i could eat hot pot every day of my life

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One Nice Bug Per Day
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i could eat hot pot every day of my life
bad gym habits
gaz - never re-racks his weights and takes 10 min breaks between sets but never gives up his machine to other gym goers waiting for a turn
soap - grunts and moans while lifting and squatting; takes the treadmill right beside you when there are like 20 available
ghost - leaves an absolute puddle of sweat on the machine after using it and doesn't wipe down; offers unsolicited and bad advice on whatever exercise you're doing and how you can improve (always leads to injury)
price - shaves in the locker room sink and leaves the hair behind; thinks he's doing everyone a favour by smoking outside, but he does it right beside the door so all the smoke just goes inside whenever it opens
all of them - unabashed ass starers
need an unplanned pregnancy simon riley fic to cleanse my timeline of he*ted r*valry
simon accidently yelled at you
The apartment had gone unbearably quiet after he yelled.
Not the comfortable kind of silence either. Not the kind Simon liked after long missions where the world finally stopped demanding things from him.
This silence was wrong.
You stood by the stove with your back turned, shoulders tense, blinking rapidly like if you just tried hard enough the tears would disappear before he saw them.
Too late.
Simon stared at you like heād just watched himself pull a trigger he couldnāt take back. His chest rose once. Heavy.
ā...Fuck.ā
The word came out under his breath, barely audible.
You wiped quickly at your face. āItās okay.ā, you whispered , hurt and embarrassment blooming in your chest.
It wasnāt okay.
And Simon knew it immediately because your voice did that tiny shaky thing it only did when you were trying very hard not to cry.
He felt sick.
The kind where the person you love looks hurt because of you.
Simon took one cautious step forward. Then another.
āLove.ā
You shook your head without turning around.
That hurt more than the tears.
Usually when he came home, you gravitated toward him automatically. Hands on his chest, arms around his waist. Soft little smiles like he was something worth waiting for.
Now you were standing as far away from him as the kitchen allowed.
Because he yelled.
Because he came home carrying all his anger and dropped it right at your feet.
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
āDonāt do that,ā he said quietly.
āDo what?ā, you mumbled, trying to smoothen your voice.
āStand there acting like you deserve that.ā
You finally turned a little at that, eyes glossy. āSimon-ā
āNo.ā He scrubbed a hand down his face harshly. āNo, donāt excuse it.ā
You went silent. He looked wrecked now. More wrecked than when he first walked in.
Rainwater still clung to his jacket. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but guilt sat on him even heavier.
āI came home to you,ā he said, voice rough. āWarm flat, food on the stove, you waiting for me.ā He laughed once bitterly at himself. āAnd first thing I do is bark at you like some miserable prick.ā
Your lips parted slightly.
Simon looked away, jaw flexing.
āSpent two bloody weeks thinking about getting back to you.ā His voice got quieter. āThen I walk through that door and make you cry inside five minutes.ā
The tears you were trying to stop spilled over again.
The second he saw them, he looked genuinely devastated.
Not angry. Not frustrated.
Devastated.
āOh, sweetheartā¦ā
He crossed the room immediately then stopped himself halfway, hesitating.
Simon Riley, who would walk through gunfire without blinking, suddenly looking uncertain about whether he was allowed to touch his own wife.
āYou donāt have to comfort me,ā you whispered.
That nearly broke him, his eyes shut briefly.
āChrist.ā
He finally stepped closer carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. His hands settled lightly on your arms, almost tentative.
āIām sorry love,ā he said again. āI shouldnāt have spoken to you like that. Ever.ā
You looked down, vision blurring, āI know youāre tired.ā
āThatās not an excuse.ā
āI wasnāt trying to annoy you-ā,you huffed ,choking slightly on the tears.
āI know.ā His voice cracked slightly then steadied. āI know you werenāt.ā
The guilt in his expression got worse somehow.
āYou were taking care of me,ā he murmured. āThatās all you were doing.ā
You tried to look away again but Simon gently caught your chin before you could.
āLook at me.ā
You did. Big mistake.
The second he saw how hard youād been trying not to cry, his entire face softened into something painfully guilty.
āDidnāt mean to scare you.ā, he murmured ,gently cupping your face.
āYou never yell at me.ā, you sniffled.
That one hit directly to the ribs.
Simon actually flinched.
His thumb brushed carefully under your eye, wiping away a tear with absurd gentleness for a man built like a concrete wall with emotional constipation.
āI swear to you,ā he said quietly, āthe second it came outta my mouth, I wanted to take it back.ā
You could hear how honest it was.
Simon wasnāt good at pretty apologies. He wasnāt poetic, wasnāt smooth. But guilt made him painfully sincere.
āI hate that you looked at me like that,ā he admitted softly.
āLike what?ā
āLike you were trying to figure out if I was angry with you.ā
His voice nearly disappeared on the last part. Because that was the thing eating him alive now. The fact that for even one second, youād looked at him uncertainly instead of safely.
Simon pulled you against him suddenly, firm and desperate, burying his face into your h.air.
āIām sorry,ā he repeated quietly against your temple. āIām so fucking sorry.ā
You felt the way he held you tighter after every apology, like he was trying to physically make up for it.
āI missed you,ā he admitted in a low murmur. āMissed you so bad it felt wrong sleeping without you there.ā His arms tightened. āThen I come home and act like that.ā
Your hands slowly curled into his shirt. Simon exhaled shakily at the feeling.
āThere she is,ā he whispered, relief and guilt tangled together. āThought I fucked this up properly for a second.ā he mumbled ,inhaling the scent of your hair.
āYou didnāt.ā
āNearly did.ā
And judging by the way he kept pressing little apologetic kisses into your hair like a man trying to repent for his crimes against domestic peace, he was going to spend the rest of the night making absolutely sure you knew he regretted it.
lol yeah i'm procrastinating my long fics TT
just out here larping
Devil Bone // Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader
Content & Warnings (mdni): swearing, post-apocalypse au, zombies, matriarchal societies, blood and gore, misogyny, canon-typical violence, unprotected piv, creampie, breeding, Simonās POV, rough sex, dirty talk
Word Count: 13k
Thereās a farmhouse on the edge of a loch, nestled against a cluster of old trees, made of stone and thatch, set within a hill that overlooks the crisp, clear water. Itās silent except for the wind and the birds, peacefully disconnected from the rest of the world. That is how they like it. That is how itās been the last four years until a distress call sounds in the endless silence over the radio.
read the companion piece: Flint
ao3 // main masterlist // Eyes of Lilith Collab
Thereās a farmhouse on the edge of a loch, nestled against a cluster of old trees, made of stone and thatch, set within a hill that overlooks the crisp, clear water. Itās silent except for the wind and the birds, peacefully disconnected from the rest of the world. At the bottom of the small hill rests a wooden dock with an aged rowboat tied to a post, the shallow hull creaking with the rippling water.
All outward appearances speak to abandonment, that its previous occupants died along with everyone else, drifting into history, forgotten and alone. Unreachable by road, not for lack of path, but lack of maintenance. Rain has washed away the gravel, allowed grass to grow, removing all traces of tire tracks.
No one lives here. Nothing stirs.
And thatās exactly how they like it.
A door stands open to the enclosed garden. Simon, with apron on and arms covered in blood and stag entrails, works a hunting knife between skin and meat. One stag is done, its parts separated and cleaned, taken away by Price to be stored properly. The second stag hangs from the ceiling by its hind legs, a bucket beneath its head to catch what blood still drips from its open neck.
This is silent work. All precision. Keeps his head clear.
Johnny is out in the garden. Simon can hear his Scottish lilt as he talks to the chickens, complimenting the hensā feathers and scolding the rooster each time it attempts to take flight and land on him when his back is turned. Kyleās been missing all morning, likely at the long-distance radio, listening for any outside communication.
Theyāve grown fewer over the years. Months pass in complete static. Still tries though Simon sees no point in it. People are gone. People are dead. People are feral, surviving, or rotting above ground in piles. War machines churn, spewing bullets and disease, creating bioweapons meant for the enemy, only to lose control of the beast theyāve birthed, dissolving humanity with it.
Simon clears away the fur, hanging it on nearby hooks next to the other stretched stag hide. Price will clean it, turn it into a coat or a throw for one of the beds. Bone is separated from the meat, each section placed in a specific spot on the butcher table based on use. Simonās knife is sharp. Cuts clean. Makes the work easy.
āSimon.ā
Though Price calls his name, Simon keeps his gaze on removing the stomach.
āSimon.ā
āWhat?ā questions Simon, severing the connecting tissue. Holding the stagās stomach in both hands, he sets it gently on the table.
Price stands in the doorway, his own butchers apron slick with gore. āNearly done?ā
āJust about,ā replies Simon, observing the carcass.
He aims for a joint.
āKyle picked up a signal.ā Simonās knife pauses. Falls to his side. āDistress call.ā
āClose?ā
Price nods. āNot far.ā
āTheyāre out front. Surrounding the car.ā
āHow many?ā
A scope sweep over the jerking bodies, and Simon answers. āA few dozen. One on fucking fire. Nasties donāt seem bothered.ā
āAny movement inside?ā crackles Priceās voice in Simonās earpiece.
Waterproof, solar-powered, short-range walkies turned out to be a goddamn blessing after the apocalypse.
āNone,ā replies Simon, checking the windows not covered in newspaper. āAll quiet.ā
āNever a good sign,ā Johnny grumbles.
To Simonās right, Old Chap, the stray Scottish Deerhound Price found on a hunt and brought back, is all silent statue, unmoving like Roman marble, waiting for the signal. Pup was bred to hunt deer, and on a hunt, Old Chap is lethal, herding them out of hiding and into the range of their rifles. Infected meat falls under his maw, too, ripped apart by Old Chapās teeth. The Wasting Disease rots the flesh and curdles the blood in humans or transforms them into a fleshy bullet, shambling and twisting, throwing themselves forward, hungry to bite bite bite and spread.
Creatures like that donāt last long. Theyāre fast but mindless. The Wasting Disease controls the base motor functions but not much else. Machines of a bloody caliber, made to ignore pain, breaking down into ripped limbs and gory stumps until the thing eventually dies. Could survive a few days. At most a week. A disease made in a lab for American Imperialism, only to backfire, spreading to enemies and friendlies. Destroying fucking everything.
āTheyāre fascinated by the fire,ā murmurs Simon, aiming the sniper rifle, transferring the scope to each rotting head. āStrange,ā he drawls, a hint of confusion in his tone.
Priceās voice again. āWhatās strange?ā
Simon sniffs, leaning to the left and away from the scope. The diseased, human torch topples over, still, remaining alone, its companions keeping distance.
Is he fucking seeing things?
āSimon,ā prompts Price.
āTheyāre avoiding it,ā answers Simon after a brief pause.
āAvoiding what?ā
āThe fire.ā
Car overturned, engulfed in flame, but only one burned. The rest linger nearby, observing the vehicle and fire but refusing to draw closer. Inconceivable years ago. Wankers threw themselves at everything in their path in their need to bite. Bullet, car, train, tree, buildingāanything.
Simon returns to the scope, watchful of the gathered horde. Breathing widens, becoming loud in his ears. One of the nasties breaks away. From the length of the hair and the gentle flare of the hips, it might have been a woman once. She drifts back, focusing on the building, head tilting skyward.
āPrice,ā speaks Simon into the mouthpiece, āuse caution when you enter.ā
A pause. āWhat do you see?ā
āConsciousness.ā
Old Chap blinks, revealing teeth as he senses the change. Simon gently turns his head. āStill,ā he softly croons, and the deerhound becomes stone.
Price sighs before he speaks. āClear in the back. Weāre entering. Rear door.ā
āCopy.ā
Price, Kyle, and Johnny are alone in there. Simon cannot rush to their rescue, only give them time if they require an exit. Silence for nearly three years then a distress signal from a tiny town thirty-two kilometers away. Something stinks about it. Simon fucking hates surprises.
Crackling words push into Simonās eardrum as he counts and recounts the shambling group out front. A pop. Hiss. Little sparks burst upward from the car, flares of light that turn the nasties heads. Back when the Wasting Disease raged, any sound sent the slobbering masses running to investigate. Here, they almost admire.
āFucking gross in here,ā comes Johnnyās voice, a breath of sound.
Another pop. Another spark.
āThree. Round that corner,ā growls Price.
Silence as they work. Silence on the roof. Simon sniffs, runs the scope over the crowd. Counting. Counting. Counting.
āShit,ā he mutters. Simon shifts his focus, looking for the wayward enemy.
Itās the infected woman again, dragging her right foot behind her as she lurches forward, aiming for the alley. Not a wide opening, certainly wide enough for a human to navigate quietly but not a fucking diseased shamble.
āOnes on the move,ā Simon softly speaks into the walkie. āHeading to the back.ā
Through the earpiece, Kyle, Price, and Johnny relay signals, mere whispers of instruction and confirmation, moving through the building as Simon readies his rifle. If heās careful, Simon can take her out as she hobbles into the alley. Heāll have a few seconds of space before she disappears.
Simon lines up the reticle. Finger tightens.
Not yet. Not yet.
The woman turns, her gaze focusing in Simonās direction as if she can see his hiding place.
Trigger pullāand the gun is silent, but not from a suppresser.
A wave of intense heat explodes up and outward, creating a mushroom shape that dissipates, leaving a roaring inferno behind, knocking down or incinerating the nearby nasties. Half of the building catches flame, the windows blow, bits and chunks of wood flying.
āFuck!ā
As the horde stirs, Simon snaps into action, taking out one then another, aiming for the heads if possible, taking out knees if a headshot remains blocked.
āTalk to me,ā Simon says into his walkie, desperately attempting to cover the panic in his voice. āPrice, do you copy?ā Silence. āJohnny?ā More silence. āJohnny, do you copy?ā Quiet except the heated maw of the fire. āGaz? Gaz! FuckāKyle!ā
Old Chap is up, teeth bared, stance locked for violence though Simon hasnāt given the signal. The extension of himself is the rifle and the burst of gore from heads. It is his voice calling their names, limbs itching to fucking risk it and go after them.
Most of the horde is on fire or dead, the rest drag themselves around, limbs broken or blown from Simonās bullets. Dreary doubt chews at the hope.
āSimon?ā
Johnny.
āSoap? Do you copy?ā
A pause. āAye.ā Johnny coughs. āI copy.ā
āWhereās Price? Kyle?ā
All that comes over the walkie is a low groan.
āSoap! Listen to me. The buildingās on fucking fire. You need to get upāā
A familiar click. Simon remains perfectly still, perfectly calm as he slowly pivots to glance over his shoulder.
Man or woman, hardly matters. Some wanker has a gun pointed in Simonās face. Theyāre covered, head-to-toe in black tactical gear. Shit looks nearly authentic to what he wore in the field.
āGet that gun out of my face,ā growls Simon. They donāt. āI saidāā
āHeard what you said.ā A manās voice. āNot here to harm you. Or those with you.ā
Simon sneers behind his balaclava. āHave a funny way of showing it.ā
The tactical-clad man nods toward the ground to Simon rifle. āBigger gun. Had to be careful.ā
In Simonās earpiece, Johnny is talking, talking about Price, talking about smoke, and coughing hacking coughing.
āWe can help them.ā
āWe?ā snarls Simon.
The stranger takes a step back, shows his hands, lowers his gun. āReceived a distress call. That you?ā
āNo. We received one, too.ā
Johnny is shouting at him. Price is down. And Johnny canāt bloody see. āLet us help,ā repeats the man. āLet us help.ā
Jaw clenched and grinding, Simon looms in the corner like a waiting reaper.
Price is hooked up to a bunch of machines that fucking beep constantly and mean fuck all to Simon. Med was never his thing. He was a hunter. Silent stealth and bloodied knife. Johnny holds vigil beside Priceās bed, fists clenched on the chair arms, gaze sadly intense.
Kyle is missing.
Gaz is fucking missing.
Four down to three but doesnāt mean heās dead. Johnny is here, and Simon can slip away, search for Kyle in the wreckage, unless the fuckers found him and are holding him here without telling either of them. Entirely possible, but Simon has always seen the worst in people.
Ash clings to Johnnyās face and clothes, a hint of smoke lingers in the air, Simon untouched by both, watching from afar as Price and Johnny were pulled from the burning building by strangers. Theyāve relieved Price of his fatigues, swapped for plain, clean clothes, washed his face, neck, and arms.
Johnny and Simon werenāt allowed in at first. Both fought, Simon swinging on a few armed men, knocking them to the floor before he was subdued. Johnny, still with smoke in his lungs, fell easily, unable to breathe right and exhausted. Put him on oxygen for a while, fluids for hydration, refusing a bed because Johnny didnāt want Simon out of his sight.
āNeed to find Gaz,ā growls Simon, voice scratchy from lack of use.
Johnny sighs heavily, keeping his gaze on a snoozing Price. āThink heās here?ā
āLikely,ā shrugs Simon. āRight behind you, wasnāt he?ā
āOne floor down at the bottom of the stairs. He stopped to check a room.ā
Simonās head snaps to Soap. āHe wasnāt with you?ā
āHe wasāā
āNot behind you.ā
Johnny remains mute, lips pinched. Simon crosses his arms over his chest, tucking them in until itās a hug. Whatever anger dwells in his bones isnāt for Soap.
āGlad youāre alive, Johnny,ā sighs Simon, the cloudy temperament lifting.
A swarm of tactical-clad men emerged after Simon stood down. Like beetles from a drain, they scattered, mowing down infected, storming the house, sparks from gunfire illuminating the few windows not blown out from the blast.
Old Chap, the good pup, wrapped himself around Simonās leg, baring his teeth at any of the men that drew near, following Simon to the truck they put him in, and hasnāt left Priceās side since. The nurses even brought him a dog bed.
āWe have to find him,ā whispers Soap. āHeās out there.ā Johnny glances at Simon. āKyle isnāt dead.ā
āNo,ā agrees Simon. āHeās not.ā
Kyle, the bastard, is indestructible.
A soft knock at the door draws their attention to the right. In the open doorway, a woman with dark hair pulled back into a tight bun smiles, her white doctorās coat perfectly pressed and clean. Simon inhales sharply, momentarily stunned by the sight of her. Simon hasnāt seen a woman in damn near four years. It was him and his hand and pictures. Johnny is as startled as Simon, grip loosening on the chair arms, falling into his lap as he discreetly tries to hide the obvious bulge.
All Simon has seen of this place is men. Men in tactical wear, men in scrubs, men in civilian clothes. Men men men fucking everywhere. This is the first woman, which, why wouldnāt there be? If theyād ever come across one during these long years, Simon knows heād have taken her. Probably what theyāve done here. Perhaps allowed a few to retain their previous jobs, just like the doctor standing in front of him.
That how these things go. In war-torn areas, itās always the women and children who suffer the most.
āHope Iām not disturbing,ā she says softly, taking a few steps inside, heading over to Priceās beeping machines. With clipboard in hand, she makes a few notes, murmuring under her breath as her pencil scratches across the page.
āEverything aces?ā grumbles Simon, chest heaving slightly.
The doctor turns, her smile remaining soft and professional. āThe good news is that heāll recover.ā
Johnny blows out a ragged breath, rubbing his hands over his face as he leans forward, groaning, resting elbows on knees.
āThereās a but, isnāt there?ā asks Simon. There always is.
She inclines her head. āSeveral bones in his legs and feet are broken. Some with smaller fractures. We need patience and time while he heals. No internal bleeding but lots of bruising. A few burns. Those are only first and second degree. Theyāll heal and likely wonāt leave scars.ā She turns toward Price. āHeās incredibly lucky.ā
Heāll live. Price will live.
But they know nothing about Kyle.
āThere was a fourth with us. Is he here?ā
The doctor frowns. āIām only aware of you three. Itās possible he was brought here as well, but I havenāt seen anyone else fromā¦outside.ā
āBut he could be here?ā Simon adds pressure to his voice, an authoritarian air he hasnāt used since the time before.
She clocks it immediately, her smile disappearing. āIāll find out what I can.ā She nods at Johnny, disappearing through the open door. A minute later and one of those gnarly wankers that stuck their guns in Simonās face appears. Big and broad but not as large as Simon. He could take him. The manās eyes narrow, laser focused as if Simon personally slighted him.
Answers.
Simon will have them, even if it takes some broken teeth.
āThis place is weird. I donāt like it.ā
Between the slats of the window blinds, Simon observes a group of laughing men walking by. Johnny grunts, and Simon turns. The Scot is lying on the floor, fighting with the laces of his boot.
āJohnny,ā snaps Simon.
āFucking help me,ā he grumbles, loosening the laces of one boot, sticking it out toward Simon. With an annoyed huff, Simon grasps the toe of the boot and yanks. āBloody Jesus, Ghost. Trying to take my leg off?ā
āDid you hear me?ā
āAye. I heard ya.ā
āSaid this place is weird.ā
Johnny manages to kick off the other boot and sit up, arms on his knees as he looks up at Simon, bewildered. āThatās what youāre on about right now?ā Johnny extends his palms upward, fingers splayed. āGive it a rest.ā
āGive it a rest?ā
Johnny frowns at him. āWeāve been awake, what? Forty-eight hours now?ā Simon tuts dismissively and Johnny snorts, clearly fed up and irritated. āWe need rest. We need a plan.ā
āWe need to find Kyle.ā
āI know, Simon,ā hisses Johnny. āThink I donāt care?ā
Simon crouches. āI think youāre too calm about this.ā
Johnnyās frown becomes sour. āNot looking for a fight, Ghost. I want to sleep.ā He pauses, growing grim. āAnd to clean off Priceās blood.ā
Simon canāt sleep. Heās on edge. āThereās something not right about this place.ā
āNot disagreeing,ā groans Johnny as he shifts to his knees and then his feet, joints audibly popping as he stretches. āBut what are we going to do about it?ā Simon opens his mouth, but Soap holds up a hand to silence him. āNothing. We need sleep. A shower. Wonāt do Kyle any good if weāre tanked.ā
Johnny is already removing his clothes, discarding them one by one, bare ass giving Simon a show until he disappears into the bathroom. The shower turns on, and Simon considers his options. A quick walk wonāt hurt. In and out.
Simon leans against the doorframe, knocking. āSoap! Going for a walk!ā Johnny responds but itās muffled by the falling water. āBe back in ten!ā
A quick look. Thatās all.
Thatās what Simon tells himself as he steps out into the cool night, as he walks to the fence line, as he strolls casually, pretending heās out for fresh air when itās to spy. As Simon strolls and observes, all he notices are men and their smiling faces. Bizarre, like someone cut out lips and glued them on. No air of oppression or authority, no one making themselves appear small, and no lingering sense of tension. Itās off-putting and unnatural. Aside from that, Simon hasnāt noticed a single woman.
Are they separated? Could be. Would explain their absence. The doctor is the only women theyāve met. The nurses that came in to check on Price, the security guards, and the patients, were all men.
Simon continues to walk, passing by a few guard gates. There are only glimpses of whatās beyond, hints of what might be a town, of other people. The men standing guard there nod their heads at him before continuing in their chatter, completely relaxed, not worried that Simon is out and about this late at night. Thatās strange, too. It all is, and it sours Simonās stomach.
One lap and Simon trudges back to the small cabin he and Johnny have been given. Johnny is out of the shower, wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants, on his back in bed, eyes closed.
āWhatād you find?ā asks Johnny, not looking at him.
āTheyāre guarding something.ā
Johnny snorts. āFrom your weird arse.ā
Simon side-eyes him but leaves it. Exhaustion is setting in, muscles sore. Rolling his neck, Simon removes his boots, his clothes, plunging beneath the warm water of the cascading shower.
Simon lights up, blowing smoke into the air.
āPrice is well,ā says Johnny, squinting as he looks up into the sky. The sun is beating down, warming their faces, but the wind whips, bringing a chill. āChecked on him this morning.ā
āDoctor find anything out about Gaz?ā
Johnny shakes his head. āNo. Kept it brief.ā
āSee anything while you were there?ā
Johnny sucks his teeth. āSaw mostly men again. More women though. All in doctorās coats.ā
āHow many?ā
Soap shrugs. āLeast six.ā
āSix? And no female patients?ā
āNope,ā quips Johnny. āBut I was watching them because shitāhow long has it been?ā
āFour years,ā Simon answers instantly.
Johnny elbows him in the arm. āBeen counting?ā
āFuck off or talk.ā
Johnny cracks a smile like heās been holding on to a juicy secret. āForty-eight hours and Iāve seen six female doctors. Six, Simon. Means there could be more.ā
āHas to be,ā mutters Simon, not really speaking to Johnny but to the cigarette smoke drifting in front of his face.
Johnny grins wider, lightly smacking Simonās arm with his knuckles. āWhat if we free them? Have ourselves our own little harem.ā
Simon smirks. āYouād love that, wouldnāt you, Johnny?ā
Johnny sighs dreamily, resting his head against the wood wall of their cabin, eyes closed. āI can picture it now.ā Holding out his hands, he makes a cupping gesture. āBig bouncy tits. Something I can suckle on while sheās on top.ā
Simon snorts, choking on smoke. āYouāre a dog, Johnny.ā
He opens one eye, his smile growing larger. āOh, aye. Even since I popped out of me ma.ā
āWhat else did you see?ā
At this, Johnnyās amusement softens. āStrangest thing. Around the women, all the men wereā¦polite.ā
āPolite?ā
Johnnyās face pinches, lips pursing. āWrong word,ā he mutters, taking a moment to think. āRespectful,ā he finally says.
āRespectful,ā Simon repeats.
āHanging on their every word. Doing what theyāre told. No arguments. No joking. No backtalk or attitude. Totally compliant. Fucking bizarre if you ask me. All smiles. Some Stepford Wives bullshit.ā
āRobots?ā deadpans Simon. āYou think the men are all robots?ā
Johnny throws up his hands. āOr lobotomized.ā
āFucking hell, Johnny,ā growls Simon. āTheyāre doctors. Course theyāre being spoken to with respect.ā
āNo. No. You didnāt see what I did.ā Johnny swallows. āMen moved out of their way. Did things without asking.ā He imitates a walking robot and stilted voice. āObedient and without soul.ā
āBe fucking serious,ā huffs Simon. āRespect doesnāt mean brainwashed. Iāll admit the place is weird. Think theyāre hiding things. But this isnāt sci-fi movie.ā
Johnny scratches the side of his nose. āThink itās odd the only women weāve seen are doctors. Where are the rest?ā
āIf we ask, might find out where Kyle is, too.ā Simon puts out his cigarette with the toe of his book. āSince weāre idle, should make conversation. Learn what we can.ā
Johnny nods. āAgreed. Not sure how youāll manage it.ā
āIām not that scary.ā
Johnny places his hand on Simonās shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. āCourse not. Youāre fucking Mary Poppins.ā
āGet moving,ā growls Simon, shoving at Soap, who dances out of reach. āBe back here in two hours. No more.ā
Johnny mock salutes and disappears, leaving Simon to contemplate his next move. Could walk the perimeter again, but heās far more interested in those gates and whatever the hell theyāre guarding.
Retracing his steps, Simon reaches the first gate he came across in the night. Closed and guarded in the twilight hours, it stands open with a different set of guards. Two of them, chatting and smiling, leaning like they havenāt a bother. Simon strides forward, relaxing his body to appear less threatening.
One of the men, a redhead with freckles, nods in Simonās direction, unfazed by his appearance. āYouāre one of the new ones.ā
Simonās reply comes sharp. āWhat of it?ā
Redhead shrugs, still amused in the face of Simonās attitude. āCan I help you find something?ā
Kyle. You can help me find Kyle.
āBit turned around,ā answers Simon, forcing his voice into a neutral tone and fails completely. Itās gruff and brisk. Not friendly at all. āHavenāt found my way yet.ā
Redheadās companion, a lanky man with dark hair and grey eyes, nods in understanding. āHappens to everyone thatās new.ā He clears his throat, tucking his thumbs behind his padded vest. Striding toward Simon, he points back the way Simon came. āYouāre that way.ā
Back to the little cabin that hardly fits him and Johnny.
āI know where weāre staying,ā Simon replies dryly. āLooking for a friend.ā
āThought your friend was in hospital?ā
Fucking gits.
āFour of usāā
āFour!ā exclaims the redhead, slapping his companionās arm. āHear that? Weāve gone and lost one!ā
Itās not worth a goodbye.
Simon moves on, gaining little information. Nothing about Kyle. Nothing about whatās behind the gates. When he brought up the lack of women, most of them looked at him funny, explaining he was āon the menās side.ā
Is the place split in two? Men on one side. Women on the other. What about children? Families? People who identify as neither? Where are they? Is the place larger than Simon first thought? Smaller?
It doesnāt make sense. None of it does. Simon isnāt the friendliest but everyone he talked to appeared to assume that Simon would already know this information because they do, too. But Simon, Johnny, Kyle, and Price are not from here. Theyāve known nothing but the four them these long years, interacting with few people, nearly all of them set out to harm them for what they have.
Two hours and Simon is back at the cabin, having another cig, waiting for Johnny as he stews over the lack of fucking everything. Breathless, Johnny rounds the corner of the cabin, moving so fast he might have popped into existence.
Voice high and excited, Johnny blathers, shifting between English and Gaelic, waving his hands in the air.
āSlow down, MacTavish,ā chastises Simon. āAnd speak English.ā
Johnny grasps Simonās upper arms, shaking him. āI know where Kyle is.ā
āHe alive?ā asks Simon, trying not to remain hopeful.
āInjured,ā nods Johnny. āBut alive.ā His hands squeeze, going in for another shake. āYouāll never guess where he is.ā Johnny pauses like he expects Simon to play along. When Simon doesnāt, he continues. āThey have him with the women.ā
āJohnnyāā
āAll this time we thought they were hidden and theyāre out in the fucking open, walking around like you and me.ā
āJohnnyāā
Soap chatters on, ignoring him completely. āThe men at the gates arenāt guarding anything. Itās to keep women out.ā He releases Simonās arms, speaking so ferociously and quickly, that Simon has to dodge Soapās flailing arms.
āBut they have their own side. They have gates, too. To keep men out. Separate spaces. Private spaces. And in between,ā Johnny swirls his hands together, mixing the air, āis everyone.ā
āJohnny,ā growls Simon. āYouāre not making sense.ā
Soapās chest heaves as he inhales deeply, calming himself. āItās all divided up. Men have their space. Women have theirs. Between that, itās for everyone. Thatās why we havenāt seen any women walking around. They arenāt allowed here without explicit permission, but itās the same for their space. Men arenāt allowed to walk right on in. They need to have a reason.ā
Separation. Intermingling. Simon could give a shit. Kyle is here and heās alive.
āWe have to see him,ā states Simon.
Johnnyās enthusiasm wanes. āDonāt know if theyāll allow it.ā
āWe have reason,ā emphasizes Simon. āAnd whatās stopping us?ā
Enthusiasm returns to Soapās face, along with a nefarious smirk. āWeāve infiltrated tougher places.ā
āThat we have, Johnny.ā
Bending at the knees, Johnny checks the pulse of the guard Simon headbutted. āHeās fine.ā
Grabbing the guardās shoulders, Johnny hooks his elbows under the armpits while Simon grabs the feet. Quietly, they bring the downed man into the guard box, dropping him out of view of anyone passing by.
āToo easy, Ghost. Didnāt put up a fight.ā
Simon frowns down at the unconscious guard. āNo gun.ā Using the toe of his boot, Simon eases the man over on his side. āJust a baton.ā
Johnny straightens, chuckling. āThink others might be packing?ā
āDonāt know.ā Simon steps out of the guard box, Soap on his heels. āNeed to use caution.ā
Like a gate at the entrance and exit of a parking garage, itās nothing more than a piece of treated wood lifted by a hand crank instead of sensors. Johnny and Simon simply slip under it, approaching the next on silent feet. Simonās focus is on the two guards with their backs turned toward them. Johnny, on the other hand, slows, gaze focused on the buildings beyond. A quick tap on the arm and Johnnyās back on track.
They pounce together. Covering mouths. Choking them out.
Johnnyās target succumbs easily but Simonās is a fighter, twisting his body to jab his elbow into Simonās ribs. It takes nothing for Simon to snap the manās neck.
āJesus, Simon,ā mutters Johnny, dragging his unconscious guard into the box.
āHad to be done,ā states Simon, dragging his guard by the wrist, uncaring of gentleness now that heās dead.
Slinking into the shadows, they melt into the darkness for cover, taking refuge in a small alleyway between two buildings.
āWhat the fuck is this?ā breathes Johnny.
Simon lightly chews on the inside of his lip, assessing their surroundings. The zone he and Johnny were in before, the āmale onlyā zone, looked like any other military base, unassuming and familiar. Johnnyās intel earlier starts to make sense. A space for men. A space for women. And a space between.
In front of them is a town center, maybe a main street, but a communal space all the same. Like an old western movie, the building facades are made of wood, their bodies composed of tougher material. Some brick. Some stone. Splashes of paint and signage to differentiate between what might be found inside. Simon canāt recall noticing the transfer of money or any form of currency. No one traded anything either.
āWhat direction?ā whispers Simon, scanning the corners and rooftops.
No movement. All is quiet.
Johnny nods toward the right. āSee that opening?ā
āItās in front of us, Soap.ā
Johnny pinches his arm and Simon glares at him. āWe take that. No turns. No stops. A direct shot.ā
āItās too easy.ā
Behind Johnnyās balaclava, the corners of his eyes wrinkle, indicating a smile. āFirepowerās at the gate and perimeter.ā
āPut your wiles on āem, Johnny?ā teases Simon.
āNot even men can resist my charm.ā
Simon bites down on his snarky remark, stepping out from the shadows, crouching low, checking both ways before darting across the street. Johnny follows, back turned to catch anyone coming up behind them.
There is no cry of alarm. No shouts. They are sightless phantoms, invisible to the living even as they exist among them.
Only one guard stands watch at the gate to the womenās side of the compound. He whistles, tapping his foot, staring up at the stars. Simon subdues him easily, he and Johnny slipping under the gate.
Simon didnāt know what theyād find. Would it be nicer? Worse? The reality is that itās almost the same.
As Johnny and Simon move from shadow to shadow, they discover cabins like the one they were given. Several are larger, perhaps for a family, while others are lined in stretches of three or four like a row of townhomes. The paths are the same, as are the lights that illuminate them. Of all the similarities, the starkest difference is the green spaces. Trees, flowers, potted plants, and gardens.
Simon steps around a bed of bluebells that curve around the side of a white-painted cabin, nearly colliding with a garden chair and the woman reading in it.
Startled, eyes growing wide, it takes a moment for her to realize the danger of Simonās intrusion. When she does, the shift is instant. Surprise to fear is like an unexpected splash of cold water.
Her mouth opens. A scream is coming.
Simonās hand is around her throat before it blooms, smothering her voice and ability to breathe. āBe silent,ā he whispers, staring into her watery eyes. āWonāt hurt you. But donāt give me a reason. Nod if you understand.ā Takes a second, but she does. Simon eases his grip on her throat. āWeāre looking for a man. Heās hurt. Being cared for here. Do you know where?ā
Again, the woman nods her head.
āGood,ā coos Simon, easing his grip further until his hand rests against her skin. āTell us.ā
Her chest heaves with each gasping gulp of air. āMed bay. Not far.ā
āDirection?ā
She nervously glances to the left before dropping her gaze downward in submission. āItāsāā
Simon tightens his grip just enough to make her whimper. āAnd donāt lie.ā
āGo left,ā she murmurs. āFollow it all the way. Youāll find it.ā
Simon drops his hand. āGood girl,ā he purrs, lightly patting the side of her cheek. At this, she scowls but remains mute. Smart, this one. Knows better than to poke. āAfter weāre gone, go inside. Do not come out. Do not talk to anyone. Tell no one weāre here.ā He pauses, waiting for confirmation.
āI understand,ā she replies, scowl still present.
āIf you do, we know where to find you.ā Simon straightens, glancing around at the array of flowers. āHate to return and,ā Simon reaches out to rub a delicate petal between his fingers, ātrample all over your bluebells.ā
By the deepening of the crease between her brows, Simon knows she understands the deeper meaning. Flowers are flowers. They can grow again. Limbs, fingers, toes, and teeth cannot. Simon drops the flower, stepping backward.
Johnny, remaining silent the whole time, finally speaks once theyāre out of earshot. āHowād you know theyāre bluebells? Didnāt take you for a man of the botanical variety.ā
āI contain multitudes, Johnny,ā he says casually.
Keeping out of sight, they weave between buildings, keeping a close eye on the path. Takes a few minutes but the path widens. Johnny grabs Simonās upper arm, bringing him to a halt. A jerk of his head and Simon stills, creeping slowly to glance around a corner.
Outside the medical bay are a couple dozen security guards wielding batons. Either that woman snitched, or someone saw and reported.
Simon draws back, quietly pointing at Johnny, indicating he should circle to the other side while he does the same on the other. Johnny nods, shuffling backward, checking all directions before disappearing into the night. Simon mimics him, circling to the opposite end, crouching behind the closest structure to the medical bay.
Their gazes meet across the expanse.
A signal. Quick jerk of the head.
Simon rushes forward, aiming for the closest guard, a scrawny thing thatās more twig than man. The guard staggers forward as Simon collides with his back. Baton slipping from the manās hand, Simon snatches it up, kicking out with his boot, jabbing the steel-toe into the manās ribs.
Down he goes, Simon swinging the baton outward, the end clipping another guardās chin. A loud crunch. Blood and teeth fly out from his open mouth. A sharp punch to the chest, Simon stepping to the side as the man crumples.
Simon purposefully ignores Johnny, holding his focus on the men charging him. Stumbling buffoons. They are untrained, unbloodied, and lack discipline. Worms in the dirt. Easily crushed under Simonās heel.
Broken noses. Punches to the throat. Simon fells them one by one with minimal effort. A few of the braver ones still block his path, believing they might have a chance. Others hang back, refusing to come closer unless they have to.
Simon hears crying, wailing, and a few pleading women telling him to stop. He doesnāt. Violence is an extension of himself. A constant companion.
Raising the baton, Simon steps on the manās chest beneath him, his weight crushing rib and lung. Blood bubbles between the guardās lips. A killing blow.
The baton falls, coming down down downā
A hand grasps the baton, soft at first appearance, absent of hard work. Simon stares at that hand, how fragile it is, how easy he could break it. His gaze finds wrist, forearm, elbow, bicep. Up it goes, landing on a face.
No guard. No man at all.
A woman with fire in her eyes and a deep, angry scowl upon her face. Your lip trembles, not from fear of him, but from the scene of violence.
Brave. So brave you are standing up to him.
āIgnorant brute,ā you growl at Simon.
When he remains still, you smack his chest. Again. Again. The next smack and your wrist is caught in his grip. Tugging, Simon draws you close, peering into your face.
He canāt help himself, how his gaze drifts to your lips, to admire the quiver, how they might do the same from pleasure and not anger.
More men appear, wielding far more dangerous weapons than a feeble baton. Soap is on his stomach, arms behind his back. It takes five grown men to keep him there.
There is no space to fight, to keep going.
Simon steps back but doesnāt release your wrist. The baton slips through your fingers, and Simon drops it as dozens of hands descend.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Simon squints at the analog clock high on the wall in front of him, surprised that they found working batteries.
āWe helped you.ā
Simonās gaze slowly descends, landing on the woman behind a plain, wood desk. Nice enough, clearly handmade, not pieced together from wordless instruction manuals. Itās hardly a statement piece just like the rest of the room. Simple and unassuming, yanked out and dropped from any corporate office building.
Desk. Lamps. Filing cabinets. Bookshelves.
And a woman, Isla, seated behind the desk, with a commanding presence that could rival Captain Price.
āGave you clothes,ā she continues, counting. Her fingernails are cut short and scrubbed clean. āFood. Shelter. Rescued you. Gave medical aid to your friends.ā Behind her and to the right, stands an armed guard, staring down his nose at Simon. Fucker acts tough but Simon can see the bruising beneath the collar. Simon had his hands around that one. āAnd how do you repay us?ā
āThat rhetorical?ā mutters Simon and the bruised neck guard scowls.
āShow some respect,ā he growls but Simon remains unflinching. His voice is weak and scratchy, detailing Simonās handywork.
Even with his hands bound and seated in a chair, Simon is dangerous. Probably why there are not one but three guards in the room. One to guard Isla, the presiding speaker for The Council of Women, the ruling leadership of the settlement, and two guards stationed behind Simon and Johnny. One man each.
āFive men are dead,ā she snaps. āMore injured.ā
āYou hid Kyle from us,ā accuses Simon coldly. āWhat were we supposed to think.ā
āHiding him?ā she repeats, head tilting slightly as if it isnāt the fucking truth. āWe werenāt keeping him from you.ā
āThat right?ā
Gleeful screaming, that of children, carries in from the nearby window. Large and covering the entire left side of the room, it looks out onto the communal space Simon and Johnny crept through the other night. Itās full of people now.
Isla spreads her hands, forearms resting on the desk. āI understand your frustration,ā she begins, retaining a calmly professional tone. āBut that doesnāt give you the right to trespass. To threaten citizens. To break our laws and murder multiple men who risk their lives to keep us safe.ā
Johnny speaks up. āThink we can just shut it off?ā
āThat is notāā
āYouāre strangers to us,ā interrupts Johnny. āWe donāt know you. Your intentions. Weāre surviving in the way we know how.ā
Islaās expression remains neutral. Always calm. Always professional. Simon admires her for that. Easy to see why The Council selected her as their representative.
āThat is precisely how this mess started in the first place. The arrogance and selfishness of men.ā
Johnny scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. āCanāt put that on us. Blame the Americans.ā
āAnd we were their allies,ā shrugs Isla. āWe are just as responsible.ā
Simon is sick of this conversation. Itās word circles leading nowhere. He and Johnny were held prisoners below. A floor down is the council chambers, where the Council of Women hold hearings. Beneath it, under the ground in a damp basement, is the jail. Counting the days was pointless, and Simon isnāt interested in returning.
āThink we took joy in it?ā counters Simon. āKilling those men.ā
Isla turns her gaze on Simon, the middle of her brow creasing. āFrom eyewitnesses to the brutality, one would think so.ā
Simon leans forward. The guard behind him seizes his shoulder, roughly yanking him backward. People donāt touch him. Ever. When they do, they lose fingers.
Simon jerks his shoulder out of the manās grip. āThe violence meant nothing. We were after Kyle.ā
āYouāre keeping him on the womenās side,ā adds Johnny. āWhy not the menās? Why not with Price?ā
āSuspicious,ā seethes Simon. āWe wanted answers. And youāre strangers. Why would you not hide him?ā
Islaās nostrils flare. Itās the only show of emotion Simonās seen from her. āOne murder would be banishment. Two, a hanging.ā
āAnd whatās a few more?ā chuckles Johnny. āCut into pieces?ā
Isla hardly blinks, unamused by Johnnyās quip. āThat is what the law states.ā She sighs deeply. āBut the Council thinks different.ā Pushing up from her chair, Isla strides to the window, watching the people below. āThey voted to show you grace.ā
Johnny smothers a laugh, forcing out a cough. Simonās gaze narrows. Showing grace? No one shows grace unless they want something.
āWhatās the catch?ā sneers Simon. Itās irritating they removed his balaclava when they subdued him, easier to hide his disdain behind fabric.
Shifting away from the window, Isla strides to the side of her desk. āYouāre capable fighters. Strong. Organized. If Iād hazard a guessā¦ex-military?ā When neither Simon or Johnny speaks, she arches an eyebrow. āAm I wrong?ā
āNo,ā answers Simon. āNot wrong.ā
Isla crosses her arms over her chest, leaning against the desk causally like Simon and Johnny arenāt tied up and at their mercy. āWe donāt have the resources for proper training,ā she says slowly. āThe men who oversee our soldiers and guards were military themselves but low on the chain of command.ā
āCannon fodder,ā Simon clarifies because he knows the truth.
Those in power and in leadership positions are long dead or hiding or scheming somewhere to bring this disaster under control. Nothing has happened. Itās been quiet. They are looking after their own survival before anyone elseās.
Isla inclines her head but itās no confirmation. āThe Council is showing grace to extend an offer. You wonāt be punished but you are also not allowed to be idle. While we look after your friends, you will train our soldiers and advise those we have in charge of how we can improve. Whether you stay or leave after theyāre healthy is no concern to us. You have experience and training. That is something the Council values.ā
Johnnyās mouth hangs open, glancing between Simon and Isla. āCould be naval officers. Wonāt help you much.ā
Isla holds her gaze on Simon. āYouāre not naval officers.ā
Simon holds his tongue. Itās a good offer. They keep their heads, do what they do best, and leave when itās done. Not ideal but better than corpses.
Slowly shifting his attention to Johnny, they make eye contact. No words needed. Only silent understanding.
āWe were part of the Special Air Service,ā Simon admits. āHandled hostage rescue, covert reconnaissance, counterterrorism.ā Islaās eyebrows rise at this. āNot what you were expecting?ā
Clearly not, but thatās good. They have greater leverage now. Their skills and experience far exceed what the Council is after.
Isla ignores the question. āWhat of your friends?ā
āThe same,ā he answers.
āWeāre a team,ā adds Johnny. āAlways have been.ā
āWhat do we receive in return?ā asks Simon. āFor lending our skills?ā
Isla glares at them. āYou receive your lives.ā
āNo.ā Simon shakes his head. āYou will take us to Kyle. I want to see him myself. Reassurance without evidence means nothing.ā
For a moment, Simon believes Isla will accept. Her stern expression becomes motherly, almost pitiful. āYou could have asked to see him.ā
āWould you let us?ā
āNo,ā she says automatically. āProbably not.ā
āThatās my fucking point,ā growls Simon. āBring him to the menās side.ā
The guard behind Simon grasps his hair, yanking his head back to expose Simonās throat. āSpeak like that to her again and Iāll fucking kill you.ā
āCareful,ā chuckles Johnny. āDonāt tease him. Shit turns him on.ā
The guardās upper lip curls, roughly shoving Simonās head forward.
Islaās frown deepens, unamused. āTransferring your friend is not my decision to make. I can assure you heās well cared for. He needs rest and time to rehabilitate.ā
Simon runs his tongue over his teeth, tasting blood. āLet us see him and weāll accept.ā
Refusal is not survival. It is negotiation. The Council needs them, these women who oversee everything, control everything. They need tools. Simon will be that tool.
Itās a stretch of silence, of Islaās intense gaze as she considers, purposefully withholding an answer to fuck with them. āThat can be arranged.ā Victory swells in Simonās chest. āHoweverāā Johnny groans with a heavy sigh, rolling his eyes in annoyance. āHowever,ā emphasizes Isla, āafter your violent display, the little trust you did have is broken. If I allow you to enter the womenās side, even with supervision, there will be pushback.ā
āYou speak for the Council,ā replies Simon. āThink you can quiet a few disgruntled women.ā
Islaās face scrunches like sheās smelled spoiled milk. āKyle is healthy and will recover. You are to stay on the menās side and within the bounds of the communal spaces. You are to train and teach our soldiers. You are to follow our laws. You will show respect to everyone, equally.ā
From the protruding veins in Johnnyās neck, the man is ready to spit venom. Soapās temperament sometimes gets the better of him.
The corner of Simonās mouth twitches, but he holds his tongue. āAnd what are the laws?ā
āKnew this place was fucking odd.ā
āScared of some women, Johnny?ā
āNow youāve got jokes?ā
At the edge of the training grounds, Simon and Johnny observe the ongoing drills. First impressions are important, and these men hardly come close to proficient. Lack of experience and skill was an understatement.
Johnny rolls his shoulders; arms crossed over his chest. āWe were bested by this?ā
Simon considers the men before him. āNo. Wouldnāt trust them to hold a gun. And you were bested by a fire. I had the gun in my face.ā
āAye. Thatās true.ā Johnny falls quiet, tapping his foot against the ground, shaking his head when a dozen men topple off the top of the climbing wall, knocking down more as they fall.
āFucking shambles,ā mutters Simon as two of the men shove at each other.
āIf only Price were better,ā sighs Johnny. āHave them in line by end of day.ā
Simon huffs in agreement, digging in his pocket for a cigarette. Years out of date now but Simon hardly gives a shit. Still hits the same.
Johnny lightly elbows Simon in the shoulder. āHow you feel about it?ā
āWhat about?ā exhales Simon, curls of smoke dissolving into the air.
Johnny gestures vaguely. āTheir rules. Council of Women. Separate living spaces. Canāt even flirt with a woman unless she approaches you first?ā He shakes his head in disgust.
āThatās what youāre upset about?ā
āA bit,ā he grumbles, and Simon chuckles. āBut you heard what they said. About the division of labor.ā
āMakes your lobotomy theory more believable.ā
Johnny smacks Simonās chest, catching Simon on an exhale. āFucking right!ā
Simon coughs, clearing the smoke of his lungs. āOr,ā he counters, because heās slightly miffed at Johnny for hitting him, āyouāre experiencing what women have their entire lives.ā
The deadpan stare Simon receives could cut glass. āYou donāt like it either,ā drawls Johnny.
āNo,ā agrees Simon. āI donāt.ā
Simon considers the soldiers before him, how they all appear content with their lives. Lobotomy or no, dissent and discontent is common amongst large groups of people. Human history is a recording of those disagreements.
āOthers likely feel the same,ā murmurs Simon. āJust have to find them.ā
Johnnyās expression grows sourāangry. āDonāt like their rules about children. Itās not right.ā
āIām not disagreeing.ā
They arenāt paying attention to the soldiers running drills. Not worth it at this point. Johnnyās ready to boil over.
āIsla worded it like men arenāt part of the process. Exceptāā Johnny jerks his hand. āAs donors.ā
Simon aims for lightness. āKeep your prick in your pants then.ā
Johnny cracks a smile, some of his anger melting away. He sighs deeply, thawing his mood. āI miss my chickens.ā
āWeāve left them for longer. Theyāll be fine.ā
āThe hens arenāt getting their morning compliments.ā
Simon shakes his head as Johnny chuckles to himself. āShould go. Take care of this lot tomorrow.ā
āThey donāt want us here,ā says Johnny as they turn their backs. āOrdering them around.ā
Simon shrugs. āDonāt blame them. Iād hate it, too.ā
āCan see it in their eyes.ā
āWe killed some of their brothers.ā
Johnny doesnāt disagree. āWonder how Price is doing,ā he muses.
Itās a good change. A nice shift from reality. āMaybe heāll be more alert today.ā
Price is walking. Small steps. Not fully load-bearing yet, but heās recovering quickly. Leaving is tangible and not figurative.
The entire week is cyclical. First half of the day is training, lending skills and expertise. Second half of the day is for Price, Johnny and Simon sitting at his bedside, chatting with him, keeping him updated on the situation. Like them, Price is skeptical, but more worried about Kyle than settlement dynamics.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Itās a routine that begins to feel normal which is exactly what Simon didnāt want. Most of the men donāt talk to him. Theyāre nice enough. Polite. But they prefer Johnny more. Simon understands. Heās not easy to approach even on his best days.
A hawk flies overhead, curving with the wind, wings outstretched as it soars. Simon follows the bird, admires its freedom, wishing that he too could rid himself of this place.
āFucking starving,ā groans Johnny, crossing his arms and resting them on the ledge.
Theyāre at the main gate today, observing the day-to-day duties, overseeing safety specs, and what the settlement might improve on. Thing is made of solid wood. A shame, really. Someone with enough fuel or a fire-happy substance could set it to torch.
āCould use a meal,ā mutters Simon, rolling his neck, sighing with each little crunch and pop.
āThink they trust us now?ā
Simon glances at Johnny. āHappy to have something familiar in your hands?ā
Johnny lovingly taps the side of the L85. Not the best, but itāll do. Their arsenal back at the homestead is better, and what the settlement has in theirs is an assortment of ātake what you can and go.ā
With them are four others: Charles, Henry, Kit, and Michael. Men with more skill than what Johnny and Simon have observed previously. Better shots from a distance that can only improve with practice. Not one carries a rank. They donāt do that here. Itās the men on the ground and the ones in charge. Only those giving orders have the right to use a title.
A response blooms on Simonās tongue, quickly extinguished by a burst of masculine laughter. Johnny and Simon turn at the same time, and Simonās throat drops into his stomach.
That night comes roaring back, of the baton in his grip, the blood on his face and fingers, of the blow meant for the man beneath Simonās boot but stopped by a womanly hand.
Ignorant brute.
Youāre here with a smile and not a scowl.
āThank you,ā says Charles, matching your smile, reaching out for the wrapped item you hold out to him. āWas starving.ā
Simon instantly hates him.
Next to him, Johnny groans, rubbing his stomach. āLass is an angel.ā
Food. Sandwiches by the look of it. You move from man to man, handing them a sandwich each. As you approach, Simonās stomach twists. Itās a growing flutter that strengthens with every step you take. Johnny happily takes the sandwich you offer him, opening the wrapping, inhaling deeply.
Your body shifts in Simonās direction and his back straightens as your eyes meet. The smile fades, becoming a fierce scowl.
There is no goodbye.
And no sandwich.
Simon stares as you turn your back, sauntering away like he isnāt there at all. Out of habit, Simonās gaze drops, admiring the sway of your hips, and an ass he wants to sink his teeth into. Sandwich in hand, it hovers in front of Johnnyās open mouth. The others also stare in disbelief, glancing between you and Simon until you disappear, descending the stairs.
Johnnyās surprise slowly melts away, open mouth coming together to form a mischievous smirk.
āDonāt,ā Simon warns.
Snorting, Johnny offers up half the sandwich in amused silence. Simon snatches it, taking a bite, chewing with irritation.
Annoyed? Yes. A bit turned on? Simon wonāt deny it.
The afternoon gives way to a chill and overcast skies. Simon and Johnny donāt linger, taking note of visible improvements and hidden weaknesses of the gate and surrounding fenceline.
Itās the walk back that intrigues him, that tugs on a primal part of Simonās brain.
āCanāt tell if she wants to kill you or fuck you,ā chuckles Johnny, lightly shouldering Simon.
Youāre in the communal space just as they are, listening but not listening to the conversation youāre having with five others. Youāre distracted, staring at Simon, eyes narrowed with suspicion. A deep scowl cuts across your lips. Or is it more of a pout?
Johnnyās head tilts as if considering the answer. āBoth,ā he says, answering his own question.
āCome on, Johnny,ā growls Simon, grasping his arm and leading him towards the menās side.
Johnny teases him the whole way to their cabin, yapping Simonās ear off about winning you over. Simon half-listens. Heās thinking of the way your body moved as you walked away from him. How, even disgruntled, Simon wanted to know what you taste like.
āMaybe you need to give her gifts. Women like that. Flowers? Orāā
Simon nearly smacks into Johnnyās back. āSoap,ā he scolds. Johnny remains where he is, head turned and focused on something deep within the cabin.
Shifting his weight, Simon leans to the side, peering over Johnnyās shoulder. āFucking hell,ā he mutters just as Johnny launches himself across the room.
āYou bastard!ā Johnny heaves himself from the floor, sailing through the air, and landing on a large mass laying on the bed. āBeen fucking worried.ā
āWatch the stitches,ā comes a familiar, masculine laugh.
Simon steps through the door, his eyes adjusting to the darkened interior. On the bed, wiggling beneath Johnny, is Kyle. Smile broad, the two men playfully tussle, Johnny shaking Kyleās shoulders.
āEase up, Soap,ā mutters Simon, pushing at Johnnyās arm.
He falls onto his butt, breathing heavily. āSnuck over to surprise us?ā
Kyleās smile is warm. āCleared me. Sent me here. Happy to know youāre alright. Howās Price?ā
Simon inclines his head. āBetter. Walking more. Bones are healing. Heāll be up and himself again soon.ā
āGood,ā murmurs Kyle, nodding his head.
āWhat about you?ā asks Johnny, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. āHad you on the womenās side.ā He wiggles his eyebrows. āWhatās that like?ā
Kyleās smile shifts, gaze growing soft, eyes glancing downward as if heās lost in a fond memory. āNice, actually. Didnāt realize it until someone told me. About the settlement. Rules and such.ā
Johnny beams. āFucking bonkers here.ā
Kyleās gaze snaps up. āHow do you mean?ā
He starts listing. āSeparate living spaces. Unequal division of labor. Men can vote but canāt hold office.ā
Kyle blinks, clearly stunned at Johnnyās disinterest in life here. āYouāre upset about that?ā
āArenāt you?ā
āMakes sense to me.ā
Johnnyās mouth falls open. Simon simply stares.
āIt makes sense to you?ā
Kyle shrugs. āWhy not have women in charge? Look around us. Weāre here now because of the actions of men. Time for a change.ā
āYou agree with this?ā
āNot entirely,ā admits Kyle. āThere are a few things I donāt particularly like. But Iām for it.ā
āOh, shit,ā murmurs Johnny. He turns toward Simon. āTold you. Stepford Wives. Replaced them all with robots.ā
āLobotomy.ā
āThey got him, Ghost. Weāve lost Kyle.ā
āKyle is right here,ā he huffs, one arm out and bent in a āwhat the fuck are you on aboutā gesture. āHavenāt left.ā
Johnny and Simon keep talking despite Kyleās assertion.
āThink heās pussy drunk?ā whispers Johnny, pointing at Kyle as if heās not in the room.
āMaybe. Or theyāve made him a Ken doll.ā
A pillow goes flying, smacking Johnny in the face with a muffled whomp. āPiss off. The both of you,ā laughs Kyle. āWhat a shite greeting.ā
Kyleās jovial attitude about the settlement smells foul to Simon. This place has secrets. It must. The men are always happy. Happy to bend. Happy to fall in line. Happy. Happy. Happy.
And yet, the men possess the weaponry, handle the settlements safety and security. At any moment, those arms could be taken up, used against the women that hold control. That is the part Simon chews on. Women and children are always the first to suffer, but they thrive here, free of threat.
Simon rests his forearm against the base of the top bunk, staring down at them. āJust surprised. Havenāt seen much of this place. And what we have isnāt exactly thrilling.ā
Kyle sighs, settling back against the bed, head on his pillow. āI miss home. But itās not so bad here.ā
Simon wishes he could agree.
And that wishing morphs into key observation.
Another week. Kyle rests during the day, disappearing at night, only to return in the early hours. Price continues to improve. Simon and Johnny oversee training. Between these moments there are snippets, teasing and curious. Simon sees you everywhere, sometimes scowling, sometimes not, but always watching. Heās unable to attach a name to it, this constant vigilance.
What the fuck do you want from him?
āWhereās Johnny?ā Simon frowns at his empty bed. āHeās been gone for three days.ā
āSurprised you just noticed,ā chuckles Kyle, stretching, wincing as his torso lengthens.
Simon turns away from Johnnyās bed, heading for a quick shower. āWe had split duties. Didnāt think heād up and disappear.ā
āHeās fine,ā muses Kyle.
āYou know that?ā
āPromise.ā
āYouāve been gone six days, Johnny.ā
Simon is dressed for the day and fuming. Johnny melted into existence, appearing while Simon was in the restroom, relaxed and reclining in bed like he hasnāt been missing.
A bit stretch. A scratching of the stomach. A few slow blinks. āBout to sleep for six more,ā grumbles Johnny.
Irritated, Simon snatches his pillow, bringing it down on Johnnyās face a few times. āWhere were you?ā
Behind Simon, Kyle covers up a snort.
Johnny grins, almost dreamily. āFigured out why the men are so happy.ā
Kyle turns onto his good side, addressing Johnny. āYou have it off?ā Johnny hums in the affirmative. āOne?ā No response. āTwo?ā Again, no response. Kyle guffaws and sits up fully. āMore?ā
āWhat the fuck are you talking about?ā growls Simon.
Johnny remains on his back, staring at the bottom of the top bunk. āThought Iād just,ā and holds a fist over his groin, slinging the wrist to simulate masturbation, ājerk into a cup.ā He drops his hand, rubbing his inner thigh. āThink my dick is sore. Donāt know if I could come if I tried.ā
Kyle barks a laugh, falling onto his back, covering his eyes with one hand. Johnny turns his head. āHad me rotating between three,ā emphasizing his words by holding up three fingers. āNever had it off so much in my fucking life.ā
Simon, finally connecting the pieces, blurts, āyou were gone six days to get your dick wet?ā
Kyle falls into a fit of wheezy giggling.
āAte,ā lists Johnny. āSlept. Fucked. Repeat.ā
āFor six days?ā deadpans Simon.
Johnny nods, snuggling down into the bed, eyes closed. āUnderstand the compliance now.ā
Controlling his giggling, Kyle manages to speak between breathy inhalations. āItās nice, isnāt it? Donāt know how much you miss it until youāre balls deep.ā
Simon rounds on him. āIs that why you disappear at night?ā
Kyle attempts to suppress a smile. āThat obvious?ā
āFucking hell.ā
Johnny cracks open one eye. āYou should have a go, Ghost. Iām sure some cute lass will take you.ā
āPiss off, Johnny.ā
Johnny sits up, resting on his elbows. āIām serious. They have a whole building dedicated to it.ā He shrugs. āNot sure what itās called. Breeding center? Fertility clinic? The āget laidā office?ā
Kyle stabs his finger in Johnnyās direction. āThatās a good one.ā
āThought you hated this place?ā snaps Simon. āOr did you forget?ā
āIn my defense,ā begins Johnny, holding up a hand when Simon releases an annoyed groan, āI was asked.ā He rolls his shoulders, growing smug. āWhen three women want you to breed themā¦you canāt say no.ā
Simon pinches the bridge of his nose, using box breathing for the first time in his fucking life. Kyle is still a mess, holding his side where the stitches are, his laughter no longer audible as he loses control of himself.
āAnd suddenly you donāt care about paternity,ā drawls Simon.
After the deal they made with Isla, Johnny had gone off to Simon about how children are conceived and treated after birth. There are few families, and those that do exist within the settlement live in their own private space. Otherwise, children are raised collectively, with the majority residing with the women on their side of the settlement. There are no partners, no relationships, unless itās serious and approved by the Council.
Creates less drama was the reasoning. Avoids possessiveness and jealousy. They record who fucked who so no genes cross too close, but other than that, most of the men have no say in the matter, and rarely have an active role in the childās life unless the woman permits it.
Johnny leans forward a tad, pointedly staring at Simon, ignoring his remark. āWhat about the lass always scowling at you? Sheās a bonnie thing.ā
Slowly turning his head toward Simon, Kyleās grin becomes mischievous. āIs that who youāre wanking to?ā
āThink sheād rather claw my face off,ā mumbles Simon, because thereās no reason to deny it. That pouty, scowling face of yours is easy to imagine while youāre on your knees, begging to suck his cock.
āMore like claw your back up,ā snorts Kyle as the two men fall into hysterics again.
Simon was over this conversation two minutes ago. āThereās work to be done.ā
āIf you donāt come back,ā calls out Johnny as Simon heads for the door, āIāll assume youāre sticking your prick in her.ā
The door slams shut behind Simon, his hand still clutching the handle, staring off as he tries to subdue his racing thoughts. Johnny disappearing for six days irritates him but itās a speck of dirt now. Nothing he canāt clean off. Itās the after. What they said about you.
Two words.
Ignorant brute.
Every time you and Simon cross paths, you never speak to him, never approach unless necessary. The fact that Simon is interested in you at all is surprising. There are other women whoāve had their eye on him, approached him to flirt or talk. The attention is nice, satisfying a craving Simon hasnāt indulged in in years.
Rifle in hand, Simon leaves the menās area, and into the communal space. Though there was pushback by the Council, they did agree that the occasional armed patrol in the communal area could be instituted. Simon suggested a nonsensical rotation. Routine and schedule create pockets of rebellious invitation.
Simon assumes his post near a wooden support pole. Off to the side, Simon can observe the passing people without standing in the way of anyone. Most donāt glance his way, too absorbed in their own lives to notice him. While his training tells him to have his hand in a relaxed, non-lethal position, it still scares people. Heās trying not to be a menace this time. Safety is on, the rifle is attached to a strap that rests on his shoulder. Too relaxed for him, but it makes the Council happy.
Two weeks and Simon finally understands this place. Shaped like a pentagon and divided into seven sections, five of which are residential areas, one communal, and the last acting as an interior storage lot, the place is far larger than Simon first believed. Men and women have their sides, representing a whole and not based on biological differences. Laswell and her wife could have lived together on the womenās side, and thinking of her at all brings a tightness to Simonās chest. Families take up their own space, seniors in another to reduce noise and maintain a calm environment, and the last for anyone who doesnāt agree with separation. Simon walked that space a few days ago, quickly releasing the people residing there donāt want rigid rules and walls, preferring collective living.
Itās like before, only flipped, removed of certain social parameters. If Simon described it in one word, heād choose fine. Just fine. Not great. Not special. Not where heād choose to live. Home is the farmhouse. Home is the loch. Home is the nearby forests. Home is Johnny complimenting the hens and Priceās whistling as Old Chap dances around his legs. Itās Kyle walking around with the wired headphones around his neck, plugged into the radio, the cord trailing behind him, trailing around corners and over the sofa like heās an 80ās housewife.
Scanning the crowd, Simon observes every passing face. His fingers itch for a cigarette. The one upside to this place is the endless supply. Itās the one vice of the past Simon still enjoys. The occasional whiskey with the boys is a close second.
Itās then that he sees it, a familiar face with a perpetual scowl. Stomach flipping like a gymnast, Simonās vision tunnels, entirely focused on your forward progression. You donāt notice him at first, clearly in your own head. As you draw close, your gaze shifts, realization dawning. You slow as you approach, and for the briefest moment, Simon believes youāll stop. That youāll talk to him.
Your gaze finds his face. Lingering. Lingering.
Simon steps to the right, ready to block your path. Thereās the faintest hesitation, feather-soft and nearly imperceptible.
Stop, he thinks. Stop.
His heart thunders and then flatlines.
You step around him, and Simon turns with you, glimpsing the moment you glance over your shoulder at him. There is no scowl. No anger. No suspicion.
The itch becomes an urge.
And Simon is only a man.
Ignoring the voice insisting that he stop, Simon leaves his post, following like a fox hunting rabbit. Youāre still looking over your shoulder at him, an enticing glimmer in your eyes. The conversation between him, Johnny, and Kyle churns in the folds of Simonās brain, urging muscles to contract, lifting leg and foot, shepherding him toward you.
Perhaps you slow, or maybe Simon covers more ground.
His hand seizes your upper arm. A quick tug and youāre off course, yanked to the right, herded between the dividing fence and brick wall.
āYouāre following me,ā growls Simon.
He keeps his hand locked onto your arm, using the tension to hold you in place. His other hand rests against the brick wall. Leaning in, Simon creates a private cocoon. Anyone walking by will only see him. Theyād need to look at the ground to peek a second set of feet.
The scowl is gone. In its place is defiance. āI donāt know what youāre talking about.ā
Fuck me, he thinks, because why do you sound so breathy?
āLet me go,ā and youāre perfectly calm. No anger at all.
Blood rushes downward, cock twitching as arousal grows. Starved is an understatement. Simon is back in his teenage years, losing his virginity, fumbling around and finishing quickly. All his experience means nothing. He is a salivating animal, teeth gnashing for a bite.
Simon leans in further. Instead of tucking your chin and hiding, you lift it, meeting his gaze. āTell me why youāre following me,ā he croons. āAnd I might.ā
āHarassment is against the law.ā
āSo is stalking,ā counters Simon.
Thereās that pouty scowl again forming on your lips. Fucking cute you are, attempting to act tough. āYou want the truth?ā you say, arching an eyebrow. āFine. I donāt trust you.ā
āIs that right?ā he drawls, gaze focused on your lips. Hesitation is absent as Simon removes his hand from the wall, tracing your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. āFollowing me around like a lost little bird.ā
āIām notāā
āCouldnāt threaten me if you tried.ā Simon adds pressure then releases, admiring the way your pout pops back into place.
You roll your shoulders, pressing your chest forward, attempting to make yourself big and intimidating. āSomeone has to keep an eye on you.ā
āThatās what youāre doing?ā chuckles Simon. āWhat about the gate? Gave everyone sandwiches. Skipped me.ā
āIāI was one short,ā you claim, and Simon nearly bursts out laughing.
Simon leans in again, trapping you there, shifting his body forward to create closeness that exceeds casual acquaintances. āYou want me attention,ā he purrs. āDonāt deny it.ā
āYouāre full of yourself,ā you reply, but itās breathy and soft, almost sweet like tempered sugar.
āAm I wrong?ā he asks. āYou have no reason to watch me. Council didnāt tell you to. Know that much. So whatās the real truth, love?ā
Your chest heaves, nostrils flaring. Youāre about to break or slip into a half-truth. Simon knows the signs, years of interrogation have primed his attunement to the bodyās tells. Conquering this is not. Breaking you is easy.
āItās true,ā you admit. āI am watching you.ā
āBut?ā prompts Simon, because heās going to dig the truth out one way or another.
āBut itās not because I donāt trust you.ā You lick your lips, hesitating. Simon takes a chance, pressing his hips to yours. Heās rewarded with a shiver. āYouāreā¦dangerous.ā
āDangerous?ā
āThe men here are docile. And I wantāā
Behind the balaclava, Simon smirks. āYou want it rough,ā he finishes for you.
āYes,ā you breathe, and Simon savors the sound. āWant to be fucked out of my mind.ā
Fucking hell.
Raging hard and throbbing, it takes all of Simonās focus to slow down and not pounce on you in this alleyway. Itās been years since Simon has known a womanās touch, and here you are, presenting yourself as an offering, begging him to fulfill a desire no man here can satisfy.
āTonight. We canāā
āNo,ā you say quickly, grasping the front of his fatigues. āNow. I want to do it now.ā
Double fucking hell.
Your cabin is near the back of the womenās area, tucked away in a corner. Itās the middle of the day and everyone is out.
Simon takes in the space that isnāt much larger than the cabin he, Johnny, and Kyle occupy. The kitchenette is slightly bigger, the bathroom not as cramped. Around your bed is a makeshift canopy, soft curtains on rods drilled into the ceiling, creating a sense of privacy when there are no walls.
The rifle is gone, returned to its home over on the menās side. Simon nearly sprinted the whole way, not wanting you to change your mind and leave him.
As you pass in front of him, Simon grasps the front of your throat, palm flat and firm, drawing you against his body. You comply, melting into him, turning your head, chin up to look at him. He knows your name now, and you know his. Simon whispers before he kisses you, leaving no doubt to his intentions.
Not slow or delicate, the kisses come in fierce and hotāmessy. Ones that shift into tongue touching tongue, of little whimpers from your throat, of his own muted grunts as Simonās other hand presses to your stomach, sliding down to cup your sex through your pants.
Ā Simon fingers the zipper. Undoes the button. Slips his hand inside.
The tips of his fingers find curls, find your clit, slide further until heās teasing your opening. The kiss is broken by your gasp, of a mangled groan as Simon slowly eases his finger inside you.
āThis for me?ā he croons, grip on your throat tightening slightly.
A withdrawal. A circling tease. Inside once more.
āYes,ā you manage through broken breath.
Simon presses his lips to your ear. āWhere you wet for me at the gate?ā You nod. āWhen you looked at me?ā Another nod. āWhen you stopped me from killing that man?ā
āYes, Simon.ā
The affirmation shoots down to his balls, full and heavy, wanting nothing more than to spill everything into your tight cunt.
He removes his hand, and the loss of contact makes you whimper. Using the grip he has on your throat, Simon spins you around. Your lips are wet and glossy from his kisses, slightly parted, begging to be kissed further. Painted there is a small smile. Your eyelids are lust-laced and heavy.
āGet on your knees,ā he growls. āShow me.ā
Retaining your smile that grows hungrier by the second, Simon watches as you descend to your knees, eagerly loosening the zipper and buttons, easing the waistband of his pants over his hips and down enough to reveal his cock.
The way you lick your lips before you deep throat him makes his balls ache. The first press of tongue shifting to the welcoming wet warmth of your mouth nearly undoes him. Everything tightens, priming for release, for his cock to spurt ropes of cum down your throat. Simon thinks of math equations and hard labor, the agitation quickly dissipating.
Enthusiasm and mess. Your hand fisting the base of his cock moving in tandem with your bobbing. Simon, though, knows itās not enough. You want it rough.
Grasping the back of your head, he takes control, forcing you down until your lips touch his hair. The gag is delicious, your hands grasping his thighs to steady yourself, tears forming in your eyes as he fucks your mouth.
āLook at you,ā he growls. āObedient thing.ā
You hum, the vibration making his cock twitch. With a grunt, he forces your mouth off him. You gasp for air, salvia coating your puffy lips and chin.
Smiling. Youāre smiling again.
Grasping you under your armpits, Simon hauls you to his feet. His switchblade clicks open, cutting away your clothes, tearing off the remaining shreds until youāre naked. Knife closed and tucked away, Simon shoves you onto the bed, forcing you onto your side, opening your legs.
Youāre unable to move as Simon kneels. Wrapping one arm around your extended leg, he holds it to his chest, ankle touching his shoulder.
Simon slaps your pussy, your arousal wetly reverberating. He does it again. Again. Gives attention to your clit.
āOh, fuck,ā you groan. āFeels so good.ā
Simon slips two fingers inside down to the knuckle. Curling the tips of his fingers slightly, he uses them like he would his dick, the pad of his thumb rubbing rough circles on your clit.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head and every word falling from your lips is nonsense. Smugness takes root in Simonās chest. Youāre falling apart, fisting the bedding, eyes shut hard in concentration, pussy walls contracting and squeezing around his fingers.
Simon knows when you come. You bear down, squeezing his fingers so hard that Simon wishes it were his dick.
āI canāt,ā you whimper after the third. āIācanāt. Tooātoo much!ā
Withdrawing his fingers, Simon slides them over his tongue, sighing when your taste hits him. You press your face into the bed, turning onto your stomach, groaning. Grasping your hips, Simon eases them up until your knees dig into the bed.
āFucking hell,ā he groans, admiring how swollen and wet you are. āYou look fucking breedable.ā
Simon manages to shove his pants down to his knees, but thatās all heās able to achieve. He needs to be inside you, to fuck this cute pussy until youāre dripping with his cum. Rubbing the head of his cock against your clit, sliding it up and down your sex to coat it in your arousal, Simon finally gives you what you both want.
No slowness. No gentle touch.
Grabbing both butt cheeks, Simon thrusts, bringing you completely down on him.
You cry out, choke. āOh, thank God,ā you groan as he sets a pounding pace.
Reaching behind you, you grasp the back of one thigh, opening your leg further, giving Simon a better view of where your bodies meet, of the deliciously perfect stretch.
āSo good,ā you pant. āSimon. You feel so good.ā
His name on your lips is a stimulant, driving his need to new heights, ricocheting around in his head.
āHarder,ā you moan. āFuck me harder, Simon.ā
Heās done for. Knocked out. Ended.
Simon transfers his weight to one hand, the bed sinking beneath it. His other hand holds the back of your neck. At this angle, Simon can stroke deeperāharder.
Head dipping, Simon speaks between clenched teeth. āGonna come inside you.ā You whimper and Simon tuts. āNo protesting, love. Youāre taking it.ā He leans in further, whispering in your ear. āYouāll take every drop I give you. Staying here in this bed until thereās nothing left in my balls.ā
Your hand forms a fist, hitting the bed as if in protest.
Too bad.
Simon doesnāt stopādoesnāt slow. The only sound in the room is the wet slap of skin against skin, Simonās feral grunting, your muffled cries. Muscles tense, and Simon shivers, his orgasm rising hot and fast. It rushes out of him, and still, he refuses to quit, fucking his cum further into your pussy. Seconds later, you clench around him, squeezing him so hard, Simon momentarily blacks out.
Collapsing atop you, Simonās heavy breathing syncs with yours, silence all other sounds. Youāre both still for a full minute, and itās Simon that moves first, pushing him up to his knees, hands firmly planted on your ass.
Simon glances down where your bodies meet. Using a single finger, he traces the stretch, gently easing out as he does. His dick is coated in your arousal and his cum. With a satisfied smirk, Simon shifts backward and comes to standing. His muscles ache but he hardly notices it as he begins to strip down. An item at a time. Your legs collapse, followed by a pleased groan. Simon silently observes as you roll onto your back, legs together.
The shift isnāt subtle. You go from hazy bliss to bratty siren.
Biting down on your bottom lip, you spread your legs up and out, hands slipping beneath your knees, holding yourself open. One hand continues, arm hooking under the knee, fingers splaying against your pussy, forcing Simon to focus on the spot where his cum is just beginning to seep out.
āSaid I wanted it rough,ā you croon, and Simon nearly topples over.
Control? What fucking control? Youāve planned this, plotting from the moment you locked gazes with him.
His lips part in surprise as you wiggle your toes and giggle.
āCome here, Simon. Make me your breeding bitch.ā
Good Hands
Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader
Part One of Two
CW: angst, canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, references to suicide, injured Simon, eventual smut, military inaccuracy
Masterlist š¦
When Soap gave you Simonās address, you thought youād end up in some dodgy building with flickering lights and the pungent smell of piss.Ā
You expected sleazy neighbours, creaky old doors, and grime-crusted flooring: he is a clean man, sureāpathologically so, youād like to add, since his barracks back at HQ look like an ORābut he absolutely adores his privacy. You wouldnāt put it past him to move somewhere other people would never go for their safety, even if it meant tiptoeing around pools of unidentified fluids and used condoms.
Instead, as your GPS pings your arrival, you find yourself in front of the loveliest house youāve ever seen.
Uneven bricks, ochre and grey, cloaked by a pitched roof and tiles laced with moss and ashen lichen. A chimney peeks from the top left, darkened right around the top. Thereās a stone path leading from the gravel where you parked your car to the front doorāsturdy hardwood thing, painted a deep dark chocolate with bronze trims all around. Wooden fixtures for the windows, worked and etched in that way that makes them look old, but they clearly arenāt. Thick glass, maybe to isolate soundsāas if itās needed.
This house is as pretty as it is lonely. Lost in the middle of nowhere.
At least you were right about one thing. Not even God would go this far to look after His disciples.
Out of four hours, you spent half driving through unpaved roads, with your car jumping over fat roots and potholes. Got lost once. Almost ended up in a ditch twice.
However, the landscape they led to is gorgeous as few. Worth the money that youāll surely have to splurge on new shock suspenders.
Itās autumn, so thereās the occasional tree popping golden amongst an emerald ocean extending behind the cottage, farther than the eye can see. In front of the house, thereās a small grove. It rustles with the wind, coos with birds and owls, runs with squirrels and wildlife clawing up the trees. Evergreen bushes with the occasional pop of colour, whether red or pale orange, lean against the trunks. The sun is setting behind it, painting the landscape with the shadows of the fronds and a soft golden glow.
It's quiet, in that way only nature can be.
If you hadnāt been worried down to the bone marrow, youād have lit a cigarette and smoked it with your ass on the trunk of your car while basking in the last shafts of sunlight of the day.
Alas, youāre not here for sightseeing.
You turn off your car and jump out of the seat. Gently, you stretch your arms; your shoulders pop, your back cracks like a fucking glowstick. Your knees arenāt faring better, clicking when you stand up fully.
With a withering sigh, you walk to the back of the car and open the bonnet.Ā
There are groceries for a lifetime stacked in there. Four bags from Tesco, two smaller ones from the chemistās. Pain killers, vitamins, paracetamol, supplements, benzodiazepines, citalopram, escitalopram, and all the fuckingĀ pramsĀ the pharmacy had to offer. The list was long; you eyed Johnny worriedly when he gave it to you, but knew better than to ask.
Youāre tired. Tired beyond measure. You went to work at the crack of dawn and then jumped in the car when you couldnāt take it anymore. Dropped everything, apologised to Kyle for leaving him to fend for himself with the diplomatic envoy, and when Price scrunched his nose disappointedly, you apologised to him as well and promised to do double the job once you were sure he was alright.
Because you hadnāt heard from him in days.
Not a phone call, not a text, not a sign that he was using his phoneĀ at all.Ā Not a sign that he was alright, that he was still grumbling about the growing prices of groceries, that he was still nursing a nightcap in the eveningsāthat he wasĀ alive.
He used to tell you.
They donāt get itāJohnny, Kyle, Price. They donāt know about the texts, the calls, the photos, the messages sent in the middle of the night, the ones left just shy of dawn, just to wish each other a good day.
Your little secret, that. Your little something soft, developed in the ruthlessness of your job. Something amicable and familiar stuck in between the horrors of cold-blooded murder, of dead bodies scattered in your lives, and endless stacks of paperwork.Ā
Youād send him pictures of your pale teaātoo much milk, if you asked him. Of your pies baked during downtime, of the Christmas decorations youād hang on the ceiling. Heād send you those of birds landing on the hood of his car, cats heād find along his walk that would nuzzle his calf.
SR: Donāt know why.
LT: they think youāre snow white
LT: because youāre pale and you have the sweetest big brown eyes
SR: Wouldnāt say sweet.
LT: in fact i said sweetest :)
SR: Flattery wonāt work on your lieutenant.
LT: ha! but im a lieutenant too. you canāt pull rank on me
SR: Iām your L.T.Ā
SR: Youāre my second lieutenant. Under my command.
LT: technicalities
SR: Youāre L.T. too
SR: L.Too
SR: L2
L2: oi
SR: Haha
L2: rude
SR: Alright, L2.
They donāt get it.
SR: Sleeping?
L2: are you keeping tabs on me?
SR: Youād be surprised.
L2: wonāt ask
SR: Shouldnāt.
L2: Fancy a chat?
And your phone would ring.
āL2,ā heād greet.
āNot funny anymore.ā But it was.
āReckon itās bloody hilarious.ā
āBeen too long. Itās losing its charm.ā
āCharm?ā Heād breathe a laugh. Almost. āRight, thenāEl.ā
Midnight, midday, seven AM, four AM, six PM. On and off the job. Christmases and birthdays and Easters and early Sundays and late-night Mondaysā
His touch, secretive and fleeting. Warm hands on the hollow of your spine as he walks by, fingers tightening the straps of your vest, adjusting the holsters on your thighs. Watchful eyes chasing your shadow in the crowd, following your fingers as they deftly work through cables and buttons. Burning holes on the back of your hands as you aptly defuse an IED. His huff of relief, his palm warm on your shoulders. A pat, a caress.
āGood job, L2.ā
āFuck off with that,ā youād laugh. āSpooky fucker.ā
āThatās my El.ā
They donāt get it.
Or maybe they do.Ā
Price wrinkled his nose, but didnāt stop you. Kyle took over your shift. Johnny gave you the means to reach him.
Maybe they saw itāyour eyes softening whenever he walked into a room, his shoulders unravelling whenever your voice crackled over comms. Two peas in a pod, birds of a feather. The moon and the fucking sun. Lieutenant Riley and his 2nd lieutenant.Ā
LT and L2. Ghost and El.
On the seventh day of no contact, you couldnāt take it anymore. You raided Tesco, you begged Johnny to give you his address (and thankfully, he was just as worried as you wereāyouād have hated pulling rank on him), and he secretly passed you Simonās medical file so you could pop by the chemist too.
Now, you find yourself properlyĀ haulingĀ your own weight in groceries along the stone path leading to his cottage. You drop them with a grunt in front of his door.Ā
On your side, his car is parked. Second-hand. Onyx black. Bird shit on the roof, windows grainy with soil and opaqued with rain tracks.Ā
Unused for a while. Normal, in a way. Itās not like he can drive in that state. For any amenities, a nurse would come by, provided by the SAS. Sometimes heād open and be cordial enough. Sometimes he would just tell them to leave groceries and whatnot at the door.
The nurse told Price it had been days since Simon even answered his phone calls, never mind open the door. Price told the team, but not you. Kyle passed you the intel with the same secrecy as a mole working for the enemy.
Gooseflesh crawls up your spine as you look at the weathered bronze of the doorknob. Thereās no doorbell that you can see.
You knock.
āLieutenant.ā
Nothing.
The wind grazes your ears, ruffles the fronds as it intersects with the leaves. You dry the pearls of sweat on your forehead with the back of your hand, and knock again.
āL.T.,ā you say, trying to sound chirpy. āSpecial delivery!ā
Silence.
You lean to the side and try to peek through an overgrown bush into one of the windows, but the curtains are drawn shut. You bring your thumb to your lips and nibble at a cuticle.
Knock.
āLieutenant!ā Again. Worry seeps through the cracks. āItās me! Itās lieutenantāā
You chew on your name. It dies on your tongue.
āItās L2!ā You yell instead. āItās El!ā
Blood beads on your thumbnail, bitten short.Ā
Knock knock.
āPlease open the door?ā You venture. Your heart pounds in your ears. āIām so fuckingāso fucking tired and worried.ā
Knock knock knock.
āWhere the fuck do you live anyway, uh?ā You sniffle. Your nose stings. āWas right, wasnāt I? YouĀ areĀ fucking Snow White.ā
Nothing.
Loudest silence youāve ever heard.
You hate it. You want to fill it with more knocks, with more yells, with the sound of his footsteps, with the gravel of his voice, the crackle through comms, the clicking of his ankle when he rests his weight on it for too long, the burn of his cigarette in the coldest nights, the breath of a laugh he wants to swallow but doesnāt manage.
āLieuāā You gulp. āSimon? Please.ā
On the far right, thereās a bench whose greyish paint is chipping away. Old wood rots in the centre because of rain and constant humidity. Even though you sat in that godforsaken car for the past four hours and some, you feel your knees buckling the more you keep standing.Ā
So, you carry yourself over there. Drop down. The bench creaks. As predicted, itās wet and it seeps through your jeans. You sigh.
āAlright,ā you slam your palm on the wood.Ā
āIām gonna sleep rightāāĀ Thud.Ā āFuckingāāĀ Thud.Ā āHere, then.ā
Thereās no sound.
You look at the groceries.
āI brought you food!ā You go on, āAnd if you donāt open the door Iām gonna eat it. Everything. Even your stupid chocolate biscuitsāIām gonna gobble them up in one sitting.ā
The milk will go bad if you donāt put it in a fridge. The ice cream will melt.Ā
āThe bourbon too,ā you yell. āGonna drink it all. Gonna get comatose on your stupid bench in thisāin this fuckingĀ fairy groveĀ you live in.ā
The fruit will start softening. The meat will start rotting and smelling. And flies will run to it, conquer it, eat it raw, and lay their eggs inside. Their buzz will drive you insane, and youāll lose your mind on this bench, in the middle of nowhere.
āAnd Iām gonna sleep here until you open that fucking door, you hear me?ā Your voice cracks. āAnd Iām gonna get sick andāand itāll be your fault, because you didnāt open the bloody door.ā
You wonder whether youād smell the same thing if you broke it down. If the buzz would be heavier, more persistent. If it would be something else driving you insane.
The image flashes bright and real. Smells like you have it within reach, before you, hanging from a chandelier, drowning in a crimson bathtub, or melting on the bed, stomach filled with pills and nothing else.
Your heart plummets at your feet. You feel claustrophobic, boxed in a square of cement that pushes in your shoulders and compresses your chest.
āSimon!ā You yell, voice cracking. Droplets stain your jeans. Itās not raining. āYou fucking cunt open the fucking door!ā
Elbows on your knees, you drop your head in your hands. Youāre so tired. You donāt even know if you can drive back home, especially now that the sun is setting. Youād gladly sleep in your carāfuck, youād sleep on this bench if it meant finding him at the door the next morning, looking all cranky and grumbling about the mess you made.
All you can do is plead quietly, a breathy prayer you hope he can hear, even if only whispered.
āPlease open the fucking door, please open the fucking doorā"
Are you strong enough to break it down? Youāre special forces, but youāre not a battering ram. You donāt have the tools that would helpāyou didnāt think you were gonna need them.Ā
Stupid.
Are youĀ braveĀ enough to open the door? To find whatās inside? Should you call the police? An ambulance?
The thought makes you retch. You cover your mouth and bite on your palm.
āThis fucking idiotāā You whisper. Swallow thick. Your throat stings as bile rises. āI swear to God you selfish bastard, you better not. You better fuckingĀ not,Ā Simon, I willāā
āWhich bourbon?ā
Your head snaps.
His shoulders, wide and hunched, fill the doorway, open enough for you to see him entirely. A grey shirt hangs loose around his torso. Heās got his hands stuffed in the pockets of his joggers, but thereās a strain in his arms. Corded and rigid, tied in a way that shows in his neck, too.
A scar runs thick down the side of his head, starting from the centre of his forehead and tipping at the shell of his ear, following a curved line clearly left by a surgeon. Bulbous near his temple, where the flesh was too soft and took longer to heal.Ā
Darkness blossoms under his eyes, swollen and sunken at the same time; puffy with sleep, hollow with tiredness. Heās paler than usual, his cheeks are gaunt, and heās so much fucking thinner.
But heās alive.
His chest rises. His blood runs.
You blink.
A tear threatens to stream down your cheek, but you anticipate it, drying its path with the back of your hand. Your bones soften, muscles unclenched. Clumsily, you take a trembling breath, and it feels like itās the first time youāve ever done it.
āI-I donāt know,ā you stutter. āDonāt drink the stuff. Asked the clerk for his favourite and he justājust tossed it in there.ā
āMh.ā
His eyes look for the bottle amongst the mountain of food and drinks stuffed in the bags.Ā
āYou better like it.ā You sniffle and nod at the bags. āFifty-five quid just for that thing.ā
He snorts. Sighs. āGood enough then.ā
You exchange looks.
Then, he nods his head inside.
āHelp me out?ā He drawls.
Dizzy, you nod. Your legs tingle as if theyāve just been awakened, your stomach rumbles like you havenāt eaten in days. The world turns upside downārelief so visceral and thick you feel like itās drowning you.
You stumble to the doorway. Your guts squeeze and thrash. You might throw up, but you donāt, swallowing the tightening feeling clawing up your throat.
You stuff the smaller pharmacy bags inside the Tesco ones.
Simon leans in too, taking his hands out of his pockets.
You hadnāt seen the aftermath yet.
Heās missing the last two fingers on his left hand. Surgery scars run along the back of both, slicing the tattoo on his forearm in a cobweb of thick, ruddy lines. That is, where the flesh isnāt rubbery and burnt, convoluted as if yearning to weld itself back together in the aftermath of being torn apart.Ā
They shakeāfiercely, like heās experiencing an earthquake inside his body; unfolding before your eyes, shattering his bones.
You look at them. Transfixed. At the mangled flesh sewn back together, at the tremble that runs through his veins and tips at his nails. The strain of his muscles clawing up his arms, taut to the point of painālike heās putting all his effort to keep them still, to exert control over them.
Control he lost.
When you lift your eyes again, you meet his face.
Stone cold. Dreadfully frigid.
āThe bags are heavy,ā you croak.
āCarried worse,ā he replies flatly, and his hands curl around the handles of two.
His fingers tighten, knuckles painted white. Nails bite his palms, but he perseveres. Swallows a groan of pain that rumbles in his throat and lifts the groceries off the floor.Ā
The plastic bags crackle like a gale is blowing furiously through them. The glass of the bottles clinks. You see, as he walks inside, the tension in his gait: forcing his legs to cooperate, to work by themselves, as he focuses exclusively on the stability of his hands.
Without looking back, he leaves the door open for you to follow.
You stand frozen stock still, arms down your sides, and eyes brimming with guilt.
Carried worse,Ā he said.
Carried you, months ago, when the bomb went off.
Six Months Earlier
Intelās rarely faulty when the source is the police themselves.
Granted, even in these cases, one should always take statistics into consideration: a mole, a diversion, the original source. However, things sometimes are so obvious that statistics fall flat.
Because in front of you, right now, thereās a big, fat bomb. No doubt about it.
A squared box, half as tall as you. Itās raggedly painted black, as if someone decided to spray the colour on the metal slabs at the last minute. Rust gathers at each corner, likely due to the humidity building up in this underground tunnel, which is also chipping away at the paint and leaving ruddy streaks scattered down the sides.
Itās not much different from the ones youāve dispensed of already, at least at first sight. Thereās no timer, not a visible one at least. Though from the looks of it, you donāt think this one is timed at all. If youāre fortunate, it needs to be manually detonated on site. Worst-case scenario, it can be set off remotely.
Thank fuck youāre wearing sturdy PPE, then.
With a huff, you flop on your knees before it. Thereās a soft puff as the pressure pushes air out of your suitāa big, cumbersome thing that safely cradles you from head to toe.Ā
āCaptain,ā you call through comms. āYou sure itās off, yeah?ā
The static preceding his voice buzzes softly through your ear, before Johnās usual rasp fills the helmet shielding your head.
āLocal bomb squadās had a look already,ā he says. āSaid itās old.ā
Though the bomb in front of you looks untouched by the deft hands of a demolition specialist. You wonder how they concluded that the device is too old to be active, since there doesnāt seem to be a sign that it has been studied at all.
āDoesnāt look like they did anything, though,ā you offer.
John grunts. āDonāt shoot the messenger.ā
āRight.ā
His voice rumbles even through the distortion of the radio. āJust passing it on, L2. They want us to check it before they move it.ā
You roll your eyes at the nickname. You knew it would stickāSimonās convincing like thatāthough it is the first time John actually uses it.
You let it slide.
āAnd whyās that?ā
āSigned by Konni.ā
You tilt your head and easily spot the mark of Konni group sprayed on one side, dried red paint drawing a path downwards from where it dripped.
āAlways nice to see an old friend, isnāt it?ā
āKeep us updated, yeah?ā
āOn it.ā
You squeeze your eyes through the visor of your helmet, focusing on possible entry points. Each breath you take is measured and quiet as you clear your mind to steady yourself.
āAlrighā?ā
Though considering the questioning drawl coming from beside you, youād wager the suit is amplifying not only your voice, but also the heaviness of your panting.Ā
Itās fucking hot in this thing.
āYou shouldnāt be here.ā You give him a sidelong glance. Heās not wearing an EOD, only his usual uniform with an added clunky helmet, a bulletproof vest, and his stupid skull mask. āEspecially not naked like that.ā
āNaked, uh?ā He snorts. āBetter get a good look, then.ā
You bite down a smile and return your eyes to your job. āCaptain, the lieutenant is padding around in his birthday suit.ā
Priceās voice crackles through the comms in your ear. By his tone, you can practically see the tight set of his jaw and the roll of his eyes.
āGhost, either wear the EOD or leave the premises, for fuckās sake. Donāt fancy scraping you off the walls.ā
Simon gently kicks the side of your boot. āRat.ā
You turn your head around just enough to stick out your tongue at him.
āI asked the second lieutenant a question anā she aināt answered yet,ā he drawls with his usual dispassionate tone. āPermission to kick her off the team?ā
āYou wonāt hear a single fuckinā word she says if youāre ground meat, Simon,ā Priceās voice rasps. āWear the bloody PPE and then weāll talk.ā
Static replaces Johnās orders as communication cuts off on his part.
Only then does Simon pitch in.
āI asked you a question.ā
You sigh, but itās neither weary nor exasperated.Ā
āYeah, Iām alright,ā you huff, already tinkering with your toolbox. āWhy arenāt you wearing the gear?ā
āIām in good hands.ā
āThanks, Iām immensely flattered,ā you quip. āPlease go wear it now.ā
āThought it was too old to still be active.ā
You donāt have time to roll your eyes, because as soon as he mutters his thoughts, you notice a familiar indented square in one of the panels. A carefully hidden entry point that, once popped open, will show you the intricacies inside the device. Itās like spotting an oasis in the desert.
You reach for a flat tip in your toolbox at your knees. Carefully, you wedge it in the embrasure.
It only takes a few tries, and it unhinges seamlessly. Metal clinks as you gently place the lid on the ground.
Thereās no need for you to look his wayāhis presence is like a heavy blanket wrapped around your shoulders. A shadow sewn to your own.Ā
āI wonāt support your suicidal tendencies, so please, for the love of Christ, listen to the engineerāā you point at yourself with the screwdriver, āāand go wear the bloody bomb suit.ā
Simon stays silent for a handful of seconds, only filled with the tinkering of metal of your tools.
āWorried ābout me, are ya?ā
You huff. No use pretending, when he can see right through you. āPlenty.ā
āGood heart.ā
āChop chop, Riley.ā
āAye aye, El.ā
With a gentle squeeze of your shoulder, Simon turns on his heel. His footsteps become distant until the soft thud finally vanishes behind the creaky door that first led you down here, slamming shut behind you.
You donāt turn around, too focused on studying the wires wrapped around each other in the panel you just opened. Thereās an entire bundle crossing the opening diagonally and so shrouding most of the circuit board in the back. Theyāre held together by a couple of cable ties that look awfully cheap, like the rest of the device.
āWeird,ā you mumble to yourself.
āWhat is?ā John pitches in.
You flinch, not expecting an answer to your musings.
āUhm, uhāā You shake your head to recollect yourself. āThe bombāit looks quite cheap. Not their usual MO.ā
John hums. āCould be one of Konniās earliest works. Disposal said itās old, innit?ā
āYeah,ā you huff. āI donāt trust a single word those fuckers said.ā
āRight,ā he grunts, though you recognise that hint of agreement in it. āDo what you can with it. Keep me updated.ā
āRoger that, captain.ā
Back on track. First thing to do is get rid of those ties to isolate the cables.Ā
You work quietly for a while, removing your gloves to minimise errors while doing such minute movements. The flush cutters are sturdy but the blades are small, and the thickness of the cable ties is stupidly non-existent. You want to avoid cutting things you shouldnāt.
However, you canāt quite ease the knot of doubt forming in your guts.
This device has literally nothing preventing you from disposing of it. Everything is poorly put together. The control centre was placed under a thin slab of metal, which you simply popped off using the flat tip of a screwdriver. There are corner store-level cable ties keeping together a bundle of wires. Each cable isnāt isolated, but either overlaps with others or knots on itself.
This is amateurish.
And you know, with utmost certainty, that Konni isnāt. The same Konni group that blew up an entire airport wouldnāt DIY a bomb and spray paint their signature on a slab of metal like a mere local gang of criminals.
Unlessā
āEl? You with us?ā
Simonās voice snaps you out of it. He sounds muffled and echoey, as if heās speaking from behind a glass. You recognise that distortion: he put on the bomb suit.
Relief floods through you.
You shake your head to clear your mind. Sweat collects on your forehead. You feel each drop brewing on your skin, only to then slowly make its way to your brow, then your eye.
Your fingers close around the cutters, and the first tie snaps off.
Then, you squeeze your eyes to get rid of the burn.
āYeah,ā you huff. āThey should invent more comfortable suits for us in demo. Itās fucking sweltering in here.ā
Priceās voice crackles once more. āWeāll hire a fashion designer.ā
Simon snorts.
āLook at you, captain,ā you croon. āProviding jobs for the youth.ā
Youāre sure heās rolling his eyes. āDo yours or youāll lose it.ā
But you know itās an empty threat. Jokes tossed around to defuse the tension as you defuse your bomb. High stress situations require ways to destress in order to keep your mind clear and at ease, even as your life is on the line.
āAye aye.ā
And from then on, silence lingers, only interrupted by Simon shifting his weight on his feet behind you. The crinkle of the suit folding as he moves, the tap of his fingers against the pack he must be holding in his hands. Thereās the occasional clink of metal when you drop a tool in its box, or the snap of plastic as yet another tie comes off.Ā
And finally, you manage to isolate the cables from one another. Carefully you pinch one between two fingers and shift it to the side, only so you can have a broader vision of the circuit board in the back.
Itās entirely dead. Singed in places, the lights are off, no sounds fill your ears unless it's the ones youāve already recognised as familiar. The blasting cap has an old serial number on it, different from the most recent ones you came across. The base was once attached to a couple of red cables that have been cut from their root.
You exhale, emptying your lungs in a single, long breath.
āItās dead.ā
John huffs through comms. āThank Christ, eh. Sending Garrick over. ETA 20.ā
But you stay put, staring holes through the jungle of wires that intersect and crisscross like vines in front of you, draped on the circuit board.
Simon shifts from behind you and comes to crouch by your side. The same puff of air exhales from his suit. You turn your head to look at him, though with the helmet itās hard to have a good view of his face.
Heās taken off the skull mask to favour the protective gear placed around his head. His eyes arenāt poised on the bomb, though; theyāre on your face. He must pick up on something there that doesnāt reassure him, because he knows you better than he should.
āHang on, Price,ā he rumbles.
You stall for a moment.
Itās only a hunch that spurs you to negate certainty. Youāre special forces, an engineerāsixth sense isnāt enough to support evidence.
But Simon believes in it. He trusts that tiny spark he sees in your eye, the tautness of your fingers as they curl into fists atop your knees. You hear him sniff, shift on his knees to get closer.Ā
āEl?ā He whispers, perhaps not wanting the radio to pick up on it.
Your stomach lurches.
āI meanāā You gesture vaguely at the device. āIt looks dead. The circuit board is gone, and the wires have been cut from the detonator. Some of this shit could be older than meā"
John cuts through your conversation. He sounds irritated, and in turn, it irritates you, too.Ā
āGet to the point.ā
You stare at the dead circuit board. The main piece of this puzzle. It doesnāt take an engineer like you to recognise that itās long gone, but in a very peculiar way that you donāt know how to explain without sounding like a lunatic, it looksĀ tooĀ long gone.
You smack your lips. āSomethingās wrong. It feelsāā
āDonāt care how it feels, lieutenant. Is it dead or not?āĀ
āListen, John, Iām not here to fucking playā"
āNeed to have another look at it, boss,ā Simon cuts in. āGive us a minute, will ya?āĀ
āRoger.ā
You sigh. You wish you could scratch your forehead. Your scalp stings as sweat collects on it. Each tiny, uncomfortable thing happening to you is amplified, including the knot in your guts.Ā
āI hate him with passion each time he acts likeāā
āHe can still hear ya.ā
āGood.ā
If John can actually still hear you, he doesnāt voice it. Thankfully, you think, because if he pitches in again with some more of his caustic sarcasm, you might just say things before your mind can properly filter them.
You take a couple of seconds to recollect your thoughts, guiding your eyes to study the device. Itās composed of rusted metal plates welded together and protecting the bomb inside. Youād need a plasma cutter to breach the plate, but the heat could set the thing off if itās live. In fact, there are no entry points aside from a small, squared panel that youāve opened with unexpected ease.Ā
Considering how the rest of the thing is protected, however, it feels out of place. Conveniently put there for you to declare that the device is gone, when it actually isnāt.Ā
A hunch isnāt enough to negate evidence, that is true, but itāsĀ there,Ā and you wonāt allow it to gnaw at your guts.
Easy is never the right answer, not with Makarov.
āPass me the snake cam.ā
You hold your hand out to Simon, palm up, without sparing him a glance.Ā
Your ears pick up on sounds even if youāre entirely wrapped in protective gear, even if your heart pounds madly up your throat. A zipper being opened, a cable as it unfolds. His hands are warm when they place the cold wire in your palm, steady when they close your fingers around it.
āGet it in,ā he says. āIāll hook it up.ā
In the corner of your eye, pale hands reach inside the pack at his knees to pull out a pad. It blinks to life as he taps his fingers on it.
Gently, you insert the tip of the snake cam into the opened panel, carefully steering the camera underneath the knotted bundle of cables and behind the seemingly dead circuit board.Ā
āGot anything?ā You ask Simon.
āToo dark.ā
āTurn on the flash.ā
The pace of your heart matches the rapid tap of fingertips running across the pad. In a blink, a soft glow fills the darkness behind the board.Ā
Simon hums.
āGot something.ā
You inhale sharply. Your eyes flicker around, sifting through your thoughts as if you can see them, rushing unrestrained with endless possibilities. You squeeze them shut, clearing out the sting of sweat as it builds up on your brow and fogs up your sight.
āFuck. Letās switch.ā
Simon shifts until heās kneeling behind you. The rustle of his suit precedes his arms as they come around your head, carefully taking the cable from your fingers.Ā
āGot it.ā
Ever so slowly, you remove your hands, shuffling on your knees and ducking your head to leave the shelter of his body. With no minimal effort, considering the weight of your blast suit, you manage to stumble to where he once sat, grabbing the pad he left lying on the ground.
As he said, thereāsĀ something.Ā The flash clearly highlights a darkened silhouette, bulky and squared, but the quality of the camera doesnāt allow you to make out much more of it.
Only one thing stands out.
A light.
āJesus fucking Christ.ā
āThought so,ā he spits. āFucking Makarov.ā
You donāt have time to curse him as well, though you quietly share the sentiment.
āJohn.ā
Like lightning, his voice crackles in your ear. āSend over.ā
āWe got something.ā
āDetails.ā
āIn a sec. Stay on.ā
You look at Simon. Heās perfectly still, not a tremble in his fingers, exactly as youād expected. Heād make an incredible demo specialist, though you know heās an even better sniper.
āGentle, Simon,ā you murmur. āNeed you to go south.ā
He follows your orders, sliding the cable down inside the box.
āGentle,ā you repeat. āSlower.ā
And without a single word, he heeds you. Trusts you. Lets the camera cover each corner, bit by bit, moving his muscles imperceptibly as he snakes the camera through the jungle of wires.
Now closer to the device, you can better make out its details on the screen. Itās not old nor rusted, not singed nor dead. It sits attached to one side of the box, each cable perfectly isolated and running on sinuous curves around the circuit board. One that blinks red, then green, then red againābeating like a heart, shifting its colours inside the darkness.Ā
Stacks of white rubber are slathered around it, bulky and thick. You curse under your breath.
āC4.ā
Simon clicks his tongue. āChrist.ā
āJohn, tell the local authorities to clear out the areaĀ now,āĀ you order steadily. āAdd that theyāre a bunch of lazy cunts, too.ā
āWill do.ā Then, quietly, āgood work, lieutenant. Stay safe, both of you.ā
āRoger.ā
The static on the radio goes dead. Thereās only your heart pounding in your ears, falling in rhythm with the switch of colours on the screen.
Red, green. Red, green.
Simonās voice reaches out to you. āSee a blasting cap?āĀ
āYeah.ā You tongue your cheek. āSouth. Then move to the right.ā
He follows suit, once again trusting you entirely. As the camera moves, you try to take stock of each tiny detail you can make out. The quality is poor, but youāre starting to have a general idea of what youāre working with. The serial number stamped on the blasting cap matches those of more recent detonators, causing the theory of the local bomb squad to completely crumble.
Red, green. Red, green.Ā
While you canāt make out the logo on the circuit board, you recognize the finish immediately: factory-made, not cobbled together in some basement workshop. New. Polished clean. A pale square chip mounted against the green lacquer of the board.
Red, green. Red, red, green.
You blink.Ā
āStop.ā
Simon falls still.
Red, green. Red, red, green.
There. Blinking in the shadows, off to the side.
āRight. Go to the right. Quick.ā
Simon doesnāt put up a fight, though you can see the uncomfortable shift of his knees. Imperceptible and yet conveying the same nervousness festering in your eyes as they fly across the screen. He is quick with his hands to find the source of the light.
It ticks, ticks, ticks.
āShitāSimon, drop it!ā
And if the clock is right, it will tick only for two minutes more.
āDrop that shit and run!ā
Simon bolts on his feet, awfully quick considering the bomb suit clinging to him. You hadnāt accounted for that. Fuck, you hadnāt accounted for any of this.
You told him to wear it. You put that extra weight on him. He wouldāve been out of the place and far away enough to be safe if you hadnāt insisted, if youād let the overwhelmingly stupid trust he had in you to win, for once.
āFuckāā You drop the pad and stand up. Your knees buckle under the cumbersome weight of your suit and the sudden dread gripping your stomach.
āItās timed, John!ā You bellow. Your yell echoes inside the EOD helmet, ringing in your own ears. āWeāre leavingāno time to defuse it. Less than two minutes and it goes off!ā
An old, singed circuit board as a decoy to mask the real bomb ticking away just beneath its surface. Only a demolition specialist like those in the UKFS wouldāve thought of venturing further inside the device.Ā
Makarov knew it.Ā
He knew the local authorities would have called the anti-terrorism unit as soon as they saw the Konni group mark. Makes sense that he signed the device so clearly, like a fucking amateur.
He wanted Johnās team there.Ā
He knew those bastards wouldnāt be arsed to check further. Why would they take on the burden when they could leave it in the good hands of better-trained professionals.
Call the big guns and then call it a day.
āRun. Donāt look back and run, both of you.ā
He doesnāt need to tell you twice. Youāre already panting, forcing your legs to move against the strain put onto them by the suitānot protection anymore, but a cage. Your knees donāt bend as they should, your feet struggle to hold you up. The sting in your eyes, the heart in your ears.Ā
Simonās ahead of you as you trudge behind him. But heās faster, strongerāable to carry the added kilograms of his blast suit as if itās only a mere annoyance to him.
Though he must hear youāor rather, he must feel the lack of you by his side.Ā
He halts in his steps and looks behind to find you.
āFuckāfaster, El!ā
āI know!ā Youād like to yell at him to shut the fuck up, but that would be a waste of precious breath that you need to focus on using to run.
āGo!ā Your voice cracks. āFuckingĀ run,Ā Riley!ā
Though heās been standing still for so long that youāre now by his side.Ā
You stagger past him, grabbing his hand to tug him with youāthough thatās one arduous thing, rooted on the ground as he is.
āWe got one minute at mostārun ahead for fuckās sake!ā
Itās like you can hear it, nowāeach ticking breath exhaled by the device behind you. You wonder if it had always been there, signalling his presence as you knelt next to it, but you were acting too cocky to notice it.
Your fault. Your fault. Your faultā
Your rushing thoughts recede to a trickle the moment you feel Simonās hand slipping away from yours. As it does, he takes your own heart with him, as you feel it skip a beat inside your chest.
The momentum of your run makes it hard to stop, and you almost stumble on your own feet as the weight of the suit drags you forward. Thankful for a wall next to your side, you slam your palm against it to avoid falling face-first into the ground.
Though when you turn, itās your stomach that touches it.
Simonās already pulled at the quick-release cord hanging from the front of his jacket.Ā
āWhatāā
The contraption strapped around his torso unlatches from the back. While he struggles with it, heās impressively steady as he rips at the sleeves to take it off, shimmying his shoulders out of it with easeāchest plate and all, until everything falls on the floor at his feet.
Initially, your eyes widen in shock. Then, your face morphs into a mask of unadulterated rage.Ā
āAre you fucking mad?!ā
But heās taking his helmet off, too. The thud of it as it hits the ground is deafening, echoing ominously in the otherwise quiet underground tunnel youāre stuck in.
āSimon what the fuck!ā
āCome āere anā shut yer mouth.āĀ
He charges forward, running much faster as most of the extra weight that was hindering him now lies uselessly on the floor. He bends at the waist, using gravity to his advantage, and reaches towards you with his arms.
You donāt have time to think as breath is knocked out of you. His arm wedges between your legs, and the world turns upside down. Darkness and grey bricks swivel and roll before your eyes as the air catches in your lungs.Ā
Your stomach curves around his shoulders. He holds your leg with one arm, curled around your knee, and your opposite sleeve with his offhand.Ā
He stumbles at first, trying to find his balance.
āSimonāāĀ
āKeep still.ā
And then, he runs.
Thereās a rasp in his breathing that makes it sound as if his chest is being crushed. The gravel of debris crunches under his boots, stomping heavily down the tunnel. Each sound is amplified, but youāre unsure of what is real and what isnāt.Ā
He trembles. Groans fiercely for each step he takes, baring his teeth as if to scare an invisible monster ahead of him.
āIām slowing you down!ā You yell, hoping the chaos wonāt mask your voice too much. āPut me down! IāI have the bomb suit on, Iām going to be fine!ā
Though thatās a lie. He knows it, and you do as well. If the tunnel collapses, no miracle can bring you back.Ā
But at least your head would be protected, giving you a chance. Your chest, too. Your legs. A minuscule, tiny possibility to have a minute more to breathe as you wait for Search and Rescue.
A chance he doesnāt have,Ā not with half of his suit now lying uselessly on the floor.
However, Simon doesnāt answer, just runs. Runs and runs and runs, towards the exit at the end of the tunnel. Itās close, maybe another handful of meters, and yet now it feels like an endless chasm ready to suck you in.
A black hole hidden underground.Ā
You donāt know how much time you have left before the bomb goes off. Your breathing picks up, hand reaching around to fist his shirt around his collar to make him please, please listen.
āPlease Simon, please!ā
His eyes are fixed ahead, feet as quick as can be considering the weight heās carryingāyours, his own, the suits. He stumbles, pace naturally slowing down due to the effort, but it doesnāt deter him. Hits walls with his shoulders, slams your helmet and your boots against corners, but he never stops.
He just looks ahead, drunk on adrenaline and ignoring the unfathomable strain heās putting on his body.
Your eyes sting with panic and tears. His face is red with exertion and lucid with sweat as it beads on his forehead. Then his run turns into a stagger, trembling legs forcing themselves ahead.
Simon bursts through the door. Your helmet knocks against it.
At the same time, the tunnelās darkness turns blinding white.
husband!simon riley when you've gotten comfortable
before you got married, you always demonstrated the more polished side of yourself. dolling yourself up for dates, wearing the prettiest outfits, and doing your hair in your favorite styles. you kept lipgloss on you at all times, the plumping kind so you'd always figure out when simon got to curious and tried it for himself (he always had to pocket it for you).
simon loved that side of you. the soft, feminine and put together side of you. the one that simon wanted to protect because more often than not, he looked more like a guard dog rather than your boyfriend.
but things changed when you married and moved in, and you weren't put together all the time. you wore baggy clothes you'd stolen from simon, your figure lost in the fabric that fell to just above your knees. your hair tied lazily, or most of the time just a straight mess. your skin void of any makeup, and you just lounged around the house because simon paid all the bills.
and simon fucking loved it. seeing you in a natural state that you trust him with turns him on more than he can admit. he's the type of guy to pause as he passes the couch, shake his head with an accusatory finger jab, mumbling "you tempt me," and walks off like nothing happened.
more often than not, he's taking you to bed. splitting you apart on his cock while you wear his shirt, hair getting even more mussed against the bedding. all while grunting and groaning about how you tempt him every time he enters the house, resisting the urge to bend you over every availableālike he doesn't already.
mdni, 18+
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hngh Simon Riley stuffing his gloved fingers in your mouth⦠Simon Riley with his gloved hands around your neck⦠Simon Riley stuffing his gloved fingers into your greedy holeā¦
You whine and beg him to take it off please, please the gloves are rough and youāre aching to feel him, skin to skin. He chuckles, asking if youāre the type of pretty thing to like things raw like that, and youāre agreeing, mind hazy with desire. Yes please, please anything Simon, Iāll be so goodā¦
Simon pulling his gloves off with his teeth⦠Simon groaning when he gets his fingers in you and gets a proper feel of just how wet you areā¦
*pervert voice* okay so im the princess and youre the knight sworn to protect me
if you still draw/write/edit eddie munson in the big 26 i love you and am kissing you on the forehead
a girl like me should be in the sky sitting on a star
oh yeah. god forbid johnny is a little curious after hearing your unyielding cries and moans through the wall last night. itās not his fault he wants to know what all the fuss is about. it canāt be as great as youāre advertising.
and of course heās rummaging through your drawers to find yours. no he isnāt buying his own when yours is just waiting for him, tucked beneath your nearly folded underwear. itās already charged up and everything!
it doesnāt take him long to get hard, not when heās surrounded by all of your things, your smell, your sheets, the underwear he dug through to find your toy. heās sporting a stiffy in no time at all.
he starts as usual, stroking up and down, gripping harder at the base and thrusting his hips up into his palm. standard procedure.
when heās nearly halfway there, thatās when he turns the toy on. studying the mechanics before positioning it directly above his tip.
heās cumming instantly, and harder than heās ever cum before. he bucks his hips involuntarily, rubbing his bare ass all over your nice, clean sheets.
he doesnāt have time to do anything about it, though, because youāve just opened the front door, ready to unwind after a terrible day at work.
he does what he can to conceal the evidence, giving the toy a sloppy wipe against his shirt before running to greet you like nothing happened at all.
breathless and a bit red, he asks you about your day.
āyouāre being weird, johnny...ā
and god if the disgusted look you give him doesnāt make him hard all over again.
āā¦.iām going to my room.ā
you pull your toy out of your drawer and immediately throw it back down. johnnyās cum glistens on the red silicone.
and maybe you smear the leftover cum all over your clit, and maybe you moan extra loud, just to make sure he can hear you.
my bed is my only temptress
and and Simon Riley who comes home from an assignment and his wounds are fresh, but he goes straight home to you.
and heās straining in pain as he fucks into you, cuts that definitely shouldāve been stitched up splitting in two, but he had to see you.
and thereās just something about the way his blood drips on to you, red splatters on your pretty skin that curls something nasty and possessive in him.
the 141 arenāt stupid -- they wouldnāt carry a photo of you in their vest or helmet. no name written anywhere, nothing on their body that could potentially trace to a woman back home.
but they all carry something.
simon has a hair tie on his wrist. black, cheap, the kind you buy in packs of fifty and lose all over the damn flat. it sits under the cuff of his glove, biting into his skin, reminding him exactly why he needs to make it home. it always smells like your shampoo for a bit before it starts to smell like his own sweat, he finds himself a new one on the bathroom floor before each deployment.
price wears a watch. itās not the watch thatās about you, really. itās that he started setting the second time zone to match yours. he checks it more than he should, especially at night when he canāt sleep and itās three a.m where he is and eight a.m where you are. heāll think: āsheāll be making coffee, i wonder what she wore to bedā and thatās the closest he lets himself get to mixing you with work.
kyle wears a bracelet. itās thin braided yarn, the kind of thing you learned to make as a kid at camp. you made it on a slow sunday afternoon while he was half-asleep on your thigh. he said āoh, thatās sick, darling. ta!ā, put it on and hasnāt taken it off since. itās absolutely filthy these days. and when it starts to fray, he simply keeps re-knotting it, sometimes johnny has to help get it tight.
johnny carries a folded square of paper thatās gone so soft it feels like fabric, he keeps it safe in a zipped pocket on his kit. itās a grocery list in your looping handwriting that youād left him on the kitchen counter one morning. eggs, soy milk, the good butter, berries, your stupid crisps, wine (red). itās got a small heart in the corner -- thatās the most worn bit because he brushes his thumb over it every night.
just thinking abt johnny mactavish giving me a wedgie k bai

