#char.soap

You are uncertain how you caught their eye. You are not sure if there is something in you that they had caught in a passing glance, and decided to open their hearts (and their beds) to you for this one night as a result. 

You had been there after bombing another promising job interview, pissed at your failed potential (you were an A plus student - honors call and all, until you weren’t anymore) and the dead-end job of yours that had you feeling miserable for the past three or so years. It didn’t help that any time you fiddled with your phone, you’d be bombarded with pictures of your schoolmates and college friends marrying, or going on vacations and having a family of their own - growing older with someone, anyone; their lives full and moving and vibrant with colors that usually hurt your eyes. 

Meanwhile, you are just living. 

A day at a time. A week at a time. 

Day to day to day has always been the same. You wake up, work, cook and clean for one and you indulge in past hobbies in order to capture the joy that has somehow slipped past your fingers the older you grew. You have no furry companions you can use as an excuse to go out on a walk, no lovers to send raunchy texts to, and no friends who would abandon their children and husbands to give you company while you wallow in your eternal misery as you drink your pain away with a beer bottle with condensation settling down on its neck, leaving your palms wet and slippery. 

You don’t even try to think about your family. 

So there you are, an untouched glass of pink gin kept in front of you and your hands nervously raking through your oiled hair and your rumpled work outfit (a sky blue blouse paired with black pencil skirt) ostracized you further from the patrons of the bar. And then you’re approached by Johnny who eyes your colorful drink with mild interest. 

Johnny with his wild mohawk and kind brown eyes and kissable lips - who wondered out loud what a pretty little lady like you was doing in a place like this (you almost snorted derisively at the casual compliment, but the fatigue had you more amenable to flattery) and then he asked you about your disheveled state, and you tell him that everyone with a job feels like this on a usually busy weekday. He nods like he understands you, and then he invites you to join him and his boyfriend for some drinks. 

Who are you to refuse free drinks and such handsome company?

The conversation is freeing in a way that it allows your mind to forget that the world exists outside of this temporary, delicate bubble that consists of you, Johnny and Simon. Johnny fills the space with his warm voice, enveloping you in comfort and safety as he talks about anything and everything - he tells you that both of them are in the Army (But none of them would budge to answer any questions of yours. “If I answered that, I’d have to kill you”, he joked, but his hardened gaze told you that there is some truth to it.You decided to not let your curiosity guide you anymore.), the football game on the television hung up on the wall, the movie that came out last week, the bourbon they have been nursing for the past half hour or so (“Simon only likes it when it’s Kentucky”, he says and you understand the need for some delicacies of this life staying the same, no matter what.), and then he asks you if you’d like to eat something. 

You and Johnny share a plate of cheese fries. 

The fries are oversalted(the perfect drunk food, but unfortunately you haven’t even worked up a buzz with your neglected drink), and the cheese is too gooey for you to not eat without getting your hands messy. You cringe at the stickiness, and Johnny laughs at your predicament and you wonder if it is possible for radiant, burning stars to be born as mortals. 

His boyfriend, Simon, does not join you in eating the food. 

His face is covered by a black surgical mask, and he is mostly quiet - letting his more jubilant counterpart lead the conversation. But conversation lulls between satiating your hunger and Johnny encouraging you to drink from his glass. (“Try it, bonnie. Real booze hits different”, he offers hospitably, and then he chuckles as you sputter and choke at the liquid burning your throat. At least he’s kind enough to pat your back, and then he orders a tall glass of water for your poor throat.)

Simon shakes as he dryly chuckles at the antics of his partner, and you feel heat travel down your stomach at how rough and rich his voice sounds. You find it oddly comforting against the commotion of the busy bar tonight. 

After you made a fool out of yourself, the masked man (with his dirty blonde hair and white scars that ran all over his face, only for half of it to be hidden by his black surgical face mask) is much more receptive to having a conversation with you. He seldom talks, but he doesn’t shy away from cracking a dark joke or two that almost make you choke on your own spit. His eyes are dark and intense, and sometimes when your own gaze meets his own, you find it almost impossible to look away from him - afraid that the moment you do, you’d find yourself alone and miserable at the bar again. 

There seems to be a pleasant silence settling between you three, and with a warm face and heavy limbs, you lean into the warm hand that cradles the small of your back and let it gently spell something illegible yet almost affectionate into your skin, the fabric of the blouse acting as a poor guard between your sensitive body and the touch you were not aware you craved until now. 

You look on with heavy eyes as the couple has a secret conversation between them with their eyes alone. Warm, lovely eyes that were scattered across the different spectrum of shades of brown. Eyes that pierced you and stripped you naked until you were nothing more than your deepest yearnings and fears. Eyes that carried a never-ending love for each other, and each other alone. 

They talk in furtive glances, and all you can do is give up on deciphering their language and let yourself enjoy the circles being drawn onto your back by Johnny’s teasing fingers. (You possibly cannot expect to unfurl all of that history and love between them just because you get to be a part of it for a few hours, can you now?)

After they have made a decision and with a nod of mutual acceptance, Johnny turns back to you and you straighten up due to the sudden attention. He looks at you with something akin to desire, and you can only feel your mouth turn dry as he asks you:

“Wanna get out of here?”

They hail a taxi for the three of you. 

Johnny is curious and impatient with his hands as he fondles you and leaves fluttering kisses up your neck. You should be mortified; getting frisky with a man you have known for only a few hours, in a taxi no less. But the attention makes it easier to swallow the humiliation that tries to consume your thoughts. Your back is pressed up against Simon’s side, who is all the more satisfied with watching his boyfriend paw at you like a cat fascinated with his new toy. You tilt your head back, and curse out when Johnny’s lips touch a spot that makes your knees buckle. And then you feel a hand engulf your throat, squeezing you gently and you think you might as well just forget to breathe all together. 

“Such a pretty girl”, Simon whispers against the shell of your ear, and you are glad that the only source of light on your way to their place are the shitty streetlights, because you cannot school your expression into one of indifference. (You like the praise a little too much.You like it out of Simon’s mouth even more.)

After what seems like an eternity of being teased and taunted by sweet words and lazy actions, the taxi finally comes to a stop and you send out a prayer to any deity out there who might be awake at this odd hour and willing to lend you an ear, because you’re sure that this night will leave you ruined. 

You get out of the vehicle on wobbly knees and Johnny is all the more willing to support you while he guides you to the apartment complex where he and Simon currently reside. Simon throws the crumpled bills on the lap of the driver, along with a generous tip for putting up with his frisky lover and the sweet girl they have taken home and for not kicking them out in the middle of nowhere late at night. Simon joins you both in the elevator, and Johnny is all the more eager to pin you against him and finally kisses you on the lips. 

You moan into the kiss, your hands finally tugging on his mohawk and bringing you closer and closer to his body. (Not close enough, your body screams. Never close enough, it screams again.) His hands are all the more eager to explore every soft curve of you; restless fingers groping your breasts and making you arch into him even more. 

“Fuck, bonnie.Yer so soft”, he remarks after breaking the kiss, and you can only pant at how breathless one kiss from this man had left you. You can only wonder what more he’s capable of making you feel. 

You are turned around to face Simon, who looks at your crumpled blouse and your messy hair and the neediness that drips from your eyes and your swollen lips. He holds your chin and tilts it to look at him, before commanding you, “Open up, sweetheart”. 

You comply without any complaints, wanting nothing more than to obey the masked man. 

You open your mouth, letting your pink tongue tease your parched lips as you wet them and he pries your mouth open wider with a firm hand on your jaw. His dark eyes look down on you, and you feel as if you’re going to be sacrificed and all you can hope is that he likes the offering you have in store for him. (You you you, you offer him all of you.)

“Suck on it”, he orders and you swallow the thumb he offers you - letting you soothe your oral fixation while you impatiently resist the urge to tap your foot against the floor as you wait for the elevator to finish its ascent. 

You twirl your tongue around it, wetting the finger in your mouth before you let it out with a resounding ‘pop’, a thin string of saliva connecting your soft lips and the thumb. Your eyes look up at him in reverence, pleading with him to reward you for your good behavior. 

“Fuckin’ hell”, he rasps out, and he almost leans forward, almost closes the distance between you both when the elevator lets out a ring and stops on the designated floor. 

Through drunk giggles and impaired body coordination, you follow the men as they lead you to their apartment. The moment the door closes behind them (locked carefully by Simon, while Johnny guides you inside), they’re back onto you - clinging to your body like you’re the anchor that grounds them in the storm of life. 

And it feels nice to be needed like that, if only for a moment. 

You’re on your knees on the floor as you wait for Simon to do something.

You are naked - your clothes peeled off from your body after Simon unzipped it for you and Johnny had been all the more eager to palm your breasts in his hands - warm and calloused and greedy for more. 

Your blouse is discarded somewhere on the floor long forgotten.

(“Lovely tits”, Johnny had groaned as he had undressed you, and you thanked yourself for wearing a somewhat decent bra today. )

You sit waiting - a paragon of virtue and patience as you look up at the men who would be ultimately ruining you tonight. They talk in eyes again, and you feel a pang of irritation at your inability to decipher all that is said between them with just a single look. 

Your arms are folded across your chest - a decision you had swiftly taken after feeling a wave of self-consciousness hit you in full force. You can feel your ankles getting numb at the posture - the pins and prickles forcing you to momentarily shift your weight from the ball of your feet to your knees, taking the lack of notice from either men as an incentive to ensure you don’t end up with numb legs while you wait for them to finish whatever secretive talk they are having without words. 

Simon turns towards you and notices you struggling on your knees, and then he reaches for one of the pillows scattered near the headboard of their Californian-sized bed. He asks you gently, “Get up from the floor, lovie”, and you do, wincing as you feel the blood circulation return to your sore feet. He puts the pillow on the ground near your feet, bending down to fluff it up a bit for your disposal. You thank him for the considerate action, before assuming your position below him again - the pillow cushioning your knees and providing you much needed relief from the hard marble floor. 

“Look at me, lovie”, he commands and you follow him eagerly, tilting your head up to meet his dark eyes. He looks godly, hovering above you like an ethereal deity - his scarred hands and intimidating gait only gives your body the incentive to feel the thrum of desire in your bloodstream as it flows south, making you ready for him. 

For both of them. 

“A little help here, Johnny?” he beckons and the other man stands in front of Simon, shielding your view of him with his back as he helps the masked man take off his shirt, and if the muffled groans are anything to go by - they’re both kissing and you cannot even see Simon’s face. After a moment, he unzips his pants and lets the garment fall down to his ankles - leaving him in nothing but a dark pair of boxer briefs. 

Johnny falls down to his knees in front of him and Simon has his mask back on. Kneeling below him, he uses his mouth on his clothed cock, peppering him with soft kisses filled with drool and lust. Simon groans above him, letting his fingers card through the man’s mohawk as he encourages him with throaty noises to continue his actions. Eager to feel all of him, Johnny slides his thumbs into the band of his briefs as he slowly slides down the garment from his hips, letting it pool around his ankles as well. From where you’re seated, you can see how thick Simon is, and you cannot help the way your mouth waters at the idea of being used by him. 

You snap out of your thoughts when Simon pulls Johnny onto his feet by his mohawk, forcing him to bare his neck to the taller man and you swear you can hear him whimper when Simon catches his throat with his other hand before giving it a light squeeze. 

The sight before you is nothing short of heavenly. 

“Eager, are we?” he taunts him, taking his breath away with just a squeeze of his fingers and he lets out a throaty hum as he eyes up his partner, noticing the semi he’s been sporting in his jeans ever since he got a taste of you. 

“But it’s her turn”, he motions to you and you straighten your back as both men look back at you. 

“C’mere love”, he calls out to you, and you get down to your hands and knees, willing to crawl to him if that is what it will take for him to let you touch him, feel him under your fingertips. 

He shakes his head, stopping you in your tracks.

“No, bring that pillow with you too”, he orders you, “Don’t want your knees to get sore now, do we?”

You feel his hands pull at your hair gently as he brings out his still hard cock out of the confines of your soft mouth. Your lips are sheen with spit and pre-cum and the running makeup paints a debauched picture of you before these men. 

So perfect. So ruined. And all theirs for the night. 

You look up at him with teary eyes and longing and Simon is almost tempted to allow you to keep going, to let himself finish in your warm, soft mouth. But he has quite a night planned for the both of you(You and Johnny, Johnny and you - consuming his thoughts and mind and even his heart.), and he’d rather not finish in a handful of pumps before you. 

“Don’t pout at me, pretty girl”, he chides you playfully, his chest heaving as he takes in deep breaths to soothe the fire in his lungs that you have invoked within him.

You whine noncommittally, eyes focused on him and only him - and it almost shakes him to his core how much he likes having your attention all for himself. (Greedy, greedy, greedy, greedy, greedy, greedy, greedy-)

“Gotta get you ready for the both of us, yeah?” you nod eagerly at his statement, and then you feel a pair of arms around your waist lift you up in the air and you shriek as you’re thrown on the soft mattress, bouncing lightly at the impact as your head falls back on the bed. 

“Johnny!” you scream out in surprise, almost tempted to scold him for scaring you but his calloused fingers trace your curves and they tickle your skin that makes it hard for you to control yourself. You let out a soft giggle as the man hovers above you, letting his hands map out every little scar, every little mole, every little mark on your soft skin. 

He grins at you, before bending down and taking your lips in a soft kiss - growling a little as he tastes Simon on your lips. Pulling away, he looks down on you again as he cages you between his arms. 

“Hi there, bonnie," he whispers breathlessly. 

“Hi there, handsome”, you whisper earnestly, before turning your head to the side and kissing the inside of his wrist. 

“Johnny will help you get ready. Won’t you, Johnny?” Simon asks, and Johnny groans as he lowers himself down over your body till his eyes line up with the hem of your soft black panties. You exhale soundly in anticipation, propping yourself onto your elbows so your head is up and your eyes gaze into Johnny’s warm brown pupils. You let out an audible exhale when you feel his hands grab the meat of your inner thigh, before he leaves a tender kiss on it, letting out his tongue to taste your skin. Your head falls back on the pillow below you, and your hands find purchase in the luscious locks of his mohawk as Johnny lets his tongue rile you up by licking and kissing every inch of your exposed skin, avoiding where you needed him the most on purpose. 

“So sweet”, his teeth lightly bite the meat of your inner thigh, and you wince at the pain before whimpering. 

“So pretty”, his fingers play with the flimsy fabric covering your cunt, slowly tugging them to the side and revealing how needy you are for him. For both of them. 

“Johnny, please”, you beg him so sweetly with your fingers tugging on his hair, that he finally gives in to your demands with no further ado. 

It isn’t long until Johnny is fucking you with all he has. 

You have your face buried sideways into the pillow and a leg propped up on his strong shoulder, the position offering him a chance to fuck you deeper that your fingers or any half-hearted partner ever has. 

The pillow is wet from the sweat and spit and tears it has soaked up from you, and you bite the fluff of it, trying your best to mute your incomprehensive noises down - lest the nice couple fucking you right now get a noise complaint from their neighbours tomorrow - but to no avail. 

It’s like Johnny is on a personal quest to make you scream for everyone to hear. 

It also helps that Simon has taken it upon himself to fuck his boyfriend dumb, and what a sight it must be - Johnny fucking into you desperately and letting Simon control the rhythm of his hips as he fucks into him. You’d beckon that he probably has his tongue out - no man can survive fucking someone and getting fucked at the same time without letting it dumb him down like a mutt in heat. 

Too bad the room is pitch black for you to witness the filthy sight. 

At least the dark room allows Simon to take off his mask, even though it stings to know that you may never know the man behind the mask - may never remember the man who is giving you the best night of your life before you return back to your mundane life of spreadsheets, burnt coffee in styrofoam cups and manila folders the next morning. 

You feel your legs shake - the lethal amalgamation of pleasure and exhaustion coating your bones as you feel Johnny hit the spongy spot deep in you that makes you keel and beg into the mattress for the much overdue orgasm that has been building up inside you for the better part of the hour. 

He bends down, letting his tongue lick your neck and his sharp incisors drag over the taut skin as he mumbles about how pretty you sound when you’re fucked dumb. None of that matters to you right now, not when you’re this close to relief - but Johnny doesn’t oblige; either too dumbed down just like you to understand what you need, or denying you what you need on purpose - which is probably the cruelest thing he could fucking do to you tonight. 

You feel another pair of fingers slide up your thighs before said fingers finally map out your swollen clit amongst the mess of sweat and limbs and Simon uses his calloused fingertips to gently rub you until you’re crying and arching your back before you slide down back into the bed, your limbs sagging with relief as you ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm. 

“Fuck, bonnie”, you hear Johnny grunt out, feel him fuck you rougher and feel his hands grope your breasts roughly, but you’re far away now - floating away in a strange, hazy headspace as you hear his groans before his hips finally stutter to a close and then he slumps forward, letting the brunt of his weight fall down on you. 

Simon follows him soon after, slowly pulling out from his partner with a soft ‘Fuck’.

You whine at the impact, pushing at his shoulders weakly as you urge him to get his weight off from your sore body. You sighed out when he eventually obliged, letting himself fall into bed beside you, his fingers gently playing with your messy hair. You feel his stubble tickle your face as he lands a soft kiss against your jaw, “You were so good for us, lass”. 

You preen at the praise, letting his soft words and touch comfort you as you slowly feel yourself regain control of your body and your mind, already missing how you felt just a moment ago. 

You can hear the running faucet in the bathroom next door, and listen to the doors creak and soft footfalls before Simon returns to the scene with a wet washcloth. He taps your knee and you part your legs obediently for him - feeling the wet cloth drag over your innermost parts as he wipes you clean before offering you a few face wipes kept near his nightstand, which you take gratefully and you wipe away the smudged makeup, smearing the ruined mascara all over your cheeks. You hear Simon sigh before he gently pries the thin wipe from your hands, taking it upon himself to help you clean up nicely. In the dim moon light peeking through the windows, you notice he has his mask back on, and you feel disappointed at how you haven’t been able to look at him. You feel Johnny’s fingers gently massage your scalp, and the tension in your shoulders leaves you promptly, making you sag into the soft mattress as he coos at you, occasionally kissing your cheeks. It’s almost enough to put you at ease. 

It’s not long before the boys clean up after themselves before they join you back in bed. Sandwiched between the two men, you feel exhaustion and the afterglow lull you into a false sense of security - and you almost feel like you’re cared for. 

You hadn’t been able to fall asleep, despite your best efforts. Your thoughts have been nothing short of cruel, and you only feel shame creep under your skin the more you think about how this night had transpired. 

You have desperately gone home of two stranger men (who are together, no less), sat down on your knees like a desperate whore (and liked it), had gotten naked for them (and let them see all of your curves and rolls and blemishes), and let them fuck you dumb till you almost forgot your damn name. 

And now you lie between them, unable to put your mind at ease and sleep away the second thoughts.

Mortification seems to be the least of your worries at the moment. 

The worst part seems to be the fact that you wished for nothing more than to prolong the facade of love and gratitude they had for you when they cleaned you up, only for it to be redirected to each other as they checked in on each other with hushed whispers and soft kisses, their intermingled hands serving you a bitter reminder that you cannot overstay your welcome. 

It’s them first. And then you. 

You are just another body they had invited to warm their bed for the night. 

You are quick to wiggle out of the bed, feeling your ears burn in embarrassment as you try your best to locate your discarded clothes on the cold bedroom floor. You find your skirt near the legs of the bed, your cotton panties not far off from there. Your blouse and bra lie near the door, and you’re almost dressed when you hear a light click and see the light of the table lamp illuminate the room in a soft yellow. Johnny blinks, still sluggish from his interrupted sleep as he rubs away the sleep from his eyes, and you stay standing, frozen in your step. You almost feel guilty for waking him up. Were you not quiet enough?

You feel like a child who got caught with her hand in the cookie jar by her mother. 

“Yer leavin’?” he asks with a helpless look on his face, and you almost walk back into his arms.

Almost go back to the space they have created for you - between them. 

The clock reads a quarter past three when they both offer to drive you home. 

It’s not long before Simon wakes up from the commotion. (You turn around and train your eyes on the wall, waiting until you’re certain that his face is covered - having taken the hint that he would not welcome the idea of revealing his identity to you yet.) Soon enough, they’re both asking you why you’re up and leaving and the sincerity in their voices almost convinces you that they want you here. 

But you use work as an excuse to go back home, and despite how obvious that lie is, Simon insists on driving you home nonetheless. (You almost turn him down, but Johnny pipes in, “There’s not gonna be a whole lotta cabs for ye to hail. Let us make sure our lady reaches home safe,”, and you feel your walls crumble slightly, feel your very foundation of self-hatred and pity shake at how he addresses you as theirs. As if you’re now a part of them, like they’ve been a part of each other for years.)

They ask you to stay anyway, promising to drop you off to your home first thing in the morning - bribing you with promises of cuddles in your sleep and breakfast in bed; promising you intimacy you’re wholly undeserving of, and you cut them off swiftly as you tell them that you’d rather be at home right now so that you can wake up later and go straight to office - no detours welcomed. 

Reluctantly, they comply.

So you let them both escort you out of the apartment building and you stand with Johnny while Simon revs up his car and lets the engine warm up before letting you both sit inside. Johnny naturally assumes his place beside Simon, sitting in the passenger seat and you sit in the backseat. You almost feel apprehensive about telling them your address, but your rattled brain cannot seem to care about it - too tired and strung up to give a shit about ‘stranger danger’. 

Simon types out your address on the phone and he soon follows the path - the soft hum of the engine making you succumb to the tiredness you feel and you lie down on your side, the leather seat of the car cushioning your now-throbbing head and you cannot help but close your eyes just for a moment. 

After a few minutes, you hear Johnny talk about buying groceries and he asks out loud if his boyfriend would like to add anything to the list. Simon softly replies back with a few additions - whey protein, some bananas, pancake mix, shower gel and a room freshener spray. Johnny mulls over it before recalling some more things they need to buy soon. (“Dusting cloths. Manure. Oh, gotta get some stuff from the hardware store too!” “Don’t forget to get some cereal and protein bars.” “Roger that, Lt.”)

The conversation lulls. And then it begins anew. 

Simon asks Johnny if he’d like to have biscuits and gravy for breakfast, and he lets out an almost disappointing groan at his atrocious food choices. (Or so he tells him.) Instead, Johnny suggests they have some hash browns. (“Gotta get that carb in for the long day ahead!” and Simon just chuckles dryly at his reasoning.)

Then, they talk some more - about work and people. About how they’d need to go back to work, and how they’d miss staying home together. About how they should get some cigars for ‘Price’, whoever that may be. About how ‘Gaz’ is vacationing in Italy with his family. About how they should have a vacation the next time they get a break that lasts them more than a week. 

They hold hands - at least Johnny does, and he brings his partner’s hand to his face, softly kissing his knuckles, and that is when your curiosity wins over as you open your eyes to witness the sickly sweet scene of two men, two souls being in love. Johnny looks at him like Simon’s his entire universe - and 

You shut your eyes quickly, feeling like an outsider between them both. 

That’s maybe because you are one, your brain supplies you with this thought rather unkindly and you dig your nails into your palms to distract yourself from it. 

The scene oddly enough reminds you of your parents when they were still in love and when you were young and sleeping in the backseat after an exciting evening at the city fair. It is far too domestic and tender for an outsider like you to intrude upon, and so you keep your eyes shut - unwilling to witness them and get your heart broken again. 

As their conversation fades to silence again, you bravely open your eyes - squinting in the dark as the only source of light are the street lights outside. You witness Simon with his hand on Johnny’s thigh, his thumb drawing soft circles against the soft cotton of his black joggers. You witness Johnny humming to himself with a satisfied smile on his face as he occasionally looks at Simon with love in his eyes. Pure, unconditional love brimming in his brown, almond eyes. And when you look at Simon, his eyes reflect the same - unfiltered affection and absolute devotion; all these emotions reserved for the love of his life. His only love of his life. 

It makes you sick. 

Sick with yearning. Sick with the green monster of envy. 

You’re so sick with it all. 

This time when you close your eyes, you feel a tear drip down your nose as you let the soft whirr of the engine and Johnny’s humming act as the lullaby you needed to hear before you sleep.

You feel someone shake you softly by your shoulder when you come into consciousness. 

“Wake up, dove”, you hear Simon call you, “We’re here already”. 

You stare up at him as he hovers over you from outside the car. His masked face gives little away about how he’s feeling at the moment, but you feel embarrassed all the same - for intruding upon them and for sleeping in their car as they drove you home half-asleep and still in their pajamas. 

You get up and use the back of your hand to wipe away any drool, snot or tears you might’ve let out while you were out like a light in the backseat of their car. The opened car door lets in the chilly night wind, and you shiver at the drop in temperature. 

“Here, have this”, he offers you a windcheater jacket - and you gratefully take it and zip it up till the collar of the clothing lightly brushes your chin.  He extends his hand to you, and you take it  - letting his calloused palm warm up your cold fingers as he escorts you out of the vehicle. Once you’re out on the concrete pavement, you notice Johnny leaning against one of the many lamp posts scattered across your street. He’s rubbing his hands for some warmth, and the yellow streetlights act like a halo around his tousled mohawk. He’s angelic. 

The steady echo of your footfalls catches his attention, and he turns to look at you with such warmth in his eyes that you falter in your steps for a moment. His kind, blue eyes look at you like you’re the moon - like you’re something familiar and he’s known you forever. 

You do not know what to make of it. 

“Had a nice sleep, lass?” he asks you casually, and you feel the tip of your ears warm up in embarrassment. 

You nod demurely, before responding, “Yeah, I did. I’m so sorry I troubled you with escorting me back home”. 

“Don’t apologize”, Simon speaks up as he rests a gentle hand on your left shoulder, before he joins Johnny in standing in front of you. He looks at you with an unreadable look, and you worry that he can see what you don’t wish anyone to notice. That he can tell. 

“We had to make sure our bonnie reached her home safe”, Johnny quips, and you feel your resolve crumble just a little bit - his honeyed words coaxing you to hug him and it catches him off guard, just a little. To feel your arms wrap around his body, to feel your heart beat so fast before falling into synch with his

“Thank you”, and you mean it - for taking care of you, for making you forget your shitty office and your shitty job for the night, for driving you back home, for showing you what love is (even though it burnt you from inside to see what they have and know that you’d never have that). 

You’re thankful to them for a lot of things. 

You’re curled up on your side on the bed as you try to catch some sleep before the sun greets you from between the curtains over your window, but all attempts to go back to sleep fail you. 

You almost wish you hadn’t been woken up. You almost wish you were still in their car, letting them drive and talk to each other. You almost wish you hadn’t left their bed - letting their rough hands gently caress her into a peaceful slumber, feeling their love for each other fill her up. 

You should’ve at least gotten their number. 

It was worth a shot, and if they didn’t want anything to do with you after tonight, you’d have been able to console yourself with the possibility that you won’t have to see them in the future and get taunted by the very notion that you have been all too desperate and all too needy for someone to love you. 

But you didn’t, and you caress your own arm with light fingers as you convince yourself that it was all for the best that you hadn’t done anything about it. 

This was all for one night. They just needed someone to warm their beds for a night, and you did just that. Wishing for it to be something more is just plain stupid on your part. They’ve loved each other for a lifetime, and you’ve known them for only a night. You cannot fathom carving a place for yourself between Johnny and Simon. Simon and Johnny. 

Not without becoming an unwanted third wheel - tolerated by the couple since they’re too courteous to tell you off. Not without becoming a placeholder - a human paperweight until a better man or a better woman comes along to be where they rightfully belong. With them. 

So you hug yourself tight with your nails digging into your arm, and gently rock back and forth in the same place on your bed, as you soothe yourself with empty words and tell yourself that what you did was a brave thing - and this was all for the best, even if it makes your chest feel like a hollowed out tree, empty from within. 

Note -

The education system is unfair in many ways, and going into academia and research is definitely not going to be a walk in the park for you. But your passion for the subject had you undeterred - leaping at the first chance of pursuing your postgraduate degree from one of the most prestigious universities in all of the United Kingdom. And yet, the printed letter you had received last week is threatening your dream and you do not know if there is any way for you to salvage it. 

You have rapidly applied for financial aid, scholarships, internships and even odd jobs - but most of the potential employers have either ghosted you or put your name on a never-ending waitlist. You cannot wait till next year to know if they would hire you for minimum wage, damn it. 

By the time they reach out to you, you might already be well on your way back home. And you do not want to go back home. 

A few tears of frustration bubble up in your eyes, leaving hot tear tracts on your skin as you try to wipe them away. You need a break. God knows when was the last time you had slept. 

At moments like these, when life was too much and the stress made the idea of death all the more inviting to you, your inner voice - your Omega, someone you have suppressed and killed with your own violent hands, would resurface into your life like a phantom and she would haunt you with incredulous ideas and sweet impossibilities. Need someone, need Alpha, she would whisper to you all sultry, Wanna be taken care of. Too much, too much, too much-

And you would bury her remains again. 

You cannot be soft. You cannot be kind. You cannot let people know you care. 

It would only get you killed. Or worse. 

You get up to leave the room on shaky legs and your knees buckle after staying so still for hours on end. You enter the small kitchen, put the kettle filled with water on the stove and turn it up to high heat as you lean against the island and rub your hands over your languished face. You’re so tired. So fucking tired. 

The kettle simmers over the fire, letting out a small hiss from its spout. You pay it no heed. You think and think and think of all the possible ways you can salvage this mess of a situation - only to end up with nothing. 

The market hasn’t been kind, and you do work as a TA and some freelance work online as an editor to ease your financial worries, but it is not enough. 

You can always take up more shifts at the floral shop, but that can also possibly interfere with your academic schedule - which is the last thing you could possibly want. You can always call back home, but the very idea of it fills you with dread and makes your stomach turn and sicken you even more. You could-

The kettle lets out a loud whistle, steam oozing out of it rapidly and the mobile phone in your jeans rings at the same time, startling you into action. You turn and hurriedly turn the stove off, letting the kettle rest on the island as it lets out all the steam stored in the ceramic vessel. 

You abandon the pot of leafy concoction, opting to go outside into your living space to finally pick up your ringing phone. You wipe your clammy hands on a hand towel lying nearby before you swipe the green button to pick up the call. 

“Hello?” you state your name, “Who is it?”

“Good afternoon, Miss” the feminine voice greets you over the mobile, “This is the Larksky Fertility Clinic”. 

Your heart stills. 

You read the email the clinic representative had sent you after you got off the call with her. 

Alice was her name. Alice sounded like a kind woman. 

You read through the attachment files in the mail. The pamphlet outlined the vision and works of the fertility clinic, highlighting their doctors and the various fertility testing and treatments they offered to people and couples alike. The other attachment files consisted of the bare minimum information about the couple that are currently seeking you out in order to conceive. 

Mr. Simon Riley and Mr. John Mactavish. 

Both are ex-military - one of them is a personal fitness trainer and the other runs a security company. They’re willing to negotiate the price for your ‘assistance’; which is something you’re grateful for, even though you’d have done it for free once upon a time. 

While you have always been unsure about parenthood being the right path for you (and your personal aspirations and fears wouldn’t necessarily allow you to indulge in such ideas just yet), you have always wished to help people create the families they deserve. And you believe this call to be some sort of sign, corny as it might sound to some. 

Maybe it's divine intervention. Or manifestation. Or some spiritual signal. 

You have always been willing to help others out in any way possible - from taking on extra workload and sharing necessities to blood donations and volunteer work. At one point, you had been looking forward to helping people out with completing their families - eager to see them so ecstatic about becoming parents. The idea of doing this for money solely leaves your mouth dry, as if you have swallowed cotton - and yet, yet. 

It wouldn’t hurt to try, anyway. Sending out a response through your email, you confirm the time and date of the meeting with the clinic. You console yourself  and reason with your heart (or what is left of it anyway) - you need the money, you always wanted to do this, now is a good time anyway. 

A/N -

Simon, who has a hard time expressing his gratitude to his Sergeant, but he can show it in more 'unconventional' ways. Simon, who needs to feel Johnny close to him in bed, in order to have a good night's sleep. Simon, who cannot help but imagine what a life with Soap would be like, if he were to retire from the military altogether. Simon, who feels his mouth dry a little, whenever he glances at even a sliver of Soap's exposed skin from his too-loose tank tops. (Summer has been brutal this time around, for some reason and Soap has been killing him with his tempting body, to be frank.)

Simon who's instructed by Price to go to therapy/get a psych eval before he re-joins the task force. Simon, who along with Soap, is forced to look through newspapers and online articles and reviews until he stumbles upon a therapist who specializes in veterans and is covered by his insurance, thank fuck.

Soap drives Simon to the therapist and even stays in the reception hall while Simon goes through a session, but by God is he distracted by how pretty his therapist is. You're just the most beautiful woman he had probably laid his eyes on in years, and he's pretty sure the filthy thoughts he has for you are totally inappropriate and only reserved for you and Soap. Simon has his dark eyes flutter shut and move around the room, trying his best not to ogle you but failing anyway as he notices your cleavage in your tight white blouse. He's aloof, and curt - if only to save you from the depravity that has consumed his brain.

He wonders how you'd react if he were to bend you over that office table of yours and fuck your brains out. You always look so stressed, you seem like you need it - need someone to take care of you the way you seem to be trying to 'take care' of him.

You're frustrated. You know that someone like Simon clearly has gone through hell, and you want to help him, but you're out of your depth regarding how to assist him. You almost refer him to a more experienced therapist, that is until Simon decides to show you a glimpse or two into his life - telling you about his mother and about Tommy, rarely would he be amenable to talking about his late father though. And you wouldn't force him to talk about things he doesn't wish to touch upon either.

He would sometimes talk about Johnny - 'a dear friend' of his who is helping him out during his recovery. He would sometimes get this almost fond look in his eyes, and you'd wonder how long it takes for Simon to realize that Johnny is more than a friend to him.

Simon talks briefly about his time in the military, almost all names and, places, and information are hidden for your safety. The first time he musters up the courage to talk about his father, he couldn't stop tapping his foot against the marble floor, his hands trembling as he recalls memories of his terrible childhood. Seeing the behemoth of a man

Simon, who finds himself falling deeper in love with Soap, and yet feels shame surrounding him at the prospect of his obsession with his sweet little therapist and her caring attitude. Simon, who wants to be happy just this once, and have the family that he so desperately craves and deserves after the shitty life he had to suffer through, decides to finally plan how to bring you and Johnny closer to him - creating a safe haven for all three of you.

You don't know that he has your phone tapped and that he has been able to track out your address (thanks to military connections). You barely pay attention to the stuffed toy on your vanity table, unaware of the nanny cam inside of it that allows Simon to spy on your every move. He's a gentleman, still. So he doesn't necessarily spy on you when you change into your clothes, or get out of the shower - wet and dripping, your soft body wrapped up in a towel. He definitely tries his best to ignore the hard boner he pops even at the slightest show of your skin.

Soap gets increasingly worried at the prospect of Simon regularly going to the therapist, and then disappearing into his study room for hours on end - barely speaking a word to him ever since he started taking therapy seriously.

On one such day, when Simon leaves for therapy on his own, he insists that Soap stays home and rests - he's been working so hard and clearly deserves to have a day to himself. In his hurry to meet you, the lieutenant leaves his study room unlocked and unguarded - and Johnny lets his curiosity get the best of him. 

Johnny spots the still-open laptop, and surfs through it all - his mind feeling a concoction of disgust, envy, and even awe as he notices how thorough Simon had been when it came to not only vetting you but also keeping eyes on you constantly through secretive means. The device has probably hundreds of hours of footage of you and to be honest, the more he snoops around, the more he can see why Ghost would go out of his way to do it. 

"She's perfect, ain't she?" Simon grumbles from behind him, and Johnny feels his heart fall to his stomach. He realizes that leaving the room unlocked was not a mistake, but rather an intentional move on his partner's behalf. 

The masked man claps his shoulder with his firm hand, egging him on to watch you relax in your office - leaning back into your leather armchair, your chest heaving as you close your eyes and relax before your next patient arrives. 

"Made for both of us", Simon goads him, and Johnny cannot find it in himself to disagree. 

Note -

You feel the shame that comes with making the wrong choice - you can feel your ears burn and your eyes sting with tears, can feel your tongue turn to lead and your mouth dry up as if it’s filled with cotton. You inhale deeply, and you feel your throat bob painfully as you greedily gulp in any amount of air you can get in the clammy warehouse. 

It’s either this or getting locked in a cage forever. 

You didn’t even think of making a getaway the moment those men decided to bind your hands tightly and covered your head with a sack, cutting off your connection from the outside world entirely as they abducted you, hoping to get high praise from their boss for such a pretty catch. You feel your spine creep up with goosebumps as their disgusting hands touch you and manhandle you, forcing you to lie down in what you assume to be the trunk of the car. The sack over your head does a good job at hindering your sight, making it impossible to note the car or its license plate.

You stay stuck, occasionally moving and bumping around in the claustrophobic space and you can only pray to God that you make it out of this ordeal alive. 

For what feels like hours, you let your body sway with the movement of the vehicle and feel the extra tyres dig into your ribs at every bump or pothole, helpless to do anything at all. Eventually, the car comes to a stop and you are grateful that the constant moving and the smell of petrol didn’t make you spill your guts out in the back of the car, the sack over your head promising nothing but a pitiful death by choking on your own vomit. 

The trunk is opened and you are pulled upright, and all you are thankful for is that you are out of that closed box of a space and you can finally breathe. You feel disgust at the sweat that coats you, but sigh out in relief as the soft breeze caresses your skin as it cools your body. You do not resist as you are forced to walk, hearing nothing but a few uncomprehensive murmur behind you as your ears buzz and your mind screams at you to RUN RUN RUN RUN RU-

You shove that line of thought somewhere back in your mind, somewhere unreachable because you know, you fucking know that if you even slightly move in a way that seems threatening, these guys will not hesitate to empty their guns into your body. 

They just need an excuse for it anyway. 

You have decided to not give them that. 

You feel the creaky metal doors slam shut behind you, the noise reverberating in your ears; your lack of sight heightening your other senses, making you undergo a sensory nightmare of sorts as you try your best to survive in the unknown territory. 

You come to a stop, and feel someone guide you with their hand over the small of your back - the touch nauseating you, flashes of unpleasant memories making you shiver in fear and rage, and it is almost enough for you to strangle the guy; if not for your bound hands and the threat of death imminent in the air. 

One of the goons takes it upon himself to grab your arm, hard enough to dig it into your skin - a promise full of bruises and malice. Then he guides you roughly a few steps forward, before pushing you down on a chair. He unties your hand, and you barely get a second of soothing your reddened wrists before he’s tying you to the arms of the wooden chair with ropes that dig into you. He does the same with your legs, and it’s not long until your body is bound to the chair you’re sitting on. The ropes are thick, and you resignedly accept your defeat when it’s due - knowing that you clearly don’t have the strength to break out of your binds. You can only hope that these people at least have the decency to hear you out before they discard your body down the river. 

You feel the gun press against your temple, the gunny sack over your head doing nothing to cushion the pressure on your head. You can only hope that the safety is on, or the guy with the gun is not too trigger happy. You don’t want to paint your brains out on the grimy floor anyway. 

It’s just a precautionary measure, you console yourself. 

You won’t get shot. Not yet. 

You are disoriented by your surroundings when your sack is pulled over your head, exposing you to the people around you. The few white lights dangling over you blind you, and the ropes are already chafing against your sweaty skin, and the white bodycon dress sticks to you, already dirtied by the grime and the dust you have encountered along the way. 

I must be a sight for sore eyes, you think sarcastically, blinking away the pain to take in the men standing before you. 

You have heard of them. Of course, you have. You do not stay a part of your family without knowing about the infamous 141. The elite of the elite in the dark, dirty business your family partakes in. People rarely see them, some even wish on shooting stars to get a meeting of a lifetime with the members of 141 - some of the finest, richest men in England’s mafia. Almost all of the sea routes belong to them, allowing them to easily smuggle in arms, drugs and more into the Queen’s dear country. Allies of 141 benefit from their profits, and are even offered protection. Relation to 141 meant only one thing for people - pure, absolute power over everything. 

Your father had once hoped to be a part of this organization. He had endlessly tried to impress them, wishing nothing more than a lick of the power they held in their scarred, steady hands - all of the lies, deceit and illusions failing him, as he ultimately couldn’t carve a place for himself in the group. This failure of his made him jaded, angry at the world and the rest of your family for this unfair transgression committed against him. Finally, he planned to use you as a pawn to expand his power, forging an alliance in marriage with an ally that has always served as a thorn in the side to the chagrin of 141. 

Enemy of my enemy…

You partly blame them for your sorry state, half-heartedly wishing that they would’ve entertained your mercurial father for just a little longer so you could elope with your friends and leave the country, never to return. However, the thought of that madman having the power to influence all of England always left a bad taste in your mouth. 

The men in front of you are the most powerful men in all of England. Possibly one of the most powerful men in the continent of Europe even. The four men are dressed to the nines, a stark contrast to the filthy warehouse you’re stuck in, and you cannot help but look up at them with aching eyes, staring at them in awe and reverence. 

The man with the skull mask draws your attention first, leaning against a table you missed to take note of earlier. He’s dressed in all black - a black coat over a white shirt that hugs his wide shoulders tightly, and you cannot miss the brown holster against his hip, his hands in the pockets of his black pants. You cannot deny that you’re intrigued about him and all that he hides behind that mask of his.  His eyes, looking like two brown dots from where you sit, size you up  - highly alert and ready to swiftly get rid of you, if it comes down to it. 

Your eyes shift a little to the right and you find yourself staring at a majestic man. He’s dressed in a three-piece, along with a well-groomed beard, and his dark hair is combed back, not a strand out of place. He’s old enough to be your daddy, but by God, he looks like someone who could ruin you. The men behind you bow down in reverence and you can only assume that he’s the ringleader of this circus show - a dangerous circus show where you’re most likely to lose your life. 

The man standing to his right seems to look closer to your age - dark, tall, slim with a pretty face and full lips. His curly hair seems to have a mind of its own, letting a coil or two loose on his face, which he quickly tucks behind his ears swiftly. What draws you in the most are his eyes - dark and mischievous, carrying a brightness in them that you can only recall in childhood photos and you almost feel envious as your own has dulled down over the years. 

And the man beside you speaks, “You alright?” and your concentration shifts to him. Your eyes widen a bit, surprised to not notice him before - with his accent and mohawk and kind eyes that crinkle a bit when he looks at you, his visage directly blessed by a Hellenistic deity whose name you have long forgotten. 

You drop your gaze to look at your lap, embarrassment creeping up on you like invasive ivies - you probably look out of place, with your white dress and the way you gaped at them probably gave them something to laugh about after they’re done getting rid of your body today. You do not reply just yet, your hammering heart making it hard to focus on them and the barrage of questions. 

You have been ill-prepared. 

You ran away on a whim, with nothing but the bare necessities packed up. You had not expected to make it this far, straight in the heart of  your mortal enemies’ lair. You had focused so much on leaving without a trace, that you had forgotten to cook up a half-baked story that could satiate the natural curiosity of the 141. 

They have been something out of a fairytale for you, a fable used to scare people into subservience. And yet, these godly men stand before you, grace your unworthy eyes to admire their visage until you’re ultimately slaughtered like a lamb for wandering too deep into their territory. 

You wait and in turn make the men around you wait for an answer - something, anything really; and with each second passing by, you cannot help but give into the panic that’s taking control of your frail body.  Your lungs burn, and no matter how deeply you breathe, you just cannot seem to soothe the ache within you. 

Maybe I’m having a heart attack, you think earnestly. If I die right this instant, I will not have to deal with my family. Or my betrothed. Or with 141. 

However, fate has often been cruel to you. 

The man with the mohawk notices your shortened breath, instantly alarmed at your worsening state. 

“Oi, Ghost. Pass me the bottle”, he asks, and through bleary eyes you notice him catch a flying plastic bottle in his hands. With gentle fingers, he grabs your chin and tilts your head up until your eyes meet his. His fingers rub gentle circles into your skin, raising goosebumps in their wake. He gently urges you, “Open ya mouth for me, hen. Drink up”.

Suddenly parched and unable to handle the multiple eyes on you, you silently comply as you tilt your head back and open your mouth. He gently presses the bottle to your lips, allowing you to take slow, sure sips from it. Some of it trickles down, wetting the neck of your dress but you can hardly care as you gently lean back as his fingers slowly play with your hair, sending pleasant tingles down your spine - almost enough to make you whimper in relief. 

After a while, when he deems it enough, he retracts the bottle from you and caps it, putting it down near the foot of the chair. You compose yourself, silently berating yourself for letting these men see you at such a low point - so weak and vulnerable. 

But no more of that. 

The small reprieve offered by the man standing nearby gave you enough time to compose yourself - enough time to cook up a story that will save you from showing all your cards on the table. You can only hope that by the time you’re finished with this ordeal and have gathered enough resources, you can finally make your getaway far away from here. 

God knows you’d kill for a vacation right about now. 

Your eyes meet his again, and he smiles down on you kindly, deciding this is a good time as any to finally introduce himself to you. 

“I’m Soap. Lassie, dae ye hev any idea aboot where ye’re?”

Weird name, but you nod your head nonetheless. You don’t know where exactly you have landed up, but you do know that you’re in their territory, with no allies to support you or protect you. 

The very thought of it terrifies you. 

“So, ye dae ken who 141 is?”, he asks again, and you nod your head in confirmation as you finally recognize his accent as somewhere from up north in Scotland. 

“Why are you here then?” a deep voice with a Manchester accent asks you, and your eyes flutter across the room until they land on the masked man again. The distance along with his mask makes it near impossible to gauge what he’s thinking, how he’s looking at you - but you can wager a solid guess. 

He’s probably looking at you with distrust, like you’re a skittering deer caught in headlights - about to run off to god knows where if given the chance. He’s thinking about how shady you are, how you need to be vetted before they even entertain you and your potential sob story or how he itches to shoot you in the head with the gun he has kept in his holster. 

Frankly enough, you don’t give two fucks about his thoughts. 

“You’re 141, and I have valuable information. Information that can help you gain access to parts of England you constantly fight over with other gangs”, you speak up, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear you. You are surprised that your voice doesn’t crack, your eyes don’t shy away from the heated look the skeleton-wearing man throws your way. 

The leader straightens up, asking you what you have been dying to hear ever since you stepped foot in London. 

Finally.  

“And what do you want from us for that?”

“Protection.”

It isn’t long till you are untied from the chair by Soap, finally rubbing your raw hands - cringing at how your wrists ache and your feet are no better, but you leave them be. You thank him for untying you, finally ‘free’ to walk on your own as you are escorted by him and by his masked companion to a black Mercedes-Benz 200. Soap is kind enough to open the door for you, letting you sit at the back of the car. He closes the door and goes around the vehicle, finally taking his seat as the driver. You look out the window, wondering where the other man would sit - beside Soap or beside you. 

Your query is answered when you hear the car door opposite to you slam shut, watching him warily as the hulk of a man climbs inside and adjusts himself, sitting carefully to not bump his head onto the roof of the Benz. The car hums to life as Soap finally inserts the key into the ignition, dabbling with the manual shaft and finally driving - enroute to a new, unknown destination. 

The skull-face (a nickname your brain supplied you with) looks at you pointedly, and you finally look back at him after what felt like a millennia of him burning holes into your skull. 

“What?” you snide, clearly with no energy or tact to be bashful around the man who is totally capable of breaking your bones with his bare hand. 

He nods, and it draws your attention to the little blindfold he’s held in his hands. 

You groan out, not ready to return to the shadows just yet. 

“Not again”, you almost whine out, turning around so your back faces him and you wait for his deft hands to cover your world with darkness again. 

“Gotta have to, love”, you hear Soap say as his steady hands steer the wheel around and work the manual shift to change gears, “Protocol says so. It’s just for newcomers, ain’t it, Ghost?”. 

The man behind you grumbles but refuses to grace his partner with a response. 

So he’s called Ghost. 

You grumble slightly before crossing your arms like a petulant child, but not before making a sarcastic quip. 

“If you’re going to get kinky with that blindfold on me, at least take me out to dinner first”. 

You let out a sigh as you feel the dark piece of cloth tighten around your eyes, and you can hear Soap guffaw out loud. 

“That’s a good one, lassie!”, he laughs, and you feel the car turn slightly as he drives on the road, feeling a few bumps along the way. 

Ghost scoffs a little at your little snide - it’s lighthearted and breathy, and it seems like you may have just won the lottery by winning his approval. 

It’s small but it’s a start. 

“And if you’re worried about dinner”, Ghost speaks, and you jump slightly at the sudden sound he makes.  

“If you survive the night, you might be able to get some after all”. 

After what seems like a drive of thirty minutes, the car finally comes to a stop and you’re glad for that. 

The silence had been comfortable, it gave you time to think and process all that has happened so far.  But you’re also eager to get the blindfold off your face and finally see where these men have ‘escorted’ you to. 

Feeling your anxiety, Ghost graciously takes off the piece of cloth over your eyes, and you blink dumbly, trying to get your bearings about you. He gets out of the car, before walking around it and opening your door for you. 

What a gentleman. 

You climb out of the vehicle, finally looking at what was in front of you. 

Despite being a mafia heiress and witnessing luxury of all levels, you look at the mansion in front of you with a reverence unmatched - unable to believe that this is where one of 141 possibly lives here, or operates from. 

The grandeur of this place is indescribable. The mansion is Victorian, and is surrounded by acres of grassland, laid with concrete routes that you’re currently walking on. There is a fountain across the main door of the mansion, and in the center of the water pool stands Aphrodite, her marble figure adding a touch of classicism to it. She looks serene, despite her residence being among the tumultuous water of a fountain. There are roses growing around the marble piece, surrounding the deity with color - almost as if these flowers have been planted as an offering to her. 

It is a lovely sight. You wish you could look at her forever. 

And yet you move onwards, leaving behind the goddess of love behind you, sneaking a final glance at her as the wooden door closes behind you. 

There’s an ache that settles in the middle of your chest as you follow the two men inside, mourning your past and yet awaiting the future ahead of you. 

The study room is majestic. 

Walls are covered with shelves filled with thick books. You can recognize some of the classics kept there, mainly Russian literature that talked of death and human suffering. There is a red loveseat to your left, with a small coffee table with a glass top. And to your right, you can find a small cabinet, locked and untouched, as it collects dust in the large room. 

You see the leader of 141, Jonathan M. Price, sitting in his leather chair, reading a file laid out on the oak table. He looks like he belongs here - regal and untouchable. And you almost feel out of place in your dirtied dress, and you’re certain that the sack over your head has messed up your hair now. 

The fact that he looks attractive as fuck, sitting and reading with his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing his strong arms,  does not help you. At all. 

You wait until he finally looks up and notices you standing between his men. He gives them a look, and they both leave you. You feel Soap gently pat your shoulder as he closes the door behind him, following his companion out. 

“So, why should I not throw you out for the police to find you?”

That’s the first thing he says to you, his eyes scrutinizing you as he gets up from his seat, walking until he’s at most half a dozen steps away from you. One of his hands picked up the glass of scotch on the table, sipping it with narrowed eyes. 

You gulp a little at the unspoken threat - at the hidden promise of delivering your body in pieces at the threshold of your childhood home, at the implication that if the next words that come out of your mouth doesn’t satisfy him, you won’t walk out of this room alive. 

“I know how to help you. I promise. The information I have is valuable”, you speak, feeling your chest swell with pride when you don’t stutter your words, when you don’t cower in fear in front of the dangerous mafia leader, when you don’t get on your knees and beg him to spare you. 

“And the price is what, protection? Do you think I’m daft?” he raises his voice, and now you cannot help but flinch a little. 

“Take a gamble, sir. It won’t hurt to try someone new for change”, you bargain with him, hoping that he’ll take the bait. You’d both win if he did. 

There’s silence in the air, and you take this as permission to present your case before your metaphorical judge, hoping to persuade him from not condemning you to death and striking his gavel down. 

“Just once. Give me a chance this one time. I won’t let you down, sir”, you almost beg, and you see his eyes waver - just a little bit, and that is enough for you to keep going. 

“I’ll tell you something that’ll help you out, and if I’m right, you give me a fair chance. Keep me here, safe and protected. And if I fool you….”, you feel your stomach drop as you finish:

“You are allowed to do whatever you wish with me”.

You wait now. 

He doesn’t speak for a few moments, and your agitation doesn’t help your restlessness. Your leg bounces in its place as you look at Mr. Price, unsure of what is going on inside that dangerous, beautiful brain of his. And when you finally open your mouth to say something, anything really - he beats you to it. 

“What’s your name, girl?”

Your brain struggles with the sudden interest in what you’re called, and you wait a beat too long to answer him with an alias(“Marie”, you call yourself and all Price does is look at you like he doesn’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth). That makes you look suspicious. Fuck. 

But you have been suspicious all up to now, you might as well keep up for now. 

Moreover, they’d get off your back when you prove yourself right. 

Or you’d buy yourself just enough time to run away again. 

You’ve been getting better at that now. 

After you tell him all that you can, making sure to keep the more sensitive information under wraps for now - for everyone’s sake really, you look at him as Price nods, gently rubbing his forehead and now he looks almost forlorn, the stress of running an illegal empire taking a toll on his body and soul. He looks older now, frailer somehow - and in this moment, you almost feel sorry for him. 

“Fine, I’ll entertain you for now”, he breathes out, and you almost find yourself crying from joy. 

You almost contemplate getting on your knees and bowing down to him to show your gratitude, but you do no such thing. Instead, you offer him a small smile and you don’t fail to notice how he drinks it all up like heady ambrosia. 

But his next words force you to stay on your guard:

“But if you do anything suspicious, make sure I don’t notice. ‘Cuz I’m not as forgiving as I look”. 

Price quickly dismisses you, now tired and in no mood to entertain his new guest, as he calls upon one of the men from the warehouse to show you ‘your room’. 

Kyle(That’s the name of the young, pretty man) silently escorts you to a room on the third floor of the house, and despite following your escort with sharp eyes as you take a note of everything that interests you or stands out, you still find it hard to memorize the layout of this place. 

He stands before a teak wood bifold door, and he opens the door for you to walk inside. Before he leaves you to your devices, he kindly informs you, “Dinner will be at 8. It won’t be hard to find the dining hall”. 

And then he’s gone. 

He has been apprehensive about your provisional arrangements; you had seen the look he sent to his leader when Price asked him to show you the room you’d be staying in. 

You know he doesn’t like it any more than you do, but you’re touched at the hospitality he’s extending towards you - a temporary white flag for the unstable truce you have established between yourself and 141. 

You take in the room with a white bed and white sheets, with sparse decoration and a cleanliness you can never find in someone’s room. 

So this is a guest room. 

You find your bag to be there, and you wonder if Price or Kyle asked someone to leave your belongings here. The bag looks untouched for the most part, and the tightness in your chest lightens a bit at that. 

You think about taking a bath and changing into the spare clothes you packed in the duffel bag in a hurry. You think about going out and exploring the place, thinking of all the secrets you can soak up into your being. 

But you’re so tired. 

The clock hanging on the wall tells you it’s a little past 6, and you have some time before dinner will be served. You think of your bruised body, and your sore wrists and the headache that’s blooming across your temples, about how hard it is to keep your eyes open and look around you. 

You look at the soft bed, and think how it won’t be too bad to rest for just a little. 

In the bed, under the soft covers, you think of everyone you left behind. Your power-hungry father, who is probably going off the walls, swearing to kill you with his own hands when he sees you next. Your ignorant little brother, who’s been sent to America to study business at Harvard. Your betrothed who has quite possibly become the butt of the joke overnight. 

You are scared of how he’s feeling, about what he must be planning for you, should you ever make the mistake of returning back to him. 

(You’d rather the 141 kill you and dump your body under the bridge, brutalized and scarred beyond recognition.)

And your poor mother, who will now deal with the repercussions of your actions. 

For her, you cry. 

fin.

NOTE -

*Reader doesn't use her real name, she uses an alias but it will be temporary and rare. (probably)

Also it was tougher for me to describe the places and furniture more than writing the overall plot, etc.