#this is the truest answer for me as a person

[ghostlightfic]

15 & 22 perhaps :3 ?

15. If you could hang out with one character, who would it be?

i would put loop in the therapy chair

BUT HONESTLY id love to hang out with isabeau hes just such a chill guy. his vibes are immaculate. i think we could be friends

22. What craft skills would you have, and what would they be called?

THIS ONES HARD... i think id mostly just have utility shit because if i was in isat id be straight up chilling somewhere i dont think i would be doing combat . i wouldnt name any of them someone would be like oh cool craft skill what do you call it :) and id look at them with horror in my eyes like I Was Supposed To Name It??? Shit!!! Fuck!!!!!!!

[monstermp3]

.

[rollforjackass]

did you ever write anything for the good omens cryptid hunting au ?? Im a little obsessed with the concept of a human Aziraphale having a scam name lol

hahaha it's still one of my favorite concepts honestly.

i wrote up a few bits and pieces of it with a friend of mine, but never a full fic!! i think we were considering that crowley was a cryptid (being the snake and all) and aziraphale — who became a(n) cryptid hunter unexplained phenomena researcher in part to prove to his mother that there's plenty of fascinating things down here on earth for free — ran into him quite by accident (crowley lives in a secret garden shielded from the outside world, appropriately named eden, but aziraphale can see right through the shielding) and decided to stay to keep the lonely old snake company.

i do still have the initial paragraph i wrote for it, actually!!

Aziraphale Heart — named after an angel his mother read about in a deeply incorrect pamphlet that advertised a direct line to several high tiers of Heaven for a monthly payment of 9.99, and who has stubbornly refused the use of any and all nicknames that have been proposed since — has been looking for a garden for almost a decade. He never expected to actually find it. He certainly never expected to find it occupied.

[mortalityplays]

This is a dangerous sentiment for me to express, as an editor who spends most of my working life telling writers to knock it off with the 45-word sentences and the adverbs and tortured metaphors, but I do think we're living through a period of weird pragmatic puritanism in mainstream literary taste.

e.g. I keep seeing people talk about 'purple prose' when they actually mean 'the writer uses vivid and/or metaphorical descriptive language'. I've seen people who present themselves as educators offer some of the best genre writing in western canon as examples of 'purple prose' because it engages strategically in prose-poetry to evoke mood and I guess that's sheer decadence when you could instead say "it was dark and scary outside". But that's not what purple prose means. Purple means the construction of the prose itself gets in the way of conveying meaning. mid-00s horse RPers know what I'm talking about. Cerulean orbs flash'd fire as they turn'd 'pon rollforth land, yonder horizonways. <= if I had to read this when I was 12, you don't get to call Ray Bradbury's prose 'purple'.

I griped on here recently about the prepossession with fictional characters in fictional narratives behaving 'rationally' and 'realistically' as if the sole purpose of a made-up story is to convince you it could have happened. No wonder the epistolary form is having a tumblr renaissance. One million billion arguments and thought experiments about The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas that almost all evade the point of the story: that you can't wriggle out of it. The narrator is telling you how it was, is and will be, and you must confront the dissonances it evokes and digest your discomfort. 'Realistic' begins on the author's terms, that's what gives them the power to reach into your brain and fiddle about until sparks happen. You kind of have to trust the process a little bit.

This ultra-orthodox attitude to writing shares a lot of common ground with the tight, tight commodification of art in online spaces. And I mean commodification in the truest sense - the reconstruction of the thing to maximise its capacity to interface with markets. Form and function are overwhelmingly privileged over cloudy ideas like meaning, intent and possibility, because you can apply a sliding value scale to the material aspects of a work. But you can't charge extra for 'more challenging conceptual response to the milieu' in a commission drive. So that shit becomes vestigial. It isn't valued, it isn't taught, so eventually it isn't sought out. At best it's mystified as part of a given writer/artist's 'talent', but either way it grows incumbent on the individual to care enough about that kind of skill to cultivate it.

And it's risky, because unmeasurables come with the possibility of rejection or failure. Drop in too many allegorical descriptions of the rose garden and someone will decide your prose is 'purple' and unserious. A lot of online audiences seem to be terrified of being considered pretentious in their tastes. That creates a real unwillingness to step out into discursive spaces where you 🫵 are expected to develop and explore a personal relationship with each element of a work. No guard rails, no right answers. Word of god is shit to us out here. But fear of getting that kind of analysis wrong makes people hove to work that slavishly explains itself on every page. And I'm left wondering, what's the point of art that leads every single participant to the same conclusion? See Spot run. Run, Spot, run. Down the rollforth land, yonder horizonways. I just want to read more weird stuff.

[drchucktingle]

i have copied this comment without name because i think it is very kind and respectful and i do not want buckaroos interpreting it the wrong way. PLEASE UNDERSTAND this buckaroo is very sincere and has important points and please respect their way. i am going to answer in a way that is counter to their point and i do not want buds to go after them IN ANY WAY. THEY ARE PROVING LOVE AND THEY HAVE GOOD POINTS

okay here is what i have to say:

i have not transitioned and in this lifetime i do not expect to. i think you have a good point of 'how can you know?' and honestly i cannot know that is just how timelines and reality and perception work

HOWEVER i must caution against this train of thought slightly because what works for one buckaroos MAY NOT WORK for another. every time i talk about my non-dysphoric way there are plenty of well meaning buds, particularly fellow trans buds, who show up with posts in the tone of 'its only matter of time.' like i just do not understand yet.

this reminds me of bisexual buckaroos who are told 'you just do not know you are gay yet'. as difficult as it is to step out of our own dang minds, i implore buckaroos to accept that there VERY JOYFUL AND FULFILLED NON-DYSPHORIC TRANS BUCKAROOS who do not need to transition and never will and are healthy and happy without that. just like there are bisexual buckaroos who are not just on their way to being gay

a good way to look at it is like this: I LOVE MY MALE BODY. i think i am a very handsome buckaroo. i have masculine features in my muscle and height and frame. as far as how fate could have placed me on this timeline I WON MY OWN PERSONAL FOOTRACE. i am up on the podium and i am standing here with a medal around my neck. GOOD JOB CHUCK

HOWEVER when i look down i see that medal is silver. i am not going to lie and say it is gold. it is silver.

YES my gold medal is a female body. that is an objective truth to my trot. i believe my gender way is that of a women, but there is no part of me that is upset about where i have placed.

I GOT SILVER. i am not upset. there is no tragedy. in fact i am OVERWHLEMED WITH JOY not just to be on the podium but to be in this race in the first place. HECK YEAH I DID IT AND I GOT A MEDAL

of course this is not to dismiss the difficult journey of others. many do not feel the way i do and their trot is VALID. a dysphoric way matters and is important and these voices are important. they should be elevated and supported. i understand some do not share this podium imagery, and they feel PAINED by trappings of their body.

i feel so much for this. i understand and care for my dysphoric buds, but the simple truth is that is not my story. i cant just lie and say that it is.

it will never be my story. i cannot say this enough: i love my body. however i STILL believe my truest way is that of a ladybuck. if it was a simple button push to change me, then i would push it without hesitation.

but it is not a simple button push.

talk to almost any buckaroo who has transitioned and they will say 'transitioning is hard'. it takes time and work and money and emotional support. i am in awe of the bravery of buckaroos who trot this path, but all of that is not worth it for something that i already feel good about. SCRATCH THAT, i feel GREAT ABOUT. i feel overwhelmed with joy every day over just existing in this male body that i have been blessed with. YES buckaroo, i feel joy existing in a male body that i know is ladybuck on the inside. it feels interesting a cool and exciting.

but my truest way is STILL a ladybuck trot

i guess i am just trying to say that i love second place. im happy to celebrate it. i think my male body is really dang cool. it is not a 'perfect me' but it is really dang awesome, and i never really bothered with trying to be perfect

[temperamentalaquarius]

The 'Robin means family' thing for Dick irks me a little because it's like being asked what you mean to yourself and answering 'family'. Like. What. The other robins have a particular view of Robin, (magic/hero/batmans partner) because they were looking at Dick being Robin, and decided what Robin meant to them. Thats not a bad thing and it changed as they got more comfortable as Robin, but it is fundamentally different than Dick, because there was no Robin until he quadruple somersaulted onto the scene. He didn't have to determine what it meant to him, because it was him. Robin was the truest expression of himself. His name, his personality and his costume(because, lest we forget, he was a Flying Grayson too).

[drdemonprince]

I was never really certain about my transition in the way that most gatekeeping hormone prescribers and curious members of the public demand that a trans person be. I didn’t “always know” that I was not cisgender. I haven’t “always known” anything about myself. Very few truths about me have always remained true, my existence is too interpersonal, contextual, and ever-evolving for all of that. (So is most everyone else’s, I think). I don’t think that the fact I’d eventually choose to exercise my body autonomy at age 30 by taking hormones is a decision I could have foreseen when I was a child. All that I knew about being transgender when I was a kid was a fact that most children intuitively know: gender assignment was a violation of my freedom, of everyone’s freedom in fact, and it was wrong. As an infant and then a child and teenager, people kept imposing labels on me; they kept forcing me and my body into prescribed gendered boxes, and while the specific labels and boxes never really felt like the right ones, the most disturbing part about it all was the forcing. No coerced identity would have ever felt right. Children can tell when secrets are being kept from them, and when adults are restricting their choices. They notice that they and the other children are being lined up boy-girl, boy-girl, without ever being told what a girl or a boy even is. They can see their parents frowning when they reach for the doll with the shimmery hair, or climb atop the neighbor kid on the playground. Kids know that they are forbidden from sitting with their legs spread wide or flicking their wrist, and their gender illegibility is shamed in them, long before they get any answers about what gender means or where it comes from or why it’s so important that they make themselves easy to understand.

Like the cloned children in Never Let Me Go who grow up being conditioned for a life of forced organ donation, children in a cissexist society grow up conditioned to fall within certain gendered boundary lines, and by the time they learn that the reason for this is almost completely arbitrary, they can’t imagine any alternative. Not until some of them hear about gender transition and find the prospect very compelling, for some reason. You can say that reason is because some of us are inherently trans, but there’s absolutely nothing in the way of brain science, genetics research, or even sociological data to back that up. Besides, the search for a biological “reason” that people are transgender or queer runs counter to the goal of queer liberation in the long run. Science only needs to explain the existence of transgender people (or queer people more broadly) if our existence is in some way aberrant or a problem. If queerness is accepted as a form of human diversity that simply exists, then there is no need to excuse it by claiming that it is never a choice. It can be a choice, if a person wants to make it, and hopefully it satisfies them, but maybe it won’t. Freedom to choose means freedom to forever be dissatisfied, to search endlessly for more, and yes, to capable of making a mistake. I would say that viewing myself as transgender was a choice. I decided to break away from the straight, female categories to which I had been assigned, and doing so allowed me to view the legal and societal power structures that had restricted me more clearly. It helped me better understand myself. But that does not mean the actual act of breaking away was always the truest reflection of who I am. The version of me that transitioned was a person on the run — and how a person behaves, thinks, and self-conceives when they are fleeing is not a great reflection of whom they might be if they were safe. If we all lived in a world free from mandatory gender assignment, and where our bodies were not mined for meaning about the kinds of sex we liked, the clothing we should wear, the personality qualities we have, the roles we should play in society, and the connections we are allowed to form with others, who knows who each of us might be. But none of us get to live in that world, or ever gets completely free from the frameworks of heterosexuality and the gender binary. These frameworks shape every legal institution we encounter, every school we attend, every item of clothing we put on, every substance we take into our bodies, every piece of paperwork that ever gets printed about us, and every look another person ever gives us. And so we make due with rewriting and recombining those frameworks as best we can. It should come as no surprise that those us who break away from the binary have to experiment and revise how we understand ourselves quite a bit — sometimes getting things “wrong,” sometimes searching forever for the semblance of something “right.” Sometimes reveling in the “wrongness” of all the available options is kind of the point.

I wrote about my detransition, retransition, and the eternal dissatisfaction that is probably the corest truth of my identity. It's free to read or have narrated to you on my Substack.

[syn0vial]

man, i continue to be blown away by the thought put into astarion's romance, even in seemingly throwaway scenes.

i just did zethino's test of love with him at the circus of the last days and there's such a stark difference between what wins you approval with him and what wins approval with the other companions.

for those who haven't played this bit, zethino's test of love involves a dryad, zethino, testing how well you know your romantic interest by asking you personal questions about their inner lives—their hopes, their fears, their likes, and dislikes. for most of your companions, this is very straightforward: when you answer a question about them correctly, you win approval points with them. when you say something untrue or insulting, you lose approval points , bc they realize that you're trolling or that you don't know them as well as they'd hoped.

unless you're romancing astarion. in which case, you have to do almost the complete opposite to win his approval.

the other characters want you to prove you know them by answering correctly. astarion wants you to prove you know him by lying—or, at least, refusing to pick the most accurate answer.

case in point: astarion does not like it if you tell the truth about his hopes and fears. like, really doesn't like it. answering honestly about his greatest fear, in particular (his fear of being enslaved again), causes you to lose a whole 4 approval points, twice as much as you lose with the other companions for outright insulting them. you can lose another one before that for answering honestly that his greatest desire is freedom. in both cases, he'll acknowledge that you're right—and then express dismay that you'd disclose that kind of information to a stranger. hell, you can figure out from the very first question that he's not comfortable taking this test with you at all; when the dryad asks what makes astarion happy, you lose approval if you say he's happy to take this test with you now.

so if astarion doesn't want you to pick the most accurate answers for him and honestly doesn't really seem to want to take this test with you at all, which answers can you pick to win approval with him?

well, whichever ones are funniest, of course! you don't win points with him for picking the deepest, truest answers, but the silly, flippant ones that make him laugh. what's astarion's greatest desire? well, me, of course! what's his greatest fear? breaking a nail, obviously. he's delighted by your refusal to take the test seriously and actually approves more of funny, light-hearted answers than badass, flattering ones.

i just think the whole sequence is such a fun and interesting exploration of his character and your relationship with him, all in a silly little side-activity where it would've been easy to just give all the characters the same win-conditions. little details like this are really the game's brightest moments, imo!

[sturnsblogs]

“Not That I’m Rushing, But I’m Rushing”

Nick!Sturniolo X Tattoo!Artist!Mateo

Word count- 1936

Warnings- Flirting.

Nick was very much not living his best life.

He was face-down in bed, half-swallowed by his comforter, eyes glued to the same TikTok he’d watched three times in a row. The volume was low, his phone was dangerously close to dropping on his face, and the only light in the room was the pale gray bleed from his window.

Bed rotting. In its truest form.

He hadn’t moved in an hour. Maybe two. He wasn’t sure. Time wasn’t real.

Then—his phone buzzed. Not a notification from the app. Not group chat chaos. An actual text.

Mateo:

“hey. u busy?”

Nick stared at it, brain rebooting. He blinked twice, sat up just enough to type.

Nick:

“nah. what’s up”

Three dots appeared.

Mateo:

“wanna hang out?”

Nick sat all the way up. Blanket fell to his waist. Heart: awake. Brain: suddenly functioning.

Nick:

“yeah. when?”

(He didn’t even wait. He was already getting out of bed.)

Mateo:

“whenever. no rush”

But Nick was already moving. He tossed his phone on the bed and beelined for the bathroom, muttering to himself as he turned the shower on way too hot.

“Not that I’m rushing,” he said to no one, “but I’m rushing.”

Twenty minutes later, he was dressed, towel-drying his hair, and moving with a sense of purpose that hadn’t existed all week. Hoodie. Deodorant. Toothbrush in mouth while he picked out which rings to wear. He even sprayed cologne. Cologne. For a casual hangout. With his brother’s friend.

Totally chill.

Downstairs, he poured himself a bowl of cereal, barely looking at the box or the milk level.

Matt wandered into the kitchen in sweatpants, scratching his head. “Dude, why are you up? It’s not even noon.”

Nick shrugged, spoon already in his mouth. “Hangin’ with Mateo.”

Matt squinted at him. “Since when do you make plans before I’m awake?”

Nick kept his face neutral. “Since now.”

Matt leaned against the fridge, arms crossed. “You’re taking all my friends.”

Nick smirked, not looking up. “You’ve got two. Don’t be greedy.”

Matt tossed a dish towel at his head. “You like him.”

Nick dodged it, barely. “Didn’t say that.”

Matt raised both eyebrows. “You showered.”

Nick didn’t answer.

Matt nodded like that was enough of an admission. “You’re a menace.”

Nick stood, grabbed his keys, and finished the last spoonful of cereal like a mic drop. “He texted me.”

Matt muttered, “Still my friend,” as Nick disappeared out the door—hoodie slightly too big, smile creeping in without permission.

The weather had no right being this perfect.

It was one of those not-too-hot, not-too-cold afternoons where the sky looked like someone dragged a sponge across blue paint, and the breeze felt like it had manners. Birds were out. Dogs were everywhere. A little girl was running in circles near a bench, her dad holding a juice pouch like it was a peace offering.

Nick and Mateo had been walking for a while—no destination, just steps and small talk.

They wandered down a path near the edge of the trees, gravel crunching under their shoes, and for a while, they didn’t talk much. It wasn’t weird though. Mateo’s silence never felt like a wall—it felt like an invitation to breathe.

Nick, surprisingly, wasn’t in a rush to fill it.

He kicked a stray pinecone. “So… your hoodie’s doing great, by the way. Thriving.”

Mateo smirked, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Yeah? Treating you right?”

“Oh, definitely. Very clingy. Matches my vibe.”

Mateo let out a soft laugh, and Nick looked over at him for a second too long. Mateo noticed—but didn’t say anything. Just tucked his chin a little like he wasn’t used to being looked at for that long.

After a minute, Mateo asked, “Can I ask you something kinda personal?”

Nick shrugged. “Sure.”

Mateo looked ahead as he spoke. “How’d you… come out? Like, publicly. You talk about it online like it’s not a big deal.”

Nick nodded slowly. “Yeah, I mean—it’s chill now. But it wasn’t always, obviously.”

Mateo glanced over at him, quiet.

Nick kicked another pinecone, then shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “So there was this girl I was friends with. Super cool, super confident. Everyone thought I liked her. I thought I liked her.” He smiled a little, like it was funny now. “Turns out, I had a crush on her boyfriend.”

Mateo let out a short, surprised laugh through his nose. “Damn.”

Nick chuckled. “Yeah. That was a trip. Real ego bruiser.”

He tilted his head, still smiling faintly. “But it was weirdly relieving? Like, once I said it out loud, even just to myself—it was like my brain finally exhaled.” He paused. “After that, I talked to the twins. Then I made that video like a year later.”

Mateo didn’t say anything right away. Just walked beside him, hands still deep in his pockets, nodding slightly like he was storing every word away.

Then, quietly, Nick asked, “What about you? Or—can I ask?”

Mateo’s steps slowed just a little.

His voice dropped low. “I’m bi.”

Nick looked at him, but gently. “Yeah?”

Mateo nodded once, eyes on the path. “I’m not really out, though. I mean… Matt knows. Chris probably put it together. But it’s not something I talk about.”

Nick didn’t push. He didn’t offer some inspirational speech or dramatic comfort.

He just said, “Thanks for telling me.”

Mateo glanced at him, almost like he hadn’t expected that answer.

Nick gave him a crooked little smile. “It’s cool. You don’t owe it to anyone. Come out when you want. Or don’t. You still exist either way.”

Mateo looked away—but he was smiling, just barely. That small, thankful kind of smile that stayed tucked in the corners.

They kept walking.

The sun filtered through the trees, warm against their shoulders. A squirrel darted across the path ahead, making Nick flinch just enough for Mateo to laugh again. The air felt a little easier now. The silence wasn’t heavy—it was shared.

And even though nothing else was said, Nick felt like something had shifted.

Not in a loud way. Not like a plot twist.

Just the kind of shift you feel in your chest when someone trusts you with something real.

They eventually settled on a bench tucked beneath a tall tree, branches casting slow-moving shadows over their legs as the breeze played with the edge of Mateo’s hoodie.

Nick leaned back, arms sprawled along the back of the bench like he owned it. Mateo sat more forward, elbows resting on his knees, thumbs running absentmindedly along his palms. It wasn’t uncomfortable—it was that kind of silence where something had already been said, and it didn’t need to be pushed.

Then, mid-pause, buzz.

Mateo’s phone lit up in his pocket.

He glanced down, subtle, thumb dragging it out quickly. His eyes flicked across the screen, and without much thought, he tilted it slightly away from Nick’s line of sight and typed something back fast—short reply, no expression, no overthinking.

Nick caught the motion. He didn’t mean to pry, but his head tilted just enough to notice the turn of the screen. His brows pulled slightly.

Mateo glanced over and caught the look. “Sorry,” he said quickly, tucking the phone back away. “It’s a client. They’re trying to change their appointment again.”

Nick raised an eyebrow—not suspicious, just curious. “Damn, they got your line memorized or something?”

Mateo gave a soft laugh. “Basically. I swear half my job is rescheduling.”

Nick leaned back again but gave him a side glance. “Well, tell them they’re interrupting a very important hangout. Super exclusive.”

Mateo smirked. “Yeah? VIP lounge?”

“Exactly,” Nick said, half-grinning. “Two-for-one therapy and light flirting included.”

Mateo looked over, like he was going to make a joke back—but then he just shook his head, lips twitching into a smile instead.

The conversation drifted after that, but the quiet buzz of curiosity lingered in Nick’s mind. He didn’t say it out loud, but he noticed the way Mateo’s whole body language had shifted when the phone went off. Not anxious—but careful.

Still, Nick didn’t push. Didn’t ask again.

If Mateo wanted to share more, he would.

And for now, Nick was just… weirdly okay sitting next to him, feeling the space between them fill up with a little more trust and a little more maybe.

The sun was starting to dip, painting gold across the sidewalks as Mateo walked Nick back toward his car. The park had quieted a little—fewer kids, longer shadows, a warm breeze that didn’t quite want to let go of the day yet.

Nick kicked at a rock as they walked, hands buried in his hoodie pocket—still Mateo’s, still unapologetically his now.

Mateo walked close beside him, their arms brushing every now and then but never staying there for long. It was the kind of walk that didn’t need to be rushed, like both of them were dragging out the last few minutes without saying it.

When they reached the car, Nick slowed to a stop, turning to face him. “Thanks, by the way.”

Mateo raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For texting me. I was on the brink of complete bed rot.”

Mateo smiled, soft and a little shy. “You’re good company.”

Nick looked at him a second longer than necessary, then scratched the back of his neck. “This was fun.”

“It was,” Mateo said. “Maybe… we can do it again sometime. Or you could come by the shop. I mean, if you want.”

Nick nodded, a bit too fast. “Yeah. For sure. I’d… yeah.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just charged. Like there was a maybe between them no one was ready to name yet.

Then Mateo stepped forward, arms lifting slightly. “Can I—?”

“Yeah,” Nick said before he finished.

They hugged.

It wasn’t long, but it wasn’t quick either. Nick’s hands rested on Mateo’s back, a little tentative, while Mateo’s arms wrapped around him with that same quiet energy he always carried—gentle, but sure.

When they pulled apart, Nick let out a small breath. “Okay. maybe ill text you when I’m free.”

Mateo nodded. “I’ll answer.”

Nick grinned, unlocking his car with a beep. “Wow. Bold of you to assume I’ll text first.”

Mateo smirked. “You will.”

Nick rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling when he got in and shut the door.

When he walked into the house, keys jangling as he tossed them in the bowl by the door, Matt was already in the kitchen, spoon in a peanut butter jar, looking far too awake for someone who hadn’t moved all day.

Matt turned, smirking like he knew.

“So?” he said. “How was your date?”

Nick blinked. “It wasn’t a date.”

Matt grinned wider. “You showered, wore his hoodie, and left the house before noon. That’s a date.”

Nick kicked his shoes off and walked toward the fridge like he could hide behind it. “It was not a date. We just hung out. Talked. Walked. Chilled.”

Matt leaned on the counter. “Did you kiss?”

Nick slammed the fridge shut with a bottle of water in hand. “Matt. No.”

“But you wanted to,” Matt sing-songed.

Nick rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. “You’re actually unbearable.”

“I’m just saying,” Matt said, licking the spoon dramatically. “You’re smiling like an idiot. That’s a rom-com.”

Nick didn’t reply. Just walked past him, water bottle clutched in hand like a weapon of restraint.

Matt called after him, “You like him.”

Nick shouted back, “Don’t even start!”

But he was smiling again—worse, smiling into the bottle cap like a complete idiot.

A/N- @kier-with-a-k has the best ideas in the whole world.

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

𝐌𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐮𝐦 𝐎𝐩𝐮𝐬 : 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐲 𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲

[ 𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐥 ]

𝐚/𝐧: this story was born from a single ache—the image of Rafayel longing to paint someone, not from vanity, but from reverence… and finding himself unable. That thought lodged itself in me like a splinter. Though I remain a Sylus-girly to the bone, Rafayel has always been my quiet indulgence—a brat, yes, but also unbearably tender when no one is looking. I began to wonder: if I, not infold, were to write his magnum opus… what form would it take? This was my answer.

If you ever have a thought, a scene, a whisper of an idea you’d like to see written—don’t hesitate to share it. I’d love to create for you. This beautiful little corner of the internet has helped me fall in love with writing all over again. And if you’re curious about the hands behind the words… you’re welcome to ask. I don’t mind being seen.

𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐰: while this story draws inspiration from the original characters and lore of the game, it is a personal interpretation. Certain aspects of character behavior, relationships, or world-building may diverge from canon. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 7,602

𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐎𝐟 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐎𝐰𝐧:  [ press here! ]

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 silence that tormented him, but the absence of anything sacred within.

The silence of the gallery after hours was reverent by nature—cloaked in soft echoes of vanished footsteps, in the delicate rustle of fabric brushing past his art without understanding. It was a silence that hummed with invisible presence, as if even the air mourned how little the world saw.

But here, in the sanctuary of his studio—an old observatory repurposed—the silence had lost its soul. It was sterile. Lifeless.

And still, Rafayel sat inside it. Willingly. Willfully.

He had turned off the artificial hum of the ventilation system. Let the temperature rise, slow and stifling, until the walls seemed to sweat. A glass of wine, untouched, perspired beside the easel. The ice had long melted. He did not know when.

His chair creaked softly as he shifted—elbow hooked over the curved back, head bowed, eyes half-lidded but unblinking. The canvas before him—fresh, immense, demanding—remained defiant in its emptiness.

There was no muse.

Only memory.

And memory was merciless.

He exhaled—not loudly, but in the manner one might sigh within a chapel, when no one is listening but God.

His hand moved through his hair, slow and automatic. A smear of dried charcoal darkened the edge of his palm. He stared at it as if it might reveal something—an omen, a confession. How many times had he sat like this? Body motionless, spirit churning. Fingers starved for release, heart swollen with something too vast to name. He had told the world he painted emotion. Had smiled, faintly amused, when interviewers asked about his process—claimed beauty was the truest language of feeling, that his task was only translation.

But when she walked into the gallery that afternoon—sunlit, soft around the eyes with laughter not yet spent—his discipline shattered.

She asked if he was tired.

He had replied that beauty did not wait for rest.

What he meant was: You do not wait.

What he meant was: if I stay another minute in your light, I will unmake myself.

And so he left.

Not hurried. Not disgraced.

But with the quiet, breathless desperation of a man on the brink—one who could no longer bear to be seen, because he feared what might tear loose from his mouth if he lingered another second in her presence.

He had always endured admiration well. Knew which pieces of himself to reveal and which to withhold. It was an artform, too—this careful curation of self.

But with her, the boundaries blurred. What he had learned to guard, she disarmed.

It wasn’t dramatic. It was subtle.

The way she studied his paintings without dissecting their technique, but spoke only of their mood. The way she drifted into quiet corners of the gallery, not to be watched, but to listen. The way she remembered strange, intimate things—”You smear with your ring finger, not your thumb”—and didn’t flinch when he asked her to move closer, but didn’t, either.

She had seen too much of him.

Too soon.

And now she lived behind his eyes like a forbidden icon—one he had no right to venerate, and no strength to look away from.

The canvas still waited.

He stared too long. Until the edges blurred. Until the whiteness of it became an accusation. He reached for his brush—hesitated.

Something inside him resisted.

It wasn’t fear.

It was grief.

He could not paint her.

Not because he lacked the skill. Not because he hadn’t memorized the slope of her cheek, the hollow of her throat, the quiet cruelty of her smile.

No.

He could not paint her because he knew—if he captured her light, pinned it in pigment—it would no longer belong to him.

The world would hunger for her image.

Strip it. Devour it. Consume her as it did all things honest and luminous.

He clenched the brush until the bristles bent, delicate and gasping.

“There are people you paint with your hands,” he said aloud—not to anyone, not even to himself. “And people you cannot paint without first surrendering your soul.”

He didn’t know when he learned that truth.

Only that he believed it with the quiet, brutal certainty one reserves for mourning.

Outside, the artificial day had faded. The studio dimmed with it, yet he did not rise to reach for the light. He let the dusk settle in, soft and oppressive. Only the exposed skylight above offered illumination—dust-flecked and faintly blue, fed by the last traces of filtered moonlight from a satellite too far from Linkon to name.

Still, he did not move. Still, he sat in silence.

He let the ache of her presence-in-absence fester. Let it throb in his chest like a wound too proud to bleed.

And then—the universe is nothing if not cruel in its timing—he saw her.

Not her body. Not at first. Just a ripple of shadow in the studio’s glass-paneled door. A shimmer of light touching something delicate: the arch of a wrist, the slope of a shoulder, the breath of motion.

His spine locked. Breath halted mid-lung.

She hadn’t knocked.

Of course she hadn’t.

Knocking would have implied distance. Permission. And she had always moved through thresholds as though they were made for her.

The door eased open—not with force, but with familiarity—and her silhouette stepped into the half-dark.

Rafayel did not rise.

Could not.

He watched her with the same stillness he offered his canvas, only now it was his body that became the medium—tense, aching, unrendered.

She stood for a moment just beyond the reach of moonlight, and in that space between them bloomed a silence so complete, it might have been holy.

He saw her gaze find the empty canvas.

Then the wine glass.

Then him.

And though she said nothing, he felt it: the knowing in her, the unbearable intimacy of being understood.

She crossed the room without invitation.

Without hesitation.

And Rafayel, heart clawing against its cage, realized too late—

He had not prepared to survive her.

She didn’t ask why he hadn’t painted.

She only stood before the canvas, head tilted slightly, arms folded loosely across her front. A curl of hair slipped along her cheek. Her bare wrist caught the low light—quietly luminous.

She was calm. Utterly unbothered. She didn’t know. Of course she didn’t.

Rafayel stared at her—the shape of her framed by the void he could not fill. The canvas behind her looked paler now. Bleached. Ashen.

And he—the artist, the pretender, the coward—felt smaller than he had all day.

“You’ve been up here for hours,” she said softly, her gaze drifting toward him. “And still nothing?”

He shook his head once. He didn’t trust his voice. Not with her so near.

She stepped a little closer to the easel, her fingers brushing the edge of the wood.

The gesture was idle. Thoughtless. Gentle.

It undid him.

He wanted to fall to his knees—not in desire, but in something far more dangerous. Devotion.

“You don’t usually take this long to start,” she murmured, eyes still on the blank canvas. “That’s not like you.”

Not like me, he almost laughed. As if she knew him. As if anyone did.

But then—hadn’t she seen more than most? Even when she didn’t mean to? Even now, unaware, she pressed too close to the truth. Her voice held no accusation. Only interest. Soft. Observational.

And that, somehow, was worse.

He turned away from her.

Rose slowly. Deliberately. As if dragging his body from some spiritual wreckage.

He crossed to the far window and braced his hands on the sill, letting the metal’s sharp edge bite into his palm. He needed pain—needed something physical to hold him still. To keep him from turning back. From speaking.

Behind him, she sighed.

He didn’t know what she thought he was painting. Didn’t want to know. The idea of her imagining anything—anything but herself—made him sick with guilt.

And worse—desire.

She must think it was another commission. A gallery piece. A diplomatic portrait. Something clean. Something safe.

And maybe it would’ve been.

If not for her.

If not for the way she had walked into his gallery that morning with the ocean still clinging to her skin. If not for the way she had looked—not at the work, but through it, as if searching for something buried beneath the brushstrokes. Something lost.

She didn’t know what she had given him.

And worse—

She didn’t know what she had taken.

“Did something happen?” she asked behind him, quieter now. Almost hesitant. “You seem… far away.”

“I am,” he murmured.

A pause.

“Where?”

He closed his eyes. The answer lived behind his ribs, raw and pulsing.

“Nowhere you need to follow.”

The silence that followed thickened—dense, unspeakable. But not cruel. Not cold.

When she spoke again, her voice still held that warmth. That soft, impossible tenderness that made him believe—for the briefest, most dangerous moments—that he might deserve gentleness. That he might not be made entirely of wreckage.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” she said. “I just wanted to check on you.”

He turned toward her then, slowly.

As though he feared the motion might shatter something.

She was standing by the canvas. Still unknowingly surrounded by the thing he could not name. Still unaware.

His eyes traced the delicate furrow of her brow, the soft parting of her lips—like she was about to say something. Something gentle. Something ruinous.

The studio light caught the slope of her collarbone. Her fingers played absently along the edge of the easel, as though the wood itself could tell her what he would not.

And Rafayel—fool, coward, worshipper—understood something terrible. If she asked him now—Do you want to paint me?—he would lie.

He would say no.

Because the truth would undo them both.

Because the truth was too raw. Too monstrous.

He didn’t want to paint her.

He wanted to possess her.

Not merely in body—though yet, God, yes, that too—but in spirit. In permanence.

He wanted the version of her that no one else would ever see.

He wanted to look at her for hours without shame. To study the curve of her shoulder in lamplight, the way water clung to her skin after a swim, the fragile chaos of her when she thought no one was watching.

He wanted her—bare, undone, his—preserved not for praise or immortality.

But for solitude.

For obsession.

For his eyes only.

And she didn’t know.

And he would not tell her.

Not yet.

Her gaze lingered on him—patient, unaware—and it was that unknowing, that soft oblivion, that made her dangerous.

She wasn’t seductive because she tried to be. She didn’t tempt. She simply was.

And in being—existing—she disarmed him more thoroughly than any hand at his collar ever had.

She moved toward him without ceremony, her steps silent over the old stone floor. No hesitation. No performance. Just movement—as natural as breath, as inevitable as tide.

When she reached him, she didn’t speak.

She reached for his hand.

Her fingers threaded through his like silk drawn through the eye of a needle—slow, sure, impossibly warm.

Rafayel went still.

The touch wasn’t possessive. It wasn’t romantic.

But it was intimate. So achingly intimate.

Her skin against his felt like confession.

And still—she didn’t know.

“You need air,” she said simply. “And I need a walk.”

He didn’t answer.

She looked down at the joined hands, then up at him again, one brow lifted—soft, insistent.

“I’m taking you,” she said. “Come on.”

A tug—light, teasing. Coaxing him back into his body. His legs obeyed before his mind could protest. Stunned. Wordless. He let her lead him.

And she didn’t let go.

Her hand remained laced in his as they passed through the narrow corridor beyond his studio. Past cluttered shelves stacked with sketchbooks and unfinished thoughts. Past the open door where the night air poured in, brushing the back of his neck with a kind of intimate chill.

“We’re going to the cove,” she said over her shoulder, a faint smile at her lips. “You always breathe easier when you’re painting the sea.”

The words struck him with a terrible tenderness.

Not you should rest. Not your art needs space.

But: you breathe better by the ocean.

She had noticed.

Of course she had.

And yet—she still didn’t know what she was doing.

Didn’t know she was unmaking him with kindness.

Not with flirtation. Not with heat. But with casual familiarity, with the quiet certainty of someone who had learned his rhythm simply by paying attention.

It was unbearable.

Rafayel’s voice, when it came, was low. Roughened at the edges.

“There’s no light down there,” he said. “I won’t be able to paint.”

She turned her head, moonlight threading through her hair like silver. Her grin—barely there—was mischief softened by affection.

“Then bring the canvas,” she said. “Let it watch.”

He nearly choked—on breath, on laughter, on the impossible need she would never understand.

“Let the canvas watch,” he repeated, more to himself than to her. Like a prayer. Like a sin.

She mistook the tone in his voice for amusement, and tugged his hand again—this time playful.

“Yes, Raf,” she teased. “It’s not like you to be precious about location.”

Not like him.

She didn’t know how wrong she was.

He followed—dazed, half in step, half in dream.

Before leaving the studio, he bent to retrieve the blank canvas, tucking it under one arm. A brush and a palette nestled into the crook of the other. His body moved as if it had waited years for her command.

The path to the cove was familiar—steep and winding, carved into the cliffs like an old secret. Low grasses brushed against their legs. Starleaf blooms shivered in the dark, scattered like forgotten constellations.

It was quiet here.

Not thrum of engines. No pulse of station light. Only the sound of breathing, wind, and the faint hush of waves below.

And her hand—still wrapped in his.

It wasn’t a grip. It wasn’t urgent.

It was simply present.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Because it occurred to him—absurdly, painfully—that no one had held his hand like this since he was a boy.

Not lovers.

Not muses.

Only hers.

With her warmth. Her gentle command. Her oblivious cruelty.

At last, the shift beneath their feet—sand, soft and cool. The sigh of waves brushing rocks.

The sea opened before them like a mouth unafraid to swallow.

She paused near the waterline, slipping off her shoes, letting her toes sink into the damp earth. The moon hung low above her—waxing, swollen, golden-edged like a halo.

Rafayel stood beside her, the canvas at his side, brush still clutched too tightly in his hand.

She turned to him.

Her brow furrowed, gentle with concern.

“You okay?”

He nodded.

Too quickly.

Too much.

She smiled—smaller now. Like she didn’t quite believe him, but would let him pretend.

“Paint the tide,” she said. “Or don’t. Just sit with me a while.”

He didn’t answer.

He was already watching the light on her skin.

Already drowning.

She stepped away from him with that same effortless grace she always carried—like even gravity bent to accommodate her.

A glance at the water. A tug at the corner of her lips. And then—

Her shoes were already off.

She bent slightly, fingers gathering the hem of her white dress. Not to tempt. Not to tease. Just practical. Just curious. Just her.

And still—Rafayel could barely breathe.

She waded in slowly, the sand shifting beneath her feet, soft and yielding.

The waves greeted her with quiet reverence, lapping gently at her ankles, then her calves.

She gasped at the first touch—then laughed. And that laugh, light and bright, logged itself somewhere in his lungs like moonlight.

“Still warm,” she said over her shoulder, smiling. “I thought it’d be freezing this late.”

He said nothing.

He couldn’t.

He wasn’t looking.

He was witnessing.

There was a difference.

She moved deeper, lifting the dress higher to spare the hem—absentminded, distracted by the stars above. But the ocean was greedy.

It reached for her.

Claimed her.

Inch by inch.

The soft cotton dipped into the tide, darkened with salt, clung to her thighs… then her hips.

And when she let go of the fabric—without thought, without care—it floated back down, heavy with water, soaking further.

The white turned translucent.

The silhouette of her body blurred.

Then sharpened.

Light kissed every secret curve as though the moon itself was in love with her.

Rafayel swallowed.

Hard.

He hadn’t brought his sketchpad. Hadn’t lifted his brush.

And none of it mattered.

Because this—this—was not a moment to be sketched. Not with honesty. Not with dignity.

To paint her now would be to confess something raw. Something sacred.

To admit: This is the version of you I crave most.

Unaware. Undone.

She stood knee-deep in the surf, head tilted as if listening to a sound only she could hear. Her arms hung loose at her sides. Her hair drifted on the breeze like something holy.

Her breathing slowed.

And Rafayel— He had no defenses left.

His palms itched—not with lust, but with need. The desperate, aching need to remember this moment with cruel precision.

The way the ocean coiled around her legs. The way her soaked dress curved against the line of her back. The way her body shimmered—not because she meant to, but because she simply did.

She didn’t know what she looked like. Didn’t know what she was doing to him.

And maybe that’s why it felt holy.

He stepped forward.

A breath. A tremor. A prayer.

The canvas stood forgotten behind him, crooked in the sand—and abandoned witness to his unraveling. The brush still hung useless from his fingers, untouched.

She turned then—smiling, sweet, soaked to the waist. Oblivious.

“Come in,” she said, voice easy, unguarded. “It’s warmer than it looks.”

He shook his head, the motion tight. Controlled.

“I’ll ruin the canvas.”

“Leave it,” she replied, light, effortless.

She meant nothing by it. He knew that. She was being playful. Casual.

But the words struck something deeper. And Rafayel went still—utterly, ruinously still.

His voice, when it came, was low. Hoarse.

“I think I already have.”

She furrowed her brow. “What?”

He tried to smile. It cracked at the edges. “Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything.

He looked at her—really looked—and the ache inside him bloomed into something unbearable.

She was water and light and unselfconscious beauty. And she was free.

Free of the way she lived in his lungs. Free of the salt lining his ribs where her name had etched itself into bone.

And still—somehow—she looked at him like he was the one who might break.

Maybe he was.

Maybe he always had been.

“Stay there,” he said suddenly.

The words came out too fast, too soft. A plea in disguise.

She blinked. “Why?”

“I just need to… see,”

Her lips parted in quiet confusion.

But she nodded.

And then—she stilled.

No pose. No performance. Just presence.

And Rafayel, trembling, stepped back. Slowly. Reverently.

Then—without ceremony, without breath—he sank to one knee in the sand.

Not to paint. Not to sketch. Not to speak.

Just to look.

To witness. To worship. To burn.

He would not touch her.

But every inch of him begged to.

She hadn’t noticed what she’d done to him.

Not truly.

She only moved deeper into the water, arms outstretched, her body loose with joy, unguarded. And then—without warning—she dipped her hands into the moonlit surface, lifted a handful of ocean, and flung it toward the stars.

It caught the light like shattered glass thrown against heaven.

Droplets spun around her like constellations, misting her skin, catching in her lashes. She twirled once—half a laugh, half a dance—and the sea clung tighter to her dress, wrapping it to her like it, too, had fallen in love.

And Rafayel—

He could not breathe.

His chest hollowed under the weight of her. His pulse thundered like wings in a storm. He gripped his thigh for balance, but his fingers trembled. His mouth was dry. His body shook—not from fear.

From reverence.

This—this—was what beauty was.

Not arranged. Not contained. Not posed for praise.

It was her—in motion. In instinct. In joy she didn’t know he’d carry with him for the rest of his life.

And just when he thought he could not bear it another second— She turned.

Water trailing down her neck. Hair curling damp at the edges. Her dress clung to her body, translucent to the thigh, shaped by salt and tide. Her skin glowed—moonlit, starlit, divine.

And then—

She smiled.

Not coy. Not shy. Just soft.

Open.

Entirely hers.

And she said, gently,

“Paint me, Raf.”

His breath caught. Frozen in his throat.

She stepped closer, the waves pulling at her legs as she moved through the surf.

Her voice was quieter now. Almost reverent.

“You never paint me,” she said, head tilted in quiet wonder. “So paint me.”

He could have died in that moment.

Maybe he did.

Something inside him certainly shattered.

Because she didn’t know what she was offering.

Didn’t know what it meant—to ask. To offer herself like that, freely. Trustingly. Like she wasn’t dangerous. Like she hadn’t already made a home in his bones.

His voice was nearly gone when he answered.

“...I can’t.”

Her brow furrowed, soft with concern. “Why not?”

The answer came in flashes, violent and unbearable.

Because I want you naked. Because I want to memorize the slope of your back with a brush soaked in hunger. Because I want to sketch you gasping—hips haloed in shadow, mouth parted in surrender. Because if I paint you, you’ll belong to the canvas. And I don’t want to share you—not with history, not with art, not even with the sky.

But he said none of that.

Instead, he dropped his head, shoulders folding in as if beneath confession. One hand sank into the sand beside him.

He closed his eyes.

“Because you’re not something to be painted.”

A pause followed.

Her silence didn’t feel hurt. It felt… considering.

And when he dared to lift his gaze again, she was looking at him the way she sometimes looked at the horizon—like something distant and beautiful, impossible to hold, but worth watching all the same.

“Then what am I?” she asked.

Her voice was quiet. Curious.

Not teasing. Not flirtatious.

And that—that—was what nearly undid him.

His throat worked around a response.

His voice, when it came, was raw silk. Low. Ashamed.

“You’re…” He swallowed. “Everything I’d never survive rendering.”

She stood before him—barefoot in the surf, soaked and glimmering, still unaware of the cathedral she had become inside him.

But she would know.

God help him— She would.

There was no shift in the wind. No divine hush. The world did not pause in awe.

But he did.

Because she moved.

Not with seduction. Not with intent. But gently. Thoughtlessly.

As though it were the most natural thing in the galaxy to kneel before him in moonlit water— To gather the soaked hem of her white dress in her hands and settle into the sand, crossed-legged, just inches from his knees.

She sat like someone who trusted him. Who didn’t yet understand how dangerous that trust had become.

“I won’t move,” she said with a small, almost secret smile. “In case you change your mind.”

She tucked her legs beneath her. The wet fabric clung to her skin—weightless, transparent. Her knees peeked through, pale and luminous. One strap of her dress had fallen from her shoulder.

And still—she didn’t notice.

She didn’t fix it.

Rafayel stared.

First at her knees—lithe, kissed with moonlight.

Then the slope of her collarbone, silvered by the night.

The arch of her throat.

The gentle, salt-softened curves of her face.

He had painted dozen of muses. Hundreds of bodies.

He had sculpted intimacy from pigment and shadow, drawn desire out of flesh with practiced ease.

But none of them—none of them—had sat like this before him.

None had trusted him without knowing what he wanted in return.

And what he wanted—

What he ached for—

He wanted to drag his brush along the line of her shoulder, into the hollow between her breasts.

He wanted to mix the colour of her flushed cheeks from memory—ochre, honey, dusk—and smear it across the canvas with trembling hands.

He wanted to taste the salt on her skin, then match its hue with devotion and ruin.

He wanted to part her thighs—not for lust, but for light—to sketch the place no one else had ever seen.

He wanted to paint her moaning. Eyes heavy. Lips parted. Neck tilted like worship.

His.

His for hours. His always.

And here she sat—wrapped in water and moonlight—oblivious to the war she had waged against his restraint.

“I don’t know how you see me,” she said suddenly.

Her voice was so soft, the waves nearly swallowed it. “But sometimes… I wish I could see myself the way you do.”

He exhaled—but it wasn’t a breath. It was a shudder.

If she knew—

If she knew how he saw her, sculpted into light and shadow in the hollow of his mind— If she knew the thousand versions of her he carried, each more unbearable than the last—

She would run.

Or worse— She would stay.

And he didn’t know which possibility terrified him more.

The brush was still in his hand.

Somewhere behind him, the canvas leaned against a rock—forgotten, irrelevant, unnecessary.

Slowly—without thought—he dipped the brush into his lap. Into nothing.

He didn’t need pigment. Not yet.

His gaze moved over her like prayer.

The edge of her jaw. The line of her neck. The place where her dress clung to her sternum—nipples just barely veiled beneath the soaked cotton and moonlight.

He didn’t move closer.

But his whisper still reached her.

“You’re already painted,” he said. “I just haven’t earned the right to show anyone.”

Her breath caught—just slightly.

Not because she fully understood.

But because something in his voice had changed.

And she heard it. That ache. That impossible reverence.

She looked at him differently now. Like he was something fragile. Something vast. Like she’d heard an echo in his chest and didn’t know what door it had come from.

“Raf…” she whispered.

His name—softened, thinned, a question and a mercy all at once.

“You’re shaking.”

He hadn’t realized.

He looked down.

His hand—so steady with every other subject—trembled where it held the brush.

And still… he didn’t touch her.

He couldn’t.

Because the moment he did, the painting would begin.

And it would never end.

She reached for him slowly.

Like one might approach a startled bird. As if some deep, unspoken part of her already sensed it— That he was burning from the inside out.

Her fingers closed over his wrist.

Gently. Warm. Human.

And that human contact—that simple, innocent touch—felt more intimate than anything he had ever known.

She didn’t squeeze. Didn’t pull. Just held him there.

Her thumb brushed over the edge of his wrist bone—soft, deliberate.

And then— With that same quiet certainty that always ruined him— She said:

“If you won’t paint me…”

A pause.

She leaned in.

Close.

So close he could smell the salt in her hair, the warmth of her breath, the faint sweetness of her skin lit by moonlight and damp with sea spray.

“...then let me paint you.”

His eyes flicked to hers—wild. Dazed.

As if she’d spoken the name of something sacred.

But she remained calm. Steady. Serious, even.

Like it was nothing. Like she wasn’t reaching straight into his chest and rearranging the way his ribs held together.

“I’ve never held a brush properly,” she added, the corner of her mouth lifting. “So you’ll have to forgive me if I butcher the likeness.”

He wanted to tell her no.

To say: You don’t know what you’re touching.

But he couldn’t.

Because her hand was already rising.

Slow. Reverent.

She reached between them and plucked the brush from his trembling fingers.

The loss of it made his skin ache.

He watched—silent, unraveling—as she turned it over in her hand, studying it like it meant something. Like he meant something.

Then—without asking— She lifted the brush to his face.

And with the softest pressure imaginable, she dragged it across the sharp edge of his jaw.

Rafayel exhaled. Sharply. Like the touch had split him.

“There,” she murmured, smiling to herself. “Strong jawline. Tormented artist stare. Tragic intensity.”

The bristles drifted down his neck. Just an inch.

Just enough to feel.

Just enough to ignite.

She lingered there, the brush hovering at the hollow of his throat.

“You don’t look like someone who forgets things,” she said, quieter now. “But sometimes… I wonder what you see when you look at yourself.”

He couldn’t answer.

He didn’t dare.

Her hand was still on his wrist. The brush still ghosted against his skin. Her knee brushed his.

And all he could think—all he was—was a man who would let her paint every inch of him if it meant she’d keep looking at him like this.

Like he wasn’t something to be used.

Or praised.

Or devoured. But something seen.

Known.

And still—still—she didn’t know what she looked like.

Didn’t know how the water traced the lines of her collarbone.

Didn’t know how the sheer fabric clung to her breasts, how the outline of her hipbone showed through like a secret begging to be worshipped.

She leaned closer—soft, unguarded.

The moonlight curved along her spine.

He didn’t dare look lower. Not yet.

Her voice, when it came, was barely more than breath.

“Why won’t you ever let me in, Rafayel?”

His breath caught.

His body went still.

And she—still holding the brush, still smiling softly—moved closer.

So close her forehead nearly touched his.

And then, barely louder than the tide, she whispered,

“Tell me what you see when you look at me.”

And just like that—

Every thread of control he had left snapped like wet canvas in a storm.

His breathing hitched—hard. Audible. Not a gasp. Not a sigh.

A whimper.

Low. Involuntary. Caught in the back of his throat like a secret that didn’t want to be kept—but couldn’t survive the light.

The brush—still in her hand—moved again.

Across his cheekbone. Over the bridge of his nose. Down the curve of his lips.

And it wasn’t painting. It wasn’t a game.

It was worship. It was desecration.

He trembled.

The bristles kissed the corner of his mouth.

And he made another sound—small, wrecked. Not quite a moan. Not quite a plea.

Something between. Something raw.

She froze.

Just slightly.

Her fingers hesitated. Her breath paused. Her eyes lifted to his.

“Raf…”

She could feel it now.

The tension. The shift. The fault line beneath his skin beginning to crack.

But it was too late.

He was already breaking.

With a suddenness that wasn’t violent but deliberate, Rafayel reached up and caught her wrist.

His grip was gentle— But unyielding.

The brush slipped from her fingers.

It hit the sand like a confession.

His hands trembled. Warm. Alive with restraint. Holding her like she was both altar and fire.

And when he looked at her—truly looked— There was no softness left in his eyes.

Only ache. Only flame.

Only the unbearable weight of a man who had worshiped in silence for far too long.

He stared at her like he was memorizing her soul through her pupils. Because he was.

His voice, when it came, was wrecked silk. Frayed at the edges. Low. Ragged.

“You don’t want to know how I see you.”

She blinked. Her lips parted.

“Raf—”

“Because if I tell you…” His hands tightened—just slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to keep her there. To hold her in the moment that had already devoured him.

“...you’ll never look at me the same again.”

She didn’t pull away. Didn’t breathe.

And so—he leaned in. Forehead to hers. Nose brushing nose. The space between them erased by heat.

“I’ve already painted you,” he whispered.

“A hundred times.”

A breath.

“In my head. In my dreams. In colors that don’t exist on any spectrum.”

He didn’t pull back. Didn’t flinch.

“Nude. Wet. Laughing. Gasping. Whispering my name like a prayer you don’t believe in yet.”

She inhaled—sharp, startled.

His grip didn’t loosen.

“I’ve painted your thighs trembling. Your lips parted. Your fingers tangled in the sheets.”

His voice cracked—just once. A sound like longing torn at the seams.

“I’ve painted the look in your eyes when I push you to the edge— and make you fall for me.”

A pause. A swallow. A shudder.

“Over and over and over again.”

A whimper caught in his throat. He swallowed it like a sin.

“I don’t paint you,” he said, His voice dark with ache, eyes burning with something too human to name.

“Because I can’t share you.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“Not even with a canvas.”

She didn’t speak right away.

She didn’t have to.

Her breath hitched—barely. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Then back to his eyes.

And then—so softly it hurt—she whispered his name.

“Rafayel.”

That was all.

But it was everything.

It was permission. It was surrender. It was herself, placed in his hands like a fragile offering.

Her finger rose, slow and trembling, and pressed flat to his chest.

Over his heart.

She felt it. The thunder. The ache. The worship.

“Show me,” she breathed.

“Not in words.”

A pause. Her voice was a thread—thin, trembling—drawn taut by want.

“In touch. Show me how you’ve seen me.”

He didn’t move. Not at first.

He just stared at her like she was a vision he might ruin by reaching.

And then—wordlessly, reverently—he lowered her to the sand.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t forceful.

It was gravity.

The way his hand cradled the back of her neck. The way he guided her down like she was already part of a masterpiece—like every second of this had lived in his mind, and now he was only tracing it…

with breath.

She lay back, her hair spreading like ink in water, dress clinging to every curve.

The waves curled around their feet—gentle, expectant—like even the sea had grown quiet to watch.

Rafayel knelt beside her, eyes devouring every inch with the hunger of a man who had fasted for too long.

His hands hovered.

Trembling. Hesitant. Reverent.

“I don’t know how to touch you,” he confessed, voice barely breath, “without worshiping you.”

She reached for him—both hands. Pulled him down until his chest met hers, until the weight of his longing pressed into her skin like a truth.

And when he kissed her—

It wasn’t a kiss. It was devotion.

His mouth met hers with no force—only awe. Like he still couldn’t believe she was real. And then again. And again.

Until he was breathing her name between gasps. Until her fingers slid into his hair and he was shaking.

“Tell me if I need to stop,” he murmured against her lips. “Tell me if you don’t want this.”

But she didn’t stop him.

She didn’t speak.

She arched into him instead—hips lifting, breath catching—answering with motion what her voice couldn’t yet carry.

And that was when he broke.

He groaned—low, guttural, ruined.

And then he kissed her jaw. Her throat. Her collarbone.

Each touch slow. Sacred. Seen.

Her dress clung to her like second skin—soaked, sheer, trembling against her curves. And when his hand slid down her thigh, her breath hitched— so sweetly so sharply he thought he might cry.

“I’ve imagined this,” he whispered against her skin.

“Not just your body. Not just this moment. But the way you’d look when you finally let me.”

His palm slid reverently over her hip, mapping her like scripture.

“Let me see you,” he murmured. “Let me have you. Let me… remember you like this.”

She nodded.

Eyes wide. Mouth parted. Breath caught between ache and wonder.

And Rafayel—trembling, undone, devout— began to undress her beneath the stars.

Not with haste. Not with hunger.

But with the hands of a man who had loved her in silence— and was only now, finally, allowed to speak.

His fingers found the hem of her dress, soaked and clinging to the shape of her thighs.

He curled his hands beneath it, breath catching as the wet fabric slid over her knees… her hips… her waist.

She lifted her arms without a word.

She offered herself.

And when the dress peeled away from her chest— when the final inch passed over hear head, leaving her bare beneath the moon—

Rafayel forgot how to breathe.

He didn’t look at her like a man stipping a lover. He looked at her like a man standing at the edge of divinity.

And for a long, trembling moment— He didn’t move.

He just stared.

Her breasts, soft and perfect in the moonlight. Her skin, damp with salt and breathless heat. Her stomach rose and fell too fast—like she hadn’t yet decided if she was nervous or undone.

She moved—instinctively—to cover herself.

But Rafayel reached out, gently, and stilled her with a hand at her wrist.

“Please,” he whispered.

His voice cracked on the word. Fractured.

“Don’t.”

And then—slowly, reverently—he leaned down.

Pressed a kiss just below her collarbone. His eyes stayed closed.

As if the sight of her and the feel of her would be too much to survive at once.

She arched beneath him—just barely. Her breath caught—sharp, fragile.

And he followed it.

With his mouth.

Down her sternum. Across the swell of her breast. To the tender hollow beneath it.

Each kiss was a vow. Each exhale, a brushstroke. He painted her with devotion.

And then—her hands rose.

To him.

Fingers at his shirt. Slow. Steady. She watched him as she undid him, like unwrapping something she’d been waiting her whole life to touch.

He didn’t help. He needed to feel it. Needed to remember what it was like to be chosen by her hands.

The fabric clung to his back, damp with sweat and sea air. And when she peeled it off— when her fingers brushed his bare skin for the first time—

He whimpered.

Not from pleasure. Not exactly.

It was relief. It was release. It was I’ve waited too long to be touched by you.

She paused. “Did I hurt you?”

He shook his head—too fast, too violently.

“No,” he rasped. “No. Just… please…” His breath shivered. “Keep going.”

And she did.

She dragged her fingers down his ribs, over the ridges of his abdomen, like she meant to memorize him from the inside out.

Her nails grazed the dip between his hips.

He shuddered.

A full-body tremble. So intense he dropped his forehead to her shoulder, breath catching hard.

“You’re so warm,” she whispered, stunned. “I didn’t think—”

“I’ve been burning,” he breathed into her neck. “For so long.”

She kissed the side of his face. Just once. And then her hands found the buckle of his belt.

He froze.

“Can I?” she asked.

Her voice barely a breath. Barely a ripple against the crashing tide of his heartbeat.

He nodded.

Eyes closed. Hands fisted in the sand beside her. Trying to stay grounded in a body that no longer felt like his own.

When she opened his pants— when her hand slid along his skin, beneath the waistband, so slow, so careful—

He moaned.

Low. Deep. Broken.

A sound torn from the hollowed-out center of him.

His hips jerked into her hands—helpless.

And then, wrecked and breathless, he whispered—

“Touch me like you’re painting me.”

She stilled.

Heart pounding beneath him. Fingers pressed to skin like brush to canvas.

And then— She did.

She touched him like he was art. Like every inch of him mattered. Like she wasn’t taking. She was learning.

Worshiping.

She moved with slow, devastating intention—tracing him, shaping him, seeing him.

And Rafayel—gasping into her mouth, clinging to her like she was the only real thing he’d ever known— didn’t know whether to cry, or beg, or fall apart completely.

But he knew this:

This wasn’t about possession.

It was about becoming.

Together.

At last.

She kissed him again—slow, open-mouthed—like she was pouring something into him that had no name yet. A language made of breath and promise.

Then she pulled back, just enough to look at him. To see everything.

The ruin. The reverence. The ache he had carried in silence for so long.

And then—calmly, without hesitation—she moved.

Shifted her weight.

And Rafayel made a sound he didn’t recognize.

Because she was moving. Not away. But over. Above.

She straddled him with quiet certainty, thighs cradling his hips, the sea brushing her calves, moonlight catching in the hollow of her throat.

She was bare.

Radiant.

Flushed with salt and heat and the weight of intention.

And he looked up at her—stunned, reverent— like a man who had never been looked down upon before. Like someone who had always been on his knees, and only now understood what it meant to be worshipped back.

Her hands flattened on his chest. Her hair slipped over her shoulders like shadow-drenched silk.

She leaned down, her mouth hovering just above his—

And whispered,

“Let me show you what you look like when you come undone.”

He moaned—quiet and hoarse—like the sound had been carved from somewhere deep inside him he’d never dared touch.

And then she reached between them.

Her hand wrapped around him—soft, steady, sure—and guided him to her entrance.

The first brush of her heat against him made him choke on air.

“Wait—” he gasped, hands flying to her hips, shaking. “You don’t have to—”

But she was already sinking down.

And Rafayel—

Whimpered.

It wasn’t wild. It wasn’t desperate.

It was soft. Fragile. A sound of awe and surrender. Of unbearable joy.

She took him in—slowly.

Inch by inch. And every inch felt like a vow being broken open inside him. A lifetime of silence cracking down the spine.

Above him, she breathed hard. Her brows drawn. Her lips parted in a moan that trembled out into the starlit dark.

And Rafayel—helpless, undone, watched her ride down his length like she was meant to. Like her body had always known the shape of him. Had waited for it.

Her thighs tightened around his hips. Her hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders.

And when she was fully seated—when he was buried inside her, shaking—

She stilled.

Just for a moment.

Just to feel.

The waves curled around their legs, warm and rhythmic. The tide rocked with the same slow ache as their breathing.

She looked down at him—breathless. And then she moved.

Slow.

Measured.

Like she was testing the weight of him inside her. Like she was sketching him with her hips. Like she was painting his pleasure into the shape of her own.

Rafayel’s head dropped back into the sand. Lips parted. Throat bared.

His moans dissolved into gasps—soft, broken things.

“God,” he choked. “You’re—”

She rolled her hips.

The sentence died.

She did it again.

And he sobbed.

Not loudly. But like it mattered.

Like this was what he’d been made for— To be ruined beneath her. To be remembered by her body.

Her hands found his.

She laced their fingers together and pressed them into the sand beside his head—anchoring him. Keeping him grounded in the sacred storm of her.

And as she moved—rising and falling, her breath catching, skin slick with sea, sweat and surrender— he whispered her name like prayer.

Over. And over. And over again.

“You’re beautiful,” he gasped. “You’re mine. I’ve seen you like this. I’ve dreamed—fuck, please—I dreamed this.”

She leaned down, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, her voice the softest thread of sound.

“Then take it,” she said.

A breath. A heartbeat. A vow.

“All of it. Take what’s already yours.”

And Rafayel—

Rafayel did.

But not with thrusts. Not with hands. Not with heat.

With eyes.

With memory.

With soul.

Because she—arching above him, body curved like poetry, skin flushed by moonlight and motion— was not something he could ever take.

Only receive. Only remember.

She was not a moment.

She was a masterpiece.

Not the kind framed in gold. Not hung in galleries. Not studied under cold museum light.

No.

She was the kind no one saw.

The kind kept. Locked away in the hidden chamber of the artist’s mind— a relic too sacred for public worship.

His magnum opus.

There would never be another her.

Not like this. Not moon-drenched and unguarded. Not whispering his name like scripture. Not moving above him like brushstrokes carved from longing.

Not offering herself as both canvas and creator— as both subject and storm.

This wasn’t sex. It was truth.

And the truth was—

He would spend the rest of his life trying to recreate this moment. In oil and pigment. In charcoal and breath. In shadow and light.

And he would fail. Everytime.

Because she wasn’t something that could be captured.

She was something that had to be felt. Lived. Ruined by.

And as she rode him— waves lapping at their thighs, her breath catching on his collarbone, her heart pressed to his—

Rafayel looked up at her like a man kneeling at the altar of his undoing, and thought:

Let the world have my genius. Let the critics hang my name in gilded halls. But let her—

Let her be the one thing I never shared. The one thing I made for no one else. The only thing I ever got right. The End. — © 2025 by Sylus Little Crow

[luckyarchivist]

Archivist Hypothesis: Leander, Cutiefulest Cult Leader This Side of Lowtown (WC: 3K)

(Leader and Leander are only an "n" off... Hm.)

I’m here again, because Leander’s 2.0 route has been taking up all of my brainspace to the point where I haven’t even thought about doing the other THREE routes I still have to finish. Including Ais’s! And that’s my mans!

But my mans must wait. Because talking about Leander and his textbook cult-style manipulation is #1 Priority for me rn.

I mentioned in answering this ask that Leander and MC seem to be meant to be a "cult of one," where Leander is the Leader and the MC is his recruit. And, because I happen to love the video Mind Control Made Easy (I remember the musical.ly trends...), and have a copy of the script in my Drive, I’ll be pulling from that non-academic resource to illustrate my points.

So let’s talk about the new Leander, and the proof I could find of how he’s laying the groundwork for a cult-flavored, emotionally manipulative relationship with the MC.

"Structure your cult like an onion..." "...with the most benign and helpful features on the outside, and the most controlling, kooky, and evil parts at the secret inner core."

Honestly, I believe this element may apply to both Leander and his Adderstone. On the surface, the Adderstone is a group of do-gooder yorozuya run by their equally stand-up boss.

Also from MCME: “Establish front groups.”

However, unlike the Bloodhounds (RIP), the Adderstone certainly doesn’t give off the vibes of a local Samaritan club that happens to really like magic tricks and pissing on the Senobium’s good name. Their behavior so far feels almost cliquey. You’re barred from speaking with Leander when you first encounter him at the Wet Wick—

—and the Adders don’t even react outwardly when you mention the Senobium near them, instead closing off.

Kinda like when you try to tell a joke to the popular kids and they just look at you.

Now, yes, this is only two things. But we’re also only in the prologue, so I hope to see more proof of this insular culture within the Adderstone. A big part of cults is some kind of separation from the rest of the world, physically and/or mentally, and that separation being encouraged by the Leader. To me, even if they do good works, the truth of this organization is not the community helpers they’re marketed as.

Now, while Leander may not be trying to recruit you to the Adderstone (at least, not yet), he is trying to recruit you to his private, VIP cult. This means he must also hide his true personality under more benign layers.

I may be in the minority saying this, but I don’t believe at this point that Leander is totally bereft of goodwill towards others. And I hate to plagiarize, but this is what I said about Leander in the ask I referenced at the top of this ramble:

In 1.0, Leander is playing a part. He is acting as someone who is very silly and very promiscuous and endlessly kind, despite his abilities as a mage and a leader, because that is what draws people in. … But that's not him, or rather, that's not the truest version of him. In 2.0, Leander is himself. And we see in his route that the cute, blushing Leander, who speaks highly of friends and foes alike, is not absent — he's still there, because that is him, too. It's just not played up to such a comical degree. That is because 2.0 Leander uses his authority to get people to trust him, rather than appealing to their emotions with cuteness.

Whether you’re talking about old or new Leander, his controlling and kooky (I hesitate to say evil, for now) true personality is hidden under an approachable façade. For 2.0, Leander’s outer layer is the capable but never arrogant activist, one who looks out for the little guy and is always ready to lend a hand. We’ve only just begun to peel back these layers, and what we’ll find when we get to the “inner core” is yet to be known. I’m excited for it, though!

“Promise to fulfill their dreams.”

Oh, this one’s easy. We all know that the MC is in Eridia looking for a solution to their curse, having finally reached their breaking point in one way or another. After being res’d by Kuras, the MC seeks Leander on his advice.

And, wow: only the second person the MC has met in Eridia, and already we have a way forward! Not only does Leander promise to help you find a solution — and kinda imply that perhaps he is the only person who can help you find a solution, in his subtle way—

—but he also demonstrates that he can touch the MC without being cursed, and promises to fulfill their dream of “normalcy”.

This is something that, so far, no other love interest can offer you, not that MC is eager to test this. It’s an easy way for Leander to draw them in.

Having thought on it for a while, I thought this move of showing he could touch you was quite appropriate. The cults I’ve learned about in my very casual consumption of cult analysis media often do A Thing or Things to show people that the cult is legit, or to get those halfway through the door of the cult to recruit more people by saying, “Wow, come look at this! Isn’t it amazing?”

Religious cults might perform a miracle or predict the future or bestow momentary enlightenment upon you, to show that the Leader and the group are truly blessed by God or a similar divine being; growth and development cults might build community and allow you access to professional contacts through classes, workshops, and retreats, awarding you personal success and upward progress within the cult. In either case, the initial bait is a tactic to draw you in and make you want to stay, because you feel the cult has something to offer.

Leander’s version of this is his magical protection against your curse. I mean, it is a miracle, isn’t it? And we read through narration that MC is clearly starving (touch-starving, lmao) for this kind of contact. Their wish is being granted; surely, this man must be the one to trust, if he can do all this, right?

My addendum to the checklist: Choose the right prey.

"Fulfilling dreams" is just one of the cult steps that relies on the person you are recruiting being vulnerable.

Now, everyone has dreams. And, truly, I believe that fact is proof that anyone can be recruited into a cult, as long as that cult is offering the right thing at the right time. But the MC fits a specific stereotype of cult recruits quite well.

In my little bit of research, I’ve often seen the term “lost souls” used to describe recruits. Tenuous connections to family or friends, and a desire for community; a sense of purposelessness or despair; an endurance of hard times, and a yearning for those times to end, without the power to stop them. I would definitely say we see our MC in these. I mean, they barely see themselves as human because of their curse—

—and they say more than once that death would be preferable to living as they are.

This lack of self-esteem and general instability makes MC an easy target for a manipulator. Once you figure out what they want (the ability to touch through the removal of their curse), all you have to do is give them that, or the illusion of it. Of course, if you want to hold onto this person, and truly make them devoted to you, as Leander does, there have to be…caveats to this gift.

“Offer them something free...” “...and get them to feel obliged to give you something in return.”

As mentioned, the MC is incredibly vulnerable when they enter Eridia, and not just in a mental or emotional way. They are totally alone, in a new city far from whatever they could’ve considered home. They have little money, and the other form of currency that runs this town — information — they seem reluctant to give out to others. They need both basic necessities, like food and shelter, and a solution to their life-ruining ill.

Lo and behold, here comes Leander, who is simply too kind to make you pay for anything he gives you. Drinks, room and board, a chance to touch someone without driving them crazy: all free of charge. It’s a little suspicious, even to the MC.

It’s probably just because they’ve been so isolated and rejected! They’re just not used to a normal amount of kindness from people.

Leander’s free.99 approach made me wonder if that is how his Adders — and by extension, the entirety of Lowtown — were recruited or curried favor with. Perhaps those in his inner circle were guilted into joining the group after one too many free drinks, and then succumbed to the brainwashing reinforced by “true believers” within the Adders. As for the people of Lowtown, I highly, highly doubt they’d all fit the description of cult followers, but anyone down on their luck is likely to look favorably on a person or an organization that offers them aid in their time of need. And it’s possible that Leander could call on these people to do his bidding in the future, because of all the favors they’ve been done.

The question between Leander and MC is, “What will Leander ask for, in exchange for all of his free assistance?” Help taking down the Senobium? Your powers of contact insanity? Your heart, in sickness or in health, till death do you part? Or some combination of the three? There’s no way to know for sure quite yet; that’ll have to wait until the release of the full game.

“Encourage separation from their family. …” “Isolate them from the rest of the world. …”

If you’re following along in the video, I’m breaking from the order of steps — this is much later. But Leander takes the initiative and pulls this step out early in his solo route. Good for him!

Although MC has no family, they do have some semblance of acquaintances in Eridia, who they’re at least on speaking terms with by the end of the demo. You don’t even know these people that well! And yet, they are a threat to your to-be-all-consuming relationship with Leander, one that he is quick to crush.

As all the other LIs do, Leander offers to share what he knows about your other potential beaux. But look at this line:

Perfection! Not worth the Ais lines I lost, but still absolutely lovely.

It's right on the edge of, “I'm concerned for you, you need to be careful,” and “I will make you distrust these other people so you can only trust me.” It's so casually written, and so vague: partially, of course, because Leander is going to elaborate in just a moment. But I also like to think it's conditioning MC to take him at his word without detail. Ais and Vere are Monsters — shouldn't that be enough for you to stay away? It doesn't matter what "faults" Mhin and Kuras have — just the fact that I've said something about it at all should make you nervous.

And it only gets better, because you as the player get to see how easily Leander manipulates MC and maintains his geniality depending on what MC thinks about each other LI.

Oh, you want to befriend Mhin? Not a good idea; you shouldn't waste energy on “someone who won’t respect your time.” But if you don't want to bother with Mhin, Leander fondly describes them as a tender soul beneath all their thorns. The same for all the others: Ais is both a harmless rival and a Monster tyrant who sees humans as below him; Vere, a victim of the Senobium and a notorious killer; Kuras, a saint beyond reason and a mysterious shadowy figure unable to cure your curse.

Leander's lines about the other LIs in 1.0 (at least, as I recall them), were much more casual — and, of course, often implied amorous feelings or relations. Not anymore. This Leander has a goal, and that goal is to lock you down, now.

(This hypothesis of mine — that, over the course of the story, Leander is going to make the MC rely more and more on him, trusting him about everything {especially relating to his own stellar reputation and what it’s definitely not hiding, or the trustworthiness or safety of entities outside of those Leander can control} — also relates to many other steps of “becoming a cult leader” mentioned in MCME, such as:

“Make them paranoid about their own bodies or thought processes.”

“Revert them back to childhood dependence and mindless obedience.”

“Demonize outsiders as less-than-human, biased, corrupt, or conspiring against the group. Develop an us-versus-them mentality.”

I hope we’ll get to see these escalations come out in full force once the game is released.)

I also think these choices from Leander make narrative sense. Leander initially thought he had a monopoly on you, having learned that you took Kuras’s direction but didn’t tell him of your curse and its effects. Once he learns that you know everyone else, people who could plausibly draw you away from him, it makes sense that he would start to pull his strings to bring you back, as opposed to waiting it out. On the other hand, if you don't show any signs of leaving him by saying you see all the other LIs unfavorably, Leander can maintain his People's Princess persona and say nice things about them all.

This kind of two-faced manipulation fits in doubly well with Leander's new prominent angle as a sort of political figure: one who knows the right words to stir people up and get them on his side. He has the talent to spin a person as a sinner or a saint, and technically not be lying either way.

“Act friendly and interested. Get information and hone their weak spots—” "—and then use this information to manipulate them gradually. Over time, you'll begin to shape the recruit's behavior by granting or withholding this love and attention.”

As our cult leader, and the most outwardly and conventionally friendly of all the LIs, obviously Leander’s been doing this. Not only is he the first person to get some real information out of the MC about their curse, but Leander then suggests that he have sole rights to that information — for your safety, of course.

Not only that, but he's super excited when you tell him during his route that he is, in fact, the only person who knows what's really going on under those bandages.

Maybe because he's ecstatic he has the most leverage over MC out of all of his friends!

We also start to see some of this grant/withhold behavior in his solo route, though not with his affection so much as his information. He offers you new info about how to fix your problem (which MC remarks he got his hands on crazy fast!)—

This last line is both so fake and so real coming from him.

—before he inexplicably threatens to take this info away.

Love how he makes it seem like he's trying to accommodate you here!

By refusing to give up the information we were just promised, Leander actually manages to draw the MC closer to him. They panic—

—and their actions cause them and Leander to become closer, physically and emotionally.

Look at Leander, dictating your behavior at the end. You snake, you! 🤭

I won’t pretend I think that this cult of one is going to turn into a sex cult (an intimate touch cult, maybe XD), but there's a reason that sex is so prevalent in cults: sex is power. Based on what we know of Leander, I don’t think he’d shy away from having a physical relationship with the MC for both his own gratification and the achievement of his ends, i.e. keeping MC under his thumb.

Presumably, if you choose to date Leander, the MC has decided that he is most equipped to help them, and they place all their touch-related eggs in his gold-embellished basket. Not only that, but his isolating remarks during your discussion of the other LIs likely make the MC reluctant to trust anyone else for help. This makes the giveth and the taketh away even more potent, as without Leander’s love and assistance, the MC goes back to being the lonely and shunned “monstrosity” they were when they entered the city.

Personally, I think this bedroom scene is absolutely wild: why is MC freaking out like this? But I’ve never been indoctrinated into a cult, and people who have (as well as people who study it, or who deprogram cult members) say sometimes it can only take a couple of days to be hooked by the leader’s charisma. And the 2.0 demo definitely takes place over the course of a couple of days!

What’s to come?

There are a lot more elements of both the cult of one, which is a specific relationship dynamic, and of cult leaders and their followers in general that I could mention, both that Leander has already used and that I hope he will. But this is already 3K words, so, I’ll cut myself off here. There's only one thing left I want to say.

My hope: an Unnamed feeling

If I could speak one thing into the game, it would be all the cute lines from Ais and Leander back. But if I couldn't choose that, and assuming this isn't already present (since I’ve only played the new demo with my Exile, Iulanz), I'd wish for this:

I’d really, really like it if my fav, the Unnamed MC, actually notices these signs of cult behavior before the other MCs. They’ve been in the midst of a cult before, and it could be argued that they have undergone and subsequently broken out of a cult’s brainwashing already (though as an object of worship, rather than a worshipper).

I think it would be fantastic for the Unnamed, who was able to see their priests draw in who-knows-how-many people and turn them into “true believers” who willingly drove themselves mad by allowing MC to touch them, to realize that they were caught in this cycle again but on a different side. In some ways, that’d make their story a lot more tragic — a person who, despite traveling miles to escape their only home because of the damage they caused, cannot escape this toxic lifestyle of effusive and damaging devotion to one whose power or influence demands worship and obedience.

Et tu?

Here’s the mandatory section where I solicit feedback. What do you think about new Leander? What did I fuck up in this essay? Is this another time where I’m saying obvious shit that everybody knows, and I just shouldn’t have bothered? And will you be joining the Cult of the Dagger and the Snake? These are all questions I will be watching for your answers to, as well as your random comments, wherever you put them. Thanks for reading!

[bellobambino]

Unraveled

A Luigi Mangione Fic

Luigi Mangione x (F)Long Time Friend

630w

Summary: Luigi shows up at his friend's apartment, hoping to reconnect after being missing for 3 months.

Luigi's POV, First Person Perspective

———

I knocked, already planning what I was going to say.

How do you apologize for falling off the face of the earth? Especially when things were getting serious. I didn’t know if she’d seen the suspect photos yet—if she knew it was me. And if she did, would she turn me in?

When she opened the door, her face did this thing—the thing faces do when they’re trying to process too much at once.

She blinked. “Jesus, Luigi.”

I tried to play it cool, to say something smooth, like I just happened to be in town and thought I’d swing by. Instead, I croaked out, “Hey.”

It was the voice of a man who hadn’t spoken in months.

“Get inside,” she said, ushering me in.

Her apartment smelled like lavender and something else I couldn’t quite place. It smelled much better than I did. She didn’t ask why I was there, or what kind of mess I was in, or how long I planned to crash on her couch. She just started peeling me apart like an onion.

Backpack. Jacket. Scarf. Hoodie. She got me to sit on the couch. Then she kneeled in front of me, placing my frozen feet in her lap. Immediately, she started working at the triple-knotted laces of my New Balances.

Fiddling with them, she smiled to herself. “You’re very thorough, Lu.”

She chuckled as she unraveled the laces one by one and slipped the shoes off, chucking them and my crusty, frozen socks toward the back door. Then, suddenly, she was holding my bare feet against her chest.

It took me a few moments to process what she was doing. And why.

“I’m so sorry,” I croaked. I didn’t even know what I was apologizing for in that moment, but my Catholic guilt had me saying it anyway.

She didn’t look up, just kept holding my feet in her warm hands, tending to them like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like the Son of God on his knees, washing the feet of His disciples—rinsing away all the dirt, grime, and sin of what they’d been through to bring them back to their foundations.

That’s what love does, right? It goes lower. Lower than who you are or what you’ve done. Low enough to lift you out of the corner of hell you’ve crawled into.

But I’m no disciple. I’m an absolute mess. A murderer. And yet her hands were still on me, warm and deliberate, and it was too much. I was shattered. I couldn’t even look at her.

“Sorry? For what? You’re getting frostbite, if you don’t already have the beginnings of it,” she said so matter-of-factly.

I wouldn’t have believed any of this was real if the warmth of her hands wasn’t the truest thing I’d felt in my entire life.

The longer she held me, the more devastated I became. Before I knew it, I was sobbing. Ugly, inconsolable sobbing. I grabbed my scarf off the couch and shoved it into my twisted, tear-streaked, snot-covered face. I couldn’t control the release that came out of me. I didn’t deserve this, but she was giving me grace. Seeing me for who I really was—and who I really was in that moment was pouring out of my eyes and nose.

I knew she couldn’t ignore my reaction, but she didn’t say a word. I tried to steady my breathing, desperate to regain some control. I sniffed, trying to contain the snot situation. “Are you mad?” I squeaked, needing to know.

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she reached for her slippers. Gently, she slipped them onto my feet. “I’m gonna open a bottle of red. Do you want a glass?”

That gave me my answer. "Please."

_______________________________________

[enviedear]

scream is kind of my special interest, so i simply MUST rent out Scream for Jason Todd.... Scream AU! What would he be like as the killer versus as the survivor?

omg i was praying someone would request exactly this so THANK YOU!! i hope you like it honey <3

join spookfest... if you dare !

as the KILLER... JASON TODD is rather too put together. it's eerie how well he can separate himself from the GHOSTFACE persona. he totally gives me billy energy just less out of it—he's stuck in his ways. his motivations would lie with everyone he felt wronged him before and/or after his death. he’s back with a vengeance in the truest sense of the phrase. as ghostface, he’s going to be calculated. all of his moves are purposeful. he’s smart too, he knows gotham’s underbelly and how to manipulate it. and if manipulation doesn’t work—he’s lucky to be blessed with brute strength. jason todd would deal out very twisted justice. sure gothamites don’t have to worry themselves with joker, black mask, or even crooked cobblepot—but they do have to answer to him now. and ghostface is willing to rid the world of every single person he deems deplorable.

as the SURVIVOR... JASON TODD is frantic. he’s internally freaking out, externally stoic. he lives his canon life as a rather lone wolf, so that’s his role as final girl. (final girl jason todd save me) he’s the one that watches everyone drop like flies, and he’s constantly on edge. he’s meaner too, a tried and true survival tactic. but as things get worse i see him falling into a bit of a leader role, entirely unwanted by him. he’d rather only worry about himself—but he can’t say no to someone that’s begging for help. if anyone’s going to follow him however, they should prepare for his unsettling stare. he doesn’t trust anyone—that’s what keeps him alive. he’ll question and interrogate for the slightest slip up. he wants the killer gone—eradicated from his life. and it’s that fire and fury that helps him overpower and kill them. because he is killing them. wether he’s got a weapon or not, jason todd is not dying again. especially at the hands of some freak dressed up in a mask. that’s his thing.

🖇️ masterlist | askbox | recent works

[broken-synchronicity]

I think you mentioned brown eyes being rare in LIT. Aside from being rare, are there any other reasons why the Twisted Wonderland residents like brown eyes? Do people in LIT's world associate eye colours with personality traits like how people in real life associate blood types with personality traits? Love your writing btw!

OOOOOOOOOH SOMEONE FINALLY ASKED ABOUT THIS!!!!!

So, yes, the rarity does play a lot into how they are perceived, but you are correct in that there are certain associations made with those with brown eyes similar to those personality trait lists for blood type, zodiac, etc. They would absolutely exist in LiT!twst.

To properly appreciate this, let me tell you the science I have made up as for why such fantastical eye color exist in the first place:

So, yes, it is because magic exists, but it's specifically because magic is a biological process in twst. Magic is within the body, and when used, creates blot as a byproduct, and you get it from there. Therefore, magic has to have it's own sort of "veins" (I liken them to the Meridians, if you're familiar with Chinese media) that travel along the body. And that magic results in come other biological changes to contend with it.

This, therefore, results in the different "effects" one might see when it comes to people using magic: sparks crackling from the body when someone gets emotional, or eyes lighting up when strong magic used.

As eyes are a central part in some magics (see: Jamil and the Leech twins), this means that eyes too have developed certain aspects as a result of magic. To contend with the backlight that happens when certain magics activate in the eyes, they've become more prismatic, resulting in more fantastical colors. Like what happens when you hold a clear crystal up to a beam of light and a rainbow appears on the other side.

Brown is not a color found naturally on a rainbow, and so, in twst biology, is the most biologically natural color. It is the least magically altered color, and has become recessive due to that, because it is less protected from magic. (Those with brown eyes in twst often develop eye troubles.)

Finally, the answer to your question, the association made with those with brown eyes: they are a person who is natural. Who is grounded in reality and is their truest self. Who doesn't put on airs or social masks. They are who they present they are.

Brown is beautiful because it is simply natural.

[assumptionprime]

I need to rant about the Fallout show

Because this is the person I am. Full spoilers, so I’m putting it behind a Keep Reading:

I’m a huge sucker for Fallout (yes even 3&4). And I went into the Fallout show with some… trepidation. Amazon has been a mixed bag on adaptations, we could have been blessed with a Good Omens, or cursed by a Rings of Power. But early buzz and reviews seemed positive, so I slammed the whole thing in one night with my spouse (we were staying at my in-laws house and they have Prime. Time was a factor.)

And y’know? I was really enjoying it! The characters were fun, the plot was engaging enough, and the costumes and visual design were extremely on point. There were some minor lore quibbles to be had: Ghouls needing some kind of medicine to not go feral. Really, more Enclave holdouts? Timeline and date whoopsies. Wait are they in California? Where the hell is the NCR?

I made a face at Shady Sands being bombed and the NCR collapsing. But I wasn’t completely out of the story. Based on what I had seen so far, I thought it was building to a reveal that the Brotherhood had done it. That the more zealous turn they took in Fallout 4, which has clearly carried to how they are portrayed in the show, lead them to bombing the NCR. War never changes, as they say. Maximus even says when asked what happened to Shady Sands: “The same thing that always happens.” Yeah, it leans into Bethesda’s weird desire to keep the Fallout world in a state of perpetual wastelands full of raiders and no civilization, but it wasn’t so terrible that I couldn’t still enjoy the show.

But then.

BUT THEN.

Episode 8, and the reveal of Vault-Tec apparently being the ones who dropped the first bomb in the Great War.

I was surprised to hear that some fans have apparently been debating over who fired first? Some even asked Tim Cain about it?

That’s really odd to me because, in the games, there is already a pretty definitive answer to which side sparked the Great War:

Who fucking cares?

The world ended. What does it matter who shot first?

There is no China, no United States, no communists or capitalists left to fight about it. 

It's a powerful little bit of lore.

For all the posturing, all the promises from each nation that their way is the true way, all the nationalism, the militarism, and blind loyalty to flags over humanity, they both lost. Everyone lost. All that remains of the ideologies and nations that were so important to the people of 2077 is faint echoes over vast expanses of radioactive ash.

Who started the end?

No one knows. No one cares.

It only matters that their conflict was so bitter, so all-consuming, that one of them dropped their bombs, and the other dropped theirs in return.

The truest legacy of the old world is the devastation left by their final, most horrific war.

Can we do better?

Then the show says "Nah, Vault-Tec did it. It's not a commentary on human nature and the futility of self-destructive conflict, it was actually these guys, these mustache twirling villains huddled in a darkened room literally plotting to end the whole world so they can rule what's left."

And I can see the attempt to make this a critique of capitalism. I actually paused the show to praise a bit of writing when Coop is talking with Charlie before the war, when Charlie tells him that the “cattle ranchers are in charge” to illustrate how capitalism and corporations hold too much sway over the government, it felt very in line with how in New Vegas one of the recurring critiques of the NCR is that all the real power is in the hands of the “brahmin barons.” Nice parallel, spot on!

But “we’ll set off total thermonuclear war so we can rule the ashes and have a True Monopoly” isn’t capitalism. It’s just dumb “we’re the baddies” writing.

And then Shady Sands was also Vault-Tec?! Forget any meaning in the NCR falling to the same corruption and/or factional fighting that consumed the old world, they were literally just bombed by the evil shadow conspiracy that apparently also killed the old world. Hank gives this speech about factions fighting and the futility of it all while we see the Brotherhood fighting Moldaver’s NCR remnant, and like, no! You can’t say that when you’ve made it so neither the old world or the NCR fell to war with another faction! It was you! You and your band of cryogenic supervillains!

I don't care that they changed it. Timelines and dates and little retcons don’t bother me all that much. I care that they changed it to something so much worse.

[inklore]

pen telling colin she loves him in the heat of an argument because she knows it to be the truest thing in that moment. she doesn’t have all the answers right now, neither of them do, and what they’re going through they both don’t know how to handle and there’s so many feelings and emotions and life altering things happening all at once. but she loves him. at the end of the day she loves him. and the look on colin’s face upon hearing it and then after hearing it again and the way his eyes flash down to her lips and he gets that intense look on his face he only gets when he’s overcome by emotion from the woman he loves and that intensity coming through in their kiss and how passionate these two are about their feelings even when they’re both scared, hurt, and lost is something so personal to me.