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wildlunar · 11 months

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Gold, Vermilion

Roman Roy x Reader

word count: 1900

synopsis: images of his childhood haunt him with every breath; nothing ever leaves, nothing ever stays—except one thing

warnings: mentions of abuse

“Colours melt away with age,” his mother once said to him as she grappled hotfoot with the wine-coloured tie that hung loose around his neck. “They deteriorate, lose beauty; and in their place lies only grey.”

These perennial moments in England, between the ages of eleven and thirteen, are the only fragments of his childhood where he recalls Caroline standing close enough for him to touch her, though even then he was too scared to reach out and openly ask for her affection.

Roman’s eyebrows crease. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh darling, don’t frown like that you’ll give yourself premature wrinkles! And it’s just a little witticism. Nothing to worry your pretty little head over.” She smiles—her usual smile, all feline and wry, that doesn’t truly reach her eyes—and pats her handiwork in faux regard. “It’s just my way of saying you should enjoy your youth.”

Though Roman can’t remember any part of his adolescence that he enjoyed, through the dissociation and drug-fueled hazes, at least not like he presumed a normal kid would have had. His mother had only ever cared about appearances. How she and, as an extension, her children were perceived by onlookers and higher society and to be seen as anything other than spectacular was the ultimate crime. And his father, in all his wicked acclaim, has never been particularly great at acting the doting parent especially during times when it would trump his business advancement.

Inevitably, it was narcissism which robbed him of normalcy and anything akin to parental love, not that he knew that then and still struggled to accept now as he still waited on his father’s open palm like a starved dog.

England, to Roman, was a sanction to roam free. A momentary let off the leash. Caroline barely spoke to him, which he both loathed and took delight in, he could explore the streets of London without being harassed by photographers or being recognised in the street. Alone, he was, for the first time in his life, alone enough to call himself an only child to passing strangers. His siblings were gone, living with their father for a couple of years before him as everyone knew of Roman’s struggles with change. They also knew he needed a little time to cope with the idea of being torn away from his mother.

In the meantime, he carried on with his studies for two years in London and then agreed to follow after the rest of his family to America when the time was right. For once, it felt good to be invisible, to blend into society, though with it came a deep loneliness which he struggled to shake off.

(Y/n) was the only friend he ever had in his childhood. Sure, there had been a few fleeting exchanges with others here and there but none of them were meaningful enough to bring home or stick for more than a few months. Summer, 1993; they meet when London is merely a holiday, a supposed escape from the city hubbub, not that there was ever an escape for him, in a park not too far from their private home. They were six years old then, Roman’s tiny palms holding onto Connor like a lifeline as he watched her and her sister running after their father with a water pistol, laughing in tandem—a real family.

An onlooker in his own personal film, he eyes her from the swings, languidly sipping apple juice as his brother, ever watchful, sits away from him on a bench, reading a book he can’t remember. Roman’s eyes follow her in a way he’s unused to. He’s never been fascinated by things, he’s never had the attention span for it, though there’s something about her androgynous style and her callousness that makes him undoubtedly absorbed. She’s wearing an outfit that matches many of the boys on the opposite side of the park: black shorts, an oversized faded yellow t-shirt and thickset trainers that from afar look to be the same size as her head.

When she sat beside him on the swing, breathless yet nowhere near exhausted, he believes he’s concocted an hallucination. Blinking away the vision, he watches, entranced, as she swung her little legs until she was soaring above the clouds, her head scarcely missing the leaves of a nearby tree. She’s good, better than he could ever be.

“Why aren’t you swinging?” She asks, slowing down in order to talk to him.

He peers at her underneath his sunglasses, shrugs, and pretends the reason he isn’t trying isn’t because he doesn’t know how. “Not really feeling it.”

“Do you want me to push you?”

“Pfft, no.”

The girl cocks her head to the side. “You don’t have to lie. I don’t mind.” The tone of her voice almost sounds like a song.

Roman’s gaze is fixed on the floor, embarrassment seeping into his cheeks and colouring him red. And despite not answering her, she kicks herself off the swing and comes up behind him anyway, placing her hands gently against his back. It’s the lightest touch that’s ever grazed his skin and he desperately fights the urge to flinch away from it.

She doesn’t seem to notice. “I’ll push you and all you have to do is swing your legs at the same time. Alright?”

“Yeah,” he whispers and as soon as she hears his verbal confirmation, she is pushing him with all her might, placing her wings on his shoulder blades and willing him as high as she went. It takes practice but by the time the sun sets, he is able to wiggle his toes against the green leaves and laugh joyously at his achievement. And she is laughing with him, just as proud, as though she’s known him longer than those fleeting hours.

(Y/n) was always there, thenceforth; he would look to his side and there she’d be, picking up shells from the sodden sand or drawing a crude picture of one thing or another, and despite the clear distaste his mother held for the girl, there would always be an extra plate set out for her by the time dinner came around and after five years of fleeting summers together then finally attending the same secondary school and there still no being any sign of her departure, Caroline gave up on the idea of ever being rid of her.

There had actually been times when they got along. Although she was not from the family of an heiress nor held half as much money as the Roys nor his mother’s aristocratic pedigree, she came from the typical British middle class upbringing, never truly understanding either side when it came to the tribulations of money, and because of that Roman thought her lucky. Her father, Richard Keating, was a beloved psychology lecturer at King’s College, who everyone joked had become embedded in the very walls of the place and her mother, Joan, was an indie writer who wrote what he dubbed ‘pretentious whimsy’ set mostly in remote european towns, far away from the city buzz. And Laurie, her older and only sister, who was almost six years their senior and around the same age as his brother, Kendall, was an aspiring artist who everyone knew from the day she was born was going to end up being someone someday.

Coming from such a line of potential convinced her she was the runt of it, for she had no talent for paints or pens and preferred realism over the melody of pretty words. The blood running through her veins beat at a different tempo, much like his did, though he didn’t find this out until much later. All he could see was how bright she was: how her fingers traced the keys of a piano like a long lost lover, the way she walked, the way she kicked a ball, the tone in which she spoke or shouted or laughed at one of his crude remarks. Her light was the only beacon in a childhood where solely scars were birthed, not that he would ever reveal such a thing to her. It was too raw, too close to a confession, and he would rather spend his whole life playing ignorant than ever present his heart to her.

The most colourful piece of clothing he has ever worn consistently is the red and gold scarf that she got him on his twelfth birthday, the birthday before he officially turned his back on England and established himself in New York city as Logan Roy’s favourite washout. Just as they shared most things, the gift was a brother accessory to another scarf—her scarf—of green and dark blue that still smells like her despite him exhausting it from use.

The paper it’s wrapped in is a parody of itself. They have already started getting each other ‘baby cards’ for every birthday—this one having an obnoxious ‘two today’ scrawled over a crude picture of Thomas the Tank Engine—and the wrapping paper has slowly began to join the theme, a baby blue background with various pictures of the train characters dotted around it. But the absurdity of the enclosure merely masks the gem inside.

“You always want to wear my scarf so I got you one of your own,” she says in a mock annoyance. “Just so mine doesn’t go missing all the time.”

He held the cloth like others would gold. No one else needed to know they were conjoined this way, no one but themselves. It would be their most exposed secret.

As he grows older, he understands his mother’s words more than he’d like to admit. His face pales, his gaze fades and the patterns of his youth no longer suit his hollow form. He is hugged by monochrome though every winter the scarf remains, a mismatched contrast to his navy tailored coat and white shirts. Shiv calls it a fashion disaster but the memories of it remain a comfort when he reenters the offices at Waystar Royco.

He catches Keats’ eyes through the glass wall. “Morning,” she mouths over the top of her computer.

Roman returns her gesture with a small wave, placing his coat and scarf over the hanger at the side of his desk. He notices her smile at the sight of it.

On his desk is a coffee, much like every morning, with a pink post-it-note tapered to the lid. Roman likes to indulge in her idiosyncratic gestures—makes him think about their past with fondness instead of the ever ruling hand of the great emperor—and although most times he takes in the quotes with a scoff and a snarky comment, they are one of the only reasons he dares to get up in the morning. In bleeding black ink the note reads: to better days and almond croissants.

Bewildered, he creases his brows, looking at her through the glass wall and gesturing to her his confusion. Almost immediately, as if already predicting his every move, she lifts up a brown paper bag, shaking it in his direction and raising her eyebrows cheekily. It was his favourite, she knew.

Rolling his eyes in mock annoyance, he picks up the coffee and treads to her office, returning to her, and as he enters the sanctity of its four walls, he spots her own green and blue scarf draped over the arm of the sofa.

#succession #succession fic #succession fanfiction #succession x reader #roman roy #roman roy x reader #roman roy imagine #roman roy fic #roman roy fanfiction #logan roy #shiv roy

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mlove44lh · 1 year

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Don’t hurt yourself

Chapter 3 - Anger

Masterlist

Previously chapter

Warnings: cheating, angst, mention of infertility, mention of blood and hospital (really short), alcohol use.

Lewis is a real asshole in this chapter, I think that could go as a warning too.

Words: 2.750

“If it's what you truly want ... I can wear her skin over mine. Her hair over mine. Her hands as gloves. Her teeth as confetti. Her scalp, a cap. Her sternum, my bedazzled cane. We can pose for a photograph, all three of us. Immortalized ... you and your perfect girl. I don't know when love became elusive. I think of lovers as trees ... growing to and from one another. Searching for the same light.

Why can't you see me? Everyone else can.”

I step slowly into the apartment, my head spinning with the anger I feel and all the alcohol from earlier. The place seems different from what I had left before, the white walls filled with memories in the form of our photos no longer bring me the comfort and happiness they used to.

I can hear Lewis' footsteps in the hallway outside. I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the imminent confrontation I can no longer postpone.

Lewis slams the door behind him with enough force for the sound to reverberate throughout the apartment.

"Stop with this silent treatment bullshit. You ignored me all night. Isn't that enough?!” His voice is louder than usual.

I place my bag on the wooden dining table and turn towards Lewis, who is standing in the middle of the room with his jaw clenched and his eyes fixed on me.

"I told you this conversation would happen at home.” I feel the anger burning in my throat. I seem calm, but I grit my teeth over so many emotions stuck inside me.

"Here we are." He gestures to the entire living room. "Now, can you tell me what the hell is going on? First, you've been acting weird all week. Then at dinner, you didn't say anything except to make senseless comments. You drank two bottles of champagne alone, even though you know you can't drink. Do you want to throw away all the treatment we're doing?”

Suddenly, I can't contain my emotions any longer. I explode with words that should never leave my mouth. My laughter is a humorless, painful groan. How can he bring this up now? How dare he act like nothing is happening? After cheating on me, he still has the audacity to want to build something big together?

"Fuck this treatment, Lewis! I have no interest in conceiving a child with you anymore!" I scream at him for the first time in my life, and say the worst things I could.

You know that feeling when you regret saying something even before the last word leaves your mouth? That just happened. The pain in Lewis' face becomes clear before my eyes, but it's not greater than mine. I could never imagine saying those words to him. To the love of my life.

Lewis stays quiet, motionless, as if he's glued to the floor. Like him, I try to process the words I just uttered. I don't know where they come from, or if I really feel that way. But I don't move to take them back or try to retract what I said. I think this is the moment I'll remember as the breaking point. There's no turning back after saying something like that.

But life is made of choices, and I choose to move forward with my anger.

I walk to my bag, and for a brief moment, the sound of my heels hitting the floor is the only thing that can be heard in the room.

I take out the bracelet that I've kept with me all this time, and walk up to him with the object clenched tightly in my fist.

I walk close enough to hear his breath. His eyes shine with sadness. I can't recognize us at this moment. Everything seems so wrong, so confusing. We know each other so well, but now I feel like I'm looking at a stranger.

I feel a lump in my throat, and for a moment, I'm afraid that I'll break down.

"I stopped taking the hormones five days ago, Lewis. You would know that if you paid any attention to me.” He keeps his eyes locked on mine, and I can identify an appeal in them. "I stopped when I found this in your car.”

I hold out the bracelet with my index finger near his face. I watch realization taking over his expression while his gaze moves between my face and the object in my hands. He seems to want to say something, but I don't want to hear a word from him until I finish saying everything I need to.

"The problem was there for a long time, wasn't it? It was my love for us that blinded me and didn't let me see what was right in front of me. Until this shit showed up" I throw the bracelet at his chest. Despite the almost zero distance between us, I know that Lewis barely feels the metal contact his skin. He remains motionless. The bracelet falls between us, resting on the cold floor as we continue to stare at each other. "I tried to deceive myself. Even today, I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt and let you make up for everything you destroyed in me."

I feel my eyes welling up, but there's more anger than sadness in the tears.

"Y/n..." Lewis' voice comes out in a tone that I don't remember ever hearing before.

I cut him off before he can say another word.

“But then I arrive there, at the dinner you invited me to.” I extend my index finger until it touches his chest, and just this minimum contact makes me tremble. “And I watch you looking at her in the same way you used to look at me. And the worst of all is that you were acting as if nothing was happening. You wore this lie so well that if she hadn't done what she did to show me the truth, I would have left that restaurant even more in love with you. While you were lying to the woman you swore loyalty to on an altar."

His fingers wrap carefully around my wrists. I try to pull away the moment I feel the contact, but Lewis doesn't let go and keeps holding me in my place.

"Y/n. Please listen to me.”

I don't want to listen to him, but I know I need his explanation.

"Go ahead. But tell me the truth if you still want the slightest consideration from me.”

It takes him a few seconds to start talking.

"It's true. But it didn't mean anything, not for a moment. It was the biggest mistake of my life, Y/n. And I know that doesn't change anything about what I did. But I'm so sorry." He puts word upon word as if his desperation could change something. "I'm sorry. I was selfish and in a bad place, and she came along and seemed so simple. I didn't think about you or us. But I swear there's nothing left. I realized what was at stake and ended everything.”

It's not a “this never happens” or “you misunderstand” the only thing I get is an apology.

Even though it was already clear, hearing it from him manages to hurt even more. His dark and guilty eyes look at me with such supplication that even staring back at him becomes a difficult task.

"When did this start?”

Lewis lowers his gaze as soon as I finish my question, perhaps out of shame or fear of my reaction to the answer.

"September.”

I break free from his grip as soon as it sinks in.

"You were fucking her while I was going through that hell?!”

I watch tears streaming down his face, but I feel no sympathy. What I want now is for him to suffer even more for the consequences of what he caused himself.

“It was a hard time for me too.”

"No." It's unbelievable that he's playing that card now. "You're not going to do this to me. Not after everything I went through.”

"But it's the truth. We were both living in hell." He says barely a second after I finish speaking.

"And your way of dealing with that was by cheating on me?!” My voice comes out in a scream for the second time tonight.

The adrenaline inside me is so intense that I can't stand still. I take a few steps back from his figure.

"Y/n, you've changed since the diagnosis." The forced laugh that comes out of me is the only thing I can express. "You think I was the one who distanced myself when, in fact, you had already been distant for a long time. You looked at me as if I were to blame for..." He trails off, regret etched on his face the moment he falls silent.

It's like a knife has been plunged into my chest. Even before he finishes, I already knew where this was going.

"Finish it. Tell me, Lewis. Tell me that I looked at you as if you were to blame for my infertility."

"That's not what I meant."

"Yes, it is. It's written all over your face."

"No. I meant because of the situation we were in."

I shake my head as I stare at Lewis incredulously.

"How callous and self-centered does a person have to be to make this kind of deduction?" My voice is low, and the words spill out without much forethought. "I bled for hours, only to receive the most devastating news of my life shortly after. I left that hospital and rebuilt myself piece by piece to try to move on. And during that process, you believed yourself to be too important to not receive the attention you craved and went after that whore to stroke your ego."

Lewis tries to approach me, but I move away as soon as I realize his intention.

"Get away from me!"

"Y/n, please. I would never do that. That's not what I meant. I just want you to understand.”

"There's nothing to understand! What you did has no explanation.”

I turn my back to his figure as I feel tears streaming down my face. I wipe my face with my hands, trying not to let him see me cry. The tears are not just about what he did, it's about everything we went through together. It's about me thinking I had someone on my side who understood me and would never do this to me. But now life feels more raw than ever, and I feel alone. The pain is intense and the feeling is that it will never go away. I feel vulnerable, exposed, and very angry.

I'm not sure I can stand, so I walk over to the couch and sit on the edge of the white cushion. I feel the comfort of the upholstery in contrast to the tension in my body. As I try to calm down, Lewis comes to me and kneels on the floor, putting himself at the same height as me.

Lewis takes some time before speaking again.

"Listen. I love you so much. And I know what I did may be unforgivable. But Y/n, we have been through so much together. I really want to fix this. I don't want to give up on us.”

I don't look at him.

"But you've already done it.”

"No. I made a mistake. The biggest one, but I will never give up on us. I'll do whatever it takes, please.”

My eyes flicker towards him, but I can't bear to hold his gaze for more than a fleeting moment. It's as if looking at him for any longer would be a betrayal to the pain and anger that I feel.

"If only you had been honest. But you lied. That's even worse. You acted like everything was fine when you had just admitted that everything was wrong even before you got involved with her." Lewis wraps his fingers around my ankle as if hoping to change my thoughts with just that touch. "You promised me that whenever something went wrong, we would talk about it. And when it did happen, you just ran away from me. How do you expect me to forgive you for that?"

"Please," he begs me for something that not even he knows.

"I'm going to pack my things."

"No. Y/n, don't do that."

I stand up but can't take more than one step. Lewis comes to me and rests his hands on my shoulders, keeping me in place. I feel exhausted. I think I have no more strength to keep going with this. I've reached my limit tonight, and so has he.

"Stay. This house is yours. I'll sleep in the guest room, but please don't leave. We can talk tomorrow when we're both calmer. Let's give ourselves tonight to think.”

"I've spent the last month thinking. I have nothing else to think about. I don't want to talk to you anymore, Lewis. I don't want this anymore.”

"Y/n, please. It's three in the morning. You have nowhere to go now. Stay here. You don't have to talk to me, but I don't want you driving like this in a nervous state."

His concern seems like a joke, it might have moved me if we weren't in this ridiculous situation.

"If I stay, you're the one who leaves.”

“Y/n...”

“Get your stuff.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“I don´t know. I don´t care. Go to her place. Take the opportunity to let her know that you're single now.” I go to the cellar and take the first bottle of wine I find there. “Just be careful with Matteo, he might kill you if he finds out you're fucking his little bride.”

Lewis stares at me for a few seconds before heading towards the bedroom. He knows I can't handle another minute of conversation tonight. Now the only thing I want is distance from him.

I open the wine bottle and pour a glass with a surprising calmness. Perhaps my level of stress and shock is so high that I no longer know how to deal with it.

With the bottle in one hand and the glass in the other, I walk to my office and close the door behind me. I don't want to see him leave, trying to convince myself that it's because I don't want to look at him anymore, but in truth I'm afraid of not letting him pass through the door.

I take every sip of my drink as a desperate attempt to calm my emotions. I am sitting in the armchair in the middle of the dark room, and I can hear every step Lewis takes just a few meters away from me. Sometimes, I can even tell which room he is in.

But then, after a short while, I hear the final thud - the sound of our apartment door closing. And suddenly, silence fills the room, bringing with it an intense cold.

I want to allow myself to cry in this moment, but I can't. Exhaustion takes hold of my body and mind, but I know I won't be able to rest until I know what will happen with us.

Author's notes: CALM DOWN, DON'T FREAK OUT. I'll post chapter 4 soon. I promise it won't take as long as this one did.

Let me tell you, it was a struggle to write this one. I spent hours just to write a few words. It was definitely the hardest one yet.

I kinda feel bad for making Lewis such a asshole. He's like my baby, you know? But hey, we still have a few more chapters left, so who knows what could happen? (Not even I know, haha.)

Anyway, thanks for sticking around and i see you in the next one!

#au fanfiction #lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton fluff #lewis hamilton smut #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x reader #fanfiction #smut fanfiction #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #lh44 #lewis hamilton fanfiction #mercedes amg f1 #spotify #fanfic #formula 1 #formula 1 fanfic #formula one #formula one fanfiction

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spacexseven · 2 years

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can i request more yan!reader w dazai? maybe something about dazai noticing reader getting possessive n how he’d react to it? i’m just OBSESSED with this idea, it makes me all giggly.

we are back in business!!! tag for this au is #yandere reader 🐟

cw yandere reader, yandere character, murder, manipulation, dazai purposefully riles reader up, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, jealousy. very unhealthy relationship dynamics, neither of them are any good

you weren't subtle at all, you know.

or maybe dazai was just too observant—to be honest, he liked the idea of you unable to hide your feels better. knowing he made you feel so strongly, that your usual composition was shattered in an instance the moment someone else catches his attention, made him feel proud.

in the office, your possessiveness reared its head whenever anyone else was paired with him for a mission. you would beg and plead until they were switched out with you, until the president stopped assigning any partner that wasn't you, or just made you tag along anyway. there was that time, he can remember quite fondly, when you purposely sabotaged a mission so that you could prove that you would have been a better fit instead, and you would have thwarted the trouble before it got out of hand. but the real fun happened outside of the office.

once he stepped inside the restaurant, he had noticed at once that they hired a new waitress. again. dazai knew your constant glares was the reason why they kept leaving. but what was he to do? it wasn't his fault everyone just seemed to fall all over him. ah well, he might have encouraged the flirting just a little; an amused look, a coy smile, a soft brushing of fingers—but it didn't mean anything, seriously! he was just playing around. how was he supposed to know you would act so recklessly?

some part of him, as he smirked up at the new person, hoped that you'd finally snap. the cute glaring and the thinly veiled threats were entertaining enough, sure, but how far would you really go, for him? there was that incident with fyodor that neither of you talked about once it was done, but he wanted...more. he wanted to see it again, the freed rage etched into your face, the fluid, nonstop motion of your arm. he wanted to see you promise to kill anyone who hurt him again, except...this time he wanted you to do it for no reason at all except jealousy. god, he was sick, wasn't he?

but you still liked him knowing that, didn't you?

was it jealousy if you never really had him? he whispers something to the girl and she looks away, giggling. he sees your hands clench and unclench, and you stare down at the table.

do something, wouldn't you?

he sees you lift your head and study the waitress closely. but that was all, to his disappointment. no glare, no snarky comments, nothing out of you. what a shame, really. did you think he would hate you if you did something bad? he would only be upset if you just sat there and did nothing.

and then he heard the news. something about a body found, working as a waitress at the time. a familiar photograph was shown and it was found in a very familiar location. he finds himself unconciously staring straight at you, your poor attempt of hiding your smile by drinking from your cup doing nothing to ease the fluttering in his heart. he definitely misread your intentions, took your silence as inaction and your calm exterior as indifference. how wrong he was.

he thinks about congratulating your efforts. or should he pretend to be mad? but you didn't deserve any more torment after what a good job you had done. he didn't want you thinking he was not happy with your work. he was beyond pleased, and he was proud. nobody would have any reason to suspect you, not after how calm you were yesterday. no indication you were hiding murderous rage. maybe he'll put in a note for you that next time, he'd like to be there and witness it. wouldn't you like that?

#yandere x you #yandere bsd #yandere x reader #yandere bungo stray dogs #yandere bungou stray dogs #yandere bungo stray dogs x reader #yandere bungou stray dogs x reader #yandere bsd x reader #yandere dazai x reader #yandere reader x yandere dazai #yandere reader 🐟#yandere reader x bsd #yandere reader x dazai #yandere reader #ask 🐟#bsd 🐟#dazai 🐟

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disaste-npc · 1 year

Text

Boyfriend sweater

Ghostface (Dbd) x male reader

Includes: establised relationship, brief mantion of Nea Karlsson, fluff ig, no use of y/n

also posted on my ao3 account

_________________________

The trial so far had been tough, he knew who it was from the start. It was none other than his boyfriend, Danny. Or rather, Ghostface as he called him around the other survivors. It had been right at the start as he felt a blade slash across his back before his attacker was gone. Ghostface’s way of saying hello during a trial before leaving to chase someone else.

And Ghostface didn’t do anything else to him the rest of the trial except for the occidental chase to avoid suspicion. He had to admit, he liked the thrill of the hunt almost as much as Ghostface, the moment the killer loses him giving him an unexplainable high. On the other hand, two of his fellow survivors weren’t as lucky as the entity’s claws brought them up into the sky. All of this happening at the same time as Nea worked on the opening the gate while he took chase with the killer, lungs aching from all the running.

The alarm sounded across the map from the gate, it was open. This caught him off guard with the sudden noise and Ghostface had a chance to grab him as he vaulted through a window. Unfortunately, Danny hadn’t gotten a good grip around him, and he slipped out of his grasp and his own oversized sweater, landing with a thud on the ground.

Before Danny could even comprehend that he was in fact only holding a sweater, his dear was crawling around where he fell, desperately looking for something.

"My glasses, I can’t find my glasses…" He muttered, his glasses having been knocked off when he slipped out of his sweater and in a realm this dark it isn’t easy to spot something in the grass.

Just as Danny was about to crouch down to help look, Nea grabbed the fumbling survivor's hand and dragged him towards the exit gate despite his protest of having to find his glasses. As Danny was watching the survivors head for the gate he spots his boyfriend’s glasses by the wall under the window. Before he can even think, he snatches them off the ground and hold them tightly to his chest along with the sweater. Knowing how much his boyfriend both need and love these items, he doesn’t dare loosen the grip he has on them, not even after the fog had lifted and he was again surrounded by his fellow killers.

The campfire’s subtle warmth kissed his skin as he appeared beside it, head held in his hands as he tried to blink away the oncoming headache. He sighed as he let his arms fall to his side. The fact that glasses worked the same way as items if they weren’t on a person when they died or escaped plagued his mind. Once something was left behind in a trial, it was gone for good.

“Enough of those thoughts.” He grumbled to himself as he zipped open his tent, kicking off his shoes before he laid down on the worn mattress he had. “Nothing to do now other than sleep.” He whispered out to the air, his eyes shutting as he fell into a dreamless slumber.

Birds don’t sing in the realm, but the survivors sure do chatter among themselves whenever they have time and it’s exactly that distant chatter he woke up to this time. Sitting up in his bed he reached for where his glasses would be before he could stop himself, eyes widening when he felt the cold thin metal frame under his fingertips.

Quickly he put them on, his head whipping over to look at his nightstand where they had previously been, only to see his old navy-blue sweater folded and laying on top of the wooden crate he used as a nightstand, a photograph tucked into the collar. With shaky hands he reached for the photo, an amused huff escaping him once he realized what it was of. His boyfriend was the main focus, dressed in the survivor’s lost sweater while he held a peace sign, one of his goofier poses, for the camera to see, the survivor campfire a bit off in the distance behind him. On the actual photo, written in red pen, one could read the words “Boyfriend sweater” with a doodle of a bloody heart at the end of the sentence.

He chuckled and with a smile he placed the photo in a little secret box with the other sillier photos Danny have given him throughout their relationship.

(art made by me)

#dead by daylight #ghostface #ghostface x male reader #ghostface dbd

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cleromancy · 3 months

Note

HI I WOULD LOVE TO SEE SNIPPETS OF THE EX CHILD STAR AU

thank you anon 🥰 sry it took me a few days to post this lol

cws: references to mental health problems and a previous suicide attempt, and lasting trauma from exploitation. uh, and past drug use.

If you had asked Dick twenty-four hours ago about his apartment, he would have said it was fine. Not too modest, not too ostentatious, not so public he has to worry about creeps but not as isolated as the villa. He's so glad they sold the villa. Nicest place he's ever lived, and if he'd stayed there one more day he'd have been peeling off the wallpaper muttering about ex-child stars trapped inside, creeping. Where he lives now is within walking distance from a friendly little corner store where he picks up cereal and almond milk and anything else he doesn't want to wait to get delivered, which is convenient, and a somewhat-longer-but-still-doable hike away from Dick's favorite store in L.A, a tiny little candy shop that only stays afloat out of sheer spite. The owner, a cantankerous old man that Dick loved immediately upon meeting, roasts Dick mercilessly every time Dick comes in, but he also keeps Dick's standing order of the tragically discontinued Triple Xtreme Face Pucker Nuclear Warheads in stock just for him, so Dick wouldn't buy them anywhere else even if he could.

And as long as you have that and a laundry room, you're golden. If Dick had to leave his apartment to wash his socks he'd just lie down and die, or else wear a lot of dirty clothes.

So normally if asked, Dick would conclude that the apartment is, actually, better than fine, maybe even pretty good, and then he would change the subject.

It's just hitting Dick now that he's lived here for seven years now and he doesn't think he's ever actually looked around. They hired somebody to move his stuff into storage while Dick was still in inpatient and somebody else to decorate the apartment so it would be livable right when he got out, before he got around to picking up his stuff (he keeps meaning to do that). Moving in, all Dick cared about was getting a burrito the size of his face and sleeping on sheets that didn't smell faintly of industrial bleach masked poorly by something artificial, vaguely floral, and marketed as *Mountain Breeze.* In the grey haze it hadn't occurred to him to wonder if maybe the decor was itself a little too grey.

"Or whatever color they call this," Dick says to himself, staring down an oversized decorative vase with a few sticks poking out that you'd think would be silk flowers or something, but instead have these fuzzy little puffballs attached for some reason. "Gray-beige? Taupe? Greige? Why do I even have you." He tilts it to one side. It's shockingly heavy. "Why do I have *six of you.*"

Looking down the hallway it's obvious that the interior design team had a vision, and that vision was "innoffensive, featureless neutrality." There are just enough wall hangings to qualify as "minimalist" over "austere," black and white photographs of bland still lifes in featureless frames. Some kind of hanging tapestry except it's solid white with hanging tassels. Grey-toned floor, lighter grey-toned floor runner. The end result sails right past "boring" into "escaped psych ward patient" territory. Which Dick resents. He did his time, thank you very much, and waited until his official discharge like a good boy. That's probably why he didn't notice until now, psych ward home away from psych ward home.

Yeah. Let's blame that. The fact that he spent his first year out of the hospital doing nothing but trying to beat his Tetris high score in his underwear and scouring the internet trying to find the tragically discontinued Triple Xtreme Face Pucker Nuclear Warheads had nothing to do with it.

"He's going to think I'm a serial killer," Dick realizes.

He's most of the way through Tetrising the unwieldy, surpringly heavy vases into the tiny cubicle the guest bathroom calls a shower—and he'd like to know whose idea *that* was when anyone with a lick of sense would have just made it a half-bath—when the buzzer for the lobby goes off.

"Crap," Dick mutters, taking half a step away from the tower, which wobbles ominously. He lunges to steady it. "Crap!"

He casts around for a surface and sets the last two vases on the toilet lid and the sink respectively, the stupid little Q-tip stick things rattling mockingly inside, then dashes out to tell the doorman that no, Roy's not a stalker, yes really, yes Dick wants you to let him up please, yes he is serious, yes he is sure. He has enough time to sprint back to the bathroom and make sure his hair is okay and confirm that at least he doesn't *look* as sweaty and disheveled as he *feels,* but thankfully not enough time to start worrying if he might be due early for another round of fillers or if his hairline might be receding or if the skin under his jaw might be sagging. He looks fine. Everything's fine.

When the doorbell rings, Dick has to pretend he doesn't know who's on the other side to get himself to finally open the door. His breath still catches when he sees him.

Roy, casual as ever, pushing a pair of Ray-Bans he told Dick he shoplifted as a teenager up his forehead. His crow's feet, because he stopped getting fillers at twenty-five, except *his* are laugh lines, not stress wrinkles, less those *Where Are They Now?* specials they used to do on VH1, more Paul Newman aging like fine wine. His crooked smile, and he doesn't whiten his teeth anymore either, teased Dick when he drove him for his root canal that he was destroying his enamel and then held his hand when they put him under. His scuffed bomber jacket, older than either of them, which sparked half a dozen anecdotes about an Uncle Hal when Dick brushed his fingers against a faded patch on the sleeve. His henley with three buttons undone, straining over the curve of his chest. His jeans tight around the thighs, a little threadbare in places after over a decade of wear. The whole of him, broad and easy in the doorway, unapologetically imperfect, smiling.

Dick just wants this to go well so *badly.* "Hi."

"Hi yourself," Roy says, shifting a little. "Can I come in?"

"Please."

Roy closes the door behind him, bending to unlace his boots. Dick's eyes catch for a second on the strain of his thighs against denim, and the nervous inane smalltalk on its way out of Dick's mouth dies on his lips.

Roy kicks the second boot off and straightens up, dusting his palms off on his thighs, which probably shouldn't make Dick's mouth fill with saliva the way it does. He's looking around the entryway, curious. "Nice place."

*Don't mention the vases.* "You think so? I keep meaning to update a little."

"Yeah, man, it's nice," Roy says easily, and he's lying but Dick can barely tell, which is kind of him. "You want to show me around?"

No, Dick does not want to show him around. No, he does not want to discover alongside Roy what other modern minimalist nightmares the interior design team saw fit to install in case Dick got too overstimulated by non-neutral colors and tried to kill himself again.

"I want to show you the media room," Dick says, which at least has the benefit of actually being true.

The "whoa" Roy lets out when they enter the media room is gratifying. It's most people's reaction when they see it. It's always gratifying.

"Is that a pinball machine?" Roy asks.

Dick grins. "You wanna play?"

"Hell yeah, just. Later. You have so much cool shit here, show me all of it—"

Maybe the other reason Dick barely knows what the rest of his apartment looks like is because this is where he spends most of his time. Freshly discharged from the hospital, Dick had scarfed down his face-sized burrito, faceplanted on the bed, slept like a log for about two days straight and woken up not entirely sure what year it was or why. He looked around the room, remembered it was his, flicked on the lamp on his bedside table and didn't like it any better in the light. It was the smooth plasticine decor that Dick's belatedly come to realize populated the entire apartment, featureless, meaningless, trying desperately to be mature by being entirely devoid of interest. *My bedroom pays taxes,* Dick remembers thinking. *My bedroom has a 401k.* He grabbed his meds from his bedside table and stuffed them in his sweatpants pocket before wrapping himself in the big gray down comforter and dragging it to what he supposed was the den, flopping on the couch and sleeping for another six hours, eventually waking with the cap of PRAZOSIN - 10MG - GRAYSON, RICHARD J digging into his hip.

Time was sort of soupy a lot of the time back before he got his ADHD diagnosis, because of the brain fog. For the longest time his psychiatrists kept adjusting his Wellbutrin dose pretending they thought that had a chance in hell of working while Dick sat listlessly in their offices, missing meth. It wasn't until later when Jason Todd of all people dragged him to a specialist (because "if I have it, you definitely have it" successfully nettled Dick into going just to prove him wrong, except of course it turned out the bastard was right) and Dick found a new psychiatrist who was halfway competent and put him on Adderall that he really felt at all present again. The psychiatrist he has now, who is from hell and who doesn't let him get away with lying and who is incredibly good at her job, was the one who told him how much meth and ADHD stimulants have in common chemically.

Dick sat very still. Then he pointed to the throw cushion on the couch. "Can I borrow that for just a sec?"

"Take as long as you need."

Dick grabbed the pillow, buried his face in it, and screamed at the top of his lungs.

But for a while, yeah. Time was soup Dick was mostly afloat in. He spent it floating here.

Now that Dick is looking for it, he notices the gray in the floor and the walls, the aggressive featurelessness of even the window frames, but he likes the rest of the room enough not to mind. At one point he'd been irrationally angry at the pile of mail he'd put off opening for over a month, and he'd been going through a minor fixation with auction websites at the time, and there was an old, probably busted Ms Pac Man arcade machine up for sale and for some reason Dick latched onto it. For some reason winning the auction of the stupid Ms Pac Man machine was very briefly the most important thing in the world. And he did win the auction, because nobody else wanted the janky old thing, and to Dick's shock and delight it actually *worked*, and suddenly he had a project.

At first he bought and fixed up old arcade fixtures, classic games and pinball machines mostly but he dabbled in anything; he'd even gotten his hands on an air hockey table once. Then he'd get bored or run out of space, sell a bunch of things or even give them away if he was too sick of looking at them, and before terribly long he drifted away from arcades specifically. That part he credits to a film projector he ran into at a flea market and fell in love with, which prompted him to spend possibly obscene amounts of money on the sound system and improving the acoustics. He fell in love with a lot of objects, those days, maybe because he wasn't talking to *people* much. Not people who knew him well, anyway. He was on first name terms with his favorite antique dealers, one of whom inexplicably set aside an old Gibson electric guitar he found, a gorgeous machine in a charmingly 60s shade of Robin's egg blue, because he said it reminded him of Dick. Either because he somehow knew Dick would love it, or else because he knew Dick was a sucker with way too much money.

It didn't matter. Dick *did* love it, and he *is* a sucker with way too much money, and he *did* go straight home to almost give himself tinnitus playing every three-chord classic he knew at a truly unwise volume.

(Dick even replaced the original couch in this room because he kept falling asleep on it and his physical therapist threatened to quit over the havoc he was wreaking on his back. He's still not thrilled that he doesn't really sleep in bed ever, but the new couch isn't threatening to do permanent damage to his spine. Win/win in Dick's book.)

So. Not a home arcade, not a home theater, not a home studio. Scavenged bits and salvaged pieces, nostalgia probably in excess, anchors in time. Whatever magic they put in the air at antique stores and estate sales and really good museum exhibits, Dick managed to bottle a breath of it and take it home with him. When he finally started letting people into his life again, the unabashed delight often on their faces, walking into this room full of outdated obsolete frivolous things, sharing it with them… it's good. It feels good.

"Does that ancient popcorn machine actually work?" Roy asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning.

Dick matches it. "Yeah, and it's gonna knock your socks off."

So Dick gets the popcorn going and shows Roy around and silently laments that there was no way he could get his hands on film reels of The Muppet Show. Roy was almost as much of a geek about some of these machines as Dick was, and Dick had made it his whole personality for a while.

"It's just that there are some antique collectors that really don't mess around," Dick explained to Donna the week before, twisting and untwisting his napkin in his hands. "And I'm a competitive guy but some of the markets are totally cutthroat, and film people and puppet people are both intense. So this was better."

"Yeah, *and* it'd be insane to drop that kind of money on a first date," said Jason through a mouthful of bacon cheeseburger, Mister *we're not brothers we just played them on TV.* Dick had invited Donna to lunch, Jason had loudly said he was too busy to come, Dick said he wasn't invited, and Jason's schedule suddenly cleared up, *viola,* miracles do happen.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Dick told him.

"Die," Jason suggested pleasantly.

'Just played it on TV.' Sure.

"And it's not a date," Dick added belatedly, stomach swooping.

Jason had opened his mouth to probably say something horrible, as is his way, and instead let out a hilarious squeak, turning to Donna next to him in the booth with massive betrayed Bambi eyes.

She ignored him, continuing to pour Sweet-N-Low packets into her half-empty coffee as if she didn't just stomp on his foot under the table. She didn't really like coffee until it got to the consistency of artificially sweetened sludge. When they were young Donna was always on top of what was *in*, considering it part of her full-time job to appear effortlessly sophisticated; she skipped the teen-preteen fashion beat and shot straight to the big leagues by fifteen. They were putting the equivalent of a *sophomore in high school* on best dressed lists alongside grown-ass women. It should never have happened. No one should have *let* it happen. One time even before all that, Dick and Jason stole a box of Krispy Kreme donuts from catering and absconded to her trailer to share and she had a panic attack. Years later she described her youth as being in a room full of invisible mirrors at all times. Those days she wouldn't be caught dead with anything less chic than an espresso from whatever new *it* cafe just opened. And there she was, two decades later, blithely desecrating two-dollar-fifty diner coffee with enough aspartame to kill a cart horse in front of god and everyone. She was probably Dick's favorite person in the entire world, and he went into a little trance for a moment, watching her graceful hands with horrified fascination.

Finally satisfied, she took a sip of her monstrosity and hummed, satisfied with that which she hath wrought. "Wait and see," she suggested. "If it goes well, it can be a date."

"And everyone says *I'm* the crazy one," Jason griped, rubbing the prison stick-n-poke tattoo on one thumb with the other.

"Well, if everyone says it, it must be true," Donna said warmly, knocking her shoulder against Jason's.

#dc #roydick #dick and jason #dick and donna #ex child star au #dick grayson

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fritextramole · 1 month

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in their secondhand smoke

part 1 of an Eric van der Woodsen playlist - best heard in order

tracklist and quotes under the cut

If I Go, I’m Goin ~ Gregory Alan Isakov

This house, she's quite the talker She creaks and moans, she keeps me up And the photographs know I'm a liar

Sweet Hibiscus Tea ~ Penelope Scott

And I am not your protagonist, I'm not even my own

right where you left me ~ Taylor Swift

Trends change, rumors fly through new skies But I'm right where you left me

If You Know That I’m Lonely ~ FUR

Maybe it stays as it's always been Hazy and they see what we can't see Please let me know if you want me around And I'll try my hardest to be good

Matador ~ Minta & The Brook Trout

Go out of your way Or fake it through another day Everything is real Make your peace with whatever you feel The unwilling coalition of characters crowding your thoughts Make too much noise And way too little sense

Everybody Dies ~ Billie Eilish

Everybody dies, surprise, surprise We tell each other lies, sometimes, we try To make it feel like we might be right We might not be alone

feelings are fatal ~ mxmtoon

I'm always sad and I'm always lonely But I can't tell you that I'm breaking slowly Closed doors, locked in, no keys Keeping my feelings hidden, there is no ease I need it to stop and I want to be able to open up

6/10 ~ dodie

I know that you don't want me here I know that you don't want me here I know that you don't want me here I know that you don't want me here I know that you don't want me here Oh I'll just call a taxi (I know that you don't want me here)

Self Care ~ Penelope Scott

Do drugs, have sex, tell your deepest darkest secrets to your friends Post cringe, buy guns, are you done yet? Fuck, not enough, cry a river, smash a cup But it's never ever gonna be enough For the people in the back row, but you still choose to listen Knowing damn well it's really not their decision

Soda ~ Nothing But Thieves

I'm an exception It's hard to accept Because I try to be happy But then I forget

Goodbye Rocketship ~ Maya Hawke

I forgive you, and I thank you, you know all the reasons why I'm sorry and I love you, all we can do is try

Guiltless ~ dodie

You opened a door that a kid shouldn't walk through Oh, but I’m not bitter, I'm just tired No use getting angry at the way that you're wired

xanny ~ Billie Eilish

What is it about them? I must be missing something They just keep doing nothing Too intoxicated to be scared Better off without them They're nothing but unstable

Andromeda ~ Weyes Blood

Lift the heart from the depths it's fallen to We all want something new But can't seem to follow through Something's better than nothing Or so that I thought

Memories Can’t Wait ~ Talking Heads

There's a party up there all the time And they'll party 'til they drop

After Hours ~ The Velvet Underground

Dark party bars, shiny Cadillac cars And the people on subways and trains Looking gray in the rain as they stand disarrayed Oh, but people look well in the dark

They / Them / Theirs ~ Worriers

What if I don’t want something that applies to me? What if there’s no better word than just not saying anything, anything?

Gone for Good ~ Matt Berry

After a whole night of hell Could be night, who could tell? I realize no matter what I display It turns to shit and ends up just the same way

Shine ~ Collective Soul

Love is in the water, love is in the air Show me where to look, tell me, will love be there?

IDK You Yet ~ Alexander 23

How can you miss someone you've never met? 'Cause I need you now but I don't know you yet But can you find me soon because I'm in my head?

Dear Someone ~ Gillian Welch

Hurry and take me straight into the arms Of my dear someone

Comfort Crowd ~ Conan Gray

I just needed company now Yeah, I just needed someone around Yeah, I don't care what song that we play Or mess that we make Just company now

Home ~ Cavetown

Often, I am upset That I cannot fall in love, but I guess This avoids the stress of falling out of it

Storm Cellar Heart ~ Mutual Benefit

Taking shelter To wait out this inclement weather And when you hold me It's so much better

Soft Place to Land ~ Sam Beam, Jesca Hoop

If you're looking for a soft place to land The calm of a steady hand An unconditional friend If you need to take a moment to catch your breath Come in before you catch your death You don't have to pass a test to come home

#gg #ggplaylists #eric van der woodsen #gossip girl #source: senamarais #tw suicide #not explicitly but it's what we're talking about here

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the-haunted-office · 5 months

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An explanation of how Doomsday's ability to spawn in objects works!

While September also has this ability, she uses it to a much lesser extent and isn't nearly as practiced at it as Doom is, so you will see her do it far less often. The reason both of them can do it is because they were both killed in the same manner - by the Dampening mist. Their souls were digested and broken down into Dampening energy, and it is from this energy that they are able to create objects.

Dampening energy isn't something that is well-studied or indeed much known about in the universe. It's a source of energy that's created by the Dampening when it digests a soul. That energy is then used by the Dampening mist, and as we all know, the soul is gone. Occasionally there is a mutation that occurs during this breakdown process and the soul "survives" - pieces of it survive mixed in with the Dampening energy to form a kind of soul soup. The two known cases of this happening are September and Doomsday.

One of the things Dampening energy can do is create objects, but it can only do this if it has an understanding of what object it is creating. The Dampening mist gained this knowledge by taking hosts. It read their memories and could produce objects from those memories.

Sept and Doom are able to spawn in objects the same way - from their own memories.

This means that there are some limitations in what they can spawn in.

They can't spawn in an object they've never seen. You can't tell Doom to spawn in Thingamabob #499 if she's never seen or heard of it. If you described it to her and drew it in enough detail or provided a photograph of it to her, she would be able to recreate it, but it might not look right or function properly either. In this same respect, you can't expect her to spawn in something like a space rocket and expect it to function properly either - she has no idea what all it takes to build a fully-functioning space rocket. She can spawn in the space rocket, yes, but don't expect it to be going anywhere or to get you anywhere safely.

You can see now why she goes out and steals things like books. She can spawn in all the books she wants, but they won't be complete, because even her favorite books she hasn't memorized verbatim every page.

Food works a little differently and yet the same. She can technically spawn in any kind of food there is... except the caveat is it'll always taste like her memory of it. So if you think an apple tastes different than how she remembers an apple tasting, if you eat an apple she spawns in it might taste differently than how you remember it. If she spawns in food she's never tasted before it'll either have no taste or will taste like what she thinks it tastes like - i.e. something like sea cucumber will probably taste like sour jelly because that's what she thinks it tastes like.

Her perceptions on food can change, though! Since she's gotten back some of her sense of taste, if she tries something new, obviously the next time she spawns in that food item it'll taste like her new memory of it.

Another limitation is that neither she nor Sept can spawn in living things. They can spawn in vegetables after they've been harvested, but not like an apple tree. They can't spawn in another person, or any animals, or imaginary creatures, or anything like that. Nothing that could be considered alive or sentient.

She also can't spawn in things like entire planets or universes. At least, she's never tried, and please don't ask her to.

I think this is about everything I can think of regarding her object spawning abilities. If I think of something else later, I'll update this!

#doomsday #september/432 #headcanons #the dampening #nudge nudge NIGHTWING if you wanted to study them some time :)

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henrybly · 4 months

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Things had been tense since they’d touched down in Atlanta. As luxurious as the private jet had been (even with Bly money, Henry had never traveled like that before), the wi-fi had been spotty at best, their phones going haywire and pinging with Instagram notifications as soon as they were no longer in the air. He already had a pretty good idea of what everyone had to say with regards to Poppy’s latest Instagram post, and couldn’t help but keep his eyes trained on Diego as the other man checked his phone.

His stomach had dropped as soon as he saw the colour drain from Diego’s face. He knew Poppy hadn’t meant any harm by the photo, and maybe if he’d only known Diego Rodriguez for a few weeks, then he wouldn’t have understood what the big deal was. But he was fully aware of why Diego’s face was a mask of poorly-concealed horror right now.

“Diego,” he started towards him, shivering a little on the airport tarmac with only his hoodie to keep him warm. But then their manager was bustling them into two separate cars, Diego getting shoved into the back of one with Harper and Michael, meaning he got to sit with Poppy in the one that drove behind.

“Pops,” he said, trying to broach the subject as delicately as he could. He rarely ever beat around the bush, even with situations as fragile as this one, forever sure of his step. But right now it felt like he was walking through a minefield. He didn’t know how much Poppy knew about what went on between him and Diego and how their dynamic had shifted in the past few weeks. He’d spent more time in Diego’s bed than anywhere else recently, which would have been nice if he didn’t know the other man was beating himself up about it whenever Henry left. And now, there was a picture of them cuddling on the internet. Something that wouldn’t have been so compromising to Diego if Poppy had taken Henry’s place in the photo.

He cast his mind back to the time Valentina had uploaded photos from her 25th birthday party on Facebook, photo after photo of his sister and her friends enjoying themselves on her feed. He hadn’t been searching the background for anything incriminating, but evidently Stefan had. His phone had blown up with anxious demands that Val delete a certain photo. Honestly, Henry hadn’t known what Stefan was talking about until the other man had sent him a screenshot, revealing a picture of Valentina and her friend, Ariadne, arms slung around each other as they posed for the camera. Still unable to see what was so wrong with that, he zoomed in on the background, realising that the photographer had managed to capture him and Stefan as well, doing nothing except sitting side by side and laughing, except Stefan had his face pressed into Henry’s neck. Again, nothing that Henry had thought people would read into but Stefan had been hysterical.

He remembered marching into Val’s bedroom without knocking, something he had never done before, not because it was some written Bly rule, but just out of respect. He’d told Val, bluntly enough, that she had to delete the photo. His sister had been confused, but brought the photo up anyway. He’d never forget the look that she gave him, a mix of concern and pity as she finally deleted it from the album, and they never spoke about it again.

He had been direct in his approach with Valentina. But he didn’t want to make such a demand from Poppy. He really didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

“Poppy, I think maybe you should delete that photo,” he said, quietly. “A lot of the fans are running wild with rumours and you know Diego hates that stuff. Plus, we should probably give the PR team a break until after the New Year.”

It was a feeble joke that he’d added on, but it did nothing to wipe the confused look from Poppy’s face. Still, they’d already pulled up outside the venue and he quickly reached over to squeeze her hand.

“Please,” he begged, before quickly getting out of the car and jogging to catch up with Diego.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asked, when he reached the man. He couldn’t help but wince when he caught the tail-end of the Diego’s conversation with Harper, who was loudly insisting that was not me sleeping next to Henry!

#thread: diego2 #diego

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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 7 months

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Day 13: Bloodbath

(Note: the characters you’ll be reading about here are more fan-egos that belong to me. None of them will be referred to by actual names; instead, they will be organized by the same number system as the one in ISWM. This story is NOT related to ISWM Lore at all, the numbers are literally just inspiration easter-eggs. If you know your lore, then you won’t have any trouble figuring out who each character is based off of. As usual, the amazing @sammys-magical-au helped me shape this story, and the character L7181 is a nod to one of their lovely Lixian Egos!)

(Disclaimer: the horror game IRON LUNG is the property of David Szymanski. While I did create the characters in this story—except for The Convict/Mark’s Character/M2702, technically—the story itself is obviously inspired by the game’s elements. I STARTED WRITING THIS IN SEPTEMBER, AND AS OF RIGHT NOW, MARK’S IRON LUNG MOVIE HASN’T COME OUT YET. I HAVE NO WAY OF KNOWING WHAT THE MOVIE’S PLOT IS GOING TO BE LIKE. THIS STORY IS NOT AN ATTEMPT TO PREDICT ANYTHING. THIS IS LITERALLY JUST BASED OFF OF AN IDEA I HAD WHEN THE MOVIE WAS ANNOUNCED. SO PLEASE DON’T TRY BLASTING ME WHEN THE MOVIE INEVITABLY HAS DIFFERENT ELEMENTS THAN MY FANFICTION. AND EVEN IF THE MOVIE GETS RELEASED BEFORE I POST THIS STORY, I’M STILL KEEPING THIS STORY BECAUSE IT TOOK A LOT OF TIME AND EFFORT. IT’S JUST MY PERSONAL IMAGINING OF WHAT THE MOVIE COULD BE LIKE.)

(Trigger Warnings: blood/gore, claustrophobic environments, isolation, flashbacks/implied trauma, imprisonment, physical violence, implied self-harm, slight mentions of eating/drinking, thalassophobia, mentions of suffocation, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7 Day 8 Day 9 Day 10 Day 11 Day 12

It felt like hours had passed since the Iron Lung was lowered into the bowels of AT-5’s ocean, and yet M2702’s stomach was still being wracked with that instinctual dropping sensation. He shifted in the provided chair, practically leaning on the control panel in order to maneuver the submarine. The bright lights were harsh against his eyes, but they were far easier to handle than the darkness at the rear of the vessel.

He’d already had to retreat back there three times. Three stops aligned with the markings on the map, three photographs collected. That was the whole goddamn point of this voyage, after all. And each time he did, his instincts swore that something in the shadows would pin him to the floor and tear him apart. The brief illumination offered by the camera or terminal’s screen did absolutely nothing to ease that paranoia.

The walls were so rusty that M2702 was pretty sure he’d contracted tetanus just by looking at them.

Not that he’d have enough time to find out.

He found himself recoiling out of nowhere, shaking his head as an oily sensation bloomed under his face to announce that a vein somewhere in his nose had burst. A thin scarlet line slowly but surely seeped down over his lips and chin.

___

Pink.

That was the first thing he saw after his capture.

The space station he’d been dragged off to was a vast expanse of steel platforms and iron tunnels. He’d expected that, of course. It was no secret that iron was the C.O.I.’s pride and fucking joy. What he hadn’t expected was for the station’s interior—or, everything in the section he and the other convicts were being held in, at least—to be tinted the pastel color of candy.

But it most certainly was.

The walls, the floors, the tables lining the commissary, the intercoms in the corners of the ceilings, the plastic tubes containing very tiny amounts of freeze-dried food that were given to him and the others twice per day.

Everything. Pink.

(Even with the way supplies were dwindling, he had to admit: this probably helped enforce the strict policy against alcohol in space. Spending any amount of time here with a hangover would kill you.)

It truly seemed like the only non-rose-colored things in here were A. the headache-inducing fluorescent panels, B. the stainless steel sinks and toilets set up behind privacy screens in the far corners of the holding cells, and C. the almost scrub-like outfits required to be worn by anyone who was here against their will.

That might’ve been the part he hated the most. The goddamn uniforms.

Before he’d been beaten to the ground at the Filament Station, he’d worn a special type of clothing made from hydrophobic materials that also happened to be reinforced and self-cleaning. Now, he had to dress in simple garb that would’ve been found on Earth: a thin, itchy gray shirt with trousers to match, as well as a pair of laceless shoes that were determined to chew blisters into his ankles with every step he took.

To top it all off, his arms had been wrapped in a pair of black bracers, the left one adorned by a white patch that silently announced M2702 in a bold font. They reminded him of the blood-pressure cuffs he always saw in pharmacies as a child. Whatever fabric had been used to make these things, it was tough and tight; the skin hidden underneath felt so damn sore.

But hey, at least he wasn’t alone in that particular suffering.

Hours after he’d been taken prisoner, after those stupid bastards were finished examining him and looking over his vitals, he was practically shoved into one of the station’s excuses for a cafeteria. Other people had been there—more members of Eden whom he just hadn’t worked closely enough with—milling about, all turning their heads in near-perfect unison at the sound of the heavy steel door sliding shut behind him.

He kept his expression neutral, glaring right back as he maneuvered around the tables. By the time he’d collected his meal (a water bottle and a small vacuum-sealed package of what was apparently dehydrated chicken breast), everyone else had resumed either silently eating or having muted discussion. . .except for one.

A woman sporting a head of long, gently-curling chestnut hair. She waved to get his attention, nodded when he gestured toward himself, and beckoned him over to one corner of the area. As he cautiously drew closer, it took little time for him to realize just how petite she was despite obviously being an adult. She also appeared to be ill; her big brown eyes were watery and red around the edges, while her skin was a few shades paler than it probably should’ve been. The white patch on her left-arm-bracer read R1126.

“You’re from Eden, aren’t you?” She asked barely a second after he sat down across from her.

He hesitated before nodding. “Yeah, I am.”

R1126 wrung her hands. “So he was right, then.”

“Who’s ‘he?’” M2702 inquired. “What was he right about?”

“My brother. He said he saw a few people in his sleep a couple weeks earlier. The way he described one of them sounded exactly like the way you look.” She paused, glancing here and there as she drummed her nails on the table. She seemed to be bracing herself for something, like someone who knew from experience that there was a dead animal in the middle of a path they needed to take every day. “He saw the battle at the Filament Station.”

M2702 felt his mouth open and close a few times. He leaned back, blinking and slowly shaking his head. “That’s not possible. The attack only broke out a few days ago.”

“He dreamt about it,” R1126 responded in a very exasperated manner. Her tone became rueful and concerned as she continued. “And you’re right: it shouldn’t be possible. But it’s been years since he started having nightmares. Up until now, they’ve just gotten worse, much more frequent. And the things he remembers happening in them. . .”

The seconds felt painful as they dragged by, jeering at M2702 as he stared at his new conversation partner. If this had taken place decades prior, he probably would’ve rolled his eyes at her, maybe even scoffed. Her claim was outrageous; he couldn’t just believe it.

He never would’ve believed that so many of the stars and planets could just blink out of existence, one after the other, either.

He didn’t want to believe in something like that.

But he had to.

That was the reason for all the tensions between Eden and the C.O.I., the reason he’d wound up here in the first place.

“Where is he now?” M2702 wondered aloud. He wasn’t sure why he’d asked that, of all things. Then again, a person who had regular nightmares laced with a premonition or two was probably someone to look out for. “And why’re you telling me all this?”

“In solitary confinement. He was taken in two days ago, but he’s supposed to be let out sometime today.” R1126 chewed her lip. “I want you to understand. . .when you’re able to meet him. . .”

Her eyes suddenly grew wide, the grim anxiety that’d just wormed its way into them quickly warping into panic. She gasped for air, drawing her arms closer—one hand hovered before her mouth, and the other clutched at her stomach.

“H-He’s not a bad person, I swear. All our time in this place has just made him scared. Desperate. Paranoid. I know he doesn’t want to hurt anyone. He’s just trying. . .”

Her movements were soft as she began to rock back and forth in her seat, visibly swallowing several times as though there was a literal frog trying to climb up her throat, “. . .to find a way o-out of here. . !”

M2702 halfway rose from his chair. He’d learned the warning signs of vomiting at an early age, but his thoughts still seemed to sink through his skull for whatever reason. What was he supposed to do for her? Give her water? Alert someone else and lead them to her?

R1126 must’ve seen the way he glanced at the counters across the cafeteria, because she shook her head. “No, no. Don’t bother; even if they had the right medicine around here, I doubt they’d give it to me.” She straightened her back, gingerly rolling her shoulders as her hands found their way back to the table. “I-I’ll be fine.”

M2702 squinted at her, moving slowly as he sat back down. She sure as hell didn’t seem fine. “What’s wrong? What happened to you?”

R1126 stayed quiet for another moment. She started drumming her nails again, her eyes drilling through him with the exhausted demeanor of someone who’d developed a habit of expecting the worst of people. “I have no idea, honestly. I’ve just been able to. . .taste things in the air. And I’m not even sure what those things are.” She paused, shuddering. “But they’ve been so horrible. Even if I’ve adjusted somewhat, I just can’t seem to go a day without nausea.”

M2702 felt his brow furrow as the information sank in. He’d heard about plenty of sensory disorders in his time, but this was in a weight class of its own. The way she described her condition reminded him of how snakes could taste scents instead of just smelling them.

Again, a voice in his head demanded to know where the logic could possibly be, to which another voice chided it for still trying to find logic in times like this.

“It’s stuck with me for years now. Since before I was taken prisoner,” R1126 continued. Fear integrated itself with the pain and frustration in her expression. Her voice tapered down to a whisper: “I think the Rapture caused it. I think it caused my brother’s nightmares, too.”

More silence festered between the two of them.

Eventually, M2702 thought to ask the million-dollar question: “Were you two part of Eden?”

R1126 flinched, tilting her head at him.

“Sorry, it’s just—” M2702 sighed. “I was limited to working with a specific team, and I can’t recognize your face.”

R1126 fidgeted in place for a long, tense moment. “. . .We were traveling to Eden. Before the Rapture, we’d inherited a small ship, and we were using it to planet-hop for personal research.” Her voice hitched on Rapture, as though the word was a bundle of thorns caught between her lungs.

M2702 knew that feeling all too well.

R1126 took a quick, deep breath. “After we found out how all the things we’d managed to document were just disappearing, we had to keep changing course and sending out distress signals every day. Sooner or later, we remembered hearing about the tree gardens on Mars, so we figured that might be the safest place to land. While we were making our way there, we came across this station. Some of the people here answered our call and welcomed us inside. But once we explained our plans to them. . .”

The tremor in her voice grew worse. Her eyes began to glisten, clearly more out of emotion than sickness. “They got hostile. Wouldn’t let us leave, seized our ship and everything we had left on it.” She lowered her head, furiously scrubbing her tears away before they could start flowing.

Something awful stabbed its way through M2702’s ribcage. One part of him wanted to place a hand on her shoulder, to try and offer some support as she grounded herself. But another part ordered him to stay still, insisting that he was past the point of being able to help.

R1126 briefly ground her jaw as she resumed eye-contact with him. “I’m not sure how long we’ve been trapped here since then. It’s just gotten so hard to keep track of time.”

M2702’s train of thought came crashing to a violent halt. He and his colleagues already had their suspicions of the C.O.I. being corrupt, of its collectivist ideals being more focused on cult-esque control than conservation.

But to hear that this organization had been imprisoning civilians. . . people who had absolutely nothing to do with what was going on at the Filament Station. . .

Without warning, the same booming, metallic hiss he’d heard not too long ago raced through the air. M2702 turned in his seat just in time to watch another man being pushed into the cafeteria.

The new stranger—P0620 was printed on his left-arm-bracer—was the same height as him, fair-skinned with short, chocolate-colored hair that appeared to have been pulled on a regular basis. He gained his bearings quickly enough, fixing whoever was on the other side of that door with a venomous glare. Just as he began venturing further into the room, a blur manifested in M2702’s peripheral vision. That blur turned out to be R1126, who rushed over to P0620, tugging at his arm. P0620 wasted no time embracing her, briefly closing his eyes as his grimace melted into something that managed to be relieved and anxious at the time. Almost as if he thought she’d vanished in his absence the way so many planets and stars had.

It didn’t last.

The duo exchanged a few hushed words, and stress came flooding back to P0620’s expression as he scanned the area. M2702 couldn’t help but slightly recoil when that gaze landed on him. P0620’s eyes were bloodshot, wild, impatient. And when he began stalking toward him, it was all too easy to realize just how calculating they were.

M2702’s instincts told him to get to his feet, to be on-guard. The other man quickened his pace, only stopping once he was a few feet away, hands half-outstretched.

“Which side started firing first? How many casualties have there been so far?” P0620’s tone was sharp, almost searing. Despite never having known him before, M2702 could somehow tell that his voice wasn’t meant to be like that. It alone was damning evidence of trauma. “How exactly did they catch you? Did you kill anyone before that?!”

M2702 narrowed his eyes, holding his hands out in a defensive gesture. But before he could actually respond, R1126 stepped in front of him.

“Stop,” she commanded, her voice becoming solemn in time with the way her eyes hardened. “You’re not doing this again.”

P0620 sputtered, glancing back and forth between his sibling and the new inmate. “Wha—I have to!”

R1126 shook her head. “No, you don’t. And even if you did, I still can’t just let you. Not until you’ve actually calmed down, at the very least.”

P0620 took a few deep breaths. One of his eyes twitched as he began kneading at his temples. “Being calm hardly matters anymore.”

“Not the point. You really think I don’t know how the punishments have been getting worse? It might not be much longer before those bastards start torturing you for no reason!”

“That’s why I need to get a better understanding of the visions!” P0620 threw his hands up as his voice shot through a good few octaves. “I saw the conflict before anyone else did! So, if someone involved with it would actually answer my damn questions, then maybe I could use that info to put more pieces together when the next one comes!”

M2702 cautiously stepped away, moving in order to see both of the sibling’s faces.

“That doesn’t mean—” R1126 tried, only to cut herself off, dipping her head. She cleared her throat, grit her teeth. “You can’t just—”

A low scraping noise seemed to crawl out of her mouth. Her breathing grew more and more ragged. Both her and her brother’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates.

“N-no—not here—I need. . !”

And just like that, R1126 collapsed, clawing at her neck as she dry-heaved on the floor.

All the frustration evaporated from P0620’s features, replaced by panic as he cried out and knelt down beside her, trying to help her stand.

___

It didn’t matter that the front window had to be kept closed due to the pressure down here. It was pointless to have a window at all. Just hearing the gallons upon gallons upon gallons of blood churning and stirring around the Iron Lung would’ve been enough. Even if he hadn’t actually touched any of it yet, he could still tell just how viscous it was.

That wasn’t it, of course.

Relentless heat oozed through the submarine’s framework, making its interior humid even before one of the pipes spat out a plume of steam. This almost made M2702 miss the uncomfortable chill that always seemed to be present in the space stations he’d visited before.

That infamous metallic stench was nearly palpable in the air: to the point that he could taste it with each breath he took. He wondered if this was similar to what R1126 had been suffering through.

___

“Y’know, my training really made me a light sleeper,” M2702 mentioned. “I never had insomnia or any of the typical sleeping problems growing up. But when your job requires you to travel so far and be aware for as long as possible, you just learn to wake up as quickly as you drift off.”

He quietly paced the floor of his cell, which almost could’ve passed for an enormous display case. Three of the walls surrounding him were glass, adorned by uniform rows of holes just barely wide enough to fit his index finger through. The fourth one, the one closest to the mattress he’d been lying on a couple minutes ago, seemed to be made of metal.

They were all tinted that goddamn specific shade of pink, obviously.

“It was tough, but I managed. Can’t really say the same for the others I shared a unit with, though,” M7202 continued as he leaned against the privacy screen in the corner. “So many of them always tossed and turned for hours; that didn’t always keep the rest of the room up, but it could still be so aggravating sometimes. . .”

He peered out from behind the screen, glaring into the glass cell on the right of his.

A woman sporting pale skin and long, straight black hair scrutinized him from behind a pair of thin-rimmed glasses.

“. . .It’s safe to say you would’ve been a problem back there,” M2702 concluded dryly, ignoring the chill that raced down his spine. “Look at you. You’re not even pretending to sleep.”

“There’s no point in doing that,” C4560 answered. While she too made sure to keep her voice at a whisper, her words still dripped with acid. “I told you: I can’t sleep anymore. No matter what I try, my brain just won’t allow it. I’ve gotten to the point where I can’t even close my eyes for long periods.”

M2702 snorted as quietly as he could. “Yeah, well, I’m struggling to see the merit in taking that out on me.”

Out of all the other prisoners he’d come across so far, C4560 was undoubtedly the most tense.

Much like R1126 and many others, he hadn’t been able to recognize her. The first evening he’d been locked into his holding pen, he’d asked her a few questions; her replies had been terse, as well as a little too infuriatingly cryptic for his taste. (It sort of made him sympathize with P0620.)

He’d only learned three things only about her: she’d never been a member of Eden, she’d apparently been kept captive here much, much, much longer than anyone else in this particular branch of the station, and. . .right, the whole loss-of-ability-to-rest-and-not-be-such-a-damn-creep thing.

It shouldn’t have been possible.

Even if science still hadn’t learned exactly how long a human could survive without sleep, M2702 was certain that his next-door neighbor should’ve been dead by now, with the limited explanation she’d given him.

And yet, here she was: breathing, speaking, watching.

Not that she looked healthy at all.

Her cold brown eyes almost looked sunken thanks to the bags that had long-since formed right beneath them. The skin in that area seemed like it held so much more pain than any bruise he’d ever witnessed before. Of course, that did nothing to change the fact that it felt like she was stabbing M2702 every time she glanced at him.

“What did the Rapture do to you?” C4560 asked for. . .what was it, the thirteenth time in just five days?

M2702 scowled at this, marching closer to place his hands against the glass. “Where the fuck do you get off? It didn’t do anything to me.”

She hummed, stepping forward to touch the barrier of her own cell. “No, it did. You just aren’t aware of your symptoms yet. Maybe they’ve been slow to develop for you.”

“Even if that was true, it’d be none of your damn business.”

“Oh, you mean, just like you didn’t have to try and ask about my business when you got here?”

M2702 could feel his knuckles turning white. He then heaved a guttural sigh, lightly shaking his head. “Fine. Let’s say there’s a modicum of truth to that. How exactly can you tell that there’s something wrong with me? And how are you so sure that it’s because of the Rapture? What, were you there to see it happen? Were you the one to accidentally flip the wrong goddamn switch and set it all off?”

Other than the way she raised an eyebrow to such blatant sarcasm, C4560’s face barely moved. Sure, it was dark in this area right now, but M2702 had seen her under those obscenely bright fluorescents elsewhere in the station. And in broad light, she still gave the impression that a dozen or so vipers were coiled up together inside her head, looking at the world through her exhausted yet piercing eyes, patiently waiting for someone else to make a wrong move. . .

“I think I’ve just learned to tell,” she eventually declared. “That’s the only thing you can do when you have so much time and nowhere to go: you learn. One way or another. The process isn’t pleasant—or, it isn’t anymore, at least. But that’s all we have left.”

M2702 felt his face soften by just a smidge. He’d only known C4560 for a few days, and he already knew that he’d never understand her or what her damage was.

But there was absolutely no denying just how real that last statement was.

C4560 studied him, then carefully slanted her head to the side.

“Well, I hope you manage to learn something before your symptom is ready to start working. I get the feeling that it’s gonna turn you inside-out,” she mused. “Yeah, it’ll just drag all your blood and bones and sinew out for everyone to see. You’ll survive, but you’ll have to be so much more careful with doing anything after that, won’t you?”

It was everything M2702 could do not start shaking. “Oh, go to hell,” he hissed as he tore himself away from the glass. “Go straight to hell’s fucking boiler room.”

There was a pause.

And then. . .C4560’s lips twitched before slowly, ever-so-slowly, curling into a grin. “Hell?” She repeated. She dipped her head as a strange, quiet chuckle seeped through her lips. “Saying that makes it sound like there’s an alternative.”

The words had barely slithered into the air before a chorus of terrified gibbering erupted from across the room. For the first time all night, C4560 took her eyes off of M2702.

M2702, meanwhile, crept over to the front and foremost wall.

“DON’T LISTEN TO THEM! THEY’RE LYING TO YOU!” P0620 shrieked. He seemed to be clawing at his head. “THEY’LL JUST TAKE YOUR LUNGS AND DRAIN THEM INTO THE ENGINES!”

It wasn’t hard to see the other row of glass cages opposite of his and the two flanking it. Through the darkness, however, it probably shouldn’t have been so easy for him to make out the form of P0620 as he thrashed and quaked on his own mattress in his own cell.

“THEY’LL TAKE YOUR EYES FIRST! THEY’LL CHOOSE ONE SET AND KEEP THE OTHER SET TO BOIL!” P0620 howled again. In the cell next to his, the outline of R1126 was very clearly shivering, digging her nails into her ears as she rocked back and forth.

“IT’LL SET THE BLOOD ON FIRE! YOU’LL BE PART OF THE OCEAN! YOU’RE NOT HIM!”

It took a couple minutes for the screaming to taper down a notch. P0620 didn’t go silent; he was still murmuring, still yelping, still trying to escape whatever was attacking him from inside his eyelids.

M2702 backed away, skulking over to his mattress before C4560 could return her focus to him. He wasn’t sure why he bothered.

He could tell that she was still watching him through the obstacles between them.

___

The long, droning bellow felt like icy needles stabbing into M2702’s skull.

It made his intestines burn.

It was trying to persuade his spine to tear itself out of his skin, to slither out between the rusted walls and into the ocean of gore.

If that were to happen, he supposed his vertebrae would be right at home.

He’d already taken so many pictures of enormous carcasses that had sunk down to the very bottom. They were just piles of bones; he couldn’t tell whether flesh had eroded away or been picked clean by smaller creatures that worked themselves into a frenzy once their meal’s original killer swam far enough away.

It was almost a surprise that he flinched at the feeling of a droplet plopping down on his head.

Another crimson tear fell from the ceiling, landing against the control panel with a tiny splat.

And another. . .and another. . .

___

M2702 would’ve been lying if he said he wasn’t proud of himself for keeping track of the days. He knew his internal clock was suffering, and he knew that suffering would only get worse the longer he was kept here. But for now, he made an effort to go along with his new, enforced schedule.

He’d watched more and more convicted people manifest into the space station. Most were severely wounded in one way or another. About half had been unconscious upon their arrival, and half had been awake and struggling much like he’d been.

Of the ones he’d seen being brought in, he only recognized two. He hadn’t worked with them directly, but he could remember seeing their faces, passing them in hallways back on Mars. One of them had black hair almost as long as his own, the bangs of which sometimes covered one of his warm amber eyes. The other was an adult, but still clearly younger than the majority of people around him, lean yet muscular, boasting stark-white hair and grayish-blue eyes.

They’d quickly been labeled L7181 and E9342, respectively.

L7181 had been the only new prisoner to not outwardly fight. Oh sure, he’d snarled at the people who’d flanked him—if looks could kill, both of those bastards would’ve been reduced to decorative splatters on the pink floors—but he’d still walked in time with them, his face shifting between bitter resignation and very obvious resentment at being guided along as though he couldn’t move for himself.

And after that, L7181 barely spoke at all. He made a clear effort to keep some amount of distance between himself and everyone else, his expression always cold, frustrated, disinterested. (Not that he could be blamed for that behavior, of course.) Even when M2702 saw that same spark of recognition in the other man’s eyes once they’d eventually settled on him. . .well, nothing really came of it, unless you counted a curt nod.

It took what M2702 estimated to be a month before that disposition ripped itself apart.

He’d been pacing up and down the precious few corridors he had access to—it was in between meal times right now, but the cafeteria was just too goddamn crowded for him to think—when he heard the distant screaming.

“UUUUUAAAAGGH!”

Now, screams weren’t at all uncommon in this place, but when the source grew closer and closer to where M2702 had paused, he realized just how. . .different these ones were.

“AAAAIIIEEAAAAAH!”

They were horrified, desperate, almost completely unhinged.

They were nearly on-par with the way P0620 shrieked in his sleep.

And they were all coming from L7181.

M2702 was just barely in time to duck around one shadowy corner.

“NO! NO, NO, NONONONONOOO!” L7181 careened down the hall, not even seeming to gasp for air in between his cries. “NOOOOOOOOOOO!”

A few of the station’s researchers were in hot pursuit. They shouted after him, but their words were almost totally drowned out by all the noise he was making.

M2702 watched from his impromptu hiding spot as one of them finally caught up to L7181, hands slamming into his back, throwing him to the floor and pinning him down. L7181 didn’t stop screaming, thrashing with more energy and strength than M2702 had ever seen in him before.

The rest of the scientists circled around him, helping the original one keep their hold. Then, as a unit, they half-carried-half-dragged L7181 further down the passage, over to the door that led to one of the cell rooms.

M2702 didn’t know why he decided to follow them. It wasn’t even a concrete decision; from deep within his guts, a quiet voice just demanded that he take advantage of this chaos in some way.

So, he crept along after the group, managing to slip past them all without being seen once that door slid open. He retreated around the now empty glass cages, pressing himself against the wall, trying to make himself as small as possible.

L7181 was hauled over to the cell he’d been assigned to—one right next to P0620’s, on the opposite side of R1126’s. Still shrieking. Still fighting. One of the researchers typed a code into the keypad on the cage’s sliding door, then shoved the panicking man through.

The extra force wasn’t even needed; L7181 sprinted into his cell the second its door was opened. He lost his balance, tripping at the center as the threshold was sealed once again, but it was obvious that he didn’t care. The only thing he seemed to be focused on was movement. So, he crawled. Crawled as fast as he possibly could until he reached one corner, where he pressed himself into that space where glass connected to metal.

He didn’t go limp there. No, he clawed at the walls, squirming with such violence that he could’ve very well been mistaken for having a seizure.

The researchers watched him for what felt like an hour, shaking their heads and murmuring amongst themselves. Then, they finally filed out of the cell room, one by one, none of them even glancing in M2702’s direction.

M2702 stayed down, stayed hidden for another moment. Once the sound of footsteps truly disappeared from the other side of the wall, he slunk out, trudging along the space in between the rows of cages until he was hovering near L7181’s.

The convict in question was rambling now, a mess of terrified phrases set in Portuguese leaking through his teeth. His screams had gotten a bit shorter with a few more seconds between each one. “I-I can hear them! I can hear them! I CAN HEAR THEM!”

“Hear. . .what?” M2702 called with more hesitation than he’d care to admit.

L7181’s head shot up, his frantic eyes now fixed on the man outside of his cage. He didn’t stop spasming.

“The things on AT-5,” he eventually rasped. It truly seemed like he had to force the words out. “The monsters living in its ocean!”

M2702 felt his heart skip a beat. The ship that’d transported him from the Filament Station to this one. . .through one of its few, pressurized windows, he’d gotten to take a brief look at the enormous pool of scarlet.

It would’ve been impossible for anyone to not know about the sea of blood that resided on the moon nearest to this station.

Just as it was impossible for anyone to doubt that there were lifeforms inside that sea. . .

“He means The Gongoozler,” another voice suddenly called from across the room, wracked with manic giggles. “He’s gotten a chance to listen to The Gongoozler and all the other screamy-scaley-squishies swimming around in the plasma.”

M2702 startled, glancing over his shoulder. It took an embarrassingly long few seconds for him to remember how E9342 had essentially been put in a timeout earlier.

The young man leaned against the door in his cell; one of his eyes was swollen shut, a fresh bruise still blooming around it. His grin seemed to stretch quite literally from ear-to-ear as he surveyed his fellow inmates. “You should be grateful, y’know. I’ve always wanted to hear The Gongoozler’s call for myself! Quick, what’s it sound like? Please, please tell me!”

M2702 chewed his lip, now fluctuating between dread and irritation.

Back at Eden, E9342 had made a bit of a reputation for managing to stay positive and productive in such bleak scenarios. It was a bit odd, yes, but it’d been pretty damn refreshing at times.

But ever since he’d been brought here, that trait had changed in an awful way. His smiles were now twisted and eerie. The jokes he insisted on constantly making were dark and morbid. And the giggles that he apparently couldn’t go five minutes without emitting sounded. . .poisonous.

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” L7181 stammered, screwing his eyes shut. He held one trembling fist close to his mouth, biting at the knuckle of his index finger. It hardly took any time at all for him to draw his own blood. “I’ve just gotten their attention. Th-they know I can hear them. And now they’ll NEVER. STOP. MAKING. ME. LISTEN!”

C9342 snickered and nodded along, dragging his nails down the length of his forearm over and over and over again, leaving harsh red lines in his skin. It wouldn’t be longer before he started bleeding as well.

“People have ALREADY DIED DOWN THERE! I heard a HUMAN screaming and drowning! I-I-I heard metal being torn to shreds and scattered!” L7181 lurched forward, curling further into himself. Even his eyes seemed to be shaking, all the way down to the pupils, which had shrunk to pinpricks. “Someday I’m going to wake up outside the station! I’ll be falling as soon as I open my eyes and the blood will reach up and wrap around me and drag me all the way down to the deepest pits it has! Oh no, oh no, oh no, n-n-no!”

M2702 felt his hands tangle themselves in his hair. He reeled back from the other cell.

The world seemed to be moving without his consent.

His vision was growing blurry around the edges.

“I’m gonna die,” L7181 choked out. He covered his face in both hands, his screams having transformed into sobs. “I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die. . .”

“Yeah, but not exactly,” C9342 mused, his face almost thoughtful as he chortled. “We all will, but it shouldn’t be too bad. We’ll get to see each other again in six years, nine months, four days, twenty hours, thirteen minutes, and thirty-seven seconds. The time will go faster than you think, I promise! Then we’ll all be together.” He cackled, seeming to choke on his own saliva. “With The Gongoozler, of course.”

“Will you shUT UP ABOUT THE FUCKING GONGOOZLER?!” M2702 raged, halfway closing the distance as he stormed over to E9342’s cell.

E9342 flinched, but he remained standing. His sanity-breaking smile grew even wider. “You think I DON’T WANT TO?!” He practically howled with glee as he punched and kicked at the glass in front of him. “You think I’m CHOOSING THIS?!”

He started ramming his head against the barrier with a chorus of dull, heavy thuds. Along with a loud, sickening CRACK as blood started gushing from his nose. More and more bruises were already forming on his face. But he just kept on laughing, struggling to speak or breathe. “YOU JUST DON’T FUCKING GE-HEHEHE-ET IT!”

___

With all the weight it had gained, it was no surprise that the Iron Lung was now dragging along the ocean floor rather than gliding above it.

M2702 was up to his waist in blood. He could feel it dripping from his hair, trickling along his face. His chest heaved in and out as he waded through it.

The air had become so thin, so rancid. He could barely even take in a full breath anymore.

He was completely enveloped by a horrific gurgling sound from the outside.

When the submarine had first started leaking. . .the blood had been cold. Cold enough to feel like thousands of tiny knives against his skin as it seeped through his clothing.

But now. . .now the blood was warm.

So warm.

Too warm.

Nearly scalding.

M2702 knew that he couldn’t think anymore. There was no point.

His brain was well-past not receiving enough oxygen. He knew he wasn’t going to resurface.

Even so, he knew that the blood needed to be as hot as it was.

After all, the ocean itself was alive.

It didn’t just house the individual organisms that’d been taunting him for so long, that’d been swimming closer and closer to him and ramming the Iron Lung's outer walls with their tails or fins or teeth.

This ocean was a living creature.

And soon, very soon, M2702 would get to join that life.

@sammys-magical-au @altegos

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corner-stories · 7 months

Text

the little artsy speedster

Irey West. Donna Troy. Babysitting. Sketchbooks. Polaroid Photographs. 2353 words. (ao3.)

The Troy Photography studio was located at a townhouse in the Upper West Side, up a short flight of stairs and inside a bedroom that had been converted into a work space. On one end was a backdrop and numerous light stands, and on the other was a computer desk, a couch, and several shelves cluttered with nothing but photography equipment.

Evidently, Auntie Donna had a strong preference for Fujis.

As the photographer sat at her desk and meticulously edited photographs for her client, Irey West sat on the nearby couch and made an attempt at her science homework — attempt being the operative word. Sure, learning about the anatomy of the human eye was probably the more productive thing to do, but doodling flowers in the margins of her textbook was much more fun.

Plus, after getting into trouble for spacing out in class on three separate occasions, there was probably no way that Irey could get into any more.

After decorating a page with roses of varying colors, Irey closed her book and decided she had enough “science-ing” for the day.

She got up from the couch and stretched her shoulders, her eyes catching sight of the studio window, and the view of Manhattan outside.

Curious, she stepped through the studio and arrived at her babysitter’s desk. She stood by the chair as Donna affixed her eyes to her monitor, utilizing the finest image editing software available to properly finish her project.

Irey peered over and took in the photograph on the monitor. The image depicted a grown man with a head of neatly combed brown hair, a pair of blue eyes, and a kindly smile on his face.

Auntie Donna had already explained that she was editing headshots for her various clients, most of which were working actors. The photos on the screen now looked exactly the same as the ones before, except the current guy had a chin shaped like a butt.

Noticing the young redhead, Donna turned her head to the side and smiled. “How’s that homework coming along?”

Irey looked down to her shoes. “... it’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” asked Donna, smirking. She turned in her swivel chair to face her little niece. “Because you’ve been doodling more than studying.”

Irey let out a sigh. “Doodling is all I’m good at.”

Donna tilted her head to the side just slightly, then spoke in a soft tone. “That’s not true.”

Irey was unconvinced, especially if her last report card was anything to go by. If it wasn’t the dyslexia making it difficult to put words to paper, then it was the ADHD making her space out during class and missing the lesson entirely. At least doodling on her notebook, sketchpad, and textbooks helped her feel grounded, like she was actually okay at something for once.

It helped that her art teachers seemed to tolerate her more than the others.

Sensing the distress in her young niece, Donna decided to speak up again.

“I have an idea — how about I finish up here and we get an early dinner?” she suggested. “I need a break, anyways.”

Irey couldn’t help but smile. “I’d like that.”

Donna gave a quick nod, then turned towards her computer screen once more. “Great, just give me a few minutes.”

As the photographer went on to tinker with her client’s headshots just a little more, Irey turned her head towards one part of the studio that she was particularly interested in.

That part being the shelf of trinkets near Auntie Donna’s desk. She had seen it a handful of times before and every time she was utterly intrigued by the collection of cameras put on display. The actual equipment used for photo shoots were kept in thick plastic boxes, while the shelf appeared to be a place for Auntie Donna to display her camera collection.

The contraptions Irey saw were unlike the mirrorless digital camera her parents had at home, or even the medium format workhorse Auntie Donna used for her clients. The cameras were much older, yet managed to stand the test of time. All of them used film, which meant that every shot had to matter.

There was one camera that was made of black plastic, felt like a toy, and was called a Holga. There was another that was made of metal and built like a tank — it was called a SLR, which meant single-lens reflex. According to Auntie Donna, back in a certain day and age most cameras had a mirror inside of them to reflect the image from the lens and into an eyepiece for the photographer to see.

But then there was one that Irey just couldn’t keep her eyes off of. On the bottom right shelf there was a blocky camera that was most definitely older than herself. Irey had seen Donna use it before, and everytime she did the camera would make a whirring sound as it dispensed a square-shaped photograph out the front. It would only take a few moments for the image taken to appear on the thick, plasticky material.

Curiously, Irey reached for the camera and took it gently in her hands. She had witnessed Donna being very precious with the thing and made sure to do exactly the same.

Back at the computer desk, Donna looked over her shoulder to see her young niece toying with her prized Polaroid Supercolor 635 CL. Unsurprisingly, she was quick to speak up.

“Be careful, that’s-”

Immediately, Irey’s finger put pressure on the shutter button, causing a flash of light to emit from the camera and for Irey to start stumbling backwards. By the grace of a higher power, she didn’t drop the device and have it shatter into a million little pieces.

Irey let out a grumble as she put her arm over her now overstimulated eyes.

“Aaaah! I flashed myself!”

Donna stepped out of her chair and approached Irey, reaching out to steady the girl and gently taking the camera away. As she placed the whirring device on her desk, she just had to wonder if there was a much less concerning way for Irey to phrase her thoughts.

…

Donna didn’t consider herself a great cook, but she was well-versed in the art of scrounging around one’s kitchen and making a meal out of whatever she could find.

Fortunately, there was enough groceries left in her fridge and pantries to constitute some kind of dish. Though she wondered exactly how old the frozen shrimp in her freezer was.

Nonetheless, Donna busied herself over a hot stove as Irey sat at the island in the middle of the kitchen. It was nice to occupy her mind with something that didn’t involve a camera or punching a supervillain for a change.

As Donna boiled fettuccine and fried shrimp, she would look over her shoulder just to check on the speedster at the counter.

Every time she looked over Irey was in the same spot. On the counter was a sketchbook and in her hand was a pencil, and on the paper Irey drew to her heart’s content on a surface that was actually made for it.

After slicing a few lemons on a cutting board, Donna put her knife down and walked over to the sketching speedster.

“What are you drawing, Irey?”

Irey put down her pen and slid her sketchbook.

As Donna looked towards the moleskine on the counter, she expected the usual abstract scribbles that most kids would make when doodling, or even the flowers Irey had placed in the margins of her textbook.

But to her surprise, the illustration that Irey had made could only be described as a winged eldritch abomination with two dark, beady eyes that had been drawn with so much pressure that the paper was slightly warped.

“It’s mothman!” Irey exclaimed in a cheery voice.

Had it not been for the girl’s utter enthusiasm, Donna would have been concerned. But instead she couldn’t but smile at her little niece’s rather amusing — albeit slightly unpredictable — imagination.

“Oh, how macabre,” Donna said as if a thirteen-year-old would know exactly what that meant. She flipped through the pages of the book and found a handful of similar pencil drawings depicting the same creature.

Either kids were super into urban legends nowadays, or Irey had a really strong appreciation for the cryptid of West Virginia.

Irey quickly took her sketchbook back and flipped a few pages forward. What awaited Donna on the other side was an illustration of a window, one seemingly in front of a city skyline that looked somewhat familiar.

Donna blinked for a few moments, her interest very much piqued, then realized that what Irey had drawn was a recreation of the view outside of her photography studio.

While the lines were uneven and the shading was spotty in some places, the fact that Donna could actually recognize it as her little corner of the Upper West side was impressive. Irey even managed to depict the rooftops of various brownstones and the few tree branches of Central Park.

“I also tried to draw the view outside your office,” Irey said in an almost timid tone.

“Did you do this by memory?” asked Donna, gently grazing the surface of the drawing with her fingertip.

“Yeah, so it sucks, but I tried,” Irey confirmed, shrugging. “But Mom said that trying something and sucking is the first step in trying something and not sucking.”

Amused, Donna gave the young budding artist a smile. “Your mother’s a very wise lady, Irey.”

Stepping away from the kitchen island, Donna walked towards one of the drawers in the room and pulled it open, said drawer being one of those spaces that a person would fill with whatever clutter they needed out of the way.

After rifling through the fast food napkins, numerous rubber bands, and brochures she took but never read, Donna emerged from the mess with a single fine-tipped pen in her hand.

“Here, try this,” said the Amazon as she handed it over to the little artsy speedster. “You won’t have to use as much pressure for the details.”

Irey looked apprehensive as she accepted the pen. Perhaps all her time drawing with her school supplies had led to unfamiliarity with anything else.

Nonetheless, Donna noticed Irey testing the fine-tipped pen as she turned back towards the meal on the stove.

After testing if the pasta was done, Donna drained and added it to the pan with the shrimp. She squeezed a healthy dose of lemon juice onto the food, then added a few pats of butter to ensure that all the ingredients were able to truly mingle.

For a meal that she was partially bullshitting, it turned out remarkably well.

Donna placed the shrimp scampi with fettuccine onto two plates and garnished them with celery leaves, pepper, and grated parmesan. As she brought it to the kitchen island she could see Irey putting the final touches on her masterpiece.

“How’s it looking?” asked Donna as she placed the meals on the counter.

Irey put down her pen and showed off her not new, but improved illustration. “It’s looking less sucky,” she admitted, shrugging once more.

“It was never sucky to begin with, trust me,” Donna assured as she peered towards the sketchbook. With a smile on her face she slipped into the role of art critic.

Unsurprisingly, Irey managed to enhance the details of her recreation of Donna’s studio window, adding darker lines wherever it was necessary to highlight the details outside of the Troy brownstone. She even made sure to properly detail every window of every building that she depicted.

“Excellent work, Irey,” Donna lauded with a grin. “Top marks.”

Irey looked as if she was trying not to blush. “You know a lot about drawing,” she said sheepishly, perhaps trying to deflect the complement. “But I thought you were a photographer.”

“An old friend of mine used to draw a lot,” Donna explained easily. She took a seat next to her young niece and placed the sketchbook down. “I like to think I picked up a thing or two.”

Irey let out a hum, then suddenly her attention was caught by the steaming plate of pasta in front of her. With a grin, she grabbed the nearest fork and began digging in.

“Thanks for dinner, Auntie D,” she managed to say before taking her first bite.

In the span of a few seconds Donna saw nearly every bit of Wally West in the little girl in front of her — everything from the shade of his hair to his signature speedster appetite.

“You’re welcome, Irey,” Donna said. Before she picked up a fork, she suddenly remembered something that she had brought with her from the studio upstairs.

Reaching into the pocket of her cardigan, Donna soon pulled out the polaroid photograph that had been taken during Irey’s little camera incident.

She leaned over the counter slightly and held the photo towards the little redhead.

“Oh, let’s see how this turned out.”

Irey’s mouth was half-full with pasta as she peered over. The photo immortalized on the material was nothing special, essentially an analog selfie of a curious redhead who didn’t realize that the camera she was holding was full of film.

Donna thought it was a good first shot, but Irey was thinking otherwise.

“Ugh, even my photos suck,” said Irey, crinkling her nose.

“No, it doesn’t,” Donna promised. “It’s just your first, and if you try to take more than I can assure you that they’ll get better with time.”

Irey shrugged. “Yeah, but I’m a drawer, not a photographer.”

Donna tilted her head to the side just slightly. “Some people could be both.”

For a moment, Irey blinked in shock as she took in the news, and in her little niece’s eyes Donna could see a certain revelation settling into the girl, one that clearly had not been realized before.

With a sly grin on her face, Donna dug into her pasta and wondered if this — of all things — could be a day that would change Iris West II’s life forever.

#Irey West #Donna Troy #Iris West II #Impulse #Thunderheart #Troia #Wonderfam #Flashfam #DC #things you edit at 3AM

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sissy-feminized-into-ballerina · 1 year

Text

“Must you really stare at it like that Laura? It’s bad enough having to endure my mum hanging that picture up in the living room for every guest to see let alone having my girlfriend be obsessed with it.”

“I’m sorry David. I know it’s embarrassing for you but I can’t get over it ok? My big handsome boyfriend and his brothers spent their teens being petticoated because they said something mean to their little sister.”

“We weren’t mean though. We just called her ballet stupid…something which after being forced to do it for the following 6 years I stand by.”

“It’s just so funny to me!”

“Well it wasn’t funny to us I assure you. That photoshoot was an absolute nightmare. I had just turned 16 there on the far left while Jake kept crying”

“Which one’s Jake?”

“On the right, next to Hannah.

As I was saying he kept crying and mum made us go through 5 outfit changes before settling on these. I’m just glad she didn’t use the pancakes for the final shoot.”

“Pancakes?“

“Pancake tutus… pastel pink… absolutely ghastly.”

“I bet I’d love to see those.”

“Pretty sure Max burnt them.”

“The photos?”

“The tutus Laura.”

“He burnt all, even Hannah’s so mum couldn’t force him to wear hers. Sis was livid.”

“Wow, who would have thought nerdy Max would be such a badass? Still, all’s well that end’s well I suppose.”

“Yeah sure. Six years spent home-schooled wearing dresses full time, having nothing but dolls to play with when learning was over and blowing out an Angelina Ballerina birthday cake on my 17th birthday.

“That must have been humiliating.”

“Not as much as it was for my brothers when they realised they’d be singing me the show’s theme song. Still, that wasn’t the worst. That spot definitely goes to having to be in bed by seven every night… except where ballet class was concerned of course. It only started at 7.30 so we could stay up until nine on those days… sometimes 9.30 if we asked mum for a bedtime story.”

“You did that?”

“Anything to stave off being in a locked bedroom in the dark with three snoring brothers for 10 hours. The fact we could hear Hannah downstairs watching TV while we tried to fall asleep didn’t help. 6 years of our lives wasted.”

“Oh I don’t know about that.“

“Meaning?”

“Well you got how many A-Levels?”

“Six.”

“See that’s pretty good don’t you think? And you’re on track for good final grades in your degree so something must have paid off. Besides, even you have to admit you all look delightful in that photo.”

“It doesn’t even make logical sense though. Why does it say “sissy teens” on it when Hannah was in it too. She’s not a sissy, she’s female.”

“Well you all looked pretty female to me. Perhaps when the photographer heard there were boys being photographed they just assumed you were all sissies? How were they to know one of you wasn’t being petticoated?”

“I guess so.” *sulks*

“Hey cheer up. Just remember only a few months to go and then you’ll be done with your studies. We can move out together, get our own place and you’ll never have to see that photo again. You’ll be a 100% normal boyfriend.”

“Uhmm not so sure about that. Being petticoated for six years can… change you in unfortunate ways.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well every-time we’ve stayed the night over at your place so I haven’t had to tell you.”

“I thought the photo was why you preferred to date at mine? You said it was distracting?”

“Oh it is…. but not just that. All those years being locked in our rooms for so long every night made me pretty…uhmm… dependent. It’s not as bad now, I don’t need protection all the time but some nights when I’ve been stressed… well y’know?”

“I’m not following at all. I think you’re just going to have to tell me?”

“Promise you won’t laugh at me?”

“Ok.”

“No… say it. I Laura promise not to laugh.”

“I, Laura promise not to laugh.”

“Ok… so sometimes … not all the time but sometimes I need them and it shouldn’t be all that shameful… plenty of men use them… just usually a bit older than me I guess…”

“Viagra?”

“No not that.”

“Then what? Come on how bad can it be?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Oh just spit it out!”

“There’s A Packet of Nappies Under My Bed!”

“What??? *sniggers*

“Hey you promised you wouldn’t laugh!”

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elpida · 11 months

Text

"Hi sweetie, sorry took a bit longer locking up downstairs than i thought. how was your day? everything going okay?" she'd grown so comfortable with Xander over the weeks, taken to that little pet name, sweetie, just rolled off the tongue. She'd even say he could wait for her upstairs in her apartment when she was still finishing up because she trusted him in her home. Eden turned to him with a soft smile, sliding the stained apron she'd left on up over her head and then catching sight of the photo album she'd left open on her coffee table. "Oh." she mused, a soft little smile. "Sorry, left that out last night.. don't get that out a lot really it's umm.." upsetting wasn't the right word, upset wasn't how she felt when she looked through it, it was something far deeper than that. "That one isn't baby photo's or anything it's more.. me and my Brother, the most recent ones we had together or, sort of the ones from college upwards."

For a little while Eden tinkered around her kitchen but when she went over to the sofa she held out a hot mug that'd.. sort of become his mug in her home, one that she'd actually gone out and bought because there was a big dog and a little cat on there and it'd reminded her of Auggie and Romeo. She settled on the sofa beside, one leg folded and tucked underneath the other. That was when she reached forward and brought the photo album up between them.

"That right there is me when I went to college, my gran she always wanted me to have a back up, just incase so.. I did go to college, I hated it though. That's my first day and Ben showed up to take my to my first class, make sure I didn't get lost. We went to the same but, he already knew his way around. I was really nervous for it so I think he just.. showed up to calm my nerves." her fingers rested over it, traced the photo. "He was really kind like that, I mean people say that I'm kind but.. no, nothing like him. If someone needed a cheerleader in their corner, Ben would be that cheerleader." she flicked a few pages, they were so alike in so many ways and then again, not. They both had the same pitch black hair and whilst Eden's hair formed such soft waves, Ben's formed the tightly curly ringlets, she had the softest spring green hues and he had the same shape to his eyes, just his were more grey than green. His brows, thick and dark, not as sculpted as hers.. one thing was noticeably different, he was significantly taller than Eden.

The photo she stopped at made her laugh, it was the two of them outside the bakery, except Ben was holding a cake. "This was the first day that I sort of.. properly took over the bakery as mine, it wasn't long after our grandmother died and.. it sounds silly but the bakery was the thing that made me get up and get out of bed and.. give it some effort, rather than being miserable you know? he said it was absolutely absurd that working and owning a bakery, i did not make myself a cake to congratulate my first day.. so there he is, turning up with this terrible and god.. I mean it really was terrible cake that he'd spent far too long making but it was.." enough to warm her cheeks with how wide her smile had been, like it had now. "Don't even ask what it says on that cake because I don't even think he knew." Enough to make her laugh at the memory.. enough to make her heart ache.

A lot of the photo's where silly poses, selfies they'd taken at the cinema but there was this really sweet one where Eden had fallen asleep on his shoulder and he took photographic evidence of it. "We did movie night, every Thursday.. took it in turns buying snacks and we'd bicker every time because I like sweet popcorn and he liked salty. We'd always end up getting sweet either way." Eden knew she was talking Xander's ear off but.. she never really talked about Ben. She'd never really been comfortable enough with anyone, to let them know all these little memories she cherished. "We even made sure that we did breakfast together every Sunday. Granny made this whole tradition when we came to live with her.. every Sunday was proper breakfast. That meant it was either a big cooked breakfast, or pancakes. No scrimping either, if it was pancakes it was with all the terrible toppings that kids like but.. we kept the tradition. I think people thought it was actually weird because he wasn't like that cringey big Brother, he was my best friend, I could rely on him, you know?"

That little reminiscent smile was that, a smile but it was so.. sad. It was filled with so much heartache, so much longing. "He wasn't a bad man, you know? I get he probably seems it I mean, the whole money thing.. he uh, I think he did that for me. I think he did it selflessly so that I had the bakery, I remember being so scared we'd lose this place when my Granny spent her whole life building it up and loving it, and that it'd just be gone so I think he did all of that for me. I never did figure out how he did it at the time and then he.." then he was gone. He was gone and she'd spent so long being alone. Her fingers had stopped flicking through the pages because she'd got to the last one. No more photo's after this one, and the photo album still had pages left to fill. The last photo was of the almost twin like siblings just at a park, being silly, normal siblings together. He'd pulled an idiotic duck face whilst Eden was in the background, feeding the local ducks at the pond. That was the day before he died. "I still feed those ducks." she forced herself to huff a little laughter, if not she'd start sobbing but her fingers drummed over that photo, other hand lifting her mug to sip her tea.

"He uhh.. he wasn't meant to go when he did.." she started to explain. "That night—" she tapped more prominently on the photograph. "I'd gone out, seen some old college friends that were visiting. I never really let my hair down and he told me to have a little fun and that he'd come and get me when I was ready to come home, never liked me walking home alone after I'd have a drink so.. I got a little drunk and Ben came and got me, walked me home.. It was late and he tucked me up in bed, made sure I had water and something for my head." she was staring down at it, not crying not.. fretting or upset just, remembering it. Her hand absent mindedly reached across to rest on Xander's leg. "If I'd been more.. with it, I'd have told him to stay. I'd have said sleep on the couch it's late, I'd have have made him stay.." and this was the one and only reason behind why Eden didn't drink anymore. "He left, when he thought I was okay.. and it was about, three minutes. All of three minutes, I'm lying in bed.. I hear this gunshot and.. I mean nothing had ever sobered me up quite as fast as that because I think I knew. I think some part of me knew.. who else right? It'd been so close to this apartment.. he was shot at the end of the road. I tried calling and calling, and then when he didn't answer I got my coat on, went out there and.. he was already dead. He was just lying there and I always thought if I just.. if I'd just told him to stay." that's when she turned and properly looked at Xander but her eye squinted slightly. "It's fine, it's been a while now I'm okay, honest but... are you? You kind of look like you've seen a ghost— bad joke."

Eden had loved her Brother more than anything, like she said.. he'd been her rock, her best friend. He'd been her protector, he'd kept her safe and he'd have done anything to make her happy but.. now she'd be forever stuck with a memory of cradling her Brothers body and begging with gods she'd never believed in, pleading with the heavens that she'd will to exist if it meant they'd listen and answer her prayers, to bring her Brothers back, to give him just five more minutes. @secretscost

#eden&xander #remember when i said i wrote an essay #do not match this at alll dont feel any pressure i went OFFF on one #THIS IS GONNA HURT

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