biker!simon who desperately needs a distraction after quiting the military. using his bonus for taking his retirement, he decided to buy a brand new bike to keep him distracted from the loneliness.
biker!simon who takes his new loud bike to go to an appointment downtown, very satisfied by his latest purchase.
biker!simon who parks his bike on the sidewalk, engine still running. he's on his phone to check his new doctor's adress again, eyebrows furrowed under his balaclava and helmet.
biker!simon doesn't notice you right away, he does when you are a few meters away from his bike. he looks up, and you're talking to him, he can't hear anything with his helmet but also the loud ass sound of the engine running. he panicks a little, brows furrowing even more, he can't help but notice how beautiful you look, his eyes landing on your phone in your hand. were a woman like you really asking for his number?
after a few seconds that felt like minutes of him looking at you intently, simon decides to turn off his bike to hear you better. he's a bit excited to hear what you are saying to him, he doesn't know what he was expecting but it was definitely not this.
"can you turn down your fucking engine ? you biker guys are insufferable" you spit at him as you walk away with a nasty look.
biker!simon looks at you as you walk off, his mouth is slightly agap and his phone is still sitting in his hand. he's not even mad, he gets up from his bike and walks to his appointment with a big smile on his face, he has no idea why but he definitely liked that.
he did not raise his voice, save for those business calls that invariably left him rubbing his temples in sheer frustration, he had never raised a hand at you, not even when you tried to push away as he cornered you against the kitchen table, body pinned as your fingers gripped the spatula you had been using to stir the dinner
hand sliding beneath your undies, fingers, weathered from work, kneading into your skin as they crept to cup your cunt, only to find you dry “’m so tired, baby, just let me” he croons low, pressing heavy, sloppy kisses just beneath your ear, your hands flailing uselessly, eyes fixated on the bubbling pasta sauce.
he lay in a closed coffin, the surrounding cries and whispers reduced to the mere midge buzz in your ears, the dress feeling too tight, squeezing your shoulders, while every sympathetic pat on your spine brought a new suffocating wave, each more stifling than the last, a few tears forcing their way out your careworn eyes, leaving a bitter burn in your throat
one by one, the mourners began to drift away, family members, long not seen friends, women whose faces you didn’t recognize, among them simon, a man who had known your husband from the army, appearing with a visit perhaps once a year, if at all, blonde eyelashes fluttering upward as his gaze found yours from across, umber eyes barely blinking
taking in your mourning attire with a subtle tilt to his head, his balaclava exchanged for a simple cloth mask that now dangled from his ear, thin, nicked lips clamped around a burning cigarette, none recognized him, none could be seen pleased by his unsettling presence, imposing and broad shouldered, heavy combat boots caked in grime, rugged scars with mute signals that broadcast danger.
simon had helped you into his truck to take you home, thoroughly exhausted, drained from the endless questions, the lingering wailing noise, and the looming weight of the paperwork waiting to find its way to you, his palm steady and warm against your back
thick fingers surprisingly deft as he reached over to buckle your seat belt, driving off abruptly the moment your mother in law approached, poised to ask what you planned to do with your late husband's belongings, a man of little patience, and he knew you had endured more than enough today
intent to have your thoughts away from the tragedy, and doing so flawlessly, your tight dress ripped in jagged line at it's hem, panties tucked aside to let him grind into your sopping wet cunt, fluttering restlessly around the gorged girth that stretches your tight hole out, his fingertips as calloused as your husband’s, but much more attentive
counting your ribs with slow wonder, trapping your swollen clit under rough circles, you're dripping all over your trembling thighs and his pants, his cock carving it's place within you, the bite undisguised, voice a husky drawl “he wasn't' even worth a nail from yauh littl' finger” against your tender skin, where he pressed demanding kisses, crooked nose nuzzling into your sternum.
Watching all the lightening strikes of the thunderstorm outside my window and thinking how Sunshine and Simon would be during a thunderstorm…
“Sunshine,” Simon groaned, “Come back to bed.”
“Yeah in a minute oh there’s another one Si!”
You had been stood at the large window with the curtains open for the last hour since you woke up and said “I smell rain.” And Simon had confirmed that there was a thunderstorm rolling in. The pressure had been building all day and of course he had been tracking it with the lightening tracker app on his phone.
Then the first lightening flash had lit up the sky and you were out of bed and at the window in seconds, before the thunder arrives.
He hears you cross the floor. He hears the curtains being pulled back. He does not open his eyes.
The second strike comes and you make a sound that is somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, delighted and involuntary.
"Sunshine.”
"Yeah in a minute ooooo, there's another one, Si, did you see that one?"
He has not seen that one. He is lying on his back with one arm over his face in the dark of the bedroom while his wife stands at the window in her pyjamas conducting a private love affair with a thunderstorm.
"Come back to bed."
"In a minute."
He opens one eye.
You are standing at the large window with both hands on the glass, your face turned up to the sky, lit intermittently by the lightning in a way that makes you look angelic.
He opens the other eye.
"Si," you breathe, "look at that one."
He looks. Through the window the sky splits white and enormous, the whole landscape thrown into a second of stark relief — the garden, the lavender, the fields beyond the fence — and then the dark comes back and two seconds later the thunder arrives, a low rolling thing that moves through the glass and into the floor and into his chest.
You turn to look at him with a smile, eyes bright and glassy.
"Come look," you say.
He should say no. He should say “it's two in the morning, sunshine, come back to bed.” He should say a great number of sensible things and none of them are going to make any difference whatsoever.
He gets up.
He crosses the room and he stands behind you, settling back against his chest, his arms coming around you, your hands covering his on the windowsill now.
Outside, the lightning is coming in intervals now, the thunder close enough that you feel it as much as hear it. The rain arrives properly, sheeting against the window, and you make that sound again, the delighted involuntary one.
"There," you say softly, as another strike splits the sky. “It’s so pretty Si.” You sigh, a happy lilt in your voice.
Simon always said to call him whenever you needed anything. When a knock and suspicious sounds make you wary to be alone, naturally you call Simon for comfort. Only instead of getting your sweet Simon, it's Ghost who comes to your rescue.
It started with a knock on your door. Too soft to be the delivery guy, too irregular to be a needy neighbor. You didn’t think too hard about it, dismissing the knock as possibly kids just being kids. That is, until you overheard sounds of rustling in the bushes beneath the front window in your living room. The sounds were quick and sharp, definitely not like an animal moving through the area.
Your hand trembles as you reach for your phone, your heartbeat thudding in your chest and the pounding of your own blood within your ears is deafening as you felt the anxiety and panic rising within you. You didn’t think twice before dialing his number.
You bite at your bottom lip nervously as you wait for him to pick up, your eyes staying on the window, as if whatever–or, whoever–was outside would pop up any moment.
You hear the line pickup. “Simon?” you whisper, voice cracking in the quiet of your apartment, your ears straining to listen for the intruding sounds of someone on your property.
A beat of silence. Then his voice, low and taut. “What happened?”
You explain your fears in clipped, trembling phrases–the knock, the sounds outside, how you swear it’s a person and not just a wild animal. His end of the line goes quiet again, except for the sounds of movement, keys jingling. A door slamming. The ignition of a truck.
✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚
By the time you dared to peek through the curtains and blinds of your living room windows, headlights flashed across your yard. A truck pulling into your driveway. His truck. Relief floods through your chest–then curdles in a mix of excitement and awe when he steps out of the truck.
Not Simon.
Ghost.
The skull mask catches the light, hollow eyes locked on the front of your house. He moves with lethal certainty, shoulders squared, every inch of him a predator set loose. He stares at you when you open the door, his frame filling the threshold like a shadow made flesh. He didn’t say a word, a heavy hand on your hip as he pushes you back into safety as he enters your home. He’s already scanning the entire living space.
“Stay inside,” he orders, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. The voice he uses on missions. The one that doesn’t tolerate hesitation. The lieutenant.
You open your mouth, the wrong name on your tongue–Simon–but your words wither under his stare. His eyes weren’t soft like usual, weren’t the ones that crinkled when you tease him. Now his eyes were sharp, cold, and focused. The Simon you know replaced with the tactical man most others knew him as. The man that drew fear and dread from his enemies, and respect from those who work alongside him.
He tore through the rooms of your home with frightening efficiency. Yanking open doors, checking windows, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. Moving about like a deadly fog throughout the space. You followed without thinking, at least until he spun and the bared teeth of his mask filled your vision.
He stalked towards you, forcing you backwards until you were back in the living room and falling onto your couch. “Sit down, stay put, and don’t follow me.” His voice was a command that rooted you to the spot.
You obeyed, pulse racing, your eyes tracking him as he vanished down the hall. Every sound–the creak of doors, the slam of window latches–set your nerves on edge. The distant give of your patio door closing as he checks the perimeter.
When he returns, relief sags through your body, but before you could speak, his hand cups your face. His slightly calloused thumb brushing your skin a little too hard, more rough, possessive than gentle and soothing. “Whoever it was is gone,” he says finally.
You look at him with those sweet, trusting eyes he loves so much.
“You call me again,” he orders, voice low enough to vibrate against your bones. “Every time. Don't wait, don’t hesitate.”
Your lips part. “Simon…”
His jaw flexes beneath the mask, but he doesn’t correct you. Doesn’t soften either. The man in front of you wasn’t Simon–not really.
He was Ghost.
The one who didn’t cook breakfast with you in the mornings, didn’t laugh until you both were snorting, didn’t rub your head while you cuddled up to him during movie nights.
The one who killed, who hunted, who protected you like it was instinct carved into his bones.
The other side of the coin that is your sweet Simon.
His voice was quieter, but no softer. “You don’t open the door at night. Ever. Doesn’t matter who you think it is. You don’t answer, you don’t look. You call me. Always.”
You swallow, nodding along to his demands. “Okay.”
“Say it.” A command wrapped in something almost like care.
Your breath hitches. “...I’ll call you.” You felt a flip in your stomach, something inside you aching. You weren’t sure if you missed your usual Simon, or if part of you liked how dangerous Ghost felt when he was this close, when he was overly protective. Overly intense. All for you.
Satisfied, he settles onto the couch, positioning you so you’re sat between his legs as he spreads out longways along the couch. A cage disguised as comfort. One you allowed yourself to settle into, making yourself at home within the confines of his arms around you, holding onto your waist to keep you centered.
For a long minute you let yourself lean into the shape of him there, the scent of leather and cologne clinging to the air. It should’ve felt suffocating. Instead, a strange, guilty comfort slid through you. As you drifted to sleep on him, you realized that calling him in situations like these would always bring Ghost before Simon. And as wrong as that felt sometimes, you found you couldn’t quite bring yourself to regret it.
you’ve always seen simon riley, but not ghost. not the ghost that dominated the missions, the one with lethal stealth that could kill his enemies in silence, no. you only knew simon. the man who kissed your shoulders in the morning, giving you a massage before preparing your breakfast, making you your favourite coffee even though he is a tea person. simon riley.
though your curiosity piped when simon came back from his mission late at night. you never knew when he was going to return, where you would roll to the other side of the bed and then realise that he was finally back.
except, that night he returned you couldn’t sleep awake as you sipped on your herbal tea, when you went down to the kitchen after hearing the door open, only to find simon walking into your house with his balaclava and gear. his pants fitted tightly around his large thighs with straps that seemed to only emphasise them even more, his shirt straining against his chest with a large vest.
simon knew you were a light sleeper, hence why he never turned the lights on when he returned.
despite your sleepiness your mind couldn’t help but to wonder to the foulest of thoughts.
him chasing you with his balaclava and taking you.
the next day you suggested the idea, despite his initial hesitation, you didn’t miss the way his eyes seemed to darken ever so slightly, his gaze calculating as if he was imagining it.
and now here you were running up the stairs, where simon, now ghost was chasing you in his uniform and balaclava.
you couldn’t help but to giggle as you hurried up the stairs, your breaths coming out in small pants as you ran down the hallway, ghost’s heavy boots following you.
he wasn’t even running and was only a few steps away.
he tried his best to give you the performance you wanted, a cat and mouse game, but with the current strain against his pants around his crotch area, his resolve was slowly crumbling.
before you could turn down the hallway, he lifted you up effortlessly, placing you in his shoulders as he turned to your shared bedroom.
“and where do you think yer doin’ pretty girl?” his accent thick as he threw you onto the mattress, admiring the way you stared at him with the most loving eyes despite never seeing ‘ghost’
“you know i don’t like trouble,” his large calloused hands pulling you to the edge of the bed with ease. “and i don’t like brats.”
his gaze lingered in between your legs, specifically your glistening cunt. no panties.
“runnin’ away from me when yer wet like that?” his hands trailing around your legs, heading towards your inner thighs.
“thought you like a good chase mr riley.”
his eyes sparkled, “it’s ghost for you.”
his thumb gently rubbed against your clit, your arousal dribbling down his fingers before seeping into the fabric of his fingerless gloves. “so messy,” he cooed before shoving his fingers into your mouth. “clean up yer mess.”
usually, simon would take his time, gently kissing you and praising you as you slowly took him, but he wasn’t simon anymore.
hastily, he unzipped his pants, before fisting his cock in between his hands when he tugged his boxers down. he shoved your dress to where it was bunched up around your stomach, before slapping his tip against your clit.
“gotta be quick, i don’t have much time when im in the field.”
he didn’t fuck like simon, no, he fucked like ghost.
he didn’t give you kisses or words of reassurance when he slammed his full length into you, instead he gripped your hips tight enough to where it made small little red crescent marks.
a small hiss escaped his lips, “fuckin’ hell, so tight.”
his thrusts were fast and powerful, your body bouncing against him as the bed shook, him manhandling you with ease.
“such a pretty little thing aren’t yer? letting me corrupt you.”
his cock made a small bulge in your stomach, his large hands now moving up to squeeze around the area. “see how deep i’m in you swee’heart? yer lettin’ me use you like this?”
you sobbed from pleasure, his fat tip nudging against your sensitive spot as your gummy walls clenched around him. “who knew you were this fucking easy?”
he was in fact not fast, but took his time corrupting every part of your body, making you lay on the bed all sweaty and breathless with his cum dribbling out of your puffy cunt.
thinking about how it must be such a good bonding experience between you and simon to have him let someone else fuck you. especially when he’s already in there.
contains: dp, threesome, tiniest tiny bit of ddlg but not really
word count { 581 }
mdni - dead dove maybe ?
kind of inspired p!link
.ೃ࿔*:· — he’s laying back against the headboard with his cock already shoved eight inches deep inside you. you’re panting, soaked with sweat from the nerves already. his hands always make sure you’re fucked out for things like this.
your face is pressed right onto the side of his, a little bit of drool already sliding off your tongue from just not being able to close your mouth.
the hot bare skin of his chest pressing against yours. the solid mass of his arm caging around your back, making sure you don’t move. his other arm is so sweetly petting your hair and face. continuing to brush the messy strands away from your eyes while he mumbles things to you the whole time.
“my pretty baby.” “such a sweet girl for letting daddy share.” “promise it’ll feel good.”
he pats your bum once, angling his hips a little deeper and further up, a soft whine coming from your lips when his cock buries itself even more. it’s then you feel another set of hands on your ass. followed by a hot glob of spit. it makes you jump a little when it lands on your unused hole, a nervous whine making its way out when you feel a finger prodding in to the space simon isn’t taking up.
“just one more, baby. you can do that for me, yeah? helping daddy out so much.” he purrs into your ear.
the whimpers coming out of you are full of pure adrenaline, desire, and nerves. he can tell how worked up you really are about all of this. so when he hears the harsh mewl leaving you the second his buddy starts to shove his thick cock into your ass, he’s quick to praise.
the arm around your back tightens to keep you in place, his hand on your head buries its fingers into your scalp, trying to pet away the painful stretch. “good girl, sugar. such a good girl for me. so good at sharing, so good.” his mouth is right against your temple while he speaks.
his own groans fill alongside, he can feel the way you’re tightening and struggling to take two cocks at once. there’s a second of grace when he stills his, only to let his friend slip in and out of your ass.
it’s gotta feel soooo comforting to know simon is right there with you, holding you, stuffing you full in the most precious spot. his lips kissing at the side of your head while trying to get a glance at the sight of another man fucking into your ass.
“‘m right here, baby. not goin’ nowhere.”
there's nothing left in your head. just trying to grasp the concept of simons thick girth shoved into your cunt, leaking and getting his pelvis all sticky between the two of you. and its hard to block out the noises his best mate is letting out. its obvious hes excited too, the way he had zero mercy for shoving straight into your ass and continuing to piston in and out even when your boyfriend is staying still.
simon grabs your face by the jaw and gets your eyes to look at him. youre completely fucked out, lips covered in drool, eyes half lidded, your entire body is a ragdoll.
he wants you to look right at him when he starts moving too. each of you panting and whining, looking so lovingly at one another.
boyfriend!simon was always invited to girls’ night—not out of obligation, but because everyone genuinely wanted him there. he fit into the group effortlessly, his quiet, protective presence becoming a staple at every gathering. whether it was lounging around in pajamas with face masks on or heading out for a wild night at the club, boyfriend!simon was part of the plan.
if it was girls’ night, boyfriend!simon was there. need someone to open a bottle of wine? he had it uncorked in seconds. carrying heavy bags for a night in? already done. if the group was heading to the club, simon was always the first to volunteer to drive everyone home safely at the end of the night.
boyfriend!simon never overstepped, but he wasn’t a silent bystander, either. when conversations got lively, he’d chime in with the perfect sarcastic remark or sly observation, earning a mix of giggles and mock glares. and when a topic turned to relationship drama, he always gave it to you and your friends straight.
“dump the bloke,” he’d say bluntly, not even looking up from his drink. “if i hear his name one more time, i’m blocking his number myself.”
your friends always groaned, but soon enough, they started messaging him directly for advice.
out on the town, boyfriend!simon was the designated protector. no one had to ask—he was always at the edge of the group, watching for anything suspicious. he made sure no one lingered too close, and if someone tried to chat up one of your friends unwantedly, simon’s presence alone was enough to send them packing. if they didn’t get the hint, simon would step forward, voice low and deadly calm: “you’ve got somewhere else to be, mate.” that always did the trick.
despite his intimidating size, boyfriend!simon never felt out of place during your quiet nights in. he sat comfortably among blankets and pillows, scrolling on his phone as face masks dried and reality tv droned in the background. your friends teased him mercilessly about it, but he didn’t mind.
“you’re basically one of us now, si,” one of them joked once.
he gave a small shrug, not looking up. “just don’t expect me to paint my bloody nails, yeah?”
with boyfriend!simon around, you and your friends could relax fully, knowing he’d take care of everything—from heavy bags to creeps at the bar. he wasn’t just there for you—he was there for everyone you cared about, making sure nothing went wrong on his watch.
one night, after everyone had left and it was just the two of you, you leaned into him, curious. “why are you so sweet to my friends?”
boyfriend!simon didn’t miss a beat, brushing a strand of hair from your face as he answered softly, “because they mean a lot to you—and you mean everything to me.”
There’s 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. It’s 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 it’s 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
There’s 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. It’s 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 that’s 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 hens’ feathers and scolding the rooster each time it attempts to take flight and land on him when his back is turned. Kyle’s been missing all morning, likely at the long-distance radio, listening for any outside communication.
They’ve 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 they’ve 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. Simon’s knife is sharp. Cuts clean. Makes the work easy.
“Simon.”
Though Price calls his name, Simon keeps his gaze on removing the stomach.
“Simon.”
“What?” questions Simon, severing the connecting tissue. Holding the stag’s stomach in both hands, he sets it gently on the table.
Price stands in the doorway, his own butchers apron slick with gore. “Nearly done?”
“Just about,” replies Simon, observing the carcass.
He aims for a joint.
“Kyle picked up a signal.” Simon’s knife pauses. Falls to his side. “Distress call.”
“Close?”
Price nods. “Not far.”
“They’re out front. Surrounding the car.”
“How many?”
A scope sweep over the jerking bodies, and Simon answers. “A few dozen. One on fucking fire. Nasties don’t seem bothered.”
“Any movement inside?” crackles Price’s voice in Simon’s earpiece.
Waterproof, solar-powered, short-range walkies turned out to be a goddamn blessing after the apocalypse.
“None,” replies Simon, checking the windows not covered in newspaper. “All quiet.”
“Never a good sign,” Johnny grumbles.
To Simon’s 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 Chap’s 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 don’t last long. They’re 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.
“They’re fascinated by the fire,” murmurs Simon, aiming the sniper rifle, transferring the scope to each rotting head. “Strange,” he drawls, a hint of confusion in his tone.
Price’s voice again. “What’s strange?”
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?
“Simon,” prompts Price.
“They’re avoiding it,” answers Simon after a brief pause.
“Avoiding what?”
“The fire.”
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, building—anything.
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.
“Price,” speaks Simon into the mouthpiece, “use caution when you enter.”
A pause. “What do you see?”
“Consciousness.”
Old Chap blinks, revealing teeth as he senses the change. Simon gently turns his head. “Still,” he softly croons, and the deerhound becomes stone.
Price sighs before he speaks. “Clear in the back. We’re entering. Rear door.”
“Copy.”
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 Simon’s 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.
“Fucking gross in here,” comes Johnny’s voice, a breath of sound.
Another pop. Another spark.
“Three. Round that corner,” growls Price.
Silence as they work. Silence on the roof. Simon sniffs, runs the scope over the crowd. Counting. Counting. Counting.
“Shit,” he mutters. Simon shifts his focus, looking for the wayward enemy.
It’s 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.
“Ones on the move,” Simon softly speaks into the walkie. “Heading to the back.”
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 he’s careful, Simon can take her out as she hobbles into the alley. He’ll 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 Simon’s direction as if she can see his hiding place.
Trigger pull—and 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.
“Fuck!”
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.
“Talk to me,” Simon says into his walkie, desperately attempting to cover the panic in his voice. “Price, do you copy?” Silence. “Johnny?” More silence. “Johnny, do you copy?” Quiet except the heated maw of the fire. “Gaz? Gaz! Fuck—Kyle!”
Old Chap is up, teeth bared, stance locked for violence though Simon hasn’t 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 Simon’s bullets. Dreary doubt chews at the hope.
“Simon?”
Johnny.
“Soap? Do you copy?”
A pause. “Aye.” Johnny coughs. “I copy.”
“Where’s Price? Kyle?”
All that comes over the walkie is a low groan.
“Soap! Listen to me. The building’s on fucking fire. You need to get up—”
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 Simon’s face. They’re covered, head-to-toe in black tactical gear. Shit looks nearly authentic to what he wore in the field.
“Get that gun out of my face,” growls Simon. They don’t. “I said—”
“Heard what you said.” A man’s voice. “Not here to harm you. Or those with you.”
Simon sneers behind his balaclava. “Have a funny way of showing it.”
The tactical-clad man nods toward the ground to Simon rifle. “Bigger gun. Had to be careful.”
In Simon’s earpiece, Johnny is talking, talking about Price, talking about smoke, and coughing hacking coughing.
“We can help them.”
“We?” snarls Simon.
The stranger takes a step back, shows his hands, lowers his gun. “Received a distress call. That you?”
“No. We received one, too.”
Johnny is shouting at him. Price is down. And Johnny can’t bloody see. “Let us help,” repeats the man. “Let us help.”
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 Price’s bed, fists clenched on the chair arms, gaze sadly intense.
Kyle is missing.
Gaz is fucking missing.
Four down to three but doesn’t mean he’s 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 Johnny’s 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. They’ve relieved Price of his fatigues, swapped for plain, clean clothes, washed his face, neck, and arms.
Johnny and Simon weren’t 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 didn’t want Simon out of his sight.
“Need to find Gaz,” growls Simon, voice scratchy from lack of use.
Johnny sighs heavily, keeping his gaze on a snoozing Price. “Think he’s here?”
“One floor down at the bottom of the stairs. He stopped to check a room.”
Simon’s head snaps to Soap. “He wasn’t with you?”
“He was—”
“Not behind you.”
Johnny remains mute, lips pinched. Simon crosses his arms over his chest, tucking them in until it’s a hug. Whatever anger dwells in his bones isn’t for Soap.
“Glad you’re alive, Johnny,” 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 Simon’s leg, baring his teeth at any of the men that drew near, following Simon to the truck they put him in, and hasn’t left Price’s side since. The nurses even brought him a dog bed.
“We have to find him,” whispers Soap. “He’s out there.” Johnny glances at Simon. “Kyle isn’t dead.”
“No,” agrees Simon. “He’s not.”
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 doctor’s coat perfectly pressed and clean. Simon inhales sharply, momentarily stunned by the sight of her. Simon hasn’t 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 wouldn’t there be? If they’d ever come across one during these long years, Simon knows he’d have taken her. Probably what they’ve 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, it’s always the women and children who suffer the most.
“Hope I’m not disturbing,” she says softly, taking a few steps inside, heading over to Price’s beeping machines. With clipboard in hand, she makes a few notes, murmuring under her breath as her pencil scratches across the page.
The doctor turns, her smile remaining soft and professional. “The good news is that he’ll recover.”
Johnny blows out a ragged breath, rubbing his hands over his face as he leans forward, groaning, resting elbows on knees.
“There’s a but, isn’t there?” asks Simon. There always is.
She inclines her head. “Several 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. They’ll heal and likely won’t leave scars.” She turns toward Price. “He’s incredibly lucky.”
He’ll live. Price will live.
But they know nothing about Kyle.
“There was a fourth with us. Is he here?”
The doctor frowns. “I’m only aware of you three. It’s possible he was brought here as well, but I haven’t seen anyone else from…outside.”
“But he could be here?” Simon adds pressure to his voice, an authoritarian air he hasn’t used since the time before.
She clocks it immediately, her smile disappearing. “I’ll find out what I can.” She nods at Johnny, disappearing through the open door. A minute later and one of those gnarly wankers that stuck their guns in Simon’s face appears. Big and broad but not as large as Simon. He could take him. The man’s eyes narrow, laser focused as if Simon personally slighted him.
Answers.
Simon will have them, even if it takes some broken teeth.
“This place is weird. I don’t like it.”
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.
“Johnny,” snaps Simon.
“Fucking help me,” 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. “Bloody Jesus, Ghost. Trying to take my leg off?”
“Did you hear me?”
“Aye. I heard ya.”
“Said this place is weird.”
Johnny manages to kick off the other boot and sit up, arms on his knees as he looks up at Simon, bewildered. “That’s what you’re on about right now?” Johnny extends his palms upward, fingers splayed. “Give it a rest.”
“Give it a rest?”
Johnny frowns at him. “We’ve been awake, what? Forty-eight hours now?” Simon tuts dismissively and Johnny snorts, clearly fed up and irritated. “We need rest. We need a plan.”
“We need to find Kyle.”
“I know, Simon,” hisses Johnny. “Think I don’t care?”
Simon crouches. “I think you’re too calm about this.”
Johnny’s frown becomes sour. “Not looking for a fight, Ghost. I want to sleep.” He pauses, growing grim. “And to clean off Price’s blood.”
Simon can’t sleep. He’s on edge. “There’s something not right about this place.”
“Not disagreeing,” groans Johnny as he shifts to his knees and then his feet, joints audibly popping as he stretches. “But what are we going to do about it?” Simon opens his mouth, but Soap holds up a hand to silence him. “Nothing. We need sleep. A shower. Won’t do Kyle any good if we’re tanked.”
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 won’t hurt. In and out.
Simon leans against the doorframe, knocking. “Soap! Going for a walk!” Johnny responds but it’s muffled by the falling water. “Be back in ten!”
A quick look. That’s all.
That’s what Simon tells himself as he steps out into the cool night, as he walks to the fence line, as he strolls casually, pretending he’s out for fresh air when it’s 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. It’s off-putting and unnatural. Aside from that, Simon hasn’t noticed a single woman.
Are they separated? Could be. Would explain their absence. The doctor is the only women they’ve 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 what’s 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. That’s strange, too. It all is, and it sours Simon’s 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.
“What’d you find?” asks Johnny, not looking at him.
“They’re guarding something.”
Johnny snorts. “From your weird arse.”
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.
“Price is well,” 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. “Checked on him this morning.”
“Doctor find anything out about Gaz?”
Johnny shakes his head. “No. Kept it brief.”
“See anything while you were there?”
Johnny sucks his teeth. “Saw mostly men again. More women though. All in doctor’s coats.”
“How many?”
Soap shrugs. “Least six.”
“Six? And no female patients?”
“Nope,” quips Johnny. “But I was watching them because shit—how long has it been?”
“Four years,” Simon answers instantly.
Johnny elbows him in the arm. “Been counting?”
“Fuck off or talk.”
Johnny cracks a smile like he’s been holding on to a juicy secret. “Forty-eight hours and I’ve seen six female doctors. Six, Simon. Means there could be more.”
“Has to be,” mutters Simon, not really speaking to Johnny but to the cigarette smoke drifting in front of his face.
Johnny grins wider, lightly smacking Simon’s arm with his knuckles. “What if we free them? Have ourselves our own little harem.”
Simon smirks. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you, Johnny?”
Johnny sighs dreamily, resting his head against the wood wall of their cabin, eyes closed. “I can picture it now.” Holding out his hands, he makes a cupping gesture. “Big bouncy tits. Something I can suckle on while she’s on top.”
Simon snorts, choking on smoke. “You’re a dog, Johnny.”
He opens one eye, his smile growing larger. “Oh, aye. Even since I popped out of me ma.”
“What else did you see?”
At this, Johnny’s amusement softens. “Strangest thing. Around the women, all the men were…polite.”
“Polite?”
Johnny’s face pinches, lips pursing. “Wrong word,” he mutters, taking a moment to think. “Respectful,” he finally says.
“Respectful,” Simon repeats.
“Hanging on their every word. Doing what they’re told. No arguments. No joking. No backtalk or attitude. Totally compliant. Fucking bizarre if you ask me. All smiles. Some Stepford Wives bullshit.”
“Robots?” deadpans Simon. “You think the men are all robots?”
Johnny throws up his hands. “Or lobotomized.”
“Fucking hell, Johnny,” growls Simon. “They’re doctors. Course they’re being spoken to with respect.”
“No. No. You didn’t see what I did.” Johnny swallows. “Men moved out of their way. Did things without asking.” He imitates a walking robot and stilted voice. “Obedient and without soul.”
“Be fucking serious,” huffs Simon. “Respect doesn’t mean brainwashed. I’ll admit the place is weird. Think they’re hiding things. But this isn’t sci-fi movie.”
Johnny scratches the side of his nose. “Think it’s odd the only women we’ve seen are doctors. Where are the rest?”
“If we ask, might find out where Kyle is, too.” Simon puts out his cigarette with the toe of his book. “Since we’re idle, should make conversation. Learn what we can.”
Johnny nods. “Agreed. Not sure how you’ll manage it.”
“I’m not that scary.”
Johnny places his hand on Simon’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “Course not. You’re fucking Mary Poppins.”
“Get moving,” growls Simon, shoving at Soap, who dances out of reach. “Be back here in two hours. No more.”
Johnny mock salutes and disappears, leaving Simon to contemplate his next move. Could walk the perimeter again, but he’s far more interested in those gates and whatever the hell they’re 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 haven’t a bother. Simon strides forward, relaxing his body to appear less threatening.
One of the men, a redhead with freckles, nods in Simon’s direction, unfazed by his appearance. “You’re one of the new ones.”
Simon’s reply comes sharp. “What of it?”
Redhead shrugs, still amused in the face of Simon’s attitude. “Can I help you find something?”
Kyle. You can help me find Kyle.
“Bit turned around,” answers Simon, forcing his voice into a neutral tone and fails completely. It’s gruff and brisk. Not friendly at all. “Haven’t found my way yet.”
Redhead’s companion, a lanky man with dark hair and grey eyes, nods in understanding. “Happens to everyone that’s new.” He clears his throat, tucking his thumbs behind his padded vest. Striding toward Simon, he points back the way Simon came. “You’re that way.”
Back to the little cabin that hardly fits him and Johnny.
“I know where we’re staying,” Simon replies dryly. “Looking for a friend.”
“Thought your friend was in hospital?”
Fucking gits.
“Four of us—”
“Four!” exclaims the redhead, slapping his companion’s arm. “Hear that? We’ve gone and lost one!”
It’s not worth a goodbye.
Simon moves on, gaining little information. Nothing about Kyle. Nothing about what’s behind the gates. When he brought up the lack of women, most of them looked at him funny, explaining he was “on the men’s side.”
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 doesn’t make sense. None of it does. Simon isn’t 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. They’ve 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.
Johnny grasps Simon’s upper arms, shaking him. “I know where Kyle is.”
“He alive?” asks Simon, trying not to remain hopeful.
“Injured,” nods Johnny. “But alive.” His hands squeeze, going in for another shake. “You’ll never guess where he is.” Johnny pauses like he expects Simon to play along. When Simon doesn’t, he continues. “They have him with the women.”
“Johnny—”
“All this time we thought they were hidden and they’re out in the fucking open, walking around like you and me.”
“Johnny—”
Soap chatters on, ignoring him completely. “The men at the gates aren’t guarding anything. It’s to keep women out.” He releases Simon’s arms, speaking so ferociously and quickly, that Simon has to dodge Soap’s flailing arms.
“But they have their own side. They have gates, too. To keep men out. Separate spaces. Private spaces. And in between,” Johnny swirls his hands together, mixing the air, “is everyone.”
“Johnny,” growls Simon. “You’re not making sense.”
Soap’s chest heaves as he inhales deeply, calming himself. “It’s all divided up. Men have their space. Women have theirs. Between that, it’s for everyone. That’s why we haven’t seen any women walking around. They aren’t allowed here without explicit permission, but it’s the same for their space. Men aren’t allowed to walk right on in. They need to have a reason.”
Separation. Intermingling. Simon could give a shit. Kyle is here and he’s alive.
“We have to see him,” states Simon.
Johnny’s enthusiasm wanes. “Don’t know if they’ll allow it.”
“We have reason,” emphasizes Simon. “And what’s stopping us?”
Enthusiasm returns to Soap’s face, along with a nefarious smirk. “We’ve infiltrated tougher places.”
“That we have, Johnny.”
Bending at the knees, Johnny checks the pulse of the guard Simon headbutted. “He’s fine.”
Grabbing the guard’s 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.
“Too easy, Ghost. Didn’t put up a fight.”
Simon frowns down at the unconscious guard. “No gun.” Using the toe of his boot, Simon eases the man over on his side. “Just a baton.”
Johnny straightens, chuckling. “Think others might be packing?”
“Don’t know.” Simon steps out of the guard box, Soap on his heels. “Need to use caution.”
Like a gate at the entrance and exit of a parking garage, it’s 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. Simon’s 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 Johnny’s back on track.
They pounce together. Covering mouths. Choking them out.
Johnny’s target succumbs easily but Simon’s is a fighter, twisting his body to jab his elbow into Simon’s ribs. It takes nothing for Simon to snap the man’s neck.
“Jesus, Simon,” mutters Johnny, dragging his unconscious guard into the box.
“Had to be done,” states Simon, dragging his guard by the wrist, uncaring of gentleness now that he’s dead.
Slinking into the shadows, they melt into the darkness for cover, taking refuge in a small alleyway between two buildings.
“What the fuck is this?” breathes Johnny.
Simon lightly chews on the inside of his lip, assessing their surroundings. The zone he and Johnny were in before, the “male only” zone, looked like any other military base, unassuming and familiar. Johnny’s 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 can’t recall noticing the transfer of money or any form of currency. No one traded anything either.
“What direction?” whispers Simon, scanning the corners and rooftops.
No movement. All is quiet.
Johnny nods toward the right. “See that opening?”
“It’s in front of us, Soap.”
Johnny pinches his arm and Simon glares at him. “We take that. No turns. No stops. A direct shot.”
“It’s too easy.”
Behind Johnny’s balaclava, the corners of his eyes wrinkle, indicating a smile. “Firepower’s at the gate and perimeter.”
“Put your wiles on ‘em, Johnny?” teases Simon.
“Not even men can resist my charm.”
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 women’s 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 didn’t know what they’d find. Would it be nicer? Worse? The reality is that it’s 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 Simon’s 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.
Simon’s hand is around her throat before it blooms, smothering her voice and ability to breathe. “Be silent,” he whispers, staring into her watery eyes. “Won’t hurt you. But don’t give me a reason. Nod if you understand.” Takes a second, but she does. Simon eases his grip on her throat. “We’re looking for a man. He’s hurt. Being cared for here. Do you know where?”
Again, the woman nods her head.
“Good,” coos Simon, easing his grip further until his hand rests against her skin. “Tell us.”
Her chest heaves with each gasping gulp of air. “Med bay. Not far.”
“Direction?”
She nervously glances to the left before dropping her gaze downward in submission. “It’s—”
Simon tightens his grip just enough to make her whimper. “And don’t lie.”
“Go left,” she murmurs. “Follow it all the way. You’ll find it.”
Simon drops his hand. “Good girl,” he purrs, lightly patting the side of her cheek. At this, she scowls but remains mute. Smart, this one. Knows better than to poke. “After we’re gone, go inside. Do not come out. Do not talk to anyone. Tell no one we’re here.” He pauses, waiting for confirmation.
“I understand,” she replies, scowl still present.
“If you do, we know where to find you.” Simon straightens, glancing around at the array of flowers. “Hate to return and,” Simon reaches out to rub a delicate petal between his fingers, “trample all over your bluebells.”
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 they’re out of earshot. “How’d you know they’re bluebells? Didn’t take you for a man of the botanical variety.”
“I contain multitudes, Johnny,” 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 Simon’s 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 that’s more twig than man. The guard staggers forward as Simon collides with his back. Baton slipping from the man’s hand, Simon snatches it up, kicking out with his boot, jabbing the steel-toe into the man’s ribs.
Down he goes, Simon swinging the baton outward, the end clipping another guard’s 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 Simon’s 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 doesn’t. Violence is an extension of himself. A constant companion.
Raising the baton, Simon steps on the man’s chest beneath him, his weight crushing rib and lung. Blood bubbles between the guard’s lips. A killing blow.
The baton falls, coming down down down—
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.
“Ignorant brute,” 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 can’t 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 doesn’t 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.
“We helped you.”
Simon’s gaze slowly descends, landing on the woman behind a plain, wood desk. Nice enough, clearly handmade, not pieced together from wordless instruction manuals. It’s 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.
“Gave you clothes,” she continues, counting. Her fingernails are cut short and scrubbed clean. “Food. Shelter. Rescued you. Gave medical aid to your friends.” 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. “And how do you repay us?”
“That rhetorical?” mutters Simon and the bruised neck guard scowls.
“Show some respect,” he growls but Simon remains unflinching. His voice is weak and scratchy, detailing Simon’s 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.
“Five men are dead,” she snaps. “More injured.”
“You hid Kyle from us,” accuses Simon coldly. “What were we supposed to think.”
“Hiding him?” she repeats, head tilting slightly as if it isn’t the fucking truth. “We weren’t keeping him from you.”
“That right?”
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. It’s full of people now.
Isla spreads her hands, forearms resting on the desk. “I understand your frustration,” she begins, retaining a calmly professional tone. “But that doesn’t 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.”
Johnny speaks up. “Think we can just shut it off?”
“That is not—”
“You’re strangers to us,” interrupts Johnny. “We don’t know you. Your intentions. We’re surviving in the way we know how.”
Isla’s expression remains neutral. Always calm. Always professional. Simon admires her for that. Easy to see why The Council selected her as their representative.
“That is precisely how this mess started in the first place. The arrogance and selfishness of men.”
Johnny scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. “Can’t put that on us. Blame the Americans.”
“And we were their allies,” shrugs Isla. “We are just as responsible.”
Simon is sick of this conversation. It’s 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 isn’t interested in returning.
“Think we took joy in it?” counters Simon. “Killing those men.”
Isla turns her gaze on Simon, the middle of her brow creasing. “From eyewitnesses to the brutality, one would think so.”
Simon leans forward. The guard behind him seizes his shoulder, roughly yanking him backward. People don’t touch him. Ever. When they do, they lose fingers.
Simon jerks his shoulder out of the man’s grip. “The violence meant nothing. We were after Kyle.”
“You’re keeping him on the women’s side,” adds Johnny. “Why not the men’s? Why not with Price?”
“Suspicious,” seethes Simon. “We wanted answers. And you’re strangers. Why would you not hide him?”
Isla’s nostrils flare. It’s the only show of emotion Simon’s seen from her. “One murder would be banishment. Two, a hanging.”
“And what’s a few more?” chuckles Johnny. “Cut into pieces?”
Isla hardly blinks, unamused by Johnny’s quip. “That is what the law states.” She sighs deeply. “But the Council thinks different.” Pushing up from her chair, Isla strides to the window, watching the people below. “They voted to show you grace.”
Johnny smothers a laugh, forcing out a cough. Simon’s gaze narrows. Showing grace? No one shows grace unless they want something.
“What’s the catch?” sneers Simon. It’s 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. “You’re capable fighters. Strong. Organized. If I’d hazard a guess…ex-military?” When neither Simon or Johnny speaks, she arches an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”
“No,” answers Simon. “Not wrong.”
Isla crosses her arms over her chest, leaning against the desk causally like Simon and Johnny aren’t tied up and at their mercy. “We don’t have the resources for proper training,” she says slowly. “The men who oversee our soldiers and guards were military themselves but low on the chain of command.”
“Cannon fodder,” 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. It’s been quiet. They are looking after their own survival before anyone else’s.
Isla inclines her head but it’s no confirmation. “The Council is showing grace to extend an offer. You won’t 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 they’re healthy is no concern to us. You have experience and training. That is something the Council values.”
Johnny’s mouth hangs open, glancing between Simon and Isla. “Could be naval officers. Won’t help you much.”
Isla holds her gaze on Simon. “You’re not naval officers.”
Simon holds his tongue. It’s a good offer. They keep their heads, do what they do best, and leave when it’s done. Not ideal but better than corpses.
Slowly shifting his attention to Johnny, they make eye contact. No words needed. Only silent understanding.
“We were part of the Special Air Service,” Simon admits. “Handled hostage rescue, covert reconnaissance, counterterrorism.” Isla’s eyebrows rise at this. “Not what you were expecting?”
Clearly not, but that’s good. They have greater leverage now. Their skills and experience far exceed what the Council is after.
Isla ignores the question. “What of your friends?”
“The same,” he answers.
“We’re a team,” adds Johnny. “Always have been.”
“What do we receive in return?” asks Simon. “For lending our skills?”
Isla glares at them. “You receive your lives.”
“No.” Simon shakes his head. “You will take us to Kyle. I want to see him myself. Reassurance without evidence means nothing.”
For a moment, Simon believes Isla will accept. Her stern expression becomes motherly, almost pitiful. “You could have asked to see him.”
“Would you let us?”
“No,” she says automatically. “Probably not.”
“That’s my fucking point,” growls Simon. “Bring him to the men’s side.”
The guard behind Simon grasps his hair, yanking his head back to expose Simon’s throat. “Speak like that to her again and I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Careful,” chuckles Johnny. “Don’t tease him. Shit turns him on.”
The guard’s upper lip curls, roughly shoving Simon’s head forward.
Isla’s frown deepens, unamused. “Transferring your friend is not my decision to make. I can assure you he’s well cared for. He needs rest and time to rehabilitate.”
Simon runs his tongue over his teeth, tasting blood. “Let us see him and we’ll accept.”
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.
It’s a stretch of silence, of Isla’s intense gaze as she considers, purposefully withholding an answer to fuck with them. “That can be arranged.” Victory swells in Simon’s chest. “However—” Johnny groans with a heavy sigh, rolling his eyes in annoyance. “However,” emphasizes Isla, “after your violent display, the little trust you did have is broken. If I allow you to enter the women’s side, even with supervision, there will be pushback.”
“You speak for the Council,” replies Simon. “Think you can quiet a few disgruntled women.”
Isla’s face scrunches like she’s smelled spoiled milk. “Kyle is healthy and will recover. You are to stay on the men’s 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.”
From the protruding veins in Johnny’s neck, the man is ready to spit venom. Soap’s temperament sometimes gets the better of him.
The corner of Simon’s mouth twitches, but he holds his tongue. “And what are the laws?”
“Knew this place was fucking odd.”
“Scared of some women, Johnny?”
“Now you’ve got jokes?”
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. “We were bested by this?”
Simon considers the men before him. “No. Wouldn’t trust them to hold a gun. And you were bested by a fire. I had the gun in my face.”
“Aye. That’s true.” 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.
“Fucking shambles,” mutters Simon as two of the men shove at each other.
“If only Price were better,” sighs Johnny. “Have them in line by end of day.”
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. “How you feel about it?”
“What about?” exhales Simon, curls of smoke dissolving into the air.
Johnny gestures vaguely. “Their rules. Council of Women. Separate living spaces. Can’t even flirt with a woman unless she approaches you first?” He shakes his head in disgust.
“That’s what you’re upset about?”
“A bit,” he grumbles, and Simon chuckles. “But you heard what they said. About the division of labor.”
“Makes your lobotomy theory more believable.”
Johnny smacks Simon’s chest, catching Simon on an exhale. “Fucking right!”
Simon coughs, clearing the smoke of his lungs. “Or,” he counters, because he’s slightly miffed at Johnny for hitting him, “you’re experiencing what women have their entire lives.”
The deadpan stare Simon receives could cut glass. “You don’t like it either,” drawls Johnny.
“No,” agrees Simon. “I don’t.”
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.
“Others likely feel the same,” murmurs Simon. “Just have to find them.”
Johnny’s expression grows sour—angry. “Don’t like their rules about children. It’s not right.”
“I’m not disagreeing.”
They aren’t paying attention to the soldiers running drills. Not worth it at this point. Johnny’s ready to boil over.
“Isla worded it like men aren’t part of the process. Except—” Johnny jerks his hand. “As donors.”
Simon aims for lightness. “Keep your prick in your pants then.”
Johnny cracks a smile, some of his anger melting away. He sighs deeply, thawing his mood. “I miss my chickens.”
“We’ve left them for longer. They’ll be fine.”
“The hens aren’t getting their morning compliments.”
Simon shakes his head as Johnny chuckles to himself. “Should go. Take care of this lot tomorrow.”
“They don’t want us here,” says Johnny as they turn their backs. “Ordering them around.”
Simon shrugs. “Don’t blame them. I’d hate it, too.”
“Can see it in their eyes.”
“We killed some of their brothers.”
Johnny doesn’t disagree. “Wonder how Price is doing,” he muses.
It’s a good change. A nice shift from reality. “Maybe he’ll be more alert today.”
Price is walking. Small steps. Not fully load-bearing yet, but he’s 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.
It’s a routine that begins to feel normal which is exactly what Simon didn’t want. Most of the men don’t talk to him. They’re nice enough. Polite. But they prefer Johnny more. Simon understands. He’s 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.
“Fucking starving,” groans Johnny, crossing his arms and resting them on the ledge.
They’re 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.
“Could use a meal,” mutters Simon, rolling his neck, sighing with each little crunch and pop.
“Think they trust us now?”
Simon glances at Johnny. “Happy to have something familiar in your hands?”
Johnny lovingly taps the side of the L85. Not the best, but it’ll do. Their arsenal back at the homestead is better, and what the settlement has in theirs is an assortment of “take what you can and go.”
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 don’t do that here. It’s 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 Simon’s tongue, quickly extinguished by a burst of masculine laughter. Johnny and Simon turn at the same time, and Simon’s 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 Simon’s boot but stopped by a womanly hand.
Ignorant brute.
You’re here with a smile and not a scowl.
“Thank you,” says Charles, matching your smile, reaching out for the wrapped item you hold out to him. “Was starving.”
Simon instantly hates him.
Next to him, Johnny groans, rubbing his stomach. “Lass is an angel.”
Food. Sandwiches by the look of it. You move from man to man, handing them a sandwich each. As you approach, Simon’s stomach twists. It’s 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 Simon’s 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 isn’t there at all. Out of habit, Simon’s 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 Johnny’s open mouth. The others also stare in disbelief, glancing between you and Simon until you disappear, descending the stairs.
Johnny’s surprise slowly melts away, open mouth coming together to form a mischievous smirk.
“Don’t,” 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 won’t deny it.
The afternoon gives way to a chill and overcast skies. Simon and Johnny don’t linger, taking note of visible improvements and hidden weaknesses of the gate and surrounding fenceline.
It’s the walk back that intrigues him, that tugs on a primal part of Simon’s brain.
“Can’t tell if she wants to kill you or fuck you,” chuckles Johnny, lightly shouldering Simon.
You’re in the communal space just as they are, listening but not listening to the conversation you’re having with five others. You’re distracted, staring at Simon, eyes narrowed with suspicion. A deep scowl cuts across your lips. Or is it more of a pout?
Johnny’s head tilts as if considering the answer. “Both,” he says, answering his own question.
“Come on, Johnny,” growls Simon, grasping his arm and leading him towards the men’s side.
Johnny teases him the whole way to their cabin, yapping Simon’s ear off about winning you over. Simon half-listens. He’s thinking of the way your body moved as you walked away from him. How, even disgruntled, Simon wanted to know what you taste like.
“Maybe you need to give her gifts. Women like that. Flowers? Or—”
Simon nearly smacks into Johnny’s back. “Soap,” 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 Johnny’s shoulder. “Fucking hell,” he mutters just as Johnny launches himself across the room.
“You bastard!” Johnny heaves himself from the floor, sailing through the air, and landing on a large mass laying on the bed. “Been fucking worried.”
“Watch the stitches,” 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 Kyle’s shoulders.
“Ease up, Soap,” mutters Simon, pushing at Johnny’s arm.
He falls onto his butt, breathing heavily. “Snuck over to surprise us?”
Kyle’s smile is warm. “Cleared me. Sent me here. Happy to know you’re alright. How’s Price?”
Simon inclines his head. “Better. Walking more. Bones are healing. He’ll be up and himself again soon.”
“Good,” murmurs Kyle, nodding his head.
“What about you?” asks Johnny, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. “Had you on the women’s side.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “What’s that like?”
Kyle’s smile shifts, gaze growing soft, eyes glancing downward as if he’s lost in a fond memory. “Nice, actually. Didn’t realize it until someone told me. About the settlement. Rules and such.”
Johnny beams. “Fucking bonkers here.”
Kyle’s gaze snaps up. “How do you mean?”
He starts listing. “Separate living spaces. Unequal division of labor. Men can vote but can’t hold office.”
Kyle blinks, clearly stunned at Johnny’s disinterest in life here. “You’re upset about that?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Makes sense to me.”
Johnny’s mouth falls open. Simon simply stares.
“It makes sense to you?”
Kyle shrugs. “Why not have women in charge? Look around us. We’re here now because of the actions of men. Time for a change.”
“You agree with this?”
“Not entirely,” admits Kyle. “There are a few things I don’t particularly like. But I’m for it.”
“Oh, shit,” murmurs Johnny. He turns toward Simon. “Told you. Stepford Wives. Replaced them all with robots.”
“Lobotomy.”
“They got him, Ghost. We’ve lost Kyle.”
“Kyle is right here,” he huffs, one arm out and bent in a “what the fuck are you on about” gesture. “Haven’t left.”
Johnny and Simon keep talking despite Kyle’s assertion.
“Think he’s pussy drunk?” whispers Johnny, pointing at Kyle as if he’s not in the room.
“Maybe. Or they’ve made him a Ken doll.”
A pillow goes flying, smacking Johnny in the face with a muffled whomp. “Piss off. The both of you,” laughs Kyle. “What a shite greeting.”
Kyle’s 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. “Just surprised. Haven’t seen much of this place. And what we have isn’t exactly thrilling.”
Kyle sighs, settling back against the bed, head on his pillow. “I miss home. But it’s not so bad here.”
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. He’s unable to attach a name to it, this constant vigilance.
What the fuck do you want from him?
“Where’s Johnny?” Simon frowns at his empty bed. “He’s been gone for three days.”
“Surprised you just noticed,” chuckles Kyle, stretching, wincing as his torso lengthens.
Simon turns away from Johnny’s bed, heading for a quick shower. “We had split duties. Didn’t think he’d up and disappear.”
“He’s fine,” muses Kyle.
“You know that?”
“Promise.”
“You’ve been gone six days, Johnny.”
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 hasn’t been missing.
A bit stretch. A scratching of the stomach. A few slow blinks. “Bout to sleep for six more,” grumbles Johnny.
Irritated, Simon snatches his pillow, bringing it down on Johnny’s face a few times. “Where were you?”
Behind Simon, Kyle covers up a snort.
Johnny grins, almost dreamily. “Figured out why the men are so happy.”
Kyle turns onto his good side, addressing Johnny. “You have it off?” Johnny hums in the affirmative. “One?” No response. “Two?” Again, no response. Kyle guffaws and sits up fully. “More?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” growls Simon.
Johnny remains on his back, staring at the bottom of the top bunk. “Thought I’d just,” and holds a fist over his groin, slinging the wrist to simulate masturbation, “jerk into a cup.” He drops his hand, rubbing his inner thigh. “Think my dick is sore. Don’t know if I could come if I tried.”
Kyle barks a laugh, falling onto his back, covering his eyes with one hand. Johnny turns his head. “Had me rotating between three,” emphasizing his words by holding up three fingers. “Never had it off so much in my fucking life.”
Simon, finally connecting the pieces, blurts, “you were gone six days to get your dick wet?”
Kyle falls into a fit of wheezy giggling.
“Ate,” lists Johnny. “Slept. Fucked. Repeat.”
“For six days?” deadpans Simon.
Johnny nods, snuggling down into the bed, eyes closed. “Understand the compliance now.”
Controlling his giggling, Kyle manages to speak between breathy inhalations. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Don’t know how much you miss it until you’re balls deep.”
Simon rounds on him. “Is that why you disappear at night?”
Kyle attempts to suppress a smile. “That obvious?”
“Fucking hell.”
Johnny cracks open one eye. “You should have a go, Ghost. I’m sure some cute lass will take you.”
“Piss off, Johnny.”
Johnny sits up, resting on his elbows. “I’m serious. They have a whole building dedicated to it.” He shrugs. “Not sure what it’s called. Breeding center? Fertility clinic? The ‘get laid’ office?”
Kyle stabs his finger in Johnny’s direction. “That’s a good one.”
“Thought you hated this place?” snaps Simon. “Or did you forget?”
“In my defense,” begins Johnny, holding up a hand when Simon releases an annoyed groan, “I was asked.” He rolls his shoulders, growing smug. “When three women want you to breed them…you can’t say no.”
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.
“And suddenly you don’t care about paternity,” 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 it’s 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 child’s life unless the woman permits it.
Johnny leans forward a tad, pointedly staring at Simon, ignoring his remark. “What about the lass always scowling at you? She’s a bonnie thing.”
Slowly turning his head toward Simon, Kyle’s grin becomes mischievous. “Is that who you’re wanking to?”
“Think she’d rather claw my face off,” mumbles Simon, because there’s no reason to deny it. That pouty, scowling face of yours is easy to imagine while you’re on your knees, begging to suck his cock.
“More like claw your back up,” snorts Kyle as the two men fall into hysterics again.
Simon was over this conversation two minutes ago. “There’s work to be done.”
“If you don’t come back,” calls out Johnny as Simon heads for the door, “I’ll assume you’re sticking your prick in her.”
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 it’s a speck of dirt now. Nothing he can’t clean off. It’s 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 who’ve had their eye on him, approached him to flirt or talk. The attention is nice, satisfying a craving Simon hasn’t indulged in in years.
Rifle in hand, Simon leaves the men’s 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 don’t 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. He’s 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 women’s side, and thinking of her at all brings a tightness to Simon’s chest. Families take up their own space, seniors in another to reduce noise and maintain a calm environment, and the last for anyone who doesn’t agree with separation. Simon walked that space a few days ago, quickly releasing the people residing there don’t want rigid rules and walls, preferring collective living.
It’s like before, only flipped, removed of certain social parameters. If Simon described it in one word, he’d choose fine. Just fine. Not great. Not special. Not where he’d choose to live. Home is the farmhouse. Home is the loch. Home is the nearby forests. Home is Johnny complimenting the hens and Price’s whistling as Old Chap dances around his legs. It’s 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 he’s an 80’s 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. It’s the one vice of the past Simon still enjoys. The occasional whiskey with the boys is a close second.
It’s then that he sees it, a familiar face with a perpetual scowl. Stomach flipping like a gymnast, Simon’s vision tunnels, entirely focused on your forward progression. You don’t 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 you’ll stop. That you’ll talk to him.
Your gaze finds his face. Lingering. Lingering.
Simon steps to the right, ready to block your path. There’s 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. You’re 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 Simon’s 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 you’re off course, yanked to the right, herded between the dividing fence and brick wall.
“You’re following me,” 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. They’d need to look at the ground to peek a second set of feet.
The scowl is gone. In its place is defiance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Fuck me, he thinks, because why do you sound so breathy?
“Let me go,” and you’re 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. “Tell me why you’re following me,” he croons. “And I might.”
“Harassment is against the law.”
“So is stalking,” counters Simon.
There’s that pouty scowl again forming on your lips. Fucking cute you are, attempting to act tough. “You want the truth?” you say, arching an eyebrow. “Fine. I don’t trust you.”
“Is that right?” 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. “Following me around like a lost little bird.”
“I’m not—”
“Couldn’t threaten me if you tried.” 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. “Someone has to keep an eye on you.”
“That’s what you’re doing?” chuckles Simon. “What about the gate? Gave everyone sandwiches. Skipped me.”
“I—I was one short,” 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. “You want me attention,” he purrs. “Don’t deny it.”
“You’re full of yourself,” you reply, but it’s breathy and soft, almost sweet like tempered sugar.
“Am I wrong?” he asks. “You have no reason to watch me. Council didn’t tell you to. Know that much. So what’s the real truth, love?”
Your chest heaves, nostrils flaring. You’re about to break or slip into a half-truth. Simon knows the signs, years of interrogation have primed his attunement to the body’s tells. Conquering this is not. Breaking you is easy.
“It’s true,” you admit. “I am watching you.”
“But?” prompts Simon, because he’s going to dig the truth out one way or another.
“But it’s not because I don’t trust you.” You lick your lips, hesitating. Simon takes a chance, pressing his hips to yours. He’s rewarded with a shiver. “You’re…dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“The men here are docile. And I want—”
Behind the balaclava, Simon smirks. “You want it rough,” he finishes for you.
“Yes,” you breathe, and Simon savors the sound. “Want to be fucked out of my mind.”
Fucking hell.
Raging hard and throbbing, it takes all of Simon’s focus to slow down and not pounce on you in this alleyway. It’s been years since Simon has known a woman’s touch, and here you are, presenting yourself as an offering, begging him to fulfill a desire no man here can satisfy.
“Tonight. We can—”
“No,” you say quickly, grasping the front of his fatigues. “Now. I want to do it now.”
Double fucking hell.
Your cabin is near the back of the women’s area, tucked away in a corner. It’s the middle of the day and everyone is out.
Simon takes in the space that isn’t 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 men’s 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 hot—messy. Ones that shift into tongue touching tongue, of little whimpers from your throat, of his own muted grunts as Simon’s other hand presses to your stomach, sliding down to cup your sex through your pants.
Simon fingers the zipper. Undoes the button. Slips his hand inside.
The tips of his fingers find curls, find your clit, slide further until he’s teasing your opening. The kiss is broken by your gasp, of a mangled groan as Simon slowly eases his finger inside you.
“This for me?” he croons, grip on your throat tightening slightly.
A withdrawal. A circling tease. Inside once more.
“Yes,” you manage through broken breath.
Simon presses his lips to your ear. “Where you wet for me at the gate?” You nod. “When you looked at me?” Another nod. “When you stopped me from killing that man?”
“Yes, Simon.”
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.
“Get on your knees,” he growls. “Show me.”
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 it’s 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.
“Look at you,” he growls. “Obedient thing.”
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. You’re 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 you’re naked. Knife closed and tucked away, Simon shoves you onto the bed, forcing you onto your side, opening your legs.
You’re 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.
“Oh, fuck,” you groan. “Feels so good.”
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 Simon’s chest. You’re 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.
“I can’t,” you whimper after the third. “I—can’t. Too—too much!”
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.
“Fucking hell,” he groans, admiring how swollen and wet you are. “You look fucking breedable.”
Simon manages to shove his pants down to his knees, but that’s all he’s able to achieve. He needs to be inside you, to fuck this cute pussy until you’re 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. “Oh, thank God,” 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.
“So good,” you pant. “Simon. You feel so good.”
His name on your lips is a stimulant, driving his need to new heights, ricocheting around in his head.
“Harder,” you moan. “Fuck me harder, Simon.”
He’s 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 deeper—harder.
Head dipping, Simon speaks between clenched teeth. “Gonna come inside you.” You whimper and Simon tuts. “No protesting, love. You’re taking it.” He leans in further, whispering in your ear. “You’ll take every drop I give you. Staying here in this bed until there’s nothing left in my balls.”
Your hand forms a fist, hitting the bed as if in protest.
Too bad.
Simon doesn’t stop—doesn’t slow. The only sound in the room is the wet slap of skin against skin, Simon’s 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, Simon’s heavy breathing syncs with yours, silence all other sounds. You’re both still for a full minute, and it’s 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 isn’t 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.
“Said I wanted it rough,” you croon, and Simon nearly topples over.
Control? What fucking control? You’ve planned this, plotting from the moment you locked gazes with him.
His lips part in surprise as you wiggle your toes and giggle.
