𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔇𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔲𝔩𝔞

Bite Me

[the-dracula-1752]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔙𝔞𝔪𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔢𝔰

NUMBER 4. SELENE

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From Underworld (2003)

Selene is one of if not the best female Vampire character. She is a badass, complicated, intelligent creature. Her backstory is insane. Her loyalty is one of her biggest character traits that I personally adore.

[steelpaperboats]

~ A Human Feel

Pairing: Bobby Franklin x m!entity!reader Rating: T Word Count: 5532 Requested by: @not-so-normal-wh0re Synopsis: You bring a new meaning to tall, wet, and handsome when you rescue Bobby from the entity that seeks to kill him. A/N: Your mind is a lovely place, not-so-normal-wh0re, the moment I saw the words entity reader I was sitting down to work on this. Hope you like it!

Content Tags: male inhuman reader, entity reader, sea monster reader, reader described as tall with sharp teeth and male anatomy (no other descriptors used), fluff, backrooms setting - poolrooms, immoral reader, murder, drowning, Bobby is safe, blood, multi-POV

You float.

The water is tepid around you, and your body mimics its temperature without trying. The surface is in slow motion, a nearly invisible current that pulls you ever so slowly onward from one passage to another. Your fingers dip into the water at the turns, gently guiding you onward.

It does not matter where you end up. You are floating.

The rooms and corridors you drift through blend together like one great painting. White tile, crystal clear water, light filtering in from lamps, skylights, and thin windows. There is nothing but the gentle lap of water as it shifts, as you shift motionless with it. Utterly relaxed.

Time means nothing to something like you, an irrelevant human notion that you stopped bothering with long ago. Were you once human? You don't think so, even if some might mistake you for one in certain situations. Not after they look for long, but perhaps after a passing glance.

Your body bends around a turn, the motion impossible for what would be a human's body as you enter a thin tube. Darkness surrounds you. The tube fills completely with water, and you bob there in the subtle current. 

For a while you drift in the tube, changing shape as it narrows until liquid like you drape through the end and land in a splash in a larger pool. Something in the distance taps. You've ended up in one of the border zones without meaning to, water soaking into polyester carpeting. The scent of mold erasing the comfortable scent of clean and chlorine. 

You frown. 

The tapping continues, wood against floor, foot against carpet. A lumbering motion. When you open your eyes, it stares at you, not crossing into the water. That's smart; your teeth could go right through that peg leg or any other part of it.

You dip an arm into the water, reaching down until you touch the tile far below, using the grip to twist yourself to better stare, unblinking. "Aye, aye, matey." You murmur, still relaxed. Calm. The water makes you that way, keeps you docile.

It knows this. That's why it stays on the damp carpet.

Everything that encounters you eventually learns that as long as they're on dry land and you're in the water, you won't be a problem. Not unless they dirty your water, wash their filth in it, or think they can drink you. 

It turns and continues on its way. You've drifted close to its nest, so you don't blame it for being cautious. You've no plans to intervene. Not at first, but in your lazing, not ready to crawl your way back up the pipe just yet, you can hear a voice.

Human. High-pitched. Getting more and more frightened.

The pirate is hunting, it would seem. You close your eyes, listening. The currents have a way of making certain you end up where you need to be, but you're not fully sure why you're supposed to be here yet. So you spin, paddling in circles.

"Pull me up! Pull me up!"

You listen to the voice, masculine, afraid. The sound of it is musical to your ears; there's something rippling about it. Like the dribble of water into a great still pool. 

You tend not to bother with humans. Sometimes they end up where you've claimed as your own, but you tend to leave them unbothered unless they dive too deep. Try to take from you. If they walk through, if they swim through, that is alright. 

They leave salt in the water. You like that. Like the way it tastes as it soaks into your skin.

You can hear other voices, a man and a woman. But you barely notice them, still caught on that waterfall tone. Water into a still pool. Your eyes open again, looking into the brightness of a pure white glow that cascades through a skylight. 

The pirate will kill that voice. Strip off his clothes for the pile and crush his body down into the floor like the others. A waste of such a voice.

Some inhabitants are smarter than others, you well know. There are those that you know to avoid and others that know to avoid you. Most of the things that you fear do not have an interest in your pools.

The pirate is but a speck of a creature, simple. Dumb. Rageful because the memory is rageful. It does not know any better, and so if you steal from its hunt, it will find offense but not revenge. Wood and sloughing skin do not do well in water or on slick tile.

This is where you are supposed to be. The water ripples as you make for the beach where water and carpet meet and pull yourself into the surface. It takes a moment to remember how to move, to put your feet beneath you and walk like a human.

You will need to be quick. 

It will feel your approach, and so you walk, lithe and silent, leaving wet footsteps in your wake into the filth of its den. As you round the corner, you slip into shadow and watch the pirate crane to reach the rope where it dangles above the slope.

Its fingers wrap around and tug. You watch in silence, listening to the man you came for panic. Trying to cling to yellowed wallpaper and friends that cannot save him. Humans cannot save humans in a place like this. 

They are not powerful enough. There's a tumble, a thudding of muscle and bone. You see the figure of the man hit the ground. The pirate reaches, teeth extended. You hesitate too long in your curiosity, forgetting that humans die easy. 

He screams, and even that sounds like rain. Like water cascading onto the surface. Blood spatters the floor, wet droplets. You like that staccato too.

But he is weak and screaming. You shift forward, eelish and smack the pirate hard in the side of the head. He goes stumbling, off balance and one-legged, and you take that movement to grab the object of your desire by the arm. 

He's still screaming. Still dousing the world in rain. You tug, and the rope snaps without difficulty. The pirate roars in an attempt to get his prize, but you're already retreating, leaving a trail of blood in your wake. There's a door; you tug it open and drag him inside as the pirate turns to the other two to pull them down.

They do not matter to you, and because of that, you think it does not attempt to reclaim the man still thrashing against you. He's flailing, trying to kick and punch. It does no good; the blows he lands might as well be gentle caresses. 

"Let me go! Let me the fuck go!" He shrieks and you let him. Enchanted by the sound of his voice and now the sight of him. The white shirt he wears has been soiled with crimson, a rope still dangling around his waist. One of his shoes has been lost.

You won't be able to stuff him in the tube you came down without shattering bones, and even then he'd drown, so you go around the long way. Regardless, you must dive.

You drag him into the water's edge as he kicks, water splashing. There goes the other shoe. It annoys you to leave it floating there, so you reach out an arm and heave it back out of the pool onto the carpet left behind. 

"Hold your breath." You tell him. "Or you will drown."

At first he seems to refuse you, still trying to get away, but when he realizes you mean to pull him under, you hear and feel the intake of air, lungs filling. Together you dip under the water, leaving blood in the water as you move fast as an eel through the short tunnel up into a rectangular pool. 

He gasps when you breach the surface, sucking in air. Good, not dead. You keep going, lifting him up under one arm like a child does a stuffed animal. For a few more minutes he fights you before exhaustion and blood loss win out and he goes limp in your grasp.

He's not unconscious, just calculating, it would seem. Clever. You like that he's clever. You look down at him as you walk through long lines of water, up stairs, and down darkened and lightened tunnels. His hair is two colors, lighter on top and darker on the bottom.

Like how water is clear on the surface and becomes blackened the deeper you go. His skin is pink from panic, but you think it might be a lovely color when he is calm. Pale alabaster. 

Surprisingly enough, he does not try to talk his way out of your grasp, but you think he might be in shock.

Somewhere far from here, but not far enough that it is not heard, the girl he came with screams. No one gets saved in this place. Not unless it's by something like you.

"She is dead. It was quick." You say to him, not certain if he will consider knowing to be a mercy.

He spends the rest of the trip back to your sanctuary crying. You do not try to stop him. Salt in your pools the way you like it and the steady iron drip of blood as it falls from his fingers. 

He is unconscious when you arrive at your sanctuary. A human might not know what this place is, but anything native to the world you know best will sense it. They know to stay away. This is your space, your most well-maintained sanctum. 

That which belongs wholly to you.

A long deep pool with columns running through it on each side and in the center, a large, white, flat circle of marble. Light floods in from windows that line the walls; the whole place glows comfortably. You set him down in the middle, water on all sides, so that you might know if he wakes and tries to flee.

You drape him there against the stone before heading back out. When you return, it is with a pool lounger with a thick cushion and a small patio table and chair. You set these things up for him and shred his clothes from his body. 

Pale skin. Teeth marks in his bicep. Deep yellow, purple bruises around his waist where the rope hung. Human anatomy. Normal, known to you, because your body mimics it.

You wrap the wound in strips of a white pool towel. Seal the blood into his body and place him, wiped clean and dried, onto the lounger. Humans are shy creatures; that's why you wear white swim trunks to better blend with them. More than once they have called out to you, thinking you an ally from a distance.

He will want a pair of his own. You know where to get some and head out again, gathering up a pair of black trunks, several clear glass bottles of drinking water, and a bowl of lemons. You arrange it all on the table, pretty colors, all clean. He'll like it.

And then you return to the water and float. Listening to the take and release of breath, feeling the current that loops you in endless circles around the central podium.

"What the - what the fuck? What the fuck? Where am I?" His voice is still lovely; you do not yet open your eyes. Waiting. It does not take him long to find you in the water. "Why am I - what are you gonna do to me?" 

You continue your floating but turn your head to look at him and see the fear begin anew. Like he's seeing you for the first time. You suppose on the way here he didn't have a very good angle, and it was dark for much of the way. You let him stare.

"Wha' the fuck are you?" He wheezes, hands covering his crotch, realizing his nudity. "Where are my clothes?"

"They were dirty," You reply calmly, voice low and contented. The water soaks through you, still salty from him. "I got you a replacement on the table."

The man is quick to jump up to yank the swim trunks on. He looks good like that, hair messy, silver necklace around his throat, and black swimwear. Like he belongs here. You smile.

"You ... bandaged my arm."

"I saved you," You say, blinking at him. He flinches. "He would have bled you out and crunched your body up into a cube and stuffed you in the floor."

His arms wrap around himself, because he knows it to be true. The pirate made his intentions clear. Teeth in his arm, inhuman violence. Base nature. 

"Why?" He asks, dropping back down to sit on the lounger. "Why save me and not her?"

The woman. Right. They'd been talking to each other. Affectionate. Human connection.

You continue in your floating circle; he follows you as you go. "I like your voice. " You say, shifting a hand to spin you more. "I had no interest in hers."

"My voice. That's it? My voice and you just let her die? You could have saved both of us." He's doing that squeaky thing to his inflection again, rain on water. You smile wider.

"I could have let you both die." You reply with a slow, considerate blink. 

This he has no easy answer to. He is alive. His companion is dead. Simple facts, but perhaps hard for someone of his ilk to accept.

"Are you ... going to eat me?" He asks, registering his own morality. That he is a place far different from the one he knows the rules of.

You smile wider still, sharp-toothed, too far. He gawks at your mouth in alarm as you roll through the water, finally coming to a stop to pull yourself onto the podium with him. "No." You shake your head. "I don't eat."

He draws back, making himself smaller, fingers curling around his calves to tuck himself tight. Protecting his core, like any smart animal does, "Ever?"

"Not the way you do." You jut your chin toward the table. "There is food and water. Do you have a name?"

All humans come with a name, don't they? You can't entirely remember, but that sounds right.

"Bobby ... Bobby Franklin. What's, um, what's yours?"

You've never been asked this question before.

Your fingers play in the water as you think about how you should answer. "What is a name?"

Bobby stares at you in confusion as he reaches for one of the bottles. He gives it a long sniff before he drinks for some reason. But he drinks it all the same.

"Like the definition?" 

You nod.

"It's what people call you, the name your parents gave you."

Parents. A funny idea, that somewhere there are things that made you. The water droplets in the air created you. The current brought you into existence. It saw the reflection of a man in the water and thought, this is what one becomes.

"I do not have parents or a name. Nothing calls me anything. I am the water, the depth of a pool, clean. Is my name pool?" 

Bobby shakes his head. "That's not a name."

"Oh." 

"Also, I can't eat these; they're lemons."

You thought they were a human food. You frown. "Oh."

Your sanctum has been transformed in the wake of Bobby Franklin. Humans, you come to find out, do not love being in the water all the time. It makes their skin prune; the chlorine dries them out, they grow tired. So you have built an orderly teak wood bridge from the central podium to the other flattened space in the room.

Furniture has been claimed from other sections outside your own to give him a large bed to sleep in and a couch to lounge on. The table and chair remain the same. He has a path to get to the facsimile of a restroom, which apparently works well enough for his purposes.

In the beginning, Bobby tried to run often. Sneak away, swim out. The first few times you stopped him, gently guiding him back to the sanctum like a bird too close to the edge of a nest. After that did not dissuade him, you decided to let him go.

Sometimes he would get lost in your domain. You would float or swim some distance away until he swam and walked himself to exhaustion. Watch him attempt to map the corridors without paper or pen. He's not particularly talented at it.

And when he gave up and sat down to rest, you would appear and ask him if he'd like to go back. Sometimes he would say no, sometimes yes. In the end he always said yes eventually.

When that too did not dissuade him, you changed approaches. You brought him to the edge of your waters and set him free from there, trailing silent and invisible behind him. Clear as water until he inevitably stumbled upon another of your kind.

They were never so kind. To make your point, you let them get close sometimes, even touch, before you stepped in and asked if he wanted to go back. Eventually, Bobby settled.

Found some peace. Started asking instead of for an exit for you to show him the most beautiful places. The sections of your pools and corridors where the white light hit the water just right, and the whole room would glow. You got him a camera; let him take his photos and videos.

Bobby found hobbies and explored for pleasure. Swam without fear of the waters around him. The two of you spoke in detail about the place he came from, movies he's seen, and things he enjoyed. You did your best to find replacements for what he missed the most. 

But there are some things the rooms can never remember quite right no matter how many attempts are made. There is always a part of Bobby looking out toward what he knew once and not what is here before him.

And you are ageless. You do not understand what more he could need, because there is water in his hair and stories to be told.

You are not human, and as time passes, you start to understand that humans and this place—that is not a place but a creature in and of itself—are made only to dissolve and digest animals like your Bobby. No matter how fond you are or how contented you are to speak with him for hours on end, to walk through the shallows, or to splash and swim.

There will always be something that is not balanced. Something off. 

You are holding on to something that can't be held without breaking. So as you float in your pool, Bobby sorting through all of his recent photographs, you look to him, devoid of expression as you often are. "I will take you to the exit."

He freezes in his spot at the table, looking over at you. And there in his eyes, hope. Something only humans can possess. Only humans hope for things.

"Seriously?"

"Yes." You let your arms droop into the pool, the weight pulling you down until there's nothing but your eyes over the edge of the water.

"When?" He asks, photos forgotten. As if he has already sorted this place into a piece of his memories, to be forgotten in increments.

You let your feelings, the feelings that your only friend has taught you, distill into the water. Around you the clarity turns black, voidless, and impenetrable to light. You swim to the edge of your sanctum and gesture with your head for him to follow.

Bobby hesitates, glancing around the space you have carefully cultivated for his comfort before walking after you, bare feet fast on the wooden bridge. 

Together you walk, turning onto a path you're certain he's never noticed before, squeezing through a gap that's barely large enough for him to pass through. You have to change your shape, bending and twisting to make it to the other side, and then you are on the carpet.

The smell of must and dryness in the air. Disgusting. You continue, leaving wet footprints, and he follows. You weave around corners without concern.

"What about the, uh, the thing?" Bobby asks, jogging to keep up with your strides.

"The pirate was taken," You reply, "Long time ago."

"Taken by who?" Bobby asks, slightly out of breath. All the swimming has changed his body, streamlined muscle where there was none before. He's only wearing his swim trunks, like always. The out world may look at him funny, but you suppose once he steps through it will make no difference to you.

He will be a memory.

You will go back to floating.

"The ones who take," You shrug. They've never been able to catch you, and you made certain they never saw him.

"You know that's like real fuckin' ominous, right?" Bobby jokes.

"I do not."

You've never been frightened before. Never found anything unnerving or strange. There are things that are yours and things that are not.

It takes less time than your companion likely thinks to arrive at the place he entered. You pause there, seeing a door that he cannot see. A rippling doorway between what is and what can't be. 

You stop, water dripping from your fingers. Caught in the thick carpeting. 

Bobby stares at you, and you stare back. Is there something to say? What do humans say? There is a word. The two of you are always together, so you have not needed to learn it.

"Goodnight," You say.

He rubs at his mouth, looking toward the wall and then to you. "It's, uh, goodbye."

"Oh." You nod. "Goodbye."

"I won't see you again," Bobby whispers. This is registering slower for him than it is you. You've already known that. Known it since you realized you could not keep him happy enough. You and your water are not enough for him.

"No." You reply. "You will not."

"You'll ... you'll be okay?" Bobby asks, crossing his arms. Even as he speaks, he is looking to the exit. Remembering.

"Yes."

"What will you do?" He asks.

"Float ... what will you do?" 

This seems to stump him. "I don't know how long I've been gone."

"What is time?" You reply. More water puddles around you the longer you stand there, infecting this section with your essence. "It is nothing."

"You don't know how long I have been gone." Bobby says, translating your words the way he does from time to time when he deems what you said to be illogical. You do not confirm.

"Goodnight, goodbye," You say. 

He hugs you. An oddly pleasant thing you have only experienced from him a few times. Bobby is hot to touch, comfortable against your damp skin as you return the gesture.

When he lets go, you taste the salt he has left behind. His final word ringing through you after he is gone, "Bye."

It has never occurred to you to miss anything. Upon your return you dismantle the bridge, making neat piles in other rooms away from your sanctum. You leave the furniture, leave the photographs he was displaying on the wall.

You do as you said you would. You float.

But the enjoyment you always get from such things feels hollow. Like a fish starving. No matter where you let yourself drift, where the current takes you, it does not feel the same. You float not out of contentment but because you have nothing to entertain you.

Substance has gone out of the water. Clarity changes; instead of your rooms and corridors being filled with crystal-clear waters, they are dark and treacherous. The bottom is gone from sight; shallow pools look like pits.

The white lights come down, but instead of refraction, your waters suck it in until everything feels dark and oppressive. You barely notice, so busy floating and thinking. Remembering. You've never had so much to remember.

When a human stumbles into your water, you go to it, seeking out the splashes and footsteps. The girl you find is scared, bleeding, running from something else. Dripping blood into your waters, smearing it on your tiles.

Unclean.

And more importantly, unwelcome. You seize her ankle and drag her into the deep. Hold her there as she flails and kicks, and eventually her lungs pop. She breathes you in, and you revile the taste of her. 

You dump her soggy corpse into one of the pits for something else to make a meal of. But unlike before, you do not clean up; do not rinse the tiles of her blood. You float.

More come, creatures that think they can take from you. Humans who are not him. 

Your waters grow foul. The tiles unclean, the light does not illuminate the way it should. Eventually, when you're not paying attention, the lights turn red. Bodies are left behind to rot, creatures dismembered or drowned floating in your channels.

You do not return to your sanctum.

You hunt.

For so long Bobby thought only of getting home, talking to his mom. Finding the space he fit into before he left, but when he got back, the world had moved on.

His mother moved away from San Jose. Two years had passed since he and Kat disappeared. 

When he went to see her, she barely showed any joy at seeing him at all. Spent the whole time he stood in her living room, waiting for love, going on about the money she'd wasted on his schooling, berating him for running off with some girl.

She never even asked if he was alright, and he did not tell her he loved her, because he wasn't so sure if he did after that. Bobby had no money and no home. No car. All of it was gone. He could have gone to the cops to see where his car went, but he wouldn't have known what to say.

How to explain Kat or Clark. It's not like he could tell them the truth.

So he set out for a while. Traveled, slept beneath bridges. Enjoyed the wind on his face.

And every once and awhile he would find himself turning to say something to you. To make a joke or ask a question. And you were only an absent space where something had once been. 

In his travels Bobby found the places he felt happiest were where water was on his skin. In the shower, in the bathtub, or at the beach. He broke into a public pool after hours once and got so overwhelmed with loneliness he just dipped his feet in and stared until the security guard came yelling.

No matter where he went or what wonder he tried to find with the sun on his face, his thoughts always seemed to loop back to the way white light looked on clear water. The smell of chlorine and the bubbly way you laughed. 

Bobby lasts a little over a year as a nomad before he ends up breaking into the empty space for rent that used to belong to Cap'n Clarks. It takes less effort than he thought to step through that tingly doorway, still marked with peeling blue tape.

The pale yellow of the wallpaper greets him, and he knows this is the right decision. This is where he is supposed to be. 

Retracing his steps is more difficult than he thought it would be. The rooms and corridors seem the same, but he still finds himself getting turned around as he walks. But he's determined, a thick backpack weighing on his shoulders and a pair of water shoes on his feet.

He walks, trying to remember the turns you made, but it's been months. Bobby's memory has never been perfect, and so it's trial and error. He doesn't delay, doesn't stop to rest. The monster that bit him is gone, but that doesn't mean nothing filled the vacancy, and he cannot count on you being there to save him this time.

Time passes, but he can't with any confidence say how much of it. All he knows is the weight on his back and the determination to see this through. To find you.

Finally, he smells the chlorine, feels the change in the air, and squeezes through a somewhat familiar passageway and steps out into an unrecognizable world. It's the same tiles, the same shallow channels that he explored with you, but it is different.

The lights are red, everything feels dark, and there's something sickly and moldy instead of clean about the darkened corners. Like stagnant water instead of the clear cool pool water of before.

Unease sinks into his gut, his instincts crying out to him at once. Warning him. Whispering to turn back, that something dangerous is around the corner. His heart pounds in his chest.

Something has gone wrong. He thinks of the way you brought him to the exit, the way all emotion seemed to flood out of you, and how confidently he left you behind. Like he hadn't told you things he'd never told anyone.

The water is murky, blackish, and still. There are no ripples, no underlying current. No motion at all. He walks, keeping to the side at first, and as he goes, he recognizes the paths he sees. Together you walked this area enough to be somewhere he thinks he remembers how to navigate. 

There's blood smeared across the tile wall, long dried and browned. You never would have left this here. To allow the uncleanliness of it.

Did something happen to you? Are you alright? What will he do if you're gone?

Bobby thinks he might be able to find his way back out, but that's a last-case scenario. You always found him when he wandered, when he tried to find a way to leave. It's the water. The water is how you always found him.

But he doesn't want to tip anything else off that he's here in case it's not you and something else. So he walks, keeping to the paths. There's something floating in the water, many-limbed and eyeless. Chunks of gunk float with it.

Bobby swallows hard and walks faster, adjusting the grip on his bag. He can find his way home. It's the path taken most often. If he gets there, then he'll touch the water. Let you know where he is.

The sound of his footsteps echoes through the corridors. Everything is harder to navigate in the low lighting and difficult to make sense of. He starts going in circles, using the grime as navigation points. 

His feet ache; he pulls a granola bar out of his bag and eats it as he walks. Sleep calls to him; it has been too long since he rested, but he can't afford to stop out here, exposed. Can't leave you alone.

Bobby goes in another circle and grinds his teeth. He's in one of the larger pool rooms, a deep well in front of him, connected to channels from either side. There's less gore here; it's still dark, the water like oil, but there's nothing floating in the water.

He shucks off his heavy bag, setting it against the wall. There's no avoiding it. He can't remember the way, and the longer he wanders, the more likely he'll get lost further and further from where he needs to be. 

There's only one thing to do. Bobby crouches, reaching forward, and presses his hand into the water, wiggling his fingers. And feels a cold grip latch around his wrist. He lists forward into the water with a splash. Flailing on impulse before he forces himself to open his eyes.

You're there, below him, but there's something different about your face. Eyes blanker, mouth angrier. He reaches out and touches your jaw. 

"I'm here." He says, at least he attempts to. Bobby doesn't really hear anything other than sound, a garbed version of words that aren't really words. 

You hear them. At least, he thinks you do because your expression shifts. Going sealish and then together you breach the surface. He spits out foul-tasting water and takes in air, your hands on his hips, holding him there.

The lights start to brighten, red turning pink and then white, and all around you the water starts to clear. 

"Good morning." You greet, eyes wide, looking him over. 

He laughs, wrapping his arms around your neck, pressing in closer. You're always the temperature of the water, but he doesn't mind. "Hello." He says back with a laugh, "Think we gotta do some cleaning, yeah?"

You nod, glancing around with a frown. "I'll fix it."

Bobby takes the chance; he's already come this far. He might as well go all in. See where he ends up, where the current takes him. "We'll fix it." 

Your smile seems to brighten the lights further. Chlorine is heavy in his nose. He finally feels like he's home.

[the-dracula-1752]

Adore this fic. The person who asked for this...genuis. The person who wrote it... godly. ✨️✨️✨️

[steelpaperboats]

~ A Human Feel

Pairing: Bobby Franklin x m!entity!reader Rating: T Word Count: 5532 Requested by: @not-so-normal-wh0re Synopsis: You bring a new meaning to tall, wet, and handsome when you rescue Bobby from the entity that seeks to kill him. A/N: Your mind is a lovely place, not-so-normal-wh0re, the moment I saw the words entity reader I was sitting down to work on this. Hope you like it!

Content Tags: male inhuman reader, entity reader, sea monster reader, reader described as tall with sharp teeth and male anatomy (no other descriptors used), fluff, backrooms setting - poolrooms, immoral reader, murder, drowning, Bobby is safe, blood, multi-POV

You float.

The water is tepid around you, and your body mimics its temperature without trying. The surface is in slow motion, a nearly invisible current that pulls you ever so slowly onward from one passage to another. Your fingers dip into the water at the turns, gently guiding you onward.

It does not matter where you end up. You are floating.

The rooms and corridors you drift through blend together like one great painting. White tile, crystal clear water, light filtering in from lamps, skylights, and thin windows. There is nothing but the gentle lap of water as it shifts, as you shift motionless with it. Utterly relaxed.

Time means nothing to something like you, an irrelevant human notion that you stopped bothering with long ago. Were you once human? You don't think so, even if some might mistake you for one in certain situations. Not after they look for long, but perhaps after a passing glance.

Your body bends around a turn, the motion impossible for what would be a human's body as you enter a thin tube. Darkness surrounds you. The tube fills completely with water, and you bob there in the subtle current. 

For a while you drift in the tube, changing shape as it narrows until liquid like you drape through the end and land in a splash in a larger pool. Something in the distance taps. You've ended up in one of the border zones without meaning to, water soaking into polyester carpeting. The scent of mold erasing the comfortable scent of clean and chlorine. 

You frown. 

The tapping continues, wood against floor, foot against carpet. A lumbering motion. When you open your eyes, it stares at you, not crossing into the water. That's smart; your teeth could go right through that peg leg or any other part of it.

You dip an arm into the water, reaching down until you touch the tile far below, using the grip to twist yourself to better stare, unblinking. "Aye, aye, matey." You murmur, still relaxed. Calm. The water makes you that way, keeps you docile.

It knows this. That's why it stays on the damp carpet.

Everything that encounters you eventually learns that as long as they're on dry land and you're in the water, you won't be a problem. Not unless they dirty your water, wash their filth in it, or think they can drink you. 

It turns and continues on its way. You've drifted close to its nest, so you don't blame it for being cautious. You've no plans to intervene. Not at first, but in your lazing, not ready to crawl your way back up the pipe just yet, you can hear a voice.

Human. High-pitched. Getting more and more frightened.

The pirate is hunting, it would seem. You close your eyes, listening. The currents have a way of making certain you end up where you need to be, but you're not fully sure why you're supposed to be here yet. So you spin, paddling in circles.

"Pull me up! Pull me up!"

You listen to the voice, masculine, afraid. The sound of it is musical to your ears; there's something rippling about it. Like the dribble of water into a great still pool. 

You tend not to bother with humans. Sometimes they end up where you've claimed as your own, but you tend to leave them unbothered unless they dive too deep. Try to take from you. If they walk through, if they swim through, that is alright. 

They leave salt in the water. You like that. Like the way it tastes as it soaks into your skin.

You can hear other voices, a man and a woman. But you barely notice them, still caught on that waterfall tone. Water into a still pool. Your eyes open again, looking into the brightness of a pure white glow that cascades through a skylight. 

The pirate will kill that voice. Strip off his clothes for the pile and crush his body down into the floor like the others. A waste of such a voice.

Some inhabitants are smarter than others, you well know. There are those that you know to avoid and others that know to avoid you. Most of the things that you fear do not have an interest in your pools.

The pirate is but a speck of a creature, simple. Dumb. Rageful because the memory is rageful. It does not know any better, and so if you steal from its hunt, it will find offense but not revenge. Wood and sloughing skin do not do well in water or on slick tile.

This is where you are supposed to be. The water ripples as you make for the beach where water and carpet meet and pull yourself into the surface. It takes a moment to remember how to move, to put your feet beneath you and walk like a human.

You will need to be quick. 

It will feel your approach, and so you walk, lithe and silent, leaving wet footsteps in your wake into the filth of its den. As you round the corner, you slip into shadow and watch the pirate crane to reach the rope where it dangles above the slope.

Its fingers wrap around and tug. You watch in silence, listening to the man you came for panic. Trying to cling to yellowed wallpaper and friends that cannot save him. Humans cannot save humans in a place like this. 

They are not powerful enough. There's a tumble, a thudding of muscle and bone. You see the figure of the man hit the ground. The pirate reaches, teeth extended. You hesitate too long in your curiosity, forgetting that humans die easy. 

He screams, and even that sounds like rain. Like water cascading onto the surface. Blood spatters the floor, wet droplets. You like that staccato too.

But he is weak and screaming. You shift forward, eelish and smack the pirate hard in the side of the head. He goes stumbling, off balance and one-legged, and you take that movement to grab the object of your desire by the arm. 

He's still screaming. Still dousing the world in rain. You tug, and the rope snaps without difficulty. The pirate roars in an attempt to get his prize, but you're already retreating, leaving a trail of blood in your wake. There's a door; you tug it open and drag him inside as the pirate turns to the other two to pull them down.

They do not matter to you, and because of that, you think it does not attempt to reclaim the man still thrashing against you. He's flailing, trying to kick and punch. It does no good; the blows he lands might as well be gentle caresses. 

"Let me go! Let me the fuck go!" He shrieks and you let him. Enchanted by the sound of his voice and now the sight of him. The white shirt he wears has been soiled with crimson, a rope still dangling around his waist. One of his shoes has been lost.

You won't be able to stuff him in the tube you came down without shattering bones, and even then he'd drown, so you go around the long way. Regardless, you must dive.

You drag him into the water's edge as he kicks, water splashing. There goes the other shoe. It annoys you to leave it floating there, so you reach out an arm and heave it back out of the pool onto the carpet left behind. 

"Hold your breath." You tell him. "Or you will drown."

At first he seems to refuse you, still trying to get away, but when he realizes you mean to pull him under, you hear and feel the intake of air, lungs filling. Together you dip under the water, leaving blood in the water as you move fast as an eel through the short tunnel up into a rectangular pool. 

He gasps when you breach the surface, sucking in air. Good, not dead. You keep going, lifting him up under one arm like a child does a stuffed animal. For a few more minutes he fights you before exhaustion and blood loss win out and he goes limp in your grasp.

He's not unconscious, just calculating, it would seem. Clever. You like that he's clever. You look down at him as you walk through long lines of water, up stairs, and down darkened and lightened tunnels. His hair is two colors, lighter on top and darker on the bottom.

Like how water is clear on the surface and becomes blackened the deeper you go. His skin is pink from panic, but you think it might be a lovely color when he is calm. Pale alabaster. 

Surprisingly enough, he does not try to talk his way out of your grasp, but you think he might be in shock.

Somewhere far from here, but not far enough that it is not heard, the girl he came with screams. No one gets saved in this place. Not unless it's by something like you.

"She is dead. It was quick." You say to him, not certain if he will consider knowing to be a mercy.

He spends the rest of the trip back to your sanctuary crying. You do not try to stop him. Salt in your pools the way you like it and the steady iron drip of blood as it falls from his fingers. 

He is unconscious when you arrive at your sanctuary. A human might not know what this place is, but anything native to the world you know best will sense it. They know to stay away. This is your space, your most well-maintained sanctum. 

That which belongs wholly to you.

A long deep pool with columns running through it on each side and in the center, a large, white, flat circle of marble. Light floods in from windows that line the walls; the whole place glows comfortably. You set him down in the middle, water on all sides, so that you might know if he wakes and tries to flee.

You drape him there against the stone before heading back out. When you return, it is with a pool lounger with a thick cushion and a small patio table and chair. You set these things up for him and shred his clothes from his body. 

Pale skin. Teeth marks in his bicep. Deep yellow, purple bruises around his waist where the rope hung. Human anatomy. Normal, known to you, because your body mimics it.

You wrap the wound in strips of a white pool towel. Seal the blood into his body and place him, wiped clean and dried, onto the lounger. Humans are shy creatures; that's why you wear white swim trunks to better blend with them. More than once they have called out to you, thinking you an ally from a distance.

He will want a pair of his own. You know where to get some and head out again, gathering up a pair of black trunks, several clear glass bottles of drinking water, and a bowl of lemons. You arrange it all on the table, pretty colors, all clean. He'll like it.

And then you return to the water and float. Listening to the take and release of breath, feeling the current that loops you in endless circles around the central podium.

"What the - what the fuck? What the fuck? Where am I?" His voice is still lovely; you do not yet open your eyes. Waiting. It does not take him long to find you in the water. "Why am I - what are you gonna do to me?" 

You continue your floating but turn your head to look at him and see the fear begin anew. Like he's seeing you for the first time. You suppose on the way here he didn't have a very good angle, and it was dark for much of the way. You let him stare.

"Wha' the fuck are you?" He wheezes, hands covering his crotch, realizing his nudity. "Where are my clothes?"

"They were dirty," You reply calmly, voice low and contented. The water soaks through you, still salty from him. "I got you a replacement on the table."

The man is quick to jump up to yank the swim trunks on. He looks good like that, hair messy, silver necklace around his throat, and black swimwear. Like he belongs here. You smile.

"You ... bandaged my arm."

"I saved you," You say, blinking at him. He flinches. "He would have bled you out and crunched your body up into a cube and stuffed you in the floor."

His arms wrap around himself, because he knows it to be true. The pirate made his intentions clear. Teeth in his arm, inhuman violence. Base nature. 

"Why?" He asks, dropping back down to sit on the lounger. "Why save me and not her?"

The woman. Right. They'd been talking to each other. Affectionate. Human connection.

You continue in your floating circle; he follows you as you go. "I like your voice. " You say, shifting a hand to spin you more. "I had no interest in hers."

"My voice. That's it? My voice and you just let her die? You could have saved both of us." He's doing that squeaky thing to his inflection again, rain on water. You smile wider.

"I could have let you both die." You reply with a slow, considerate blink. 

This he has no easy answer to. He is alive. His companion is dead. Simple facts, but perhaps hard for someone of his ilk to accept.

"Are you ... going to eat me?" He asks, registering his own morality. That he is a place far different from the one he knows the rules of.

You smile wider still, sharp-toothed, too far. He gawks at your mouth in alarm as you roll through the water, finally coming to a stop to pull yourself onto the podium with him. "No." You shake your head. "I don't eat."

He draws back, making himself smaller, fingers curling around his calves to tuck himself tight. Protecting his core, like any smart animal does, "Ever?"

"Not the way you do." You jut your chin toward the table. "There is food and water. Do you have a name?"

All humans come with a name, don't they? You can't entirely remember, but that sounds right.

"Bobby ... Bobby Franklin. What's, um, what's yours?"

You've never been asked this question before.

Your fingers play in the water as you think about how you should answer. "What is a name?"

Bobby stares at you in confusion as he reaches for one of the bottles. He gives it a long sniff before he drinks for some reason. But he drinks it all the same.

"Like the definition?" 

You nod.

"It's what people call you, the name your parents gave you."

Parents. A funny idea, that somewhere there are things that made you. The water droplets in the air created you. The current brought you into existence. It saw the reflection of a man in the water and thought, this is what one becomes.

"I do not have parents or a name. Nothing calls me anything. I am the water, the depth of a pool, clean. Is my name pool?" 

Bobby shakes his head. "That's not a name."

"Oh." 

"Also, I can't eat these; they're lemons."

You thought they were a human food. You frown. "Oh."

Your sanctum has been transformed in the wake of Bobby Franklin. Humans, you come to find out, do not love being in the water all the time. It makes their skin prune; the chlorine dries them out, they grow tired. So you have built an orderly teak wood bridge from the central podium to the other flattened space in the room.

Furniture has been claimed from other sections outside your own to give him a large bed to sleep in and a couch to lounge on. The table and chair remain the same. He has a path to get to the facsimile of a restroom, which apparently works well enough for his purposes.

In the beginning, Bobby tried to run often. Sneak away, swim out. The first few times you stopped him, gently guiding him back to the sanctum like a bird too close to the edge of a nest. After that did not dissuade him, you decided to let him go.

Sometimes he would get lost in your domain. You would float or swim some distance away until he swam and walked himself to exhaustion. Watch him attempt to map the corridors without paper or pen. He's not particularly talented at it.

And when he gave up and sat down to rest, you would appear and ask him if he'd like to go back. Sometimes he would say no, sometimes yes. In the end he always said yes eventually.

When that too did not dissuade him, you changed approaches. You brought him to the edge of your waters and set him free from there, trailing silent and invisible behind him. Clear as water until he inevitably stumbled upon another of your kind.

They were never so kind. To make your point, you let them get close sometimes, even touch, before you stepped in and asked if he wanted to go back. Eventually, Bobby settled.

Found some peace. Started asking instead of for an exit for you to show him the most beautiful places. The sections of your pools and corridors where the white light hit the water just right, and the whole room would glow. You got him a camera; let him take his photos and videos.

Bobby found hobbies and explored for pleasure. Swam without fear of the waters around him. The two of you spoke in detail about the place he came from, movies he's seen, and things he enjoyed. You did your best to find replacements for what he missed the most. 

But there are some things the rooms can never remember quite right no matter how many attempts are made. There is always a part of Bobby looking out toward what he knew once and not what is here before him.

And you are ageless. You do not understand what more he could need, because there is water in his hair and stories to be told.

You are not human, and as time passes, you start to understand that humans and this place—that is not a place but a creature in and of itself—are made only to dissolve and digest animals like your Bobby. No matter how fond you are or how contented you are to speak with him for hours on end, to walk through the shallows, or to splash and swim.

There will always be something that is not balanced. Something off. 

You are holding on to something that can't be held without breaking. So as you float in your pool, Bobby sorting through all of his recent photographs, you look to him, devoid of expression as you often are. "I will take you to the exit."

He freezes in his spot at the table, looking over at you. And there in his eyes, hope. Something only humans can possess. Only humans hope for things.

"Seriously?"

"Yes." You let your arms droop into the pool, the weight pulling you down until there's nothing but your eyes over the edge of the water.

"When?" He asks, photos forgotten. As if he has already sorted this place into a piece of his memories, to be forgotten in increments.

You let your feelings, the feelings that your only friend has taught you, distill into the water. Around you the clarity turns black, voidless, and impenetrable to light. You swim to the edge of your sanctum and gesture with your head for him to follow.

Bobby hesitates, glancing around the space you have carefully cultivated for his comfort before walking after you, bare feet fast on the wooden bridge. 

Together you walk, turning onto a path you're certain he's never noticed before, squeezing through a gap that's barely large enough for him to pass through. You have to change your shape, bending and twisting to make it to the other side, and then you are on the carpet.

The smell of must and dryness in the air. Disgusting. You continue, leaving wet footprints, and he follows. You weave around corners without concern.

"What about the, uh, the thing?" Bobby asks, jogging to keep up with your strides.

"The pirate was taken," You reply, "Long time ago."

"Taken by who?" Bobby asks, slightly out of breath. All the swimming has changed his body, streamlined muscle where there was none before. He's only wearing his swim trunks, like always. The out world may look at him funny, but you suppose once he steps through it will make no difference to you.

He will be a memory.

You will go back to floating.

"The ones who take," You shrug. They've never been able to catch you, and you made certain they never saw him.

"You know that's like real fuckin' ominous, right?" Bobby jokes.

"I do not."

You've never been frightened before. Never found anything unnerving or strange. There are things that are yours and things that are not.

It takes less time than your companion likely thinks to arrive at the place he entered. You pause there, seeing a door that he cannot see. A rippling doorway between what is and what can't be. 

You stop, water dripping from your fingers. Caught in the thick carpeting. 

Bobby stares at you, and you stare back. Is there something to say? What do humans say? There is a word. The two of you are always together, so you have not needed to learn it.

"Goodnight," You say.

He rubs at his mouth, looking toward the wall and then to you. "It's, uh, goodbye."

"Oh." You nod. "Goodbye."

"I won't see you again," Bobby whispers. This is registering slower for him than it is you. You've already known that. Known it since you realized you could not keep him happy enough. You and your water are not enough for him.

"No." You reply. "You will not."

"You'll ... you'll be okay?" Bobby asks, crossing his arms. Even as he speaks, he is looking to the exit. Remembering.

"Yes."

"What will you do?" He asks.

"Float ... what will you do?" 

This seems to stump him. "I don't know how long I've been gone."

"What is time?" You reply. More water puddles around you the longer you stand there, infecting this section with your essence. "It is nothing."

"You don't know how long I have been gone." Bobby says, translating your words the way he does from time to time when he deems what you said to be illogical. You do not confirm.

"Goodnight, goodbye," You say. 

He hugs you. An oddly pleasant thing you have only experienced from him a few times. Bobby is hot to touch, comfortable against your damp skin as you return the gesture.

When he lets go, you taste the salt he has left behind. His final word ringing through you after he is gone, "Bye."

It has never occurred to you to miss anything. Upon your return you dismantle the bridge, making neat piles in other rooms away from your sanctum. You leave the furniture, leave the photographs he was displaying on the wall.

You do as you said you would. You float.

But the enjoyment you always get from such things feels hollow. Like a fish starving. No matter where you let yourself drift, where the current takes you, it does not feel the same. You float not out of contentment but because you have nothing to entertain you.

Substance has gone out of the water. Clarity changes; instead of your rooms and corridors being filled with crystal-clear waters, they are dark and treacherous. The bottom is gone from sight; shallow pools look like pits.

The white lights come down, but instead of refraction, your waters suck it in until everything feels dark and oppressive. You barely notice, so busy floating and thinking. Remembering. You've never had so much to remember.

When a human stumbles into your water, you go to it, seeking out the splashes and footsteps. The girl you find is scared, bleeding, running from something else. Dripping blood into your waters, smearing it on your tiles.

Unclean.

And more importantly, unwelcome. You seize her ankle and drag her into the deep. Hold her there as she flails and kicks, and eventually her lungs pop. She breathes you in, and you revile the taste of her. 

You dump her soggy corpse into one of the pits for something else to make a meal of. But unlike before, you do not clean up; do not rinse the tiles of her blood. You float.

More come, creatures that think they can take from you. Humans who are not him. 

Your waters grow foul. The tiles unclean, the light does not illuminate the way it should. Eventually, when you're not paying attention, the lights turn red. Bodies are left behind to rot, creatures dismembered or drowned floating in your channels.

You do not return to your sanctum.

You hunt.

For so long Bobby thought only of getting home, talking to his mom. Finding the space he fit into before he left, but when he got back, the world had moved on.

His mother moved away from San Jose. Two years had passed since he and Kat disappeared. 

When he went to see her, she barely showed any joy at seeing him at all. Spent the whole time he stood in her living room, waiting for love, going on about the money she'd wasted on his schooling, berating him for running off with some girl.

She never even asked if he was alright, and he did not tell her he loved her, because he wasn't so sure if he did after that. Bobby had no money and no home. No car. All of it was gone. He could have gone to the cops to see where his car went, but he wouldn't have known what to say.

How to explain Kat or Clark. It's not like he could tell them the truth.

So he set out for a while. Traveled, slept beneath bridges. Enjoyed the wind on his face.

And every once and awhile he would find himself turning to say something to you. To make a joke or ask a question. And you were only an absent space where something had once been. 

In his travels Bobby found the places he felt happiest were where water was on his skin. In the shower, in the bathtub, or at the beach. He broke into a public pool after hours once and got so overwhelmed with loneliness he just dipped his feet in and stared until the security guard came yelling.

No matter where he went or what wonder he tried to find with the sun on his face, his thoughts always seemed to loop back to the way white light looked on clear water. The smell of chlorine and the bubbly way you laughed. 

Bobby lasts a little over a year as a nomad before he ends up breaking into the empty space for rent that used to belong to Cap'n Clarks. It takes less effort than he thought to step through that tingly doorway, still marked with peeling blue tape.

The pale yellow of the wallpaper greets him, and he knows this is the right decision. This is where he is supposed to be. 

Retracing his steps is more difficult than he thought it would be. The rooms and corridors seem the same, but he still finds himself getting turned around as he walks. But he's determined, a thick backpack weighing on his shoulders and a pair of water shoes on his feet.

He walks, trying to remember the turns you made, but it's been months. Bobby's memory has never been perfect, and so it's trial and error. He doesn't delay, doesn't stop to rest. The monster that bit him is gone, but that doesn't mean nothing filled the vacancy, and he cannot count on you being there to save him this time.

Time passes, but he can't with any confidence say how much of it. All he knows is the weight on his back and the determination to see this through. To find you.

Finally, he smells the chlorine, feels the change in the air, and squeezes through a somewhat familiar passageway and steps out into an unrecognizable world. It's the same tiles, the same shallow channels that he explored with you, but it is different.

The lights are red, everything feels dark, and there's something sickly and moldy instead of clean about the darkened corners. Like stagnant water instead of the clear cool pool water of before.

Unease sinks into his gut, his instincts crying out to him at once. Warning him. Whispering to turn back, that something dangerous is around the corner. His heart pounds in his chest.

Something has gone wrong. He thinks of the way you brought him to the exit, the way all emotion seemed to flood out of you, and how confidently he left you behind. Like he hadn't told you things he'd never told anyone.

The water is murky, blackish, and still. There are no ripples, no underlying current. No motion at all. He walks, keeping to the side at first, and as he goes, he recognizes the paths he sees. Together you walked this area enough to be somewhere he thinks he remembers how to navigate. 

There's blood smeared across the tile wall, long dried and browned. You never would have left this here. To allow the uncleanliness of it.

Did something happen to you? Are you alright? What will he do if you're gone?

Bobby thinks he might be able to find his way back out, but that's a last-case scenario. You always found him when he wandered, when he tried to find a way to leave. It's the water. The water is how you always found him.

But he doesn't want to tip anything else off that he's here in case it's not you and something else. So he walks, keeping to the paths. There's something floating in the water, many-limbed and eyeless. Chunks of gunk float with it.

Bobby swallows hard and walks faster, adjusting the grip on his bag. He can find his way home. It's the path taken most often. If he gets there, then he'll touch the water. Let you know where he is.

The sound of his footsteps echoes through the corridors. Everything is harder to navigate in the low lighting and difficult to make sense of. He starts going in circles, using the grime as navigation points. 

His feet ache; he pulls a granola bar out of his bag and eats it as he walks. Sleep calls to him; it has been too long since he rested, but he can't afford to stop out here, exposed. Can't leave you alone.

Bobby goes in another circle and grinds his teeth. He's in one of the larger pool rooms, a deep well in front of him, connected to channels from either side. There's less gore here; it's still dark, the water like oil, but there's nothing floating in the water.

He shucks off his heavy bag, setting it against the wall. There's no avoiding it. He can't remember the way, and the longer he wanders, the more likely he'll get lost further and further from where he needs to be. 

There's only one thing to do. Bobby crouches, reaching forward, and presses his hand into the water, wiggling his fingers. And feels a cold grip latch around his wrist. He lists forward into the water with a splash. Flailing on impulse before he forces himself to open his eyes.

You're there, below him, but there's something different about your face. Eyes blanker, mouth angrier. He reaches out and touches your jaw. 

"I'm here." He says, at least he attempts to. Bobby doesn't really hear anything other than sound, a garbed version of words that aren't really words. 

You hear them. At least, he thinks you do because your expression shifts. Going sealish and then together you breach the surface. He spits out foul-tasting water and takes in air, your hands on his hips, holding him there.

The lights start to brighten, red turning pink and then white, and all around you the water starts to clear. 

"Good morning." You greet, eyes wide, looking him over. 

He laughs, wrapping his arms around your neck, pressing in closer. You're always the temperature of the water, but he doesn't mind. "Hello." He says back with a laugh, "Think we gotta do some cleaning, yeah?"

You nod, glancing around with a frown. "I'll fix it."

Bobby takes the chance; he's already come this far. He might as well go all in. See where he ends up, where the current takes him. "We'll fix it." 

Your smile seems to brighten the lights further. Chlorine is heavy in his nose. He finally feels like he's home.

[the-dracula-1752]

Adore this fic. The person who asked for this...genuis. The person who wrote it... godly. ✨️✨️✨️

[the-dracula-1752]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔙𝔞𝔪𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔢𝔰

NUMBER 3. DRACULA

_________🦇_________

From Dracula 2000 (2000)

Obviously many beautiful people have gotten the privilege of playing our beloved Dracula. However I believe Gerards portrayal was such an underrated one. He is absolutely stunning as a Vampire! The film itself is great and unique.

[the-dracula-1752]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔙𝔞𝔪𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔢𝔰~

NUMBER 2. JARED NOMAK

_______________🦇_______________

From Blade 2 (2002)

Jared is the son in a royal vampire bloodline. Who gives his all for his father and pays dearly for his sacrifice. I really wish we would have seen him as a regular vampire at one point, but nonetheless his reaper form was incredible.

[ploams]

[the-dracula-1752]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔙𝔞𝔪𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔢𝔰 ~

NUMBER 1. JAN VALEK

_____________🦇_____________

From Vampires (1998)

A vampire film unlike any other. We witness a very charismatic Master Vampire take on some hunters sent by the church. Valek is creepy, tall, powerful, ambitious, and unique.

Absolutely one of my favorite vampires. Definitely underrated when it comes to beautiful vampires.

[fanofspooky]

“This is God…”

[steelpaperboats]

~ All My Cool and Cold

Pairing: Simon x ftm!reader Rating: T Word Count: 955 Requested By: @crows-nerd-world Synopsis: Simon survives the blood ocean, but returns to you and to Eden changed. You love him all the same. A/N: Took some liberties on the context, but I hope you enjoy the angle I took!

Content Tags: ftm transgender reader, gardener Simon, fluff, comfort, inferred PTSD, setting - Eden, amputee Simon, scars, physical malformations caused by the blood ocean, kissing

Simon has come back from the blood ocean changed. You know this. Some of it is obvious; it is in the way he has physically changed. He still tries to reach for things with his missing arm. His eyes gleam closer to red in some lights, and his skin is always cooler to the touch than it used to be.

But he is here and he is alive. That is more than you hoped for when they took him away. For his services rendered, he's home, back in Eden, back to you. There is nothing more you could ask for than that. Than the return of the one person left in all of humanity that understands you.

He's never looked at you like you're a freak, and you'll never do so to him either. Your Brothers and Sisters avoid you, unnerved by Simon's uncanniness and your oddness. The girl-boy and the monster.

Another good thing that's come of this is Simon's position change. He will no longer fight for Eden. Instead, he is a gardener. He spends his days carefully tending to plants in the soft grow lights of the garden.

You know he likes it, but still. He has changed. 

Now when you approach him, he does not recognize your gait. If you touch his shoulder, he will jump; sometimes his hand will come hard around your wrist before he realizes it's you.

There's always a fast apology to follow, but you have been trying to figure out how best to love him again. Touch is not the same as it was before.

The two of you have your own room now, because no one wants to room with Simon. The lights are low, powered down into energy-saving mode across the station. Simon hovers, struggling with his shirt. He won't ask for help, but you can feel his dejection as he tugs at it.

You come up to stand at his side. "May I?"

He looks over at you, and you swear there's a glow to his eyes you haven't seen before. As if somehow there is a light inside him. It's kind of beautiful. He sighs, letting his arm fall to his side. "Sure."

You reach out in slow motion, giving him time to see you coming and grab the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head. It sends his hair into a frizzy disarray. Curls fall in front of his face as you toss the shirt to the side.

He's scarred now too, around his arm obviously, but also has marks along his wrists, cuts, and pockmarks. There are some on his back and chest too, little unidentifiable injuries from the sub that miraculously healed.

You miss him so much it aches. He's back, finally, but he feels so far away. "Can I touch you?"

Simon's eyes are sad. He senses there is a distance between you, too. "Yeah."

Again, in a careful motion, you lift your hand, resting your palm flat on the muscle of his chest. He's cool to the touch. You shift forward, bringing your other hand up to do the same.

You worry he'll stand there and just take it. Wait for it to be over. But then his hand settles on your hip.

"Simon." You say his name like a plea and let your forehead fall to his collar. He squeezes your hip and murmurs your name back in reply.

"It's okay, I'll - I'll do better." He says. 

Lately he is fast to apologize for even the most minor slight. The last thing you want is for him to feel guilty on top of everything else. He just needs time to adjust; everything is different now. Before they put him in that thing, he was in prison. He's been gone so long. It will take time, and yet the empty space in your chest does not register that fact.

All your body knows is a craving for what it has always wanted. Your Simon. 

"Is this okay?" You ask, kissing his collar before you think better of it. 

His cheek falls to the top of your head. "Yeah."

You let your hands slide carefully around his torso, making sure not to hold too tight. Not trapped, but held. His arm loops around your back to hold you.

"Is this okay?" You repeat and hope it is so. For you it is a comfort you feel you have been denied. Not by him, but by the rest of them that have kept you apart.

He nuzzles into the top of your head. "Yeah."

The two of you stay there for a time like that, surrounded by each other. It feels good to be surrounded by him, even if he's no longer warm to the touch. Even if after weeks he still smells slightly of copper and rust.

You lift your head and he lowers his chin in tandem. Simon knows what you want before you ask for it, because his eyelids drop into a lover's gaze. They dart to your mouth. He is different, but he loves you. That is the same.

It is good to be reminded of that. 

"Can I kiss you?" He asks, before quickly adding. "I want to."

You nod.

He leans in; you lean up. It's a boyish kiss. Tender and innocent and as new as a budding leaf on an old tree.

His lips feel familiar, but his teeth are sharper and his hunger wider. The boyishness trails into something more starved. It is tongue to tongue, and his hand is tight to your side. Simon groans, pressing you closer, and your spine bends at his whim.

He kisses like a welcome home, and you are happy to be welcomed.

[roll-of-royces]

--- I am not bound by petty notions of conscience.

[roll-of-royces]

--- I am not bound by petty notions of conscience.

[willowwickertop]

Markiplier put a sad man in a tin can for two hours and I ate that shit up

[waldos-art]

A photographer caught out in the wild 😌

[divinedirestar]

Thank you for the movie mr iplier I have seen it 15 times

[steelpaperboats]

~ He's So Heavy: Part III

Pairing: Simon the Butcher x m!reader Rating: M Word Count: 6096 AO3 Version: HERE / Part Directory: HERE

Content Tags: male reader, convict reader, immoral reader, blood, reader is from Eden, established relationship, hurt and comfort, angst, contemplation of suicide, injury treatment

"Shh." You press your finger to your lips, keeping to the shadows of the hall. Simon's hand is tight in your own, grip flexing each time you slip around a corner. Unlike you, he's not one for breaking the rules. He keeps looking around like someone is going to magically appear and start yelling for being out of bed at this hour.

There's no technical curfew, but you're not supposed to go wandering around this part of the station in the middle of the night. If you get caught, worst case you'll take the fall and say you insisted he come even though he didn't want to.

Partially true.

Out of the two of you, you're the one that gets in more trouble. It won't be a particularly hard sell.

Simon whispers your name, but you ignore him, continuing on, not letting him pull away. You've been planning this for a month; everything is going the way it's supposed to. The door is just ahead.

The Last Tree always has visitors; there's either a caretaker or someone else in the room appreciating the view. You've never seen it without some sort of audience and definitely not during the grow light period. 

You reach the door, carefully opening it, ushering him inside, and closing it silently behind you. Simon lets out a breath of awe before you even have the chance to turn around, and you know you did well. 

Pivoting, you look for others. There's no one here, which is exactly what you wanted, just the two of you. Simon walks forward, drawn to the sight laid out before you. The grow lights are on, coating the Last Tree in a soft pinkish hue, haloing it. Distant dead stars continue to shine far in the distance, framing the tree.

As Simon gets closer, the lamps catch him too, and he is coated in soft shades of pink as he turns back to look at you. His eyes are wide with delight, and you can't help the pride you feel at being able to give this to him. Something resembling a present. Something resembling a thank you for all the joy he instills in you.

"It's beautiful." He whispers, neck craning as he stops at the edge where the metal border and the soil box meet. He doesn't dare step into the dirt. No one but caregivers is allowed that close. The soil is perfectly maintained and aerated for proper growth. 

Neither of you wants to hurt the tree, so you remain stationary right outside it. Craning forward to be beneath as much of it as you can.

You think that between him and the tree, you're not certain which you like more. You've got a feeling you know which direction your heart is leaning, though. The artificial light traces his nose, the slope of his eyes, and the curl of his dark hair.

You've always loved his eyes, so different from the others on the station. Not many people look like Simon, and you think that's kind of special. He's kind of special. 

He glances over at you, and there's enough illumination that you can still see him blush. "Whatcha lookin' at me like that for?"

You curl your arm over his shoulders, feeling his warmth as you lean your temple against his, gazing up into the foliage together. You remember sunlight, the way it felt on your skin; this isn't that. But still, it's something. Simon is something more.

"Can't help it," You murmur. "You're like sunshine."

"Heh, if you say so, but, uh, thanks for this."

You hold him a little closer, the start of a budding romance between you, on the cusp of a beginning during the ending. "Happy birthday, Simon."

... everything is dark. An unusual sound stirs you from the dream you were having. The rumble of water, the creak of old metal. 

A lovely dream. A prized memory. Certainly not reality.

You groan, head pounding, a deep thrumming ache in your shoulder. The only thing that lets you see is the glow from the button. It highlights shapes with a soft fuzzy green, just enough so you can make out the figure in front of you.

Simon.

You fumble forward, ignoring the pain. Your hand comes to his face, air tickles your fingers, and you let out a relieved cry. Alive. He's alive. 

"Simon." You touch his shoulder, trying not to jostle him. "Simon."

He doesn't stir, doesn't even twitch. You pull yourself into a crouch and smack the button. The flash is blinding, but it lets you see his silhouette draped on the floor. You search for blood but don't see any puddles of it surrounding him.

That's good. He's not bleeding seriously that you can tell. Probably hit his head like you did.

You need to check for indentations. Carefully, you fumble for him in the dark, easing off his headband. Your fingers trace along his forehead, twisting forward to pull his head into your lap. Still, this doesn't wake him.

There's a knot above his temple and some blood, but that's the only wound you find. His skull isn't cracked. "Thank you. Thank you." 

You're not sure who you're thanking. You stopped believing in God a long time ago.

Head checked, you move on to the rest of his body. You don't bother with the button, slipping your hands beneath his sleeve to check his arm and then the other. Your fingers come back tacky with blood. 

The camera lets you see the cuts that line his arms. You're not sure what he hit to make that happen, but they should be bandaged. None of that matters in this death trap if he doesn't wake up.

Should he wake up?

Your eyes drift to the oxygen gauge; it's dark. Why bother to wire back up power to the oxygen gauge? Not like it's important information or anything.

"Motherfucking, fuck. Think. Think. What would Si do? What would he do?" 

He would hold on to hope and try to get the power back on. You're not sure if that's the right play.

You go back to checking Simon over. That seems worth doing. Your hands dip beneath his shirt, carefully checking his ribs. No obvious breaks. His breathing is stable, no wheezing or rattles.

His legs seem in decent shape compared to his arms. You even take his boots off to check his toes. No breaks or blood. You slide his shoes back on, tying the laces blind. Doing them up is nostalgic; you used to always tie his shoes.

Something he pretended to hate, going on about how he wasn't a child. But when you sank down to your knees before him, fingers to the laces, he always went gentle. Others would watch and tease, but you didn't much give a damn.

The goading insult, the Butcher's Bitch, never felt like much of an insult. You know who Simon is; belonging to him is exactly where you want to be.

"Simon." You sound a little worse than the last time you said his name. More frantic. 

The world feels empty.

Uncertain what to do, you adjust him in a way that lets him lie between your legs, cheek to your inner thigh, protecting his head. You can still reach the button, not that you need it; the ship doesn't appear to be moving. 

There's probably not much oxygen left. Two people means twice the amount.

You let out a low chuckle and let your head droop toward Simon. He's a faint green shape, warm around your legs. Not that it's cold in here; it's still bordering on too hot. 

Your hand comes through his damp hair, fingers running errant through the strands. Is this the time to cry?

There's time to shed a few tears, but you don't really feel the urge anymore. A steady acceptance has sunk into your bones. This is the end of the end.

It was always going to come. So you card through his hair and hope whatever he's dreaming about is pleasant. It is better for him to be asleep for what is going to come. You breathe deeply, enjoying the air while you can.

For now, it's not so bad. Simon is with you. You always figured you'd die together, not that this is what you had in mind.

Each lazy swipe of your fingers calms you a little more. Your body unwinding. Yes, you're about to die, but you'll die free of the C.O.I.'s influence. You take another deep breath and let the air fill your lungs.

"You don't mind if I talk, do you, sunshine?" You ask, not expecting a reply. The silence is too deep, too filled with the ever-present blood on the outside. That's not what you want to spend your last moments thinking about. Better to talk; maybe he'll hear you in a distant way. Know that in your last moments, you thought of him.

"I remember the day I fell in love with you. I kinda knew it was coming and didn't at the same time. It was weird like that, but we were working. Shoved into the SD quadrant. Rust prep and wire repair. For whatever reason it was hot as hell in there that day, worse than normal.

"We were sweating buckets, and you just got fed up and stripped off your shirt and tossed it on the floor. And I remember looking at you, tattoo still red on your neck, face all flushed, and thinking to myself shit. Oh shit, he's beautiful. Heh, I wanted to lick you. And you'll remember that I did. Neither of us knew what the hell we were doing, and we were filthy by the time we crawled out of there—laughing and happy."

Maybe you've miscalculated; tears burn at your eyes, but his hair remains soft in your hands. "I'd give anything to go back there. You see the Quiet Rapture as this horrifying thing, and you have your theories, your hopes. Maybe it's us and not them. I know why you think that. If we were the ones that disappeared, then your mom is out there somewhere waiting for you.

"For me, the Rapture was the start of my life, not the end of it. I met you because of it. I got to know you the way I have because of it and ... well, my ma isn't out there somewhere hoping I'll come home. The only reason I want to see the sun again is so I can see you in that holy light. But we're ... we're going to die down here.

"This is an execution; it was always an execution. No matter what they said to you. They don't want us to return. And even if we did find our way back, what awaits us? Dead stars and endless waiting. Living in the same cold space and being unable to touch. If there's still hope, it lies beyond the veil, somewhere we can't go. 

"I think it's better this way, to choose to breathe our last here at the bottom of an ocean: unseen, unheard, uncontrolled. Sure, they'll get their execution." You trace your hand along his face, feeling the grooves and rough stubble, bending over him. Trying to cradle him the best you can. You love him more than life. "We'll get our freedom. Isn't that what we always wanted? To be free?"

You hit the button, looking in the corners, finding what you're looking for. There, sitting innocently, is the shard of metal from before. It's in reach. Is this the will of God?

You pluck it from the ground. It digs into your palm as you tighten your grip around it. The camera glow fades, but that's for the best. You're not sure if you'll be able to do this if you can see him.

One quick motion. You know how to do it; you've done it before. Just not with a metal scrap and not on someone you love. You bring the metal to the top of your wrist and drag it, seeing how much pressure you'll need to apply. The skin splits without much effort. It will do.

You attempt to steady yourself. It is this, or he runs out of air. Deep enough, and it'll be over before his brain wakes up. Simon will sleep, and he will sleep his last without suffering, in the arms of someone who cares about him.

Strangulation is a horrific way to die. This is kinder. You can give him this.

"I love you, Simon. Truly, truly I do. God, please ... please let him into the Grove." You bring the metal forward with a trembling hand.

Your body hesitates. You promised to always protect him. Is this breaking the promise or keeping it?

"Love you too." Simon groans, body shifting, hand coming up to grip onto your leg. "Fuck ... you okay?"

You wrench the metal back, tossing it away at the sound of his voice, and bury your face in your hands. "Sorry, sorry. Oh, shit. Oh, God. God. I'm so sorry."

You let out a dry sob as he lifts up from his spot on the floor. Away from you. Leaving, leaving.

He pulls your hands away, mouth to your cheek, your bruised nose, and your temple. Simon slides back in, straddling one of your legs. "I'm here. It's okay." The way he says your name makes you feel like your ribs are being cracked open.

You almost killed him. You almost stole his life away from him.

Guilt is not a feeling you bother with. It is a pointless emotion left to cripple others. You know what it feels like because there's a slimy feeling in the pit of your stomach that makes you want to punch a wall just to feel your knuckles split.

"I'm sorry," You plead against his lips. "I'm sorry."

Simon's kiss is gentle, sweet on the edges as he presses chest to chest. He kisses like forgiveness. You cling to him, and he clings back.

When he pulls away, his face is illuminated in soft green, reflecting the button back at you. There's a spark of light behind him, along the floor that his legs were previously occupying. Another spark. 

You hadn't seen. You hadn't been looking.

Simon will choose hope. You choose Simon.

"Floor hatch." You say, jutting your chin at it. There's going to be more machinery down there, probably a way to start the ship back up.

Simon peers over his shoulder at it. He considers all the same things you did before coming to an entirely different decision, "We keep going."

Things had been so simple a moment ago. You miss that simplicity. The peace of the end. It's a fight again; life is always a fight. You nod. Get up and do it again.

Simon winces, touching his head. "Fuck."

"Probably got a concussion. Already checked you over. We'll get you patched up after the power is back on." 

If the power doesn't come back on, then it won't matter. Neither of you addresses that. 

Simon pulls away to tug at the door. He yanks on it, cupping his head again when he jars himself. You hit the button as he runs his hands along the edge to find the screws. That piece of metal you found probably isn't thin enough.

There has to be something else. 

"Supply closet." Simon says, stumbling to his feet. He jerks the door open as you stay behind to keep pressing the button. There's a life preserver inside, and just the sight of it makes you want to laugh. A manic giggle slips out at the sight of it.

Simon launches it into the corner with about as much vitriol as he's capable of. More supplies discarded, and then a plastic box. You hit the button again.

He flips it open. There's a pair of multipurpose scissors. Those will work. He gets distracted by one of the bottles, looking at the top, so you pluck the scissors from him, hit the camera, and then bend forward to start undoing the screws. 

You hear the cap unscrew and the distinct sound of him drinking. Water. There was water. Your mouth feels dry just thinking about it. With a little finagling you get the first screw and then the second and yank open the hatch.

It's pitch black down there, minus the occasional sparking. Narrow, tight, nothing more than a duct.

Simon crouches next to you. "Oh, fuck that."

You chuckle.

"No," He says. "Nu-uh."

You chuckle again.

"Fuck you."

You lean your shoulder against his. "I'll let you take another sip of the water."

You were going to let him do that anyways, but it acts as an additional motivator. Tight spaces on Eden aren't the same as this. It feels entirely different.

Simon holds the bottle out to you. It takes effort not to consume the whole thing. Your body craves it as you drink, feeling the lukewarm relief as you swallow, finally washing some of the taste of blood from your mouth.

You hold it back out to him. It takes a moment of hesitation before he gives in and drinks the rest, tossing the container to the side.

You use the camera to examine the rest of the contents. All of it can wait for now. One step at a time.

Simon stares at the hatch again. "Fuck~ that."

You smile to yourself. "We both know I'm not fitting down there. I'll stay up here and press the button." As you hit it, you notice the light on the life jacket. That might help.

Craning, you grab it, pulling it toward you. Water activated. Of course. "Did you save any of the water?"

There's a pause, realization sinking in. "No. I, um, chugged it."

It feels strange to smile in this situation, but it's there regardless. Water doesn't necessarily mean water, right? You bring it to your mouth and lick the sensor. It tastes disgusting, but the light turns on.

Simon blinks at you.

In reply you hold out the jacket. "What, jealous?"

It's been so long since the two of you touched, let alone had time together. Hell, if this is the end of the line, that's a fine way to run through the rest of the air. You shelve the impulsive thought. 

Simon grunts, looking down into the hole. "You could fit."

That is fundamentally not true. You have always been a bit too large for small spaces, but you keep getting thrust into them anyways. Theoretically you might be able to cram yourself down there, but it would be a bitch and a half to move.

Simon knows that, but he's kicking his feet. You give him a little extra push, and in true boyish fashion—you have, after all, known each other since he was nine, start bawking like a chicken.

Have you ever seen a chicken? No. Do you know about them? Yes.

"Bawk, bawk, bawk." 

Simon leans forward to shove you. It hurts, but it's funny enough that you still laugh. Maybe you just want to laugh, to feel anything beyond horror in your situation.

"Bawk, bawk, bawk."

"Go fuck yourself, asshole." Simon grunts and shoves the life preserver into the hole.

"Fuck me yourself, chicken." 

This time you get a giggle out of him as he drops himself into the hole. You can see his legs at first, and then he's gone. A wave of unease fills you the moment he's out of sight. You make sure to keep the flash going whenever it starts to fade.

Distant, echoey swearing follows him, though, and that's a reminder that he's alright. 

"Fuck me. Stupid tiny fucking crawlspace. Stupid ship, stupid C.O.I., stupid blood ocean, stupid sea monster." He says to himself.

"You tell 'em, sweetheart," You call out, pressing the button again.

"Oh, fuck off!" Simon shouts back.

"Find anything?" 

More shuffling, several curses. "Black box."

You press the button and fight the urge to tell him to be careful. There's no point in being careful. It's do or die. You let him focus, methodically doing your simple job. 

He returns to the entrance, legs back in frame, "Son of a bitch, it was right here."

Several clicks, a few grunts, and then the ship hums to life. The lights flick on, and you have to blink fast to adjust. Your eyes burn as you scan for damages. No obvious leaks. 

Bubbling blood along the porthole. 

Wait. Bubbling blood along the porthole. 

You lunge forward, accidentally kicking Simon in the shoulder as he tries to lift himself out. He yelps, and you hit the console, scanning the controls until you find the switch labelled keep closed and twist it. 

Something presses against the window, fleshy and wrong. Your breath catches in your throat, and then it shutters. You sag against the controls. Too close. 

"I was gonna yell at you for kicking the shit out of me." Simon says, walking up next to you, "But that was a good reason."

"Sorry." You twist to look at him. He looks like hell now that you can see him properly. Blood along his forehead and staining his sleeves. There's a deep exhaustion to him, bags under his eyes, skin paler than it should be. "Did you - "

"Fire."

In unison you jerk to look toward the back of the sub. There's fire poking out of the hatch Simon just climbed out of. What if he had been in there? The oxygen.

"Shit!" He runs for the fire extinguisher. 

"Fire."

You scan the rest of the space, making sure that's the only one. 

"Fire."

Simon flounders with the extinguisher. 

"Pull the pin," You tell him, stepping forward ready to take it from him. The longer the fire burns, the more oxygen you lose.

"Fire."

He gets it, spraying at the flames. It fades out. He sprays it a few extra times for good measure before slamming the container back in its spot on the wall. You know he's about to lose his temper before he does it. 

A tightening in his posture, a shake of his head, "Fuck!" Simon shouts, bending in on himself, curling his arms around his torso, "Can anything just fucking work for five fucking seconds?"

You understand the sentiment.

He runs a hand through his hair. "Son of a ... " He trails off with a trembling breath. The anger gives way to something more human. Simon looks at you, seeking you out the way he always has when he gets overwhelmed. 

The sub reeks of smoke and burnt plastic. None of this makes any sense at all, but that look does. You know that look in the core of your chest. He needs you.

"Hey, hey." You touch his face. "Sit down."

There are two oxygen lights left, more than you thought you'd have. It gives you some time. You collect the discarded supply box and carry it to the front, setting it on a flat area of the console table. 

"We gonna talk about that?" Simon nods toward the window.

You can immediately see the thing in your head, fleshy and huge. "Nope."

There's no point talking about whatever that was; it's not like you can do anything about it. You're in here; it's out there. Giving it life will only make the fear you're desperately trying to suppress worse.

Simon makes no point to argue that decision, "Works for me." 

"Take your clothes off," You say, lightly.

Simon's brows shoot up, head bending back to expose his throat and the scar there. The sight of his Eden's mark burned away never fails to piss you off. "Not really the time?"

"I'm trying to mend your wounds like a good partner. Why? Did you ... have something else in mind?" You tease, holding up a bundle of bandages.

"You're a pain in my ass," Simon says, reaching for the hem of his sweater. As soon as he tries to pull it off, he grumbles in pain.

"Stop, stop." You reach out. "I'll do it; straighten your arms out."

Seeing him in pain has never been easy; you don't think that's about to change today. Seeing him without the shirt only makes it worse. His back is mottled to hell, various shades of dark purple and yellow, with a few smaller cuts here and there.

You swallow hard. 

"That bad?"

"Nothing fatal," You whisper, but that's about all you can say about it. "How's it feel?"

"I feel fantastic." He lies before softening when he spots your discomfort, "Really, I'm good."

You think back to the sharp metal you almost slit his throat with, and the guilt comes back full force. How could you even think about doing that? What the hell is wrong with you? 

"You know," Simon leans forward, looking up at you, "I don't think I've ever seen that expression before. What are you thinking?"

Do you tell him? You thought he might have known, but maybe he didn't. Maybe he has no idea that you almost murdered him like some angel of death. Simon reaches out to touch your wrist, and the pendant hangs there between you, mocking in its purpose. The guilt yawns wider.

"I was going to kill you in your sleep." You say, regretting the words the moment they leave your mouth. You want to swallow them back up, to chew them down until they're digested and unidentifiable. You do not want them to be real.

You expect disgust, anger, distrust even. Simon's will to live has always far exceeded your own. There's none of that. Only a quiet look that could mean a hundred things, "Why?"

A loaded question, one in which you have a loaded answer for. A multitude of reasons: because humanity is destined to die, because life is over and you are all rotting past your due date, but more than anything there was only one real reason that guided your hand.

A selfish, horrible reason.

"I didn't want to have to watch you die."

Simon reaches to grip your shirt, medallion dangling from his wrist. It continues to mock you. 

"We're not going to die." He sounds so certain of it. "I'm not dying down here, and that means you're not either. So we trust each other, like we've always trusted each other."

Blood beads along one of the cuts in his wrist, rolling down to catch in the crease of his elbow. You need to bandage him up. The sight of his blood makes everything worse. It's different from the blood that drips its way inside.

This blood has a name; it's brighter. 

"Let me bandage your arm." You mumble, unable to take your eyes from the wound.

"Look at me." He says instead, still gripping your shirt.

You do as he bids, meeting his eyes.

"If we die, we die together. I am your witness, and you are mine." The spot he's holding starts to tear. "And then we meet in the Grove."

"We meet in the Grove." You agree. Though, silently, you think Hell might be a more apt place for you to go. He will not be there, but he will have his mother.

All you have is this life with him; you should make the most of it.

"Now hold still so I can bandage this," You insist, reaching for the bandages. You spot a different jar on your way, plucking it up from the box. Alcohol. "You're going to love this part."

Simon reads the label. "Shots?"

You huff out an amused breath. "I think the CO2 poisoning is enough." 

There's a cotton pad included with it, so you soak it through, making sure it's saturated. "Alright, tough guy. How do you open an automatic door that's lost power?"

"Please tell me you're not thinking about opening any doors."

You dab the top of the cut, and he snarls in pain, "Ow!"

"How do you open an automatic door if the power is out?" You ask again.

"Is it, motherfuck—is this one of the sliding doors at home?" He asks.

You keep working, thoroughly cleaning each cut. "Yes."

"Ow, ow, the sliding security doors on Eden have a pull cord hidden behind a lockbox on the left side. If you have the key, you can just unlock the box and pull the cord, and the locks will disengage, allowing it to be opened manually."

You switch to the other arm, "Don't press that against anything. Couldn't I just take a crowbar to it?"

Simon complies, holding his cleaned arm in the air as you start on the other. "No, when the locks engage, they have prongs that hold the doors in place. It would take more strength than is feasible."

"With my muscles," You goad, "I could do it alone."

Simon would probably have smiled at that if he wasn't so preoccupied with your methodical cleaning. You're almost done with the worst part. "Sure." He agrees lightly. "I'd love to see that."

"I'll prove it." You say softly, "When we get home."

When.

What a silly word to accompany such a lie. Neither of you will see Eden again. The C.O.I. would never let you go even if you were let out of jail.

He allows you this lie. "It's a date."

"Last one." You mumble and clean the bump on his head. That gets a few choice words out of him, but then it's done.

You set the remaining alcohol to the side and reach for the bandages. He holds out one arm as you wrap it, keeping the pressure firm without being too tight. When you get to the other side, you have to untie his pendant, pressing it into his palm for safekeeping.

"Little better?" You ask, once the wrap is done, retying the thread around his wrist to return the medallion.

"Yeah." 

The white is stark against his skin. There's no real way to do anything for the bruises on his chest and back. That will have to do for now.

"You want to take this one off?" You ask, slipping a finger beneath his harness to tug on it. "Not like we're walking into a fight, and it's hot as shit in here."

Simon hesitates.

"Don't have to," You mumble. If wearing his combat gear makes him feel more prepared, you'll let him have that without argument.

"It's just ... " He reaches up and touches the worn leather. "You've always liked this one. The way it looks."

He's not wrong. There have been plenty of times when you've sat to the side watching him get dressed, eyeing the harness along his chest. Making comments, teasing, and pressing open-mouth kisses to the muscle beneath.

You help him out of it, letting the strap dangle from your finger. "Then let's save it for later."

There's no point in wearing it, and you can see the spots; it's starting to chafe against his sweat-drenched skin. You toss it toward the hood on the floor, noticing the knife sheath, an idea forming in your head.

You collect the sweater, shoulder twinging as you reach forward. Using the scissors, you cut the sleeves at the elbow. They're stained with blood already, and this way his bandages should remain cleaner.

He pulls the sweater back on with a grunt of pain. You leave him there to collect the headband from where you left it and loop behind him to tie up his hair. "Should cool you down a bit."

Simon sighs, drooping against the chair, "Thanks."

It means more than you're able to put into words that you were able to offer him any kind of comfort at all. There's only so much to do in this tin can.

Simon rises from his seat, approaching you. "Your turn."

"For what?"

"Shirt, off." He replies, gesturing at you.

You don't really want to bother with your injuries, but you know well enough he's going to kick up a fuss if you refuse, so it's best to get it over with. You get the shirt about halfway off before pain rips through you and you hiss. Involuntarily letting go of the shirt, body refusing to cooperate.

Your hand feels numb as you flex your fingers. "I'm good; let's just get moving."

"You're funny." He says, grabbing the bottom of your shirt, helping to ease it off. You feel the shirt catch your shoulder, followed by an unpleasant tugging as it is pulled. Tacky.

When you look down at yourself, nothing major stands out; there's a suspiciously boot-shaped bruise along your ribs that might have come from Simon in the initial fall and a few small cuts, nothing accounting for the throbbing pain.

Simon loops around you, "Oh."

It's such a small exclamation. Quiet, barely audible. 

"What?" You ask, but despite your bending, you can't make out whatever has clearly caught his attention. He's locked on a spot along your shoulder blade. "How bad is it?" 

Simon steps closer, and you feel his mouth, an open kiss to the shoulder that doesn't ache. Great. Is he looking at your bones? Please, don't let him be looking at bone. 

"Gotta clean it." 

"Okay, sure. But how screwed is my shoulder?" You ask, trying to turn your head far enough. All it does is make it hurt more so you give up. Which is about the time when you notice your shirt piled on the floor. The back is drenched in blood.

Which doesn't necessarily mean it's yours since it's running down the walls in some spots, but chances are it is. You pivot, looking at where you were leaning before, and see a red stain against the metal.

"It probably needs stitches." Simon says, "But we don't have that, so I'm going to wrap the shit out of it. I think you hit the corner shoulder first and tore it open. Could be fractured; can't really tell and can't fix that right now anyways."

"Okay," You grunt, eyeing your soiled shirt. You're going to have to put that back on. Today isn't getting any better, but you're sure it'll find a way to get worse.

Simon collects the alcohol, and your whole body tenses. "You can drink the rest," You say halfheartedly.

"Tempting, but I'll pass."

You reach forward and wrap your hands around the top of the chair, digging into the frame. "Do it."

"What's a horse?" He asks, parroting your distraction method back at you.

Pain sears through you, fingers tightening until the chair creaks. "You know what a horse is."

"Nah, never seen one."

More pain. Fuck, that hurts. The ache seems to ride through your nerves until you can feel it in your knees.

"Four legs. Herbivore. Mammal. Used for transportation. Muted colors. Hooved feet. Bred for work, not meat."

Your legs tremble with the next touch. Tears sting your eyes involuntarily. The sound you make from the back of your throat is entirely against your will. 

"I, uh, used to watch you sleep," Simon says. Clearly the trivia questions aren't going to cut it, so he changes methods.

You zone in on his voice, trying to process his words past the pain. "Yeah?"

"Your face gets all scrunched up." Another wave of pain. "And sometimes you mumble things. Do you know how often you'd say my name? That I was in your dreams? All the time ... all the time." 

Simon is in every aspect of your life. You'd think by now that wouldn't be a surprise to him. 

"I think if you weren't down here with me, I'd be in real bad shape." He admits.

You know Simon better than anyone. So much of his personality is baked into you, memorized with a sort of fascinated obsession. How he responds to stress, what he does when backed into a corner. 

He'd have drunk the alcohol, and the wraps on his wrists would have been loose. Probably would have spent most of the time staring at the pendant on his wrist. Maybe he would have said your name out loud to comfort himself. 

"Well, I'm real." You say through gritted teeth as he finally finishes, "And I'm with you, 'till the end."

"Until the stars burn out." He whispers.

You turn, needing his comfort as your body trembles, and press your forehead to his, "'Till the ghostlight fades."

"Do not go gentle into that good night."

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light." You finish, taking a moment to breathe him in.

[steelpaperboats]

~ He's So Heavy: Part IV

Pairing: Simon the Butcher x m!reader Rating: M Word Count: 4590 AO3 Version: HERE / Part Directory: HERE

Content Tags: male reader, convict reader, immoral reader, blood, reader is from Eden, established relationship, hurt and comfort, angst, vomiting, unreliable narrator

There comes a point when perpetual fear gives way to desensitization. Yes, there's something out there in the deep. No, you don't know what it is, but also you can't worry about it. There's a job to do. A task to complete.

Simon creates a new map with some of the manual paper, a charcoal pencil shoved in the crease of his ear. You take up residence at the back of the ship. Comparatively, your job is a hell of a lot easier; hit the button and report what you see. 

He jumps between moving the ship forward and marking the map. You offered to mark the map, but in truth it would be faster for him to do it. Simon, sweet as he is, politely declined without saying that.

But hey, if he needs you to hit anything, you're at the ready. You can also press buttons; you've got button pressing down to a science, as long as you do it with your right hand. The gauze is pulled tight, making your other arm feel stiff, but it's better than bleeding out, so you do your best to ignore the discomfort.

Simon is wearing the bottom half of the hood he came down with, an idea you had, to keep his mom's sheath on him. You'd gotten a rather enthusiastic kiss for the suggestion.

Unfortunately the only logical thing to do in terms of your shirt is to start wearing it backward so the wet blood doesn't soak into your bandage. Simon at least tore the collar so it hangs looser around your neck. It sticks to your chest. Between that and the sweat, you feel perpetually damp.

The two of you are in sync enough that he doesn't have to tell you to take pictures; you just do it when you're supposed to. This is not a machine you wanted to become well oiled, but the two of you are figuring it out as you go. 

"Wall," You report.

He adjusts directions and starts up again. No small talk for now; you let him focus on the numbers. Not to say you don't want to fill the oppressive silence, but he's got the more taxing job. Helping you ignore the bubbling ocean isn't a critical task right now. It takes effort not to speak. Hearing his voice makes everything easier to swallow.

You tap the button, "Open."

Knowing you have a second, you approach the terminal. It sits on the same screen as before. You type 'sos' and hit enter.

Insufficient privileges.

'Lost.'

Insufficient privileges.

'Help.'

Insufficient privileges.

'Contact Eden.'

Insufficient privileges.

You stare at it, the letters for Eden blurring as your vision wavers. It's so fucking hot. You're dehydrated, and the blood loss isn't helping. It's easy to get dizzy.

Time seems to stretch and shorten. Everything is fuzzy at the edges, like you're about to fall asleep. You're not sure how long you stare at the screen until Simon calls out to you.

"Picture."

"Sorry." You wander back and press the button, tripping over your feet on the way. You feel the stumble through your legs, noticing a twinge in your knee that seems to be getting worse by the hour.

No. Not real. Not there.

The wishy-washy lack of focus tightens, vision sharpening. You feel like you've stepped into a freezer.

"Simon," You hiss, hand poised over the button. There's something in your voice that must tip him off because he launches to his feet, meeting you in the back of the sub. He's poised for a fight, hands in fists, like whatever you're looking at is combatable.

You press it again.

Neither of you breathes.

The skeleton that wasn't a skeleton from before gave you the shakes. This one immobilizes you entirely. It's so clear that what you're looking at is alive. Nothing is buried or out of sight; it's just poised there, staring. It has eyes, pinpoints of a different color on the screen.

That's a lot of teeth. Too many teeth.

It takes longer than it should for you to convince your body to press the button again. It's further away now, more distant. Pinprick eyes still in the SM-13's direction. This theoretically would be a comfort if it didn't just prove that it was very much alive.

"Sure." Simon says, "That's ... fine."

It's absolutely not fine.

You hit it again, and the creature is gone.

Simon laughs. You laugh with him.

Neither of you is amused.

"You know what," He throws up his hands and heads for the chair. He giggles again, running a hand through his hair. "Don't mind us; just pretend we're not here."

Si looks in the direction of where it was. You hit the camera again, but it's still gone. Your fingers are trembling; you curl them into a fist instead. Pull it together. Get your shit together.

"I'm sure they're clamoring over each other to find us, so just ... we'll be on our way. But if anyone asks, tell them we're still alive, the, uh, good old crew of the SM-13."

"Yep, Brothers of Eden." You agree, but you're not sure why you want to vocally speak to whatever is out there. "We're just passing through. Taking in the sights."

Simon starts forward again like that didn't just happen. Your stomach lurches at the movement. It took a while to piece together why that is, but you've read about it. Seasickness. That's your best guess, outside of the obvious stress of being stuck in a cave with a million-teeth monster at a depth that will kill you instantly if the hull cracks.

Your stomach rolls as you keep up with your job, voice getting quieter each time. "Wall." You mumble, head spinning.

Time passes, the world turns and shifts. You blink hard to try and clear your vision, wiping at your eyes. The button seems to twist despite being set in one place. Now longer from top to bottom than side to side. The green light brightens.

"Picture," Simon says.

You press it, but don't even look at it when you do. Saliva fills your mouth. Fuck. Not in here. Not in this box.

Simon says your name, but you're scrambling for the bottle abandoned on the floor. You grab it just in time, hunching over the metal as you vomit. It rocks through you, body bending as you sink into an unsteady crouch.

You wrench again, gagging. It's a small bottle, and you're not focusing hard enough. You feel warm wetness against your fingers. Sticky and unpleasant.

Embarrassed, you hunch in the corner as Simon's hand rubs your back. He's talking to you, but you barely hear it as you convulse again. You spit into the almost full bottle, wet eyes opening to look down.

You can smell it even through your snot-filled nose, the acrid mix of stomach acid and blood. You expect a sickly yellow to be coating your fingers; instead, it's red. Thick blood.

Fuck. All you can think, looking at it as it rolls down the back of your hand, is that you don't want to leave him alone in this place.

You bend forward until your head touches the wall, wishing it was cool but knowing it's not. "I'm fine," You say, making sure to hide the bottle. "Let's keep moving."

Simon doesn't get up, holding out one of his scrapped sleeves. His hand keeps rubbing your back; it's the only thing making your body feel better. You collect it, pulling it into your pocket of shadow to keep it out of sight. "Let me help you clean up."

Fat chance of that happening. This is the first time he's ever even seen you throw up at all. If you get sick on Eden, you go into quarantine; that's how it works. You were always good at turning yourself in when you felt under the weather. Pride is a stupid reason to contaminate the station.

"I got it." You try to shrug him off, but you've lost the ability to shrug, so you just sort of awkwardly jerk around.

"I'm not - "

"Oxygen."

The urge to scream rises up in you. It's too much all at once. That's the last one. Final bar.

"Go." You spit, and this time he complies. You don't move until you hear him sit and the sub starts moving again. Quietly you seal the bottle, using the spare fabric to wipe off your hand as best you can. It's still stained red regardless of how hard you rub it. You blow your nose, and it's just more blood.

Your mouth tastes horrendous, but there's nothing to do about it for right now. There's the calorie bar, but you worry if you eat now you'll just throw it right back up.

If you're vomiting blood, that could mean a number of things, but two most prominently: radiation or internal trauma. Hell, why not both?

You leave the bottle in the corner of shame to return to your post. You hit the button when the front sensor goes off, "Wall."

Throwing up seems to have made you feel better, at least for now. Your head is a little clearer than it was. You're not sure how long that clarity will last given the blood loss, dehydration, CO2 build up and minimal oxygen, but you're desperately trying to find something resembling a silver lining.

The only one you can find is that this is all going to be over soon.

"Wall." You report, leaning your good shoulder against the metal. It's almost hotter than you at this point. Nothing in this shitbox offers any relief.

Well, that's not true; sunshine is in here with you.

"You're sure?" Simon looks back at you, brow furrowed.

You press the button so he can see. Just like you said, there's a wall in the distance. He gets up and marks his map, staring at it.

"What is it?"

He traces his finger around the map before shaking his head. You wait for him to reply, but he keeps on examining his map. The way his brow is furrowed can't mean anything good.

"Si, what is it?" You ask again, voice harsher than it should be. It's not his fault you're in this situation. He didn't kidnap you and drag your ship into a tunnel system for a midnight snack. Simon would never have agreed to do this if he believed there were creatures down here.

"We went in a circle."

No. No, you didn't. You come to stare at the map with him, and just like he said, it's a wonky, bumpy circle.

"God ... dammit." You tilt your head back and take a deep breath before remembering you're not supposed to do that. Every time you think you've reached the end of your rope, it gets extended a little further.

You have to fight the urge to kick the wall. The two of you stare in demoralized silence.

No way out. There has to be a way out; where haven't you gone? You eye the big bold X on the corner of the map with your handwriting above it: 'Fuck Ass Eel.' You were right; your day is getting worse.

"That thing went down a tunnel." You say. Which is really not what you want to say. You would like to say, let's not go anywhere near the freaky creature with an ungodly amount of teeth, but it's the only way you haven't gone.

"Fuck me," Simon sighs. "Okay."

You give him a consolatory pat on the shoulder before returning to your spot. There's only one bar left; you can't linger. It would be easy to do so, and that's why the two of you jump right back into action. Don't stop to think. Don't stop to consider the fact you could drive right into this thing's mouth.

No comfort. You so desperately want comfort. You want to lay your head in Simon's lap and listen to him hum one of his songs. Sleep sounds better even than water.

He drops into his seat with a groan, "Fuckin' circle."

Given the fact you've just spent hours, or has it been days, doing a lovely loop, it doesn't take long to return to the spot where you last saw the creature. You hit the camera; it's still empty, but there's something on the edge of the screen. Bending in like that will make it easier to see. It doesn't.

"Can you go forward a bit?"

"Why?" He asks, even as he complies.

"See something weird."

"Alive weird?" Simon asks, jerking to look back at you.

"No, just weird." You say, and really hope you're not about to prove yourself wrong when you take another picture. It's metal. It takes a few seconds to put together what you're looking at. Another ship, similar in shape to the one you're in, with a particularly large hole in it. "It's the SM-8."

"Huh?" Simon joins you in the back, so you take another picture to show him.

Good of it to prove things could be even worse. That could be you. Dead and gone and forgotten. First ones to come down, your ass.

"Connecting. Connecting. Wait. Wait. Wait."

You jump, jerking around in unison with Simon. His hand snaps out across your chest like he's about to defend you from it.

The terminal screen changes, popping up several different boxes and a load bar. Huh? Crazy that there's something in the obliterated wreck to connect with. You figured the depth would destroy any equipment inside.

"Wait. Wait. Wait. Insufficient privileges. Repeat login. Wait. Wait. Download failed. Repeat credentials."

"Useful." You mutter, not even bothering to type anything this time. It's just going to politely tell you to screw off again.

"So fucking useful," Simon agrees.

You leave the SM-8, forgotten once more, and continue on your merry way. It's slower to navigate out of the tunnel, more pictures and slight alterations. By the time you slip out, your nerves are fried, and Simon looks on the edge of collapse.

"A little further," You mumble, stomach churning. "Just a little further."

Further to what? Some invisible, fake rescue? Time continues to flow, regardless of your need for respite; sweat drips down your back. You'd give anything for the cool breeze of an oxygen vent.

The sensor is beeping dead ahead. You hit the button, "Wall."

Simon doesn't slow down. His hand stays fixed on the lever.

"Wall." You say a little louder.

The sensor beeps faster. Simon's head droops forward. Shit. You launch forward, hand coming over top his to yank the lever back. Simon jerks in the chair, releasing a startled noise. He blinks blearily up at you. "What ... what happened?"

You touch his face, thumb tracing along his cheekbone. "Got some impromptu shut-eye." You tell him, stepping closer so he can lean his face into your chest. Immediately, he closes his eyes. You know he's at his limit because he doesn't even attempt to fight you on it.

It's seconds before he's out cold.

You hold him there, hand in his hair, cradling him to you. There's not much oxygen left, but you can spare five minutes. You'll count.

One, two, three, four, five, six.

Simon snores. 

Forty-four, forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven.

He leans more of his weight into you, and it feels like it used to. Sharing a room with two other Brothers meant there was never much privacy. You stole away to your hidden spots between the walls for the intimacy that required truly being alone, but other times when the night was dark, Simon would climb up into the top bunk with you.

Together there wasn't really enough space, but you'd lie with his head on your chest, the roof of your bunk only a foot from your heads. He would fall asleep, and you would lie there as a sentry, holding him, listening to him breathe. The station would be near silent except for the ever-present hum of the machinery behind the walls. Moments like those were when you felt the most peaceful.

You close your eyes and pretend that's where you are. Home. Safe.

The smell of cycling air and dust, standard-issue shampoo, and Simon's presence against your side. He used to sleep with his fingers looped into the collar of your shirt. No matter what you did, his hair would always tickle your ear or nose.

"Hello."

This time you don't jump; you're not entirely certain why. Maybe it's because Simon is so close or the fact that you were just thinking of home. But you do look toward the speaker, swallowing despite the dryness in your mouth.

"Is anyone there?"

There are those on Eden that are gardeners, clothiers, teachers and there are those like you, who are soldiers. Trained to defend Eden, to fight, to kill. From the moment you were physically large enough, they put a blade in your hand and taught you to ignore the humanity in a target's eyes before you snuffed it out.

You were trained how to kill, spilling as little blood as possible. The body is precious; the body can be recycled. That includes the lifeblood running in the veins of all left alive.

The C.O.I. could not be allowed to enter Eden, to disturb the garden, or to steal from you. If they tried, they would become fodder for the plants. One of the first lessons you learned is to trust your instincts above all things.

You are an animal, is what they told you. Animals respond best when they're relying on their basest nature. Survival is genetic. Innate. Beyond human.

Something inside you is not so desperate for rescue as to speak to this unknown voice. It is not the captain, nor is it either of the other men on the tow-ship. This is a stranger.

"Ava? Is that you?"

Carefully, so as not to jostle him, you slip your hand over Simon's exposed ear and block out the sound. There is something wrong with the voice. Something foreign about it. Instinct itches at the back of your neck. Do not trust it.

"Are you there?"

Go away. Go away. Go away.

"Please, can you hear me? It's been so long."

It will be longer still.

"It is so dark."

There is a long pause in which you think it will not speak again. You are not so lucky.

"Do you believe in God, Brother of Eden? Is that why you call yourself such a thing?"

There it is. The curtain pulls open to reveal the emptiness on stage. Nothing there but a voice without a face. A puppet in stereo. You say nothing. Can it see you? Why does it know your title?

The taste of iron seems more prevalent than ever. You can hear the blood churn from outside the ship, but it doesn't trip the sensor. How large does it have to be to do that?

You don't know why you believe that the voice is one of the creatures of the deep, but your gut tells you so. And you'll follow that intuition to your grave.

You do not believe in God. You stopped believing in him the day all light was stolen away. If there is a God, he has surely decided you are not worth saving. After all, the stories always say those that are left behind are the worst of humanity.

If God is real, he's a fool. Simon should never have been left to go pale beneath a starless sky.

"Are you pretending you cannot hear me?"

I am deciding not to speak, you think silently, glaring in the direction of the speaker. There is a rec room on Eden, full of board games for the children to play with. When you were younger, Simon was particularly fascinated with a game called Mouse Trap. All of the pieces and mechanisms, simple as they were, caught his attention like nothing else at the time.

You'd play it over and over until others would complain you were hogging it. So he'd find other ways to make small traps and mechanisms with trash the two of you scrounged up.

This feels like the antithesis of that. It is waiting for you to step into the trap. Waiting to drop the bars of the cage, waiting to cinch the noose around your throat. But it is not playing a game of wins and losses. It is playing a game of hunting and slaughter.

"Simon. Is that his name?"

Your lips part, ready to throw an insult, but that's what it wants. It wants you to speak, to prove that you're willing to acknowledge its presence. You grit your teeth instead. He sleeps on, unaware of the half-conversation taking place.

Whatever this thing is—the skull you took a sample of, the eel from the cave, or some other thing you've yet to see—it can fuck right off. You're not going to give it what it wants. It cannot have Simon.

"Are you anything other than a Brother?"

Yes and no. You are always more than anything else a Brother of Eden, but you are also a man. A lover, a sliver of a husband. Someone's everything, someone else's nothing.

Simon stirs, rubbing his face into your chest as he gets comfortable again. You are careful to stay still, to encourage his slumber.

"They always send one since ... since I lost the light. Now there are two. Why are there two of you?"

Two corporal punishments at once saves time. The two people left around to blame for Filament Station. Execution parading as redemption. They can all rot.

Is there really anything to learn from these creatures? Could understanding them help humanity? Does it matter? There are no stars left; there is no light. What can truly live without light?

"You are different." It states, a hard fact. More bubbling around the ship. It must be circling you. "The others wanted to speak to me."

Whatever poor bastards this thing has already hunted before are long dead. You grit your teeth and glare.

"Simon?"

You press your palm hard to his ear to block out the sound. Let the exhaustion keep him under; don't let it summon him to the surface. He twitches.

"Simon, Brother of Eden."

A deep fury curls inside you. If this thing were in here with you, if it were human like you, it would be dead. You'd wrap your hands around its throat and squeeze. But it is out there, and you are but a microorganism inside an iron lung.

"Simon!"

Your paramour jerks against you, almost tumbling out of the chair if it weren't for the way you're holding on to him. His arms flounder out to grab the edge of the console.

"Did I fall asleep?" He asks.

You're not looking at him; your eyes are set on the speaker. Waiting. It will speak, and it will cajole. It says nothing.

With a grunt, you push away from Simon and stomp to the back of the ship. You hit the button hard enough that you think you might break it. There will be a wall, because there had been a wall there.

The creature stares right at you. The same as before, too many teeth and dead-ahead eyes. It's closer than it was in the tunnel, so close it fills the entire picture.

You snarl and press the button several times in quick succession, "Fuck you!"

Maybe the radiation will hurt it. Maybe it soaks it up like dinner. Kill it. You want it dead, bloated, and consumed. You shriek in anger and press the button again, "Leave him alone! Leave him alone! He's mine!"

Simon's hand is on your arm. He's pulling you away from the back of the ship. Your name tumbles from his lips, "It's a wall. It's just a wall. It's okay. Breathe. It's okay. It's a wall. Nothing's there. I'm with you. I'm with you."

Something is cracking inside you. The world is too small. Everything is too close, and it's so hot. The heat blazes through you until it's hard to take a full breath and the sweat drenches your clothes.

The calm in a crisis you've always had to fall back on is disintegrating. You let out a dry, tearless sob. None of this matters. It's playing with its food, and you can't tell Simon; you can't do anything but drown in a wave of growing dread.

Blood drips from the ceiling onto your cheek, and your self-control vanishes with the sting on your skin. You wipe the blood away and sink into a crouch as you cry. No tears come; all you manage are great heaving breaths that suck up the oxygen you need to survive.

Like your body is desperately trying to commit suicide. Better to suffocate than be consumed. Not by that thing. Your body is for the garden, not the sea.

You'll never go home. You'll never see the Last Tree again, even in its calcified state. You'll never lie in bed with Simon against your chest or slip into the ductwork to feel his skin against your own.

Simon curls over you, pressing your face into his chest. He's talking into your hair, but you don't really hear him.

Comfort and false promises. Old lessons, long internalized. If he were anyone else, you'd push him away. 

The rocking world starts to settle, and you can breathe again. Simon is close; no one is taking him. You can do this. You can survive this.

"Hello! Hello! Is anyone there?"

You laugh, unable to help yourself as Simon jumps to his feet. His distance feels like a great divide. Like a betrayal. He will trust the voice, because that's who it is. That's why you love him, and in this moment you despise him for it.

"Yes, yes, we're here! We're here!" Simon calls out, no hesitation. No callous instinct that breeds distrust in every choice. Nothing in him tells him not to speak.

"Thank God, it's been so long."

"We're alive." Simon walks right up to the speaker, and all you can do is lie there on the floor, on your hands and knees like a dog, and mourn his naivety.

Another manic laugh bubbles out of you. Simon makes no effort to return to your side. He's already caught in the trap.

"Ava, is that you?"

You sink onto your ankles and watch Simon deflate as he realizes it's not the tow-ship he's speaking with. No rescue. He's talking to something in the dark, but you're sure he thinks it's some other poor bastard in a sub somewhere.

Another giggle tumbles out of you, the SM-8 maybe.

Your hand comes to wipe through your hair; it's wet with sweat and blood. There is only so much shit you can swallow before you choke. Fuck this thing, and fuck him for falling for it.

Ignoring Simon and his attempts to communicate entirely, you drop into his seat and start back up away from the wall. He's too preoccupied with trying to assure this thing that help could be coming to care about what you're doing.

Simon said before there are areas on the ocean floor that will take you up. That's your best bet for reaching the tow-ship.

If there's any hope of getting Simon out of this alive, you're going to have to take the lead. It's better than waiting around for this motherfucker to take a bite.

[roll-of-royces]

Headcanons About the Cult of Eden

I've been thinking A LOT about Eden and how they might have operated, and given I need to do some world building for an AU I'm gonna be writing I figured I'd share my thoughts! These are all entirely off the cuff with only a little smattering of what we know from game and movie canon, in no particular order.

At a young age everyone is given a job by the Father that becomes theirs for life. There are a variety of roles to fill such as protectors (ie Simon), caregivers of the Last Tree, gardeners for the garden, teachers, clothiers, mechanics, etc. Literally anything you'd need to properly run a star station.

Eden runs on the basis of routine and ceremony. Protectors are integrated with a ceremony, weddings and funerals are a big deal, but not the kind of thing that uses a lot of resources. Togetherness is the backbone of the culture.

The motto for the Cult of Eden (which is viewed as a cult by the C.O.I. but not a cult to Edenites) is "Life Begets Life". The idea that you live completely and when you are gone your body goes toward sustaining further life.

Recycling bodies, materials, waste, and anything else that can be recycled is not exclusive to Eden members. Bodies of C.O.I. will be collected for recycling, killing without wasting blood is encouraged. Everything done is done with the purpose of sustainment.

With such a heavy view of the human body being a resource children are heavily encouraged. The more the better. And as such avoiding relationships or relationships with same sex partners is frowned upon but not strictly prohibited.

Every member of Eden has their own seed. Some people choose to wear theirs around their wrist, while they can also be seen displayed as necklaces, earrings, hair pins, clothing pins, etc. Not wearing your medallion is seen as disrespectful to Eden culture.

Given Edenites originated from Mars with a strong Martian pride, there's an established foundation in resilience. These are people who have already started over on an inhospitable planet, they can do it again.

Despite the Cult of Eden having a basis in growth, there's also an underlying tone to the teachings of the Father about sacrifice. The idea that light will never return and that these are the end times.

Though they are for prolonging the inevitable, Edenites view the end as an inescapable truth. What they are doing isn't about stopping the extinction of humanity, but making humanity comfortable in its final hours.

They believe while humans are at their end there is a chance for different types of life to live on beyond them.

Eden has the highest population of any remaining star station, numbering over six hundred people. Despite that, they are also the star station with the least strain on resources to care for those people.

The C.O.I. is in constant efforts to board Eden Station to gather resources from their well known gardens, but have been unsuccessful given the sheer military force Eden has put in place to counteract them.

In regard to military force, the use of things such as firearms or other long range weapons has been completely discontinued by both sides. Neither will risk destroying the only remaining homes they have. So fights are fought with hand to hand and close range weapons such as knives.

Given the population size, families are given preferential lodging with single peoples sharing rooms with three others.

A large portion of the station's resources goes to keeping the Last Tree alive with massive amounts of energy designated into the grow lights that sustain it.

All protectors of Eden are tattooed with Eden's mark visibly on the neck, but all other Edenites receive the mark on the wrist.

Given the C.O.I.'s reputation of using captured members of Eden for manual labor, exploitation, and experimentation there's a great deal of taught fear from those on Eden toward the C.O.I. This adds to the die over surrender mentality many protectors have.

The Father is the leader of the Cult of Eden and has been since the Quiet Rapture. All large decisions go through him.

Members believe that those worthy go to the Grove when they die, an altered rendition of the Biblical interpretation of Christ's Heaven. There are those that believe that if their body is not recycled into the garden that they will not make it into the Grove.

Sacrifice equates to worth. 'Ie, what are you willing to give to Eden?'

Clothing is practical, given minimal resources. Minimal clothing is encouraged when in the privacy to avoid clothing wear. Those in the garden are loosely clad given their work.

Jobs will affect opinion, those who care for the Last Tree have the utmost respect under the Father, and from there gardeners, protectors, mothers, etc.

All lights are turned off around the station unless they're being used, so some areas are extremely dark. The station uses manual flashlights for travelling in these areas.

Though most children have established parents or guardians, generally they're looked out for by everyone.

These are my thoughts but feel free to share in comments or reblogs your guy's own ideas!!!