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.
Pairing: Simon the Butcher x m!reader
Rating: M
Word Count: 5927
AO3 Version: HERE / Part Directory: HERE
A/N: I made art for one of the scenes in this chapter, I included an anon version in post, but if you're interested in seeing the detailed version (keep in mind it gives reader a description and name) check it out: HERE.
Content Tags: male reader, convict reader, immoral reader, blood, reader is from Eden, established relationship, hurt and comfort, angst, kissing, mentions of vomiting
You drape your arms over his shoulders, curling yourself against him. Simon clings to you, and you cling back. You've not touched each other like this since before the incident. The guards never let you linger too close.
Your lips press to the side of his wild hair, his ear, and then to his cheek. "We'll do this together."
He gives a shaky nod. "Together."
It seems only a small comfort with the way he's clinging to the back of your patchwork shirt. If you could bust him out of this thing and take over the tow-ship you would; the two of you could float the rest of your lives away on the surface of this great sea.
A silly thought. Your mind is better suited to more useful tasks.
His proximity is distracting. It takes effort to pull away. As you do, Simon's hand comes to your wrist, curling about it like when you were boys. The small action steels your nerves. Understand your surroundings, the plan of attack, and act accordingly.
You look around at what you can see: a chair, plenty of pipework, and a control panel for moving along the ocean floor. There's a darkened terminal, a supply hatch, and a particularly well-lit green button. Rectangular, large, and standing out against the wall with a screen close to it. The camera.
There are three people in the room outside the ship. The captain, the welder, and the other man. You don't know his name, and his name doesn't matter.
Ava's voice is tinny from outside as they start welding you inside. "You'll have half the oxygen, so try and control your breathing."
Simon's hand clenches around your wrist. His head snaps toward the window, shoulders rising, "Go fuck yourself."
It's good to see him angry. For a while all you saw was defeat, a sluggish acceptance as he passed his days in a cell, not wanting to come out. The guilt gnawing at him. No matter what you said, or the blame you tried to take from him, he'd meet you with that quiet stare, and your heart would break more each time.
She gives a slow blink. "You know ... I had friends on Filament Station."
The only people who understand what happened that day are in this sub. All she sees are dead friends. All Simon sees is victims, and all you see is a task well done. Perspective is a hell of a thing.
They gave Simon a title, even though most of the deaths he's responsible for were accidental. It's ironic that the only people he killed intentionally that day were his Brothers.
No title for you, though. Everyone you've killed has been on purpose. Each one a calculated decision. Deaths for the cause, Eden's or Simon's. One and the same to you.
You're a janitor, but you're not stupid. You heard them talking about the photos. You know what an x-ray is and the fundamental aspects that go into taking such a photograph.
Stepping away from Simon, you slip your wrist free to better lean down to look at her through the glass. She stares back as you smile, "We'll get your pictures ... your bones." You say, 'You'll probably bring us up, collect your little artifact before dunking us right back down. Run the clock. Work the cattle. We'll suffocate. I expect that."
Ava doesn't deny it.
Simon says your name. He's less vengeful now that you're trapped in here with him. The opposite can be said about you. They want to kill him. They want to take the one good thing from you.
"But I will not be controlled." You say it just loud enough to be heard.
"This isn't about you; this is about all of us. And it's a hell of a lot more than you deserve."
Simon's hand is against your back, slipping beneath the fabric to rest skin to skin. His touch is the final straw to your amnesty. Her words are insults that you will not tolerate being said about Simon. She's right, you don't deserve shit, but he does.
He always has.
You know," Your smile widens, that grin that scared your mother, "Important days like this should be remembered. Smile for the camera!"
Every death is a calculated decision; you've already made the calculation.
"Don't!" she shouts, but you're already jumping to the side. Your palm slams into the button with all the animosity of years wasted in a C.O.I. prison.
A bright flash. There's a shriek, the clamoring of several people at once. The screen flashes three different skeletons, one particularly close. You stare at it the same way a child looks at a roach in a jar.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Ava hammers against the glass. She's angry. She should be. You're angry too. "Do you know what you just did?"
"I don't understand," Simon says, looking between you and her. No one told him what kind of camera it was. Of course they didn't; why tell the Butcher he has access to a weapon? They should have told him; if they had, Simon probably would have been able to stop you in time.
"Your friend just blasted us with radiation!"
Someone is vomiting. Guess your knickers did get a bit twisted. Too bad for him; he was so likable. Prick.
You eye the button and think about it. How many times would you have to press it to kill them all, and what then? Can you hit it enough times to do it before they drop the sub? Is there food onboard? Would it be safe to exit, and with being welded in, how would you get out? Is it worth the gamble?
Simon's hand curls around your fingers, guiding your hand away. He shakes his head, your naive lion hearted fool. The same bastard who used to apologize to equipment when he had to hammer on it.
That, above all things, is what stops you from pettily hitting it again. You let Simon make the kinder choice, even though they should suffer the way they've made him suffer. If you're going to die, let them die with you.
Let humanity burn.
There's a distinct, ringing metal click.
The floor gives out; everything is in free fall. Your ears pop as you try to run in midair to grab something. Simon shouts your name. You hit the ground, or more accurately, the ground hits you. Everything jerks, metal shrieking and bubbling coming from outside the walls.
There's copper in your mouth and a pounding in your skull. There's a good chance your nose is broken. Blood drips from it onto the corrugated metal as you groan, ears ringing. Someone is talking.
Filament Station? The explosion strips your hearing away.
No, you're not there. This is a submersible, not a star station.
Where is Si? Is he alright?
A hand is tilting your head; Simon's face fills your vision, his lips are moving. There's blood rolling down his cheek, catching in his stubble and smeared across his teeth. They hurt him. Motherfuckers.
What happened?
He says something else, but all you can hear is the sharp whine of tinnitus. You roll onto your side, spitting blood and saliva. Simon is beside you, fingers to your cheekbone.
The way he's eyeing your nose says it's definitely broken. Great. That's just fucking great.
"You deserved that." The speaker says, reverberating through the small space, the first voice you hear. You scowl, shoving yourself onto your knees. Everything swims, head pounding at the sudden movement, more blood drips from your nose.
Simon doesn't pay him any mind. His focus is on you: "I need to set it."
This isn't the first time he's had to set your nose. It's bumpy and damaged already and breaks easier because of it. You give a shallow nod and let your eyes close, bracing for the expected discomfort.
His hand comes to your face, and you dig your nails into your knees. A crunch, a gush of blood, and a spit-out insult later, and your nose is back where it's supposed to be.
"Convict! You need to seal the window."
There aren't any windows in here; it's not a fucking house. You ignore him.
"The glass is going to crack. You two so eager to die you're going right for it?" The speaker says.
Simon shoves himself to his feet, approaches the console, and hits one of the switches. The porthole, right guess that counts as a window, begins to shutter.
"It's closed, no thanks to you." Simon calls back at the speaker box that hangs high on the wall before returning to crouch in front of you.
The blood is still steadily flowing. He twists, reaching for a piece of clothing left on the floor, and rips a part of it, holding it out.
You press it to the tender underside of your nose and blink through the pain. Was breaking your nose really necessary?
"You know that's a lot of attitude considering the fact that your buddy just tried to kill us."
Apparently, you should have tried harder. It's probably best to let Simon do the talking, or they're going to sever the chain and just let the SM-13 drift to its doom. Besides, you're a bit preoccupied with your nose.
Still, you're not dead; you flip the speaker off.
Simon glances at you, then at the box along the ship wall, and then at the console. Leave it to you to fall in love with the guy who's still going to help them gather their research despite it all. Gullible as a dog offered a treat.
Fuck, your nose hurts.
"If the camera emits radiation, what does that mean for us?" Simon asks.
Radiation seems as good as any way to die. At this point there's a list to choose from, and you've got a feeling it's only going to get longer. Who doesn't love uncontrollable vomiting and skin deterioration?
"Nah, the walls are thick, and the blood will soak it all up. The amount that might get in is benign."
Benign and radiation in the same conversation is ironic at best. He's full of shit, but you don't say that. Not when Simon's shoulders relax. He takes comfort in the lie; you take comfort in his comfort.
The SM-13 is still descending; you can feel it somehow. A lift in your stomach that gives away the trajectory, though it's not nearly as fast as the beginning nose-breaking bit. The feeling leaves you queasy.
Simon thinking there's something in the blood makes a lot more sense now that you're in this tin can. You can hear the liquid shift, the hiss of pipes, and the thrum of machinery. You're no stranger to small spaces, so the size isn't the worst, but you've never heard some of these sounds before. Never been in enough water to hear it slosh around you.
It's not water.
"Just get the sample, fail, and ... well, I could always forget to bring you back up in time."
You drape backward against the metal. Should have hit the button again. The bleeding is finally slowing down to a trickle, letting you drop the soiled fabric to the floor. Licking your lips, you sigh, the heavy iron taste lingering in your mouth.
It was so polite of them to supply you with water. You give the side of the ship a scowl like it's personally responsible.
"We'll get your sample," Simon assures, "And you'll give us our freedom."
There's a gap in the connection, a crackle, "After that stunt, deal's off - the sample, and you can - in jail."
You smile; there it is. C.O.I. justice at its finest. It would be nice for that comment to surprise you, but it doesn't. Their promises are always lies.
Simon stiffens, mouth parting to argue, but then he closes it again. Thinks it through. You like to watch his mind work, slotting everything into place as he decides his next move.
"Fine," He spits, "We'll bring back your stupid fucking bones."
"Finally listening to - " There's another static crackle, and the voice vanishes to white noise.
"Of course ... hello?" Simon reaches up to tap the box. "Hello?"
The white noise dips to silence, nothing but the slosh of blood and working machinery. You wait, expecting his voice to come back, but it doesn't.
Simon sighs, looking toward the green line that shows your depth. That's the assumption at least. It's rapidly approaching the red.
You frown at it. "Are we supposed to be going this deep?"
"Manual says not to." Simon grunts, dropping into the console chair, "But that's where I was last time."
Thank the dead stars he read the manual, or at least part of the manual. You poke at your clogged nose. A ticking yellow bulb starts up on the console, and Simon immediately starts messing with the switches like some kind of expert.
You stare at his hunched back, low sub lights casting him in framed shadows. His hair is a frizzy mess, body tense. This is the first time the two of you have been truly alone together since your arrests. Since Simon surrendered and you followed in his footsteps.
It's been so long; all that loneliness, the ache in your chest, slides through you like a fire poker to the lungs. You are alone. You are alone with him.
"Simon." You call out. Your voice sounds strangled, higher than it should, tinged with an emotion no one else gets to witness. All the guards have seen from you is snapping teeth and insults. Your softness is saved only for the man stuck in this coffin with you.
He grabs one of the handles and yanks. You can feel the SM-13 still to a stop, the feeling of motion finally absent.
With an endearing amount of urgency, he meets you on the floor, hand curling over the back of your neck, like he just realized it too. No audience. No leering C.O.I. assholes muttering Butcher when he walks past. No snapping orders to put distance between you, no voice of God on the speaker overhead.
Just the two of you, trillions of gallons of blood, and a pile of bones.
"Hey," He says. His grip on the back of your neck is firm, guiding your eyes up to meet his. Warm soil brown, like the dirt of Earth you never got to touch.
"Hey, sunshine," You croak back and let your forehead rest against his headband.
Home. You are home.
Your hands press to his sturdy chest. The kiss is delicate, tinged with a boyish youth. Relearning each other with each tentative motion. Your teeth find his bottom lip, and he's sinking into you, your back pressing to the warm pipe.
Simon curls forward, and you bend to let him. The kiss deepens—your blood, his blood. And when he pulls back, half in your lap, out of breath, all you can do is smile at him. A true, unblemished smile. His weight is familiar against your thighs, known to you in an innate way.
"Missed you, Si," You mumble, gripping his sweater to make sure he stays.
"Yeah, I missed you too." He says, thumb sliding along the blemished skin of your neck where your tattoo should be.
"We should ... " He trails off, looking toward the console.
"Take our clothes off?" You tease, desperate to see him smile. To witness at least a flash of amusement, but it's absent from his face. Too distracted by those false lights. Too distracted by C.O.I. nonsense.
"Get that sample." He corrects.
"Oh, so this hot, damp, crawlspace doesn't turn you on?" You try again, teasing more, yanking on his shirt to jostle him closer.
Smile for me, Simon. Please, smile. Show me that you're still you. Prove they haven't beaten you down to something unrecognizable.
His lip tips up in the corner. You almost miss it, but it's there. That's your piece of the universe. Seeing the expression relaxes you considerably. If he's okay, you're okay.
When he pushes himself up, you let him go. This is what he wants to do, so you'll do it. Simon returns to the chair, and you gradually rise to your feet, finding your balance as he starts moving the sub again.
"Can they hear us?" You ask. Not that it would make you watch your mouth regardless.
"Don't think so." Simon calls over his shoulder. "Can ya' hit the button?"
"Aye, aye, Captain Si." You joke and press the big green button. This time you're not attempting to kill anyone. Progress. It flashes, and shapes and debris appear across the screen. Christ, that's bright. It's hard to clearly identify what any of it is, but it's not a wall, so that's a good sign, you think. Probably.
He seems to think it's good because he starts forward again.
You wander over to him, resting an arm against his shoulder. The sound of blood on the hull makes you feel itchy. Better to find a distraction than think about it too long. Simon has always been your favorite distraction of choice. "So ... " You lean towards him. "Is this a date?"
The question is an inside joke for the two of you. On Eden there wasn't much of a chance to have anything resembling a real date. People didn't care much that you were in a relationship, so it wasn't that; there just weren't enough resources to do anything special.
So you'd find ways to make normal parts of your day into dates, making the mundane mean something more than it would have otherwise. This became common practice when doing anything either of you didn't particularly feel like doing.
The worst chores were made more bearable by looking at each other and posing the age-old question: Is this a date?
Simon adjusts the course, hands moving without hesitation across the controls. If you were down here alone, you'd be having a much more chaotic time. There would be a lot more swearing and manual flipping. "I'd say so."
You reach into your pocket, finger tracing along the body warmed glass searching for cracks. It's still smooth, unbroken despite the fall. Lucky.
"Well, if that's the case, I got you a present." You pull the medallion from your pocket and let it dangle in front of him. Playfully you wave it side to side, letting the glass and the contained leaf and seed inside catch the inorganic light.
Simon's hands snap forward, curling around it. He's so gentle in the way his thumbs press to the sides, pulling it toward his chest. Sentimentalist that he is; it gave you some comfort to have in your pocket, but you knew he would find more in it than you ever could.
"Where did you find this?" He asks as you let go, relinquishing the charm.
They'd brought you into a locker room to change into new clothes, similar to the ones Simon is wearing. Though unlike you, they did give him a few of his personal effects back, the knife holster from his mom being one of them. Oddly friendly of them. It would have been kinder to also supply the knife.
There had been a box of medallions left forgotten in the corner of the room. Twenty at least. Tombstones for all the ones sacrificed before you. It had been easy to grab one when no one was paying attention.
You wiggle your fingers at him. "I have my ways."
Simon brings the pendant to his lips. Your heart aches at the sight of it. "Tie it to my wrist?"
It's an easy thing to give him, reaching for the leather to loop it around his wrist, tying it in place. Something about it makes him look younger, more like the man he was on Eden Station. The two of you running down corridors, hiding from adults that would tell you what to do. Giggling as they called your names.
Homesickness is something you've tried to stamp out in yourself, but he brings it back. Simon makes you want to go home, to lie in your bunk and talk about nothing at all with him. To see The Last Tree and the distant dead stars.
"Thank you." Simon says, lifting his wrist to gaze at it.
You lean down to bury your face in the hair on top of his head. Sweat and rot, he barely smells like himself. "S'my pleasure."
The console beeps, and Simon's attention is pulled back to navigation. "Picture."
Without complaint, you head to the back and press it again. The sound it produces makes you want to bite something, not sure why. You grind your teeth instead.
"Wow, a wall." You drawl, "Excellent place for a date."
"Smart ass," Simon grunts.
You grin to yourself, glancing around. Wait a second, there's a whole terminal back here; you forgot. It's dark and slightly hidden. You press the button again to give yourself a better look and approach it, tapping on the keyboard. Nothing happens. You try to scroll; nothing.
"Did this terminal work before?" You ask, hitting a few more keys.
"No." He replies. "Picture."
You reach behind without looking and smack the button. There's a maintenance panel. You're certainly familiar with those. Let's take a little look.
It pops open with some finagling. There's just enough illumination to make out the wires inside. Simon taught you a thing or two, enough that you know in a general sense which are which and what they might do.
There are two different spliced wires, already damaged. Huh, interesting. What would happen if you crossed them?
"Picture," Simon orders.
You lean over and smack the bottom, "So bossy."
Working with Simon feels as simple as breathing. This is what the two of you do. There's no need to worry about overstepping. If he gives an order, you follow it; if you give an order, he bends to comply.
A hard-earned trust that comes from time and adoration. That and plenty of practice.
"Don't freak out, gonna do something." You call out, just in case it has any adverse effects. Should be fine. Maybe. You risk it.
"Uh-uh." The chair creaks. "What are you doing back there?"
"Being bad." You joke and reach out to cross the wires. It sparks against your fingers, but that's why you have well-built calluses. At first nothing happens, and you figure the wires might not be connected properly, but then the terminal bursts to life. "Well hello~."
The SM-13 jerks to a stop, and then you hear heavy footsteps coming for you. As Simon rounds the corner, he glares, pointing a finger in your direction. In response you throw up your hands in surrender before stepping to the side to reveal what you've done.
"Just crossed some wires. What are they gonna do, arrest me?" You huff, leaning over the keyboard as Simon presses to your side to stare at the screen.
"Maybe say hello?" Simon says.
You chuckle, "Don't think it's that simple, sunshine." But regardless, you type 'hello' and send it.
Insufficient privileges.
"See," You say, typing out 'information'.
Insufficient privileges.
Your smile slips.
'Login.'
Insufficient privileges.
"Try password," Simon says.
'Password.'
Insufficient privileges.
"Uh, password but add a one."
Fuck, he's adorable.
'Pasword1.'
Insufficient privileges.
'Eden.'
Insufficient privileges.
'Coalition of Iron.'
Insufficient privileges.
'AT-5.'
Insufficient privileges.
'Fuck you.'
Insufficient privileges.
You grunt, pressing backward into Simon's chest. He grabs your waist automatically. You lean harder into him.
"Oxygen."
You freeze in unison, craning backward to stare at the three green bars at the front of the sub. Somehow you forgot. Your skin crawls with the idea of choking to death, desperately trying to take in something that isn't there. At least if the ship implodes, the pressure will kill you before the drowning.
"I'll get us back on track," Si says. It sounds like an apology. You open your mouth to ask him to stay. Nothing comes out.
He leaves you there to return to his seat, and the two of you fall back into synchronization. He drives. Can it be called driving? You press the button when he tells you to. The oxygen gauge is a motivator to focus on the task at hand.
"Why the fuck is it so hot in here?" You complain, sweat rolling down your back. You take a moment to roll up your sleeves. The fabric is so stretched out they're probably going to fall right back down. But this baking heat is killing you.
"No fucking clue." Simon looks back at you, and you can see the gleam of sweat on his face. "Don't think I've ever been this hot in my life."
You smirk, "Can confirm, Captain Si."
He rolls his eyes but huffs out a chuckle regardless as he goes back to what he was doing. With the two of you together, it's easy to forget where you are. Just another maintenance run, a quick job to do.
If you stay busy enough, then neither of you will think about how you're under an endless pool of blood. Talking helps cover up the strange noises that come from outside the ship. Joking means you don't think about the oxygen.
"Okay." Simon says, "We're here. Picture."
You take the photo, readying yourself for bones. Maybe a freaky skull. Teeth even. It probably won't look like much. There's nothing.
"You sure it's here?"
He cranes back, glaring at the photo as it fades. "Um, I was ... let me ... "
Simon bends over the map, fingers tracing the paper before he shrugs. "Yeah, yeah, it should be right there."
You hit the button again, but the picture is the same as before. It would be pretty freaky if it wasn't. You grind your teeth some more.
Not sure what to do, you double-check his work. It takes you longer to think through the numbers, but it does seem like he's got the right position and angle. He's helpfully scribbled 'weird asstubes' on one part of the map.
"The fuck are asstubes?" You ask, grinning at him.
Simon tilts the sub in a different direction, looking up at you with raised brows. All business, "Picture."
Spoilsport.
"Damn, sorry for being interested in the asstubes. I'm but a man." You tease," dutifully returning to your spot to take a picture. "Hills."
This continues for a few minutes: pivot, hills, pivot, hills, pivot, more hills.
"It's gone," Simon eventually says. "How are they gone? Doesn't make any sense."
"Didn't she say there was a quake or something?" You offer, "Maybe they sank?"
"Or drifted. I'm taking us up a bit."
"We can go up?" That seems like a mighty convenient thing to be able to do and far more control than you expected they'd give Edenite convicts.
"Sort of. Not directly, but I can coast up the terrain to a higher depth. Should be able to get them back on the speaker again and ask what to do next."
Just what you wanted—to talk to the asshole who broke your nose. You shrug and crouch along the back by the button, certain he'll have you press it plenty more today. There's a small piece of rusted metal in the corner.
Twisting it in your fingers, you close the maintenance hatch. They'll probably send other Brothers down in this thing. Maybe the terminal will be more useful for them. So between pictures you scratch Eden's symbol into the metal, something it feels like you've done a thousand times.
You actually cultivated a bit of a reputation for doing that just to piss the guards off. Leaving bits of Eden everywhere you go. Carving your identity into the walls just to prove that branding it off does not take it away from you. The ink is in your skin beneath the scar.
You are a Brother of Eden. No one will take this truth from you.
The speaker crackles, half a voice. Perhaps Ava?
"Convict, why - moving away - the skeleton?"
Yep, Ava. Too bad you didn't get her directly in the face with your new weapon of choice. You pick at your nail with the metal shard.
"It's not there." Simon calls, pulling the ship to a stop. You always feel instantly better when it's not moving.
"You're breaking up. What?"
Your paramour gives a particularly beleaguered sigh, so you shout for him, "Skeleton is gone!"
"What do you mean it's gone?" She asks.
Does gone mean something else to coalition minions? You pull yourself back to your feet and wander over to Simon as he says, "There's no bones."
A very repetitive conversation follows that sentence; more things need to be repeated, you have to press the button some more, and then you're instructed to keep moving. A few meters up, allegedly.
At least she doesn't say anything as you navigate toward a new destination. Neither of you speak, though, because although she doesn't speak, she's listening. They can't see you, though, so your hand rests against Simon's shoulder as you move forward.
"Picture," He mumbles. You return to your spot, haphazardly smacking at the button.
Your body locks up. Some animal instinct has you frozen there, hand still against the button. A breath whistles out of you as you stare at the screen. You press it again.
Another picture.
What the ever-loving fuck is that? You try to make sense of what you're seeing. Eye sockets, a long jaw, and haphazard teeth facing the wrong direction. When you were younger, you liked to read this old earth veterinary book to learn about animals.
You've seen a lot of skeletons, but nothing remotely shaped like that. Another gasping breath.
"Did you find it?"
Fuck off. Fuck off, you stupid bitch. What is that? Not real. That thing is not real, just a face-like rock. You press the button a third time, and it's still there, unmoving. The idea of it moving makes you feel sick.
Simon's hand touches your back. "Just bones."
Are they?
It's an X-ray camera.
You don't say that, because Simon clearly believes they're bones, and you're not popping that bubble.
"Convicts! Did you find the skeleton?" Ava snaps. She's clearly fed up with the both of you. For whatever reason, you don't much give a damn.
"Yes, but it's ... it's different." Simon calls, and you feel a tremor run through you at the words.
"The fuck you mean it's different?" You ask, hitting the button again. Same thing.
"It's a different angle; before it was ribs, maybe, now it's the skull." He explains.
"Doesn't matter what part it is. Get that sample."
"We'll get the sample, and then you bring us right back up." Simon says, dropping into the chair.
"Then we bring you up."
That's good enough for you; as long as you're far from this thing, you don't care if you're back in your cell. Hit the thing, go back up. You want to go back up.
"You're sure that this won't damage the hull?" Simon asks.
You've been trying hard not to think about that aspect. Now you're thinking about it. You take another photo. It's still there—staring.
No, it's not staring, because it doesn't have eyes. It's dead. It's bones and rot.
"That thing is built like a tank. Besides, the claw is going to take the majority of the impact. Just ram it."
"Just ram it," Simon scoffs, "Right."
"Get it done."
"Yeah, yeah. We heard you." Simon grunts, hand falling to the lever that will send you forward. He looks back at you. "Brace."
You hear him and don't at the same time. You take another photo and swear it's slightly different than the last one.
You hear your name. It trickles through you like the sweat on your brow. Simon calls out to you again.
"Brother!"
Your head jerks to the side, some kind of ingrained muscle memory. Combat training drilled into you from your youth. The voice of Father giving an order. It's just Simon.
"Brace for impact." He says again.
Right. Right, it's going to rock the ship. You nod and sink down to your knees, back against the wall.
Unable to help yourself, you press the button again.
It moved. You swear this time it must have moved.
"Wait, wait," You call out, but Simon is already slamming the lever forward. Your stomach lurches, back pressing to the wall. A great flood of terror rushes through you until your hands go numb. "Stop!"
The sub impacts. Everything lurches forward. You fall onto your hands and knees. You're going to be sick. You gag, tasting blood and vomit in your mouth. You swallow it back down and try to catch your breath, waiting for the inevitable.
The hull will break. The ship will implode. Or this thing is going to eat you. It's alive; you swear it's alive.
"Did you get it?"
You can't breathe. There's not enough oxygen.
There's a grinding sound. Simon's voice cutting through your wheezing breaths, "Yeah, I think so. Can you take a picture?"
You're still on your hands and knees. There are footsteps; Simon's boots fill your vision. You're seriously going to throw up.
He hits the button for you. "I got it."
Your fingers dig into the corrugated metal. "Get me out. Get me out. Get me out."
"Bringing you up."
There's not enough air.
Simon's hand is on your collar, guiding you upward. He takes both your shoulders in hand. "Come here."
He pulls, and you let him guide you. A few steps later, he settles you into the chair, crouching down next to you. His hand comes to your thigh, curling around it; the seedling rests against your pants.
You touch it, feeling the cool glass. A piece of home. Of life, of Eden.
"We're going up, see." He points to the depth gauge and the way it's moving upward.
You look him in the eye and try to catch your breath. His doe eyes meet yours, soft in the corners. Normally you're the one comforting him.
He's still afraid; you know he's afraid with the way he holds on to your leg a fraction too tight. But he's trying to hold it together for you. Shouldn't you be the one doing that for Simon? That's your job. That's been your job since the two of you became friends. Children left behind by the Quiet Rapture.
There's a groaning crack, bubbling from outside. You don't have time to do anything before the ship tips. You fall out of the chair, hitting the ground hard, your shoulder aching.
"Pull us up!" Simon shouts.
"It's got us." You shriek as the ship lurches. The ground starts to tilt. You scramble for the chair stand, but your fingers slip off the oiled surface.
This isn't what you wanted. Not this. Not him.
"Simon."
He calls your name back.
You always knew death was inevitable; that's been told to you since Father started making his sermons. But it wasn't supposed to be like this. Deep in an ocean, for some C.O.I. propaganda mission.
How will your body feed the soil?
If you die here, it makes no difference. Your life becomes meaningless if you can't feed the future life. Will you make it to the Grove?
Will you be allowed in? Will Simon?
You want more time with him. It wasn't enough.
The ship lifts vertically. The floor is no longer the floor. You fall.
Pairing: Simon the Butcher x m!reader
Rating: M
Word Count: 3438
AO3 Version: HERE / Part Directory: HERE
Synopsis: Simon barters for your freedom by volunteering for an expedition in a rust bucket of a submersible. Things go wrong, but at least you'll be together when facing what you find in the deep.
A/N: Been thinking a lot about Simon. I could only find 2 male reader fics for him so figured it was time to roll up my sleeves and get to work.
Content Tags: male reader, convict reader, immoral reader, blood, reader is from Eden, established relationship, inferred sexual content, hurt and comfort, angst
You are the backup plan of the backup plan.
The whole room reeks of copper, rot underlying the stench until it makes your nose scrunch up. The scientist, or is it captain, Ava, glances over at you, clearly unconcerned about your growing nausea.
"You get used to it." She grunts before leaving you there. Not like you're going anywhere given the fact that they've handcuffed you to a fucking pipe, but hey, at least she's not staring at you anymore. Others glance over from time to time, but everyone seems to have better things to do than pay attention to little old convict number two.
All you can do is look at the spot on the floor where the sub just descended. Two huge metal doors, closed tight to keep the ocean out. Doesn't do much to counteract the smell, though, does it?
You want to look away from the wire ropes that lead down to them, to the pulley system, and most notably to the thick rusted metal chain—the only thing that can pull the submersible back up. It feels like if you look away from that ominous chain, it will vanish.
Maybe today is the day the corrosive blood breaks the links. Maybe today is the day the SM-13 gets lost in an endless dead sea.
It's not the smell that's making you nauseous; it's that fucking chain.
Everyone had different jobs on Eden, things to specialize in, and purposes to fill the waiting until the end. You're all inevitably going to die, but not immediately, and so jobs were a requirement. Everyone had their part to play.
Turns out even at the end of the end, janitors are still critical employees. Your youth was spent cleaning and maintaining the outer workings of equipment while Simon maintained the inside. The dynamic cleaning duo shoved into tiny subfloors and wiring behind walls.
The two of you would have become close regardless of what you wanted. Forced proximity breeds familiarity. And there was a lot of time spent in forced proximity, your legs against Simon's back as he crouched down and you cleaned over his head.
Bitching about rusted wires, dust, and stale air. Cracking jokes to pass the time. Grinning at each other as you grew older, the jokes got cruder, and the space got smaller.
You think about Simon's warmth against your calves, the smell of sweat from the lack of airflow, and the quiet tink of metal on metal as the two of you worked. Your low humming and the way Simon would sometimes hum along.
You think about the way he'd look at you when the work was done, relieved and satisfied, hair stuck to his forehead. A job completed, another day in a starless paradise. You think about the way he would stand in that space between the walls that only the two of you knew how to navigate.
Chest to chest, hips to hips, his hands sliding under your shirt, tracing damp skin. Barely any room to move, barely any room to breathe. So you'd breathe him in instead. Let Simon fill your lungs.
Let his body fill yours; let yours fill his.
You think of the way he would whimper your name into your hair as you look at that fucking chain. One link is almost the size of your torso, and yet it doesn't seem like enough.
This isn't happening. You've been saying that since Filament Station. This isn't happening. You're going to wake up in your bunk, Simon above you, shaking your shoulder as he complains about how heavily you sleep.
You will be back on Eden, back in the safety of your worn, threadbare covers. You'll be back between the walls with Simon's hand on your face, whispering how they'll plant one tree over the both of you.
Simon is the mechanically inclined one; you just clean and protect from rust. So you don't know what these people are doing. You don't know if things are going well; they're talking to each other, and no one is bothering to speak up for your sake.
Something about depths, a red zone. Is he okay? Fuck, fuck, fuck. This isn't happening. The one person in the universe that matters is not down there in that sludge.
He is not trying to earn freedom for you both by doing this. He did not barter his life away with the caveat that if he didn't come back, you would go free. This isn't happening.
All you can smell is the blood. So much blood. Where did it come from? How can there be oceans of blood at all?
They keep talking to each other, giving orders through the microphone. Telling him to take pictures of spots on a map. You can't hear him. Is he there?
"Convict!" Ava's voice is sharp in the microphone. "We aren't hearing you. Can you confirm your status?"
You want to tell her his name is Simon. You don't. You cradle his name to your chest like a wish. Bring him back. Bring him back to you. It's just a few pictures, and then they'll use that big-ass chain to pull him back up. They'll open the hatch they welded shut, and Simon will walk right out and press himself into your arms.
He'll say your name and tell you that you're both free. No longer part of Eden, but free—together.
They didn't let you talk before they put him in there. Your cells are separate; you only get to talk about an hour or two a day when they let the few prisoners out for recreation and during meal times.
You didn't get to say anything. To make him promise to come back because he always keeps his promises. You should have kissed him; to hell with what these C.O.I assholes thought about it.
Instead, they transferred you onto this vessel in silence, in separate rooms, no information. No one told you what was going on until they'd already welded him inside. They had you cuffed and frozen in horror as they lowered him down like a coffin to the grave before you could even shout anything to him.
"Convict, do you copy?" Ava's voice is growing louder, but your heart sounds louder. It thuds in your ears, blocking out the sound of water on metal and her grating voice.
You don't hear anything but your own ice panic until finally, through a sharp crackle, "Take pictures, follow the map, I heard you."
Immediately your knees feel a bit like jelly. He reached depth. He's okay. Simon's okay. You drape against the cold metal of the hull and try to start breathing through your nose again.
One of the scientists gives you a dirty look, and you give her a dirtier one back.
It would have been more conducive to not have put you across the room from the speakers, but then they probably didn't want you trying to talk to him. It's hard to hear when she's not shouting and harder still to hear Simon in general.
You lean as far as you can toward them, wrist aching as you tug along the restraint. More scientist mumbo jumbo. Simon's voice, low and gravelly, but the words run together.
Time passes. Every second feels longer than the last. Your ears are straining to pick out words, and bruising is starting by your thumb as you try to stay in the loop.
Your hearing might not be the greatest after Filament Station, but you can see them fine. You can see the way Ava straightens up, looking at the guy next to her. Excitement. That's good; if he found something, then that means maybe they'll actually let the two of you go.
When it comes to your alleged freedom, you have pretty high doubts, but Simon believes in it, and you believe in him. There's no undoing it now regardless.
"Did you say skeleton?" Ava asks. You manage to catch that clearly.
It makes sense, you suppose, that a blood ocean would have bones in it. But the way people start hovering around like smoke to a fire, you wonder if it's more uncommon than you initially thought.
"Yes," He says back. It's good to hear his voice every time. A reminder that he's alive down there.
"Are you certain it was a skeleton?" She says, talking louder in her eagerness. That's fine by you. Please talk as loud as you want, scientist, captain lady.
Simon's voice is dry with sarcasm. "Yeah, I know what a skeleton looks like."
You smile toward the microphone like he can see you. He sounds okay, not too scared. Uncomfortable, sure, but not scared. This is a cakewalk, just another maintenance run. "You got this." You mumble to him, even though he can't hear you, maybe he'll feel that faith from the deep. "You got this, Si."
More fucking mumbling. From here you can't make out the pictures on the screen very well, but they do look relatively bone-shaped. They all chatter at each other some more, and you roll your eyes.
"He got you some pretty pictures," You shout. "Job done. Pull him up."
To the surprise of no one, yourself included, they all ignore you.
" ... second dive," Ava says; at least that's all you catch. They're going to send some other poor bastard down there. At least it's not the two of you. Some other C.O.I asshole can risk their neck for old bones.
The chain taps into the door, and then the whole fucking vessel rocks. You've lived on a station your whole life; the idea of what you're standing on making sudden movements is unheard of. A startled gasp rips out of your throat as your free hand slams into the wall to help you keep your balance.
No one else seems all that concerned about the huge motion. They all go right on working. "Um, hello, what the hell was that?" You call out.
No one replies.
"Earth to coalition minions," You snarl, "What the fuck was that?"
The welder from a few feet away, where he's leaning, doing fuck all, glares at you, "S'called ocean turbulence, sweetheart. Don't get your knickers in a twist."
This makes sense and simultaneously is incomprehensible. The ocean moves; it's a liquid, but also, why does it move?
"He took the pictures; pull him up!"
The chain rattles again, and one of the little lights on their fancy console turns red. Everything goes back to being too much. No air. No Simon.
What does that light mean?
"Convict!" Ava's voice hits you like little electrical sparks, "Convict!"
Silence.
Please, be okay. You need him to be okay.
More silence.
"Simon," You whisper, "Say something."
They start to retract the chain. It fills the whole room with a deafening rattle. If he replies, you can't hear it. They stop before the sub is out of the water. Why did they stop?
Bring him up. Bring him up. Bring him back.
If they don't start up the crank again, you're going to scream. You'll make it everyone's goddamn problem until they actually hear you.
"Is there any damage?" She asks.
"There's something down here." The tone he was using before is gone now. There's an edge to it you hate. Fear has never been a good sound in his voice. There's nothing you hate more than his fear. You've heard it too many times already.
"Is the SM-13 damaged?" She asks again.
"You're not listening; there is something alive down here."
Alive? That's not possible. It's an ocean of blood; what could survive in that? Nothing. It's not sustainable.
But if Simon believes there's something in the ocean, then there might be. Or he got spooked; the turbulence moved him around, and he thought it was something else. You don't blame him for being confused; no one trained him for deep dives in blood of all things.
"Is there any damage?" She snaps. "I need to know if there's damage. If there's damage, you could die down there."
You hold your breath.
"No ... " The rest of whatever he says is too low for you to hear, but the no is enough. No damage, no imploding. No dying.
The crank starts up again. The links drip blood onto the floor, but there's a grid in place, clearly designed to funnel the blood back into the ocean.
The smell gets so much worse. Your free hand comes to our nose automatically, trying to block it out. There's something about it that lifts the hairs on the back of your neck, something instinctual. A half-forgotten survival instinct that knows this smell means run.
Run far, run fast. Get the hell out.
But there's no going anywhere, not without Simon and not with your wrist handcuffed to a wall.
Finally the doors open, and then the SM-13 lifts into the room, oozing blood. Some of it gets caught by the drainage system, and some of it doesn't. There's a guy with a broom just funneling it back toward the drains. Thick and syrupy, like watered-down machine lubricant. Your stomach churns.
Ava heads for the submarine, wiping at the window. From where you are, you can barely see him from this angle, but you're pretty sure he can't see you. The blood on the glass makes him into a distant, fuzzy image, but at least you can hear.
She's talking about sending him back down, attaching some tool, and welding it on. No. They said one dive. That was the deal. One dive.
You don't need to exclaim your displeasure because Simon's doing that enough for the both of you.
"No!" His hand smacks the glass. "I'm done. You get me out, and you take us back. It's not worth it."
She keeps talking about the claw.
"You're not listening!" Simon's voice is muffled, but you can hear the panic. He keeps disappearing from the glass. Pacing? "Find someone else, because I'm not doing it."
Ava tilts her head to the side, and you don't like her posture. No frustration, no anger, just calm and cold. She saw this coming. "Okay, Jack, open it up."
The backup plan of the backup plan.
You laugh, because no one needs to tell you what's about to happen. Simon says he's not going, so they'll send someone else and guess who they have waiting in the wings.
You. You're the cannon fodder. The poor motherfucker that's going to drown in rot for a few bones.
Simon calms down. He hasn't put the pieces together, but then you've always been the cynical one. Unlike you, he still believes in humanity. In the goodness of others. You believe that the Quiet Rapture accidentally missed a few, and that's the only reason you're still around at all.
Simon quiets, and silently you rage as they open up the coffin for you. There's talk about refilling the oxygen and the time it will take. Some of them are worried they might drift too far from the bones.
You barely know what any of it means. You're just counting down the clock until it's time to die, to seal you up in that iron hell and send you down. Simon will live; that can be enough. It has to be, or you're going to have a breakdown and start talking in tongues.
Maybe they won't send you if they think you're batshit crazy. Which could work, but then they'd just send Simon, and you're not sending him back down if you have a say in it.
Good old Jack is almost done from the looks of it. The panel pulls open and reveals another sealed door.
Ava is walking toward you.
A part of you wants to kick her in the stomach to keep her away. To fight your way out. You've killed for Simon before; you're not against doing it again. Instead, you remain passive as she unlocks your cuff. The two of you lock eyes; well, she's only got the half, but an attempt is made.
"Guess it's my time to shine, huh?" You ask, not letting her see the way your skin is crawling with disgust at the idea of getting in that thing.
It was always going to come to this. Convicts like you are just wood for the furnace of their grandiose ideals. Saving humanity. You're pretty sure humanity doesn't deserve to be saved. You're all a bunch of animals. Monkeys fighting over food scraps.
"Faster you get the sample, faster you come back up." She says.
You give her the sardonic smile your mother had hated. She used to tell you that it twisted your face up all wrong. Too gruff, not a sweet little boy, but something less pure, "For our freedom?"
"In and out," Ava replies.
"Sure~." You chuckle and rub your wrist, following her toward the submersible door.
As you stand there, the cloying scent of copperish tarnish in your nose, boots in a puddle of slick blood, you know that there was never going to be any freedom.
Jack opens the door. You come face to face with Simon.
This is your execution.
A life for a life. A trade you can swallow without choking. You figured a long time ago he would be the death of you.
His eyes go wide when he sees you, and you know it's only because of all the stress to begin with that he didn't put the pieces together sooner. "No."
Ava sighs, like he's a puppy not giving up a toy. Baring its teeth but unwilling to bite. She has no idea. You've watched Simon do things neither of you will ever vocalize. Hope is a dangerous thing for dangerous men like the two of you.
"You said you weren't going down." She explains. "So you don't have to."
Simon's eyes are dilated, near black. The low light of the sub casts him in dark shadow, blending him in with the machinery. "Not him. You want those bones so bad you can go yourself."
"I and my staff can't be spared. Look, we're wasting valuable time talking. Remove yourself from the sub so the convict can get in."
Convict Two steps up to the plate. Batter up. Don't strike out.
"It's okay." You give him a smile that doesn't quite meet your eyes. "I'll be back before you know it."
This is a one-way trip.
"Easy peasy," You joke.
This is goodbye.
"Lemon squeezy."
You don't know what a lemon is, but you saw one in a book once. It's an earth saying. They used to squeeze lemons to make lemonade. You think. That's what the book said.
"Fuck all of you," Simon snarls. You reel back at the abrupt change in his temperament, concern flaring in your chest that they might lunge at him. "He is not going down there with that thing!"
You love him more than anything, all that righteous danger rising in defense of you. His hands are shaking fists, sweat on his brow. Your hero.
Simon the Butcher.
His reputation precedes him because several of the people around you stiffen. One woman even steps back, putting a different worker between her and Simon.
When you were boys, Simon used to chew on the collars of his shirt. He had nightmares about jellyfish.
You step forward, unafraid. There has never been a day in which you fear him, and there will never come a day when you do.
They let you approach; no one else wants to try and drag the most notorious killer of humanity free of the submersible by force. Your hand comes to his cheek, feather-light and delicate. Automatically he leans into your hand.
"Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray." You whisper. His expression cracks, and all that terror slips free. His hands curl around your arms, and he looks so boyish in his fear. Simon always did think with horror upon the sea. He must have been so frightened during the descent.
"Do not go gentle into that good night," He gasps, tears flooding his eyes.
Was this inevitable? You take a step forward; he takes a step back.
Simon was never going to willingly let you take his place. That's not who he is. He still believes in the light of husked stars.
"Rage," You smile as the door slams shut with a resolute shriek, the outer lock grinding into place. The small space is oppressively dark with the door closed. Luckily, you've never known the sun. "Rage against the dying of the light."
summary; reader is the new hire at the prison where simon is kept, and is tasked with bringing him his meals.
a/n; wow what a movie. thank god i'm a fanfic writer with free will.
cw; poor writing lmao, solitary confinement, shitty workplaces, i dont know much of the lore so if it's inaccurate please forgive me 😅
i do not give permission for any of my works to be reuploaded/reposted, copied, fed into AI, etc. minors dni, age in bio or blocked.
minors and ageless blogs will be blocked!! i do check every blog that interacts with my fics!
the clinking of chains and the quiet thud of footsteps echoed through the dimly lit hallway. you passed rows and rows of cells, most of the inmates still sleeping or at least pretending to.
you kept your head up, shoulders back, trying to appear confident. you doubt it was working. you were new, all the inmates knew that. maybe a little young in comparison to your co-workers, but it was either contribute to society or be cut off from the resources. the only available jobs were in the prison, so you took what you could.
you were fresh meat. bottom of the food chain, as your supervisor described it. stuck with the lowest pay and the worst job, here you were at 5:30 am sharp to deliver breakfast to the convict in solitary.
"if anything goes wrong, we're not losing anyone valuable." your supervisor told you as he walked you through your duties. if you weren't desperate for food and shelter, you would've tucked your tail and ran.
you swallowed hard as you scanned your badge on the card reader, balancing the tray on one hand. the panel beeped, the light changing from red to green before the door began to slide open. it creaked and groaned, the metal grinding making your teeth hurt. it slid into place with a jarring clunk! and you made your way through and into the dark hallway.
there was a cell on the very other end of the long hall. it was entirely metal, the door was a giant vault with a medium sized window and small food port you could open to slide items through with minimal contact below it.
you knew who was in there. had heard the stories of what he had done. an involuntary shiver ran down your spine at the thought of him being only a few inches of steel away.
your footsteps slowed to a stop in front of the door. you set the tray on the ledge, slid the food port open and carefully pushed the tray of food through. it was pitch black inside the cell when you peered in. for a moment, you weren't even sure he was in there. maybe this was some kind of hazing ritual new hires had to go through to earn their place or something equally ridiculous.
"christ, this is stupid." you muttered to yourself, shaking your head a little. "you're not even there, are you? they're just... pranking the new hire."
you stood on your toes, peering in through the window and trying to squint through the dark. you couldn't make out a single shape or outline of anything. no bed, no desk, no toilet, nothing like the other cells.
you took a step back, tapping the toe of your shoes together a few times while you waited. you nearly jumped out of your skin as the tray was slowly pulled into the cell, blood roaring in your ears. you only caught a glimpse of his hand from the dim hallway light. you quickly reached forward and slammed the food port back into place, locking it with shaky hands before turning and running back where you came.
the rest of the day went surprisingly fast. you were walked through the rest of your duties, mostly custodial. cleaning bathrooms, floors, the few offices that were scattered around, even dish duty after meals. you couldn’t seem to come down from the scare as you followed your trainer around, trying to keep your hands from shaking as you listened to him explain where supplies were and your expectations.
it didn’t take you long to get used to it, the mundane routine. clocking in, cleaning, delivering food, clocking out. you never saw much of the convict, only the occasional glimpse of his hand as he took his tray and returned the old one. by the end of your first month, you were relying on autopilot to get through the routines.
you jumped as your supervisor banged on the kitchen door.
“lunch for the convict is ready.” he shouted through the steel before his footsteps faded away quickly.
you huffed, washing and drying your hands before navigating through the kitchen to grab the tray off of the warming table. you pushed open the swinging door with your shoulder, took the elevator down to the basement and made the trek down the eerie hallway for the second time that day.
you scanned your badge, entered the next hall, and soon you found yourself standing in front of the convict’s solitary cell again. you paused, listening for any sign of life.
stepping forward, you set the tray down on the ledge and unlatched the food port door, slowly dragging it open. you pushed the tray through, taking a step back and waiting. several long moments passed, your heart racing, palms sweating.
“...hello?” you called quietly, your voice echoing in the small space. “sir?”
chains clinking made you flinch, and soon the tray was being pulled inside. after a few beats of silence, the tray from breakfast was put in its place. you waited until it sounded like he had retreated far enough to take the empty tray, sliding the food port back into place.
“um… thank you.” you said quietly, before turning on your heel and scurrying out.
lunch was the same. dropping off one tray, picking up another. dinner was different.
you don’t know why you felt like it. maybe the silence was becoming too loud in your ears. you set the tray down, opened the food port, and took a step back.
“um… hi.” you said quietly, hesitantly. your voice shook a little.
he didn’t respond.
you gave him your name.
“i’m… sorry you’re stuck in there.” you continued, “it must be hard.”
you paused for a moment, embarrassment creeping up your spine. it must be hard? really?
you looked around for a moment, before focusing back on the cell in front of you. “um… do you like chocolate? i saw some in the kitchen and it’s not being used for anything. maybe i can sneak you some?”
the echo of your voice faded away, and soon the buzzing silence filled the air again. it made your ears hurt.
the chains began to clink again, and you listened as he stood up, making his way to the door. he took the tray, replaced it with the one from lunch, before retreating back to his corner. you couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.
taking the tray, you closed up the food port and made your way back to the kitchen for the end of your shift.
the next morning, you clocked in and made your way to the kitchen for the convict’s breakfast. you took the tray, navigating through the maze of counters and snatched the first chocolate bar you found, shoving it in your pocket inconspicuously.
making the long trek to his cell, you opened the food port, pushing his tray inside.
“good morning.” you murmured, pulling the chocolate out of your pocket. “i brought you something.”
you set the bar beside his tray, taking a step back. he reached out and pulled the tray into his cell, replacing it with yesterday’s. you held your breath, waiting to see if he would bite. your felt your heart flutter in excitement as he eventually reached back, taking the offered treat.
you couldn’t help but grin, grabbing the dinner tray. “i hope you enjoy it.” you said sincerely, closing up the food port and retreating back to the kitchen
the treats kept coming, once a day. chocolate, warm bread, sometimes a peppermint or fresh fruit. anything to add to the slop and gruel they were feeding him. you usually saved them for dinner, hoping a treat to end the day would make night more bearable.
he never said a word, just took the food, returned the previous tray, and retreated back to eat. you never pressured him to talk, but you always talked to him. it felt strange at first, like talking to the air, like no one was listening, but eventually that became the appeal.
you told him about your day, about your co-workers, all the gossip and rumors about them. you updated him on the news, what was going on at other space stations. you hoped maybe the short-winded human interactions was helping him stay sane. if it was making it worse, you assumed he would say something. lash out, yell, yank on the door, something. maybe he just had more patience than you thought.
“lunch time.” you announced as you set down the tray, pulling a few small candy wrappers out of your pocket and plopping it onto the tray. “i found some sour candy, but i don’t really like sour all that much.”
you stepped back, and he took the tray. you didn’t hear chains clinking all that much these days, and part of you hoped it meant he wasn’t hiding in the back. he sounded closer.
“i think it’s grape flavored because the wrapper is green, but you’ll have to try it to find out.” you hummed, collecting the tray from breakfast and closing up the food port. “might be green apple, though.”
you turned and began to make your way down the hall. “i’ll see you at dinner. enjoy.”
you managed to get a decent amount of work done. there were scabs on your knees from kneeling to scrub the greasy kitchen floor, but you paid it no mind as you washed your hands to deliver the next meal. tray in hand, you made your way through the familiar halls and scanned your way into solitary.
you opened up the foot slot and slid the tray through. “dinners here,” you hummed. “i heated it up a little. it might not taste the best, but i thought maybe warmth would be good.”
the tray scraped against the ledge as he pulled it inside. you took the lunch tray as he set it down.
“maybe tomorrow i can bring you some bread. they made a fresh batch this morning, but i couldn't sneak some in time, the cook was there all day and i didn't want to get caught.” you shrugged. “i did hear that maybe we’re getting some strawberries soon. i’ll grab you the biggest one i can get my hands on.”
you closed up the food slot, taking a few steps back. “i’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.”
with that, you turned and began the trek back down the hall. you only made it a few steps before the sound of the prisoner talking stopped you in your tracks.
“...watermelon.”
at first you thought you imagined it. you turned, looking back at the steel vault door. you took a few steps closer.
“what?” you breathed out, heart racing.
“the candy... it was watermelon.”
his voice was rough. scratchy from probably months of disuse. you blinked a few times, fingertips numb with shock.
“oh.” you whispered, “watermelon.”
silence settled over the air again and you felt a jolt of panic that he wasn’t responding. you had a taste of him and now you wanted to be greedy.
“um- do you- you, uh, do you like… sour candy?” you asked stupidly, taking another few steps closer. “i can try and get you more.”
a few beats passed.
“...yes.”
you let out a breathy laugh, nodding as you grinned. “great. yeah, i can- i can try and find more. i’ll bring you some, i promise.”
you waited for another response, deflating a little as none came. you tried not to be disappointed considering the fact that he had finally spoken to you after months.
“okay, yeah… yeah, um… i’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast.” you told him, gripping the lunch tray a little harder as you turned to make your way back to the kitchen.
a/n; thank you for reading! let me know if anyone is interested in a part two. reblogs and comments are welcomed and encouraged!
Helloooo!!! I saw the post for the Male!reader for dispatch!! Do you think you can do one with flambae? Maybe a reader who used to be good villain-friends with him but went MIA one night? Maybe the reader ended up getting into SDN or something more interesting:0
Also hope you’re doing well!! Keep up the work twin!
Ay twin ty sm for requesting this! I'm gonna be real I ran a marathon with your idea so this fic is such a jumble of ideas and headcanons of Flambae. Imma be real, Flambae is not in my top fav Dispatch characters, but i do like me some cocky men. To me, he is such a hard-headed individual that he hates to be perceived as ‘weak’, I hope this fic conveys your idea well! I hope you like it!
Snow Storm
Flambae x male!Villain!Reader. Pt.2
Though you didn't do many of those robberies alone. There was once a time where you had a partner in crime.
Tags: Flambae x male!reader, Flambae x Villain!reader, Prism, Blonde Blazer, Chase, The Z-Team, OOC!Flambae, maybe, First meeting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, Jealous!Reader, Arguments, Fights, Described non-lethal wound, No Blood Mentioned, Reader has Ice Powers, I love Prism can you tell lmao, Flambae and his emotional baggage, or him being complicated asf?, idk i just like him a little bit
Being in the Villainy business guarantees a dangerous lifestyle. Going against the law, moving behind shadows and running amongst the busy-bodies of LA, all to make a mysterious persona no officer or hero can catch. It’s living a dangerous, glamorous life, if you succeed, that is.
You remembered your first robbery, a jewelry store local to your hometown. It was small, you recall going there once when you were young with your parents, a snobby clerk who rips off customers for fake diamonds. You wouldn't consider the robbery an anti-hero job, more of avenging the money he scammed from your parents that one time. After all, that necklace was for your mother; how dare that con man use your father’s affections for his quick buck.
Since you've moved to LA, you've advanced from robbing small stores to swindling bigger establishments. Malls, corporate businesses, and other high-end places. Though you didn't do many of those robberies alone.
There was once a time were you had a partner in crime.
You met Flambae in one of the dingy villain dive bars, a couple of months after you first moved to Torrance. Boredom got the best of you, and while you’re not the usual type to go out for drinks, Prism was the one who insisted.
“Baby being holed up in your apartment is not the way you should spend a Saturday night.”
“Prism, you know I don't drink–”
“You don't gotta if you don't wanna! I’m sayin’ just hang around a bit, oggle at some dudes and laugh at drunk people, yknow!” She grins, checking her hair in the mirror while you reluctantly reach for a better shirt than your usual home-wear.
“Oh! And I got this cutie I want you to meet,” She dabs a finger on her lips to better apply her lipstick before continuing. “He’s annoying as hell, but you’ll love him.”
“Well, don't threaten me with a good time,” You huff, sliding into your leather jacket and sliding next to the woman. She glances at your reflection before checking herself again, a grin on her lips.
“It’ll be fun, you can trust me,” Prism smiles, leading you out of your home and into the Los Angeles night.
When you and Prism arrived, she scanned the bar before a man at one of the booths waved his hand. She smirks and hooks an arm around you, immediately ushering you to follow her. When you two got to the booth, said man is wearing a deep red button-up, though it should be considered a button-down with how many buttons are loose. Jet black hair is tied back, a dangerous grin supporting his lips.
“Ayee, it’s good to see you, Prism,” He stands to greet the woman. His eyes glance towards you as he raises a brow. Prism took the hint as she nodded back towards you, standing just to her side.
“Right, Flambae, I want you to meet my friend,” She introduces you, keeping your identity a secret. “He goes by Snow Storm, but Stormy for short.”
“Stormy for friends.” You corrected, flashing a sharp smile towards Flambae.
Said main hums before he smirks, mirroring the same dangerous grin. “Oh yeah? A friend of Prism’s a friend of mine,”
“We’ll see,” You chuckle, shaking his extended hand, letting your frost power seep through just a bit. “And I take it your powers are… fire?”
“I control the fire and flame, I am Flambae,” He smirks, sparks of orange dancing around the clasped hands. Your senses immediately surround your hand with your power, protecting you from his display of fire.
Prism catches the palpable tension between her and sighs loudly, pushing past both of you in the direction of the bar. “You men, I swear!”
“Imma go get us some drinks, try not to kill each other while sober!” She rolls her eyes as she walks, leaving you and Flambae alone. You groan, dropping Flambae’s hand and taking a seat facing him. He does the same, eyes still dissecting your profile. There was silence between you, only interrupted by the bar music and the murmurs of the other patrons' conversation. You glance around, finding subjects to focus your mind on instead of the annoyingly pretty man in front of you before he opens his mouth again, questioning you.
“So uh… How’d you meet Prism?” He raises a brow.
You shrug, tapping a finger on the table. “We were friends before I moved here, I mean– I didn't realize she moved here too, we became close again since she’s the only other person I knew that's from Michigan,”
“Oh, so what brings you here, then?”
“Came here cuz uh… I got bored, I guess.”
“What? Robbing innocent shops isn't as entertaining anymore?” You chuckle at Flambae’s question, shaking your head.
“Aim for a bigger prize is what my folks used to say,” Flambae only hums as a response, before he continues.
“With powers like yours, I thought you’d be running an ice cream truck instead of becoming a villain,” He snickers. “No offence, but uh… your powers aren't exactly… Destructive.”
Flame runs up his arm to his palm, the man's power just as flashy as his personality. You huff and roll your eyes, thinking just how fitting his abilities are to the man. “Right, and you would be better off being somebody’s water heater, but you don't see me saying anything about that,”
His smile drops; instead, Flambae chuckles darkly, a hint of teeth behind a grin, visible annoyance within his eyes. Frost creeps between your fingers, hairs on your skin anticipating a brawl, and yet, Flambae surprises you with a full laugh. You almost lost your composure from his shocking change of demean, but immediately school them back as the man’s laughter dies down.
“Prism has a great taste in friends,” He grins. “She’s friends with me, so of course she does– obviously–”
You were about to interject before he continued with a finger pointed your way. “But you? I like your whole uh- style. It suits you,”
“Thanks…?” You sputter, though you let the compliment simmer within you. When your brain finally caught up, Prism came back with three shots of alcohol, setting them in front of you and Flambae before she made you scoot deeper into the booth.
“Good to know you both haven't torn down the place yet, watch’u been talking about anyway?” She glances between you and Flambae, a smirk playing on her lips.
You stare at Flambae’s hand that's on your shoulder, hairs on your arm standing when you hadn't noticed the man had moved closer. “Just how much of a good friend you are, babe, isn't that right, Stormy?”
“Sure,” Tension makes itself known on your jaw, though you force an easy smile for Prism. Her eyes sharpen before eventually sighing.
“You damn right I am, but you both better not be fighting behind my back,” She points between the two men in front of her. “I wanna record it,”
Ever since then, you, Prism, and Flambae became closer. The relationship was friendly, though between you and Flambae, there was an underlying tension that has yet to be named. Months flew by, and you and the two friends had hung out more than you can count. It was mostly on weekends or after a successful robbery. Prism would bring you, and Flambae never rejects a party. Eventually, the dive bars turn into lunch at local diners, then to random hangout places. The warmth of friendship started to seep between the cracks of the group, and while you kept your secrets deep within you, Flambae was easier to crack than you expected. Whenever he would get drunk, somehow the man finds himself crashing at your place while muttering pieces of his history.
You learned his name, his family, his native background, all from the man rambling in the dead of night. While you're still learning to trust him, you know the first code of maintaining a good villain-friend relationship was to not leak each other's secrets— without payment. So you kept his personal information filed inside your brain, away from prying eyes, even when Flambae often wakes up hungover and cranky, at which he would tumble around your kitchen as you fix him breakfast and drive him back to his place. It almost became a routine, a familiar ritual, to the point of you making mental notes to buy more groceries in case Flambae decided to crash. You got used to his presence.
“You know I can fly, right?” His voice was softer than the radio you almost missed his question. The car was stopped in front of an intersection. The traffic light was on a bright red. It was a bright Friday morning, Flambae sat at the passenger seat while your blank face stared into the streets.
“I’m sorry?”
“This? Driving me home? I don't need it.” He mutters. Your brow furrows, a visible crease on the edges of your lips.
“Okay? You know I don't mind… ” Genuine confusion must be visible as Flambae immediately turned away when he tried to meet your eyes.
“I don't need your charity case, alright?” Flambae answers, his tone clipped. You feel your confusion starting to transition to anger, though you knew better than to escalate.
“I’m– This isn't a charity case, Flambae. I don't think it’s wise to fly around while you’re fucking hungover.”
“Oh, so you care about me– No, I’m not fucking hungover, wise guy!” He bites back, sparks start to show between Flambae’s digits. You inhaled sharply, turning back to face the road when the cars behind you began to honk. Annoyed, you continue to drive, mainly to distract the growing anger.
“Yeah? So it’s okay for me to just kick you out onto the street, right now?” You smile mockingly, glancing at Flambae. You knew stroking the fire was not advised, especially inside your only car that you had no insurance on—It was stolen, alright? Cars are expensive.
“Oh please, y’know that might be for the best,” He crosses his arms, dropping back into the seat, sarcasm laced in his words. You were about to drop the argument before you heard muttering under his breath. If you’ve known Flambae long enough, you know the man was saying things he wished you had heard but didn't.
So instead, you ask, “Okay, then let me ask you one thing;”
“Why do you keep coming back to my apartment, when you’re fucking wasted? Do you know how many times I wish I didn't need to see your stupiddly pretty face all drunk on my goddamn couch and make me worry about what you were doing all night–”
The car halts, a red light you almost ran. Your anger has slipped; you realize when you stare back at the man beside you, out of breath. His expression shocks you, a mixture of embarrassment and anger on his usually confident demeanor. You gulp, holding back the gnawing anger instead. “I… You don't have to answer that– I didn't mean to say–”
“Shut up.”
The air grew humid, a mixture of your abilities leaking into the car and Flambae on the edge of lashing out with his. Crackles can be heard, you gulp, and keep looking at the man beside you, though he has his eyes boring into the dashboard.
“I didn't–”
Flambae pushes open the car door and swiftly slams it closed. You immediately follow him out of the vehicle, shouting his name. The man bursts into flames in front of you, which had you covering your body with a layer of ice, avoiding a serious burn. His eyes are glowing outlines, staring into you before he mutters, “Don't come looking for me.”
He surges upwards and flies away, leaving a scorch mark on the concrete below. You follow his path before Flambae disappears between the clouds, at which you release a pent sigh. Dread settles deep inside your heart, something worse follows the feeling, but you didn't have the capacity to dissect it at that moment. You walk back into your car before the traffic becomes the reason you’re arrested. When you settled back in, you hadn't realized the burn mark that runs up your arm, from your wrist to your upper arm. Flambae’s fire must have burnt through your ice, or amidst the panic, you didn't cover it with enough layers of ice.
Though the wound hurts, it reflects the pain within your core, a mess you have yet to realize.
Weeks had passed by before Flambae talked to you again. Thought it was mostly for Prism’s birthday party. She invited both you and Flambae to her mansion and promised alcohol. While you hesitated, you truly do hold the woman close to your heart, and she was your friend who goes back before you became a villain, so you relented.
You wore your best party casual, keeping your hair tidy and accessorizing appropriately. You decided to wear a cologne, keeping it simple enough for Prisms' usually lavish parties.
The house isn't exactly a mansion, but it is bigger than most apartments. Her house is outside of Beverly Hills, a drive away from your place. When you arrived, the party had already started, judging by the booming music from inside the place and multiple cars and bikes parked outside. You rang the bell and were greeted by Prism in a gorgeous outfit with gold accents, her hair braided down but still supporting the blue and pink colors.
“Stormy, you made it!” She cheers, bringing you into a hug. You laugh, hugging the woman back.
“Wouldn't miss my best friend's birthday party,” You grin. “Oh, and here, it’s a surprise,”
You handed her your gift, which was a necklace wrapped within a shoe box you found, intending to be a prank when she found the smaller jewelry inside its actual box instead of a pair of shoes. She chuckles and sets it aside onto a table piled with other gifts, towering over you.
“Come on! The party’s just gettin’ started!” Prism drags you inside and you follow easily. What you didn't prepare for was to see Flambae on the other end of the lounge, sitting beside another man. The stranger has his arm around Flambae’s shoulder, a sly smile on his lips. Though you're uncertain if Flambae had spotted you, you certainly saw the display, making a putrid feeling in your gut start to swell.
In the past weeks, you had to convince yourself there was nothing between you and Flambae. You were only kind to him as a partner in crime, as someone who's also in the villain world. When he would ramble about his family, you only ever listened intently as a means to gain leverage over him—if ever the time comes. Everything you did had an ulterior motive, is what you kept saying to yourself.
Is what you keep repeating inside your heart, regardless of what you feel.
Prism’s birthday party was amazing, as all lavish parties are. There were drinks, a DJ, you watched your best friend cut her tiered cake, and hosted a dance circle in the middle of the lounge floor. Prism controlled the partygoers with her natural confidence as she danced and sang her original songs, creating an easy atmosphere that everyone followed. The song transitioned into something slower; the bass carried a beat through the room, and the lights had dimmed to a dark indigo. With a few drinks in your system, it was easier to move between the crowd, slipping past bodies with a simple shuffle.
You were nursing your cup of alcohol before your eyes widened at the arrival of Flambae just meters in front of you. He’s making his way between dancing bodies, with a hypnotizing stare that meets your eyes. The room seems to spin, though you would blame the influence of the alcohol; it certainly did not play a part in the warmth you feel creeping up your cheeks. Flambae doesn't break eye contact until he’s chest to chest, practically moving against your body, and a prominent sweet scent goes into your senses.
“Here,” His calloused fingers trail down your arm until they reach your cup. He sets it aside, though he slips his fingers between yours, pulling himself against you.
The music and drinks nurture an intoxicating atmosphere, almost dream-like as Flambae’s lidded eyes take his fill. He whistles lowly, a dangerous smirk on his lips. “Don't you look pretty,”
You huff, feeling the heat on your face, thanking the dim light that it shouldn't be as visible. “I should say the same for you,”
Flambae chuckles as he guides your arms to settle on his hips, letting his own easily hang on your shoulders. You follow his steps into an easy sway, slow and rhythmic, following the beat of the music. The lights flicker a hue of blue and purple, a ghost of white and red follows it. Both of you continued to bathe in each other's warmth, in Flambae’s alluring eyes as he leads the movements.
It wasn't until Flambae grazed the healed burn on your arm did you realized the predicament you both are in. “I’m happy you didn't come running after me like a lost dog,”
Your movements halted. You furrow your brows, staring straight into Flambae. “That's… no– I shouldn't be doing this.”
Flambae feels your hands shake, wavering as they leave his hips. You slowly push him away, making space between the two of you. He hadn't caught on that said space has gone cold, small snowflakes appearing from your hand that pushes against his chest.
“Don't– Don't do this, Flambae.”
The man in question stares at your hand, a sense of bewilderment behind his eyes that he tries to cover with his faux confidence. “Do what? I only wanted a dance–”
“No. You… You left me.” Flambae scoffs as you meet his eyes. “You were the one who left, you don't get to do this to me.”
“I didn't do anything. You don't need to make all this drama.”
“Drama?” You tilted your head, feeling your ice shards seeping through your skin. “Us having breakfast together, talking about our damn lives– That's drama to you?”
“You're making a big deal out of nothin’. Don't wear your heart on your sleeves, Stormy.” Flambae mocks, crossing his arms. You stare at him, mouth slightly agape.
The once simmering anger instead dies down, leaving only a gaping wound within you. Your abilities retract, only poking small holes in the inside of the jacket you wore. You scoff, finding the floor to focus on. “You're right. It was nothing,”
“And it shouldn't become anything.”
You take a step back, permanently widening the rift between you and the man. You gulp, meeting his eyes. There was a tinge of visible regret within Flambae’s eyes, though with how heavy your head seems to feel, you could be mistaken. Instead, you gathered every part of yourself that wasn't hurting. “For a man who talks big about controlling fire, you sure are a coward, Flambae.”
The music continues to thump behind you as you leave the house. You immediately start your car and pull out of the driveway, and if you saw Flambae running out of the house, you decided to pay no attention to it.
—
You were one of the first people to join the Phoenix program. After some time, doing villain work, robbing banks, and stealing stuff can only get so fun until it becomes mundane. You're mostly settled with the amount of money you've gained and so you decided to hand yourself over to SDN to join the new rehabilitation program. It's been a couple of months since you’ve been under Chase, with a team of renowned heroes, while Blonde Blazer gathers more reformed villains into the team.
When Blazer called you into her office, she informed you that she had finally gathered a team of villains to formally start the Phoenix program, and she hoped you could meet them and get yourself acquainted with the team since you’ll become a part of them.
“I’ll be holding a meeting this afternoon, it’s mandatory to come, okay?”
“Like I have anything better to do, miss Blazer,” She regards you with a look which you only shrugged. She’s grown used to your mannerisms, and while you were a former criminal, you’re the least likely to cause trouble in the SDN building. She sends you off to do your shift.
It was an hour past lunch, which was the designated time for the meeting. You finish washing your hands from the sandwich you had earlier and head into the meeting room. As you were about to open the opaque door, a familiar hue of orange and black raised your hairs. You blink, hesitating now to push into the meeting room when Chase suddenly appears next to you.
“What are you doin’ out here kid? Aint ya’ supposed to be there with Blazer, meetin’ all o'those fuckers?” He shakes his head and opens the door. “Come on ya’ ice maker, don't pussy out so now,”
Your answer was cut short when those same sharp eyes met yours. The scabbed wound was suddenly ripped open, beginning pain anew within your rib cage. You scan the room to see familiar and unfamiliar faces, the only comfort you managed to find was Prism's familiar grin, her shining eyes behind her visor.
“There you are,” Blazer smiles, pulling you to stand beside her. “Alright, Z-team, meet your last new member, Snow Storm.”
“Now you all will be working together as a part of the Phoenix program, so I expect some camaraderie and teamwork when you're under your own dispatcher, understand?”
The room mumbles in agreement, though your eyes were glued to Flambae and his frown. Your hand rubs at the burnt skin on your arm. You did not expect to see him again after years of avoiding him, of pushing that hypnotizing smile and borderline-illegal body of his. You did not expect to be working with him either.
You sent a silent prayer to whoever will be the Z-team’s future dispatcher to have the best of luck.
Hello!! Would you plz write Sonar from dispatch x Moth hybrid! Reader where at first the two have a weird predator/prey dynamic going on due to their species, but eventually grow past their instincts and fall in love?? :)
(I just love predator x prey relationships sm they scratch my brain so good and its funny when they're like "do they want to eat me or eat me?"/"do I want to eat them or eat them?")
Oooh I LOVE THIS!! 😍🤞
THE PEOPLE CRAVE SONAR!!
Sonar x Moth hybrid!GN reader!!!! 🦇🦋
WHY IS THERE NO MOTH EMOJI?!
Key:
🦇: Sonar
🦋: Moth Hybrid!reader
👔: Robert
👠: Malévola
First time you two saw each other.. It was head for head. Between you two always arguing and.. Perhaps physical fighting.. It was just disaster.
In this case, lets say you're on the Z-team.. Even worse!
"🦇 Uh robbie? You sure you wanna send disco eyes? They might get distracted by a light and fuck everything up." "🦋 Sonar shut the fuck up, you see one boob and its over." "🦇 That's completely different man!" "👔 *sigh* Sonar, (name), you two are going to have to learn to work together. Im sending you both tog-" "🦋🦇 WHAT?!" "🦇 Robbie, don't do this to me man.." "🦋 Do you WANT me to die?? "
During the team sabatoging (sp?), he was relentless on you. "🦋 ROBERTTTT HES OUT OF CONTROL, HES TRYING TO EAT ME WHAT THE HELL MAN?!" "👔... Mal.. Go and stop sonar from eating (name).." "👠 On it."
When you two are annoying each other, he threatens with things like, "🦇 Cut it out man... I eat weaklings like you for breakfast. You'd be nothing..!"
He's tried to bite you so many times. Blonde blazer has had to seperate you like children. "Okay! Sonar.. (Name).. Seperate rooms.."
You've had to pull a coupé a couple of times and "promise" him something explicit just to chain him to a pole so he'll stop trying to to bite you.
"🦇 SOMEONE CHEWED HOLES IN MY SUIT, MAN WHAT THE FUCK!" "🦋 :3"
You and him squeak and bat scream at each other 💔 disaster
You two didn't start to get along until a particular mission where you actually had to work together. No other heros could be dispatched, so you two had to deal with it yourselves. Although he did say, "epic fail" whenever you got hit, he helped you out and you helped him because.. Yous didnt feel like losing your jobs.
Funny enough...you two worked together very well when he you weren't trying to sabatoge each other.
After a few more missions together, he decided to put differences aside. "🦇 Hey uh.. (Name) listen I know we had our differences-" "🦋 you tried to eat me." "🦇 Yeah- whatever- if you'll just listen for five seconds. I'm.. Look i'm sorry, man.. Im really sorry. Mal said I need to get it together and I.. Totally agree." "🦋 Oh.. Really?" "🦇.. God this would be such.. An elite moment to pull an anime betrayal. I'm not gonna do it, relax .. Listen, how about we just go out for a drink after this? There's a really good opportunity here. Think of it from a buisness perspective. You and me, bro. We can be unstoppable.. And you have a nice ass." "🦋..."
Drinks were surprisingly fun! You watched him convince someone to buy crypto, and he bragged about it to you. "🦇 Thats how you do it.. Im a god, man, im telling you. UN.. Beatable."
You two even drunkly walked with each other's arm around each other's shoulder and fell over a few times
After that night, you could even say you have synergy with him now 😈😝
"👔 (name), sonar. Sending you two together" "🦇 Hell.. Yeah." "🦋 Wanna see who can fly there the fastest?" "🦇 Oh you're so on, you're going downnn charlie brown."
Another one! "🦇 I don't wanna braggg, but.. I think I have the most goated partner with me. Y'all can't even COMPARE..." "👠Rude." "🦇 Except Mal."
He didnt start to consider feelings until you got hurt critically and he immediately reacted panicked when usually he called you a "fucking loser, man" (affectionately) and just helped you back up. This time it was more, "🦇 Oh shit- (name)?! Hey- (name) cmon, Robbie! Man im freaking out, I need to bring them back ASAP!"
He begins to bring you light gifts after that. "🦇 Sup, man, I brought you this lamp. How awesome is that?"
YOU didnt start to consider feelings until you found yourself flirting back. First time you did it, you fully paused like.. Why tf did I just say that? "🦇 I'm gonna eat you if you keep this shit up, brotato chip." "🦋 Yes plz😝🤞" (or however you want LMAKSOSO) "🦇 Woah. Didn't know you were 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 like that."
Synergy likes turned into robert having to hear you two flirt💔 "🦇 God that suit makes your ass/tits look FANTASTIC" "🦋 says you. I could just eat you up." "🦇heh.. That's.. MY line.. 😈😝🤞" "👔 guys.. Public call."
He.. Also probably heard sonar ask you out. "🦇 You know, after this, we should TOTALLY go on a date." "🦋 Im down.. (Or however you'd like to agree💞)" "🦇 Wait- really? Awesome! This is so skibidi rizzler..." "👔....."
Anyone else agree he uses brainrot..?
YIPPIEIIEIEIE NOW THE ONLY TIME HE TRIES TO BITE YOU IS CONSENTING!!
Have you ever been tagged teamed by a moth and a bat? Its not fun..
"🦇 Hey (name)? You know what would be funny? You.. eating robert's clothes." "👔 Would not." "
Why be enemies when you do can fuck with EVERYONE together?
Taking care of each other's wings!!! Of you mesn hybrid as in.. Reader turns into a moth monster or just has moth wings anyways.
Guess whattt.. MOTHS ARE ALSO NOISE SENSITIVE! Thats so cute! They also make squeaking sounds to confuse bats. "🦇 Yeah, and get this.. This mother fucker had a SPEAKER.." "🦋 what a bitch.." (Comforting him bc RELATABLE)
"🦇 sup robbie." He says while you two are in a cocoon "🦋 :3"
@emuririri 's headcanon that sonar can be a tiny bat. It would be cute of moth reader did that too so you two can be a tiny bat and moth flying together and he keeps you safe from the other bats💞
Or if you're also a monster hybrid, just two giants flying in the sky. (Can we pretend that hybrids in the night sky are like shooting stars..? 💔)
Doing moth and bat courting things on each other! Moth hybrid!reader sending out pheromones hoping they'll somehow work on him and Sonar hugging you into cuddle balls. He also honks at you 😞
Hunting together is another way bats show love! Thats why I said you two are the team ever.
Moth hybric!reader finds him by smelling out his pheromones and he finds you by figuring you're at the nearest light source.
"🦇There you are..! Knew i'd find you here!" And you're at a specific lamp post
"🦇 remember when I tried to chew your wings off?" "🦋 Yeah.." "🦇...." "🦋..... Sonar." "🦇 nah, I'm just kidding. Get fucking dunked on, dude. Im SO in love with you brotosynthisis."
Folks, friends, y’all…. esk*mo is a slur. I understand a lot of people don’t know that, I don’t want to be a dick about it, but I’ve been seeing it in fics. Wanna write “esk*mo kisses”? Just say “nuzzled noses” or something.
I’m not here to call anybody out, it’s been in multiple fics, I’m not vague posting. This is just a psa. 👍🏻
[Text Description: “Hey! Reminder: Eskimo is a slur. It means ‘snow eaters’ in Cree and is a slur against Inuit . Also don’t use ‘Eskimo kisses’. It’s called Kunik. It is a greeting mostly used for family… Kunik was how I’d greet my mom and grandmother as a small child.” /TD]
Superman desperately scanning the street during a fight to find the most morally acceptable car to throw at his opponent, knowing that not everybody has insurance, and loss of transportation can ruin a life -
A wave of incredible relief washes over him as he spots the hard geometric lines and silver paintless sheen of a Cybertruck.
