Writing fanfic

She/them. 20. Requests are open. AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dastardly_Imbecile

[dastardly-imbecile]

Masterlist/About Me

FIND ALL MY FICS ON AO3

Call me Mars, 20, requests open for all fandoms, but responses are not guaranteed(since I tend to write full works, not drabbles, I'll usually fulfill it only if I feel I can write a couple thousand words of it. Then again, you never know! I like reading your thoughts regardless.)

Fics/fandoms below. Multichapter ones are indicated with an asterisk. Ones with smut indicated, please mdni!

CALL OF DUTY

Full Fics

ONEIRODYNIA (ghost/soap/fem reader, 18+)

MIDAS TOUCH (ghost/gn reader, 18+)

SPIELZEUGSOLDAT (könig/fem reader, 18+)

RIGOR MORTIS* (ghost/fem reader, price/fem reader, 18+)

NOTDEER (ghost/fem reader, 18+)

Among the Roots and Baby's Breath (könig/fem reader, 18+)

DETRITIVORE (ghost/fem reader, 18+)

TENEBROSITY (ghost/fem reader, 18+)

EPIPELAGIC (konig/fem reader, 18+)

Drabbles

Little Mermaid AU (konig/fem reader)

American Revolution AU (poly!141/fem reader, 18+)

Android AU (poly!141/fem reader)

Comforting Simon (ghost/gn reader)

STARDEW VALLEY

Danse Macabre (sam/fem reader, 18+)

Thalassophilia* (elliott/fem reader, 18+)

Ad Infinitum (shane/fem reader, 18+)

A Lesson in Culpability (pierre/morris)

ARCANE

Mechanical Butterfly** (jinx/ekko, viktor/jayce, various pairings)

**ONLY THE FIRST SIX(?) CHAPTERS ARE AVAILABLE ON TUMBLR, the rest can be found on AO3

FEAR & HUNGER

Not the Dungeons* (crow mauler/gn reader)

PEANUTS

Prom, 1968 (schroeder/lucy)

MANDELA CATALOGUE

And He Came Down on Wings of Snow (gabriel/gn reader)

DETROIT: BECOME HUMAN

Almost Human (connor/gavin)

HANNIBAL

Warmth (hannibal/gn reader)

Ouroboros (hannibal/will graham)

RETURN TO TREASURE ISLAND

Trapped on an Island With Dr. Livesey* (dr. livesey/gn reader)

TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD

Tableau of Quiet Nights* (atticus finch/gn reader)

[dastardly-imbecile]

EPIPELAGIC

AO3 HERE

He bows his head, and adds a quiet, almost ashamed, “tut mir leid. Habit. I am a… Colonel.”

Right. Somewhere up there in the echelons of importance. You wonder, idly, how many people that means he’s killed. Maybe you can compare body counts. --- You take König's virginity. OR you speedrun making him very pathetically attached (same thing???)

---

Wordcount: ~3.3k

He’s not the first customer you’ve seen tonight, but you think he might be your last. Of course, that’s not necessarily because he’s built like a brick shithouse and wearing the most ominous getup you’ve ever seen, but instead because the morning is rapidly kissing towards dawn, and you’d quite like to get some sleep tonight. 

Though, maybe the thought that, this man might kill me, crosses your mind more than once. A whisper of a feeling, an albatross’s wings kissing a foam-tipped wave before it soars back up upon the tepid wind currents of the Pacific. 

He’s a soldier, that’s obvious—if not from the size and the garb, the strange mask draped over his head and the camo that curls thick fingers over his body, then from his manner. The way his eyes dart briefly around the room, the closeness of his hand to his guns, long shards of black metal that blink at you under the cruel light. 

It’s not like you’re unused to soldiers—they're most of who come here, after all, boys puked out of the bellies of metal warships. Spend a few days gambling away at the dingy casinos, getting drunk, trying their best not to fall from the docks into the claws of the ocean. Partake in the best that money can buy, this close to the edge of the earth—drinks, favors, women. 

Sounds worse than it is. Not like you didn’t choose this profession—not like it doesn’t get you a nice apartment to get back to, put food on the table and clothes on your back, carve a little niche of living into the swollen belly of this megacosm’s corpse. 

In any case, you have enough experience with his type that even the mask only phases you for a second longer. Only a momentarily blip in your expression, before you rapidly regain control of yourself, every detail of your body—legs spread long upon the plush fabric of the couch, one arm splayed over its back, the other by your side. Project languid, project seduction, push your chest out, dip your chin. All the other girls in the room are doing the same—and, though it may not be as dramatic as a competition, you can feel the push of a dozen desires, all shoving at him. 

How must it feel, you wonder, to be wanted?

Despite the fact that you’re actively trying to attract his attention, your heart still jolts in your chest when he looks at you. When you read the portent, from the glint in his eyes and the shift of his mask, that you will be getting home late—rather, early. 

It’s a quiet affair, really, to rise and meet him, to see from your peripheral the other girls slinking away, hear the bitter drag to their shuffles. Competition isn’t exactly steep—in fact, you’d say you try to support each other more often than not—but you can look at him and guess he’ll pay well. Anyone would be sad to lose that.

The conclusion to draw from that is that, as is the nature of antonyms, you’re happy to have him, but that’s not necessarily true either. Still, you’re an old hand at pretending, at smearing a smile across your lips and dropping a few admiring glimmers into your pupil. As you stand, you run through what you know—paid already for the full package, two hours, all of heaven that can be experienced between polyester sheets and thin drywall. 

He meets you in the center of the room, hands stuck primly to his sides, insofar as a man the size of a tank can be prim—which, he makes it work surprisingly well. You step back just before collision, use that momentum to lead him back, down the long stretch of the hallway. It’s opulent enough at first glance, but you’ve been here long enough to recognize the cracks beneath that. Where the wallpaper wrinkles and peels, flaking off the moldering wood siding. The soft spots beneath the plush carpet—if you step just right, the floor creaks, bowing down into some invisible sinkhole that stretches who-knows-how-deep. 

Through the center of the earth, you think. To the molten core, surrounded by concentric rings of scoria and pumice slag, all the world’s oceans slipping towards the immaterial bottom. 

“What can I call you?” You ask the man, more to tug your mind away than anything else. A long moment passes before he answers. His voice is surprisingly high for one of his size, and there’s an accent to it, one that you can place as somewhere in the realm of German, harsh at the ends, drawstring tight around the belly of the vowels. 

“König,” he says. Not a real name—or at least, you guess not—but, again, probably some odd military custom. Either that, or he’s some sort of fugitive. 

What difference is there in the end, really?

You let out a low whistle as the door to your assigned room finally comes into view—a slab of stained white wood, painted clumsily over with whorls of gold.

“Fancy. You a general, or something?”

“That’s classified,” he says abruptly. You smile, suddenly awkward, moreso when he bows his head, and adds a quiet, almost ashamed, “tut mir leid. Habit. I am a… Colonel.”

Right. Somewhere up there in the echelons of importance. You wonder, idly, how many people that means he’s killed. Maybe you can compare body counts. 

Instead of voicing that thought, you gesture him over to the bed, which he sits upon the corner of, as if scared to take up too much space. Which is a hard ask for someone of his size, but somehow, he manages to cram himself into one less dimension of space. It’s the small things that give his impression of smallness away—the fact that his shoulder would brush your sternum even while you stand, the fact that you only have to tilt your chin slightly to meet his eyes, slate-blue behind his odd mask. The divot his presence creates in the bed sends the sheets creasing towards him in the same manner as the rotating sun in a gravity well; drawing all the solar system into its berth. 

It would certainly be easy to fall into him, you think. You’re far from picky in your partners—don’t really have any room to be in this business—but there is always the occasional customer that, besides base attraction, has a presence to them. You’d expect him to, as a colonel, but it’s beyond that—not the sort of air that necessarily inspires fear. He doesn’t strike you as a drill sergeant, but if not that, you don’t know what lends him this attraction. 

After a moment of watching, you brush the thought from your mind, instead sliding into place beside him—smoothly grabbing a condom from the bedside drawer in the same motion. Your free hand, you rest upon his thigh, fingers brushing the inseam of his pants, running along the thick thread. Wordlessly, you proffer the condom, and at his nod—more like a twitch of his head—you move your hand up, towards the belt, grazing your fingertips over his bulge along the way. 

“One,” he starts, then pauses—to swallow, maybe, bury his fear and build some courage, “one thing. Ah, Sie. Ma’am”

“No need to call me that,” you say lightly, “you know my name.” After a moment, you add, with your best smile, “if you want to, we can work that in.”

“Nein,” he says immediately, quickly backtracks with an, “ah… not my topic.” His chin dips towards his chest with each further word, until you tilt your head in question. 

“What? I don’t bite.”

Unless you ask me to is the obvious addition. So much so that you don’t bother to say it. Call it played-out. Overused, too. You’ve already done it once.

“I’m a, ah, virgin,” he says. Behind you, his hand tightens upon the sheet. You stare at him blankly for a moment. 

“No problem. I’ll make it good, then?”

A pause, like he expects more from you, which you do not give—at least not in the verbal. Instead, you lean a touch closer, enough that you catch a trail of his scent—clean, evoking linen and cedar, some generic male soap that has a faint, earthy tang under all that artificial suave. He does not smell like blood, or dust, or fire, none of which you suppose you’d necessarily have expected—he is a soldier, but a bathed one still—but some phantom shadow of war still palls over him, seeping from the creases in his starched uniform.  

Despite your nosing closer, König remains still as stone. He reminds you of the jagged rocks that line the waterline, down where the beach melts into the cliffs. You used to clamber over them all you liked as a kid—until some day in the realm of nine years old, when you fell, and a riptide washed you halfway out into the sea. You’d been saved by a tourist, thoroughly scolded by your parents, and you never dared go out onto the rocks after that. 

“We good?” You ask, peering up through your lashes at him, swallowing the taste of saline, brushing the fingers of the waves from your throat.

“...Ja,” he settles on eventually, “I mean… danke.”

You’re not sure what he’s thanking you for, but you’re happy enough to make yourself believe it’s in anticipation of a job well done. The hand that rests upon his belt, you move, digging into his waistline completely—undoing the metal with a quick, deft movement, dragging the zipper down. He obliges as much as he is able, shuffling back on the bed so the pants slip to the floor. 

You run a hand over his thigh—his skin is pale, roughened by the light hairs that sprout intermittently from the skin. Along the sides, there’re old stretch marks, faded stripes of cream and tallow. One large scar cuts from beneath his briefs down to almost his knee, and you ghost briefly over it, but do not ask of its origins. Instead, you once again hook your fingers into his waistband and drag, finally exposing him fully to the air. His stomach tenses, barely visible beneath his shirt, and he tips his head back, chin cutting a clean arc towards the sky. Already, and you’ve barely touched him. 

You suppose he wasn’t lying. Unbelievable as it sounds, you have never had experience with inexperience before—given most of your clientele are soldiers, it’s probably obvious enough as to why. Why he told you—what he wants out of that divulgence—stands a mystery as well. Does he want soft, does he want special, does he want sublime? You can do all three, albeit some better than others. 

His cock is already hard, erect, dipping back to rest against the solid lines of his stomach. You hesitate just looking at it—wondering if you should grab a larger condom, for one—but push through with all the steel that professionalism can provide. Steady it with one hand and slowly slide the latex over with the other, pressing gently over the ridges and veins, feeling they way they twitch under your touch. He lets out a shallow gasp, high and breathy, and you can’t help but linger, in an attempt to coax another one out of him. Mission success, as you rub your fingertips along the base, and he nearly falls back onto his elbows. You wish you could see his face, still shielded behind that cloth mask, but all you get are his eyes—blue as tidepools in the early morning, pale shallows catching the weak sunlight that’s not yet strong enough to burn them away. 

“I’ll be gentle,” you whisper, finally moving from the side of the bed—rising, as he lays back, to settle atop him, straddling his waist. You resist the urge to fiddle with your top—the many layers of satin and faux-silk, bunching and gathering inopportunely on your collar, catching under you—because he looks so hypnotized by the movement of the fabric, the way it shields your body just enough to be tempting. His hips are so broad that the very act of sitting elicits a pleasant sort of strain in your thighs, a stretch that pulses as you lean forwards, ghosting your hand over his chest. The hair peeking above his shirtcollar is a shade lighter than auburn, not particularly thick—not enough to dig your fingers into, to tug, even without the fabric barrier—but you try your valiant best. You allow your fingernails to graze his chest. When that does nothing but make him groan again—dig them in deeper. 

“Good?” You ask. The movement is shielded by his mask, evident only in the way the fabric folds and shifts, but you think he nods. Your nails sink a touch deeper. 

Not enough to mark, to tear the fabric, but enough to push yourself up, to have something soft and broad to brace yourself against as you—slowly—sink onto his cock. 

You cannot say with complete certainty that he’s the largest you’ve ever had, but it feels that way in the moment, in the luxurious stretch he gives you—you huff out a breath of air, push the exhalation into a moan that’s only partially for show. Immediately, before you have fully sunk down, König’s hips cant up, seeking desperately more warmth, more you. You run your hand up, over his chest and across his shoulders, settling on curling your fingers around the back of his neck—drawing him in through the thin, scratchy fabric of his mask. He goes willingly. Too willingly, almost, enough that you have to lessen the pressure, lest you draw him straight into your chest. Moderate the tug as, slowly, achingly, you bottom out, feel him pressed flush against every square inch of your insides. 

When you shift, he moves too. Not in the conscious way you’ve come to expect from your clientele—grabbing at your chest, at your face—but instead, as if bowed by a shockwave, a shuddering in his limbs that radiates out from where you sit. Slowly, on legs that are only slightly trembling, you rise, fall, rocking forwards in the same motion. You know what to do—how to play a man with your hips alone, paint his pleasure with the movement of your fingers, scrawl long lines of white-hot delirium across the canvas of his skin. 

“Good?” You ask. You think he tries to respond once —twice, thrice—but the words are shredded to pieces, reduced to nothing but ragged gasps, huffing out in time with your movements. 

You relent slightly, stilling just long enough that he chokes out a, “ja”. His own hands, still locked to his sides, grip the sheets tight enough to crumple them, crinkled fractals spinning out into the bed. You cast them an amused glance. 

“You can touch.”

He doesn’t move. You rock slightly, and he tenses, but you grab his hand, turn it so the palm faces you, and place it upon your thigh. He molds easily as clay, pliable down to the finger. He moves the other without further encouragement, encircling your thighs. Their minute shifts—the rub of the rough skin against yours, as you begin to move in earnest, allowing his involuntary jerks and thrusts to guide you—work with him, the jerky ebbs and flows of his desire. 

König’s hands tighten on your thighs for the first time—the barest pressure, ten points of focus. “Liebling,” he gasps, and that’s the only warning you get before he shudders beneath you, hands moving up to your waist, pulling gently, like he wants you against his chest while he’s coming—skin to skin, face to face. You don’t oblige, but you still your movements, allowing him to ride out the tail end of the climax in peace. Only when he stops twitching, and his hands fall back to the bed, do you rise. 

His absence leaves you terribly hollow for a moment, a cold ache in your gut, but it fades in a rapid discrescendo. His eyes, behind the mask, are shut. As you stand, the stretch in your thighs, tautness of your legs, grows acute—it’s not often that you find yourself as active, as in control, sat atop your paramour like a throne. Sometimes, you see nothing at all but the headboard and the blankets, feel nothing but the persistent dip and thrust of an inviolable force. That makes this new sensation almost pleasant, despite the soreness.

Some of it must also be attributed to his size. You cast a sideways glance at him, to find him already looking at you. Windows to the sky. It reminds you of when you were young, laying on your parents’ shag carpet, looking at the slanted windows and dreaming of flight. It reminds you of now, fully-grown into your skin, spending your days asleep, only seeing the sky when the clouds wrap it tight and bruise it dark shades of purple and indigo. Maybe you will catch a slip of sunlight on the trek back home today, maybe you will see the darkening sky when you wake tomorrow, ready to do all this over again. 

“There’s a bathroom,” you say, nodding to a door on the far wall, “if you want to clean yourself up.” 

He nods slowly. You smile. It is only awkward in the after if you let it be—let it sink in that all that marriage of flesh was bought-and-paid for, that you will be collecting your money from the front and vanishing in the slipstream—so you don’t give enough time nor silence for that to happen. Instead, lean forwards, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. 

“You were good for me. Maybe one of the best.” An impish smile, the peek of teeth, “couldn’t have told at all, you know?”

His eyes widen. You push him gently towards the door, and he moves obligingly, slinging his legs over the side of the bed. When he says your name, you tilt your head.

“Hm?”

“I… thank you,” he says, “mein… ah. You have…”

Even without desire clouding his mind, he seems at a loss for words, looking not at you but at the ground. You smile again. 

“You will be gone?” He asks, “when I come out?”

No use lying about it. You nod. He hesitates for a long moment, before standing. Though the motion is slow, it still somehow manages to startle you, the way you are so quickly enshadowed. “Is there… ah, a way to contact you? Talk to you, again, Liebling? I…”

You wait patiently for the end of the word, but it’s swallowed just as it surfaces. Some embarrassing confession, maybe, or some plea that he knows will not be answered.

“Ask for me at the front,” you say, “next time.”

The last part is a guarantee. You cannot say how long it will be—how many months will scrape by, between now and then, how often you will be the subject of his fevered dreams on shores far from home, but he will come back. Even after the tides of war will have whisked him away—he’ll return, like all the taken things do, jellyfish and seashells and driftwood buoyed up by the circular current. Though he doesn’t really fit into any of those categories. More aptly, a beached whale, pale behemoth with soulful eyes. 

And you will find him, place your hand upon his arm, let him regard you in that all-consuming, laser-focused way of his. Next time. You cannot wait.

[dastardly-imbecile]

I'm sure some form of this has been done before but...

sea witch!Konig who knows you, the king's youngest daughter, by the sound of your voice on the currents—you twist through the notes easily as any mythological siren. Every night, he curls up in the dark currents of the ocean's lower caverns and lets you soothe him to sleep—sometimes, it is the only reminder that there are beings other than him in the sea. Since his exile from the upper clans, all he sees are the shelled, eyeless creatures that cling to the rocky walls, the occasional pale, tube-shaped worms and snaggletoothed fish.

He does not expect to wake one morning to find an actual seafolk hesitating at the entrance to his cave. Less so does he expect her to open her mouth, ask hesitantly for a favor—and to recognize that voice, to be able to pair it to his everpresent lullaby. You stumble through your story, but he pays little attention to the content of your speech. Something about your father's stories, something about his forbidden magic, something about desperation and love and what he can do. He only snaps out of trying to permanently etch your face into his mind's eye at your final words—turn me into a human.

Instantly, panic, enough that he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. He swims down into the crevasse, but you follow, evidently taking his flight as invitation—down, to where the water is lit only by motes of bioluminescent algae, through the sinewy fingers of the polypi that sprouts from the delicate silt. If he expects you to balk at the bones, at the detritus and the tar-dark sea, you do not.

You resume your plea. He wants to let you talk forever, just to keep hearing your voice—but, eventually, he cannot help but relent. He's no better than the sailors that your sisters charm off their ships, who believe the pretty women when they tell them they can breathe water. His heart breaks, however, when you laugh in joy and finally reveal the reason you want to shed your seafolk skin: a human prince.

Helping you means losing you. Not only you, physically, but your heart. (Which he never had in the first place, but his mind's run past that bit of reason). He tries to scare you out of it, speaks of your father's wrath, of human cruelty, but you hear none of it. Eventually, in a last ditch, demands payment. In response, you proffer him your wrists. Strings of dark pearls wrap up your forearms. He trembles as he slowly, carefully unwinds them, fingers brushing your skin, hoping desperately that you will also offer the gold chains that kiss your breastbone, let him unweave the bejeweled comb from your hair.

There has to be a way to convince you to stay. To enjoy your sojourn on land and then come back to him. Konig offers you a deal, eventually—if you don't win your prince's frail heart in a cycle of the moon, you'll be called back to the sea. Worse, you'll have to give up a part of you in exchange for this transformation: your voice. His heart leaps at the hesitation in your eyes, but still, you don't balk.

The transformation itself is simple. He brews a potion, finishes it off with a drop of his own blood. It will split your tail in two, trap your voice in his cave. That's the only thing that comforts him as you depart—the fact that before you (inevitably, obviously) come back to him, he will still have your song to soothe him to sleep.

[violentdeliiights]

i really think vampire johnny would only hate being an immortal blood-sucking creature because it means he can’t properly eat you out.

see, his spit’s an analgesic, a type of anaesthetic that soothes the pain after he bites from your neck, his tongue lapping crudely around the punctures. it works wonders in that manner, but he soon discovers it hinders his favourite activity.

before he was turned, he’d nestle between your thighs for hours, with you eventually pushing his forehead away and his face coming up glistening. loved the feeling of your softness between his lips, loved how much pleasure he could give you with his mouth, loved how you’d shut him up by sitting on his face and using him. after he was turned, he’d returned to you with even more fervour, excited that not even your monthlies could prevent him from nuzzling between your legs until you passed out.

only for him to find his normally sloppy, lackadaisical tactics of lapping at your cunt made you completely numb.

“yer nae makin’ any noise, bon.”

“…johnny i can’t feel anything.”

he’d rather be killed and brought back all over again. in fact, he’d go as far to say the bullet makarov drove through his temple hurt less than this.

now, he’s forced to use his fingers on you until his skin prunes- a feat for an immortal, never aging vampire.

sometimes, though, when you’re asleep and he’s bored attempting to pass the night hours on his own, he’ll stick his head under the covers- if only for his own pleasure.

[dastardly-imbecile]

to think i could have gone on in life never having read any of your work 💔

this might be the sweetest thing ive ever heard thank you ily

[dastardly-imbecile]

thinking about robots and androids and mmmm all that

Rich men have rich tastes. That's the first thing you learn, as the newest, most expensive member of Price's employ. Your skin is seamless, titanium joints hidden behind smooth sheets of silicone, biometrics tuned as closely to the sanctity of life as technology can get.

It is not Price who wakes you. That honor goes to Kyle—his personal attendant, and the newest after you. Same flawless skin, same even hitch to his movements, but there are tells. His eyes gleam a bit too brightly, his voice is a touch too tinny, his eyes do not crease right when he smiles. Still, his hands are warm as he levers you out of your plexiglass case, brings you to life by pressing the switch hidden beneath your tongue, Sleeping Beauty awoken with the kiss of his printless fingers.

It's him who directs you to the nursery. You stand there, look at the eggshell-blue walls, peer at the two perfect white-wood beds. The children aren't there. With their father, he says in explanation. He doesn't need to explain the rest—it's already lodged in your programming. You will clean up after them with a relentless fervor no human could manage, entertain them with energy only hydrogen fuel cells can provide, teach them things that would take ten doctorate degrees.

The house is large, but empty. Less so when you meet the children—one darling girl and one darling boy, who approach you with wary fascination. You meet them at noon the day after your awakening; cook them a recipe pulled from your mind, and that's enough to endear them to your presence. Still, the silence pulls at you. Their father has left on a mission, Kyle explains—the man who had you manufactured, paid for your hair color and specified how many petabytes to cram into your neural system—and he has taken with him the rest of the help.

Not all of the help, as you find one day, sitting in the gardens while the children race through the sprinklers. From the corner of the yard emerges a man—immediately, you tense, hand darting to the emergency pager in your lapel pocket—but the shock fades as quickly as it comes, once you make out that he's like you. Dressed in Price's uniform, made of something not flesh.

Clearly an older generation than you and Kyle. He moves stiffly, and his joints are obvious beneath the rubbery skin. Whatever mechanisms fashion his face aren't quite sophisticated enough to overcome the uncanny valley, but that doesn't seem to scare the children—they race to circle around him, cries of "Johnny!" falling from their lips. He indulges them for a second, rubbing their heads and saying something that makes them fall over themselves giggling, but you can tell his attention is focused on you.

"Yer the nanny?" He calls. You nod slowly.

"Groundsman," he introduces, pointing at himself. Looks you up and down, a smile crawling up his face. He looks better grinning, you decide. "Boss paid a pretty penny for you. Bonnie lass. An' here Kyle was getting used ta being the eye candy."

There's more to his words than a compliment. You find yourself suddenly uncertain. You have never met Price, but you do not know if he'd like the way that Johnny is looking at you, though you yourself cannot even say what that look is.

Luckily, he departs before you have to decide on a response, urging the children back with a gentle push, and vanishing back into the foliage of the estate.

And so it goes for a month. You do not talk to Johnny again, but you see him—through the window, while you're teaching arithmetic, inside the glass greenhouse while you stroll around the pond. You're sure he sees you too. Sometimes, though biology did not give you this gift, the synthetic hairs on the back of your neck prick up, and you know you are being watched.

As a contrast, you see Kyle quite a lot. He comes to you sometimes, after you've put them to bed, and takes you on long tours of the manor's distant wings. He explains his own job—Price's personal assistant, responsible for managing his affairs—and Johnny's—some mongrel of mechanic, groundskeeper, and chauffeur—but when you ask about the other help, about Price himself, he manages to dodge the question. Sometimes, his arm brushes yours, and an odd electrical buzz runs down your spine, but you don't mention it.

All is well as you settle into your place in the household.

And then, Price returns.

---

You know he's back when you walk into the kids' bedroom, and they are not there—and, downstairs, there's noise in the kitchen. You are used to being the only source of clamor in this house. Johnny stays on the grounds, for the most part, and Kyle's sound is limited to the shuffle of his footsteps, the occasional scratch of his pen.

Your olfactory receptors pick up pancakes—usual, what the kids tend to request for breakfast—and coffee. Unusual. Nobody here has any reason to imbibe the stuff.

Until now.

You step cautiously into the kitchen. Both children are happily seated at the table, syrup-soaked plates before them. Kyle, too, poring over a binder in lieu of a meal. At the stove—back to you—a man. Before this point, you had not realized how shocking it would be to see a human, a fully-grown one. Shocking and not, all at once. You cannot distinguish the difference between his movements and yours, cannot discern what it is that functionally separates you. All you know is that there is. It's enough to stop you in your tracks.

Until he turns. You categorize the features of his face, the bush of his facial hair, the stained apron tied around his broad waist. Closer—closer—the absurd urge to back away—and then, his hand is around your waist, his lips pressing into your forehead, and he is tugging you towards the table, the children are grabbing with sticky hands, Kyle's eyes are carefully averted, you are something you are not.

"Sit, Pet," he murmurs, hand roving up your back to land on your shoulder, "I'll make you a plate. You've missed me?"

You've never met him before. But his eyes are wide and dark, and the grip on your shoulder is tight.

"Yes," you say. He doesn't move. You tilt your head carefully, press your lips to his knuckles. That seems to be enough; he steps away, back towards the stove.

---

You already know that Kyle will not find you, that night, once you've tucked the children into bed. What you do not expect is to turn, to see the doorway blacked out—blocked by a hulking figure. As with Johnny comes that brief moment of panic, but the difference now is that it does not fully cease once you realize he's not human.

If there's a technological generation to slot him under, it must have been far before your time. The only capitulations to humanity are his figure, are the vague impressions of his features. Otherwise, though—his arms are bare of skin at all, gunmetal gray from hand to shoulder, wires inset into the metal. Face boxy, nose crooked, and what artificial skin there is is scarred. No attempt to hide the cameras in his eyesockets, to mute their preternatural glow.

He does not speak. You know to follow despite that. At first, you recognize the halls—down here, the library, down there, one of many breakfast rooms—but soon, the turns grow foreign, and you realize Kyle did not show you all there was to see. Your guide stops outside a tall, hardwood door, and again, through your own intuition and some level of hidden signals, you know to open it.

Nobody's inside. The door closes behind you, and carefully, you approach the bed. On it, set against the perfect sheets, is a pink slip of clothing. Reveals itself to be a nightgown, when you pick it up, strappy and sheer. So different from the stiff linen uniforms you've been wearing—from the uniform that you slowly strip off, step out of. Your body is not necessarily unfamiliar to you, but you have not been given reason to linger over it before. To trace a hand over the line of your hips, to mind the way the fabric drapes from your breasts.

A door clicks open. Not the one you entered from, but one on the side of the room. You catch a glimpse of white tile and marble, and as Price steps out, see a sliver of yourself behind the shoulder, blurry reflection in the steamed-up mirror. He's shirtless, only a towel wrapped around his waist, shoulders gleaming.

"Simon scare you?" He asks. You shake your head.

"And the rest of the boys?" He crosses over to the wardrobe, turning his back to you. The towel falls, and you avert your eyes, even though you really know there is no reason to. "They behaved themselves?"

"Perfect gentlemen."

"Good," he rumbles, "good." He's pulled on a thin white overshirt that does little to reduce the definition of his chest, a pair of gray briefs that does even less. "And the little ones?"

"Very sweet," you say. "They've missed you."

"At least they've had their mother," he says, and this is what finally gives you pause. He must notice, because in an instant—faster than you would ever guess—he's at the bed. Hand at your chin, large and warm, tilting your head up. He does not speak, even as he exposes the long line of your neck, forces your eyes to meet his.

"...Yes," you whisper eventually, "yes. At least they have me."

A moment passes. No human hand could hope to bend your alloy bones, to damage you beyond the superficial, but still, you tense under his grip. It loosens. He smiles. Lets go and crosses to the other side of the bed, drawing you along behind him.

"C'mere. You know how much I've missed you, Pet?"

Somehow, you think you do.

[violentdeliiights]

i kind of love the idea of simon getting tattoos as a way to keep himself alive

like…tattoos are expensive right?? even if you go to the shitty cheap shops who don’t really keep up with health code, and just do crap flash pieces that could’ve come from anyone. which, let’s be real, 16 year old simon riley was 100% going to once that chump change was slapped in his hand on payday after a nine hour shift at the butcher’s. once he made sure his mum could afford to keep the lights and food on the table, he was straight down to that shop- the one he knew didn’t give enough of a shit to ask for ID.

getting a full sleeve from those shops is still going to be relatively expensive.

and it’s still just as painful. the needle hits his skin and it’s like his nerve endings are brought back to life. that flooding sensation from head to toe of fire. the stinging that still resides hours later. he kind of hates when it gets to the point that his skin goes numb. reminds him if the feeling of dirt in his airway and up his nose, the acceptance of death. the smell of sulphur and melting skin.

they also take a fuck ton of work to heal properly and look after. specific balms and being careful not to dig the pigment out with his scratching fingernails. fingernails used to clawing at the dirt to get his head above ground. simon isn’t one for vanity or caring what he looks like, normally, but if he’s paying as much as he is for a tattoo he wants to make sure it fucking lasts.

so, every time he feels that darkness threatening to make a home at the back of his mind. every time he starts to feel the dirt cloying at the back of his throat. every time he feels himself become sluggish and burdened with the weight of the world. he goes and gets a tattoo. gives him something to take care of past making sure he eats at least once a day. something to keep his mind busy and firing to fight off the emptiness that threatens to invade.

helps that he’s finally found a pretty little tattoo artist that makes his heart feel that same fiery sting. keeps his head from becoming an open void.

[quarterlifekitty]

I'm OBSESSED with your Fear and Hunger AU, please this is so niche and I NEED more!! (I'm begging, but this is obviously up to you, I love your word so much!!)

I like the idea of Johnny finding a creature from the depths and forming an unlikely bond.

Separated from his party and wandering the dark caves, he sees a couple of beady, blinking eyes that shine out from a shadowy corner. Doesn’t seem threatening…. Against his better judgement, he bites off a chunk of some salted meat and spits it in his palm, tossing it to you.

You take it gingerly and sniff it before sliding it between your jagged teeth. You scoot forward, just barely into his dim torchlight. Your features appear mostly human… they’re all just slightly off position from where they’d be on an actual person. Maybe you used to be one? Probably. You remember bars and stuff. It’s been so long since you succumbed to the darkness and learned to live in it like it was a caul.

“Well, look at tha’. A wee bonnie thing, all the way down here. You bite, sweetheart?”

You part your lips in some simulacrum of a smile, your teeth overlapping. The only thing to eat down here is flesh, and you needed more than just a couple of incisors if you wanted to chew.

Johnny’s always been the type not to be afraid of being bitten by strays. And he could use a friend. Not having anyone to talk to… it takes a toll. And you’re cute. Kinda.

“Dinnae have much in the way of food… unless supposin’ you’re interested in the rotten shite.”

He pulls some out from his bag. Doesn’t even know why he kept it… thought there might be desperate times, maybe. But you immediately rush for it, almost knocking him over when you grab it from him.

You haven’t spoken in a while. The sane ones attack you and die. The rest do not speak. You chew on the raw, dripping skin and murmur around it.

“I’m… so h-happy….”

His eyes light up at your, quite frankly, disgusting enjoyment. Maybe he’s been down here too long.

You’re not just cute. You’re gorgeous.

[violentdeliiights]

my versions of simon will always have a lisp or some kind of speech impediment (idk if that counts as a headcanon???idfk)

it’s a big part of the reason he’s so quiet, reverts to grunting and nodding. not because he’s miserable. he’s shy.

he grew up with no one talking to him, not his mam and certainly not his da, teachers would just kind of…ignore him; too scared to open his mouth at school and be either judged for the way he spoke or berated the same way he was at home. kids were cruel, hissing after him on the playground until he resorted to sitting under the coat hook at break times, tucked away to himself.

he left school early, dropped out to join the service and never finished his GCSEs, not to mention he was bottom set for everything anyway. he knew he was clever, could do shit with his hands and was decent at science and history, but everything else he just…couldn’t be bothered. refused to answer questions, never put his hand up, was in detention for ignoring teachers more times than he wasn’t.

even now, he’s known as the silent giant. looms in the corner of the room, a towering wall of imposing silence and shadow.

only you know, in the quiet of his bunk, just and so audible over the hum of his desk fan and the constant noise of the barracks. only you know how gentle he sounds. stumbles slightly over his words, sometimes he means one thing and says another, sometimes he has to whisper just to be brave enough to get the words out. but it’s only ever you. the one person he feels safe enough to talk to. and sometimes, when he gets in his own head, gets stuck in a rut and feels like he’s being buried alive again, you don’t hear his voice for weeks.

no one ever taught him how to speak. so he just…doesn’t.

[quarterlifekitty]

Inspired by @rawme-price ‘s recent baby posting

I think it would be so funny if, after so many years of assuring himself that he would make a terrible father, that he would be the more neurotic parent between the two of you. Like you’ve been straight up wiping your hands on the baby sometimes. Meanwhile for when Simon comes home you’re like

“Do you wanna tell me why I got a text from Johnny telling me to ‘teach my heartless, black-souled husband some humanity’. With the crying emoji.”

“He wanted t’hold Joey, and I said no.”

“Not that you’re not allowed to say no, but… why? Johnny’s clean… ish. And coordinated. I don’t think he’d drop a baby.”

“You’ve never had to share a loo with the man, sweetheart.”

“Does he not wash his hands or something?”

“Oh, sure he does. For all of 10 bleedin’ seconds, max. Not lettin’ him handle my precious bundle of joy.”

“Don’t you carry like a gallon of hand sanitizer, though?”

“Tha’s for emergencies only, luv.”

[violentdeliiights]

simon (could be any of the 141 tbh) x f!reader with pcos

god knows he hates when people point out his scars or how ugly his mug actually is under the mask, so why on earth would he care that every couple days you have to tweeze the living hell out of your face- he’ll snog you whatever, chin hair be damned

he’ll gladly rub and soothe your aching body, tells you you’re stunning and gorgeous and his dream girl even when your own head is telling you otherwise

when the doctor discusses how fertility and conception may look different for you, he doesn’t bat an eye. sits curled up around you in bed on the days where it hurts to breathe if you think about it for too long.

makes sure he’s gentle yet firm with you when your body won’t let you get out of bed, coaxing you to sit up and eat something. anything. even if it’s that one sandwich from that one deli all the way across town. c’mon, love, you’ll feel so much better once you’ve had a wash and changed into clean ‘jamas, yeah?

when you feel like your own body is failing you, he’s there. always.

[violentdeliiights]

all flesh rots - chapter 2

[series masterlist]

underground boxer!simon x plus size ring girl!reader

1.8k words

cw: description of scars, childhood neglect/trauma/abuse, mentions of domestic abuse, mentions of fighting/boxing, hurt no comfort, negative self talk, graves is evil, heavy objectification/misogyny, threats of murder, simon is an awkward loser but like cute

songs for this chapter: here comes your man - pixies // i serve the base - future (what simon was listening to in the gym) // survival - eminem

<- prev next ->

merry christmas from me to you ;)

There's a man in your dressing room.

Your feet are still frozen at the threshold of the doorway, eyes widened to dinner plates, and all you can see are scars. What seems like miles of dry, arid plains. Scars like drag paths marr the surface, some blistering and puckered and seemingly bone deep. Some still raw and stinging.

With his back turned to you and head tilted down, you can just about see a mop of ruffled blond hair, mussed and spiky like he'd rolled out of bed and clicked his fingers to appear before you.

The hand desperately clutching the tote bag strap on your shoulder, joints paling with the force, slowly detaches itself to bring a trembling knuckle to the door. Rapping three times proves futile as his head shoots around at the first.

—

Simon hates this time of year.

Ever since he was a kid. Christmas, winter. Hates it.

Not because of the cold. Or the rain. Or the ice underfoot. Or the blistering wind that cracks and freezes the skin of his broken knuckles.

He hates it because, for as long as he's been conscious on this bastard planet, he's been jealous. Winter rolls around and, without fail, Simon is filled with a seething, gut-rotting envy. It corrodes his insides, this bubbling cess pit of thick, unbridled jealousy.

Remembering the bright, red-cheeked faces of his classmates running across the playground, wrapped tightly in hand-knitted scarves and hats, squealing with delight for the joy of Christmas. The presents they'd scrawl haphazardly on makeshift Christmas lists. The wide, toothy smiles of parents come to pick them up for Christmas break.

Simon remembers the threadbare hat that'd once belonged to Tommy that barely covered his ears. Remembers asking Santa for his dad to leave his mam alone for good, and a Christmas dinner if he promised to be an extra good boy. Remembers trekking the 25 minute walk home on his own in the cold and dark. The bare tree in the front room, pathetic lights that barely covered the poor thing, every other bulb popped or flickering.

So yeah, he fucking hates Christmas. And for good fucking reason.

Now, as an adult, he barely acknowledges it. Sends a card with a wad of cash in to his mam, same to Tommy and Beth along with a couple toys he'd picked up from big Tesco for little Joseph. Sometimes he'll force himself to sulk down to the pub on Christmas Eve if only for human company. Most times, it's too busy and too loud so he ends up going home after his glass empties; his head's too busy and too loud as it is.

So, really, he's not all too put out by the idea of having to 'work' on Christmas Eve. Means he's not stuck in his flat just him and Johnny all day. Also means it might not be as busy tonight, the arseholes that normally show up to drink and bet forcing themselves to stay at home for one night and pretend they aren't dickheads to their missus and kids. Might even mean a bit more cash in his pocket, if people are feeling particularly merry and good-spirited. Or just full of drink. Same thing.

He's not actually had chance to meet his new boss yet, was just greeted at the back entrance by some fella who tried to throw his weight around but ended up coming off a massive prick and told to clean and prep himself in the cubby turned dressing room he's currently in.

He doesn't expect a knock so soon.

He definitely doesn't expect you to be stood there, looking like something from the dreams he forced himself to bury a long time ago. Resigned himself to being alone forever.

A crammed tote bag slouches from one shoulder, a thick zip-up hoodie around your middle, and sweatpants pooling around your bottom half. Hair messy and face bare except a spattering of acne scars and freckles across your reddening cheeks.

Simon swallows thickly, well aware he probably looks like a proper weirdo, "H-hi. Hey. M'Simon."

Not sure whether he's meant to shake your hand or not, he resigns himself to awkwardly patting his hip. If he's looking at himself through your eyes, he's seeing a big fucking brute of a man stood shirtless in what looks like a showgirl's dressing room. Which he's beginning to guess might belong to you if the crystals and sequins spilling from your bag are anything to go by.

He's half expecting you to scream and throw something at him, call him a perv and shove him out. Only, you offer him a slightly confused smile and your name, "I-uh, I'm the…ring girl. I guess? If that's what you wanna call it."

Simon hates the self-depricating laugh you offer with that, as if you can't fathom the idea of someone who looks like you being seen as attractive. Especially when he thinks you might just have the prettiest face he's ever seen.

"D'ya need me out of 'ere or? Sorry, was just kinda shoved in 'ere, 's my first day."

He sees the way your face fills with confusion, wondering how a man covered in so many battle scars can have possiby never fought before,"Oh, to fighting?"

He can't help the scoff that escapes him, "God, no. 'A wish."

The small, pitying smile you reward him with is filled with far too much understanding for his liking. Then again, he supposes if you're here, working for anyone even remotely affiliated with Makarov, you must be in a similar position to him.

"I can walk with you to Price's office? He's the trainer or whatever round here, him and Gaz, they might be of more use than I am?"

"Yeah, thanks, love. That'd be grand."

—

One shirt change later, you and Simon are walking down the dimly lit corridor to Price's office. From your nervous rambling, he's gleaned that he's one of the good ones, somewhat of a father figure to everyone in the gym.

"He kinda took me under his wing when I was fo- uh, when I started. Better than Graves, anyway."

His eyebrow raises as you stumble over your words, but he figures pressing his fingers into that obvious wound would do more harm than good. He's trying so desperately not to frighten you off, knows he's a big gruff scary fucker covered in tattoos and piercings and scars. Can't even fathom forgiving himself if he ever scared you.

Coming to a stop outside of a peeling door, he can see your brain running overtime to find something to say.

"Cheers, would never've come down here mu'self." He so desperately wants to keep talking to you, to just stay in your orbit for a while longer.

You're already starting to back away to wards where you'd come from,"Y-yeah, course. No problem. Y'know where my room is so just come knock whenever. Or, not whenever, cause I only work weekends but y'kno-"

His gravelly chuckle cuts you off softly, "Yeah. I know."

—

You don't see Simon for a while after that fight.

He'd knocked his opponent out after two rounds, so it'd been a relatively short night for the both of you.

You remember how he'd barely broken a sweat, chest heaving and a small cut above his eyebrow being tthe only sign of a fight at all. He'd brushed past you without so much as a glance afterward and you'd desperately tried to tell yourself not to take it to heart. You weren't going. to let that nagging voice in your brain telling you you were always going to be unlovable and unworthy and ugly win. He was probably just exhausted and wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. That's all.

It wasn't often you tripped over yourself thinking about men, and you weren't going to let him be an exception.

Only, when you did next see him over a fortnight later, that nagging voice became a ringing in your ear.

You'd stumbled over your own feet when you walked past the gym next to Price's office and heard music and the rythmic beat of fists against a punching bag.

1-2-1-1-2

Poking your head in, you saw Simon's unmistakeable frame hitting the bag in the very corner of the gym. His eyes, sharp and cutting, met your through his reflection on the mirrored wall he faced, fists immediately pausing.

Instead of making conversation like you'd expected, he simply swiped his forearm across his forehead to swipe away the sweat from his eyes, and grabbed the water bottle sat at his feet.

Swallowing, you gave him a timid smile and pushed your way further into the doorway, "Hey, haven't seen you in a bit- you okay?"

"'M'fine." He bit out, seeming irritated at the very thought of entertaining a conversation with you.

Oh.

"Good. Good. Are you fighting tonight?"

"Yup."

You don't think you've ever experienced embarassment quite like this. Maybe you'd completely imagined him being friendly, sweet even. The man you'd met on his first day was not the same man stood in front of you. Everything about him screamed closed off. His hunched shoulders, pursed lips, balled hands.

That nagging voice was right, after all.

"Well, good luck. Guess I'll see you later, then."

Not even deeming you with a response, he began to re-wrap his knuckles, turning his back to you completely.

—

2 weeks earlier

"See, Simon, I've been told you're a good boy. Do as you're told. Obeying orders. Like a good little dog, huh?"

He felt like he'd entered the viper's den. Graves' smug face on the opposite side of the desk made his stomach churn the same way it did when he heard his dad's footsteps on the stairs.

Dread. Sour and curdling in his belly.

"Only, I know how dogs can be. Throw 'em a bone and they're off. Horny fuckin' mutts."

Pushing off the desk, Graves strolls around to stand behind him, planting both hands on Simon's shoulders and leaning in so his mouth hovers next to Simon's ear.

"You've met our lovely showgirl I take it? Smokeshow she is. Incredible ass." A whistle punctuates the end of his sentence.

Simon feels his teeth grind. Graves blatantly objectifying you causes a tumour of blind rage to build, putting pressure on his skull. His jaw tightens so hard he thinks it might snap.

"I'm sure you'd love to fuck her, huh? God, wouldn't we all? Know some boys who'd pay a pretty penny to have a turn on that ride. But, Simon, if you so much as touch her, I'll have you and her buried so far underground no one will ever find you. No one will remember your names. You'll just disappear."

The hot breath on the side of his face makes Simon's nose wrinkle with disgust. He can feel bile beginning to build in the back of his throat.

Slapping his shoulders good-naturedly, like a father would a son, Graves rounds the desk once again. Saccharine smile back in place as he sinks back into his chair.

"Capeesh?"

"Yes, boss."

"Good boy."

[quarterlifekitty]

Being forced into a cannibalistic scenario with you

Gaz splits up the work. He’s determined to make it so that neither of you feels the burden of the sin. Any killing, butchery, and cooking is done in equal parts. He’s of a rational mind— he’s good at convincing you that there really is no other choice, that it isn’t wrong. And he puts up a decently strong front, as if he isn’t any more than a bit perturbed. He desperately doesn’t want to seem like he needs comfort. But he has terrible dreams of being his knock-kneed, seven year old self again, and being terrified to look down at the plate his mother has placed in front of him— the stark red against the white of the milk glass plate and the faded pastels of the floral tablecloth.

Soap is blessed with the ability to turn his mind off when he sets to a task. As such, he takes on the work. It doesn’t occur to him to hide it from you, either. You know as well as he does that there’s only so many options left, and even fewer that would keep you strong. He’s not a particularly skilled butcher, but any work that requires snipping and precision is a bit like defusing an explosive, right? And cooking, killing— he can do those things in his sleep too. It gets scary. He’ll come back with pounds of flesh and not be able to tell you exactly what happened because all of these days are blending, and so little of him is present when he sets to work. Deep inside, he’s afraid that one day he’ll snap back to reality with you opened up in front of him.

There’s a certain brittle core that exists within Simon. It’s rolled around in him, tapping his vertebrae, crackling and flaking little bits off of it gradually. It’s only in this crisis that you see the black, oozing center revealed. His bezoar. The thing that lets him drink venom like it was sherry. In any hardship, he can find pleasure, if he can only dig his fingers deep enough. He will kill for you, and he makes sure that you know every sordid detail. He will make sure that you thank him. Thank him for feeding you. Thank him for keeping you alive. Thank him for showing you the greatest sin. When he’s pleased with you, he’ll cut off the heads before bringing the body home so you don’t have to see their faces.

Price sees this as another burden of leadership. It’s a decision he’s chosen to shoulder alone. He will not go to great pains to hide what he’s doing— if you know what’s good for you, you won’t pry. He does not tell you what you’re eating, but his eyes tell you that you shouldn’t dare to ask. It’s like knowing where your parents have hidden the Christmas presents. You could find out what they are, and know the truth… but you have this sinking feeling that you wouldn’t be the better for it. That something, irreparably, would change if that boundary was crossed. It’s enough to keep you willfully ignorant… for now.

Nikolai does not care how much you know. He does not care how much you think you know. He will take care of it. And he will not tell you the truth of it. Not by a long shot. He doesn’t care how many lies have to be woven, how often he has to make you doubt your own senses. You are the one thing he has left in this world. The very last sacred thing. He won’t see you tarnished, even if it means you have to live in a world that’s a little to the left of reality. He’s shouldered enough sin for a few lifetimes, what’s one more?

[dastardly-imbecile]

I absolutely adore your writing. The first thing that I read from you was that Frankestain-like fic, and I just loved how your work emanates a putrid and poetic vibes, ykwim? Like each time I read anything from you, it's like entering a foggy cemetery and I'm not scared about what I'll find in there (kinda) lol

So yeah,, thank you for being so unique and sharing your creations with the world!

Thank you so much! I love that description of my writing lol, it's exactly what I'm trying to capture! <33

[dastardly-imbecile]

Hii im srry for asking but can we have more simon and angel reader :D?

sorry this took terribly long.... i had fun writing this little drabble, I've missed these two(read the og HERE)

Johnny finds him in the woods behind base, skinning a rabbit. The creature is limp and fine-boned, and it is not without a little bit of difficulty that Simon separates skin from the long fibres of muscle, ruby-red. It's been a long time since he hunted, and the thing is more delicate than he's used to. Humans break harder; rending plastic vs ceramic.

"Jesus," Johnny says, and it is only this that draws Simon from his reverie. He looks up, not putting the knife down. "What, the mess hall tha' bad?"

He doesn't crack a smile. "I'm testing," he says. Johnny lingers for a few moments longer, unsure what to do with this new apparent crack in his teammate's facade, but after enough stonewalling, he retreats back to the concrete womb of the base, leaving Simon out, alone. An hour passes. The rabbit cools and congeals, and eventually, he does strike up a fire, roast it half-heartedly, if only so the thing does not go to waste.

He knew it wouldn't summon you, of course. Creatures like that - instinct-driven, small bundles of rudimentary neurons firing in solid, predictable patterns, none of the unpredictability a soul lends - do not have near enough substance to feed you. Nothing but humans. Maybe there's something to be tested when it comes to a chimpanzee, an octopus, a neanderthal, but he's got no real way to get his hands on those, and besides, he's sure your appetite is far more discerning than the blurry lines of evolution.

Human, not human. Here, not here.

It has been eight months since a mission, and already, he's restless. No way to push Price for another one without raising more suspicion than he already has, and given that - despite his desperation - he's not quite at the point of going Jack the Ripper, it's meant eight months of cold enough to ice the blood in his veins. You, you must be starving too.

He aches to imagine you desolate in whatever reality-behind-reality you live. Aches more to think of another soldier, across the globe, killing a man, watching you materialize - striking a deal - you appearing for him - and his palm nearly splits from the force of his nails.

---

Maybe that's why, when they catch the spy, his heart jumps in not alarm or fear but in excitement. A low-level soldier. Clever one. Caught hiding intel in carefully-coded ciphers back home. Only found through coincidence - some slip of the tongue on a night out, revealed that his mom lives in Kentucky, not Urzikstan, and so where have those letters been going to?

Price gathers them into the meeting room and he looks at the boy through the one-wayed glass. He's young. Don't really know how he got mixed up into all this. Don't really care. Doesn't look too scared, on the chair - straight-faced, stoic. Only sign of worry is his fingers digging into the underside of his thighs.

Usually, it's Gaz who starts off with the interviews - he's real good at doing the good cop schtick, all smiles and promises. Nice guy. Today, though, Simon shoulders his way to the front and flatly volunteers. Price gives him a questioning look, but when Gaz does not protest, dips his head in an assenting nod.

Good. He has to hold back his smile. Almost time.

---

The room is sterile as freshly-fallen snow. Which, of course, makes his mind drift to you, makes his resolve tighten. The man's eyes flicker over him as he steps up, and despite his calm facade, he cannot help but shrink back a touch into the wooden chair. Simon's eyes parse over him - note the lack of tension in his shoulders.

That's not the pose of someone whose arms have been tied up for three hours. He cannot circle around and look without making it obvious, but he would wager that someone has found a way to escape the cuffs. Which only works out better for him.

"Look," the spy says immediately, "you don't need to do all this interrogation. I'm not getting tortured for this shit. Don't let them find me, and I'll tell-"

"Does your mother know?" Simon asks. The question is from far enough out of left field that it sends the man into a flat hesitation.

"I don't see-"

"Does she know?" He demands, lunging forwards, close enough that the spy flinches back - their noses stand inches from each other, mask and trembling skin. There is a knife on Simon's belt. Secured, but only weakly, with a single strap of fabric. A clever, enterprising person, backed into a corner - clever enough to remove the cuffs - could...

"No," he says eventually, "no, I never- nothing was sent to her, she's-"

"Would she like to?" Simon pushes harder. The man's face is frozen, eyes locked upon is. "Good slip o' the mouth, eh? Could tell her what her son's been-"

Simon barely feels the jerk of the knife before it's rushing towards his stomach - he barely manages to dodge, leaping out of the way as the man throws himself from his seat. He raises his arm in another wild slash - Simon fumbles towards his waistband, extracting the small pistol tucked into the pocket - down, narrowly missing his arm, silver shard of hardlight - aim, shoot, and all is still.

He doesn't have much time. Should feel rushed, should know that the others will burst in at any moment - but all thoughts of that flee from his mind when he sees you. Sees the beginnings of you - thin motes of silver light, a living mirage, sees the endings of you, as it all coagulates. Somehow, in the breadth of a few seconds, manages to sharpen, carve itself into the shape of a human, of something beyond human.

You almost fall upon him, even as you reach for the cooling body, hands knitting into the area beyond the inside. It has been so long - he hasn't realized this thought, mostly because he hasn't let himself think it - but it is good, once again, to get confirmation that you are no dream. No product of an addled mind and too much gunpowder - you are solid and real as any miracle, and as you pull the soul into the air, he drags you towards him, hands planted solidly upon your waist.

"I've missed you," he gasps, in a voice that he did not think could come out of him. You give him a look that rests somewhere on the spectrum between pity and affection, brushing a hand over his head.

"Me too."

"Have you been eating?" He asks. You nod slowly. He barely lets that answer settle before forging on, "has someone... some other bloke been feeding you, Dove? Have-"

"No," you whisper. Lean down to ghost a kiss over his forehead. Where your lips strike his skin, it feels indescrible - something cosmic and impossible, the birth of a star, makes him the center of some private universe - "nobody can feed me like you do."

Already, he can feel you leaving. Where his fingertips indent your waist, they sink in deeper and deeper yet, until there's no skin there at all - no presence of yours but your face, still, your eyes and your voice, all the most important signifiers of divinity.

"Soon," he swears. By some way, somehow - if he has to push Price hard, has to hope on the destabilization of a foreign country - all of it, to see you again.

"Soon," you promise. And if an angel speaks it, does it not become truth?

[violentdeliiights]

all flesh rots - chapter 1

[series masterlist]

underground boxer!simon x plus size ring girl!reader

2.1k words

cw: alcohol, violence, negative body image talk, pervy men, slight gore, tiny mentions of death

songs for this chapter: youngest daughter- superheaven // tv dinner - sam fender // man in black - johnny cash

next ->

You feel their leers. The glassy, beer-dilluted gazes. You feel the superficial hunger, the want, the burning trails of hundreds of pairs of eyes tracking your every movement: they can't touch you. They can't touch you, but that doesn't stop them from spitting crudely at you as you swan with false confidence across the stained and yellowed canvas. Vulgar remarks about your appearance are hurled at you as you cross from one side of the ring to the other.

One foot in front of the other, and you can leave. This is the last round, that much you can tell by the glazed-over eyes of the big guy in the corner. He's one punch away from needing rolled off of the canvas, and if there's one thing Graves hates more than disobedience, it's a boring fight. He'd soon rather see bones crack and brains spill before seeing a fighter simply give up.

Graves 'hand-picked' you for this- that's how he refers to it. Hand-picked for your thick skin and the way those comments roll off of you like water from a duck's back.

'Honey, with a rack like yours I'm sure you're used to it, huh? You can handle a lil' drunk flirtin', sugar.'

Those words stick like tar to your ear drums. The worst part? He's not completely wrong.

You've been fending men off for as long as you'd been aware of your own body- aware that you existed and were percieved by others, much less grown men. Always the biggest girl in the friend group, the one who the other girls whispered about in the PE changing rooms, giggling behind cupped palms on the primary school playground when they would see your bra strap, spitefully glaring when their high school boyfriend's eyes and palms would stray an inch too far. Forced yourself to become immune to the wandering eyes of men too grown to be looking at a child's body with such lust.

Avoiding all mirrors and sucking in constantly.

So, maybe Graves did purposefully choose you. But you were not picked; you did not audition, there was no role call, no dignity. You are no showgirl. You do not want to be here. Forced and ripped from your somewhat mundane life to pay off a debt you could not even imagine beginning to repay. A debt mounted by a man- no, boy- you had not seen hide nor hair of in almost half a decade.

A debt that left you here, parading yourself on a stage in front of frothing maws, pounding fists, sloshing drinks, and rotten smirks each Saturday night. The odd Friday, if Graves was feeling particularly gluttonous. Sitting in his small office overlooking the ring, gorging himself on the gore below him: the capitol watching his miniature society burn over and over to both entertain him and line his pockets.

Once you've finished your lap around the ring, holding the round card above your head and plastering a perfectly practiced smile on your face, you're free to go. All of your Saturday nights work like this: you strut from corner to corner on the canvas, each time in little more than lingerie, round card held above your perfectly styled hair on unstable arms, counting down each round until you're finally free to go.

You've become so desensitised to the violence you're forced to glorify and glamorise each weekend, that you barely flinch now. Each punch sending spurts of blood across the ring, catapulting teeth like bullet casings, cracked skin and gushing wounds. You simply don't see it anymore. Used to. It used to send rivers of cold through your bloodstream, goosebumps up your arms. Used to make your teeth grind and gnaw at your lips. But your job isn't to fret. It's to stand there and look pretty. Your job is to be the eye candy, the glitz and glamour, the sex object that makes every man in the room clutch his drink tighter and hide his wedding band.

The path back to your shoddy, makeshift dressing room is full of grabbing fingertips and wolf whistles, the subtlest men attempting to brush themselves against your skin, the boldest of them propositioning you on the spot. As if you're available for hire- a thing that can be used and stretched and broken then sent back to the factory to be reset before being lent out again.

Technically they can't touch you, but there are no enforcers. No one to stop them from grabbing and pawing as if you are a commodity.

You simply square your shoulders and refuse to acknowledge them. Your role is over; the puppet master's strings have been loosened for tonight. There is no obligation to smile and preen and twirl your hair, not anymore.

One of the only graces given to you by Graves was your own shower, which you immediately make use of upon returning to your broom-cupboard-turned-dressing-room, stripping yourself of the crystal covered lingerie digging into your chest and scrubbing your skin until it's raw and stinging. Still, you are not clean. You will never be clean. Not while Graves is puppeteering you, yanking you around and forcing you into obedience like a petulant toddler with a bedraggled Barbie doll.

The shower washes his version of you down the drain. The molded, picture perfect version with a crafted smile that will never reach your lifeless eyes.

You leave the dressing room swamped by an oversized hoodie and sweatpants, hair swept up without care and face completely bare barring smudges of the mascara that always seems to stain your tired, bloodshot eyes.

The journey back to your small flat gives you little time to decompress, the bus seat below you is tattered and cold and damp and the group of teenagers at the very back playing music from a broken speaker is causing a thumping to build behind your eyes. You'd take this over ever having to step foot back in that hellhole, though. There is no relief when your Saturday shifts come to a close; only a suffocating dread knowing that, in a week's time, you'll be back again.

An all-consuming loop. A cycle that never stops, never slows, never wavers. You surrender to it's pull and allow the tide to carry you under. Nowehere to run, no-one to run with. You are alone in your rotting prison cell awaiting the executioner's arrival with bated breath.

—

A spatter of blood, spit, and sweat coats Simon's face, adding to the already coagulated layer of bodily fluids covering the majority of his body, as his fist strikes the mouth of the man in front of him. A perfectly calculated hook sends the man spinning 180 degrees, eyes drooping closed and collapsing into a heap of broken, angled limbs at Simon's feet.

Cheers erupt like geysers from all around him, but his ears are ringing static, a radio signal disconnecting in the fibres of his brain. Synapses misfiring. Eyes blurring. Chest heaving. He turns away from the bloody sack of bones and muscle at his feet, ears continuing to ring as he stalks out of the makeshift ring and strides through a drunken crowd before he can be crowned a victor. He knows Makarov will be royally pissed at him. Can't quite bring himself to care.

Simon never feels like a victor. The first few times, maybe? Sure. After a while, it gets old. Being forced to watch, night after night, as your own hands inflict more harm than even his own father was capable of. The father who is responsible for his situation. The catalyst to him meeting Makarov, becoming tangled in the web that is Konni Underground.

Feels like the universe played a cruel joke on him sometimes. Growing up with an angry man, Simon's only line of defence was to get bigger. Big enough that his old man couldn't throw his weight around anymore. Not when there's an even larger man in the house. And now his size is used against him. Built like a brick shithouse, so now he's shoved into the lion's den every night to stalk a prey he no longer hungers for. He can barely look at his own hands sometimes. If he thinks real hard, he can almost see the blood between the cracks of his palms. Fingerprints leaving bloody smudges.

For tonight, all he wants is to scrub the stench of violence off of his skin and get home. He can drop the brutal robot act there; doesn't have to pretend to be the creature he's been programmed to become. At home, he's just Simon. Hailing from the shitty back ends of Manchester, the guy who still sends his Mam the pittance remaining from his paycheck after Makarov takes most for himself.

A quick hose down later and he's stalking through the slick London streets to hop on the last tube of the night. Hopes there's enough hot water left after his morning shower for him to have a proper scrub once he's back in his shoddy high rise flat.

The fluorescent lights of the Piccadilly line cause a throb to build behind Simon's temple, his hood pulled down over his eyes to futilely combat the pulsating begging to bloom into a full-blown migraine.

Thick sheets of rain pelt Simon as he hurries out of the station and along rain-slick streets up to the smashed glass door of his apartment builidng, green emergency light flickering incessantly and the damp lobby carpet squelching under his worn trainers. The lift's been out of order since before Simon even moved in, so he begins the trek up the mountainous concrete stairwell, up onto the balcony where his apartment sits nestled between a crack den and a single mother with her three kids.

He hears a gruff barking before he even puts the key in the lock and, upon swinging open the heavy fire door, he's met with two paws to the chest. The wonky looking Great Dane he dubbed 'Johnny' - after a mate who went into the military and never made it home- upon finding him as a puppy behind the apartment building just after he moved in. Something about the strange looking runt pulled on Simon's heartstrings, reminded him of himself, and he's been stuck with the mutt (affectionately) ever since.

"Alright, ya big bastard. Ge'down."

The door closes with a slam behind him, and for what feels like the first time since he stepped foot in the ring tonight, Simon takes a full breath.

—

There's a buzzing sound. Incessant yet fuzzy. Shrouded in the thick fog of incoherency, Simon's eyes crusted with sleep.

He takes a deep inhale through the only nostril that works anymore and a rattled whistle pierces the veil of silence in his bedroom. Through blurry eyes he can just and so make out the inquisitive eyes of Johnny lying on the floor next to his bedside table, one ear flopped on top of his head.

Simon pulls his head up from his limp pillow just far enough, craning his neck to locate the source of the now clearer, rythmic humming. Sees the screen of his phone illuminating the damp ceiling. A beacon of light on an inky sea. Only, the name that appears on the screen is less of a guiding lighthouse and more of a scheming siren.

Makarov.

Should've known he'd be hearing from his boss soon enough. Makarov doesn't take too kindly to disobedience. Sometimes Simon feels like little more than a dog left tied to a pose, leash too short, strangling him whe he shows the slightest hint of insolence even through he's been conditioned to attack at the first sign of danger.

He yanks the duvet from his prone body, swinging his legs off the edge of the mattress and doesn't allow himself a second of hesitation before picking up the phone call. Ripping off the plaster and all that.

"Riley."

Simon hates that name. Makarov knows Simon hates that name.

Especially in that slimy voice. Smug and smarmy and so heavily accented Simon has to strain his ears sometimes.

"Boss."

"Change of plans. You're being transferred. Someone's bought you out, you lucky boy."

Gritting his teeth, Simon stays silent. Knows if he opens his mouth, he'll only dig a deeper grave for himself.

"You'll be fighting at Shadow Co. Gyms from now on. A quarter of your cut will still come to me, but you've got a new owner now, boy."

The leash is pulled tighter around Simon's throat.

A noose if he leans far enough.

"Sounds good, Boss."

"Good boy."

Makarov hangs up unceremoniously, but Simon can imagine the wheedling grin on his face. Makarov may not have both hands on Simon's leash anymore, but he is certainly still standing on the otherside of the fence, goading him, willing him to snap.

Dropping his phone to the moth-eaten mattress beneath him, Simon's face falls into his palms. His bruised and beaten back expands on a shaky breath. A wet nudging on his kneecap has him shifting his fingers to peer down at the pitying eyes of Johnny leaning his snout on Simon's thigh.

"Shite, lad."

[violentdeliiights]

obsessed with the idea of growing old with simon

like yeah the early stages are cool to write about, but something about growing old with someone. someone who wasn’t sure he’d make it to his 20th year. nevermind his 50th.

all the shit that comes with life, that makes it all worth it. the house, the rings, the dogs, the cats, the kids, the fights, the mugs that will inevitably become chipped and buried in the back of a cupboard, the smudged and muddy kids’ finger paintings that you’ll hang on the fridge and stare at once they move out to uni, the scratches in the wooden floors from your husband forgetting to take his work boots off by the doorstep, the multitudes of picture frames that litter your walls, the bottle of whiskey johnny gifted you on your wedding day that neither of you have touched, the books you’ve both collected over the years on your bookshelf.

watching in real time how simon ages- they grey hairs, the smile lines, the salt and pepper stubble, the groan he lets out when he’s getting out of bed in the morning.

knowing there is someone who knows you inside out, and you them.