#Ghost Mannequin effect | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

m1ckeyb3rry · 5 months ago

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Synopsis: Sunday is your mirror, as you are his — or, how meeting him spells your doom, just like losing you spells his.

HSR Masterlist

Pairing: Sunday x Reader

Word Count: 7.2k

Content Warnings: female reader, second person in some parts and third person sunday pov in others, religious themes because…it’s sunday…, not canon compliant because idk wtf happened in penacony and i don’t feel like figuring it out, not lore compliant either because i’m #toocool for that, ooc because i wanted to make sunday a freak, major character death but not really on screen just mentioned/implied, unreliable narrators, halovians are Very Different (both from their canon depictions and from humans in general), robin mentioned but she’s also probs ooc idfk i’ve never written for honkai star rail and i’ve played for like a month tops, sunday is a d1 piner, sunday loses it, sunday crashes out, weird narrative structure, very nonsensical, in terms of endings we have no endings (it’s like open to interpretation ig), m1ckeyb3rry’s monthly drop of MID

A/N: i wrote this really quickly for my beloved illu’s birthday!! unfortunately i didn’t get the idea until like two days after the date itself so it’s a bit late LMAOO also it sucks but. it has SUNDAY !! my first foray into the hsr verse…hehe…anyways illu i could go on about how much i appreciate you and how glad i am that we’re friends but for the sake of conciseness i shall leave it at HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY GOAT @milksnake-tea I LOOK FORWARD TO ANOTHER YEAR OF CRASHING OUT TOGETHER 🙂‍↕️💖 LOVE AND KISSES I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS A BIT!!!

There is a ghost waiting for him in the confessional booth. Velvet curtains cover the latticed wood, obscuring its contents from his view, but the effect comes to nothing. He knows she’s there, he always does, he can feel her presence. It’s a chill seeping into his bones as he kneels — he doesn’t need to kneel, of course he doesn’t need to, but it’s a habit he’s yet unwilling to break — and clasps his hands together. It’s a supplication for something, but it isn’t until his mouth is opening of its own volition, his wings fluttering in alarm and his eyes widening as the words are wrenched from his lips, that he realizes what he’s begging for.

“Please,” he whispers. His voice echoes in the empty room, mocking him, teasing him. Please. Please. What right does he have to ask her anything? He’s sure that’s what she’s thinking. He’s sure she’s laughing in that odd way of hers, and his throat constricts at the image. “Please—”

Forgive me? It reverberates in his mind, that fragment of a thought, jagged at the edges, sharp like a blade and twice as cruel. Isn’t that it? Forgive me. Forgive me. Please, forgive me.

“Condemn me,” he says instead, and then he’s struck by a burst of anger, hot and unyielding and entirely at odds with the weight of his tongue in his mouth, which is all leaden and unwieldy and clumsy and despicable. “Condemn me or forgive me or what have you!”

He waits, as he always does. One, two, three. He counts on his fingers, an invisible metronome ticking in his mind, mechanical and perfect in rhythm, keeping time for his vigil. Four, five, six. The curtain flutters in a phantom breeze, and for a second he can pretend that he sees a flash of bright in the darkness of the booth, a dancing shade like a glittering iris peering back at him. Seven, eight, nine. He doesn’t care what she says. He doesn’t care about any of it. As long as she says something, it’s fine. Condemn me. Forgive me. He’s not sure which he would prefer at this point.

Ten.

The ghost is silent.

The first time you met Sunday, it was raining. Everything about him was limp in the storm — his clothes, the fabric clinging to his slender frame; his hair, spilling onto his pale brow and trailing down his mannequin-straight back; even his wings, which drooped miserably towards his shoulders, the preened feathers translucent at the edges from dampness.

When he turned to glance at you, you expected his demeanor to shimmer with the famous benevolence of his family. Sunday Oak, the heir, the young lord; certainly there would be a kindness to him, a gentleness permeating throughout the very essence of his being. Certainly he had been born a saint, anointed in the waters of his mother’s womb before he could even draw breath, incapable of humanity’s many shortcomings and fallacies. Certainly these things were true, and that was why it frightened you all the more when, for one singular moment, his impassive mien crumpled into a glare, as baleful as it was captivating.

His eyes were a sharp, canny gold, feline in both shape and shrewdness, framed by lashes clumped together with wet. They were terrible in the way of a dying star, that peculiar brand of horror so beautiful that it was impossible to look away, and indeed you stood transfixed until he cleared his throat and arranged his face into a polite smile.

“I wasn’t aware we had visitors today,” he said. He spoke carefully, perfunctorily, reading from a script he must’ve memorized long ago. You stiffened, for although he had not given you any reason to think it, you were suddenly very certain that you were not supposed to see him like this, his fingers curling over the slick rail of his balcony, his dark abdominal wings folded tightly over his stomach and his halo dull in whatever light struggled through the clouded sky.

“I was just leaving,” you said. “I must have made a wrong turn. I apologize for disturbing you, sir.”

“You needn’t apologize,” he said, and there he was, the man who you had expected: Sunday, the scion of the Oak Family. Gracious Sunday; magnanimous Sunday; Sunday the prince and Sunday the saint. He was so finely constructed it made you wince, his blinding delicacy and keen refinement eerie, preternatural. A baser instinct of yours told you to run, reminding you of a time when those of his kind ruled over humanity with impunity, pleading with you to save yourself before it was too late.

You bit back your fear so hard that blood exploded over your palate, salty and sweet in turn, viscous as you swallowed it back and offered him a smile. He did not return it in full, but the corners of his mouth curled up slightly. That should’ve been soothing, but it only served to worsen the electric anxiety running through your veins.

“I shall call my sister and tell her to fetch you,” he said. “I would hate for you to find the Oaks remiss in our hospitality. I am sincerely sorry that you were not given an escort earlier.”

There were so many things you could say to him. I ran. Does that make me remiss? I’m the one who ran from them. You could reassure him, promise him that you would be alright on your own and there was no need for Robin to come. You could do any of these things, yet you were frozen like an insect in the amber of his stare, and so you did not.

“Thank you,” you said, bowing slightly, lowering your eyes to his leather shoes in a valiant attempt to free yourself, “for your generosity.”

“Do you think it’s possible for people to forgive themselves?” he asks his sister. They’re sitting in the parlor, porcelain teacups in their hands, pinkie fingers raised primly in the air. His sister’s cup is chipped at the base, but every time he tries to throw it away, she pitches a fit, which is so uncharacteristic of her that it renders him speechless. This one is special, she insists. There’s doves painted on it. See?

It isn’t special, there’s countless others exactly like it, but he caves to her whims far too easily, as he always does. He’s prone to it, after all; she wants for things so rarely as it is, which means denying her few requests when she makes them is nigh-impossible. So he allows her to keep the ruined cup, on the condition that in his presence, she holds it in her left hand, for he never wants to see the blemish again.

“I’m not sure,” she says. Her voice is always dreamy, but as of late there’s been a tangible sadness to it. He’s asked her what’s troubling her countless times, but his every attempt is met with a shake of her head and a solemn oath that it’s nothing. “Maybe.”

“I don’t think that it is,” he says. “At least not at first. You can’t forgive yourself before you’re forgiven by anyone else.”

“If you were already so sure of the answer, brother,” she says, cocking her head at him, “then why did you ask?”

“Hm?” he says, furrowing his brow. She takes a sip of her tea, and maybe it’s the angle or maybe it’s a trick of the light, but he swears that that dammed chip is taunting him, smarting like a peeled-off scab.

“It’s a strange practice of yours,” his sister says, batting her eyes at him in a way that makes him feel shrunken and tiny, as if she knows everything and he knows nothing, although by all rights it’s the other way around.

“What do you mean by that?” he presses, voice coming out harsher than he’d like. Cringing, he sets his teacup down and folds his hands in his lap. “My apologies, sister. I — I did not mean to speak to you in that way.”

She raises her drink to her lips, smiling at him over the dove-painted rim, and says nothing more.

Robin Oak was like nightshade, the most beautiful flower you had ever seen and, incidentally, the most poisonous. She was lilac where Sunday was silver and sapphire where he was gold, but although the edges of her halo and her face were rounder than her brother’s, as malleable as he was rigid, she was no softer than he. Perhaps she was even colder for it, all the more deadly, unassuming and quiet, poised to strike with a warbling song and a tittering giggle.

“Hello,” she said, and although the two of you were ostensibly having a normal conversation, she still talked like there was a song in her voice, her cadence lyrical and amused. “We’ve been looking for you for a while.”

“I didn’t go very far,” you said, following after her as she navigated the hallways without hesitation.

“Of course not,” she agreed. “But who would’ve thought you’d end up in Sunday’s room?”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said, cheeks heating up at the sly implication. “I sincerely thought I had happened upon some study or restroom where I might recuperate.”

“He does keep his surroundings austere,” she said. “I’ve tried to convince him to hang up paintings or photographs, but he refuses. He’s like that.”

“I see,” you said, as neutrally as possible. Robin must’ve sensed your disinterest, for with a soft, breathy, chuckle, she steered the conversation away from her brother and to another subject entirely.

“Ah, you mentioned recuperation? Do parties tire you, too?” she said, and maybe it was manipulation or maybe it was genuine kindness, but it disarmed you all the same. Bashfully, you nodded, your shoulders hunching in on themselves involuntarily as you continued down the corridor.

“They are exhausting. I can never handle them for more than a few minutes at a time,” you confessed. She wrapped an arm around your torso, a companionable vice of a grip, and although you shouldn’t have been, you were surprised to feel that her skin was blazing to the touch.

“Nor can I,” she said. “There’s a commonality. Let’s be friends.”

It was a command, not a request. You knew better than to believe that Robin Oak would request anything; the world was at her feet, the universe shifting so that her words became truth, so why would she bother with questions and hesitance the way the rest of you did? She was no more human than Sunday. She was even less, only just as good at pretending, at painting on a doll-like mask to disguise her lies.

“Well, then it is a pleasure to be your friend,” you said.

“Don’t talk like that,” she protested.

“Like what?” you said.

“Like I’m somebody important, or like I have a status worthy of only the highest respect,” she said.

“But you do,” you said. She nudged you in the side with some measure of eagerness.

“No, no, forget about that,” she said. “I’m just like you, okay?”

“Okay,” you said, even though that could not be further from the truth, even though she could not be further from you.

“I swear on truth,” he says to the congregation, the beige churchgoers in their beige robes with adoration sparkling in their devoted eyes. “I swear on the calendar. I swear on words. I swear on values. I swear on rules. I swear on meaning. I swear on—”

A chill rushes down his spine, icy fingers grabbing onto the roots of his wings and yanking. He hisses under his breath, prayers of rebuke and protection, nails digging into his palms as he chants furiously, lips moving too fast for the gatherers to understand what he is doing.

Anxious murmurs arise like the songs of a choir the longer and longer he is frozen. Somebody coughs. A child whines audibly. He continues his chanting.

Ena, the Order; Xipe, the Harmony; defend me in this tribulation. Curse this evil, bind its spirit and banish it to whence it came. I swear on truth, I swear on the calendar, I swear on words, I swear on values, I swear on rules, I swear on meaning, I swear on—

The hair by the nape of his neck is ruffled, and then the sensation vanishes and he is left alone once more. He is grateful for only a moment before he mourns her absence with a sudden savagery that takes even himself by surprise. It’s a contradiction, but she is a contradiction, so it’s fitting. He could never understand her before, so why should it be different now?

Clearing his throat and subtly adjusting his lapels, he raises his hands to silence the throngs of worshippers. They do his bidding at once, and he closes his eyes so that he does not have to see their naïveté at this final part, so that he is speaking to himself and the ghost alone — because nobody else matters in the end.

“I swear,” he says, his heart beating faster and faster until it is almost bursting from his chest and pounding in his skull, “on human dignity.”

What do Halovians know of human dignity?

“Nothing,” he says, responding to the unasked question as he turns away from the others, away from their applause and their grins. His wings cover his eyes and his hands cover his ears as he leaves the cavernous hall, the thunder of laudation fading and fading, replaced with nothing but a whistling, lonely emptiness. “They know nothing.”

He pauses, his eyes darting around surreptitiously. Then, when he is sure he is alone, he continues, under his breath so that no one can hear even if they try very hard to.

“I know nothing.”

He is sure of this much, at least.

On Halovians:

They abide by a so-called “divine creed” which they refuse to divulge to outsiders. However, they maintain that if they break these secretive laws, they are punished severely in what amounts to a foreshortened process of decay. Their holiness and altruism is, thus, not a choice but a compulsion; the one sin they are permitted is lying, and many will spin tall tales as a form of indulgence.

They are comparable in ability to the sirens from Lucyke — indeed, many researchers believe the species share a common ancestor and are one of many examples of divergent evolution found throughout the cosmos. They are nonthreatening when approached, capable of rational thought and intelligent speech, and have advanced societies with defined familial structures; hence, they are classified as a Level 0 Intelligent Species.

His halo is cracking. He doesn’t know when it began, or perhaps it’s more accurate to say he doesn’t want to know, but regardless it’s happening. The burnished gold, once a plain, gleaming expanse, is now marred by thin, unmistakeable fissures in the shape of spiderwebs. At first, he can only stare at his reflection in abject horror, but then he’s stuffing his fist in his mouth and screaming.

What will people think? When they see it, they will know what he has done. It’s tainting him. It’s above him and behind him and all around and he can’t escape, he can’t do anything, his halo is cracking and he’s screaming and she’s there again.

“Stop it,” he snaps. “Stop coming back. If you’re only here to torment me, then — then stop it!”

Is she laughing? She must be. She always laughs at him, always finds him so curious. An oddity. A Halovian. He’s not like her, she’s fond of reminding him, he’s different. He’s born for the Harmony and the sky. He’s born for a purpose greater than hers, with black wings and a bright halo and a tongue made to lie.

“Don’t leave,” he says when she begins to withdraw. “Hey. Hey. Don’t leave — don’t leave me — I can’t — don’t!”

Her absence is like a hole carved into his stomach daily anew, and if his wings weren’t losing their feathers so rapidly, he’d fold them over the gaping wound in an attempt to disguise it, to transform it, to hold himself together until he can once again become whole in earnest.

It’s pitiful. He’s pitiful. He longs for a ghost who he despises, a ghost of his own making, a ghost who is pulling apart his halo and his wings and his sanity alike. She is ruining him and he is powerless to stop her; somewhere deep inside of him, he’s not sure if he even wants to. This is what he’s owed. This is what he deserves. No matter how much he begs, she will not forgive him; no matter how much he prays, he will not forgive himself.

This time when he screams, he does not bother with muffling it.

You were certain that, in the pools of her mind, in places unknowable and unreachable, Robin believed that she loved you. She repeated that lie so often that she fooled everyone, even herself — everyone, of course, but you. You knew the truth. You knew that she never had, that she never would, that she never could.

“This is my very best friend in the entire universe,” she’d say, holding your palm against her heart. “I love her.”

She carried it like a trophy or a weapon, that meaningless phrase. I love her. Lilac instead of silver. Sapphire instead of gold. I am not a Halovian. That was what she really wanted to say. That was what you really meant to her. I am human, too. Treat me like I am human. Talk to me like I am human. Love me like I am human.

I am human.

His sister is worrying about him. He wishes he could allay her concerns like he always does, wishes he could promise that it’s nothing, that he’s fine, but whenever he tries, he can’t. It sticks in his throat, and he’s left to stare at her miserably, helplessly.

“If you need anything…” she murmurs, voice trailing off into nothingness as she pretends like she’s not looking at his halo, which is on the verge of collapse, or at his wings, which are approaching a skeletal state. “Maybe you should stay home today. Someone else can pray.”

“No,” he says. He has to do it. If he doesn’t, then he has nothing left — which is the truth, really, but he can’t accept it. Not yet. “No, I—”

He wants to say I can do it, but the words won’t come. She waits, but when he does not finish his sentence, she only sighs and nods.

“If you think that’s what’s best,” she says. If she’s expecting a response, she won’t get one, or at least not one that’ll satisfy them both. He can’t maintain his facade anymore. Those carefully constructed falsehoods which were once his birthright have abandoned him; now, he is left with nothing but the truth in its harshest form, his eyes sewn open to it and his wings tied back so he can no longer cower behind their trembling defense.

Unlike his sister, Sunday never pretended to love you. Indeed, he treated you no differently than he treated everyone else, keeping a polite, reserved distance between the two of you at all times. He was kind when you spoke, though he tended to avoid such occasions, and he took great pains to ensure that he appeared as harmless as possible, pulling his wings close to his body, averting his eyes from yours and shifting so that his halo was always partially obscured.

Robin told you that he was a proud man, so the fact that he shied away before you meant something. I’ve never seen him like this, she would ponder when he would sidle past, his feathers blending in with his pale hair, a coat thrown over his shoulders and his gaze trained directly ahead even when he greeted you. It’s unlike him.

It’s kind. That was all you ever said when she prodded at you for answers. He’s being kind to me.

Unlike her brother, Robin didn’t understand what that meant, so she would only embrace you, deceptively strong despite her frail figure, wings extending to skim along your skin in what she must’ve considered a sign of affection.

I’m glad you’re getting along, she’d say, and then you’d wonder, invariably, what it’d take to break the chords of her speech. Was she capable of producing dissonance? Or was it one of her many blessings, that avoidance of discord, of cacophony? I’m really glad. I hope one day he loves you, too.

She never asked you to love him back. She never dared to even hope for it.

“I can’t recall you ever laughing at me this much when you were alive,” he says, lying on his bed with his limbs splayed out. He’s looking up at the ceiling, which is bare, as are the walls, and the furniture — entirely by design, of course. Periodically, his wings will flap weakly, wracked with nervous tremors as he waits for her to quiet.

He doesn’t reprimand her anymore. The prospect of chasing her away is unbearable, even more unbearable than the sound of her mirth, which is as wrong to his ears as music from an untuned piano. So he ignores it, and when it is particularly agonizing, he speaks to the empty air, saying everything and nothing all at once in an attempt to silence her.

“You would ask me questions,” he remembers, drumming his fingers against the mattress. “But you wouldn’t laugh. I don’t think you found me amusing, unless I tried very hard to appear that way. I was better at it back then. At becoming what people expected of me.”

She’s not laughing anymore, but he knows she hasn’t vanished yet. She’s there in his periphery, poised to disappear as soon as he turns his head but there nonetheless. Taking advantage of the rare silence, he sits up, hugging his knees to his chest and closing his eyes.

“I didn’t pretend quite as much when it was you,” he says. “You know that, right? By the end, I couldn’t bring myself to at all.”

Does she believe him? He can’t tell. If he were her, he wouldn’t believe himself, so likely not. Exhaling heavily, he collapses backwards, tangling himself into a pile of blankets that he pulls over his shoulders.

“I should have lied to you more often,” he says, eyes drifting shut. “Maybe things would be different if I had.”

On Halovians:

Halovians are the only Level 0 Intelligent Species that do not choose long-term mates, although there is evidence to suggest that in the distant past, they remained with the same partner for life. According to legend, this is because they gave up fidelity for falsehood, trading their ability to love eternally for their freedom to lie at will.

Research disagrees with this old story, and many alternate theories have been proposed. The most common and widely-accepted is the claim that the Halovians once faced extinction and thus had to procreate at speed, leading to a permanent shift in their mating habits. The most substantial proof for this, of course, is the otherwise-inexplicable population boom…

You couldn’t say for certain when you began visiting Sunday in his room. It had happened so suddenly and yet so gradually that by the time you realized what you were doing, it was too late for you to stop. He never did anything untoward — you doubted he was capable of it — staying at his desk and scowling at his work while you wandered about, familiarizing yourself with the confines of the space.

“Why don’t you decorate?” you asked him one day.

“Decorations are only needless distractions,” he responded promptly, signing a paper with a flourish that, somehow, represented his name. Sunday Oak. You didn’t know how something so enormous and grand could be summed into two squiggles and a cross, but he seemed confident of it, so who were you to question the method? “I cannot fathom sleeping with such clutter surrounding me.”

“I see,” you said, and that was the end of it.

Your conversations with him typically went as such, endless games of question-and-answer, where you would ask whatever was on your mind and he would respond as truthfully as he was able. You often wondered when he would grow tired of it, of you, but he never did. You asked Robin why it was so, and she only shrugged enigmatically.

“Maybe he’s glad to be the one speaking for once,” she said.

“What do you mean?” you said.

“You ought to ask him,” she said. “He might not tell anyone else, but if it’s you…if it’s you, then he’ll definitely answer.”

His sister’s hands are frigid on his shoulders. She’s warm by anyone else’s standards, but for a Halovian, she’s always been cold. Even when she was born, half the size she should’ve been and with eyes as boundless as the sky, she was freezing, a shivering slip of a baby shoved into his arms by his bleeding mother.

“Your halo is breaking,” she says to him, but she’s angry, her melodic voice wavering as her fingers dig into his muscle, shaking him back and forth. “It’s breaking. Why is it breaking?”

She’s glaring at him, tears welling at her lash-line. He wants to reach out his hand and wipe them away, but more will replace them in an instant, so what is the point? She shakes him again, harder and harder, and he allows her, because he’ll always allow her impulses, and because he’s never seen her like this before.

“Why?” she says. “Why is it breaking? Tell me what you did, brother, tell me what you did!”

She isn’t asking because she wants him to give her the answer. She’s asking because she wants him to deny it, to tell her that she’s wrong, that the conclusion she’s arrived at is incorrect somehow. Once, he could’ve. He could’ve made up some story about tragedy and misfortune, and she would’ve believed him, as she always did.

That was their relationship. He lied and she believed him. She asked and he obliged her. But now that he can not lie and she has nothing to ask for, what is left?

“You know already,” he says. She gasps in the manner of an injured animal, berry-stained lips parting, indubitably to hurl accusations at him.

He doesn’t think he can handle hearing them, not from his sister of all people, so he leaves before he gets the chance.

“Does it feel strange when people touch your wings?” you said. Sunday was in his bed today, afflicted by some illness of the lungs, and you were rummaging through his bookshelf, pulling out volumes at random before putting them back where you had found them.

“Huh? Why do you ask?” he said, raising a porcelain cup to his lips. It was prescription, a medicine reeking of menthol but wearing the guise of peppermint tea — the only way, according to Robin, that he would drink it. A servant had brought it and presented it to him with a bow, walking out of the room with a look thrown at you over their shoulder, concern and envy blending into something razor-thin and cutting.

“I don’t have any,” you explained, taking out a book and tracing your fingers along the gold lettering of the title. “I can’t fathom what it’d be like.”

“Come here,” he said, and although it was mildly done, you obeyed immediately. You could never forget what he was, not completely, no matter how hard he tried to make it so that you did. You would always be human and he would always be Halovian; this fundamental disconnect was insurmountable, and anyways, you had no interest in surmounting it. It’d serve you well to remember these many little differences between yourself and the Oak siblings, between yourself and Sunday in particular.

He extended his hand, the palm facing up, and dipped his chin towards it. You tilted your head in confusion, for the act was all but inexplicable, and at this he smiled. He did not smile very frequently, and it transformed his face when he did, lighting it up, turning it into something close to human — not quite, but close. Closer than he ever was otherwise.

“Here,” he said, setting aside his teacup and using his other hand to place yours against his, wrapping his fingers around your wrist and then waiting. “Does that feel strange?”

“No,” you said.

“It’s the same for me,” he said. “To you, my wings are bizarre and outlandish, but to me and those of my kind, they are simply another body part. No more or less fantastical than an arm or an ankle.”

“Ah,” you said. He settled back against the cushions of his bed, allowing the wings by his ears to stretch out comfortably, closing his eyes and letting out an exhale that shook with the remnants of a cough.

“You want to touch them,” he said. He phrased it as a statement, not a question, and when you paused before answering, his smile grew imperceptibly larger. “I don’t mind it.”

“You don’t?” you said. He shrugged.

“It’s only fair,” he said, pressing down on the point where your veins nearly surfaced, tapping in time with your pulse before drawing his hands back and clasping them together in the cavity below his ribcage. “I wouldn’t have told you you could if I’d hold any resentment for it.”

“Aren’t Halovians known for lying?” you said. He snorted.

“Have you been doing your research?” he said.

“It’s common knowledge,” you said.

“We are,” he said. “But I swear I will always tell you the truth.”

“How can I believe that? What if that’s just another one of your lies?” you said. He cracked one eye open so that he could peek at you, and whatever he saw must’ve proven your seriousness, for he hummed in thought, carefully considering your words.

“I suppose you can’t,” he said. “It’s your prerogative. Do as you’d like, then.”

He closed his eyes again, which you supposed was his version of an invitation. Waiting until his breathing stilled and he was caught in some form of repose — whether he was truly unconscious or not escaped you, but either way he was certainly in some altered state of mind — you extended your arm and brushed your index finger against his feathers.

They were as soft as you had anticipated, cottony and shapeless compared to the firm flight-feathers of the pitch-dark wings jutting out at his sides. The bones were hollow and slight, as if you could break them only by taking them into your fist and squeezing. This was such a contradiction to the appearance he so carefully maintained that your heart softened to him despite your greatest efforts to guard it.

“Those ones are mostly down,” he said, startling you out of your daze. You had assumed he was asleep and had allowed your movements to become casual and complacent. Jerking your hand back as if he had burnt it — which he just as well might have, given the temperature of his body — you held it to your chest and took an involuntary step back while he adjusted himself in his nest of bedding. “In antiquity, back when we still ruled the skies and rarely touched the ground, it was considered a sign of friendship for Halovians to groom one another’s upper-wing feathers.”

“And now?” you said.

“And now it means nothing,” he said. “Fetch me a new cup of tea if you have the time. This one has grown cold, and I am yet unwell.”

The feathers he used to be so proud of are fraying at the edges. He hasn’t cared for them in so long, hasn’t carefully misted them or doused them in diluted soap in ages, and now they have come to this. Scraggly and broken and bent and wrong.

Sticking a finger in his mouth, he rubs it along his teeth and the bitten flesh of his inner cheeks. Decay. This is decay. He’s seen it so many other times, in so many other forms, but never did he think he’d experience it himself. And least of all so quickly! Yet it has come for him, as it comes for everyone in the end.

He finds it’s different this time. It’s different when he’s the one who’s dying.

“They say it haunts us,” Sunday said. His arm was heavy over your waist, his blankets pulled up over your chin and tucked tightly around your shoulders. Your forehead was flush with his collarbones, your eyes fluttering shut as he played with the hem of your shirt while he spoke. “The first time we kill something. It haunts us to death.”

“Is that why you’re vegetarian?” you joked.

“Yes,” he said, and although he sounded grave, you could tell he was joking, too. “Can you imagine being followed around by the ghost of a chicken and then dying while it watches?”

“A horrible way to go,” you said, laughing at the image of Sunday plugging his ears and running from the shadow of a bird as it chased him, his own wings flapping furiously as it squawked at him with no small amount of indignation.

“Indeed,” he said with a laugh of his own. Then, after a pause, he hummed thoughtfully. “You should laugh more often.”

“I’ve been told my laugh is grating,” you said.

“It’s not,” he said. “Not at all.”

“Then I shall endeavor to do as you ask,” you said. “I will laugh until you tell me to stop.”

“I’ll never tell you to stop,” he promised, and you should’ve known better than to trust him, because he was a Halovian and donning that impenetrable mask of his was a part of his nature, yet you couldn’t help yourself. You did, you trusted him more than anything or anyone, and didn’t that make you a fool? A happy, laughing one, maybe — but a fool nonetheless.

He is close to collapse when he drags himself to his bathroom. Leaning over the counter of his sink, he grips the marble edge, noticing in fascination that his knuckles are almost as white as the stone. He almost can’t endure the thought of looking in the mirror, but in a last burst of inspiration, he drags his gaze up to his haggard reflection.

His heart skips a beat when he realizes he’s not alone. Standing there, beside and behind him, is her. The ghost. His ghost.

Her face is placid — she’s not laughing, and neither is she frowning. He doesn’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing, but he can’t change it, so who is he to complain? He waits for her to speak, but she is silent, and he considers calling out for his sister before deciding that this time, this once and never again, he will be selfish.

“It’s you,” he says, reaching out and placing his fingers against the mirror, where the image of her cheek is distorted by imperfections in the silver.

The metal is cold under the involuntary curve of his palm, which tries to follow the contours of her face but finds it to be impossible in the second dimension. Then again, to him, she was always cold, so there’s no difference, except that she is flat where once she was whole, empty where once she was everything.

“I killed you,” he says. It’s the first time he’s spoken it aloud, the first time he’s spit out the words that he’s been dancing around ever since she appeared to him, almost a year ago exactly. Somehow, it feels like a dagger driven into his heart and a weight lifted off of his shoulders simultaneously. If he had the strength, he’d run down the hallways of the mansion and scream it at everyone.

I killed her. I killed her and now I am dying for it. You bowed your heads in reverence to me, and all along I have had this blood on my hands. I killed her! How does it feel to have followed a sinner for so long? How does it feel to know that I am forsaken, and that one day, if you are so lucky, you will be, too?

Sunday’s mouth on yours was hot like a furnace, clumsy and demanding, with a lingering aftertaste like menthol. At first, it alarmed you, the overwhelming sensation, the much of it all, but before you could even pull away, something in the back of your mind twisted, and then you were grasping for anything you could. His hair, his wings, his shirt, it didn’t matter, nothing mattered, you only needed to hold onto him in some way. You could not breathe without him. You could not live without him.

That was your first indication that something was very, very wrong.

On Halovians:

Much like their presumed cousins, the sirens of Lucyke, Halovians are irresistible to their prey. Unlike the sirens, the Halovians no longer hunt; some assume that this must be one of the religious laws they abide by, while others argue that it is mere ecological responsibility.

Simply put, the Halovians were too efficient as hunters. Several lesser species have been driven to extinction by their efforts, and it is only due to the reduction in Halovian numbers, their vows of vegetarianism, and concentrated conservation efforts that the food webs on the Halovians’ native planets have stabilized in recent years.

“Sunday,” you said to him one day, when the sun had not yet risen in the sky. “I think that I will die soon.”

His mouth moved, but no sound came out. No, it seemed he was trying to say. You won’t. His lips formed the words, but they wouldn’t take shape in his throat, wouldn’t bloom into existence, and you watched as he struggled for a while before pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead.

“Yes,” he said.

“It will be your fault when I do,” you said. You weren’t accusing him; you said it simply and plainly. You were dying. It was his fault. He was the curse and the cure, if a mere prolonging of the inevitable could be considered as curing it.

He was quiet for so long that you assumed he had forgotten about the question entirely. You did not begrudge him for it — how would he answer, anyways? There was nothing that he could say which would change it. There was nothing that he could say which would reverse what he had, knowingly or unknowingly, done.

“Yes,” he said when you were halfway to dozing off.

“What?” you mumbled, the contents of the conversation already escaping you.

“Yes,” he said. “It will be my fault.”

The ghost doesn’t say anything, watching him as he turns on the sink and splashes the water onto his face in a futile effort to cool himself off. He’s feverish as he pushes himself back into a semblance of good posture, pacing back and forth along the length of the bathroom. He can only see her in the mirror, and he wonders if he somehow trapped her there or if that’s her way of teasing him; she must find him so absurd, storming away from her visage before crawling back to it like he is starved.

“I didn’t know,” he says. “You must understand that. I didn’t know! Not at first, anyways. I would’ve sent you away. If I had known, I would’ve sent you away…”

He can hear her feet against the tile, copying his own path, but he dares not turn around. What will he see if he does? What emotions will reflect in her eyes? The first time he saw her, it was fear, unadulterated and pure and choking him with its overwhelming intensity. Then, over time, it warmed into something resembling indifference, which in turn became fondness and then, finally, a sick sort of dependence, the former liveliness and curiosity glazed over with vacancy and fixation.

“I did this to you,” he admits. He’s read that accursed book on Halovians and their accursed vestigial organs and accursed archaic hunting methods so many times that he knows this for a fact. He killed her. “But I didn’t — it wasn’t my intention, please, it wasn’t, you must know that. Did you die knowing that?”

When he halts, she halts. When he takes a step forward, she does the same. It’s maddening. He doesn’t want her to echo him. Her steps sound like a prophecy, the drumbeat to a seer’s chant, and they clang in his head, the antithesis to everything he holds precious. Order. Harmony. And then there she is, discord, cacophony, waiting for him at every turn, inescapable and unavoidable.

“It’s the truth!” he snaps. The argument is entirely one-sided; the ghost never speaks to him, after all. She only laughs and sighs in turn, but no matter how hard he tries, he cannot convince her to say anything. “I can’t lie anymore. Although, that’s irrelevant; when it comes to you, I haven’t been able to lie in a long time.”

Ena, the Order; Xipe, the Harmony; defend me in this tribulation. Curse this evil, bind its spirit and banish it to whence it came.

I swear on truth. I swear on the calendar. I swear on words. I swear on values. I swear on rules. I swear on meaning. I swear on human dignity.

He’s murmuring every prayer he can think of. They play in an endless loop, springing to his lips at random, more like nonsensical jumbles of words than anything coherent. A prayer for salvation. A prayer for forgiveness. A prayer for protection. A prayer for order. A prayer for harmony. A prayer to banish her. A prayer to bring her back.

A prayer to bring her back. A prayer to bring her back. Bring her back. Bring her back. Bring her back.

“I won’t come back, you know,” she says. That’s the first time he’s heard her voice in so long, and he’s startled to find that it’s almost foreign, like he’s already begun to forget her, like she’s turned into something entirely beyond his understanding.

“Why not?” he says, his voice cracking as he scrambles for purchase against the wall. “I’ll do anything they ask. Anything you ask.”

“It doesn’t matter what you do or who you beg,” she says with a snicker. “You can’t bring someone back once you’ve killed them. You should’ve regretted it earlier; it’s meaningless now. Well, anyways, I have a question for you.”

He swallows but nods, his back to her, vision blurring out of focus as he squints at the plain wall in front of him.

“If you could meet me again, would you?” she says.

“Yes,” he says without thinking, because of course he would. How could he not?

“Knowing that it would kill me?” she adds, giggling.

Is this what it’s like for those who he interrogates? Now he is the one who cannot hide behind the comfort of fabrication, who must strip himself bare to an unsympathetic audience. He hates it, in truth. He hates it more than anything, but — but he doesn’t hate her, so clenching his jaw, he nods once more.

“Yes,” he says.

“Oh, my,” she says. “How romantic. Careful, or I’ll think you really do love me.”

He whirls around. “I do—!”

There’s nobody there. He wonders if there ever was.

#sunday x reader #sunday x y/n #sunday x you #sunday #sunday hsr #hsr x reader #hsr #honkai star rail #reader insert #canon au #hierophant #m1ckeyb3rry writes

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baedreamverse · 11 months ago

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late night — l.hs

enhypen heeseung head cannon

classmate!Heeseung who contacted you when he heard you needed a roommate.

"Hey, is the roommate offer still available?"

classmate!Heeseung who you find attractive the moment you laid eyes on him with his charming smile.

roommate!Heeseung who moved in right across from you in the apartment complex.

roommate!Heeseung who has an adopted cat named 'Ddongsik'.

roommate!Heeseung who was awkward at first but got comfortable every time you ran into each other in the community spaces of your complex.

roommate!Heeseung who’s known as the ‘ACE’ in your college.

roommate!Heeseung who plays basketball often with his friends on the weekend.

roommate!Heeseung in which you found out has amazing vocals as he sang loudly one weekend night.

“Sorry, was I being too loud? Haha”

roommate!Heeseung who you encountered one day at the college campus with his group of friends hanging out by the main quad.

“Oh hey! These are my friends-“

roommate!Heeseung who invites you to play with him and his friends during their gaming sessions.

roommate!Heeseung is competitive and would do anything to win.

roommate!Heeseung whom you got to know as someone with a free spirit and occasionally taking naps anywhere he can.

roommate!Heeseung who often wears beanies.

roommate!Heeseung who prefers quiet areas over loud ones.

roommate!Heeseung who’s love language is quality time, in which he tends to search for you when he’s bored.

roommate!Heeseung whom you have late night ramen together at midnight.

roommate!Heeseung who goes red and becomes a giggling mess when you’re drinking together.

roommate!Heeseung who finds horror mazes thrilling and laughs at every encounter with the ghost actor on set with you.

“Rock, paper, scissors on who goes first.”

“I think that mannequin is human, watch this-“

roommate!Heeseung who plays the piano and guitar whenever he encounters one.

roommate!Heeseung who helps you with the chores, in which the both of you have clean days together.

roommate!Heeseung who asks if you wanted anything from the grocery store.

“Did you want me to get your favorite ice cream?”

roommate!Heeseung who notices if you're not in a good mood and tries to cheer you up by making jokes.

roommate!Heeseung who doesn't realize what kind of effect he has on you when he wears sleeveless tops.

roommate!Heeseung who subconsciously flirts with you every time you run into each other.

roommate!Heeseung who pats your head whenever he finds you cute and endearing.

roommate!Heeseung who dresses well in plaid or leather attire with his signature cologne.

roommate!Heeseung who brings an extra jacket of his when you're at an outing with him.

"Gotta make sure to keep you warm, I can't have you catching a cold on me."

roommate!Heeseung who’s protective of you whenever the both of you are out for bar hopping, intimidating the guys who tried approaching you.

“Stay close to me,” as he intertwined his hand with yours, leading you to the table where his friends sat.

roommate!Heeseung who you share a playlist with, occasionally recommending songs to each other.

roommate!Heeseung who remembers your usual coffee order.

roommate!Heeseung who helps relieve your stress by playing games with him, or taking late-night drives together.

"We're more than just roommates, I'll be by your side. Whatever worries come your way, let me help you."

a/n: this is lowkey short but i hope you like it. I’ve been wanting to do an angst scenario as well, but we’ll see about that. 🚨 Also, please continue to STREAM XO (YT/Spotify/Genie/Apple Music/etc) & help VOTE as well (ALLCHART/U Pick/Mnet+/Superstar X). Let’s get a win for our boys hard work in the album! 🔥🙌🏻

☆ pls like & reblog ☆

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greatkittencloud · 1 month ago

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TW : Brief Mentions of Scars

Black Nova

Chapter 7

Location: RAF Base

Time: 1500 Hours

They were finally back on base , things had finally slowed down.The mission had been a rough one. Minimal injuries, all objectives cleared.

The med bay buzzed with quiet routine as the team got their post-op checks. Nova sat on the edge of the examination table in a private room ,stoic as ever, while the medic unwrapped the gauze along her side.

“You’ve been patched together more times than an old field tent.” the medic grunted. “No missions. No training. You're grounded for a full week, effective immediately.”

She didn’t argue just nodded once.

Orders were orders.

As the weekend settled over base, Soap bounced into the team room with his usual chaotic energy.

“Right,” he announced, clapping his hands together. “We’re going to the mall.”

Ghost, sitting quietly in the corner, looked up from the maintenance log he’d been reading. “Why?”

“Because I’m craving a burger the size of my head, and I want shoes that don’t smell like shit” He turned to the rest of the squad. “Gaz? Nova?”

Before Nova could argue Price cut in "Take her too , she could use some fresh air."

Gaz shrugged. “I’m in. I could use a hoodie."

Then, all eyes turned to Nova.

She just gave a small nod.

They gathered at the gate an hour later.

Soap was in black jeans and a t-shirt. Gaz wore a windbreaker and sneakers. Ghost had opted for a dark hoodie, blue jeans, and his signature mask.

Then Nova walked out.

Combat boots. Tactical black pants. Utility belt. And her balaclava snug over her face.

Soap choked on his water. “Bloody hell, Nova.”

Nova blinked "What?"

“Lass, we’re going shopping, not storming a compound.”

Even Ghost ,let out a subtle snort behind his mask.

Nova looked down at herself, then back up. “This is what I have.”

Ghost eyed her for a beat, then tilted his head. “You own zero civilian clothes?”

“…Yes.”

Soap grinned like he’d won the lottery. “Right. First stop? Clothes for the human terminator.”

Nova crossed her arms, unimpressed. “This seems unnecessary.”

“It’s called blending in, love,” Soap said, pulling a black surgical mask from his pocket. “At least swap the balaclava for this. You’ll look less like you’re about to rob the place.”

The balaclava had become a shield—more than protection, it was anonymity, control. Swapping it out left her uneasy.

Ghost noticed the hesitation, his gaze subtle but knowing.

Before the moment could stretch, Gaz stepped forward, holding out a pair of dark aviator shades and a simple black cap.

“Here,” he said gently. “Low profile. Still you.”

She took them slowly, went back to her room, slid the balaclava off with deliberate hands. Her face remained partially hidden as she pulled the cap low and settled the shades over her eyes. Then she put on the mask Soap handed her.

When she came, Soap gave her a thumbs-up. “Now you look like someone who listens to phonk and drinks overpriced coffee.”

“You look fine,” Ghost added, tone quieter, grounding.

Nova didn’t reply but something in her shoulders eased.

For the first time in a long time, she stepped out into the civilian world.

Not as a weapon.

But as a person.

The mall was busy.

Children darted between food stalls, couples strolled hand-in-hand, and every other store blasted pop music through open doors. It was a far cry from safehouses, concrete hallways, and battlefield silence.

Nova walked just a step behind the team, hood up, cap low, sunglasses firm. Her mask hid her jaw, but her eyes constantly scanned corners, exits, crowds. Her mind refused to shut off its tactical overlay.

“You can relax, y’know,” Soap said, glancing over as they passed a store window with mannequins in glittering dresses. “No hostiles. Just screaming toddlers.”

Nova ignored the comment but when a cluster of teens walked by too closely, she instinctively shifted her weight and reached for a knife that wasn’t there.

Gaz saw it and gently bumped her shoulder. “Hey. You’re off duty. That means no slicing civilians.”

“It feels exposed,” she admitted under her breath.

“You’re with us,” Gaz replied. "Chill"

At a clothing store

Soap stormed in like he owned the place, grabbing outfits left and right.

“Alright, Miss Nova what’s your style? Tactical goth? Sweet librarian? ‘I could kill you with a pen chic?”

Nova stood near the entrance like a statue.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I’ve never… picked clothes before.”

Gaz raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never shopped?”

“I was issued uniforms. For everything...everywhere.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Soap tossed her a dark blue hoodie. “We’re starting with this. With your height we probably need to go to men's section for jeans. Here ,try it on.”

Minutes later, Nova emerged in a hoodie and jeans—nothing flashy, just… simple.

Soap clapped. “Look at that! You’ve leveled up from ‘spec ops’ to ‘moody student.’”

She frowned at her reflection in the mirror. “It feels… light.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Gaz said, handing her a pair of sneakers. “You don’t always need armor to protect yourself.”

Ghost watched quietly. The tension in her frame was subtle, but he saw it. The stiffness in her shoulders. The darting eyes beneath the shades. Even in civilian clothes, Nova was always bracing for the next fight.

Still, she was here.

She was trying.

And for the team, that meant everything.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @hyperfixiation-station , @massivescissorsthingperson , @sweetybuzz25 , @kaoyamamegami , @sheepispink , @enfppuff , @warrior-xe.

#ghost cod #john price #john soap mactavish #cod fandom #cod x reader #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #task force 141 #black nova #call of duty

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boss-poss · 2 years ago

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See, Lethal Company's real genius is that it somehow marries two normally opposed genres, those being horror and comedy together into something greater. Mechanically it's a multiplayer looter extraction survival type game. It's designed to create stressful and scary situations by forcing you to speedrun mini randomized dungeons while monsters hunt your character to meet a certain quota (our asses are not making quota). That's not the clever part though, no, that's giving the players the ability to fuck themselves over and the hilarity that comes from it.

Anything you say into your mic is said in the game world and can be heard by certain monsters. Many items, similarly, can be used to make noise and you can bet there is little impulse control when a player finds an air horn or gets a walkie talkie. The sound of a distant honk somewhere out of nowhere is not something most players are prepared for while in a pitch black maze. Sound in this game has a doppler effect, which makes it harder to hear the further away the source is, allowing screams to fade into nothing and unintelligible yelling heard for a second before vanishing. You must rely on your senses but those are, by design, limited and regularly tricked.

Because level layouts, monster locations, and item spawns are all random, it's insanely easy to get lost or lose track of thigs, especially in the dark and especially when panicking. Seeing a bracken for the first time will almost certainly send a player running in the opposite direction and get lost, if they even see it all. No one is prepared to have a hand wrap around their face and snap their neck in an instant. It's utterly shocking and will leave you gasping in surprise to first time you experience it.

Certain weather patterns make levels harder, some even nearly impossible (looking at you eclipse), and sometimes your options are avoiding deadly lightning or not being able to see due to fog. High level moons have excessively valuable loot but also feature the worst foes and cost a fee to access, forcing a compromise between greed, ability, and resources.

Dying, likewise incurs a penalties. Your team is fined for dying and not bringing the bodies back but if you all die, all your collected loot goes poof. Gone. A team wipe can and will effectively end the run in an instant if you do something stupid like stick around when you hear "pop goes the weasel" or try to pick up that funny looking roomba. You can almost feel the pressure weighing down on your shoulders when you realize you're the last one left and you need to get back to the ship or miss the quota.

The monsters likewise, are engines of terror that are comically effective killing machines with no cohesive theme to help anticipate them. The already mentioned bracken is one of the scariest things I've seen in a game, and those technically aren't even that bad. They're completely manageable if you keep your head on a swivel and pay attention to your surroundings. Coilheads are these mannequins with bobble heads that will path to and kill you in a microsecond the moment you aren't looking at them, weeping angel style. There's a thing called the ghost girl that I have yet to see but is apparently one of the most terrifying critters in the menagerie. Forest giants. If you know, you know.

All these little mechanics, these choices that are made by and for the player, create a maelstrom of unpredictable chaos that, like a buxom blond transforming into an orgasming pooltoy, turns what would be strictly serious horror into a unique form of dark comedy that layers over it like jelly on peanut butter. You are scared, you are on edge, and it only gets worse when you know what these things are capable of, but the sheer hopelessness is something you all have in common. It's funny how little hope you have. You will die. A monster will wipe your team. There will eventually come a quota you can't beat. You were doomed from the start.

So why not get silly with it? Why not try to fight that bracken with shovel? Fuck him. Why not just run past a turret and try to nab that fat jar of pickles? Why not wander off from the group? You're just as likely to come back with arms loaded and the quota met as you are likely to not come back at all. You're already dead, so take the gamble, do stupid shit, repeat this hell until you can meet its horrors with grim determination and put in the effort to afford that goddamn boombox. Dance. Just press 1 and dance the fear away.

You are all united in your mortality and duty, fragile sacks of flesh working to break even at the behest of perhaps the greatest horror of all: The company you work for. You are so preposterously fucked beyond all belief from every angle there really isn't enough adjectives to describe it. And that's comedy baby, when things are so bad all you can do is laugh.

#lethal company #indie games #legit one of the best games I've played all year and only $10 #THIS is what games should be #goofing off with the lads while surrounded by the horrors

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batneko · 5 months ago

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I cannot believe disneyland replaced the bride in the haunted mansion and somehow made her worse in every possible way. They could have brought back the beating heart or made her less violent or whatever, without making the ride sad. No one goes to disneyland to be sad! The effects look awful too, projection on a flat wall is not an improvement over projections on a mannequin, no matter how bad the mannequin looked (and it looked bad) at least it was an object. The new bride doesn't move or have an expression, she's just... flat. and there. sucking. Going from "boohoo this bride was widowed" straight to the goofy cartoony hatbox ghost is not a fun dichotomy, it's just uneven.

the article I read, it's really clear the lead imagineer doesn't understand the fans. She was complaining that they found AI art in the gift shop and got mad about it. It doesn't matter if it was a placeholder, literally anything would be a better placeholder than AI. You just harmed the environment. An empty spot on the wall would not harm the environment.

#disneyland #haunted mansion

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amoistkidneybean · 1 month ago

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Jayvik writing piece 1/3(?)

The effects of the ravine, and loss of sleep. Jayce-centric, hurt/comfort, 775 words

Jayce can't remember what it feels like to have a good night's sleep.

All the late nights blend together, 2am's spent thinking himself in circles, scribbling restlessly in his notebook. It's not unfamiliar to him; he did spend his academy days running on four hours of sleep and enough caffeine to kill a small horse.

But this isn't like those nights. No, this is like the times he'd wake up crying as a kid, his mind back in the storm that almost killed him. His leg aches, and he can't quite tell if the pain is really there this time or not.

He tries to distract himself, turning his gaze beside him. Viktor snores softly, sprawled out over soft sheets, taking up far more space than should be possible given his size. He looks so peaceful, the lines of tension melted by the stillness of sleep. Jayce's fingers itch to immortalize his partner in pencil strokes, grabbing his notebook and a pencil from the nightstand.

He tries to capture the angles of Viktor's face, though he quickly gives up out of frustration, tossing his notebook aside.

It bounces off the bed, falling open on the floor.

Jayce sighs, curling into the space beside Viktor. He wants to lose himself in the presence of the other man, but a piece of that place is still in him, wedged into his chest like a shard of glass. If he closes his eyes, it starts to dig deeper.

He hears the drip, drip, drip of water hitting the stone floor, the distant clicking of things lying in wait for him.

Then come the smells, morphing into tastes. Musty, damp air, so thick he could taste it, tainted with the stench of his own blood. The acrid flesh of countless cave lizards, hardly kept down. Wetness on his face, dribbling into his beard as he drank desperately from the cave pool, lapping at it like the animal it made him.

It swallows him.

The guilt, gnawing at him, scraping away parts of him like flesh from a bone. Ravenous. Thorough.

He sees faces, figures, all of people that weren't really there. Mel. Viktor. Viktor.

He has this overwhelming sense of filth, shame, loneliness.

"Jayce?"

He opens his eyes.

Viktor's lithe fingers trail gently against Jayce's cheek, wiping tears from his skin "Hello"

"I'm okay" he whispers, because he doesn't know what else he can say.

Viktor quirks an eyebrow, but doesn't outright question him. It's a silent invitation to speak, reserved for when he's trying to drag information out of Jayce.

"Just lost in thought, I guess"

Viktor sighs, gazing at him "Jayce, moje lásko, you know better than to lie to me. I can tell it's more than that"

"Sorry" He says reflexively.

Viktor silences him with a chaste press of his lips. Jayce sits up as they part, arms wrapped around his good leg, chin resting atop them. Viktor sits up as well, reaching out to stroke his hair.

"I was thinking about that timeline I showed you. The one where everything goes-" he shudders.

"Mh?"

"I didn't really tell you the whole story. How I hurt my leg. Why I've been so jumpy"

"Nor are you obligated to do so. But if you feel comfortable sharing, I will listen" The tips of Viktor's fingers rub small circles into his scalp.

"I-" it all tries to rush out of his mouth at once, and he chokes on it.

Viktor shuffles closer, wrapping an arm around his chest and draping himself over his back "Would it help if I asked you questions?"

Viktor's chin hooks over his shoulder, breath ghosting the side of his neck. He nods, grasping for the hand pressed to his chest.

"What happened to your leg?"

"I was trying to run from those mannequin things, and I tripped" he swallows thickly "Hammer fell on my leg and crushed my tibia."

Viktor winces sympathetically.

"After that, I fell into a ravine. Probably got concussed when I hit the bottom, because I was definitely out for longer than I should've been. Had to set my leg, eventually," He shudders, a memory of nausea bubbling up, "I don't actually know how long I spent down there, but- let's just say I had to eat a lot of really gross cave lizards." He chuckles weakly, trying to lighten the mood.

Viktor doesn't laugh.

"Sorry" He says again. It feels like he says that a lot, really. He wishes he could stop doing things he needs to apologize for.

Viktor holds him ever so slightly tighter, "You have nothing to be sorry for, má lásko. Nothing at all."

#jayvik #arcane season 2 #jayce talis #viktor arcane #fic post #writing #Arcane

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mirza-rafi-official · 1 year ago

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#neck joint service #ghost mannequin service #ghost mannequin #ghost mannequin effect #mannequin #invisible mannequin #ghost mannequin neck joint services #photoshop ghost mannequin service effect #ghost mannequin services #ghost mannequin photography service #ghost mannequin photo editing services #clipping path service #neck joint #neck joint services #photoshop ghost mannequin #photoshop neck joint #ghost mannequin technique #neck joint photoshop

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triangularitydubs · 1 month ago

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Act 111

Part 6

She didn't know what to believe, but she knew one thing: she had to get away from Bone Pastor and his chilling accusations.

She didn't want to think about Xaine in this way, but the ghost's words echoed in her mind as she ran, planting seeds of doubt and confusion in the digital soil of her mind.

Jaxx, Gangle, and Kinger stood once more before the towering Gloinx Queen, a gaudy monument to monochrome madness. Her single, cyclopean eye glared down at them.

"You foolish assortment of monotone characters!" she boomed, her voice echoing through the cavernous room. "Do you not realize everything must be Gloinx!? I am Gloinx! You will be Gloinx! God will be Gloinx!"

Jaxx rolled his eyes. "This is dumb and weird," he muttered, directing a look of utter distaste at Gangle.

The Gloinx Queen sputtered, momentarily thrown off balance. "Well, b- uh... Y- Yet you're still watching it!"

"I'm not here for the fight or anything," Jaxx clarified, his tone bored. "I'm just here to hide from the..."

Before he could finish, a horrifying, fleshy mass slammed into the Gloinx Queen, sending a shockwave through the room.

It was Kaufmox.

The impact knocked Kinger sideways, pinning him against the wall with a sharp jab from Zooble's detached head, which had somehow become lodged in the chaos.

"Oh, thank god you're okay!" Kinger exclaimed, relieved.

"You didn't experience anything wacky world like in there, did you?"

Zooble, seemingly oblivious, gave him a blank stare. "Uh... I... What are you talking about?"

The scene devolved into utter mayhem as Abstracted Kaufmox, a whirlwind of limbs and teeth, relentlessly pummeled the Gloinx Queen.

Cartoony sound effects punctuated the brutal assault.

"What's happening!?" Gangle cried, her ribbon mask twisting in confusion.

"It's just Kaufmox," Jaxx said, his voice flat, betraying no sympathy for the abstracted clown. "Don't worry about it."

Gangle, clutching her mask, responded with sarcastic concern, "Is that a cross out?"

"Nah, he's fine," Jaxx repeated, his apathy unwavering.

Kinger, however, was far from fine. He was trapped. "YOU'RE RIGHT! HOW ARE WE GONNA GET OUT OF HERE!?" he wailed, his crown askew.

Zooble, ever the pragmatist, pointed a limb towards the back of the chamber. "Guys, over there."

Kinger squinted, then his expression shifted to relief. "Huh."

They all started walking towards what appeared to be an escalator – a bizarre, anachronistic addition to the Gloinx hole.

"Ladies first," Jaxx said, momentarily adopting a chivalrous tone.

Then, as quickly as it appeared, the pretense vanished.

"No wait, why would I say that?"

He shoved Gangle unceremoniously aside.

Zooble, clearly agitated, finally voiced a long-simmering complaint. "Wait... XDDCC's not even here!? Wasn't this whole thing for her?!"

"Be quiet," Jaxx snapped, cutting off Zooble's rant.

"I can't hear the escalator..."

He closed his eyes, a strange serenity washing over his face.

He was genuinely enjoying the rhythmic whirring and clicking of the machinery.

It was the only sound in this maddening place that seemed remotely normal.

He let it drown out the screams of the Gloinx Queen and the guttural roars of Abstracted Kaufmox.

He completely ignored his friends, their fear, pain, and even anger.

He was simply listening to the escalator, which to him was the only thing that mattered in this moment.

He was at peace, at least for now.

The scene was a symphony of forced laughter and smiles. Xaine, ever the showman, was doubled over, clutching his sides.

"Oh, Bubble, you always know how to make me say that exact sentence. Weirdly enough."

He straightened, the manufactured mirth vanishing as quickly as it appeared.

Bubble, ever the sycophant, just giggled, her eyes wide and vacant.

Around them, mannequins eating, talking, and laughing thrmselves.

Bleep!

The shrill alert from Xaine's X-Watch sliced through the artificial merriment. "Ugh," he groaned, rolling his eyes heavenward.

An obnoxious advertisement for the device plastered itself across the screen – a shimmering, self-congratulatory display of digital narcissism.

"An alert on my X-Watch at this hour? Seriously?"

The screen shifted, displaying a crude radar map, a blip pulsating urgently in the swirling, chaotic expanse of the Void.

Xaine's eyes widened, not with concern, but with exasperation.

"Oh, no! Someone's venturing out into the Void!" he exclaimed, his voice dripping with theatrical horror. "They'll get Crossed Out for sure!!"

The idea of someone messing with his carefully curated digital world was clearly a far greater transgression than their potential demise.

With a dismissive flick of his wrist, he teleported out of the restaurant, into the unsettling emptiness of the Void.

It took him mere seconds to locate XDDCC, adrift in the swirling chaos, her eyes glazed over in a trance.

He grabbed her unceremoniously and yanked her back into the relative safety of the circus grounds.

He dropped her to the floor with a careless thud.

"There you go!" he declared, as if rescuing her was an act of immense kindness rather than damage control.

XDDCC blinked, slowly regaining her senses. Xaine, oblivious to her inner turmoil, was already surveying the scene.

"Now, what the heck happened around here?" he muttered, his gaze sweeping over the wreckage.

He paused, a flicker of amusement crossing his face.

"Oh yeah – my doing. Oops." He adopted a jovial tone again, the brief glimpse of his true, callous nature quickly suppressed.

Kinger, still desperately clutching Zooble's severed head, rushed towards him, his voice a frantic squeak. "Xaine! Kaufmox went through a sort of Kaufmosis and Crossed Out!"

Xaine manifested with a disconcerting pop, a flicker of confusion momentarily marring his perpetually grinning face. "Kaufmox Crossed Out? Nonsense. Did I do that?"

XDDCC stared at Xaine, a flicker of irritation in her eyes that he completely ignored.

With a snap of his fingers, Xaine summoned the abstracted Kaufmox, now a snarling, glitching mess of digital fury.

"And into the cellar you go," he said dismissively. "I'll investigate that later. Maybe."

He opened a gaping hole in the floor, the lightless depths of The Cellar yawning below, and shoved Kaufmox down without a second thought.

Later, after Zooble had begrudgingly reattached their head, they remarked, "Man, I can't believe Kaufmox just gave up like that. I mean, no offense Kinger, but I always thought you would be next."

Kinger, surprisingly, beamed at the backhanded compliment. "Thank you!"

"Guess it just goes to show you can't rely on Kinger for anything," Jaxx sniped, earning a glare from the oversized Chess Piece.

Suddenly, the glitched and jittering Ragatha crawled up to Xaine, her voice a garbled mess. "I am in so much pain!"

Xaine rolled his eyes. "Oop!" With another snap of his fingers, he reversed the glitching on both Ragatha and XDDCC's hand, smoothing out their imperfections like digital wrinkles.

Ragatha, now painfully aware of her restored state, stood beside XDDCC. Both look down in guilt, not looking at each other.

Xaine finally addressed the elephant in the room, his tone laced with sardonic amusement.

"I do have to apologize for lying about the exit."

He paused, letting the words sink in.

"I knew how much all of you have been wanting there to be one, but, you know, I was having so much trouble figuring out what to put on the other side and ended up never quite finishing it." He shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

"And you know how I never like letting people see my unfinished work…"

XDDCC stood there, her head hanging low, the weight of her actions pressing down on her.

Xaine continued, his voice taking on a sharper edge.

"Especially if it leads you out into the Void. Anyway, it looks like you defeated the Gloinx Queen, so I guess the adventure's over. Your reward is a delicious digital feast cooked by our head Bubble Chef. Try not to choke on it."

The last sentence was delivered with a thinly veiled sneer, a clear indication that the “reward” was more for his own amusement than theirs.

Bubble bounced into existence beside the impossibly long table, a pristine chef's hat perched jauntily on her head.

She brandished a spatula and knife with an unsettling glee.

"Tada! Made with all the love I'm legally allowed to give," she announced, her voice bright.

But as she gazed at the spread of brightly colored, suspiciously perfect food, her smile faltered.

"… legally allowed to give," she repeated, the words trailing off into a disconcerting whisper.

Jaxx, ever the opportunist, rubbed his stomach dramatically. "You know, I am pretty hungry."

Gangle, draped in her usual melancholic ribbons, deadpanned, "You didn't even do anything."

"So what?" Jaxx retorted, his voice laced with annoyance. "I can still be hungry."

Kinger, his crown slightly askew, puffed out his chest. "Well, not really, 'cause we don't need to eat, drink, or sleep in this digital world. So the digital food here only gives off the virtual sensation of eating without any of the nutritional benefits."

He adjusted his bandana, clearly pleased with his own words.

"Sheesh, lay off it," Jaxx grumbled. "Since when are you an expert on the digital world?"

"Expert on the what?" Kinger asked, instantly forgetting what he was talking about.

His eyes glazed over, and he began muttering about insects.

While Kinger rambled, XDDCC, who'd been quietly standing at the table, abruptly snapped into a strange trance.

She stared down at her plate, her usual chirpy demeanor vanishing.

The food, rendered in garish, almost plastic colors, resembled something from a child’s play kitchen.

A look of pure, unadulterated horror spread across her face. The others, oblivious, continued their bickering and oblivious chatter.

Slowly, her horrified expression began to twist. Her eyes wide and unsettling, and then… she cracked a big, insane, and rather creepy-looking toothy smile.

"CHOKE ON IT!" Bubble suddenly shrieked, her voice mimicking Xaine's perfectly, adding a shrill, gleeful tone. "Because dying is FUNNY!"

She waved her spatula with manic energy, her smile mirroring XDDCC's disturbing grin.

It all moved away from the unsettling dinner scene.

It ascended to the top of The Tent, showcasing its ridiculous grandeur, then panned across The Grounds, highlighting their unsettling artificiality. The lens then plunged into The Void, a swirling vortex of nothingness that seemed to whisper secrets of forgotten code.

Finally, the camera drifted out, impossibly far, to Bone Pastor, a desolate landscape of jagged, pixelated bones.

The image hung there, a stark reminder of the digital prison they all inhabited, a place where hunger was a lie, death was a joke, and the line between sanity and madness was thinner than a single line of code.

#the amazing digital circus #tadc au #tadc #the amazing digital circus au #theamazingdigitalcircus #tadc fanart #cross circus #tadc cross circus #tadc pomni #tadc jax #zooble tadc #kinger the amazing digital circus #gangle the amazing digital circus #caine my beloved #Xaine

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thesnazzysharky · 1 year ago

Text

Analyzing and reviewing all the updated models in the SOUP update for SJSM

Because why not?

Specimen 2 / Gel

The guy who wants to give you your wallet. Dude is mad skinny and more skeletal now. Although, unlike the other skinny redesigns (which I will get into later), I actually don't mind how Gel looks here. Considering the fact he was most likely a human at some point, a human who most likely was on the verge of dying from starvation and thirst, I can see Gel looking like this.

Not to mention, his new animations are pretty cool too! The animation with him rising out of the goo puddle looks more interesting now and I like how his attacking animation is much more animalistic and aggressive compared to his awkward and kinda stiff attacking animation in the original HDR. My only complaint is that his rising animation should be more slower and less choppy. Otherwise? A pretty solid model.

Specimen 3 / Subject 5

The cutie patootie spiderpede. Another decent one. He has been given a bit more texture to his body and he has a much more rounded appearance overall such as his body segments and head. His legs are a bit more thinner which looks more unnerving imo. A cool little detail that was given to him is that his pincers now move! A very unnerving sight to see. I'm not a fan of how he's more bright in color and the animation on his legs looks quite janky looking. Also maybe it's just me, but he doesn't seem as big as his previous model. Other than that, this model is pretty solid and is a bit more scarier than the previous model, but it has some downsides.

Specimen 4 / Ringu

Vore ghost woman. Ngl, I was pretty scared when I saw little snippets of Ringu's new model. I thought she was going to be made into a skinny stick like some other models. While that ended up being somewhat true, like in her upper torso region, her arms, and neck, it's not too noticeable or atrocious.

Her hair has become longer, her skin has a bit more texture to it, her breasts are more pronounced, her arms are a bit longer, her hands are bit longer and sharper, her clothes are a pastel purple color, and the blood on her hands are more brightly colored.

My favorite new detail however is that instead of her legs being a solid black color, her legs are now half white half black. Giving off this cool little effect, like the black part is engulfing her legs or something.

What I'm iffy on is the color of her clothes. Why change it? Although I suppose it doesn't look bad, I prefer the old gray look. I also prefer the more dried blood look on her hands with her older model. Other than that, I actually enjoy this model more than I thought I would, especially taking into account the new floating animation that was given to her, which is a very good and smooth animation that is a huge improvement from the last one. I really like this one!

Specimen 5 / Bab

Jesus christ! We were having a decent streak going. What the fuck happened here? What were they thinking? Let's see... so they made Bab go from looking like a mannequin to looking like a stick, alright... Her head is less humanoid and looks more like a deformed cube... She has this weird texture given to her legs for some reason... Her sword is pointing downwards which makes her lose some intimidation... The holes in her face which were only visible in her death screen are now fully visible in gameplay for some reason... and because of her whole body and textures being drastically changed, you can no longer tell she's supposed to be a reference to Silent Hill... AND THEY GOT RID OF MY GIRLS CURVES!

Yeah... there's nothing redeeming here. The model just sucks in pretty much every single way. Definitely the worst model this update has to offer.

Specimen 6 / Ben

Stabby puppet guy. Now I've seen a few folks crapping on Ben, but I don't think he looks too bad. He definitely got a massive change in terms of textures, but otherwise he looks mostly the same to me. I personally like the shading that was done to his face. Makes his facial expressions really pop out and he looks a bit more intimidating overall. I especially like this shot from the trailer where the room is dark and the flashlight is shining solely on him. Was pretty unnerving on my first viewing.

Is this my idle version of Ben? No. I still prefer the original model due to the Ben Drowned and Happy Mask Salesman references being more clear and although I find the redesign to be more intimidating, I also think that it tries a bit too hard. One thing that I liked about Ben was that he seems like an ordinary and somewhat friendly looking puppet at first, before you start making a run for it once he goes after you. This one is more on the nose. Decent model nonetheless.

Specimen 8 / Deer Lord

"Deer" lord! (sorry, I had to). Funnily enough, while everyone else got the skinny treatment, it seems like the deer man got a bit wider. He also had his textures changed a bit, his snout angled more downwards with more blocky and yellow teeth rather than sharp and white ones, his height slightly decreased, and his eyes look slightly bigger.

Other than that, there's not much to say about Deer Lord's new model other than it looks great. Especially with the new textures he was given when he opens his cloak.

I still prefer the old model due to it looking more scary, thanks to the height and more thin look, but the new model is still pretty good.

Specimen 10 / Parasite

Annnnnndddd back to trash... Yeah this model sucks. I still remember first seeing this thing from Ryan J's video and laughing my ass off. The ridiculous walking animation, the over exaggerated and way too floppy arms, and the overall terrible and bland textures. Just a trash model all around... until...

They listened to the community and updated the textures! And I'm pretty sure they mentioned somewhere that the animations would be slowed down too. I still prefer the original model, but this is a massive improvement from what we previously got and I feel like I could potentially get used to this model and even start to prefer it to the old one if they get the animations correctly (not sure about the ass cheeks, but those are there too, I guess lol).

Specimen 11 / Beef Demon

Funny beef man. This one is a mixed bag to me. I really like the goat legs, the creepy arms, and horns, but everything else screws it all up. Yet again, bro has been made skinny for no apparent reason and has lost his intimidating bulky build. His head also looks too small and his eyes look too big and odd. If he kept his bulk and his head was changed up a bit, he would probably look a lot better, but for now, this model is unfortunately kinda bad. Not much else to say.

Specimen 12 / The Sickle Man

Weird ass lonely old man. We haven't gotten a full glimpse of him yet, but we do have this screenshot. He seems darker in overall color and he looks a lot more detailed with some nice shading going on. From what little I can see, he looks pretty good!

Specimen 13 / Siren

Piano keys for teeth lady. Her model seems to be the same. So not much to say there. Although we do get to see her swimming in the water! Which has its positives and negatives. The fear of the unknown factor is lost now that she's visible, but at the same time it's really cool to actually see her instead of just only seeing her model sitting on a box and then disappearing once she goes into the water.

Unknown Specimen 2 / Otto the Otter

Har Har Har Har Har. Okay. This one is definitely a step up and is the 2nd best new model from this update. The more detailed textures, the added grim, the bits of metal, his new walking animation... it's all so great! The only negatives is that his eyes don't glow and you could say that his older model being so low quality was apart of the joke and what made him so charming. So although I really like this model, there is a sense of charm that is lost from the old one. Still very great though!

Unknown Specimen 3 / Spooper

Mpreg parasite. We hadn't got to get a super close look at Spooper yet, but from what I can see, his model looks great! Mostly just the same, aside from more detail and having different colored shoes.

Other things

The specimens weren't the only things that got an update!

The subjects in the test tubes now have 3d models which look pretty great.

The old Specimen 10 has a new model and it looks amazing! Easily the best model from this entire update.

And to wrap things up, the White Cat finally has a 3d model now. Although her fatass head makes her look like she got stung by 1 million bees, it also makes her look adorable and squishable, so I don't mind. Plus I like the little transparent effect on her lower body. Makes her come across as very otherworldly.

Verdict

So, I honestly don't think the SOUP update is downright horrible like some people say. However, I will say it's definitely a mixed bag in terms of quality and I can see what people mean when they talk about how these models diminish Kira's vision and thus their charm is lost. The only models I prefer to the old ones are Specimen 2 and 4's along with the test tube subjects, the old Specimen 10, and the White Cat. All the other ones are either equal to or downright worse than their old models.

I'll wait and see until the update comes out. Maybe I'll warm up to some of these more (except for fucking Bab. All my homies hate the new Bab). Anyways, thanks for reading and have a great day.

#sjsm #shojs #spookys house of jumpscares #spooky's house of jumpscares #spookys jumpscare mansion #spooky's jumpscare mansion #soup update

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