BloodyMary Fanfic!
So I recently published a Simon (The Convict)/Ryland Grace fanfic to Ao3 and thought I'd share it here!
Title: From the Bottom of My Bleeding Heart Summary: Simon, from the second he set foot inside the Iron Lung, was destined for death. Yet when death came to deliver, it was interrupted by a rather handsome savior named Ryland Grace. When two impossibly different worlds collide, the two are forced to confront the fears that brought them together.
Or
Simon thinks Grace is a star in the sky sent to save him
Chapters will be uploaded weekly! Stay tuned!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
-Below is the first chapter! I'll be updating this weekly, so stay tuned!-
Simon could hear his heartbeat in his own ears, head submerged deep below the blood. The throbbing quick pulse was a bitter reminder of death that loomed at the doorway. He would drown within seconds, the thick blood assailing his throat, filling his lungs, deafening his ears. He couldn’t tell whether his eyes were closed or not; he could only feel the hot sting that burned behind his eyelids. His body revolted, fighting to breathe, the inhale only filling his mouth with the taste of iron. He could feel his own throat contracting, choking on the thick, wet substance, the human blood infiltrating and flooding his sinuses. Simon’s tears and cries were lost within his own consciousness that slipped away by the second, his once quickly throbbing heartbeat now a slow murmur as it welcomed in the darkness of death.
Simon had been there when his mother died, watching as she withered away from an unknown sickness, her frail body unable to even lift an arm to hold his face in her hand. He had watched as she took her final breath, her eyes boring into his with so much sadness and regret. When she had closed her eyes for the final time, her chest rising and falling in conclusion, her face that had only ever shown pain and suffering, in her final moments, her features contorted into something only young Simon could recognize as relief…as peace. Simon wondered if he would find peace, that same relief his mother did, in these final drowning moments. He could feel his body surrendering to the ocean, even as he stretched his one remaining arm up in the blood, the other lost in the struggle against the cursed monster. Simon’s fingers reached for the surface that was leagues above him, his fingers grazing the roof of the Iron Lung. For the first time, Simon found himself wishing he could see the starless sky. What he would give to look up into the darkness one last time before drowning in the blood ocean, destined to be buried and forgotten within the depths, a secret locked behind a set of lips. As Simon drifted slowly into his final unconscious slumber, he thought of the words written on the note hidden behind the side panel of the Iron Lung’s main terminal: “They will get their execution. I will get my freedom.” Would this be Simon's freedom? To be forgotten in a brutal death, a sacrifice for the human race, forgotten because he was a criminal? No, this was not freedom, but fighting proved fruitless, and all that was left for Simon to do was embrace the tendrils of cold death itself.
Then, the crimson dark split open, tearing itself around Simon.
A sharp, concussive BOOM detonated throughout the dense iron-tasting sludge, striking Simon square in the chest. The shock wave wasn’t just a sound–but a physical fist punching the air out of Simon’s lungs. The wave seized his sinking body, reversing the downward momentum in a fraction of a second. The sheer kinetic force hurled Simon upwards, pushing him upward from behind his back, like a bullet shot from a gun. The red-hot fluid whipping past Simon’s face in a blinding, shattering blur. Before Simon could even register the agonizing pressure that had both relieved and spiked nearly simultaneously, his head broke the plane, erupting through the surface. Simon inhaled sharply, throat opening in agreement when met with the welcoming taste of oxygen, of fresh air. He could feel his heart begin to throb slowly, then faster, keeping momentum and restoring life into Simon’s chest. Simon blinked his eyes open, eyes meeting with the black void that was the starless sky, a deep rosy tint blurring his eyesight. Simon hadn’t a clue what had shoved him from the Blood Ocean, thrusting him to the surface like a body rejecting a parasite. But this stroke of luck had given him a second chance of survival, and Simon would be a fool not to take it.
He flailed his arms in an attempt to wade in the ocean that wanted nothing more than to kill him. But his actions were not enough; treading water and treading blood were very different; this cursed ocean rebelled against Simon’s demand to float, refusing to keep him buoyant. And just as soon as he had breached the surface, his body began to sink, dipping down below once again. ‘No, no, no, please, oh god, whatever god there may be Simon prayed and begged that they save him. He was not his mother, who found respite in death, nor was he the other captor of Eden in the submarine who surrendered his life to find freedom. Simon wanted to live; he was desperate to. Simon looked up into the starless sky, as if begging the sky itself to reach down and pluck Simon out of the ocean itself. The sky instead presented Simon with the light of a singular shining star. Simon felt as if he was being patronized by the universe itself, the sky showing him the light from a star that was withering away or already dead, like Simon was about to be.
The star was brighter than the ones Simon had seen before, but it made no difference. Even with the stroke of luck of Simon being pushed to the surface by an unknown force, it proved worthless. Simon kept his eyes upon the star, wishing upon it like a child to keep him alive.
Then the star grew brighter.
And bigger.
How was that possible?
Simon stared at the star as it swelled against the starless sky, growing larger and brighter with every passing second. Stars weren’t supposed to do that; stars don’t move. Stars didn’t fall.
Yet this once did.
Descending towards him, its light swallowed the darkness until a blinding flash consumed Simon’s vision. Was this the flash of death people talked about? Panic seized him. Somehow, someway, through his blood-filled ears and pounding of his panicking heart, Simon thought he heard something. A distant sound, faint and distorted like a voice that was echoing off a distant chamber. At first, he thought he had imagined it. Simon even considered the voice to be a hallucination playing in his mind like before, feeding him fallacies and hopes of life. Simon forced his eyes to focus on the bright star that had dipped from the sky, realizing the stinging brightness was beams from ventral lights. ‘A ship!’ Simon realized, taking a deep inhale, attempting to control his breathing. The screaming, the yelling, the voice that was calling out to Simon became louder and more desperate…more real. Was Simon being saved?
“Take my hand!” The voice boomed, yelling down at Simon as he gasped again and again in attempts to keep his head above the surface, “Hurry! Take my hand!”
Simon mustered together all the remaining energy he had, fighting the blurred darkness that peeked around his vision, threatening to steal away his consciousness. Simon pushed his legs down and flung his arm up, using the momentum from the force of his legs, wading in the blood to force his arm high above the surface. He waved his hand above the surface, desperately trying to grab on to the voice that was crying for him to take their hand. If he wasn’t already choking on the blood from the Ocean, he’d be choking out cries of agony, begging to be saved. That's when Simon felt it– a hand connecting to his. A human hand tightly wrapping around its own hand. Simon wanted to cry in relief. A human had grabbed him; someone had him in their grip. Simon fought the blood, using all his might to pull his body up to get his body out of the Blood Ocean as soon as possible, grasping the other person’s hand like a landline, a leverage to get him out. The person who had him in a tight hold began to pull him out from the Blood Ocean, an anchor point for Simon. Simon had but one arm, upon which every inch of strain was felt. Despite this, he could already feel himself being hauled from the Ocean, his head now well above the surface as his chest and legs followed. Whoever or whatever was attempting to save Simon was strong; the person pulling him was able to lift him halfway out of the blood. The feeling of being yanked from the Blood Ocean sent a flood of gratitude through his body. Simon’s heart echoed in his head, his lungs breathing in and out in appreciative response as it felt Simon land onto solid ground. The ground was cold, a metal floor. He assumed he was sprawled out on the loading dock of a COI ship, one that was built to skim the surface of the Blood Ocean to collect samples. Simon didn’t even care if it was a COI ship that had saved him from his fate; he was alive.
Simon’s vision had completely left him, keeping him from seeing, the blood in his throat keeping him from speaking, making it impossible to thank or identify his savior. Simon lifted his head, gurgling out a cry, whether it was a thank you or a question of who had saved him, he could not tell. All Simon could feel was his body collapse onto solid ground, his palms, body, and face meeting the cold metal. He could still feel the blood as it leaked from his body, turning over onto his stomach, the blood ocean spilled from Simon’s ears, nose, and throat in a violent expulsion when he vomited. Still, the violent retching could not distract him from the feeling of the metallic ground kissing his fingertips, supporting him as he sat on his knees and emptied his stomach and lungs of the crimson ocean. Simon coughed again, the last of the remnants emptying itself onto the shiny floor, the cold metal biting at his cheek as he lay facedown. He blinked again, attempting to clear his vision to no avail. Simon still couldn’t see past the red glare that painted his vision, the humming sounds of the ship muffled within his ears. Simon tried to speak, but his throat had become too sore from the vomiting.
“Whoa,” Simon could barely hear the voice through his muted ears, though the tickling feeling of blood draining from his ears felt like progress towards betterment, “Ah shoot-”
Simon felt the vibrations in the ground as his savior walked away quickly, then walked back to where Simon was lying facedown. Simon felt warm beneath the surface of the pain, his heartbeat slowing to a regular pace as the entirety of Simon’s body also seemed to relax in response to rejecting the blood from his system and being saved.
“We gotta get you onto your side, buddy.” A pair of hands hauled Simon onto his side, rolling him away from the mess Simon had created on the floor, fingers hooked under his jaw, lifting his chin upwards as air rushed into Simon’s lungs, “Just focus on breathing, alright? In and out”
Simon did just that, focusing on filling his lungs with as much air as possible. He was conscious enough to recognize that he was practically lying on the stranger's lap. Simon inhaled and exhaled, the taste of iron still lingering on his tongue. Simon gleefully accepted the lingering taste of blood instead of the mouthful of it, his throat grateful for the relief. Simon blinked his eyes a few more times, attempting to clear his vision slightly. It somewhat worked; he could now see the sterile interior of the loading bay. Simon could make out the low ceilings, the white walls, and he could see a nearby table and tools screwed to the wall to avoid wreckage when the ship moved. This ship did not look like the average COI ship; it was too…clean. Too pristine and modern. Most COI ships looked run down and rusty; this ship looked as if it had been carefully tended to and well kept over time. Did the COI issue a new ship? Where did they get the resources for a ship of this stature? Of this build? Where did the COI find materials this... new? Simon brushed the thought away, his eyes beginning to strain from forcing himself to focus. He could feel wet tears beginning to flush down his cheeks, painting tracks in the blood that coated his face.
“It’s alright, friend,” the warm, smooth voice of whoever was holding him reassured Simon, “you’re safe.”
Simon coughed, less violently this time, the fluid had mostly left his body, finally giving his lungs a break. He had a rather sore throat as well, one that kept itching and felt raw each time he swallowed.
“Wh-where am I?” Simon managed to choke out. The dark part of his mind was still haunted by the fact that this may be a vessel sent out by the COI.
“You’re on the Hail Mary,” the silky, rich voice replied. Simon blinked softly, finally able to look up at the figure that was holding him, “My name is Ryland Grace.”
Simon almost laughed; maybe he was dead. He was on a vessel named the ‘Hail Mary’ and was saved by a man named Grace. Or rather an Angel, Simon thought. It almost felt entirely comical. Though if Simon wasn’t truly dead, a hypothesis he was hoping was true, then he owed this ‘Grace’ many prayers and gratefulness. Somehow through God's divine will, a rather kind man named Grace had quite literally pulled Simon from his death, and for all Simon knew, he owed Grace his life.
“Grace?” Simon frowned and squinted, desperately trying to get a closer look at the person’s face, “Hail…Mary?”
Simon tilted his head back slightly to look at his savior. He couldn’t see details, only blobs of shapes, due to his horribly blurred vision. He could see platinum blonde hair and tan skin of the hands that were holding Simon on his side. The man was wearing an orange one-piece that looked a lot like a jumpsuit or a spacesuit, though it was bulkier and had more inscriptions and colors littered among the sleeves.
Simon leaned back down, another round of coughs erupting, deafening Ryland Grace’s response to Simon’s earlier inquiry. He wanted to hear what the man had said, but his body revolted, pulling Simon into a deep lethargy. He had spent…oh god, how long had it been? Days? Weeks? In the Iron Lung. Time was lost to him at the bottom of the Blood Ocean. With no watch or daylight, his sense of time had blurred. Not that it wasn’t already blurred. Since the Quiet Rapture stole the sun, time had simply been a concept, and those who did keep track of time would soon give up on attempting to count the hours of the day and night. Simon felt his body grow heavy, his arm suddenly feeling as if it weighed a hundred pounds, his head throbbing, begging Simon to give his body the rest it truly deserved. Simon’s experience at the bottom of the Ocean was less than fruitful; he had countless wounds, a missing arm, and had looked death in the eye (literally) and survived. Simon closed his eyes, fatigue washing over his body in one fell swoop. Simon wasn’t sure if he was truly exhausted or if his body, despite being pulled from the blood ocean, was finally surrendering to death. ‘It would be quite poetic, wouldn’t it?’ He thought, ‘dying in the arms of a virtuous savior.’
