heel Face Turn moment. Aaravos tells Terry the whole dark truth with the explicit purpose of helping him grow and helping him and Claudia be a better couple by putting them on equal ground with one another. And the words he says to Terry in this scene are absolutely correct:

"The true heart is a gift of childhood. For a few wonder-filled years, we each have innocent eyes to experience the world's beauty, in a simple way. Terrestrius, you were lucky. You held that innocent want for longer than most. I have seen generations of humans and elves accept the darkness that lurks in all of us beside the light. There is no black and white, only shades of gray. We must all carry complexity. But please, believe me: that there is beauty in this burden. Your heart will be a little heavier, but now there will be no more half-truths, Terrestrius. We will do what must be done."

All of this is right! Note that Aaravos isn't saying you have to discard your inner child or the good qualities it grants you completely. He is simply saying the truth that you cannot stay in a childlike state of being forever, you must also be willing to acknowledge and accept the darker parts of the world, of human nature, of yourself. If not, you can't do what you must.

But rather than do that and work through things with Claudia, Terry totally backtracks on his pledge last season that he'll never leave her and will always stand with her, all because he is scared of having to grow up and lose his innocence, to take the black with the white and see things in shades of gray, to work toward something bigger than himself that requires him to step outside his comfort zone. And it all feels so phony and unjustified, for three reasons:

- 1. First of all, he killed a man. Does anybody else remember that? He killed Ibis from behind in his third appearance in order to protect Claudia. After that he helped take and hold Soren as a hostage, steal a map from a dragon's tooth, and actively assist in releasing Aaravos despite even his own apprehensions about it. Claudia killing Sir Sparklepuff didn't seem to phase him all that much either. So the notion that he still has his innocence in tact and hasn't lost it already feels like narrative gaslighting. The breaking point being Claudia lying to him and using him (even though just talking to her deeply about it would reveal that Aaravos told her to, since again his plan was to break his innocence once it served its purpose so that he and Claudia could be equals in a better relationship) makes him feel selfish, especially given that he knows about Claudia's abandonment issues and how it will feel if another loved one walks out on her, this time after having sworn not to do so and even staying with her after she left him specifically to avoid this scenario! I'm having trouble feeling sympathy for him here.

- 2. Secondly, even if we accept his decision to leave, why couldn't he just stay on his own and take care of the birds? I mean, he could have stayed with Aaravos and Claudia and just taken the birds with him, but if he really felt he needed to split, why join their enemies? Why go out of his way to side with the people working against Claudia just as Soren had done, once again making her feel betrayed in the process? The justification that he's doing it with the assurance that Claudia won't be harmed doesn't hold water, since one of his new buddies almost kills her later and then shortly after that Soren starts talking about how she's too far gone and may need to die. Did I mention that both of those happen after they try to deceive Claudia with a fake version of her long-lost mother? Which leads to the third and final point...

- 3. Yeah, instead of just going and finding his and Claudia's mother even if it made him uncomfortable, Soren, along with Terry, Corvus, Lujanne and Allen, decided to use a magic spell to disguise Lujanne as her and have her play out an emotional reunion with a vulnerable Claudia in order to manipulate her into leaving Aaravos. When leaving her, Terry said to Claudia "You didn't trust me to make my own choice! You used me! It's not how you treat someone you love...it's not how you treat any person! And if I let you treat me that way, I'm not sure I can really be me anymore!" Yet here he is, not trusting Claudia to make her own choice and using her despite loving her. Is THAT you, Terry? Or have you changed into someone you don't even like, which was your reasoning for not staying with Claudia? Either way, you've blown up your entire rationale. You're just as morally gray as Aaravos and Claudia, except unlike them you lack the maturity to own it, preferring to stay a man-child.

And that's the show's fatal flaw in a nutshell. It wants to be morally complex, except it also doesn't want the heroes to actually embrace their own moral complexity and suffer the consequences that comes with it, which ends up turning them into pious hypocrites who can't acknowledge their hypocrisy or that the villains might have a point with what they're seeking to achieve, who breeze through the show unscathed while the villains actually have to suffer for fighting for what they believe in. It wants to be Avatar: The Last Airbender, but instead it's as if Monk Gyatso was revealed to still be alive and reunited with Aang, if Katara got closure with her mother's spirit, if Yue attempted to sacrifice herself but then the problem is solved differently so she gets to live happily ever after with Sokka, or if Zuko got his scar healed....by Azula no less, who then still goes on to suffer a mental breakdown anyway. Actually, let me rephrase it: she suffers a mental breakdown after she gets scarred herself!

If a third arc happens, I'll watch it if I hear good things about it. But until then....

#The Dragon Prince #Opinion #Analysis #Comparison #Villains #Morality #Hypocrite #Bad Writing #Character Derailment #They Wasted a Perfectly Good Plot #They Wasted a Perfectly Good Character #Anti-Dragon Prince #Anti-Aaron Ehasz

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roguesend · 15 days ago

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Davrin and Assan were foretold

If you’ve paid any attention to Thedas lore, you will at least have heard the mention of Garahel, hero of the Battle of Ayesleigh that put an end to the Fourth Blight, canonically said to be the most famous Warden in history prior to the Hero of Ferelden.

The name “Garahel” stands for much of what the Grey Warden Order values most and would prefer to be known for: Pride. Honor. Selflessness. Warden Garahel was a notable elven hero whom even humans must revere for his bravery and sacrifice as slayer of the Archdemon Andoral. The Warden’s legendary charm, intelligence, and keen political sense drew countless allies to battle against the darkspawn hordes of the Fourth Blight, a fight that lasted well over a decade. In addition to recruiting Wardens from the Anderfels and Orlais, Garahel negotiated the support of Free Marcher royalty, creating a united army that finally broke the infamous siege of Hossberg, setting into motion the end of the Blight. War and circumstance shaped the young elf into a canny commander. He was very aware that Blights are not defeated by a single hero. He once noted to his sister Isseya that “heroism is just another word for horror.” Less well documented is the person behind the legend: the golden-haired elf, whose green eyes twinkled as he shared a story, told a joke, or flirted shamelessly. It is written that people from all walks were drawn to Garahel, as his manner and wit drove life’s unpleasantness from their minds and allowed them to think of a better tomorrow. As a Warden recruit in the Fourth Blight’s early years, Garahel made his first griffon flight in 5:12 Exalted on a beast he’d only just met and would dub Crookytail. The odd griffon was not solid gray like most of his brethren. Crookytail’s feathers were tinted with dusky brown; white patches decorated his chest and belly. One of his ears flopped forward, and he had a distinctive, bushy tail with a prominent kink in it—giving him his name. Nevertheless, Crookytail’s strength, speed, and exceptional ability to find advantageous cracks in darkspawn formations made the beast and his rider one of the Grey Wardens’ best battle teams. From their first flight, made to rescue the nobles of Antiva City from the pressing darkspawn hordes, to their final battle at Ayesleigh in 5:24 Exalted, where they sacrificed all to slay Andoral, Garahel and Crookytail were said to be inseparable. – The World of Thedas Volume 2, 2015

Does any of this remind you of someone? There is no doubt Davrin and Assan are meant to mirror Garahel and Crookytail.

Davrin stands for pride, honor and selflessness. He is a notable elven hero revered for his bravery and sacrifice, especially if he is chosen to lead the second team in act 3. He is charming, intelligent and sets into motion the end of the Blight by fighting in Hossberg (Wetlands). War and circumstance shapes him into a leader. He is aware that Blights are not defeated by a single hero. We’re all going on about how attractive and witty he is. He goes to battle alongside a griffon he has only just met, and said griffon is more brown than gray or white, with one floppy ear and a bushy tail. Together they make one of the Grey Wardens’ best battle teams, and from their first battle to their last, they’re inseparable.

Garahel had a sister by the name of Isseya, and it’s exactly the Isseya you think it is.

Even during the Fourth Blight, few knew the name of Garahel’s younger sister, Isseya. While her brother was outgoing, charming, and prone to heroism, Isseya was more modest and enjoyed studying and building her formidable magical skills. Her focus and determined nature, however, made her arguably as important to ending the Blight as her brother. He landed the killing blow upon the Archdemon; she helped ensure the survival of those most affected by the horrors of the age after Andoral’s defeat. One of Isseya’s most important achievements was enchanting makeshift aravels: wagons, boats, any conveyance large enough to fit a number of people. These were fastened together, held above the ground by her skillful magic, and pulled by teams of griffons. Isseya conceived of and executed the first of many journeys using the aravels to move citizens of Wycome out of the Blight’s path and safely to Starkhaven. Isseya’s other major impact on Thedas reached beyond the Blight and was both a blessing and a curse. As the desperate times called for equally serious measures, she turned to her fellow mage Calien to learn the basics of blood magic to fight the darkspawn. In trying to save a griffon that had been tainted by a darkspawn bite, she used a process similar to a Grey Warden Joining and inadvertently started a chain of events that led to the extinction of all griffons in Thedas. However, it is rumored that, shortly before she left on her own Calling, Isseya found a way to preserve a clutch of griffon eggs, protected with a complex weave of magical guards. It is written that she hoped a like-minded mage could recover the eggs and perhaps find a way for the mighty griffons to again soar through the skies of Thedas. – The World of Thedas Volume 2, 2015

Not only were Davrin and Assan foretold, the entire Grey Warden storyline was. BioWare planted that seed almost ten years ago as something to potentially return to in the future, and they deliberately tied it into Veilguard.

#how cool would it have been if we as players had been the ones to discover the eggs (origins style intro sequence for grey warden rook?)#what if we had gotten little hints that davrin reminds her of her brother #as someone who feels ambivalent (to say the least) about veilguard's handling of the lore this was a very pleasant surprise #but it also makes me wish even more that this side plot had gotten more time in the sun #and that it would've tied into the main story more #either way it was a neat discovery that i haven't seen mentioned yet #dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #datv #dragon age lore #datv lore #davrin #grey wardens #datv spoilers #mine #*

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tobiasdrake · 2 months ago

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So I finished Oxenfree 2 recently. Very good and forms a complete story with Oxenfree 1. It's like what Alan Wake 2 was trying to be for its predecessor except that it does a better job of it.

(Probably because it doesn't have to deal with trying to integrate a whole bunch of lore changes that a mostly unrelated side game by the same developer bolted onto the original story. But I digress.)

That choice at the ending was brutal, and really got me thinking about one of my personal wonks: the flexibility and complexity of circumstantial morality.

I will die on the hill that right and wrong are often highly contextual, and not easily hammered into ironclad rules. The Talos Principle 2 is probably the game that landed most closely to my moral beliefs. Specifically when it said the one true moral principle is that you must always follow your reason and your compassion to wherever they will take you.

And it was that very thing, following reason and compassion, that left me momentarily paralyzed by the endgame choice of Oxenfree 2.

So. Like.

Setting the stage for a moment.

The "villains" of Oxenfree 2 are a trio of teenagers named Charlie, Violet, and Olivia. The main plot-moving force is an MCU Sky Portal made of radio waves that they've opened up which is shattering the fabric of reality and threatening to take over people's bodies and fill them with ghosts.

Right.

But Charlie, Violet, and Olivia are the antagonistic characters you actually spend most of the game getting to know. They're the ones you interact with, while the Sky Portal is really just the stakes of the thing.

But also they're just dumbass kids fooling around with forces they don't really understand because Olivia's grieving her dead parents. She is nasty and mean throughout the game, at one point even trying to convince Charlie to stab protagonist Riley with a knife, but it's clear this is coming from a place of traumatized desperation.

Olivia's been promised that she can see her mom and dad again if she goes into the sky portal. Which is true. If she goes into the sky portal, it will imprison her in her happiest temporal memory in exchange for letting someone currently trapped inside out.

Olivia wants to make that trade. She wants to spend eternity locked in a time when her parents were alive. To never grow up, never move on from them, never recover from her grief. To simply languish in the memory forever.

And the main reason we can't let her is because there's a bunch of angry spookers on the other side who see the opening and are all trying to forcibly come through the portal and take over random bodies and shit, potentially ripping apart the fabric of reality in the process. So the portal needs to be closed.

Also there's Alex, the protagonist from Oxenfree 1. A teenage girl who went to a spooky island with her friends that she wasn't supposed to go to, who became imprisoned in the Sky Portal and locked in an eternal temporal prison of repeating memories right alongside all of her friends because she had to sacrifice herself to save the world.

Alex just fucking wants out. She is a teenage girl who had to die and go to Time Hell because she did some misdemeanor trespassing.

She made a deal with Olivia to trade Olivia for Alex. Olivia wants in, Alex wants out, fair exchange. And also all of Alex's friends will be released alongside Alex if she gets out because of... something something. That's not important.

(That Olivia is metaphorically trying to commit suicide is pretty blatant.)

So we arrive at the endgame.

Someone needs to close the Time Portal from the inside. And the player has to choose who stays in Time Hell. The one option is Protagonist Riley, a grown-ass woman we've spent the game getting to know, who's lived a complicated but mediocre life. The other option is Olivia, a traumatized teen girl trying to kill herself out of grief but who technically caused all this.

Like. Starting at the fact that "Do you (correctly) sacrifice yourself or this other person (you coward)?" is a pretty common moral choice in video games. The way Oxenfree 2 handles it is... interesting.

See. I think most people, facing this choice, aren't going to have a very hard time with it. Olivia seems tailor-made to produce one of two kneejerk reactions.

1 - Olivia is the villain who did all this. Fuck her. She should die and go to Time Hell.

2 - Olivia is a child lashing out over her trauma. She deserves a chance to recover and get better, and my protagonist's life is a small price to pay for that.

Depending on how much sympathy you have for troubled children whose emotional hardships manifest in ways that aren't convenient to handle and easily brushed aside in a five-minute pep talk. Personally, my kneejerk is the second.

But this is where things get complicated.

Because. Like.

The thing about Riley is?

A lot of this game is subtextually about the complicated relationship between parents and their children. There's a reason you're cast in the role of a grown-ass adult who's still figuring her shit out and isn't ready for the burdens of parenthood in a conflict whose central antagonists are troubled children. Children who need an adult, and can't wait for you to get ready.

Riley is two months pregnant. This is happening. Rex's birth and all the struggles that entails are bearing down on her. She doesn't have time to figure things out anymore. She needs to be ready now. And this manifests in the plot in the form of these children who need someone to guide them now. Charlie, Violet... and Olivia... and Alex.

And it manifests in Rex. Through the temporal flashes and undoing of reality that strikes throughout the game, Riley sees visions of her life with Rex. And it's. Not great?

Like, it's not terrible.

But it's just. Moments of drama and the struggles of raising a child as a single parent. Riley isn't a Hollywood Parent armed with all the right answers, and she struggles to connect with her son as a single mom raising a boy who's just as much a troublemaker as she was for her father, who she no longer has a good relationship with.

She's just. A mediocre person leading a mediocre life. Raising a son who isn't going to be easy to raise, but who - by his own admission in the final conversation with him - will grow up to be a mediocre person with a mediocre life, but one who's satisfied with the mediocrity his mother instilled in him.

Riley is nobody special. And Rex will grow up to be nobody special. And it's going to be difficult and painful getting there.

And now Riley has to decide the fate of two three people.

And. Also. Uh.

Alex is lying to you.

Specifically, in the endgame choice.

Alex wants to get out. She wants Riley or Olivia to stay behind. She doesn't really care which. She is on the cusp of her freedom and she needs one of them to go into the portal and shut it down, in the process trading themselves for her.

Alex says that it's okay for Olivia to go in because Olivia's doomed. Olivia will never recover from her grief. Never come back from her trauma. Letting her metaphorically kill herself is the best possible outcome for her.

This is a bald-faced lie. In the same conversation, she admits that Olivia's future is cloudy and uncertain. She has no fucking idea if Olivia can recover or not. But she says it with certainty anyway because she doesn't want there to be any complications with letting Olivia trade herself.

Olivia's fate is, indeed, uncertain. If you sacrifice Riley, then Olivia goes one of two ways. She may wallow in despair and resentment and bitterness for the rest of her life. But if treated with kindness, if shown the patience and understanding of an adult to a child, Olivia goes into therapy. She comes back from the edge and moves on with her life.

Alex was wrong to say there was no hope for her. Or, more specifically, Alex was lying. Because she wants Olivia to go into the portal.

Alex also says that Riley's relationship with Rex is doomed. Rex is going to grow distant from Riley and ultimately separate from her. There's going to be a breaking point that they never come back from. But if Riley goes into the portal, then she can live eternally in a temporal snapshot from the best days of Rex's childhood.

She can be happy with her son and never face the doomed future of her inadequacy as a mother.

Alex lied to your face about Olivia's hope of recovery. There is no reason to believe that she's being honest about this. Alex tells Olivia and Riley what they need to hear in order to be willing to condemn themselves to a fate one of them must suffer.

Alex is lying, or at least spinning coercive interpretations out of a foundation that may or may not be true. She wants someone to sacrifice themselves to the portal. Nothing she says here is unbiased, and thus, nothing she says should be counted as part of this consideration. There is hope. For Olivia and Riley both.

(Technically you can also sacrifice Jacob. But only if you've gone out of your way to make him feel miserable and unloved by the world. And let's be real, if you bullied a man whose only crime is being lonely so that he'd be willing to commit suicide for you, you're the bad guy.)

So. The choice.

This is where things get hard.

If you were to ask me, "Does Olivia deserve a chance at recovery?" I would say yes. In a heartbeat. And, in fact, I love that she can actually get that chance if treated with kindness and understanding in the face of her lashing out.

It means the world to me that this outcome exists. The game makes a firm statement that even a child as troubled as Olivia is not a monster. She is just grieving and wounded, and she can get better. But only with the help of adults willing to suffer through the trials and tribulations of trying, of not giving up on her even when her pain pushes her to strike out.

It's not easy to change a life. This is why foster children have a hard time finding permanent homes. People think "Yeah, I can handle a troubled kid," but then give up and write the kids off as unsalvageable when their problems can't be solved overnight.

Olivia isn't going to get better because you said the right thing to her at the right time and made her anguish go away.

But Olivia can get better. With time. And work.

...

But.

The problem is Rex.

Because, as much as what Alex is saying is a lie, the choice itself is just as much of a lie. It's not a choice between Riley and Olivia.

Rex is not a hypothetical future that Riley might have one day. Nor is he a child waiting for her at home, who can be taken in by Jacob or someone.

Riley is two months pregnant with Rex. The gun to Riley's head is a gun to Rex's too. If you sacrifice Riley, Alex's endgame letter to Rex changes to a letter to Riley's father. This is because Rex went into the portal with her. He will never be born, existing only as a temporal shadow in Riley's memory of a future Rex will never be allowed to live.

This isn't a choice between Olivia and Riley.

This is a choice between Olivia and Rex.

Fuck, is this complicated.

For me, the presence of Rex in this equation, the fact that there is no way to sacrifice Riley without also sacrificing Rex, changes the math considerably.

At this point, it is no longer a question of, "Do you, as an adult, sacrifice yourself for a troubled teenager?"

Now it's become the Trolley Problem.

Down one track, there is a teenage girl waving at the trolley and shouting "COME ON, HIT ME!!! I WANT IT TO HIT ME!!! GO AHEAD AND HIT ME!!!"

Down the other track is my goddamn son.

...

And I know what my answer to that question is.

#oxenfree #oxenfree 2

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