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eilidh-eternal · 4 months

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Chapter 3 - En Pointe

Simon Riley x Johnny MacTavish x F!Reader 5.7k words Warnings/tags: 18 + MDNI, implied sexual themes, dub-con/non-con themes and implications, Simon calling Johnny 'pup', Johnny is an overeager and blatant flirt, Neither of them really have pure intentions Simon is just better about concealing it AN: Alright I told you guys a while ago that things are gonna get a little darker in this chapter, so if that isn't your cup of tea this is your chance to jump-ship. Actually managed to trim this down some because 6.5k of context and set up was absolutely ridiculous. Anyways, here's the very overdue update lmaoooo Masterlist

You’re nervous, Simon notices, clutching at the glass in your hands and fidgeting in your seat, and he finds it terribly endearing. Such a lovely, shy creature you are.

But it lessens as the evening progresses, finishing off your cocktail and trading the glass to fiddle with a loose thread atop your knee, and you laugh freely at Johnny’s stories and Simon’s terrible jokes.

He’s enamored with the way you try to hide those little yawns behind your hand and blink your tired eyes as the evening draws closer and closer to midnight, most bars and restaurants preparing to close their doors for the evenig. The way you lean more heavily against the bar as the exhaustion of the day and the lull of the liquor in your drink weighs you down despite your best efforts to hold yourself up on the barstool. You sway, a bit too much for Simon’s liking, and he’s instantly at your back, strong hands securing you by the waist and hauling you back to support you against him.

“Tired, dove?”

“Mmhm.” You tip your face up to look up at him through the fringe of your lashes, eyes half-lidded and soft around the edges. Soft like the rest of you. Soft beneath his hands, against the hard planes of his torso… soft. Putty in his hands. Pliant and perfect.

“Let’s get ye back to ye’re room then, sweet thing.” Johnny waves the bartender over to settle the tab and Simon guides you down from your seat, hands lingering around your waist while you find your footing on tired limbs. When you wobble again he loops an arm around you, tucking you close to his side with a soft chuckle.

“I thought dancers had better balance than this,” he chides playfully.

“‘M tired.” You lean further into his warmth, allowing him to support your weight against him. “And ‘m a ballerina, not a dancer.” His laugh rumbles in his chest again.

“Ok, dove. Ballerina it is.” Another hand slides over your back above Simon’s and he watches your head swivel to find Johnny smiling sweetly down at you.

“Time for bed, hen.” His smile turns apologetic when you pout up at him, brows knitting together and plush bottom lip jutting out, and Simon briefly wonders what that lip would feel like between his teeth. Wonders if you'd keen and arch into him like Johnny does. “‘S not the end of the world, jus’ the end of the night,” he croons, and they lead you out of the bar, supported by Simon’s arm wrapped snug around you, big hand splayed across your ribs, and Johnny’s thumb rubbing circles into the bare sliver of skin between the neckline of your dress and your nape.

Johnny allows Simon to herd you onto the lift and sidles up to you again when the doors close, sandwiching you between the two of them in the small space. Simon nearly purrs at the way you relax into them, watches you lose the fight to keep your eyes open until the ‘ding!’ of the lift arriving at your floor causes you to jolt, eyes flying open again, and both of them lead you out into the hallway.

You drag your feet towards your room, partially because you are exhausted, but more so that at some point in the night you’d decided you like listening to Johnny tell outlandish stories. Like the way Simon calls him out when he embellishes the details to try to impress you. You like them, and you don’t want to be done talking to them.

When you finally arrive in front of your door you reach down to retrieve your key card from your purse but your hand finds empty air and your own hip. Johnny laughs and you open your mouth to scold him but he beats you to it.

“Looking for this?” He dangles the little bag in front of you. You reach for it but he snatches it away with a click of his tongue and arches his brow playfully as he opens it and retrieves both the key card and your phone. “I’ll unlock the door, and you’ll unlock that for Si, hm?” he says and hands you your phone.

You take the phone from him, hold it up enough for the facial recognition to capture your visage, and before you can ask what he wants with your phone, Simon’s plucked it from your hand and Johnny’s holding the door open for you, hand outstretched and waiting.

“C’mon, little bird. Let’s get ye to bed.” He wiggles his fingers, beckoning you towards him. Simon’s arm loosens its hold on you as he passes you off to Johnny who slips his own around your waist, hand coming to rest on your hip. He leads you through the dimly lit room, the lamp at your bedside left on in your rush to meet them, and settles you on the edge of the bed where he kneels before you to help slip your shoes off, arranging them neatly off to the side. A soft, relieved sigh slips past your lips when they come off, flexing and rolling out the cramped muscles, but the affronted sound Johnny makes low in his throat pulls you out of the momentary bliss.

“This is from the dancin’?” he asks, delicately lifting one foot and then the other to look over the small injuries, the bruises and blisters and scrapes adorning them.

No, no don't look at that. Anything but that…

When you don’t immediately answer he lifts his gaze to yours and concern morphs into confusion when he takes in your averted gaze, lower lip pulled between your teeth and dolent eyes downcast.

“Hey, wha’s wrong?” he entreats, hands gliding up to your calves and giving them a gentle squeeze to draw your attention back to him. You don’t look at him, can’t bring yourself to, focusing instead on the way the bed dips beside you and you recognize the dark fabric of Simon’s slacks that fill the empty space beside you. Johnny shuffles closer and a gentle hand cups your jaw, fingers tracing the elegant line until his thumb and forefinger captures your chin to angle your face towards him, forcing you to meet his concerned gaze. “Wha’s wrong, bonnie?” He echoes the question, a little softer this time. “I can’t help if dinnae ken wha’s botherin’ ya.”

Your eyes trace the lines between his pinched brows, the slope of his nose, the bracketed lines around his mouth and the dark stubble along his jaw. Pretty. And then your gaze drifts lower, down to your own discolored flesh, covered in healing scrapes and fresh lesions from tonight, and your face twists into a grimace at the sight.

Damaged.

Johnny follows your gaze as it drifts lower, watches you worry at your lip, and understanding dawns on him.

“Hey, I dinnae care about that.” He drags the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip. “I do care that ye’re hurt, though.” Simon leans closer and you feel his hand settle over the back of your neck, sweeping stray hairs out of the way so he can rub soothing circles into the skin there.

“Nothin’ to be embarrassed about, dove,” he assures you, and some of the tension in your shoulders slips away as the warmth of his hand melts into you.

“‘S there anythin’ to be done for it?” Johnny’s hand leaves your chin to settle on your calves again and he rocks back onto his heels. “Cannae let ye go to bed like this. Wouldnae be kind dates if we did.” His fingers massage the muscle beneath them, thumbs digging into knots and working them loose.

Your brain stumbles over ‘date.’ Is that really what this is?

You like them, definitely find them attractive, and they seem to like you too. They probably wouldn't have walked you up to your room if they hadn’t; would have let you stumble your way back on your own. But here they are, Johnny kneeling on the ground in front of you and Simon sitting next to you, asking how to help you get ready for bed. How to take care of you.

“There's a blue bag, on the counter in the bathroom.” Johnny nods, gives your calves one last squeeze, and stands from the floor.

“Be right back, hen.” He disappears around the corner, leaving you in Simon’s care.

“Let’s get you comfy, yeah?” He doesn't wait for you to answer. The hand at your neck drifts down your back, palm pressed flat against your spine. He stops just above the curve of your tailbone and slides around to your hip, holding you steady as he reaches across your lap to reposition you on the bed with your legs draped over his own and he leans over again to arrange the pillows behind you when he murmurs, “This ok, dove?”

Your lips part, warmth flooding your cheeks once more, and you have to mentally remind yourself to exhale, to stop holding your breath before you faint from a lack of oxygen rather than exhaustion.

“Y-yeah. This is fine.”

The mask shifts, pulling taut over his cheeks, and you realize he’s smiling, eyes narrowed and crinkled at the corners.

Johnny returns holding the described blue bag. “You two look comfortable. Couldnae wait f’r me?” Neither you nor Simon say anything as Johnny settles himself beside him and the two of them silently begin tending to the little scrapes and bruises. Their hands move skillfully over the tender skin, like this is something they’ve done a thousand times before, and eventually you allow yourself to settle back onto the pillows, eyes slowly drifting closed, content to leave them to their work.

“Poor little bird, must be so tired,” Johnny coos as he presses his thumb into the arch of your foot and you make a breathy, pleased sound each time their deft fingers find sore muscles. You outright moan when pressure is applied to the ball of your foot and one of them groans throatily in response, but you're too tired, too relaxed, to open your eyes to see who. Too tired to properly register the hardness pressing into your calf.

They say something but it’s muffled, the low baritone of their voices distorted by the clutches of sleep dragging you further and further into its grasp, and you’re only vaguely aware that they've moved, that you’re being moved, lifted into a strong pair of arms and then laid gingerly back on the bed with the blankets pulled up around your shoulders. When you shift, rolling onto your side to get comfortable, a gentle hand brushes a stray hair away from your face, something warm presses to your temple before the voices fade, and a door distantly clicks shut as you succumb willingly to the pull of sleep.

“Johnny.” Simon’s tone is reproachful, and when Johnny meets his eyes they’re not the same glowing amber they had been most of the night, softened by your presence.

He pulls his hand back and has the good sense to look remorseful about where it had been drifting.

“There’ll be time for that later.” He enunciates each word carefully, doesn’t say anything more until Johnny nods and he knows he’s listening. “You’re lucky we’re even here. ‘S a little far for a ‘first date’.”

“I know,” he sighs. “She’s cute like this. Sleepin’. Lettin’ us take care of ‘er.” There’s a hungry glint to his eyes.

“Why don’t ya help me put ‘er to bed properly then?” He nods and moves to lift you from the bed, carefully wrapping an arm around your shoulders and beneath your legs to pull you into his chest. Simon is quick to pull back the bedding and Johnny lays you down with a practiced gentleness.

With the blanket arranged neatly around your shoulders you've instantly nestled into the warmth it provides, rolling over and burrowing deeper, and Johnny wants nothing more than to be the warmth you’re settling into. Wants to crawl in and wrap himself around you until the shared warmth melds your bodies together into one, a tangle of limbs and teeth and tongues. But for now he’ll settle for brushing your hair out of your face, tucking the errant strand behind your ear, and pressing a chaste kiss to your temple before they leave.

The buzzing of your phone on the bedside table bleeds through the haze of sleep and it pulls you jarringly into the waking world. Rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes, you push up onto your elbows and realize you're still in your dress from last night, bunched up uncomfortably around your hips from tossing and turning in your sleep. At least you think it is.

You’d been tired last night, don’t remember crawling beneath the covers or when exactly Simon and Johnny left, and your cheeks and neck instantly warm when you realize the last thing you can remember is the two of them tending to your aching feet. The thought of them putting you to bed crosses your mind, but you push it away, dismiss it from the realm of possibilities of something two complete strangers would do for a woman they’d known for a handful of hours. You’d probably woke some time after they left and crawled beneath the duvet, seeking reprieve from the chill that lingers in the winter air despite the radiator.

Your phone buzzes again and you reach for it, groaning when you see you’ve woken before your alarm.

Whoever it is that’s decided to text at this hour had better-

The frown pulling at your lips is quickly replaced by a tentative smile and the quickening of your pulse.

A text from Johnny, his number already saved in your contacts. Checking your call history reveals two outgoing calls to unfamiliar numbers, Johnny and Simon’s names listed beside them. So that they would have your number, you realize.

> Mornin’ hen, we had fun with ye last night hi! I had fun too < > We’d like to take ye out again sometime wednesday? < no show or rehearsal that day < > Wednesday sounds perfect

Another alert pops up at the top of your screen, one for a flat you’d been looking at, close to the studio and with a coffee shop on the ground floor.

No longer available.

You add contacting a realtor, or at the very least a rental locator, to your list of things to do today.

The text from Johnny and the knowledge that you’d be seeing him and Simon again tugs your lips into a reflexive smile as you crawl out of bed to get ready for the day, and it persists the entire train ride to the studio. It’s a fairly standard rehearsal day, but before that there is the matter of the interview that the company agreed to on your behalf.

Official staff of the BBC come and go from the offices, locker rooms and studios, getting b-roll footage for their short special on the local ballet company, and one of their stylists ushers you to a makeshift hair and makeup station to have your hair fussed with and rouge buffed into your skin. Something about sitting in a chair in front of an army of cameras and an unfamiliar crew is much more intimidating than performing on stage for an audience of thousands, and you toy with your fingers where they’re curled in your lap, fighting the nervous instinct to bounce your leg.

They ask questions about your own career, how it is that you’ve come to dance with the company, what it’s like working abroad, and how the experience here compares to working with other foreign companies. Of course, there are questions about the current show too, what it’s like dancing such a well known and well loved piece, the expectations that come with it.

“We all feel privileged to do the work that we do. Very few dancers find real success, and it’s important to share those successes with each other. A principal dancer is nothing without their soloists, artists and the corps—there would be no show without them. Just a lonely ballerina spinning around on stage like a music box.”

They care little for the technicalities of the show and the actual dancing, choosing to focus more on the emotional requirements, peppering in questions about the mental fortitude required to undergo the rigorous rehearsals and training that the show demands.

“It’s second nature, working for a company of this caliber. Most, if not all, of the dancers here have trained their entire lives to do this, and we rehearse the same number of hours the average business manager spends behind a desk in an office every week. It’s our job, to keep our bodies healthy and familiar with the choreography, and we approach that with the same mindset any person does when going to work everyday.”

The director seems pleased with the answers you’ve given and declares that they’ve gotten all the footage they need, sending you on your way to your morning class and afternoon rehearsal where your nerves finally settle once you slip into the familiar routine.

At lunch you send a few emails to rental locating companies and real estate brokerages, inquiring about services and the availability of properties you’d been looking at. Your conversation with Johnny and Simon about the ‘high brow’ boroughs in question from the night before replays in your mind, and you find yourself smiling again at the memory of Johnny's disdain and Simon's even-tempered remarks about the proximity to Buckingham. Living near a palace doesn’t seem so bad.

The day goes by quicker than expected, rehearsals and adjustments to the show going as smoothly as you could hope for. Even the train ride back to the hotel manages to feel a little less monotonous today and more like a reprieve from all the bustling about foreign and unfamiliar cities you've done in the months prior. It feels more like the easy familiarity of coming and going from work in a city that’s beginning to grow on you, and with each day that passes you begin to find a rhythm despite your lack of permanent residence.

Johnny sends a goodmorning text every day, and you respond in kind with a picture of your breakfast from your hotel room or the studio before you begin warming up. You’d even worked up the courage to stand in front of one of the walls lined with mirrors this morning and received a similar photo from him in kind that makes your heart race and leaves you feeling a bit breathless as you tuck your phone away, dutifully ignoring the warmth of your skin that has little to do with the exertion of your class.

Simon texts you in the afternoons, always asks what you're having for lunch, and when you’d told him nothing one afternoon, that you hadn’t had time to stop by the shops that morning, room service had been waiting for you when you arrived at your hotel room that evening with extra portions to make up for the missed meal. He asks if you like Mediterranean food, and when you respond with a yes he says there's a restaurant north of London they’d like to take you to on Wednesday.

They both text you in the evenings, in the groupchat that Johnny started, always to wish you luck with your shows. The first night you’d gotten the text you had been a bit startled. You hadn’t told them about your schedule in great detail. They must have looked up the show dates on the venue’s website, then. You always thank them, but tonight your fingers hover over the little blue ‘send’ arrow, lower lip pulled between your teeth.

“What’s on your phone that's got you chewin’ your lip like that?” Delaney leans against the doorway of your green room and pushes off to come look over your shoulder. She whistles long and low, taking in the picture you can’t decide if you should send or not.

“Johnny and Simon? Lucky lads.”

You bite down harder and hiss when you break through the fragile skin. “It’s not too much?”

“No risk, no reward.” She waggles her brows at you through the mirror and comes around to lean on the vanity. “These the guys from the bar?”

“They actually came to the show that night. Asked me to meet with them afterwards.”

“And?” She leans forward, hands braced beside her on the table, and studies the slope of your brows, the aversion of your gaze. “Did ya take ‘em upstairs?”

“What?! No- well, yes, but not like that.” Her eyes crinkle when she laughs, amused by your haste to clarify.

“Real pair of gentlemen you’ve found for yourself. Walked ya home and didn’t even come inside? You should really send that picture. I think they’ve earned it.”

“They haven’t earned anything. They’re just… nice. It might be a rare quality these days but it’s still the bare minimum,” you remind her.

“Still. Send the damn picture. Let ‘em see what they get when they put in the work, yeah?” With a squeeze to your shoulder she hops off the vanity and flutters out of the room, every bit the dancer she is on light and quick feet.

She has a point. They’ve been nothing if not gentlemen. Johnny can get a little flirty, but it’s never gone past the pet names and polite compliments–aside from the shirtless selfie he’d sent you from the gym. You wouldn’t mind receiving more of those. With ten minutes to curtains up you finally make up your mind and send the photo, tossing your phone onto the vanity like it’s a hot coal and hurrying off to backstage.

Simon very nearly chokes on the bourbon he’s been nursing when he opens your message, almost drops the crystal tumbler when he sees the picture you’ve sent in response to their well wishes on your performance tonight.

“Fuckin’ hell… Johnny!” His voice carries through their shared flat. “You opened the group chat?” Johnny pokes his head around the corner, peering into the den where Simon sits in his oversized armchair with a book open on his knee, cheeks flushed and knuckles blanched where they curl around his phone.

“No. ‘M thinkin’ I should, though.” He rounds the corner fully, stalks over to Simon and leans over his shoulder to peer down at his phone. His fingers curl, leather arms of the chair creaking under his grip, and he exhales sharply as he takes in your latest message. “Christ, look at ‘er… Wee thing’s gettin’ needy, huh?” Simon hums in answer, shifts his weight in his seat and sets his book aside to let his legs fall open a bit wider. “Dinnae think I can wait ‘till Wednesday.”

“‘S only two days from now.”

“Och, but look at ‘er Si. Ye know she’s gagging’ f’r it. F’r us. We can-”

“Johnny.” He quiets at his tone, whines low and lets his head droop, forehead pressed to Simon’s shoulder. “Gotta do this slow, pup. Do it the right way, or you’ll scare ‘er off. Understand?” Johnny sighs deeply, shoulders sagging forward as he buries his face against Simon’s neck.

“Aye, Ah ken.”

Wednesday comes faster than you could have anticipated. You aren’t due to meet with Simon and Johnny until later in the day so you’d set up a few showings with a rental agent for this morning. It’s an odd thing, seeing your face plastered to billboards, benches and train cars all over the city as you make your way to the west side of town. The company and network must have spent a fair chunk of change on all the advertising. It feels like everywhere you look your own face is staring back at you from behind the feathered mask of the company’s campaign or the apex of a wing from the shoot with BBC.

When you arrive at the first flat in Westminster, an Edwardian era townhome with a terrace on the first floor, the agent seems a bit nervous, if not eager to please. She’s spent the first five minutes fawning over you before taking you inside, telling you how she’s seen your interview and is planning to see the show this weekend. It’s flattering, of course, but something you’re wholly unused to; being the face of the show, the company, being recognized by strangers.

The rest of the showing goes as expected, all of the home's amenities showcased and staged in a more transitional style compared to the exterior, and the young woman chiming in with tidbits about the property and location as you go from room to room. It’s nice enough. Good location. But you’ve never been one to make a decision without exploring your options.

She takes you to two more flats that you’d requested to see, one in Belgravia and the other on the far west side of Westminster, closer to Kensington. Then she starts telling you about a fourth flat, one you don’t remember requesting. Apparently it’s a little further from the studio and the theater but it’s close to the train station and near the major highways that branch out from the city. A little bit longer of a commute but the terms of the rental are much more economical compared to the first three, or so she says.

There’s still plenty of time before dinner. No harm in seeing one more today.

Despite your initial confusion you agree, let her drive you a little further from central London. North Kensington, she tells you as you pull off the highway into the suburban area, streets lined with quaint shops and cozy townhomes built in various pre and post war styles. An amalgamation of several centuries of history and culture, immortalized in hewn stone, stucco and sleek glass.

The flat itself is situated on a residential block, a row of shops and restaurants just one block over. Its exterior echoes the Edwardian homes with terraces and masonry popular in London and the Neoclassical style making a resurgence in some of the newer homes with clean lines and arched windows. Outside on the street there are far fewer cars that go by here, less noise in comparison to the busy streets of the city center, and neighbors wave instead of rushing by one another, no heads buried in phones or avoidant gazes as they amble along the pavement.

The interior has the same calm but intentional feel. Open concept, styled tastefully, more than enough natural light pouring in from gorgeous arched windows; plenty of space to live comfortably. And the agent is certainly right, the lower monthly rate makes up for a marginally longer commute, which isn’t even that bad considering there’s a train station about 3 blocks over that will take you straight to the theater, and changing lines will get you to the studio.

“I really like it. It certainly checks all the boxes, but I’m a little hesitant about the price… Why is it so much lower in this area?”

“Oh! The couple that owns it just doesn’t get much use out of it. They’re out of the country for work most of the year and this is a secondary residence.”

So rich and busy jet setting they have a whole second home they don’t even use. Must be nice.

“The primary is in Manchester, or somewhere in that area if I remember correctly, and they only use this place when they’re in London, which isn’t often. They don’t want to sell so they rent the space out on a yearly basis. And they own it outright so you’re only paying for the cost of utilities and property taxes!”

Ok, so they’re well off but they aren’t greedy, at least.

It sounds fair enough—on the surface.

“And when they are in London? Are the tenants expected to host them?” Too many horror stories from friends living in the states to not consider it a possibility.

“I don’t believe so...” She gives you an odd look, as if the idea of it offends even her. “If you’re interested I can send over a copy of the contract for you to look through before we move ahead with any other properties?”

There must be something about this place that’s too good to be true. It’s just… too convenient. You hadn’t even seen this one on the list of flats she had sent you to comb through, had only requested to see three properties today. But here you are, standing in a damn near perfect flat, with seemingly reasonable leasing terms.

“Go ahead and send over the contract. I’ll take a look at it and we can go from there.”

Your phone vibrates on the bathroom counter beside you, a notification with Johnny’s name on it popping up as you swipe concealer under your eyes.

Johnny > We should be there in 30

A few seconds pass and it vibrates again.

Simon > On our way to you, dove

The smile that curls on your lips comes unbidden. Thirty minutes feels like an eternity as you finish readying yourself for dinner, the minutes stretching endlessly between adjustments to your hair and fussing over your clothing until a knock on your door echoes through the room. Simon and Johnny stand outside, the latter leant casually against the wall beside the door.

“You should have texted, I would have met you in the lobby.” Your eyes dart between the two of them, still too busy registering the fact that they’d come all the way up to get you to notice the little bouquet of flowers peeking out from behind Johnny.

“Didnae feel right. ‘Sides, we wanted to give ye these.” He presents you with the bouquet, mouth curved upwards in a bashful smile. “Figured since we couldnae give ‘em to ye on opening night we could make up f’r it tonight.” You take the arrangement from Johnny, turning it this way and that to admire and take in the fragrant floral notes.

“They’re beautiful, thank you. Let me put them in the vase on the table and then we can go.”

Simon drives, you in the front beside him and Johnny in the rear. He seems intent on testing the limits of his seatbelt, practically at the edge of his seat to lean forward and brace his arms on the console between you and Simon. They ask about your week as you go, how rehearsals are and how you feel about the show, ask how long it’ll run before you start preparing for the next production and if you’ll go on another tour soon. You ask them about their week, if they’ll be traveling somewhere soon for work, but Johnny deflects, says their work is too boring a topic when they’re with you, and instead asks about the countries you’ve visited on tour.

Further from the city it’s easier to see how the tall glass buildings reach up to touch the clouds, illuminated by city lights and casting the London skyline in a hazy glow. Johnny talks about how it reminds him of the buildings in Chicago and you watch out the window as it disappears behind a row of townhouses when Simon turns down the next street, lined with quaint shops and restaurants. He parks outside a cafe with an outdoor patio, illuminated by lamplight and a canopy of string lights that’s been shuttered for the winter season, but the lights and the colorful glass of the lamps make it look warm and vibrant.

Johnny wastes little time extracting himself from the backseat and opening your door for you, holding out a hand and ensuring he remains between you and any passing traffic as he leads you around the car to where Simon waits for you both. He keeps hold of your hand as you step up onto the pavement, adamant about keeping you in one piece and avoiding any sprained ankles, though you don’t have the heart to tell him it’s unnecessary. It’s sweet, and for once you’d like to indulge in the attentiveness they offer you.

“Have ye been to this part of the city before?” he asks as Simon fills the empty space beside you, hand resting on the small of your back and guiding the three of you towards the doors adjacent to the patio.

“No, I haven’t really had the chance to see much besides Tower Bridge and the Abbey; always busy with rehearsals and shows, ya know?” He clicks his tongue disapprovingly.

“‘S all tourist traps, bonnie. Dinnae waste yer time on that shite.” Simon huffs beside you, a beleaguered sigh indicative of his disagreement.

“Then what should I be spending my precious down time doing?”

“Us, of course, but we’ll work ye up to that. Better to start ye off slow with the culture, aye Simon?” If his hand wasn’t still lingering on your back, guiding you through the door he’s holding open for you and Johnny, you’d have gone utterly still at his suggestion. Would have turned to a mortified statue in the middle of the pavement at the forthright suggestion.

“You have a different definition of ‘culture’ than most, Johnny,” is all he offers as he ushers the two of you inside, herding you towards a table at the back of the dining room and seeing to it that you're settled before either of them seat themselves beside you. Where Simon keeps a respectful distance Johnny is as close as he can possibly be, arm slung over the back of your chair and leg pressed up against yours.

“Maybe so, but it‘s all about the immersion.” He throws a wink across the table to Simon as he leans closer, dipping his chin to murmur just low enough for only the two of you to hear, “Dinnae worry, sweet girl, we’ll show ye where the real fun’s at.”

Adagio>>>

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lethalchiralium · 4 months

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Johnny was back in the morning, carrying a pack of furs and a bundle of meat, a smile on his face as soon as he saw his smiling little baby. You kissed her hair as he set down his bounty, he instantly scooped up his daughter who cooed at the sight of her dad.

“How was Missoula?” You asked as you pulled your shawl tighter around your torso.

“Damn borin’, missed ye ‘n the big one, an’ of course, my babe.” He kissed Claire’s forehead, she squealed in response. “Price sold a lot.”

You gently pat his back, ushering him inside. “S’good. Simon’ll be home before sundown.” You grabbed his furs and meat, carrying it inside and kicking the door closed with your boot. Johnny instantly found himself on the couch, gently rubbing the baby’s back.

“Johnny.” You moved back into the kitchen, taking a drink out of your cup.

“Yes, luv?”

“Are you sure you don’t hear the noises at night?”

He paused, giving you a unfazed look. “Here? No, I told ye ya just need more sleep.”

You set down your cup full of water, staring at your husband. “You try being the only food your baby wants. Shit’s hard.” You scratched your jaw a little, watching Claire smack her dad’s face. “I’m just worried. What if something’s really out there? What if we’re not actually safe here?”

“I’ll check th’ traps wance ah get some Claire time, a’richt?” He kissed Claire’s face again, the girl screeched with excitement. Worry was still nestled deep in your belly, your hand absentmindedly rubbed your collarbone to give yourself some ease. Maybe you were overthinking it. Maybe it is just the wind, or a squirrel or something.

But you knew it in your gut. Your gut was almost never wrong. You prayed it was wrong.

“Johnny, I think-“

The front door slammed into the wall, scaring all three of you but you were the first to snap into action, seeing a bloody faced Simon clutching his head. Claire began to screech from being startled, you darted towards your husband as he stumbled into the house with Price holding him up by the back of his shirt.

“Simon! Simon, baby, what happened?” Your hand peeled Simon’s hand from his head, walking backwards as Price pushed him into the house. Blood poured from his head and you felt your heart rate speed up in record time.

“Fuckin’ horse.” He mumbled, you looked at the gash on his hairline and the blurry look in his eyes. You haven’t seen him this dazed since he got hit over the head with a rifle years and years ago. You examined the cut as you led him to the couch, taking his bloody hand and helping him sit down. He decompressed into it immediately, chest and legs finally settling like he had worked for a thousand years straight.

You looked at Price, who had a few bloody scuffs on his arm. “What happened?”

“Horse bucked him off without warnin’ into a fence post.” He said, you nodded before ducking the few feet into your kitchen - your bandages and wet cloths were in hand in moments. You looked at your friend, watching his worried look turn to steeled as he met your gaze. “Grab my whiskey, would you?”

“Not m’bourbon.” Simon murmured from his place, you glanced into your bedroom to see the concerned face of Johnny, holding a crying Claire. You gave him a little nod before returning to Simon’s side, instantly gently wiping away the crusted and dripping blood. “S’cold, baby.”

“I know.” You whispered. “Just wanna clean you up before I bandage you.”

“M’fine. Don’t know why he even brought me here, just needed a minute to get up.”

Price handed you the whiskey bottle and a clean rag. “You were down for a good while.”

Your head whipped up to look at him. “And why didn’t you come get me?”

“He’s fine now.” He shrugged, gesturing towards your husband. “He’s talking and awake.”

“Fuckin’ men.” You grumbled, dropping the cold rag onto Simon’s lap before opening the bottle of whiskey. You took a swig, of course, and then poured some onto a new rag. You began to disinfect the wound, to which Simon squirmed, panting as he whined in pain. “Stay still-“

“Baby, it hurts-“

“I know it does, gotta get it cleaned and bandaged. M’almost done.” Your fingers were nimble as you began to bandage his wound, wrapping the long cloth around his thick head tightly. You never missed the way Simon looked at you, so comfortable in your presence. You tied it off after ripping it off near the end, tossing the excess onto the couch before handing him the whiskey.

He graciously took it, took a generous swig before handing it back to you. “How’d I look, doc?” He smirked, pink lips chapped but his smile still full of adoration.

“You’re fine.” Your hand settled on his thigh, gently rubbing it. “You’re not gonna be happy with what I have to say, though.”

“I’m still gonna work the horses, maybe just in a few days.”

“No more sex until that hit is healed.”

He groaned, disappointment tangled in his throat. “But-“

“I’m leavin’.” Price declared, sensing you were about to air some intimate details, you didn’t even acknowledge his departure.

“There’s three of us. You two bump heads, me and you bump heads. I like my daughter having both of her fathers.”

“Head hits are nothing.”

Your eyes flickered down to his eyes, watching them dart away from your stare. “‘Til they’re something.”

His glare had moved towards the bedroom door, Claire still crying in the room. He grunted a little, annoyed as he looked back to you. “Bring her here.”

“You’re funny.”

“Not joking.”

“Simon, you’re still bloody.” You pointed towards his hand, his shirt, the side of his cheek.

He gave you a piercing stare, voice low. “She knows I’m here. If she hasn’t stopped her cryin’ yet, she’s not going to. Give her to me.”

You stared back at your husband, hand rubbing on his thigh before you plucked the bottle of whiskey from his grasp. You turned towards the bedroom, calling for Johnny. He instantly appeared, holding a clearly upset and wiggling baby. Her little head shaking back and forth, tears and snot running down her chunky face as she looked at you.

Johnny’s eyebrows furrowed, moving Claire up his chest a little. “Everything a’right?”

“He wants her.” You nodded towards Simon.

Johnny chuckled dryly. “Like that? Nae.” Both of you looked down to Claire, whose hands were out in the direction of Simon, grabbing the air towards him as she cried. “…Fine. If ye pass out and drop ‘er-“

Simon groaned, one hand held out to grab Claire. “I’m not going to drop her.” Johnny gave him a stern look, his other hand held out. “I’m on the fuckin’ couch. She’s not gonna get away from me that easy.” Johnny handed her to him, Simon instantly smiled as her little hands gripped onto his sleeves. “Are you, darling?” She sniffled, still whining and crying, yet Simon holding her seemed to calm her to an extent. He brought her head to his lips, kissing her soft skin. “You love your Papa, don’t you?”

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procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics · 1 year

Text

Black Widow

Summary: How a Black Widow made it out of the Red Room, and onto the 141.

Warnings: there’s a lot of talk of trauma in this, explicit smut, threesomes, jealousy, spitroasting, etc, etc, weirdly long (5k)

Notes: the reader was raised (ish) in the red room but this fic is not at all a part of the mcu – it’s just supposed to be the story of a defector, and how she became a part of the 141

kind of felt guilty while writing this bc it made me feel like ghost was cheating on red fox from the fics by @charnelhouse lmao

feedback and comments are very much appreciated!!!

Masterlist | requests are OPEN! | hmu to be added to one of my taglists!

The first memory you have of an outsider is at eleven years old. You and the other girls are sleeping in the dormitory when Madam Ivanova bursts in and opens the handcuffs binding you all to your beds. She pulls the others from their cots, and you almost don’t notice the man that grabs you by the arm.

He’s wearing a hat you’ve never seen before, and that immediately scares you – you don’t recognize him.

“I’ve found the girls!” he shouts, and others pour in, armed to the teeth. Madam Ivanova is still guiding other girls out of the room, and you can see the fear in her eyes. She’s not a kind person, but she takes care of you. Nothing bad has ever happened to you when you were with her.

Nothing like this.

So you turn around, and punch the man square in the face. It takes him aback, and he stumbles backwards. It gives you just enough time to run from him.

Later, you learn that his name is Price, and that he is with the British. An enemy of the Red Room.

Seven years later, you come face to face with him again. You’re three years into active duty, serving the Red Room, and you look drastically different from what you looked like at eleven.

It’s a mistake from another girl that causes your capture. It’s his face that you see first when the hood is pulled off your face.

In the past few years, he’s been the face of your nightmares, so you stay silent. It surprises you when the British don’t torture you. Instead, they offer you a deal. Provide them with the intel they want, and be free of the Red Room.

It takes you three months to accept that deal, and one more to get Price and his colleague Laswell the things they want.

They give you your pardon, and you move to New Zealand, as far away from Russia and Great Britain as you can.

With a fake passport, fake birth certificate and fake story, you leave all of it behind.

You wake up early, shrieking out of your sleep from a nightmare. Your first thought is to call Sarina, an old colleague who also made it out, but you know that she’s still asleep – at least the people in her time zone are. Instead, your feet carry you outside to the lake.

You fish around in your jacket, finding a cigarette and lighter. There’s a nervous feeling in your gut, ever-present. Trained into you since you can remember. This country is the safest and most isolated you could manage, and yet, there’s always the imperative of looking over your shoulder.

You hear Price walking onto the gravelly beach before you see him.

“You know I moved here to be left alone, right?” you tell him, taking another draw from your cigarette.

“I’ve got a job for you.” Price says instead, and you shake your head.

“I’m done with contracting work.”

“So you live off of government support and the intel you sell on the dark web?” he asks.

“That’s my business.”

“It’s about the Red Room.”

You pause, glancing over at him. He looks sincere, but you can also see the earpiece he’s wearing.

“Laswell on the comms?” you asked. You still remember the woman, distrusting as fuck from the moment she met you.

“Yeah. She’s helping with coordinating the team.”

You snort with disdain. “I don’t work in teams. We aren’t trained to.”

“You’ll like them.” Price promises.

“I doubt it. I don’t like you very much.”

Price gives you a dry laugh, and you know he doesn’t take it as personally as you want him to.

“I know that this is personal to you. You got out at eighteen – that’s later than most. You know what they do.”

“Ask any other defector. Sarina, or Antonya. I’m not interested.” You tell him firmly.

“We’re not taking many prisoners from the Red Room.” Price begins again, and you’re about to cut him off. “You can kill the head. Get the girls safe, and you can do with Dreykov whatever you want.”

The offer is too tempting to turn down. To be able to kill the man that ruined your life? The man that ruined the lives of all those other girls?

“I’m in.” you say, and Price gives you a grim smile in return.

“Pack your things. You can meet the team in England.”

Soap

Price had said that he was going to New Zealand for business. He hadn’t realized that ‘business’ entailed a woman.

“That yer girlfriend?” Soap asked, and the woman gave him a look so mean that she almost compared to Ghost.

“I’d hope not.” Price replied. “I’d be dead before morning.”

The woman sat down at the end of the table silently. She looked around, before her hands grabbed a pack of cigarettes from her jacket, lighting it up again.

Ghost was quiet too, but fuck, he knew Ghost. This woman didn’t say a single fucking word, but Soap still knew that Price didn’t have any kind of power over her.

“What’s the mission?” he asked impatiently, and Price set down a stack of Manila folders onto the table.

Laswell pushed off from the wall she’d been leaning against, pulling one of the folders from the stack.

“To most special operatives, the Red Room is a myth. A story made up by the KGB, and nothing more. But the Red Room exists, and we’re going to take it down.”

The woman made a sound for the first time, and it was a disdainful laugh. The others turned to stare at her, but Laswell cleared her throat to redirect their attention back to the right person.

“Over the years, the US and Britain have worked together to take the Red Room down, but it’s evolved from a KGB branch to a human trafficking ring. They take young girls off the streets all over the world and turn them into trained killers, mostly targeting politicians. Taking down the Red Room would mean putting a stop to their ongoing crimes and potentially explain some of the most unclear assassinations of the past seventy years.” Laswell said.

Soap glanced over to the woman, who was watching Laswell with close to no emotion on her face. Stubbing her cigarette on the steel table she leaned back, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“And she’ll be a part of that?” Gaz asked, nodding to her.

Price nodded. “Her call sign is Black Widow.”

“Got a name too?” Soap asked, and she told him, quickly. Quietly.

“What do you do in the field?” Gaz asked her. Soap noticed that Ghost was watching her closely, as if he expected her to pull a gun on the team.

“Hand to hand combat, espionage, sexpionage. I can be a sniper if you want me to.” She answered quickly.

“She’s here to show you the way into the Red Room and make the girls there trust you enough to get them out.” Price added.

“What, don’t want to get punched by a kid again?” she said, and Price rolled his eyes. They knew each other, but they didn’t like each other at all.

When the meeting ended, the team began to file out of the room, but Soap stayed behind, hoping to catch her and introduce himself. Ghost shot him a warning look, that Soap chose to ignore.

“Welcome to the team.” He said.

“Thrilled.” She replied dryly.

“I’m John. Everyone here calls me Soap though.”

“I know. I read your file.” She deadpanned. She could have been funny if she hadn’t been constantly mean.

“Ya got access to that?” he asked.

“No.” she replied.

Of course she didn’t.

Ghost

They’d tried to get into a smaller base of the Red Room first, to gather some more intel. None of the team had expected there to be any people, much less a bunch of teen girls armed to the teeth.

It didn’t end well.

Out of the thirty girls there, they’d managed to get seven out alive. The others had either died via cyanide pills or while fighting them.

Black Widow had explained that they were brainwashed, and that was why they’d immediately committed suicide when other options ran out. She didn’t seem to be affected too much by it. At least, she tried to pretend that it was that way.

He’d taken a bullet to the thigh, and it had been her to stitch him up in the safehouse before he could call the medic. She’d been grazed by something, and she took care of that herself as well.

They’d all managed to get some time under the shower, and now, they sat in the living room together. She was in the cargo pants she’d worn on the mission and a black tank top, and Ghost could see the tattoo on her right shoulder blade while her back was to him.

The square hourglass symbol, followed by a number.

1047.

He didn’t have to ask to know that she was the 1047th girl they’d taken. He wondered how many of them had died at his hands, while he didn’t know that he was fighting children.

Price was working on the radio they’d found in the safehouse, but finding an enjoyable station in the middle of Russia was proving to be harder than expected. Eventually, he landed on a classical music station.

She didn’t seem to mind, scraping her can of tortellini clean, until a new song played. Ghost did not recognize it, but he saw her hands curl around the can tightly, knuckles turning white.

“Change the station.” She said. Price looked up. It was the first thing anyone had said in a few hours.

“Why?”

“Just change the fucking station.” She snapped. “Please.”

Price nodded, turning it to something else. A Russian voice chattered into the room. Ghost could see that she was listening, probably understanding every single word.

“What are they saying?” Price asked.

“That there was a fire in the warehouse we were in.” she said.

“Nothing about us?”

She shook her head. “From what they’re saying, they don’t have a clue. The Red Room will know.”

“Why?” Ghost asked.

“They chipped us. They know the last location of the girls, and they know that seven of the chips moved without the rest. I had the medics take them out, but it took them a while to get here. By now, Dreykov will know that something is going on.”

It was the most she’d said in one go so far.

Ghost didn’t trust her, but he didn’t mind her either. Most of the team disliked her, and Price couldn’t seem to stand her. Soap had his mind set on talking to her. But Ghost… he didn’t know who she was, only that she was as quiet as he was.

He knew that Soap wanted to ask about the scars that littered her arms and what they could see of her back, and he knew that she would not answer.

Suddenly, there was a shout of frustration from Gaz.

“What happened?” Price asked, immediately on his feet.

“Heater’s out.”

Glancing outside, Ghost saw that it was snowing heavily. Black Widow got up from her spot in the room. Ghost could hear her shuffle inside one of the cabinets.

She returned with blankets, dumping them in the middle of the room before taking one for herself. Ghost said nothing as she sat down next to him, an arm length of space between them. The snow only got heavier, until it turned into an all-out blizzard.

“We’ll be snowed in tomorrow.” Soap noted.

“Let’s worry about freezing to death first.” Gaz said. He was chattering, despite the blanket around him. Black Widow had gotten herself a second already, and she still looked cold.

“Taking first watch.” Ghost muttered, sitting down by the window.

“I’ll join you.” Soap said. Ghost knew that Soap wanted to chatter about something idle to distract himself from the image of 23 dead fourteen-year-olds.

The others shuffled together for warmth, except for her. She stayed where she was, leaning against the counter of the small kitchen.

“Ya think she’s from the Red Room?” Soap asked under his breath.

“Course she is.” Ghost replied.

“I heard they take the girls when they’re three. Teach ‘em ballet and how to be all pretty while killing a man. Then they send them out when they’re fifteen.”

Ghost nodded, letting Soap know that he was listening.

“Ya think that’s why she wanted ta change the station?”

“Huh?”

“They were playin’ sum ballet song.” Soap said. “Maybe she knows how to dance to it. “

“Doubt she does much dancing.” Ghost replied.

“Sight for sore eyes though. But after what she did today…” Soap mumbled.

Ghost still remembered it. How ruthlessly she’d fought against those girls. Wasn’t she supposed to know that they had no choice?

They had all obviously gone through the same combat training, but she was older and stronger. Those girls knew that. She knew that.

Ghost had watched her snap the neck of one with a twist of her hand. Something like that was so grotesque that even Ghost seldom did it, but with her it looked like the starter to a five-course-meal.

“She ain’t happy.” Soap said.

“No shit.”

“Ya think she’s a good person?”

“I doubt it.” Ghost replied.

“I think she could be. Maybe she’s an ass due to circumstance.”

Ghost snorted. Only Soap would say something like that. When he glanced over to her, he saw beady eyes glancing back in the darkness. He wondered if she’d listened in to their conversation.

She didn’t sleep for most of the time Ghost and Soap were on watch. A few hours in, she picked up her pack of cigarettes and lighter and offered them to take over watch.

Ghost nodded, about to get up and go back to bed, but Soap was hesitant.

“It’s fucking cold sleeping on tha ground.” He said.

“We can sleep close. For warmth.” Ghost replied.

“Nah. I’ll stay on my feet.” Soap said.

Ghost shook his head. What the fuck was going on with Soap?

You

You were back to square one, thanks to some wrong intel. On top of that, they all saw what you did to the other girls. You weren’t sure if their pity was worse or whatever they did now.

All of them except Soap, who still seemed determined to chew off your ear. Currently, he was telling you about his hometown in Scotland.

“You’re from New Zealand, aren’t ya?” he asked finally.

“I just lived there.”

“Then where are you from?” he asked. You shrugged in response. Russia was where you were raised, technically, but you did not know where you were taken from.

Soap smiled at you brightly, completely unguarded. It threw you off. He was a special ops, and yet, he sometimes behaved like anything but.

You didn’t need classes in the Red Room to know that he was attracted to you. Yet, you weren’t sure whether that would help or hinder you.

“Who raised ya? Masked soldiers?” he said, and you were sure he’d meant it as a joke.

“A woman called Madam Ivanova. She was in charge of us.”

“Was? Who killed her?”

“Price.” You replied curtly.

“I’m sorry.” He said quickly. You could see that he was regretting his words.

“Don’t be. She wasn’t a good person.”

“You say that as if she killed your friends.”

“She did.” You replied.

“What?”

“If recruits aren’t good enough, you don’t let them into your ranks.” You shrugged.

“Recruits? Fucking hell, you were girls.”

“Yeah, at the beginning of the program. 1 in 20 makes it through.”

Soap didn’t say anything else that night.

***

You stayed on after taking down Dreykov. By going back into this industry, you’d given up New Zealand, and in your gut, you’d known that when you made that choice.

The team had grown to accept you, and even Price was alright with your company by now. In return, you tried to be less snappy towards them. It worked, most of the time.

The last mission had been a good one. No one innocent had died, you’d gotten the intel, and the bad guys were dead. It was like out of a story, and the group was celebrating.

Price had gotten an empty bar, and Soap was playing bartender, giving out drinks like there was no tomorrow, and chugging his own just as quickly. Ghost was in the corner, mask rolled up to drink whatever Soap handed him.

You could see a bit of blond stubble peek out, along with a small scar. You knew how he’d gotten it. It had been in the Red Room, the actual Red Room, and an eight-year-old girl had slashed at him with a sharpened letter opener.

Ghost hadn’t defended himself. You’d pried the girl off him, taking the weapon from her and making sure she wouldn’t jam it into his neck next.

“Here.” Soap said, handing you a shot of Tequila.

“I’ve had enough.” You replied. “If I drink any more, I’ll get tipsy.”

“That’s the point.” Soap said, firmly putting the shotglass down. “You’re lucky we’re not playing any drinking games.”

You snatched the glass from him, ignoring his smug smile as you downed it, holding out your ahnd for a lime wedge. Soap dropped it into your hand quickly.

You laughed at some stupid joke he said, ignoring the stares on your back from the rest of the team. You couldn’t deny the fact that Soap could make you feel less…

You weren’t sure, but when you were with Soap, your past faded into the background. It wasn’t as important anymore. All the blood and fucking gore of it.

Ghost

He wasn’t sure why, but he hated that she was laughing at Soap’s idiot jokes. Somehow, he had convinced her to get tipsy, and it was a good look on her.

She was pretty when she smiled. Not that she wasn’t without, but it made her look careless. At some point, she walked over to him, another shot glass in hand.

“Soap insists you drink another. He wants to see you tipsy.”

Ghost took the glass from her, ignoring the fact that he enjoyed their hands touching.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. Ghost paused.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re quiet. You always are, but you’re like… quiet tonight.” She said. He wanted to scoff at her.

“You and Johnny fucking?” he asked. He wasn’t sure why.

“What?” she asked. “Where the fuck is that coming from?”

“Don’t want my team messed up.”

“Oh in that case, you don’t have to worry Lieutenant.” She spat. Her entire body language had shifted in a moment, and it was telling Ghost to fuck off. “I’m going for a smoke.”

Ghost watched her storm out, before glancing over to Soap. He’d stilled his movements, looking after her.

Ghost followed a few seconds after, leaving the bar. She stood outside, clicking on her lighter angrily.

“Don’t fucking say anything stupid.” She told him, throwing the lighter away with a frustrated movement. Suddenly, Ghost surged forward, grabbing her jaw softly. He had to lean down to look at her, even if she wasn’t short.

“Wha-“ she began

“I thought you learned about all of this.” Ghost mumbled, suddenly unsure what to do. Her hands surged forward, pulling the lower half of his mask up.

His hand moved the back of her neck, covering pretty much all of it. He could taste the sourness of limes on her lips. Her lips were so soft Ghost thought he might forget about everything else.

He ghosted over her jaw, and felt the tenseness in it. Carefully, Ghost broke contact.

“Relax.” He told her.

“I am.”

“This isn’t a mission.”

“I just- I haven’t done this just for the sake of it.”

Shit. Ghost felt terrible when she said that.

“Don’t stop now.” She whispered, and Ghost obliged, his lips meeting hers again. Her jaw wasn’t as tense as it had been, and her arms hung loosely around his neck. Slowly, he let one of his hands slide down to her waist, pulling her in closely.

She let down a quiet oof as she hit his vest, letting him guide her towards the wall of the bar. His other hand pillowed her head, making sure that she would not hurt herself.

He hated to admit that kissing her was everything he wanted in that moment.

It was so perfect, the taste of her lips, her small hands on his chest and his own encircling her waist. Their closeness.

And then, the illusion shattered.

She sprang back from him, looking towards the door of the bar.

“Soap?” she asked, voice hoarse.

Soap

He’d only come out of the bar to check on her and Ghost, expecting them to be at each other’s throats. They were, just not the way he’d thought.

“Soap?” she asked, surprise apparent on her face. Ghost’s hand was still on her waist, but she’d backed away from him as soon as she’d heard his steps.

His stomach dropped. He wanted her. Simon fucking knew that. He’d wanted to do that to her since he’d met her, and he’d told Simon. He’d told him about what he thought of her and he did this?

And from the look on her face, she knew how he felt as well.

“Fuck you, Riley.” He spat, turning back around. Ghost stayed where he was, but she followed him.

“Please don’t go.” She said. “It was- I didn’t mean to-“

“What? You looked like you were about to fuck him right there.” Soap replied. He knew his accent was thick due to anger, and he didn’t care. He didn’t expect her to push him like a petulant child though.

Soap barely stumbled, and that only seemed to enrage her more.

“It was a heat of the moment thing!” she finally said. “He got me angry, and it worked, okay?”

“I don’t know why you’re so upset.” He finally replied. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“But I like you.” She blurted out. Soap blinked dumbly.

“What?”

“Don’t make me say it again. It makes me sound so childish.” She said. Behind her, Ghost moved.

“So why’d you make out with him?” Soap asked. She didn’t reply, but for the first time since he’d met her, she blushed. Furiously.

Oh.

He glanced over to Ghost, who towered behind her. He saw it too. Their eyes met, and Soap saw the idea that was coming to his mind mirrored in Ghost’s.

Oh.

They’d never even come close to something like that, but maybe…

Softly, he tipped up her chin, There were the beginnings of tears in her eyes, but her cheeks were still flushed from kissing Ghost and the Tequila she’d had. Her pupils were still dilated.

She was so fucking hot.

He could share with Ghost.

This wasn’t the first kiss Soap had imagined, but imagination be damned, it was still fucking amazing. Soap pulled her closer by the loops in her belt, feeling her body press against him. Her hands grabbed his neck, pulling him closer.

Soap could practically feel Ghost hover behind her, feel the impatience rolling off of him.

“Let’s get outta here, yeah?” Soap offered, and she nodded, grabbing him by the hand. Ghost followed, putting a hand on his shoulder.

He leaned in, whispering. “She’s never had sex for the sake of sex.”

Soap nodded. If she knew they were talking about her, she ignored it.

“I wasn’t planning on not focusing on her.” He replied.

Ghost

They found a dingy motel, and Soap barely managed to scrape money out of his wallet before he was already sprinting up the stairs to their hotel. The woman behind the desk gave them a look that told Ghost she knew exactly what they were planning.

Not that he cared much.

He caught up with her, grabbing her by the waist and throwing her over his shoulder. Soap shook his head, unlocking the door to their room as quickly as he could.

Ghost let her down on the bed, crashing lips onto lips. She gave a surprised squeak that turned into a moan as his hand wandered to her tits, greedily squeezing.

Blindly, she pulled Soap onto the bed, causing it to groan from the weight.

“Might break it if we keep going.” Soap said.

“That’s the goal.” She replied, before kissing him. Ghost didn’t know why he didn’t feel jealous but he was glad. Carefully, he set to work on pulling off her jacket, and then, her shirt.

He paused when he saw a massive scar, running from under her left breast until her hipbone. Ghost ran a thumb over it carefully. There was another, low on her stomach. Ghost didn’t want to think of where they’d come from. Kissing up her breasts, she felt her hands tug at his vest.

He shrugged it off, watching as she wrapped her legs around Soap’s waist, flipping him onto his back.

From under her hair, he saw the tattoo. It disappeared again when she leaned forward to suck on Soap’s neck, softly biting his shoulder.

Soap groaned and Ghost suddenly felt his pants grow uncomfortably tight.

He moved to kneel behind her, feeling her grind against the bulge in Soap’s pants. His hand snaked onto her neck, and she turned to kiss him.

“Good?” she asked. Simon and John nodded at the same time. She’s the most naked out of all of them, bra and pants still on, and God, it’s not enough for him. He picked her up, knowing exactly that she knew this was nothing for him, and beginning to open her pants.

Soap sat up, looking almost offended at being left out but then, he leaned back, giving her an appreciative smile.

Simon had almost managed to not feel guilty for making out with her behind the bar despite what Soap had told him.

She’s a pretty lass. I think she’d kill me if I told her.

That was the first thing Soap had told him, and Simon had silently agreed. He’d had no idea that Soap’s simple attraction would turn into a full-blown crush, like that of a lovesick teen. He’d had no idea that he’d follow so closely behind.

It had happened to him after the mess with the Red Room. She’d come out of Dreykov’s office, covered in blood, slick with it, and collapsed at his feet. He’d picked her up and carried her to the medics, but not before he’d caught a glimpse of the office.

Dreykov’s body, scattered across the room, his bodyguards dead with him.

He’d seen her carnal violence, and she’d held his hand afterwards, as they stitched her back together. Three bullets and six stab wounds, and she’d squeezed his hand so hard he was sure it would fall off.

They never spoke of it afterwards, but there was something there then.

There’s a moment of awkward rustling where Soap and Widow pull off their clothes, and Simon stands off to the side, unsure whether he should take his off as well.

Instead, he lowers himself to the end of the bed, pulling her towards him until her cunt is in front of his face. She crosses her legs for a moment, and Simon begins to work on her thighs. It takes her a moment, and then she lets him touch her.

Soap is somewhere above him, making out with her so intensely that Simon can see her chest heave with each breath. He’s so hard in his pants it almost hurts.

But this is about her. For her.

The first moan he coaxes from her is muffled, almost swallowed by Soap’s kiss, but the second comes more loudly. Simon stays where he is, until her legs wrap around his head with a trained strength and he can barely breathe.

He’d die happy between her legs.

Soap

Everything that’s happening turns into an avalanche once her clothes are off. She’s still sweaty from the bar and walking to the motel, but he couldn’t care less. Her tits are in his face – he has no right to.

Ghost is somewhere, doing something, and he can barely concentrate on what he’s doing with the sounds that are coming from her mouth. She’s not fragile – he knows she isn’t. And yet, he feels like he has to hold her like she’ll break apart.

“I want…” she begins, but trails off again, into another moan. Johnny throws a look behind his shoulder and sees her legs wrapped around Ghost’s head, so tightly that he isn’t sure his friend is still alive.

“What do you want?” he demands from her. She could ask anything from him right now. He’d shoot his own brains out if she wanted him to.

“Please, I need you.” She begs, and he thinks he’s going to lose his mind in this shitty motel.

Slowly, she lets Ghost go, and he stands up, pulling his mask over his face again. He’s still wearing his clothes.

Soap lets her get on top. Ghost is somewhere, holding her somehow, but all he can focus on is the feeling of him inside her. It’s never-ending, golden, and Soap knows nothing has felt more right.

“Fuck.” She mumbles, her arms shaking as she tries to steady herself on his shoulders. Ghost had done a number on her, and it looked amazing.

When she began to move, the scar on her stomach stretched, pulling on her skin. Soap wanted to take her away from it all. Him and Ghost, they could protect her. Let her truly retire.

She was younger than both of them, and had worked this kind of stuff long before them. Only Price had more experience.

Suddenly, she leans forward, her lips grazing his ear.

“Ghost feels a little left out.”

“We don’t want that, do we now?” he replies.

“I have something that might work.” She says, and Johnny trusts her. She turns around, offering her cunt to him from behind, facing Ghost. He takes out his cock, stroking leisurely, and Soap wants to gulp with her.

It’s fucking massive. She wants to suck him off when he’s that big?

But then she’s practically begging him to fill her cunt again, and all thoughts of possible or not possible are gone when he’s inside her.

He watches, through a haze, as Ghost feeds her his cock. She gags on it, and Johnny can feel himself twitch inside her. She feels it too.

Ghost is careful with her at first, whispering praises.

Good girl. You’re doing so well.

And then, he kind of forgets all about that, slowly guiding her head. The enormity of him causes her to rock back against Soap, and he wishes he could see her face.

He feels himself growing close, and suddenly he panics – there’s no condoms.

So he pulls out of her, and both Ghost and her halt their movements.

“You on the pill?” Soap asks quickly.

“I can’t have kids.” She replies. He halts at that for a moment, but then, she and Ghost are back at it, and he doesn’t want to miss out.

His hand snakes down to her belly, finding her clit. It causes her to clench around him and it takes Soap all of his willpower not to come then and there.

He doesn’t know where to look. The perfect fucking curve of her back. Her ass. Her face in Ghost’s crotch, taking him as if that wasn’t a fucking challenge.

Soap barely manages to coax an orgasm out of her before he cums. He's so close his brain has turned to mush. She shudders against him, and he has to hold her up, feeling her pretty ass bump against him, always begging for more. He gives as much as he can, making her moan around Ghost’s cock so loudly that the woman behind the desk downstairs has definitely heard.

One last time, he grabs her hips tightly, cumming inside her, before he pulls out and leans back.

He gets to enjoy the view as she continues to suck off Ghost, his cum dribbling out of her cunt. His handprints are on her hips, already beginning to bruise. Ghost doesn’t take much longer before he comes too, holding her head down. Soap hears her choke, and it’s enough to make him hard again.

She collapses onto the bed next to him, sweatier than before and hair in tangles thanks to Ghost.

Soap takes the stringy towel Ghost gets him from the bathroom, wiping down her thighs and offering it to her for her face.

“No need.” She says with a proud smirk.

“God, stop. You’ll be in for another round otherwise.”

Ghost sits on the bed across from them before she waves him over. It’s barely enough space, but she manages to squeeze between them. Soap scratches her back carefully, and she purrs like a cat.

“Was that good for a first?” Soap finally asks.

“Oh no it was totally terrible.” She answers, her voice sarcastic. “It’s not like I came all over your dick.”

“Jesus.” Ghost manages, but Soap sees his massive hand already on her ass.

“Round two?” Soap asks, and she gives him an adoring smile. There’s a moment where he feels himself falling in love with her even more, and maybe even with Ghost, for taking care of his girl.

“Give me a moment.” She says finally. “But yeah, let’s go for a round two.”

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ethereal-night-fairy · 15 days

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Broken Vows and Promises

Eventual Ghoap x Female Reader

Excitedly awaiting on the arrival of your boyfriend, you get yourself ready in the hopes of receiving a wedding proposal. But you didn't even make it out the door before your world comes crashing down. (This will be a dark fic read tags)

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

(pictures are for aesthetic purposes only)

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credince--writes · 2 months

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mor·tal·i·ty Chapter 1

Masterlist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!OC x John "Soap" MacTavish

Description:

TF141 has been disbanded, and they have returned to civilian life, forming a PMC company focused on logistical consulting of the operations they once preformed. John MacTavish never truly recovered from the accident, and never let Simon back in to pick up the pieces that were left. Camile Ford had never been one to bend the whims of morals, never stepping to close to dance with the fire of her own mortality. But divinity calls her name, and she's never been one to ignore the higher powers calling her name.

Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Johnny never really recovered from that last mission. Enough was evident by the time they’d been dispersed back to their homes, respectively. Two weeks of no contact had been enough to warrant Simon breaking into his flat with a credit card and the meat of his shoulder- opening the door to a studio flat that smelled like old beer and piss.

He dosen’t remember what happened, exactly. But he does know it was enough for Simon to force him into the back of his car, stuff a duffel bag full of his dirty laundry scattered around the floor. One framed photo that’d long since been knocked off the wall in a fit of rage, shattered on the floor. He can only imagine the infuriating look of pity and disgust displayed on Simon’s face as he entered the room, finding him rotting on a mattress Johnny hadn’t dared to even put a fitted sheet on. He was a bad dog. He didn’t deserve the comfort of civilian life. He needed to be muzzled, and locked in a kennel.

He needed to be left to rot, to pick the flesh off of his bones and weep.

Beg for forgiveness.

They had all left the service, after that last mission. It hadn’t been all at the same time- but it had been staggered closely enough that he wasn’t able to hide from the faces of his previous teammates nearly long enough. Truly hadn’t even scratched the surface of his grief before he was being wrestled out of bed, kicking, screaming, biting and snarling trying to solicit any reaction from his lieutenant. He wanted to be met with retaliation, anger, spite. He wanted to be punished. He wanted to have the pain he craved inflicted upon him.

He was met with love.

He despised it.

Every time he fought back, every time he bared his teeth trying to lash out with any kind of hurt he could think to warrant a reaction- he was met with nothing but softened brown eyes and a tone of forgiveness. I know how hard this is for you Johnny, and I won’t let you go through this alone. I love you.

Seven months into their broken, codependent and avoidant, hate and love, thing. Simon’s phone rang while Johnny sat at the island of their shared apartment, staring intently at the cup of steaming liquid in front of him. The side glance Simon had given him as he stepped out of the room panged someone deep at his pride- the adults were talking, obviously Simon couldn’t risk him being within earshot. Laswell calling in a favor, exchanging into something more of an opportunity to fill a needed void- one they had probably contributed too.

He’d found out, not much later that Laswell had set Price up in a fancy little office. Fit the big ol’ mustache into a suit, shined shoes and combed hair to create some type of consulting security company out of the states. What that really meant was- a front for a deep rooted PMC system that trained, or consulted to whatever Laswells file dictated. Much more separated from the boots in the sand, blood dripping down skin approach Simon had been used to in the past- however he’d found solace in the pen against paper. Fingers tapping against keys, assistants, meetings, some type of purpose in life that hadn’t directly come from the value of him, personally, at least, dragging a knife through the cartilage and arteries of his victims throat.

It was at this point Johnny had simply swayed between not caring about anything- and violent bouts for independence from the smothering weight of it’s ok, and i’ll love you regardless of the words you don’t mean.

He very much means them, and he puts every ounce of willpower into throwing as much bile against the man. Somewhere between realizing that he truly had let himself go- and Simon’s surprising ability to overpower him just by grabbing him by the back of the neck and pinning him to any surface to get him to stop from his own self destructive tendencies, did he realize how he could hurt the man- and make it stick.

And he left.

A note, scratched out onto paper.

You can’t love what never loved you back.

#Mortality #simon ghost riley x john soap mactavish #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #simon riley x john mactavish x reader #Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader x John “Soap” Mactavish #call of duty

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bigguyenthusiast · 2 months

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COD P★ LINKS

Yawll……dis is horny… so like fair warning

John price

Price tying you up after he catches you disobeying him by touching yourself :(

Overstimulation with John <3

Price eating you out after a loooooong mission

More price eating pussy (the guy LITERALLY looks like him or am I tripping)

Since you like using them so much, this shouldn’t be a punishment for you, correct ?

John getting you to ride his thigh

Theres a reason why they’re his favourite

Kyle Garrick

Gaz after ruthlessly fucking you for three hours ;3

What you get for flaunting yourself in front of his mates :(

Lazy night in with gaz

Shhh don’t want anyone to hear you

Late night humping with your clingy boyfriend

Roommate! Gaz getting tired of your horny whining

Simon Riley

Just a quick reminder of where you belong

Quick polishing’

A goodbye gift

A welcome home gift

Roommate! Ghost pounding you till you wake up :(

Owner! Ghost with his lil pup

Little film for later

Gettin’ crafty

John McTavish

Riding him until he’s dumb <3

Mornin sex with Johnny boy

Self restrain

Virgin! Johnny

Just his doll

Convincing your friend, Johnny to join your live 🫣

König

Hes just too big you needed a photo for confirmation

Need your colonel to reach you a lesson?

Just a quickie before he leaves for work

Quickie part 2

Good girls beg

#okay yall lemme go to bed #call of duty #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #cod x reader #ghost x reader #captain price #ghost #kyle gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mactavish #konig x reader #konig #konig cod #captain john price #john price x reader #john price

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elexaria · 3 months

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when you start dating johnny, you also start dating simon. they’re best friends, which means simon is also your best friend.

he’s always over at your place, and you always sit inbetween then whenever you guys watch a movie. johnny’s hand on your thigh whilst simon’s arm chills around your shoulder, his thumb gently rubbing your arm.

so its no surprise when you end up getting furiously dicked down in bed by simon, his thick girthy cock stretching your poor cunt out while you choke on johnny’s fat dick, tears in your eyes as your muffled whimpers only spur them on more. “fuckin’ hell—“ si grunts out with each bellow and pump back inside of you, his thumb reaching down to tease your swollen clit. johnny’s fingers pinch at your nipples, chuckling as he grabs at your stupidly fat tits with a satisfied growl.

#elexaria writes #cod x reader #john soap mactavish #soap smut #soap x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley smut

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milf-murdock · 3 months

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Unsteady (Simon x Johnny x Reader)

Request: Simon and Johnny taking care of F!Reader

Summary: Simon and Johnny take care of you after you almost pass out at the pub.

TW: heavily implied disordered eating, almost passing out, mental health concerns, medication mentions (nothing specific but could be read as ADHD medication side effects).

A/N: Hi anon! Thank you so much for your request and your kind words! I'm choosing not to publish the ask because I think there are some triggering words that I won't be able to hide under a "read more" line, but I hope that you enjoy this and find some comfort in it.

As someone who has also struggled with EDs in the past, please, please, please do not be afraid to ask for help. There is nothing glamorous about eating disorders. They absolutely need to be taken seriously.

Instead of going the full ED route with this one shot, I took it down a slightly softer path and based it off of my experience with ADHD and how it has led to me accidentally missing meals.

The din of the pub faded into the background as you sat in the corner booth of your favorite pub. You were pressed up against Simon’s bulky frame, one of his strong arms wrapped around your body, keeping you tucked in close. Johnny sat across the booth, taking in his favorite view: you wrapped up in Simon—his two loves, his whole world sat right across the table from him.

Your empty glass clinked against the others as your set it on the table. “Looks like we’re ready for another round,” you said, smiling up at Johnny.

“Mm, that it does,” Johnny smiled back at you, and you felt like you could absolutely drown in those ocean eyes.

“You tryna get us drunk or something, love?” Simon teased, lips pressing against your collarbone.

“Something like that,” you laughed, turning your head meet his lips for a quick kiss. “Here, I’ll go, order them” you reasoned, being on the outside of the seat and closest to the bar. “Be right back.” You pushed yourself from the booth to your feet, and instantly the entire room started spinning. Damn, you thought to yourself. That beer is hitting fast. You went to take one tentative step, and then the room started to tilt, the floor coming up at you fast.

Johnny was out of his seat in an instant, having picked up immediately something was wrong from the moment you stood up. His two large hands reached out to steady you, catching you in his arms. “Easy now,” he grunted, bracing you both. “I’ve got ye.” He gently lowered you back into the booth, letting your weak form lean up against Simon. Simon’s hands instantly held you against him, supporting you. At the edge of the booth, Johnny got down on one knee so he could be eye level with you.

“Look at me, hen,” he coaxed. “What’re you feeling?” Johnny grabbed one of the ice waters from the table and gingerly helped bring it to your lips.

You blinked, trying to get your bearings. The room finally stopped spinning. “M’fine,” you mumble before taking a sip of the water Johnny offered you. The icy cold liquid helped clear your mind. “Just got a bit dizzy.”

Johnny and Simon exchanged knowing glances.

“What’ve ye had to eat today, lass?” Johnny’s voice was gentle, prodding, but his eyes were a dead giveaway to the concern and hurt he was feeling, already knowing the answer.

“Umm, I’m not really sure,” you stepped around the question, your voice hesitant. “I think I had a banana this morning?”

Simon let out a resigned sigh. “I’m assuming that would be half of a banana,” he corrected. “Considering I found the remaining half still in the peel on top of the dresser.”

You eyelids fluttered shut, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Oh.” You let out. “Yeah, I went in there to grab one of your jumpers and I must have forgotten it.”

It happened all the time, you getting distracted mid task. It had gotten even worse since one of the side effects of your medication was a suppressed appetite. You never did have quite a good relationship with food to begin with though.

“And what about lunch?” Johnny continued his prodding.

You bit your bottom lip, a nervous habit of yours. Wincing, you reply with a mumbled “forgot.” Your voice was barely above a whisper as shame flooded through you.

At this, both men let out a sigh, completely in synch when it comes to their concern for you.

“Love, we’ve been over this,” Simon started before being cut off.

“M’sorry.” Despite your best efforts, a couple tears started to slide down your face.

Johnny pulls you into his arms. “S’okay, Bonnie,” he soothed, running a hand up and down your back.

“S’not okay, Johnny,” Simon snapped from the other side of you. “She needs to be eating.”

Johnny shot Simon a glare. “I know that, Si.” He took a deep breath before pressing a kiss to your temple, your head buried against his chest. “He’s right though, bonnie. Ye need to be eating.”

His hand slid up to grip your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“I know,” you whined, fidgeting under his piercing gaze.

Simon scooted closer across the booth, a strong hand coming to rest against your back.

“We just need to know you’re taken care of, love,” Simon began to rub his hand in a soothing circle. “Specially knowing we can’t always be here to take care of you ourselves.”

“I know,” you sighed, feeling yourself shutting down.

Simon and Johnny exchange another glance, Simon giving a short nod of approval signaling to back off for now.

“Just promise us you’ll try,” Johnny pleaded. “For us. Please?”

You nod, sniffling.

“I promise,” you sighed softly. “I’ll try harder.”

Johnny gave you a crooked smile, a favorite of yours. “Atta girl.”

Simon pressed a kiss to the back of your head. “Now let’s go get some dinner, love. How’s that sound?”

“It sounds…” you trailed off. “Well, I don’t really feel that well.”

Simon nodded his head knowingly. “Well that’s cause you’ve hardly eaten today.”

You shrugged your shoulders. “Probably.”

“Something easy then,” Johnny stated matter of factly. “Perfect weather for soup. Think you can manage that, dove?”

You gave a small nod and let Johnny transfer you over to Simon’s strong arms.

“Aye, good lass,” he gave you a quick peck. “Si, get our girl home and I’l go pick it up.”

“Affirmative,” Simon agreed, giving your hip a quick tap to encourage you to try to get on your feet again.

Johnny stood up and offered you a hand to help you up, Simon’s hands never leaving your hips until they were both certain you weren’t in danger of passing out on them.

“I’ll see you both at home,” Johnny quipped, giving both you and Simon a quick kiss on the cheek before going to pay the tab.

Simon helped you shrug into your coat and the two of you made your way out to the brisk Manchester air.

An hour later, empty takeaway containers littered the coffee table in the living room as you laid on the couch with your loves. You were pressed up against Simon, leaning up against him, tucked under his arm. Your legs were sprawled out across Johnny’s lap, his calloused hands giving you the most delightful foot massage.

“Y’know we love you, right?” Johnny’s voice broke the silence that had settled over the three of you.

“I know,” your voice was low.

“We just worry about you, love,” Simon urged, pressing a kiss to the back of your head.

“I promise I’ll try to be better.” You sighed softly. “I love you both so much.”

“We love you too, lass.” Johnny leaned forward to give you a kiss.

“So much,” Simon finished, pressing another kiss to your exposed neck.

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon riley imagine #john soap mctavish x reader #simon x johnny x reader #ghost x soap x reader #ghoap x reader #simon Riley x Johnny mactavish x reader #simon riley x john mactavish x reader #TW ed #tw ed descussion #soap x reader #ghoap x you

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peachesofteal · 1 year

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Dead Disco / Chapter 2

Chapter two of Dead Disco

Simon Riley/John MacTavish/female reader 2.8k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI (no smut but it's inferred), feelings of fear and anxiety, depression, alcohol use, brief mention of eating/food issues, fluff, relationship issues, angst, could be considered toxic, established throuple. The guys discover you're gone.

Johnny is tired. He’s been away from home for thirty-seven days, thirty-seven long days of trekking through a jungle and hiding out in small towns, thirty-seven days of trying to ferry a diplomat’s kid from one border to another, thirty-seven days of heavy fire and artillery bombing. Thirty-seven days of fleeting touches, stolen kisses, all while being unable to feel Simon’s body against his own. Thirty-seven days of missing you.

His eyes dart around the hangar, checking for stragglers or watchful gazes. When he’s satisfied, he moves towards the driver’s side door, to where Simon is standing, arms already extended in wait.

“We’re home.” Johnny breathes, molding himself into the warmth of Simon’s body.

“Almost.” The answer is gruff, but his grip is unyielding, uneager to let Johnny go, head bowed forward, cheek resting atop the dirty scruff of the mohawk. He’s still wearing the balaclava, will still be wearing it until they get into the flat and the doors are locked, but for now, they both take what they can get. Simon tosses each bag into the back of the car, eyes pinching sour with discomfort. It’s his back again, Johnny silently hopes that the comfort of their own bed would help alleviate some of the pressure on his spine. Those awful bedrolls were rough for everyone, but especially someone as big as his partner.

“Shuid get goin’.” His mind is already wandering to you and how you’re faring. Your absence chafes them, and it’s obvious now when they’re together that something is missing, that they’re lacking a part of their connection, missing their lost puzzle piece. It wears on them during deployments, causing their tempers to string tight and worry to settle in the back of their minds. Guilt burns in the pit of Johnny’s stomach when he remembers how uncertain, how stressed you’d been when he had promised, promised, you that it would be two weeks or less.

“Dinnae worry, yeah? Back before you know it.” you wrap your arms around his waist, face pressing to his shoulder with a deep sigh. He hated this. Every time, it got harder and harder.

“Okay.” The word is mumbled into his shirt, and he runs a hand over your hair soothingly. The sound of a duffel being dropped on the floor pulls your eyes, arm reaching for its owner, your fingers grasping onto the strings of Simon’s hoodie until he's there too, broad chest pressed to your back, the balaclava twisted in his grip. T-minus ten minutes until Simon was gone and Ghost was on point, so Johnny soaked up every second, you between them, right where you fit perfectly, Simon’s warm palm resting just at the top of his spine, the rhythm of being together, feeling safe, feeling whole.

Seconds turned into minutes, and then Simon was pulling away, dragging you with him to press a kiss to your lips before picking up the bag.

“Be good.” He says with a pointed look, and Johnny fights a chuckle. “And keep the terrace door locked.” You roll your eyes, playful spirit peeking through from underneath your worry.

“Yes Simon.”

“We’ll see you soon.” Johnny wraps his arms around you one last time, meeting your mouth with his, slipping into the comfort of home one last time before regretfully stepping away.

He couldn’t wait to lay his eyes on you, couldn’t wait to strip the balaclava from Simon’s face, couldn’t wait to take a shower and feel the heat of your body, the silk of your skin.

He glanced at the digital read out of the time as Simon turned the key in the ignition and huffed in frustration.

“It’s late.”

“She’ll be asleep. Don’t wake ‘er this time.” Simon warned, and he scoffed. He didn’t intentionally wake you last time, you had blinked your eyes open when you felt them fall into bed, and he seized the opportunity. He couldn’t help it; he had missed you too much. And while Simon might be content to just pull your sleeping form against his body and hold you there, Johnny had to hear your voice.

“Hi.” You blink blearily at him, fingers groping blindly along his stomach in the dark. “You’re wet.”

“Had ta shower.” You shift, turning onto your side.

“Without me?”

“It’s two in the morning, darling.” He hums and you yawn in response.

“Simon?” your voice was more acutely aware now, and he knew it was because you were making sure. Checking off the list, verifying that they’d both come back. To you.

“I’m here, love.”

“Mmph.” You murmur. “Missed you.” your face found Johnny’s neck, lips soft on his collarbone, while Simon slid all the way over, molding himself around your back, an arm resting gently across your two bodies.

“We missed you too.” Johnny whispers, body relaxing for the first time in weeks, muscles going loose and his brain going quiet. It was good to be home.

“We could take her out tomorrow. She’d like that.”

“Maybe on Thursday, dependin’ on how she’s feeling. I’m not plannin’ on leaving that bed for at least twenty-four hours. And neither are you, MacTavish.” Heat licked up his spine, settling in his belly while the city flashed by the windows, while he wonders how upset you are, if you’re going to be barking mad at them, or just sad, the way you get sometimes when they have to ease you back into their affection, when they have to break down the armor that grows in layers upon layers when they’re away.

“Too long, it’s been too long.” He expects Simon to agree with him, say something reassuring like he usually does, but he doesn’t respond, and Johnny looks to where he’s splitting his attention between the screen of his phone and the road. “What is it?”

“Darling?” Simon calls through the flat, while Johnny shucks his shoes and coat at the door. It’s only eight, still early in the night, and they’re surprised when you pad out of the bedroom in your pajamas, eyes red from crying, straight into Johnny’s arms.

“What’s wrong?” he asks when you bury your nose in his chest, Simon standing on your side, gently rubbing your back, concern in his eyes. “Love, what is it?” he pulls back to get a glimpse of your face.

“Had a bad dream.” You mumble into him, and he holds you a little tighter, Simon leaning into the two of you to press his mouth to the top of your head in a kiss. He taps his fingers down your cheek to draw your attention back up to his face, and that’s when he notices.

How dry your skin is. How cracked your lips are. The circles under your eyes, the hunch in your shoulders. He looks up at Simon over your head, who gives him a swift a nod, and pulls you away and into his own arms.

“What do you think… about gettin’ in the shower with me?” He hears Simon coaxing you into the bathroom while he flings open cabinets in the kitchen, looking for your water bottle. When he gets to the fridge, he swallows a groan. It’s practically empty, only harboring the usual collection of condiments, some cheese, a few avocados. But no leftovers, no meals, no protein. Your usual overflowing bounty of green things is missing. None of the kiwis that you insist on buying every single time anyone goes to the supermarket. Nothing to indicate you had been eating.

What have you been doing?

The flat is dark. Your sweater doesn’t hang on the hooks by the door, your shoes aren’t lined up neatly in the closet. The giant fleece blanket that you always insist on everyone cuddling underneath during movie nights is gone.

The framed picture of the three of you, the one that sits on the little table in the hallway, is facedown.

The bed is made, all six pillows stacked neatly at the top of the mattress, sheets and comforter tucked into the bottom just how Johnny always makes it. Your little jewelry dish that occupies the top of the dresser is gone.

Some of your clothes still rest on hangers. Your favorite robe is still draped over the tub in the bathroom. Your tea collection is still stacked neatly in the cupboard.

A single silver key sits on the island.

Johnny feels like he can’t breathe. He feels like he’s grieving.

Simon doesn’t speak either. He just stands in the kitchen, lost in thought, knuckles white.

He loves you. Simon loves you. How could you just leave?

He reads the infuriating email over and over again. Four sentences. Not even a proper goodbye.

Hey,

I’m sorry. I left. The key is on the island. I locked the front door.

-Darling.

“It’s a week and a half old.” Simon breaks the silence. “She sent it a week and a half ago, could be anywhere now.”

“What if something is wrong.” He wants to deny it. Wants to ignore the reality, the sinking feeling dragging him down, fingers grasping tight to Simon’s as he gulps. “What if…”

“It would be near impossible to find this place, love.” Simon says gently. He’s right. Of course, he’s right. The title is in the name of a shell company. The mortgage was paid in cash. No one would know who it belongs to unless…

“What if we had a tail? And we didn’t know… and we led them right to her.” Simon visibly stiffens next to him. It’s a slim chance. The probability of the two of them not seeing a tail is extremely low.

“Call her.” Simon orders and Johnny’s hand trembles as he pulls the contact up and dials.

It rings, and rings, and rings.

“Be patient, Johnny.” Simon murmurs in his ear, breath warm against his skin, the smell of Kentucky bourbon washing over the two of them.

“What if she says no.” Simon grasps his chin with two fingers and pulls him in for a kiss.

“No one could say no to you.” They both turn to look at you, slippers on, Simon’s giant t shirt falling to your thighs. You’ve got a wooden spoon in your palm, face leaning over a giant pot of red sauce that you made from scratch. You’re singing to yourself, happily, quietly, but your smile falters when you look up at realize they’re watching you.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” He says, a little too quickly, and can feel the groan building in Simon’s chest. You frown.

“Ooookay.” You do that thing where you drag the ‘o’ out really long, like you don’t believe him.

“We want to ask you something.” Simon jumps in, disregarding his previous advice since Johnny has gone and spooked you. Your eyes go wide.

“What?” you ask warily.

“We want you to move in with us. Officially.” Johnny blurts, too excited. “You’re here five nights a week, anyway, yeah?” You nod, holding the spoon upright, eyes flicking back and forth between them.

“Really?” He doesn’t miss the doubt in your voice but chooses to blow by it. “But… this is your place, I don’t really like, fit here.”

“Of course you do.” Simon assures you. Johnny pulls you into his arms, leaning back against the counter.

“We don’t wanna be without you, darling.” He combs some hair away from your face, and then licks the spoon, earning him one of your amused giggles.

“You don’t have to decide right now.” Simon says, tempering Johnny’s enthusiasm, and you nod.

“Okay. I’ll think about it.”

“Anything for last call?” The bartender taps the wood with a knuckle, and you motion to your half empty beer.

“I’ll take one more, thanks.” The bottle leaves a little ring on the bartop, sticky and wet, shining in the muted light of the mostly empty room. It’s a place with no windows, black laminate floors, neon beer signs flickering on the walls. It smells in here, like stale cigarettes and cheap beer, but you don’t hate it, and it beats going back to your empty hotel room, with the giant empty bed, and the quiet empty hallway.

If the bartender notices your appearance, he keeps quiet about it. If he realizes you haven’t washed your hair, or your face, he doesn’t say anything. All he does is nod to the fifty pound note that you’ve kept sitting in front of you, placing another neat pour of bourbon next to your fresh beer.

It’s the good kind, Kentucky. The kind Johnny wrinkles his nose at. The kind Simon loves. You squeeze the lime into the mouth of the bottle, sticky, sour juice squirting all over your fingers that you pop between your lips and lick clean, one by one, before downing the amber liquid in one swallow.

The hotel bed is a king. Not a California, like the one in the apartment, but it feels just as big with only your body in it. You sprawl in the middle of it like a starfish, trying to feel for the edges, only to come up short. It’s disconcerting, you realize. The feeling of being alone like this, not waiting, not wondering what time the key is going to click in the lock. It’s been over a week, and the uneasy feeling has still not passed. Weren’t you supposed to feel good? Wasn’t this what you wanted? You couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t do anything.

You missed them.

You missed them so much; it was hurting you. It felt like a charred hole had formed in your heart, panic and despair leaking through your body.

It had sent you down a dark path, an endless rabbit hole that just got worse and worse as time went on.

So, instead of feeling the full force of it, instead of accepting your fate, you daydream, indulging in a made-up fantasy where they find you, track you down and drag you home. Where they’re standing on the other side of the hotel room door, begging you to come back, pulling you into their arms.

It's just a fantasy. They’re not coming for you, you know that. They have each other. They don’t need an accessory to survive, or even be happy. They don’t need you.

You’re on the verge of drifting into restless sleep when your phone vibrates, somewhere in the down comforter.

You don’t have to look at the caller ID to know who it is.

You knew they’d call when they got home, when they realized you were gone.

You honestly didn’t expect it to be so long, the idea that they got held up somewhere, ran into trouble making your stomach flip. What if one of them is hurt? What if they need you?

No. No, you’re going to be strong. You are NOT answering that phone.

The vibrations cease. You let out the whoosh of breath you’ve been holding.

The vibrations start again.

Your heart clenches in your chest.

Come find me. Come get me and bring me home.

No. No, you’re strong. You don’t need them; you don’t need this.

Don’t answer it. Don’t answer it. Don’t-

Your thumb hits the green button.

“Hello?” The other end of the phone is silent, and then two voices talk over one another for a second before going quiet.

“Bloody hell. Where are you, darling… are you alright? Are ya hurt?” It’s Simon’s voice, raspy in the background. You swallow.

“I’m… I’m fine.”

“Where are ye?” Johnny sounds closer, and you hold your breath.

“I… I’m okay. I’m at a hotel.” Guilt swarms you. Of course. They’re worried something happened to you. “I’m s-sorry.” Come get me, you want to scream, come get me and never leave again. Nobody speaks, and then you hear the muffled sound of a conversation. A terse back and forth before Simon is speaking into your ear.

“Tell us where you are, yeah?”

The knock on the door is loud, and you stand on the other side, hesitant.

Why are you doing this?

The knock comes louder this time.

Don’t be weak. You left, remember? You left for a reason.

You crack the door. Simon’s arms are crossed, and you can’t place the expression on his face, the balaclava obstructing the lines of his mouth that you’re so used to reading.

Johnny, on the other hand, looks torn between being on the verge of tears, and pissed. His hand darts out between the door and the frame, pushing it wider and bringing you into full view. The anger drains from his face within a second. Embarrassment curdles in your stomach. You look like a fucking mess.

“Oh, love.” He whispers, eyes softening. Fuck, don’t cry. Keep it together.

“Hi.”

“Let us in.” Simon demands from behind him, and you chew on your lip. “Please. Whatever it is, we can fix it darling. Just let us in.” He gentles his tone, and Johnny reaches for your hand that’s gripping the door handle.

You’re stepping aside before you even realize what’s happening.

Gee, way to stick to your guns.

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eilidh-eternal · 5 months

Text

Chapter 2 - Places!

Simon Riley x Johnny MacTavish x F!Reader 4.4K words Warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, mild swearing, feelings of loneliness/isolation, imposter syndrome, feelings of anxiety, reader is oblivious to Johnny and Simon's advances. Masterlist

Delaney O’Riordan, despite her petite frame, pulls you along with a strength that rivals some of your male counterparts in the English National Ballet, iron grip wrapped firmly around your bicep as she berrates you for making her come looking for you.

“What on earth are ya’ doin’ down here?! An’ drinkin’ no less!” She doesn’t let you get a word in as she hauls you out of the hotel bar away from the two men, through the lobby, and herds you into the lift. “We’ve forty-five minutes to get to the theater and you’re down here flirtin’ with strangers?”

“Laney, it’s fine. My bag is packed and I’m dressed to go, all we need to do is grab it from the room and catch the bus. It’ll take thirty minutes, tops,” you assure the fiery-tempered woman as the doors to the lift close and she presses the button for your floor. “And I wasn’t flirting.” You weren’t, right? You just lost your balance. He’d caught you–they’d caught you–and set you upright again. That was it. No flirting. Even if the way the dark-haired man had called you pretty made your stomach flip-flop the same way it does every time Connor has to toss you through the air in rehearsals, and the way the blond wearing the mask, Simon you think he was called, made your skin warm with the hand that lingered on your back for longer than any polite touch should have.

“Aye, so you admit you were drinkin’ then?” Delaney crosses her arms and fixes you with an admonishing glare.

“It was just a cocktail, a mint julep. There was hardly any liquor in it,” you say in an attempt to placate her, knowing her irritation comes from a place of concern rather than annoyance. “Just something to calm the opening night jitters.” Despite decades of experience and many, many opening nights for productions big and small, for company exhibitions and tours abroad, some of them still had you tapping your fingers methodically over your thighs and shifting your weight from one foot to another every few seconds.

Her gaze softens but her arms remain folded tight to her chest. She knows tonight is important. It’s your first show as the company’s first principal dancer. The prima ballerina of the English National Ballet, dancing the lead role of one of the most quintessential ballets—a night that will define the rest of your career. “You’re going to do just fine tonight. I know it feels different, having the title now, but you’ve danced this role before. You’ll dance it hundreds of times more, no doubt, now you’ve made a name for yourself. The Bolshoi will be beggin’ ya to dance for ‘em in Moscow after tonight. I know it.”

You scoff at this. “Bolshoi made Swan Lake, Laney, they don’t let just anyone dance for them. Especially for Odette and Odile.” You couldn’t imagine being asked to the Bolshoi Ballet. It’s one of the oldest, toughest, companies to dance with and for. Their dancers are all hand selected, scouted for their looks and physique in their youth, and train with a militaristic intensity to be the best of the best. The Soviet and American schools of ballet are both similar in that way. Aggressive. Emphasizing and attacking their movements and the sharp lines of their form with an energy the English and French schools lean away from. But that was the very reason why you’d been offered a contract with the Kensington-based company. For your ability to dance the part of Odette with the elegance and grace required for the demure damsel, and simultaneously portray the brazen and arrogant seductress Odile, who moves with much darker intentions. A duality that is coveted among dancers.

The soft ‘ding’ of the lift alerts you to the fact that you’ve reached your floor, heavy doors sliding open to reveal the gaudy carpet and busy wallpaper lining the hallway of the hotel you’re staying in for the time being. You nod a brief goodbye to Delaney, promising to meet her in the lobby, and step off the lift. The room is comfortable, has everything you need and is by no means lacking, but still it’s less than ideal. You miss your cozy apartment in the suburbs, the early but peaceful mornings before rush hour and all the sounds that come with it, and the beaux-arts architecture giving way to modern urban highrises. Soho isn’t that different, all things considered, but staying in a hotel until you can find a new apartment in London leaves you feeling out of place and untethered with just a few suitcases full of essentials and a contract for work in your possession. It makes you feel temporary. In this city. In this job. Easily replaced at a moment's notice. You try not to imagine what your life would look like if those things were true, pushing away the poisonous and intrusive notion that at any moment you’ll wake up from this dream and mourn it for being just that–a subconscious fantasy–as you sling your duffel over your shoulder and head back down to the lobby to meet Delaney and catch the bus.

Backstage at the London Coliseum thrums with the typical pre-show chaos. Last minute adjustments to props and the set before rolling everything into place behind the curtains, mending any overlooked rips or tears in costumes sustained in dress rehearsal, and hundreds of dancers, crew and musicians fluttering about the narrow halls between dressing and storage rooms. Hairspray lingers thick in the air of the dressing rooms and the scent of gels and pomade have a cloying effect that leaves you grateful for the privilege your status as first principal affords you. A green room.

It’s not very big. Just enough space for a backlit vanity, a rolling costume rack, small loveseat and a powder room. It feels odd, not sharing a room with fifty or sixty other dancers as you prepare for the show. Feels even stranger that someone else is doing that for you now, slicking back your hair and affixing your headpiece, rouging your cheeks and lining your lips in a blush tone. One more thing you’ll have to get used to.

Once the hair and makeup artist deems their work is finished you waste no time breaking in your pointe shoes and allowing yourself a final warmup before leaving your little bubble of calm amidst the chaos of opening night. The sound of the orchestra checking their pitch and tuning accordingly mixes with the chatter of the settling audience, and as the stage manager announces five minutes to showtime the wings of the stage begin to fill with all manner of performers. Everyone stretches, marks choreography, and goes about their pre-show rituals, wishing one another a good performance with smiles and encouraging embraces. Across the stage, you find Delaney smiling at you among the other dancers in the wings. She lifts her hands, presses them together in the shape of a heart over her chest, and you mirror the gesture. ‘Good show.’

“Places!” the final call rings out, and the house lights dim. The audience falls silent as the opening bars played by the orchestra signal the opening of the stage curtain, and with a deep, steadying breath, you leave behind the wings to take the stage.

By the time you step off stage you’re exhausted but elated. You had a stellar performance, a standing ovation from the crowd, and your directors sing their praises to you all the way from the stage after curtain call to your green room. However, the theatrics aren’t quite done for the night. There is to be a rotation of swans to pose with families for photos after each performance, and as first principal you are expected to set an example. That’s how you found yourself back in front of the vanity with another hair and makeup artist taming your hair back into place and making adjustments to your makeup. A costumer comes to help you change, guides a pair of wings onto your shoulders and shows you how to fasten them to your wrists, how to pose with them, and you’re sent off to the lobby.

You greet each child with a hug, mindful of the extra berth required to do so with the wings, and smile for cellphone cameras through the pain radiating from your knees and ankles. Some of the smaller children are too enamored with the feathers and the rhinestone-dusted gossamer to pay attention to their parents, and it takes several attempts to steal their attention away and take a satisfactory photo. Parents throw apologetic smiles your way as the children all take their turns, and you assure those who voice them that it’s really no trouble at all, though the twinging of your right knee would beg to differ. You’re holding a back attitude, relying on the small section of barre hidden behind the small recreation of the lake erected around you to maintain your balance and sustain the pose with your leg high in the air behind you, and you nearly sigh in relief when the child in front of you darts back to their parents once the photo is taken.

That relief is short lived, however, as you come back down on two feet again and turn to greet the next family. You’re wholly unprepared to find the dark-haired, blue-eyed man from the bar, masked, blond companion at his side, towering over you.

“Hello, little bird,” the former greets you and a roguish grin tugs at the corners of his mouth.

He has a mohawk. You hadn’t noticed in the bar, and you tell yourself it must have been the dim lighting that had kept that detail hidden from you. It certainly wasn’t the way his arm had felt wrapped snugly around your waist, or the way concern shone in his eyes and made them look more like sta-

“Yer friend carted ye off before we could have a proper introduction. Name’s Johnny. Ye remember Simon,” he says with a gesture to the statuesque, masked blond, and you force the shocked expression from your face and replace it with a polite smile, nodding in recognition.

“Yes. It’s… nice to meet you both. Officially. Would- would you like a picture together?”

Simon’s eyes dart towards Johnny and the shorter man turns his face up to meet his gaze. There’s a moment of silence between the two, an internal conversation you’re not privy to. When Johnny looks to you again there’s an impish look about him, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he steps forward, leaving Simon with his phone.

“Si isn’t fond of photos,” he says as he approaches, sidling up to you between the wooden props. He bends down to whisper into the shell of your ear, “We’d like to have a photo of ye though, pretty little bird that ye are.”

Heat blooms across your cheeks, and before your brain can fully process the implication of his words he’s wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you closer. Your lips part on a yelp of surprise as you’re suddenly being hefted into the air and-

He’s perched you on his shoulder, you realize with no small degree of shock, a large, steadying hand firm on your thigh and the other resting on your shin just above your ankle. The look in his eyes and the sultry smile he gives you as he peers up at your shocked expression causes your stomach to flip and you grip onto his other shoulder to balance yourself. “Sorry for the scare, hen, but I can’t have our pretty bird stranded on the ground. Ye should be up there,” he says with a wink.

What do you even say to that?

“It’s ok, I just- I wasn’t prepared is all,” you reason aloud and cross your ankles, willing yourself to relax in his hold. When you lift your gaze from Johnny’s you find Simon right where you left him, brows pinched together in what you think is exasperation, but the corners of his eyes crinkle in a way that suggests amusement.

“Quit your yappin’, Johnny, and look ‘ere,” he grumbles, and Johnny does as he’s told, reluctantly tears his gaze away from you to look at Simon, holding up his phone for the photo.

You plaster a demure smile over your features, hold yourself steady with a hand on Johnny's shoulder, thick, corded muscle rippling beneath- No. Stop. Now is not the time for thoughts like this. This man is a stranger and you’re still at work. You inwardly chastise yourself and extend your free arm above your head, attempting a loose fourth position, posing prettily for the photo, and dutifully ignoring the warmth of Johnny’s hands on your legs, how solid he feels beneath you.

Just as easily as he’d hoisted you upon his shoulder he guides you gently back to the ground, hands lingering around your waist, unwilling to let you go again. “We want to ask ye somethin’,” he says as Simon steps forward, hand finding its way to the small of his back and Johnny’s hands pull away from your waist reluctantly to lean closer to Simon. “When yer done here with…” He pauses and gestures broadly to your wings and costume, and his smile turns apologetic. “Performance? I’m sorry, I dinnae ken what to call it. But, we’d like to have a proper drink with ye.” He looks hopeful as he slips his hands inside his pockets, and Simon’s head tilts ever so slightly to the side as they wait for your response.

You? They want to have a drink with you? You shift your weight nervously from one foot to the other, fighting to hide the scrunch of your nose as your knee barks under the pressure. “I won’t be done here for at least another hour, it will be quite late.”

“That’s not an issue for us,” Simon quickly supplies. “You’re stayin’ at the Broadwick?”

You nod.

“We’ll meet you there then, at the bar. Same place as before.” His voice is confident. Commanding. He says it like it's a fact, like you’ve already agreed. And at this point, you might as well. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t curious about the two men. Curious about Johnny’s flirtatiousness and Simon’s encouragement of it. And you need friends outside the company. Someone who you can talk to about boring and mundane things like the weather or how outrageous the price of a latte is at that little corner bakery you’d been frequenting. Something other than commiserating over long rehearsals and the blisters they cause, or how the director was in a sour mood with the cast that day over something beyond their ability to control. Anything other than work.

“Ok,” you finally agree, and you think Johnny's face might tear in two if his smile were any wider.

An hour and a half later you’ve returned to the hotel and rushed yourself into the shower, scrubbing at your skin with a soapy washcloth and carefully avoiding getting your hair wet. It’s still done up nice enough, and there's no sense in going downstairs looking like a drowned rat with damp hair when it’s already been… Shit, they’ve been waiting nearly an hour. You speed through the rest of your routine, washing the thick show makeup off your face, digging around in your suitcase for the sweater dress you know is here somewhere- Ah! There, buried under a mountain of leotards, and, graciously, next to the comfy flats you planned to wear with it. You trade the generic hotel bathrobe for the dress and step gingerly into your flats, mindful of the blisters already forming, and spare a few minutes more to swipe some mascara over your lashes and conceal the ever present dark circles of exhaustion under your eyes before heading downstairs.

Your heart pounds behind your ribs the same way it had earlier in the evening standing in the wings at the start of the show, and you take slow, deep breaths as you approach the hotel bar, half expecting to find it empty after you've kept them waiting for so long. You wouldn’t blame them if they’d left already. It’s nearly eleven p.m. on a Thursday, well past late for most of the working professionals in the city.

And yet, there they sit, occupying the same seats at the bar they had hours earlier. Johnny spots you first, beaming at you from over Simon’s shoulder, and your heart calms a bit, flooding with relief at the sight of his smiling face and easing some of your fear that they would be upset having waited so long.

“I’m so sorry for making you wait down here, I didn’t want to show up covered in sweat or looking like I’d come straight from the shower-” you say by way of greeting, and Johnny is quick to smother your apologies.

“Dinna fash, hen,” he interrupts, standing from his seat and guiding you to take his place on it with a warm hand on the small of your back. “We didn't mind waitin’. Had ourselves a nice little chat, eh Si?”

You settle yourself on the barstool and Simon hums thoughtfully beside you. “We did.”

Johnny takes the open seat beside you, angling his body so that he can brace an arm on the bar top and sit facing you. “So our little bird’s a dancer?”

“‘S a bit obvious, Johnny,” Simon quips.

Johnny huffs an exaggerated sigh as he retorts, “Aye, but what if she’s not really? Could be a spy. The Russians have done it before,” he says and winks in your direction.

Simon groans but you can’t help grinning at Johnny’s teasing. “Yes, I'm a dancer. Not a spy. I don’t think they could keep up with our training.”

Johnny lifts a curious brow and leans forward. “How long do ye train for somethin’ like that?”

You make a show of pausing to think before answering. “Hmm, it’s been a little over twenty years now, twenty-two I think?”

He mutters something under his breath that sounds like swearing. “Twenty-two years?!”

Simon’s eyes shine a rich, amber color in the low light of the bar, and a glimmer of something akin to recognition passes through them as he nods appreciatively. “Ya must be good at it then, if you’ve worked that long for it.”

You feel warmth blooming across your cheeks and a similar warmth working its way from your chest to your stomach, lower, as his eyes, the only part of his face visible above the mask, continue to study you, and your dress suddenly feels too tight against your skin. “I’m as good as any other dancer who’s worked most of their life for it.” A modest answer.

“Which one were ye then, on stage tonight? Were ye one of the swans?” Johnny’s voice pulls you out of the hold Simon’s wandering gaze has on you. You blink several times to clear your thoughts, and when you finally turn your attention back to him he's smiling down at you with a glimmering fascination in his own eyes.

You hesitate, briefly consider lying so they don’t make a fuss over the truth, but ultimately can’t find it in yourself to do so. “Yes, two of them actually. Odette and Odile.”

Johnny’s brows furrow, and Simon sighs with feigned annoyance but explains for him anyways, “She’s the swan Johnny. She’s the leading lady.”

“Christ, yer the star of the whole thing and yer playin’ it off like yer just in the background! I’d be tellin’ everyone if it were me.”

“Thankfully she’s not. She has class, something you could use more of,” Simon chides and you laugh quietly to yourself at their back and forth.

Johnny looks as if he’s about to come back with another smartalec comment but the arrival of the bartender defuses his need to have the last laugh as a glass of scotch is pushed towards him, a mint julep for you, and a tumbler of bourbon for Simon. Johnny takes the drink without question, swirling the contents of the glass and taking a slow sip, but it’s your turn now to pinch your brows in confusion.

“I didn’t- I haven’t ordered anything?”

“The bartender came by while you were explainin’ your trainin’ to Johnny. I ordered for us,” Simon explains.

You look from Simon to the drink in front of you, brows still pinched together.

“‘S what you ordered earlier, would ya rather have somethin’ else?”

“No! No, this is perfect, thank you. It’s just… I don’t think anyone’s ever bothered to pay that much attention to me?” you quickly explain, pulling the mixed drink towards you.

“Aye, he’s a charming bastard like that. Observant to a fault.”

You hum in answer and bring the glass to your lips, taking a slow, savoring sip.

“How long have ye been in london?” Johnny toys with the glass in his hand as he watches you, tracking the movement of your throat and your tongue as it darts out to swipe across your lower lip.

“We’ve just come back from tour a few weeks ago, so not long.”

“And you’ve been stayin’ in a hotel?” Simon seems perturbed at the notion.

“Hard to look for a place to live when you’ve been on tour for three months.” You take a longer sip from your drink this time. You really need to dedicate some time to that this week, maybe contact a real estate agent.

Simon and Johnny share a look, another unspoken conversation between themselves, and that glimmer of recognition returns to Simon’s eyes. “We’re… familiar, with that particular struggle.” When you turn to him with a puzzled expression he explains, “We travel a lot for work.”

“You work together?”

“Somethin’ like that,” and that’s the end of it. Their closeness makes sense then, if they travel together often. It’s hard not to get close to someone when you're obligated to be with them all the time. Hell, it’s the reason why you and Delaney are so close, having shared a room while on tour.

“D’ye have a borough in mind?” Johnny asks to redirect the topic of conversation back to you.

“The studio is in southern Kensington, close to Stamford Bridge, and we perform at the coliseum and Royal Albert Hall when we aren’t touring, so I’m hoping I can find something centrally located. Maybe in Belgravia or Westminster.” The few places you've been able to find online are quite pricey, but your contracted salary is enough for a decent flat in either neighborhood. It’s not like you order takeaway every night and your busy schedule certainly doesn’t allow you to party every weekend. Well, maybe the takeaway part isn’t exactly true. Frozen dinners from Tesco don’t count as takeaway, do they? Either way, if you have to spend the money, it may as well go towards a comfortable and conveniently located appartment, even if it’s overpriced.

“Bit of a highbrow area,” Simon comments and Johnny does his best not to outright snort when he starts to laugh, taking a long swig from his half-empty glass of scotch.

“Highbrow is an understatement. Ye’d be a stone's throw from the palace in either borough,” he seems to agree, and tacks on under his breath as he drains his glass, “The whole south of London is full of posh bampots.”

Simon huffs from behind you and when you peer up at him you’re met with a simmering glare pointed in Johnny’s direction.

“Och, dinnae gi’ me tha’ look Si. Ah Ken yer fer Queen an’ country, but ye ken well enough how Ah feel aboot-“

You try and fail to hide your amusement, doubling over to clutch at your sides in a fit of giggles and half-suppressed laughter, finding both Johnny’s thickening accent and disdain for the richer neighborhoods and the stuck-up personalities they breed within them comical in an ironic sort of way. You’d always been of a similar opinion, holding contempt for the privileged and entitled attitudes of the people who lived in gated communities—and now you would be one of them.

When you regain your composure and right yourself once more, your lungs take longer to catch up, breath stalling in your chest as you realize you’re being watched.

In the dim lighting, Johnny’s eyes are luminescent, the reflections of headlights as cars pass by the window like comets blazing a path across the steely-blue night, and it reignites the warmth you’d felt under Simon’s gaze. He regards you with the kind of rapturous intensity you think a soul ascended to the gates of heaven might behold a guardian angel and the heavenly fire they wield, and it leaves you breathless. It sucks the air from the room like a raging inferno, rips the oxygen from your lungs and replaces it with delicate whispers of smoke and a burning need to draw lungfuls of the very thing he’s stolen from you, but all you can do is inhale the intoxicating fumes it leaves in his wake.

“Sorry, it’s just… the irony, and your accent. I didn’t mean-”

“No dove, don’t apologize. Not for makin’ such beautiful sounds for us,” he says in a husky voice and that spark of heat flares brighter, low in your belly.

Oh. Oh… Your denial of all his flirty comments and your resolve to ignore them begins to disintegrate as you realize this isn't just some bit for him. He really means it. He simply watches you for a moment longer, and you shift nervously under the scrutiny of his gaze until you think he must know you're having trouble breathing because a slow, confident grin splits his lips as he looks past you, over your shoulder to where Simon leans casually against the bar. His glass of bourbon is somehow empty despite never seeing him drink from it and he’s bent forward at the waist, elbow braced against the bar top and his fist pressed to his temple.

“Think I could get drunk off’a that,” he murmurs, and you know that no other proclamation has ever sounded as delightfully dangerous as those eight words.

En Pointe>>>

©️Eilidh-Eternal.2024 ~ The intellectual property of Eilidh-Eternal is not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or use with AI technologies.

297 notes · View notes

rowarn · 4 months

Text

soap x reader x simon

soap doesn't know how to make you cum on his cock so he asks his trusted lieutenant to teach him how.

sub!reader, dom!simon, switch?soap, getting fucked by soap in simon's lap, wet&messy, cumming untouched, size difference/kink, threesome, fat dick!soap, MDNI

<3 just some horny nonsense that was spinning in my brain!!!

When Simon found out that sweet Johnny was struggling with something personal and even as embarrassing as making you cum, Simon’s mouth moved faster than his brain with an offer he never thought he would utter.

“I could help you out with that,” he had said, making Soap pause, mouth agape. Simon almost rescinded those words, brushing it off as a crude joke.

But then Soap spoke.

“Would you?” he asked, blue eyes glistening hopefully.

And Simon felt his cock twitch in his jeans.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t make you cum, Soap had defended on the drive over to your shared flat. Soap was good with his tongue and his fingers, could make you squirt by just rubbing that sweet little spot inside your gooey cunt.

The problem was whenever Johnny got his cock in you, he just could never get it right. The pace was wrong, the angle was off, he went too deep – anything that he could do wrong, he would do wrong.

“It’s never been like this with other…partners,” Soap shyly whispered. Though it was dark in the truck, Simon knew his friend was blushing in embarrassment, “I-I don’t know what I’m doin’ wrong this time.”

“Well, we’ll figure it out, Johnny,” Simon assured, shoving the door open the second Soap turned the engine off.

You and Soap lived on the top floor and the elevator ride up was stifling. Soap was fidgeting, clearly more than a little nervous about how this night was meant to go.

You and he had been together for a while – long enough to move in together. Simon wondered what finally made Soap reach out for help on this little problem after so long.

But Simon wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’d wanted to get his fucking hands on you from the second you bounced into the room, radiant and so sweet in the way you shyly clung to Soap’s arm. You were precious and Simon’s not proud to admit he had gone home and tugged his cock fucking raw over the way you had batted your pretty lashes at him when you looked up at him – so much smaller than him.

He knew he would be a fucking wreck the second he had you within his grasp and fuck, he was right.

His hands were shaking as he held you in his lap, gripping your knees to keep you spread wide for Soap to slot his hips between them.

You were a sensitive little thing, Simon learned. You came so easily around Soaps fingers when he worked to stretch you open for him. If you came so easily then why the fuck couldn’t Johnny get you off from his cock?

You were trembling, wide eyes teary as you watched your boyfriend carefully work his cock into you. The stretch was always so good, always making your eyes roll back in your head. Your cunt was so slick and sticky, eagerly swallowing every inch of Soap. So fucking messy. It made Simon's mouth fill with saliva at the sight of how wet you were, he wanted to taste you so badly.

Johnnys cock was fat, thick and heavy, no doubt burning your poor little cunt with how wide he had you stretched around him. You creamed around him, juices dribbling down his balls and wetting his sweatpants. You even dripped all over Simon who held you in his lap.

When Johnny started thrusting, Simon immediately understood why you couldn't seem to cum. Sure, it felt good, and you were moaning - twitching and gasping every time Soap sunk in and brushed against any sweet little spot inside. But Soaps rhythm and pace were inconsistent and he didn't seem to have any idea how to aim his cock to really hit those gooey spots that would have you falling over the edge into bliss.

Simon took a few moments to admire the scene unfolding right in his lap. You, creaming all over a cock that couldn't make you cum. Soap desperately humping your pretty cunt haphazardly and sloppily. He wasn't even bothering to touch your clit. Beneath his mask, Simon grinned.

It was so cute how Johnny went so stupid the second he got his cock wrapped up in a tight, hot pussy.

“Johnny…” Simon finally spoke, “Slow down.”

Immediately, Soap did as he was told. His pace slowed, careful rolls of his hips replacing the jackhammering.

“There's a good boy,” Simon praised, eyes darkening at the sight of Soap’s ears turning red, “Go nice ‘nd deep You gotta hit all those nice spots inside.”

Soap’s pretty, blue eyes were half-lidded as he watched you writhe and twitch in his Lieutenant’s arms. With every deep stroke, both of them could hear the sticky, wet noises of your pussy swallowing every inch.

One of Simon’s hands trailed down your thigh, inching down and down. Soap’s eyes followed every movement until his fingers finally found your hard little clit. Immediately, your cunt clamped down around Soap’s cock and the Scot moaned.

“You gotta touch this cute little clit,” Simon teased, “If you really wanna know how it feels to have a pretty cunt cum around you.”

Soap nonsensically nodded, blunt nails digging into your hips as he held himself back from fucking you like a madman again. He kept Simon’s words in mind - deep and slow. Aim for those little spots. He knows where they are, he knows where it feels good. Just don't think with his cock - that's all he had to do.

With Simon’s callused fingers swirling over your sticky clit and Soap’s fat cock stuffing you full just right, it came as no surprise when you finally came.

Soap wasn't able to stand how good it felt with how tight you were squeezing around him, pulsing through every wave of your orgasm. You were gushing, creaming sticky and wet all over him. Simon could feel you clit twitching under the pads of his fingers.

With a shout, Soap filled you up with his load, “Fuck!”

As the two of you came down, Simon’s big hands carefully stroked up and down your thighs until their trembling ceased.

“You know, Lt,” Soap panted, looking up at him through his lashes, “I think I could use a little more hands on training. How about you really show me how it's done.”

Even though Simon had quietly came in his own pants, his cock was chubbing up again at those words.

“I like the sound of that, Seargent.”

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