#idk how its spelled canonically

[shrimpchirps]

HARK!

Truely a creature to behold

[brainrot-stitch]

Anyways. Jrwi related doodles from the wb. Can u guess who my fav characte r is..

[ghost-bard]

Viv and Vex my beloveds i love them so much i love little freaks i love weirdos i love odd scientists

Their only downfall is that they work for FUCKING EDWARD TWILIGHT

[vanikey]

i fear ive spent too much time creating my 3 canon rooks' backgrounds/histories/personalities/fashions that its going to be impossible to play them in game accurately

[coridallasmultipass]

.

[barnabybrainrot]

—-

[princekirijo]

Actually one last remake post I promise but I was reading the persona 5 royal cut dialog content last night specifically the comments characters make about the outfits they wear in the metaverse and I thought of something. In the dialogue they say that Gekkoukan High is in Odaiba in Tokyo but in P3 itself it's not mentioned where it is and it's sorta implied to be in a different city entirely. I wonder if in the remake they'll end up saying its in Tokyo after all?

[s1gmagirl]

me coming back to the tmf fandom after being gone for 2 years

[lucygraysboy]

“hm?  what  do  you  mean?”  billy  purses  his  lips  to  keep  from  grinning  goofily,  his  eyes  twinkling  with  amusement  as  they  linger  on  lucy  gray’s  flushed  visage.  she’s  so  genuinely  innocent  that  he  almost  feels  bad  for  having  this  conversation  with  her  in  the  first  place.  “it’s  not  always  easy  to  wait  when  you’re  both  attracted  to  each  other,  and…”  he  pauses,  not  sure  how  to  put  his  thoughts  into  words  without  sounding  like  a  heartless  asshole  to  this  sweet,  angelic  girl  who  clearly  is  more  on  the  naive  side  when  it  comes  to  romance,  “you  don’t  want  to  marry  every  single  person  you  take  into  your  bed.  sometimes  sparks  fly,  but  you  both  know  it’s  only  temporary  and  there’s  no  hard  feelings  when  you  go  your  separate  ways.”  of  course,  he  has  to  think  of  alice  and  how  miserable  he’d  be  if  they  had  to  spend  their  entire  lives  together,  but  he’s  not  the  kind  of  man  who  kisses  and  tells  so  he  doesn’t  bring  her  up  as  an  example.  

“i  really  like  your  way  of  thinking,”  even  if  he  doesn’t  live  by  these  rules  that  are  so  dear  to  her  heart,  “but  what  happens  when  you’ve  already  promised  to  love  each  other  for  life  and  then  it  turns  out  you’re  not  compatible?  i  don’t  think  god  wants  us  to  be  miserable  or  truly  minds  if  we  experiment  before  settling  down.”  shrugging,  he  doesn’t  want  to  say  something  that  will  offend  her,  but  this  perfect  kind  of  love,  where  two  people  wait  to  tie  the  knot  and  then  live  happily  ever  after,  happens  mostly  in  fairytales.  “it  doesn’t  have  to  be  serious,  lucy  gray,  and  just  because  it’s  not  serious  doesn’t  immediately  mean  it’s  reckless.”  a  soft  sigh  escapes  his  lips,  his  gaze  falling  onto  her  hands,  struggling  not  to  look  up  and  marvel  at  these  cute,  burning  cheeks  of  hers.  he’s  not  trying  to  change  her  mind  or  corrupt  her,  but  she  should  know  that  love  comes  in  different  forms  and  sizes.  “and  that’s  perfectly  alright,  feeling  the  way  you’re  feeling.  it’s  okay.  you  don’t  have  to  prove  anything  to  anyone.”  he  doesn’t  want  her  to  worry  there  might  be  something  wrong  with  her,  the  way  he  felt  when  jesse  first  had  a  similar  conversation  with  him,  and  so  he  briefly  rests  his  hand  on  her  knee.  a  gentle  squeeze  to  comfort  her  and  then  it’s  gone,  not  trying  to  be  flirtatious,  just  a  good  friend.  “i’d  say  it’s  the  other  way  ‘round.  it  starts  with  pleasure,”  god,  why  does  this  word  taste  so  strange  on  his  tongue  all  the  sudden?  “and  babies  are  a  bonus.  an  afterthought.”  it  would  be  so  very  awkward  if  pleasure  didn’t  matter,  if  people  only  made  love  when  they  wanted  to  have  a  baby.

“i  won’t  hurt  you,  i  swear  it,”  he  repeats,  using  his  forefinger  to  gently  tilt  her  chin  up  and  make  her  look  him  in  the  eyes  before  taking  her  hands  into  his.  whereas  trust  is  the  most  important  thing  to  her,  this  is  the  most  important  thing  to  him  —  making  sure  the  ones  he  cares  about  know  they  can  rely  on  him  at  all  times  and  feel  safe  around  him.  “my  father  was  a  good  but  weak  man.  it  didn’t  matter  if  he  was  or  wasn’t  there.  he  couldn’t  protect  his  family.  my  ma  could  never  count  on  him.”  why  is  he  telling  her  this?  must  be  these  glossy  eyes  of  hers,  gleaming  in  the  last  rays  of  the  dying  sun,  so  warm  right  before  it  conceals  itself  over  the  horizon.  she  pulls  on  the  strings  of  his  heart  without  even  meaning  to.  “my  stepfather  was  even  worse  ‘cause  he  wasn’t  a  good  man.  he  could  never  hold  a  job  either,  didn’t  have  much  to  his  name,  not  that  it  stopped  him  from  frequent  visits  at  the  local  brothel.  nobody  ever  felt  safe  around  those  men,  not  my  ma,  not  joe…  and  so  i  promised  myself  to  never  be  like  them,  that  i’d  do  everything  in  my  power  to  never  hurt  the  ones  close  to  me.  what  i’m  tryin’  to  say  is  —  you  don’t  have  to  worry,  lucy  gray.  i  really  won’t  hurt  you.”  he  doesn’t  expect  her  to  trust  him  immediately,  knows  it  will  take  time,  but  he’ll  try  his  best  to  make  it  happen  one  day.

“so,  i’m  very  much  ready  to  take  on  this  challenge  and  make  sundance  and  spirit  jealous  of  our  friendship,”  he  laughs  softly,  letting  go  of  her  hands  and  cupping  her  warm  cheek.  his  thumb  caressing  the  skin  beneath  her  eye,  willing  to  wipe  away  any  tears  that  might  roll  down  her  face  and  pretend  he’s  never  seen  a  thing.  “yeah,  it  does,  doesn’t  it?  and  it  stinks  like  a  mammoth’s  fart.”  suddenly,  his  only  job  is  bringing  back  that  dazzling  smile  that  never  fails  to  make  his  heart  miss  a  beat.  “what  do  you  say  i  fix  you  a  bath  and  go  clean  up  the  mess  we’ve  left  in  your  bedroom?”  he  offers,  lowering  his  hand  into  his  lap  when  he  realizes  he  shouldn’t  be  getting  handsy  with  her.  “and  how  long  do  you  think  it  takes  to  grab  a  girl  like  you?  a  split  second  is  all  it  takes,  lucy  gray.”  trying  to  refrain  from  shaking  his  head  as  she  continues  to  rub  lotion  into  his  skin,  he  restores  to  huffing  and  shrugging  his  shoulders.  “you’re  very  welcome.”  giggling  as  her  skilled  fingertips  trail  down  the  side  of  his  face,  tickling  his  skin  and  making  it  tingle,  leaving  it  slightly  flushed.  he  loves  being  pampered  and  so  he  doesn’t  even  try  to  protest  when  she  moves  to  his  hands,  coating  both  of  them  in  this  shiny  substance.  “true,  but  your  birthday  should  be  about  you.”  she’s  so  selfless  that  it  makes  him  wonder…  does  she  ever  put  herself  first?  “that  sounds  like  such  a  fun  day,  very  sweet  of  her  to  care  for  you  like  that.”  he  hopes  maude  ivory  won’t  mind  having  a  helper  around.  “and  there’s  a  lake  nearby?”  he  didn’t  notice,  not  that  it  surprises  him.  he  was,  after  all,  barely  conscious  when  he  got  here.

"why's it gotta happen at all? why can't the two people in the relationship wait on it to happen." lucy gray wonders, not realizing she sounds a little naive on how strong emotions work and how compatibility is important to most people. to her, when she thinks about it, if she really finds herself smitten for someone... it won't bother her how they work in a bedroom. eyes trailing off... well, she doesn't think. that wouldn't matter? right? or would it? a world of confusion blinds her trying to decide. "i do think they abuse god's word. take his word and use it to their awful advantage. but this isn't about those perverts. this is about how men are supposed to wait too, not just the girls of the human race. this is about how some people just find it more special, not rushin' into things. to some... it just sounds more special and beautiful to promise each other to love each other for life before sharin' their bodies. since that seems to be god's opinion." she points out. "what do you mean a good time?" she felt like she might puke her cheeks were burning so viciously, "a good time's watching a band play or going to a party. sharin' yourself with someone is much more serious than that. you just can't trust people like that, be so reckless. unless it just doesn't bother you i guess. but personally, for me, i have to know i can really trust them and that they really mean it when they say they love me." she definitely takes it serious, it's not just something to do recklessly for a good time in her mind. she'd feel like she'd been violated, if she decided to love someone and they left her. let alone expose herself and let them have her in such a vulnerable way. it's a terrible disgusting feeling thinking of it... there might be something wrong with her, she thinks. since apparently it didn't play on everybody's mind like that, like it did hers. "well, it starts with babies primarily. then the other thing secondly. both still are reserved for after marriage, though."

"okay, well that's true. but if you really won't hurt me then we can compete by bein' the best of friends. we'll make the horses and rabbits so jealous, they'll wanna be us." she decides with a giddy smile, since that's what she wanted and still wants to be reassured of... that he won't hurt her. and being told that, well that just strikes a nerve. even if he ends up not even meaning it... being told she won't be hurt by someone made her heart pang before causing emotions to well in the barrels of her honey eyes. she wasn't crying yet, but something of the way he said it made her eyes prick with tears. "gosh, that oil definitely leaves an itchy smell." blaming the oil and cloth being so close to her eyes, she thinks that could be a reasonable excuse in case it looks noticeable that lucy gray now worries about. then he puts the cloth down and closes his eyes which helps. the brunette stays quiet, smearing in lotion with both hands, rubbing it into both of his cheeks softly and then over his chin and forehead– brushing these dark little locks away so the lotion doesn't stick to his fresh clean hair. "i can't help but think you're a little crazy, thinkin' someone got me all in a matter of a minute or two?" she didn't know what he had to be paranoid like that before, because she's never lived a day in his shoes. "but..." as much as that CONFUSED her, brows knitting, "it's sweet. so thank you, for comin' to my rescue." she sheepishly laughed as features softened, truly not understanding his level of paranoia like that. but appreciative. smoothing lotion down his neck with little pats then taking his left hand, rubbing in a small spots of lotion into his skin there too then picking up his right hand, doing the same again. "both are good wishes," she corrects gently, wellbeing of her loved ones and these little things like a picnic and a necklace. "well, maude ivory usually makes it a fun day for me. it used to be my mama, but now it's maude ivory who usually brings me over a pastry and we go to the lake to play all day."

[koobiie]

bestowing my highest honor as an artist to ffxv (drawing the characters in fun outfits)

thoughts under the cut

RREAAAGHHHH SO EXCITED TO BE DONE WITH THIS!!!!! it took me forevarrrr but i soldiered through as an act of love. now excuse me. yap time

OKAY SO the concept behind this was originally specific fashion subcultures for everyone!l ike noct emo ignis dark academia etc. but then decided i didnt want to pigeonhole it all and just freestyled outfits i thought would look nice on everyone

noct - i do think noct would still be emo-ish but also opt for comfy baggy stuff a lot. something you could just fall asleep in on the spot. note the details of bass pro shop shirt (of course) XV necklace, little moon + stars accents, carbuncle + fish keychains. i also wanted his metal band logo shirt to spell LUCIS but i forgor some letters but its not very readable anyways

ignis - ignit ooohghh ignos ignaurs. sorry i made him serve so much cunt it will happen again. i drew him first cause that kind of inspired this whole thing i love him so bad if i didnt draw it id explode. not much detail to note except his collar pins are like his double blade thingies

luna - lunaaa the concept was “clean girl aesthetic” idk if that happened but im actually really happy with how it came out! might be my favorite of the bunch just because she looks so pretty and happy. your honor she should have been able to just be a normal girl and just. chill

prompto - prompotoooo i had trouble picking his vibe!!! my first thought was techwear?? because weeheeeehee he loves tech and well... you know... but then i realized i didnt really like the look of anything i saw + it was so bulky and dark and serious for him! ending up going with some more youthful and baggy. i was considering something more loud and colorful but ended up not going with it. i feel like in canon he'd be too nervous to have such a flashy fit and would want to just look "cool" to fit in with the boys lol. itty bitty details here - chocobo keychain, pompompurin and bi miku buttons, and his lanyard is kings knight themed! i also thought it was funny to write LUCIS on his shirt like you know those shirts that just say BROOKLYN or TOKYO or SAN FRANCISCO and thats it. thats what its like

gladio - okay i know this is going to sound like a lie but im not horny for gladio like at all, hes my least favorite, i think he's just alright. but also i KNOW in my heart of hearts that he would LOVE being a leather daddy and so i had to make it happen. main detail to note here is that his tank top has the motifs of a cup noodle! i didnt know what else to add cause you know.. hes the cup noodle guy.. but also i didnt want it to be so in your face about it with a big as logo so kept it subtle!

(side note the leather daddy gave me an idea for a post where its like noct and prom go to a gay bar all nervous but then they run into gladio and its like "p: GLADIO YOURE GAY?" "n: nevermind that PLEASE dont tell ignis we snuck out" and then ignis walks up and theyre all like WHAT THE FUCK!!!! caption would be "the gang finds out theyre all bisexual." probably wont draw it but i think its very funny lol)

iris - iris my sweetheart.... definitely leaned into the scene vibes here and also that one image of the blonde emo anime girl. details here - of course the moogle big ass backpack and keychain (can you tell i love keychains), but also her buttons are an iris (the flower) and also a crown with hearts (haha symbolism)

anyways oh god i didnt mean to write an essay down here. usually i keep this in the tags but this time i just had Too Much To Say. can you tell i put a lot of thought and love into this . anwyays. *walks off into the sunset and fuckig dies*

[kyupidu]

hello1! 1! 1 id like to ask for a yandere glisten x reader if ur comfy w it :3 u can also add headcanons if u like! (Can u also make reader a magical girl toon? Its just that my dw oc is one and I just like to mention my oc x canons here haha) (つω`*)

● Perfect.

Yandere!Glisten x fem!reader

Warnings: yandere, kidnapping, forced affection(?), tied up reader, maybe ooc glisten(?) maybe spelling mistakes, idk.

Notes: hai! Sorry it took me a bit to make your request i barely have any inspiration which is also why its so short and crappy. On that same note I wasn't sure how to put reader being a magical girl into this so I just made reader female, sorry I hope you still enjoy tho!

Oh you were so perfect for him weren't you?

Like two puzzles pieces, you and him were made for each other. He needed you, and you needed him. Or well so he thought. But it didn't matter what you thought, after all your the one who's tied up.

Glisten thought as he studied you in your bound state. "You understand why I had to do this right?" He said as he fiddled with the light pink ribbon he had tied you with. It was the same he wore, you looked perfect with it. You looked perfect with.. him.

Your muffled cries were ignored as he caressed your face with a loving look on his face. "You just kept giving others your attention, it's was so annoying. Your eyes belong to me, why would you wanna stare at anyone else??" He said looking at you with an annoyed look on his face.

"Atleast that wont be a problem anymore, now you will only look at me." He said caressing your face only to be interrupted by you turning your head away from him and squirming trying to get away. Letting out a heavy sigh and forcing you to look at him "Stop being such a brat! Or that pretty face will be adorned with bruises." He said looking at you angrily.

You quickly stopped not wanting to be hurt more than you already were, after all you thought that glisten was your friend, someone you could trust. You wished you could've known, maybe that would've saved you from this fate. "Good girl. You can't run from me... literally." He said laughing at his own joke "Because no matter how far you go, I'll always find you." He said holding your face with both of his hands.

Oh he loved you so much, he would do anything for you. He yearned for you. He could never get enough of you. He wished you loved him as much as he loved you, hopefully eventually you'll get used to being with him. Because you would never leave. You were made for him, you were where you belong. So you will stay perfectly with him, forever.

[stormlight-drafter]

Was reading through the Cosmere RPG preview and found some interesting lore bits in the Safety chapter. Maybe these things were already known (I haven't read the novellas) but there were some I wasn't aware of.

"Asexuality. All populations on Roshar, regardless of species and culture, include a spectrum of asexual people. Herdazians have a long tradition of valuing people who aren’t interested in sex or producing offspring. Singers, excluding when in mate form, are not expected to show any interest in sex."

I don't think I've ever seen Asexuality specifically called out like this, instead of it just being a footnote in Sexuality sections. Good on Brotherwise. The Singer thing was pretty obvious from Venli's chapters, but I didn't know that about Herdazians. Loving all the lore I'm learning about them from the rpg. Absolutely the most based ethnicity on Roshar.

"Discrimination Based on Eye Shade. The spectrum of eye colors for humans on Roshar is different from our own. Both darkeyes and lighteyes can have violet, blue, green, yellow, gray, or brown eyes."

Full list of possible eye colors. Though idk I'd probably just let my players have red, orange, or pink eyes if they really wanted it, why not. This section didn't mention if it's possible to have a medium shade that makes people confused on whether you count as darkeyes or lighteyes, but I'd assume so.

"Gender Identity. Breathing in Stormlight over time passively heals Radiants to their true genders."

I did know this, but it's nice to have it spelled out instead of buried in a novella.

"Gender Roles. Vorinism is one of many ideologies that impose strict gender roles on followers. Will your game include details such as female safehands, male illiteracy, and so on? Is being an ardent the only way for gender nonconforming characters to avoid social persecution?"

That was something I was wondering about, how Vorinism handles trans and non-binary identities. I'd assume "poorly" but I was curious if there were any quirks, considering it's pretty mild about same sex relationships. I don't know if the trans character talks about their life pre-transition or not, but this passage kind of implies that being an ardent is the only way for non-binary people to feel safe, but I'm not sure if it's just addressing the obvious assumption or actually stating its canon.

"Mental Illness. The Stormlight Archive features many characters with mental illnesses. While some might correlate mental illness with becoming a Knight Radiant, they would be missing the point."

Lol "please don't force your fanon on other people."

[m1ckeyb3rry]

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.

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.

[macking-cheese]

Transformers: Earthspark brainworms rn

What if Bee got put under Mandroid's control? GAH ITS EATING ME UP THINKING ABOUT IT

inspired by asimp4bee's (I think I spelled that right) art I saw with the same theory, and the song Control by Halsey

This also includes Breakbee! Ig it's like a situationship but actually they're terrible at feelings and Bee is like “am I not enough for him” and when shit goes down later Breakdown is like “damn I gotta step up fr” (this is probably a terrible explanation and for that I am sorry)

Also this accidentally became an exploration of Jawbreaker and Bee's relationship (AS SIBLINGS!!! I just think that in a way they complement each other and I wanna explore it) (It's probably me just projecting my neurodiversity onto them tbh)

This is like really bee-centric, more than I originally intended for it to be. I wanted it to gauge the terrans’ reactions to losing their brother/mom#2 (this is an inside joke pls don't flame me for it), then it became me wanting that twink mentally obliterated (and studying the journey of healing through family support after the inevitable crash out)

So here's a little drabble? Of me fleshing out the introduction of my ideas a bit more so I have a basic outline of where to go with the fic I'm planning! This has some dark themes (TW: suicidal ideation, kidnapping, torture, violence, harming of children, crazy how most of this is canon typical)

Basically this is set right after the kids break Bee and co out of the G.H.O.S.T cells, he tries one last time to get Breakdown to join them, and is rejected. So Bee goes home with the kids, and after a bit, making sure they're okay and under supervision of their family, he goes back alone to try and get Breakdown to join him again, the first place he looks being back at the facility, hoping he might still be there, but he knew he wouldn't, it was his dumb optimism saying there might have still been a chance.

Of course heading back there first was a bad idea. Probably the shittiest call he could make. He immediately gets recaptured and those G.H.O.S.T fuckers torture him and demonstrate their new mind control technology, trying to break the bot mentally and turn him into a weapon for their own personal/military use. When the big battle happens, he's sent out and,,,,

The terrans are so happy to see him, they missed their brother figure (jokingly their mom#2) and could really use his help and possibly Breakdown's, if he succeeded in his mission, in the fight. He told them he was going back to try and get more recruits, he'd be gone for no longer than a day, but if it takes longer, not to worry. It's been two weeks. (Or however it happened canonically, idk. I haven't actually watched the show in a month so this original setup probably doesn't make sense, really just writing to write here)

But when they get a closer look, he seems so worn down and tired and small. Trying to appear angry and bitter and intimidating, but it looked so fake and they didn't know why he wasn't easing up upon seeing the terrans again, until they see that cold, emotionless white in his optics.

They can't believe it. He’s not wearing a G.H.O.S.T badge. Maybe he's playing an ill-timed prank.

“That's not funny, Bee”

“We need your help”

“You're scaring me”

“Please stop”

“Bee?”

They notice the flicker of blue and the horrid screech-click of a failing vocalizer. The way his body trembles and his arm plating shakes with the effort to keep it from transforming into his stinger.

A last-ditch effort on his end, he turns on his radio with a slurry of static.

“C-an't help thi-sssssssss- should be sk- scared -f me-!”

The terrans are a mix of horrified and worried. They know they should move, run away, some catch up fast enough and do that, having to drag others. Jawbreaker just can't. That's his favorite person, his confidant, his older brother.

“Back-back-ba-ckhss… up!” It was the only semblance of himself that he seemed to have somewhat control of, and he clung to it. The terrans needed to know he didn't mean anything he was going to do.

Jawbreaker did move, a few disbelieving steps away, not fast enough to dodge the hand landing on his chest to move him away, too harshly for anyone's comfort.

Bumblebee was tearing himself up to try and fight for control. It hurt, it hurt so much, he almost wanted to sink into that awful bliss the chip in his back offered. But he couldn't, those were his mentees, his kids. He'd kill himself if he ever brought harm to them.

He wondered if the chip would stop him if he tried now. Maybe he could fry his circuits if he kept pushing against the breaching walls of code. Maybe he could shoot himself or something.

With that thought his arm finally transformed and the kids booked it. He couldn't stop himself from aiming at them and landed a few painful shots. He begged for forgiveness as he lost himself, giving up and letting the parasite fully enter him.

All this for Breakdown, and he didn't even know if it was worth it to have gone back in the first place.

-----

There's so much more I have running around in my head and my notes for this! You're welcome to share any thoughts, and please disregard if this was structured oddly. I'm jumping in my seat right now with excitement and my thoughts are a bit scattered trying to get this out.

[ratspaguetti]

How would this work in game

So! How I would make these fuzzy Ink fish work in a game standpoint- well, genuinely, it would be very different- so i would understand if it weren't actually possible for it to exist in Splatoon 3. In this idea, I'm mostly going to focus on Octolings and Inklings, cause to be frank, I'm not sure as of rn how the octarians would work

Different combat

Given the fact that these are supposed to be mammals, I can't imagine them really using gun, but how would they fight against the enemy? Wouldn't that make it too easy to shoot them from afar without them attacking? Yes and no!

Fuzzy inkfish would be separated by categories, those with bones and those with not, those without bones are able to still swim in ink and often will still have the weapons they once had, but will usually use them a bit wrong (like just absolutely beating the crap out of you with a gun as I'd it where a fancy stick) kinda like the salmonoids in that aspect, but being able to swim, throw bombs and so on, just using the weapons wrongly, that, or attacking you with teeth and claws

Those with bones will be actually faster than an ink fish when running, but a bit slower when it comes to a race between swimming and running, they are able to still use ink though, as it oozes from their body (like Mr. Grizz!) and are able to throw slashes of ink from their claws (like Mr. Grizz-) and can use ink to slide across it, depending on how fast they where running before hand means how fast they will glide though the ink, they will be faster than an inkfish when gliding through ink compared to their swimming, but they will very much struggle with changing directions or right corners, which is what you can use to maneuver away from them

Fuzzy ink fish can usually jump higher than a normal inkling, but aren't able to super jump, they also can't swim through ink, so they are slower at climbing walls, because they are literally climbing on them instead of swimming through ink

Fuzzy ink fish with bones are kind of the "Elites", given they have supers just like a normal ink fish, one of these powers is the killer wail, that they can do by literally shooting this beam out of their mouth (cause howling I guess-) they are still able to booyah bomb, it's just called something different, given the fact that they growl and hiss n what not

In the story mode, little buddy would be a bit more important in game, given the fact that these mostly mindless animals are most likely going to want and eat the lil fish, so using him will often be a very good way to keep their attention elsewhere (they might make very quick job of him though) so treat it as a game of keep away, throwing little buddy and calling him at the last minute to not have him as someone's dinner

Lore wise, I like to imagine that later in, they find a cure for all the fuzzy inkfish, allowing them to have their memory and "humanity" restored, but most changes to have them back to normal might not completely "fix" an fuzzified victim, they might retain animal like claws or paw pads, cat eyes, a bunny nose, sometimes even ears and so on, furry can usually be removed if they take air loss supplements, even with all of this, they might retain some animal like behaviors, purring or being wildly entertained by sticks, liking to be scratched under the chin or behind the ears, or randomly really wanting to cannibalize one of their fellow ink fish- (such hungry desires can be easily fixed if you visit a barber show and ask for the trimmings, eat the tentacle pieces nobody is using)

Those that got bones though- well, they will be a bit more animalistic, sometimes they will have moments in which they respond like an animal, especially with anger or excitement, they also will have to retail any tail that they grew, given the fact that its part of their spine, they are more likely to need a higher doze of supplements given their bodies wish to continue growing hair and whiskers or whatever they grew before, a lot of angst potential here guys-

Splatoon headcanon- Fuzzy inkfish

Okay so! In splatoon 3, return of the mammalians, I was sorely disappointed when said mammalians where just...hairy and brainwashed, literally that's it, which had let me down so bad, given the fact that slight alteration of character model and brainwashing had already happened before (sanitization) and genuinely, the occasions haven't changed much behavior wise, so this is how I have headcanoned what should have actually happened in splatoon 3!

Behavior

Given the fact that the fuzzy ink fish are now mammalian, depending on the inkfish, they might hiss, scratch, bite, and attack like a wild animal, really depending on the type of animal they are based off of, I imagine most would be bearlike because it is Mr Grizz that made this happen, but imagine, a fuzzy inkling with Spirulas growing out of their head like sheep horns, completely ramming a another inkling a good couple of feet away! Making interesting gameplay! And given Japan seems to love cat girls (can't blame them) give a octoling some cat ears and very agile and bam! Happy fans- (I will probably talk more about behaviors in a different post)

They also do not use weapons! Given the fact they are mammals, they use their animal like features instead to fully attack [this is what will be explored in a different post]

Body

I need bullet points for these because there is a lot I wanna go through

Mammals aren't just fluffy creatures, they also have these cool nest things called bones and warm blood

So fuzzy ink fish will first experience "fever" like symptoms as their ink slowly heats up, and over a long period of time (depending on how much furry goop they have been exposed to and how long they have been a fuzzy inkfish) and go into a hibernation like state, when they come back to, their body will have had the changes, first, they are not hot blooded and have furr in their tentacles

Later on, their body will slowly shift to a more animal like appearance, like hands slowly enlongating and growing large claws, more hunched like posture to more easily run in four legs, growing new teeth that are more mammalian in nature (could be herbivore, could be carnivore) some will grow more furry along their extremities as well, some will even grow more animal like ears and eyes

At this stage, most of these bodily changes are still reversible with enough medical equipment, as the ink fish are still majorly cartilage and ink, so they can be reformed (kinda how they can still change into a squid or octopus)

Yet, when their bones start to grow, these changes are mostly irreversible, bones will form after a good couple of months, this will make fuzzy inkfish tanks compared to normal ink fish, the skeletal structure has downsides however, like the inability to turn into a squid/octopus anymore, given the fact that you can't really shapeshift into something as small as a squid, where would all those bones go??

But their inability to shapeshift smaller does not mean they cannot shapeshift at all, by or consuming the fuzzy ooze or ink, their body will grow in size, and they take a much more animal like shape, like how a human where to turn into a werewolf, in this form, they do high amounts of damage by the swings of their claws

Their bones and thicker skin would also do that one think most inklings and octolings can't do, get in water, cuz let's be honest, unless the oceans are actual acid, having a body with thicker skin, bones and muscle tissue, probably makes these Fuzzy Inklings/octolings able to actually swim!

Also, when their skeletal structure is growing, they will likely also grow tails (you can't have tails otherwise, yah need the spindle bones to make it, no-?)

I'll continue all this later- it's just my ideas I've been thinking of-

[simplyycherry]

Since people still like my old Obey me headcanon posts, I decided to completely empty it out. I didn't have the motivation to post more and also quit the game like since the beginning of Nightbringer.

If I add in the ones I posted before accidentally, then srry.

Lucifer ☕

Lucifer’s D.D.D Lock Screen is black but his homescreen is his brothers & Mc:)

• Lucifer has separation anxiety from us?

• Lucifer smells like hmm coffee, idk old cologne?

• Lucifer's head hurts sometimes.

• Lucifer cries at night.

• Lucifer's favorite movie genre is horror because he enjoys paranormal things ig.

• Every once in a while Lucifer will bond with his brothers doing what they like.

• Luci listens to Levi rant sometimes while he does work.

• Luci and Mc has matching necklaces.

• You can call Lucifer Luci when you're not in public together.

• Luci doesn't like PDA but when he is home alone he is very cuddly.

• To Lucifer Mc is the most important thing in his life along with his brothers.

• When Lucifer‘s excited or worried and he‘s alone in his room, he actually jumps around and does a lot a different facial expressions.

• Luci sometimes not all the time but sometimes just randomly pokes his brothers and walks away.

��� Lucifer leans on the table with both arms and like his shoulders slightly up iykwim.

• When We Came Back To Devildom Again, You Know How Lucifer “Wasn’t Antsy” I Bet He Was Squealing Inside, “OMDTHEYREBACKOHMYIGETTOHUGTHEMANDLOVE”.

• Lucifer will hold your waist/pull you close when they see other attractive demons walk by to make it seem like "you're theirs".

• Luci has a photo album of him and his brothers & Mc in his desk so whenever he gets stressed out he looks through it and it helps him relax.

• Lucifer often asks his brothers or Mc to talk about their interests while he works.

• Lucifer's way to relax is to make origami he's particularly good at it.

• Lucifer always keeps a photo of his brothers and Mc with him.

• Lucifer uses the excuse of " punishing Mammon" to spend time with him.

• Luci feels a sense of security when Mc's is on his lap. In some way he believes that as long as he has a comfortable hand around your waist, nothing can take you from him.

• If you drink coffee or tea in the morning Luci would try to make it for you.

• Luci is right handed but can write well with left hand.

• If lucifer catches you looking at a certain sweets or items he would by it for you just to you happy.

• Luci adores it when you fall asleep near him or knowing he’s in the house/room. It shows you trust being that vulnerable around him to keep you safe.

• When you are near Luci when he is working he will glance at you when your not looking.

• Luci plays fetch with Cerberus and cuddles with them.

• I feel like Luci would enjoy going to the human world with you and visiting your favorite tourist attractions.

• I like to think that when he does his little patrol, if he finds your still up Luci will make sure you get to bed. Sometimes even tucking you in.

• If anyone has Lucifer's phone his background and lockscreen will have a picture of you.

• Lucifer have a folder of pictures of you.

• Luci asks you to help him with work as an excuse to spend time with you.

• Luci melts when you bring him coffee :)

• Even though Luci stays up late, he makes sure that everyone goes to bed at a reasonable hour.

• Since Luci has records, he’ll buy vinyls of your favorite bands (even if he’s not a huge fan of them) to listen to with you.

• If you sleep with Luci, he keeps you in his arms the WHOLE night.There is no leaving.

• I feel like if you give Luci small gifts like random doodles he'd put a spell on it so its never damaged and keeps it forever.

• Luci loves to mumble a song while you sleep near him while playing with your hair.

• When Lucifer's drunk and you're nearby, expect to be covered in kisses. It's canon that he gets lovey dovey when he's drunk.

• Since Luci's the avatar of pride i feel like if he sees you admire someone else's skills he'll immediately try to one up them.

• Lucifer definitely enjoys playing board games with you in his spare time, but he always allows you to win because he’d feel guilty if he didn’t.

• Luci loves giving forehead kisses, or if he sees you sitting down as he’s walking by he’ll kiss the top of your head.

• If you fell asleep on the couch, Luci’d carry you to your room and tuck you in (doesn’t matter if ur heavy or not, he’s a demon, he’s stronggg)

• Lucifer takes off his gloves whenever you want to hold hands because he feels it more intimate ☝️& makes him feel close to you.

• I feel like lucifer throughout random times of the day just randomly gets up and starts looking for you because he really misses you.

• Lucifer sometimes let's MC and Levi go to the human world to get new Manga, games, and merch.

• Cerberus became somewhat fond of MC after they made their pact with Lucifer.

• Luci drapes his cloak over you when he finds you sleeping.

• Luci would softly knock twice on every door he goes through.

• Luci shortly meditates everyday to relieve stress.

• Lucifer quite enjoys human world beaches.