#repulsja

☂ : food headcanon

Lydia loves Italian food. If she doesn't have any form of it in a three-day time span, there's probably something wrong with her, whether it be that she's sick or otherwise.

ϡ : mental state headcanon

She walks on a thin line between sane and insane, which blurs sometimes and causes her to dip into either one. While drunk, she's usually sane and attentive -- in retrospect, when she's sober, she's a complete trainwreck that can't deal with herself.

⊕ : Talents/hobbies headcanon

Lydia's really, really good at mixing drinks. Sometimes she figures she might as well be a bartender. Buuuut then she remembers she's always drunk so she'd probably get fired. Aside from that, she enjoys taking apart old electronics and seeing how they work, which was something her dad used to teach her how to do.

☮ : Bedroom/house/living quarters headcanon

Lydia lives with Damien in the same apartment. Despite that, her room is sort of half-and-half -- somewhat neat near her closet and then her bed is in shambles, clothes strewn across it plus papers and old electronic parts and whatnot. There's an array of glasses on her desk and a place for her cats, both of which are neat. She's got a strange way of dealing with things.

☾ : Sleep headcanon

█ █ ▌╰☆╮  ——

    ' ya haven't happened t' see a tall dude with a beanie dashin' through here, have ya? '

Send me a ➳ and I will generate a number from 1-300 (yes, 300!) for what my muse will say to yours. | #30

Oh, God.

No. No. No, no, no — this wasn’t supposed to happen, she swears it’s not, but it hurts so bad and all she can feel through her veins is this endless, raging inferno that devours her whole. It’s swelling inside of her and she’s scared, trembling as her entire world burns, burns, burns. Smoke billows and she’s screaming at the top of her lungs, thrashing around, jerking every which way but she can’t move because it hurts. There’s blood everywhere, splattered across the ground, and God, she’s nearly hurling up ash and fumes.

She doesn’t see him in the distance. A faint outline, maybe a hallucination, but she’s scared, and she’s so young and she made the mistake and now her mom’s gonna hate her for destroying their house, their precious house with all of those pretty mirrors inside. The mirrors that kept her sane — the mirrors that kept her entertained for all those years.

Her screams continue until her throat goes raw, and her cheeks are stained charcoal, mascara mixing with saltwater tears as she crumbles, arm clutching at her stomach where she’s bleeding, her world spinning around and around and not in the good, euphoric, drunk kind of way.

"Please.. P-Please.. Make the pain stop..! Anyone.. a-anyone..!!"

Lydia crumbles to the ground, sobbing violently in midst of the smoke and so she chokes on it, breath constricted, reaching out like someone’s going to pick her up and carry her away. Through her tears and her ragged breaths, the other Conduit’s figure is as clear as day to her and sees everything fall apart right then and there. Everything.

"D-Damien.. Damien..! I’m sorry.. I’m so fucking sorry.. P-Please.. Help me..!"

On went her shirt and some shoes before the Conduit leaped to her feet, bolting out the door of the apartment and making her way down. Around the corner she swung, and eventually she skidded right up behind him within the shop, grinning widely.