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Mother's Day

feat. smol!Simon and his Mom, pre-rapture. I would like to imagine that they were happier times. :')

#iron lung #iron lung movie #iron lung fanart #simon iron lung #simon's mom #simon's mother #Mother's Day 2026 #pre-rapture #The Quiet Rapture #simon the butcher #simon the convict #fanart #markiplier fanart #smol simon #Happy mother's day #happier times #WIP #Full version coming soon #don't forget to Hug your Mom today <3

Mother's Day (2026)

feat. Smol!Simon and his Mom, pre-Rapture, for Mother’s Day. <3

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I wanted to draw something in direct contrast to the canon: something bright and happy for a change, because Simon and his mother deserve bright, happy things. In the darkest of times, I’ve found those bright, happy things, no matter how small, to be worth holding out for. They are worth fighting for. They are worth living for. And I think we ALL could really use some bright, happy things right about now.

It is my sincere hope that they found each other in a bright, happy place beyond the horrors that they endured, too.

(I included the version without the border because it felt more free and unconstrained. Wasn't sure which one I liked more, so hey, why not both? :) )

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Original WIP: here!

💬 0 🔁 3 ❤️ 26 · Mother's Day · feat. smol!Simon and his Mom, pre-rapture. I would like to imagine that they were happier times. :') -

Early years (Pre-Rapture RP)

The loss of a loved one was always difficult to handle. Some people drowned in work, some shut down, others just didn't move from limbo. For Sander, death was a very close friend that clutched very tightly to him. At 13, his beloved grandmother passed. She had been the one to gift him his first canvas when he was only six. He remembered her sitting beside him, watching as he toiled away with paints. She never rejected anything he made.

At 23, ten years later, Sander lost his father to a heart condition. He hadn't cried that much, his relationship with his father was strained at best. But years later, at 33, Sander wept in the confines from his room as the news trickled in that his mother had died. The nurturing love, the warm hugs, the proud smile, all were taken from him leaving him barren and alone.

But now, three years later, he had since coped with her absence. The coffee shop he found himself in was warm and inviting, his personal favorite for it reminded him of home. Today was the day his mother passed, so the nostalgia was welcomed. As his waitress came over to hand him his coffee, Sander smiled slightly before she quickly returned to work. He was very particular involving his coffee and this waitress was by far his favorite. Not once in the three years since his coming to this shop had she messed it up.

He went to return to his sketch as a bell chimed from the doorway, causing him to look up from his work to look at who had entered. With pursed lips, Sander returned back to his sketch, hoping to block out the sound around him until he heard his name being called.

"Mr. Cohen?"

#open RP #starter #pre-rapture #sander cohen #bioshock

"don't chase the rabbit"

A country bumpkin like Silas Cobb hadn’t ever reason to step foot on a ship before. Sure, he’d spent a summer or two in a rickety old rowboat learning to fish with his brother, but The Olympian was a long, long way from that. The southerner was near certain he’d seen all the world had to marvel at during the year and change spent living in the “city of dreams”. But, as Ryan’s private steam-liner pulled into port, a twenty year old Cobb suddenly knew better.

He’d ogled it a while—half in awe, half in dread—as he stood anxiously shivering on the docks, the notoriously murky waters of the New York Harbor slapping loudly against the boards under his feet. The sky was solid grey and threatening rain, and the wind howled as it blew bitterly past the fleeting protection of his thickest coat and scarf. It saddened Silas to a significant degree to leave the surface on such a terribly bleak day. But, as Cohen came behind and gently placed a hand to his shoulder, nudging him along to board with an ever charming smile, young Silas was thankfully reminded of the promise and opportunity awaiting him across the sea; and, of the investment the artist had so valiantly made in him. It seemed enough to temporarily quiet the painful doubts he’d been plagued with since accepting (and then later reaccepting) his invitation to go along, despite the unending apprehension that followed him all the way to the loading platform. But, Sander kept smiling in earnest, and so Cobb made a point to keep his spirits up as he touted his suitcases and tipped his hat to the porter.

Unfortunately, his spirit made no match for the unrelenting Atlantic as it took its toll on the poor, inexperienced southerner. Pitiable weather made for unsteady seas, and Silas’ gut tossed and turned the same as the water did under the ship, his skin flushing green a mere hour into the voyage. So, as his fellow travelers chatted and laughed and sipped celebratory champagne, Cobb clung to the deck’s railing with his head hung and eyes screwed shut. His stomach emptied two, maybe three times over the side of the boat before his mentor took notice, albeit with moderate disgust. Still, Sander mustered the kindness to steer the seasick boy down below deck to rest, a shooter still wrapped in hand as he settled an ailing Cobb into the sheets of his own, private cot. Silas had muttered apology after embarrassed apology between quiet groans, a hand clutched to his torso as his balance contested (and failed) to regain itself. Cohen, however, promptly dismissed Silas’ worry with a gentle peck to the forehead and sweep of delicate fingers through his protégé’s matted hair.

“Sleep a little,” he’d cooed, his hand cupped to the side of Silas’ flushed face, “you’ll feel good as new when you wake.”

“I’ll try. I’m so sorry—“

“Shhh.”

Their hands loosely intertwined atop Cobb’s chest.

“Just call if you need me. I promise this will pass.”

“Stay with me?” Cobb had let the plea slip in a whisper. He would’ve heaved again, too, had Sander not given a short, breathless chuckle.

“Until you fall asleep, my poor boy.”

It hardly took long after that. The ocean waves rocked Silas into an uneasy sleep, but a sleep nonetheless. His insides still continued to knot up as he dreamt—mostly of what he was leaving behind—and his fingers remained interlocked with the artist’s until he inevitably turned over onto his side. In turn, sadness weighed heavily on him again as he sprung awake some hours later with a throbbing head and sweat-drenched clothes. It was a sadness that melted into naive disappointment, though, as he noted Cohen’s absence.

Evidentially, the artist had long since settled comfortably into Andrew Ryan’s private cabin.

#Ask Cobbsie #Sander Cohen #i-want-to-take-the-ears-off #memories #pre-Rapture #annnnnd it's finally done 1000 years after the fact

Simple Fix || (Pre-Rapture) Sander Cohen-RapturesRecordsSilas (Closed RP)

No matter what season it was, New York was always bustling. People rushed about, always hurrying off to some place new and it always reminded him of that book about the girl in wonderland. The rabbit that bounded everywhere, claiming to always be late. Fitting how the society around him fit the role of that particular rabbit. But as Sander strode down the street, dressed nicely and enjoying the autumn breeze. The air was brisk but the sun was warm to prevent it from becoming too chilly and as he hummed a little song to himself, he turned onto the next street. What sounded like guitar strings met his ears and Sander found himself intrigued by the noise, following it to a man who sat on the ground looking a bit disheveled and out of place with a guitar in his hands. His eyebrow rose in fascination as he watched the man play in silence and before long the song finished and he approached the man.

"You have quite the talent. Might I ask where you were taught?" he asked as he gave the man a smile. "Oh but where are my manners, of course. My name is Sander Cohen. And you are?".

#pre-rapture #Rapturerecordssilas #rp starter #closed rp #young sander cohen rp