#this is the truest answer for me as a person | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 2 months ago

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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—

107 notes · View notes

luckyarchivist · 1 month ago

Text

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!

#touchstarved game #touchstarved vn #leander #leander touchstarved #touchstarved fanwork #archivist hypothesis #character analysis #i am so obsessed with leander who's bad #and i'm so glad he doesn't just live in my imagination anymore #but like. the leash line?#i still can't take it seriously #that wasn't sexy. i was just shocked #who says that???#anw i am NOT a cult expert so #please don't ask any hard questions about that 🥺#but i welcome easy questions!!

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bellobambino · 6 months ago

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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."

_______________________________________

#luigi mangione #uhc shooter #ao3 fanfic #fanfic #fics #my fics #really frustrated #this took too damn long

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enviedear · 9 months ago

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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

#⤸ drabbles with olivia #jason todd x reader #jason todd thoughts #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #jason todd #jason todd imagine #redhood x reader #jason todd hc

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broken-synchronicity · 2 months ago

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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.

#twst #twisted wonderland #nonnies getting curious!#Words Found #you opened the floodgates anon #you had to know i would get scientific on this #actually i could probably fit this in #Biology AU

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assumptionprime · 1 year ago

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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.

#fallout #fallout tv show #fallout spoilers #nerdy rant about shit that doesn't actually matter but has been stewing in my head for a week now

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inklore · 1 year ago

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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.

#enjoy my run on sentences because i cannot be coherent at a time like this #i can’t even pretend to be #i fucking love them so much #polin #colin x penelope #colin bridgerton #penelope featherington #bridgerton #bridgerton spoilers #bridgerton season 3 #penelope bridgerton

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littlemissmentallyunstable · 11 months ago

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title: the mysterious blonde (PART 1)

pairing: grayson hawthorne x (first person) reader

synopsis: you are gigi’s best friend and you go over to her house to work on a school project, only to meet her mysterious brother who popped up a couple of months ago and turns out he’s just your type

parts: PART 1 PART 2 PART 3

warnings: it’s long

a/n: actually forgive me because this story is so long, don’t ask me why I got too carried away. there are two more parts as well if you make it through this and actually end up enjoying it. thank you for reading, requests are always open xx

tag list: there is no tag list but let me know if you want to be on it :)

Gigi and I trudge out of double history, so exhausted we look like we’re about to flop onto the floor. I actually think we might.

“That was the longest few hours of my life,” she says to me, her wide eyes almost look sad.

“Literally,” I groan, “why didn’t time seem to move?”

“I don’t know but my brain feels like mush,” she replied, rubbing her temples.

“I can second that,” I sigh.

“And all that homework she gave us! What was all that about?” my best friend exclaims, probably the closest to anger I’ll ever see her.

“I don’t even want to know,” I roll my eyes, “this subject is killing me, why did we even take history?”

“Because we have to,” she deadpans.

I groan aloud again, “this is so stupid.”

“You know saying it’s stupid is not going to change our position,” she tells me, putting an arm around my shoulder.

“I know, I know, but it feels good,” I explain.

“Yeah it does,” Gigi agrees, coming to a sudden halt before yelling , “this is stupid!”

The sound of her voice bounced off of the walls of the now lonely corridor that had been deserted at lunch hour. We continue walking.

“See?” I say, folding my arms across my chest, “feels good does it?”

“Better than peanut butter and jelly cookies,” she says, then pauses, “wait maybe not…”

I wrinkled my nose, “peanut butter and jelly cookies? That’s a low standard, literally anything is better.”

Gigi stops in her tracks, causing me to almost fall over. She stares at me, her face a mix of shock, horror and disbelief as she says, “You’re kidding me, right?”

I stare at her and cautiously answer, “…no?”

“Why are we even friends?” she asks.

The question takes me so off guard that I don’t get time to process it properly before I answer, “What?”

“You don’t like peanut butter and jelly cookies,” she states, “so why are we even friends?”

“Oh my gosh you’re going to disown me as a friend because I don’t like a cookie,” I ask flatly.

“It’s not just a cookie,” she says, a dangerously threatening glint in her eyes that I wasn’t familiar, “take that back. Right now.”

I hold my hands up in mock surrender, “I apologise to you and your love for peanut butter and jelly cookies.”

“Okay,” she smiles as we begin to walk again, “friendship sorted.”

I scoff and shake my head, not helping the smile on my face. We walk to the canteen together and grab our food. We don’t have the energy or effort to carry on conversation seen a history had sucked us dry of any joy or potential excitement to talk. We grab our food and sit where we always do in the summertime. Outside there’s a small wall tucked away. We climb up it as usual and each our lunch there, it’s much more peaceful than dealing with everyone else. Gigi looks as if she’s very fixated on the football game occurring on the field so I let my mind wander. I chew thoughtfully on some dry school bread, brainstorming ideas for the history project we’d just been set. It was only then I notice the absence Gigi’s sister.

“Where’s Savannah?” I suddenly ask.

“Oh I forgot, she’s playing at basketball tournament today,” Gigi replies, a cheerful undertone in her voice.

“That’s amazing,” I say, my eyes wide, “I hope she does well.”

“She will,” Gigi shrugs, “she always does.”

I smile, admiring Gigi’s purest and truest of faith for her sister. Savannah had always been super talented at basketball, on every team and the best one there. Me and Gigi would often go and watch her games, cheering annoyingly loudly from the side lines earning us both dirty looks from the pair of piercing grey eyes that belonged to Savannah. Though we all knew deep down she secretly loved the crazy support even if it did drive her up the wall.

“Hey wanna work on the project at mine later,” Gigi asks suddenly.

“Yeah sure,” I shrug, “I’ve got some of the stuff at my house, I’ll dash home get ready and bring them after school.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she nods, smiling from ear to ear.

“Great,” I smile back.

“Oh by the way, my brother will be there,” she adds quickly, testing the water to see if it might alter my decision.

“What the mystery one that popped out of nowhere that everyone calls the male version of Savannah?” I ask.

Gigi had told me about her mystery brother. When she went M.I.A for a whole week I had panicked like crazy. And that girl cannot lie to save her life. She explained all the happenings to me and I didn’t say a word to anyone. Though I’d never met the infamous Grayson Hawthorne. I didn’t even know he really existed before Gigi told me about him. Of course, I’d hear the name in passing due to the inheritance of a certain seventeen year old girl but other than that I never really knew who he was before Gigi.

“That would be the one,” she grins, swinging her legs up and down, “he always comes for dinner on Wednesdays.”

“Oh,” I say quickly, “don’t want to intrude on family stuff.”

Gigi and Savannah were close and they were close with their mother as well. I didn’t want to get in the way of spending time with their new found brother. Gigi had only ever told me good things about him but Savannah never talked of it much. She avoids the topic like the plague so I never asked. Secretly I think she really loves him.

“Oh no he won’t mind,” Gigi shrugs.

“Are you sure Gigi because-“

“Y/N I’m sure,” she says seriously putting her hands on my shoulders.

I nod and the bell goes off. I sigh, just have to get through the afternoon now.

***

As soon as school is over, I rush home and jump in the shower, flinging on the first clothes I find in my drawer. I fill a tote bag with bits and bobs we might need as well as some chocolate covered pretzels because Gigi goes feral for them. I leave my house, and just as I’m locking the door I get a text. My eyes flick to my phone, Gigi has sent a cat meme, of course. I open it to find a little tabby cat staring at me with its tongue stuck out with the text attached reading ‘where are you??’. I giggle and shake my head and drop a quick text back to tell her I’m on the way.

***

After a few buses and too much power walking for one girl, I arrive at the door breathless. I make a mental note that I need to workout more. I give the door a quick knock and wait awkwardly outside.

It swings open within a few minutes revealing a grinning Gigi, “Y/N!”

“Hey Gigi,” I say, giving her a quick hug as we step in.

“It’s like you guys haven’t been together all day,” comes another voice.

My head whips around to see familiar grey eyes and two blonde braids.

“Savannah!” I exclaim, rushing towards her and pulling her into an embrace

“Hey,” she laughs, hugging me back.

“How was your tournament?” I ask her.

“We won,” she shrugs as if it’s nothing, though it probably was to her.

“Of course,” I say, tilting my head, “sorry we couldn’t be there.”

“Don’t be, it’s not your fault,” she replies, “besides it was nice not having two maniacs howling your name.”

I turn to Gigi, “I think she just admitted she missed us.”

“She did, didn’t she?”

“Whatever helps you guys sleep at night,” Savannah says coolly, “heard about your history project, good luck, I’m glad it’s you and not me,”

“Thanks Sav,” I say sarcastically.

“You are so welcome Y/N,” she grins, ruffling my hair.

“And this is Grayson, my mysterious brother who pretends to be moody all of the time,” Gigi explains, gesturing to a boy.

Well I should say a man because holy mother of all saints and lords… he had the most gorgeous face I’ve ever laid eyes on. He was the pinnacle of perfection and so radiantly beautiful. He practically glowed. His hair was golden like some sort of buried treasure that glistened in the right lighting. He was tall and muscular, that was obvious even through his suit. A pretty face and a fit physique, it was a win win. I hadn’t even noticed he’d been standing there cautiously watching my interactions with his sisters. When our eyes met my legs almost buckled. They were a stormy grey that left me senseless. My heart thumped in my chest and butterflies flew up my stomach every which way. I could see his resemblance with Savannah but there were so many differences that made him… him.

“Hi,” I smile, trying not to blush or sound stupid, dismally failing at both and mentally ticking this off as one of my top ten most embarrassing moments of my whole life entire life.

“Hello Y/N,” he replies, not exactly smiling but not straight faced, somewhere in between, “I can assure you I do not pretend to be moody all of the time no matter what my sister has told you.”

His voice is so mellow it could melt butter with one sound.

“He does,” Gigi whispers loudly enough for him to hear

“It’s okay,” I say to Grayson, “I’m sure you don’t.”

“Gigi’s told me so much about you, it’s nice to finally meet you in person,” he says

I try to not act too surprised at the thought of Gigi telling her brother all about me. I make a mental note to talk to her about it later.

“You too,” I nod with another sweet smile

I was smiling so much my jaw started to ache. I notice Savannah slip away, most likely to go and relax her muscles after the tournament today. I look back to Grayson.

“Well I’ll let you guys get on,” he nods, like a man of business.

I nod and smile shyly. He returns the smile and Gigi takes my hand and pulls we towards the staircase. I get one last glimpse of him and then we’re gone. As we walk up the stairs I struggle to get Grayson out of my head, he’s like an annoying catchy song or advert repeating in a vicious circle… except it’s not annoying when I get to envisage his face. I shake my head and push him out of my mind, I cannot find him attractive, he’s Gigi’s brother for goodness’s sake.

“So now you’ve met my infamous secret brother,” Gigi smirks, nudging me.

“Now I have,” I nod, smiling.

“So now you officially know every inch of my life,” she tells me as we reach her bedroom door, “it’s kind of creepy when you think of it.”

“Then let’s not,” I shrug as we walk in.

We set up together on the floor and that’s when I pull out the bag of treats I’d bought for my addict of a friends. As soon as her eyes connect with the packaging they almost bulge out of her skull.

“You bought chocolate covered pretzels!” she screams, joy and awe written all over her face.

“Obviously,” I roll my eyes, handing her the bag.

“You are officially my favourite best friend ever,” she squeals, hugging them to her chest, like a mother would her child.

“Aren’t I your only best friend?” I say.

“Well yeah, but still…” Gigi trails off, as she opens the bag, “want one?”

“They’re all yours Gigi,” I tell her.

She hesitates for a moment, “Are you sure?”

“Very,” I reassure her, attempting to organise some of notes into piles.

“I’m paying you back,” she says confidently.

“Have fun trying,” I tease her, poking my tongue out,

“I will find a way,” she replied, determination thick in her voice.

Gigi and I only ever argued when it came to paying for things. We both were constantly trying to pay the other back for the 2 dollars they needed for a coffee or the movie tickets from the week before. But I’d gotten very inventive in preventing Gigi from paying me back.

“Sure you will sweetie,” I patronise her.

She ignores me, popping one of her chocolate covered pretzels into her mouth. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back and savours the taste.

“That is so amazingly yum,” she whispers.

“I’m glad,” I grin, “now come on. We have work to do.”

We work on the project for so long we lose track of time. Through giggles and shouts and possibly a few tears that neither of us will admit tomorrow, we’d gotten just short of halfway done. That is when Savannah calls us for dinner. Both in shock that we’d actually worked, made progress and managed to forget the time we go downstairs.

“You do realise that you both never shut up right?” Savannah says as we enter the room.

“Sorry,” I grin sheepishly, tucking the loose stands of hair behind my ears.

“I think it’s a good thing,” Gigi counters, “I like to talk.”

“Don’t we know it,” her sister rolls her eyes, sitting down at the table.

Four plates of streaming food sit on the table and we all take our places. Grayson joins us and sits down beside Savannah opposite me. I try not to hold my eyes on him for too long so it didn’t seem like I was staring but I couldn’t help but steal myself one glance. I’m driving myself crazy thinking about how my hand might fit perfectly into his and his pretty pretty mouth or that one tiny freckle just below his eyebrow, that I’d convinced myself I was the first to notice. I also really wanted this guys hair routine because his hair looked so silky and soft.

“How’s the project going?” Savannah asks over the clanging of silverware on plates.

“Good,” Gigi replies and then rethinks the decision, “I think.”

“We’re nearly halfway finished,” I explain, “but there’s a lot to do.”

“So much!” she groans, tipping her head back.

“What teacher do you have again?” Savannah asks us.

“Ms Harrison,” Gigi replies.

Savannah often wasn’t in our classes due to her extended sports timetable, so we didn’t have a lot of the same teachers. It was always kind of lonely without her.

She screws her face up, “I hate that woman.”

“She treats her subject like her child,” I roll my eyes, laughing.

“I mean when am I ever going to use history in my real life?” Gigi asks.

“You might need it in your job?” I shrug, taking a sip of water.

“As if,” she replies, giving me the look.

“What do you want to do Y/N?”

My head whips up and I stare directly at Grayson. His voice startles me. I’d almost forgotten he was there. It takes me far too long to process the question before I make some sort of awkward blubbering sound as I try and work out what to say.

“With what?” I blurt out, sounding really unsophisticated.

“Your life,” he clarifies.

My mind races at one hundred miles an hour, “big question…” I nervously giggle, “…erm I don’t really know,”

“Oh?” he replied, eyebrows slightly raised in… surprise, disapproval, shock?? I couldn’t tell he was almost impossible to read. I just wanted the ground to swallow me up from this embarrassment.

“I mean I don’t have a set plan,” I say quickly trying to patch things up, “I want to do something that makes me happy.”

“What makes you happy?”

“Stop questioning her Gray,” Gigi interrupts, “you’re creeping her out.”

I feel my cheeks heat up and I look down, suddenly taking an interest in the intricacy of the tablecloth.

“Sorry,” Grayson says. I couldn’t see his face but I would assume from his tone that he was also finding the tablecloth interesting right about now.

“No it’s fine,” I say, my eyes darting up for a millisecond and then straight back down.

There’s an uncomfortable silence and nothing can be heard. Not even breathing.

“Have you seen the new frappuccino on the menu at the coffee shop around the corner?” Gigi asks, breaking the deadly silence, “I think it’s honey and gingerbread.”

The conversation picks back up from there but Grayson doesn’t really make conversation after that. When dinner is over, we all clean up, mostly in silence. There were pockets of small talk here and there but not much. When we’re almost done, I make eye contact with Savannah and she gives me a look. A furrow my brows confused and tilt my head. She shakes her head, rolling her eyes slightly. She takes me by the arm and leads me into the bathroom.

“Savannah? What is this?” I ask her, absolutely baffled, “because it’s starting to feel like one of those murder mysteries except it’s not a mystery to me if I’m the one being murdered.”

“I’m not going to murder you,” she scoffs, “and if I was I would do it in a much classier way.”

“Oh thanks,” I say, sarcastically, “so why have you dragged me in here, please.”

“We need to talk,” she says, a serious look in her eyes.

I suddenly feel an odd sense of dread building up inside but laugh it off and attempt to make a joke, “look if you want to break up-“

She flashes a grin and then her face goes serious again. I suddenly get a wave of nervousness come over me and my brain flicks through every possible thing I could’ve messed up in the past few weeks.

“Why is it Sav? Did I do something?” I ask, concerned and scared.

“Can you stop eyeball flirting with my brother,” Savannah deadpans, “it’s making me uncomfortable.”

“What!?” I yell without thinking, before my hands fly to my mouth when I realise how loud I’ve been.

She sighs and starts to repeat her sentence, “can you stop eyeball-“

“I heard you the first time,” I tell her.

“Good, now can you?” Savannah asks, folding her arms across her chest and leaning back against the wall.

“I’m not eyeball flirting with anyone?” I hiss at her, maybe a bit too defensively.

“Okay, if you say so,” she says, “so can you stop ‘not eyeball flirting’ with my brother.”

“I can’t stop something I’m not doing,” I argue.

She stares at me, “you don’t want to fall for him.”

Her face doesn’t match her tone, it isn’t angry or aggressive, it’s concerned and worried.

“I’m not falling for him,” I reply softly, putting my hand on her arm, “I’ve barely met the poor guy.”

“He’s not a ‘poor guy’ by any long shot,” she laughs bitterly, “and if you think you like him, don’t. It’s a horrible road to go down.”

“Savannah I don’t like-“

“I know you,” she says sharply, stopping me mid sentence.

She’s right. She did know me. And I did like her brother… but she didn’t have to know just yet.

“He’s attractive, sure,” I shrug, trying to act cool and collected about the whole affair, “but it’s not like that.”

“Good,” Savannah says.

“Can we leave the almost murder scene now?” I joke, a smirk playing on my lips.

She rolls her eyes and shoves my shoulder playfully, “oh leave off.”

a/n: well done you made it to the end 😭😭 I’m so sorry but it’s not even over… PART 2 is coming up :) and I promise it’s more interesting that this part…

(this was originally just going to be one long piece of writing but I’ve split it into two now)

… more fics on my TIG masterlist

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