✎

sometimes I write stuff

[eksvaized]

ABOUT ME: G. 23 yo, my native language is not English.

DON'T steal, repost, translate, or plagiarize my works without my permission. DON'T feed my fics to any kind of AI either.

— I take requests! — Answered asks, Eksvaized's Recs — Currently, I'm writing "In the Shadows". — Minors Do Not Interact; +18, Dark Themes. AO3 ︱Wattpad ︱Ko-fi tools I use for writing

Stories:

Poisonous Obsession — (Simon Riley; completed, w.c: 30,500) Apocalypse — (Simon Riley; completed, w.c: 35,645) Don't Get Into The Car — (Simon Riley; completed, sequel to PO, w.c: 68,157) Just Friends — (Simon Riley; completed, w.c: 11,965) Neighbour — (König + Simon Riley; completed, w.c: 26,343) The Older Sister — (Simon Riley; ongoing)

One-Shots:

Can't Sleep (Simon Riley; w.c: 2141) 100-Word Fic Challenge (Simon Riley; w.c: 100) 100-Word Fic Challenge (2) (Task Force 141; w.c: 100) StripClubOwner!Simon x Reader (w.c: 1000)

One-Shots:

Drop Dead Gorgeous (Simon Riley) Stalker (Simon Riley) Let's Play a Game (John MacTavish) Tattoo (John MacTavish) Promiscuous (John MacTavish) Don't Be a Tease (König)

Stories:

Libertine (Simon Riley) Blackmail (Simon Riley) Fatum (König)

[lilskippity]

woof

[heavensenthale]

you know what? fuck it *reads the fanfic I spent hours writing for my own enjoyment*

[wynnyfryd]

if you’re not rereading your own 3yo one-shots every once in a while so you can shake your head at the ao3 tab and mutter god i’m fucking funny then what are we even doing all this work for?

[milomossy]

[lilskippity]

Ghostie

[rylandsgrace]

#Merry crisis

[suimon]

reader who’s restoring an old abandoned painting with simon in it…………

the painting’s from the 1500s, judging from the back of the weathered canvas. only thing is that you don’t know who he is or why this was painted. his name is smudged and the man looks irritated with the person who must have been painting, brows low and gaze elsewhere so he won’t have to look, lips in a thin frown. the more you restore the colors and details, the better you see him. he doesn’t even look like he was necessarily dressed to be painted either – his clothes are ruffled and there are scars on his face that the painter did well to capture. it takes an arduous, dedicated seven months to restore it before you send it back to the museum. it’s only when you look back at the progress photos you took on your phone, that you realize how throughout the restoration process, his gaze slowly shifted towards the front, staring back directly at you :/

[heisshiro]

[heisshiro]

[eksvaized]

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡꜱ (Y1; Chapter 1)

Yᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ Jᴇᴀɴ Kɪʀsᴛᴇɪɴ. Jᴇᴀɴ Kɪʀsᴛᴇɪɴ ᴅᴏᴇsɴ'ᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ. Aɴᴅ ʏᴇᴛ, ғᴏʀ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴡʜᴏ sᴡᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ sᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ sᴇᴇᴍ ᴛᴏ sᴛᴀʏ ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛ.

𓆩✧𓆪

This fic contains spoilers for AOT; it mostly sticks to the canon story, but some events and details have been tweaked to fit the reader into the world.

You stood in a sea of bodies, not daring to move a muscle—feet planted, hands clasped behind your back, spine rigid. The sun hung high above the training grounds, but the boy in front of you blocked just enough of it to cast a thin line of shade across your face. Even so, heat clung to you, seeping into your uniform; the occasional breeze did nothing to stop the fabric from sticking to your skin.

Now and then, your eyes flicked toward sudden noises: boots scuffing, someone yelping, the sharp crack of someone toppling over.

By your count, it had been at least thirty minutes since Keith Shadis introduced himself as the commandant of the 104th Training Cadet Corps and began his inspection. Being trapped in the middle of the formation meant you could barely see him at first. But with each line he cleared, he drew closer. Every step brought him into sharper focus.

He was tall and towered over most of the recruits. His voice was loud. Too loud. The man looked like he hadn’t slept in days, or even years.

The commandant moved with purpose, never lingering on one cadet for long. But every time he moved on, the cadet he left behind was no longer standing.

You watched him advance with growing dread, fiddling with the hem of your jacket behind your back. When he reached the line directly in front of you, your muscles tensed further, breath flattening in your chest. As the commandant stepped up to the boy shielding you from the sun, your lungs refused to move. Your hands clenched into tight fists behind you.

"STATE YOUR NAME AND WHERE THE HELL YOU CAME FROM, CADET!" Shadis bellowed.

The boy lifted his chin and said, "JEAN KIRSTEIN FROM TROST, SIR!"

Most cadets wilted under Shadis' scrutiny, looking like they wanted to crawl out of their own skin. Jean, however, squared his shoulders, his back straight as a needle.

"WHY ARE YOU HERE?"

Without hesitation, and with surprising conviction, Jean inhaled sharply and answered, "TO TRAIN, TO EARN A SPOT IN THE TOP TEN, AND JOIN THE MILITARY POLICE AFTER GRADUATION, SIR!"

"HAHA! A COMEDIAN, ARE YOU?! WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU'RE ANYTHING MORE THAN TITAN CHOW?!"

"Well, I—" Jean began, but didn't get the chance to finish.

Shadis slammed his forehead into Jean’s with a crack that made you wince. Jean toppled backwards, landing hard in the dirt; he looked like a bug flipped onto its back, unable to get up. A snort slipped out of you before you could stop it. You immediately sealed your lips, wishing you could swallow the sound back down.

"THERE'S NO PLACE FOR YOU IN THE TOP TEN IF A MERE NUDGE PUTS YOU DOWN! ON YOUR FEET, CADET!"

Jean scrambled upright. Shadis, however, turned toward you, and every drop of blood in your body evaporated.

Shadis had been completely methodical until now—never stepping between lines, always moving left to right, then right to left. So when he stepped over Jean to reach you, breaking his own pattern, you knew you were royally screwed.

"THIS IS FUNNY TO YOU, CADET?!"

Now the commandant towered over you. Jean's shadow had allowed you to hide; Shadis' shadow made you feel exposed to the entire world. And judging by the stares of the surrounding cadets, you were.

"N-no, SIR!"

Heat crawled up your neck. Your arms tightened behind you, nails digging into your palms as you fought the urge to curl into yourself.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you could see that Jean was back on his feet, and now, he was the one snickering at the scene in front of him, though he did a much better job at hiding his amusement than you did.

"THAT WAS A THEORETICAL QUESTION, CADET!" Shadis roared. "IF YOU WANT TO SAY SOMETHING, STATE YOUR NAME AND WHERE YOU ARE FROM!"

Your name came out shaky. You inhaled sharply, then forced the rest. "...FROM SHIGANSHINA, S-SIR!"

"WHY ARE YOU HERE, HM? TO BE ENTERTAINED?! TO LAUGH AT THE JOKER BEHIND ME?!" He jabbed a thumb toward Jean, who tensed at the possibility of being knocked down again. But Shadis never looked away from you.

"NO, SIR! I'M HERE TO TRAIN AND JOIN THE GARRISON!" The words tore out of you, breath shaking. Your cheeks burned; your hands grew clammy behind your back, fingers twisting despite your best effort not to fidget.

Shadis inhaled, and your world suddenly tilted. Your feet left the ground. Your back hit dirt. Your elbows smacked the earth hard enough to sting. By the time your brain caught up, you were already scrambling up again, ignoring the dull ache radiating through your joints.

The commandant didn't spare you a second glance. He stepped back into Jean's row and resumed his march as though he hadn't just launched you into orbit.

You kept still after that. Absolutely motionless. When another thirty minutes passed and Shadis began interrogating the rows behind you, your muscles finally uncoiled. You let out a breath you hadn’t been aware you were holding and brushed off your uniform. First, your jacket… then the mud smeared across your thigh.

You stopped paying attention to the outside world, lost in your mind, replaying the humiliation, until two fingers snapped directly in front of your face, almost brushing the tip of your nose. You slapped the hand away without thinking.

"Don't touch me," you hissed.

"I'm not," Jean scoffed, rolling his eyes so hard it's a miracle they didn't fall out. "But you're staring. It's weird."

Were you staring? No, you didn’t think so. But maybe—you had been looking in his direction. Your frazzled brain spat out the first excuse it could find.

"Your pants are dirty."

Jean's gaze dropped to your hands, still brushing mud from your thigh.

"So are yours," he said, lips curling, "but I'm not looking at you like that."

A beat of silence dropped between you. You had zero desire to continue this conversation, but Jean didn't share that sentiment.

"You're just rubbing it in more," he added, obviously baiting you.

Your hands froze, then resumed with stubborn defiance. "No, I'm not."

Jean clicked his tongue. "Yes, you are."

You stopped again, glanced at your pants. Okay... the stain did look worse. But you refused to give him the satisfaction of being right.

"What's your problem, Kirstein?"

"You mean, what's your problem?" he countered, folding his arms smugly.

This boy was absolutely testing your patience.

You stepped forward, ready to remind him how easily he'd face‑planted earlier, when someone slid between the two of you.

"He's joking," a freckled boy said, lifting a hand in a soothing gesture. A gentle smile tugged at his lips, clearly meant to defuse you. "Right, Jean?"

Jean opened his mouth, probably to say something stupid, but the freckled boy elbowed him sharply in the ribs before he could get a word out.

Your fists clenched again. You didn't know why you were still this worked up—well, actually, you did. Jean was annoying. Part of you genuinely wanted to tackle him and wipe his face across the dirt. But two against one wasn't a fight you'd win.

"Keep your friend on a tighter leash. Because next time his tongue starts running, I'll shove it back in myself. Maybe by dragging that smug face across the ground until he's chewing gravel."

Jean bristled, ready to snap back when his friend cut in, eyes wide, sensing that neither you nor Jean was willing to back down. "Please don't," he hissed." The commandant is almost done. And if you two start fighting again, who knows what he'll do."

You and Jean, mid-glare, froze instantly.

𓆩✧𓆪

The rest of the day dragged by painfully slowly. After standing outside for what felt like half your life, the cadets were finally granted thirty minutes for lunch. No one wasted breath on conversation; everyone was too busy shovelling food down. You were no exception—jamming half a stale loaf into your mouth while trying to sip thin soup without sloshing it down your front.

After lunch, the boys and girls were split up and herded into their respective barracks to clean. You couldn't help thinking it was ridiculous that you had to scrub floors that already gleamed, wipe windows that had nothing on them, and remake beds over and over until Shadis decided he couldn’t find a flaw—though he always could. The place was spotless from the start. The girls’ faces made it obvious they all shared that thought, but nobody dared open their mouths, not even when Shadis left to terrorise the boys instead.

When dinner time rolled around, you were exhausted; everyone stood in formation, listening to Shadis criticise the cadets for their pathetic job at cleaning, warning that such halfhearted work would not be tolerated tomorrow when the first day of training began. Only after delivering this lecture did the commandant finally allow everyone to eat, granting an hour of free time before lights-out.

You ended up being the last one to reach the mess hall, stuck in a line long enough to test your patience. By the time you got your tray, the food had somehow gotten worse—a cup of lukewarm, bitter tea, another bowl of the same morning soup, and barely half a bread loaf.

All the tables were full. The atmosphere was louder than it had been at lunch. Voices echoing, laughter bouncing off the walls, everyone too tired to be tense anymore, especially since the mess hall was void of instructors. You scanned the room and spotted a table pressed against the far wall. Dark. Tucked into the shadows. Nearly empty.

Only one girl sat there, staring out the window like she wasn’t really present. Her chin propped up on her hand. You took the seat across from her. Her eyes flicked toward you once, cool and uninterested, before settling back on the window.

You thought about saying something. She didn’t. So you didn’t either.

The two of you ate in silence.

At some point, your attention drifted and landed on Jean. He was impossible to overlook, standing a head above nearly everyone else, threading between the tables.You idly stirred your soup as he tried saying something to a girl passing by. He looked stiff, painfully awkward, and you couldn’t help the quiet snort that slipped out when she ignored him entirely—only to be dragged off by another boy a second later.

Across from you, the blonde girl scoffed under her breath. The slight tug at the corner of her mouth told you she’d found it funny too. Still, she didn’t say a word.

When you finished eating, tucking the uneaten bread into your pocket, you finally decided to speak, figuring you might as well introduce yourself.

"Annie," she replied simply, offering her name.

You nodded, and that was the start and the end of the conversation; at least your second interaction of the day, however brief it was, was better than the one that morning with Jean and his friend.

𓆩✧𓆪

As you sat on your bed in the girls' barracks, restlessness gnawed at you. The other girls talked and gossiped quietly among themselves, but you remained alone, your fingers absently twisting the fabric of your blanket. You would have liked to join in, to make a friend, but the thought of squeezing yourself into a conversation felt awkward.

Across the room, you spotted Annie. Was she your friend? Probably not. But she was the only girl you'd spoken to all day. Even so, she clearly wasn’t in a talking mood. When her bunkmate tried to engage her, Annie shook her head, lay back, and turned toward the wall, pulling the blanket over herself, obviously ready to go to bed.

You glanced at the empty mattress beside you. Your bunkmate—if you even had one—was nowhere to be found.

Eventually, the idleness became unbearable. Needing something to do, you decided to try washing the mud stain out of your white pants. Lights-out was in ten minutes, give or take, but that was plenty of time to get the job done.

No one noticed when you slipped outside and made your way to the washroom between the boys’ and girls’ barracks. The air inside smelled faintly of soap and damp stone. A single oil lamp flickered, casting shadows along the walls.

A tall figure hunched over one of the basins. Someone else had apparently had the same idea. The dim light made it hard to tell who—until the door clicked shut behind you and he glanced over his shoulder.

Jean.

You froze. But when he didn’t say anything, you decided you could handle his presence as long as he stayed quiet. Slowly, you made your way to the sink farthest from him. The tension from the morning still lingered, but it felt much smaller now, almost manageable.

For a while, there was only the steady sound of running water and fabric being scrubbed.

No matter how hard you worked, the stain wouldn't budge. Jean had been right—you'd only rubbed it in more earlier, and now it seemed determined to stay. Frustration bubbled up, and you let out a sharp sigh. Your fingertips were wrinkled, your wrists ached, but you were damned if you were going to let the dirt win.

"Told you not to rub it in," Jean said at last, turning off the sink. You felt his gaze on you, but you refused to look his way. Acknowledging him would mean admitting he was right, and you had already decided that wouldn't happen, not after he'd spent the morning deliberately annoying you just because you'd zoned out.

You stayed silent. He wrung out his pants, then set a wet bar of soap on the edge of your basin—one he must’ve taken from the showers. You ignored it until he left, your pride keeping you from using it.

Five minutes after the door clicked shut behind him, you finally reached for the bar.

With soap, some force, and repeated rinsing, the stain at last gave in.

You returned to the barracks and fell asleep almost immediately. But two hours later, you woke to the sound of shuffling and strained breathing beside your bed.

Blinking awake, you propped yourself on your elbows. A shadowed figure fumbled with her clothes, the moonlight barely scraping across her features.

Sasha.

You recognised her immediately. She was the girl Shadis had chewed out for eating during formation, the one forced to run laps and miss dinner as punishment.

"Did I wake you up? Oh my god, I'm so sorry," Sasha whispered when she noticed you watching.

“Yes,” you muttered, rolling onto your side to face the wall.

You expected that to be the end of it. But sleep became impossible with Sasha squirming, unable to lie still.

"Stop that," you hissed when she accidentally kicked your legs. "Go to sleep."

"I can't. I'm so hungry," she whined.

You tried to ignore her. You really did. But she refused to stay still. Eventually, you groaned, pushed yourself upright, and reached under your pillow. You pulled out the napkin-wrapped half-loaf of bread you’d smuggled from dinner and handed it to her.

"Eat and sleep," you murmured, dropping back down and yanking the blanket over your head to muffle her chewing.

Between bites, you heard her whisper, “I could kiss you right now.”

“Please don’t,” you said, a reluctant snort escaping—annoyed, but also quietly amused by just how grateful she was over a scrap of bread.

Five minutes later, her movements stilled. Her breathing evened into soft snores.

Shortly after, you fell asleep too.

𓆩✧𓆪

Chapters 1-8 are already uploaded to Wattpad & AO3.

[beautifullytragicmess]

Simon "If I have kids, I’ll only have one" Riley ends up having twins the first shot

First time it’s twin girls who are his little princesses, second shot it’s twin boys who are his little shadows

It becomes such a thing, that the 141 joke about him having fertilizer in his seed — har har, it’s funny until one of the other 141’s partners gets a sperm donation from Simon due to infertility, and they end up with twins too

[brainstreams]

I do my best editing after I hit publish.

[ediblechainsaw-deactivated20251]

simon ghost riley. the strong, intimidating lieutenant that can kill with just his bare hands and shut a room up with only a glare.

thinking about this big fuckin man with a tiny ass kid. a cute little girl that likes to go to work with him and follow him around, tiny chubby hand wrapped around her dad's pinky finger as he awkwardly leans to the side for her to reach.

she does extra chores to save up money for fathers day. when simon wakes up that morning she's already sitting beside him, watching him. she's got the same intense eyes that he does.

then she holds out his gift. one of those friendship bracelets from claire's. the BFF ones, the heart shaped ones.

simon adds it to the same chain that holds his dog tags and wears it proudly. no one dares to give him shit about it, because that's *his* little girl.

[blanchebees]

King is back👑

Tip jar

[rawme-price]

John "breeding kink" price who's always talking about putting a baby in you, gets off on seeing his cum spilling out of you. But would absolutely try to feed a newborn water or let it sleep on it's side. Absolutely horrible paternal instincts.

Vs

Simon "I got a vasectomy the second I could" riley who still insists on condoms and birth control if preferred because he refuses to have a child. But he's somehow able to stop babies from crying just by cradling them in his arms. Knows babies exact sleep schedule and feeding times by heart. He is a savant with childcare.

[nrdmssgs]

Kissing Ghost on the forehead

Masterlist Kissing König on the forehead Kissing Price on the forehead

Simon tried to protect you from Ghost, he really did. It was not that Ghost would hurt you in any way, no. And of course, it was not a disease or mental disorder of any kind - it's a coping mechanism. But once the mask was on - Ghost appeared softly and silently. And Ghost could do things, that Simon couldn't. Things, he wouldn't ever want you to witness.

He never made a huge mystery of his work - he just didn't give away too many details. Simon didn't even hide his masks - he just asked you to not touch him, when he's wearing one of them.

"It's dusty, I wouldn't want your hands to get dirty." When in reality, he wouldn't want your entire being to get corrupted.

Ghost was to be kept out of your house and Simon made sure, you never saw each other. Little did he know, you had your ways not only around people, but around symbols as well.

His last day at home was coming to an end: in the morning he had to leave for a long deployment. Simon packed his things, leaving the mask atop of his open bag.

The rays of the setting sun painted the rooms with large windows in shades of red and gold. He absorbed every moment, breathed in and tried to remember barely distinguishable smells and sounds that filled your house, walked aimlessly through the rooms when he saw this. You sat on the edge of your bed, next to his bag, holding his mask in front of you. Your eyes were screwed shut as you pressed your forehead against the cracked, grayish surface of the mask. It was as if Ghost was kneeling in front of you, letting you touch his forehead with yours. Simon froze, part of him wanted to end this scene right there, but he hesitated, not wanting to scare you.

You slowly opened your eyes and looked deep into the empty holes in the mask. Your lips parted and you spoke almost inaudibly.

"Protect him and bring him back to me alive."

Simons' heart skipped a beat, when he understood, you were speaking not to him, but to the Ghost behind his mask.

And then, when he thought, this strange conversation was over - you brought the mask to your lips and kissed its forehead. Simon was standing in good 10–15 meters from you, but he could swear, he almost felt your soft and tender touch. Anything he ever knew, anything both he and Ghost were capable of, crumbled and slowly disappeared before your wish. Anything, that still kept meaning both to Simon and Ghost from this very moment, was that wish.

"Bring him back alive."

[nrdmssgs]

still love this lil thing

[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 post, 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."