Body horror, my beloved

However if I click sequels and remakes of things I have played, I get NINE. And I DO NOT GAME, to be clear. The zero isn't because I'm really into some weird niche that's not there. I don't game. I used to game a bit when I was in my teens and early 20s, IN THE NINETIES.

Chapters: 8/? Fandom: Project Hail Mary (2026), Iron Lung (2026) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: The Convict | Simon (Iron Lung)/Ryland Grace, The Convict | Simon (Iron Lung) & Ryland Grace, The Convict | Simon (Iron Lung) & Rocky (Project Hail Mary), Ryland Grace & Rocky, The Blood Eel & The Convict | Simon (Iron Lung) Characters: The Convict | Simon (Iron Lung), The Convict | Simon’s Mother (Iron Lung), Ryland Grace, Rocky (Project Hail Mary), Other Character Tags to Be Added, The Blood Eel (Iron Lung) Additional Tags: Cosmic Horror, Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, haunting the narrative (Simon’s mom), Body Horror, Blood and Violence, Blood and Injury, Major Character Injury, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Religious Guilt, Religious Cults, Religious Horror, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Mental Health Issues, Slow Burn, Grace is a fusion of book and movie because I can do that okay?, Childhood Trauma, Trauma, Angst with a Happy Ending, chapters all have content warnings at the start with more info!, author has a lot of experience writing horror. so uh. you’re getting horror., but also Hope, Trees, Loss of Identity, Identity Crisis, The Convict | Simon Needs a Hug (Iron Lung), Amputee The Convict | Simon (Iron Lung), The Convict | Simon has Mommy Issues, Whump, Ryland Grace & Rocky are Best Friends, Ryland Grace Needs a Hug, Ryland Grace Is Not Graceful, Autistic Ryland Grace, Psychological Horror, Heavy Themes, Eventual Romance, Mutated The Convict | Simon (Iron Lung), Blood and Gore, First Meetings, The Convict | Simon (Iron Lung) and Ryland Grace are Patron Saints of One-Way Trips, I stand by the opinion that Simon and Rocky would be great friends who gang up on Grace, Simon appears after Grace and Rocky use the sampler to gather astrophage, but before the time go fishing mission!, just to establish the timeline :), Simon has mutations of the tree/plant variety, Rocky Grace Simon save Earth. Save Erid. Save each other., Science, Demisexual Ryland Grace, Author Has Read Project Hail Mary - Andy Weir, Author Has Watched Project Hail Mary (2026), Author Has Watched Iron Lung (2026), Author Has Played Iron Lung, Eden is a Cult (Iron Lung), The COI is no better, The Convict | Simon is a Killer, Morally Grey The Convict | Simon, also I will be so real the romance in this can also be read as a qpr, are they in love? are they friends? or are they some secret third thing that cannot be defined in human terms?, Disassociation, Gardening as a metaphor for killing, Eventual Happy Ending Summary:

Ch.8 excerpt:

“Simon blinked and blinked again. The other man smiled, small but relieved.

And it was as if the annulus shifted. No longer a moon ringed around the edges by light, Simon was staring directly at the sun itself, just as bright as he once remembered it. At eyes like a sunset on the surface of Mars, a brilliant blue that washed over everything, became a soothing lowlight that filtered in through the bedroom window of his childhood home; the shade of a dress his mother used to wear before almost all of the colony vanished, before they were forced to leave and move to Eden and it had been left behind with all the other things they couldn’t take with them. All those pieces of his home, his life before, lost to a dead planet he could never return to and a mother who’d taken everything else with her when she’d left.”

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Or: It’s not enough to want to live. You have to make a choice.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/85461806/chapters/228436221

““It’s okay,” The stranger said, and his voice was hushed, a caressing against all the broken pieces Simon could barely keep in place as his body jittered and shook, “I’m here.”

Blue eyes that pierced through the pinhole and did not waver; did not close and turn away and leave him to a miserable existence in a decaying universe. They focused, they saw, and they acted. The slip of cloth over the lower half of the man’s face was gone, entirely unobscured. A crooked nose, squared high cheeks and a rounded, softened jaw. Lines and bruising that spoke of a lack of sleep, something Simon was all too familiar with, and a nervousness in his expression he couldn’t place. The smell of sweat and sickness and recycled air but also something more than that. Something clean and muted and gentle when everything else battered at his senses, overwhelmed and sore.

The stranger leaned back and away for a moment and Simon panicked, felt the push of adrenaline as he waited for an attack, for the inevitable blow to finally arrive, for a knife between his ribs or tight, immovable pressure on his throat. His pulse raced, pounding in his neck, beeping loudly from somewhere above him. A cool rush in his right arm that swiftly turned to syrup, melting out over every screaming, sizzling, scorched part of him and smoothing the jagged edges over. A balm applied by his mother’s hand, sweet words in his ear.

“It’s okay, you’re safe. Does that feel better?”

The stranger looked at him intensely. Not threateningly; not in the way that spoke of a quietly formulating plan of attack or an assessment in a test he didn’t even know he was taking. The man had let go of his hand and Simon found himself mourning the loss just as much as he feared it; wanted it back just as much as he wanted to raise his hackles and snarl and snap.”

-

https://archiveofourown.org/works/85461806/chapters/228436221

““It’s okay,” The stranger said, and his voice was hushed, a caressing against all the broken pieces Simon could barely keep in place as his body jittered and shook, “I’m here.”

Blue eyes that pierced through the pinhole and did not waver; did not close and turn away and leave him to a miserable existence in a decaying universe. They focused, they saw, and they acted. The slip of cloth over the lower half of the man’s face was gone, entirely unobscured. A crooked nose, squared high cheeks and a rounded, softened jaw. Lines and bruising that spoke of a lack of sleep, something Simon was all too familiar with, and a nervousness in his expression he couldn’t place. The smell of sweat and sickness and recycled air but also something more than that. Something clean and muted and gentle when everything else battered at his senses, overwhelmed and sore.

The stranger leaned back and away for a moment and Simon panicked, felt the push of adrenaline as he waited for an attack, for the inevitable blow to finally arrive, for a knife between his ribs or tight, immovable pressure on his throat. His pulse raced, pounding in his neck, beeping loudly from somewhere above him. A cool rush in his right arm that swiftly turned to syrup, melting out over every screaming, sizzling, scorched part of him and smoothing the jagged edges over. A balm applied by his mother’s hand, sweet words in his ear.

“It’s okay, you’re safe. Does that feel better?”

The stranger looked at him intensely. Not threateningly; not in the way that spoke of a quietly formulating plan of attack or an assessment in a test he didn’t even know he was taking. The man had let go of his hand and Simon found himself mourning the loss just as much as he feared it; wanted it back just as much as he wanted to raise his hackles and snarl and snap.”

-

https://archiveofourown.org/works/85461806/chapters/228436221

““It’s okay,” The stranger said, and his voice was hushed, a caressing against all the broken pieces Simon could barely keep in place as his body jittered and shook, “I’m here.”

Blue eyes that pierced through the pinhole and did not waver; did not close and turn away and leave him to a miserable existence in a decaying universe. They focused, they saw, and they acted. The slip of cloth over the lower half of the man’s face was gone, entirely unobscured. A crooked nose, squared high cheeks and a rounded, softened jaw. Lines and bruising that spoke of a lack of sleep, something Simon was all too familiar with, and a nervousness in his expression he couldn’t place. The smell of sweat and sickness and recycled air but also something more than that. Something clean and muted and gentle when everything else battered at his senses, overwhelmed and sore.

The stranger leaned back and away for a moment and Simon panicked, felt the push of adrenaline as he waited for an attack, for the inevitable blow to finally arrive, for a knife between his ribs or tight, immovable pressure on his throat. His pulse raced, pounding in his neck, beeping loudly from somewhere above him. A cool rush in his right arm that swiftly turned to syrup, melting out over every screaming, sizzling, scorched part of him and smoothing the jagged edges over. A balm applied by his mother’s hand, sweet words in his ear.

“It’s okay, you’re safe. Does that feel better?”

The stranger looked at him intensely. Not threateningly; not in the way that spoke of a quietly formulating plan of attack or an assessment in a test he didn’t even know he was taking. The man had let go of his hand and Simon found himself mourning the loss just as much as he feared it; wanted it back just as much as he wanted to raise his hackles and snarl and snap.”

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