Part Twelve
Mafia!141 x courier!reader
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Summary: Sanderson gets a taste of what the 141 can do. Our favorite Scot gets some alone time with Simon. CW: kidnapping, torture, there will be smut, mdni, complete series warnings AN: um hi, please enjoy!
Kyle may have been the face of some of their more legal dealings, but he got his hands dirty when he needed to. Today he was needed at one of the warehouses to collect a very special person.
Ryder was still locked in one of their cells, he had yet to speak about who he had been working for that night, but he had talked about a whole slew of other things, including the fact that he slept with a woman who was married to a very important politician. Kyle was still doing the work to verify that claim. It could be a very useful situation.
Tonight though, Ryder was going on a little trip.
John had Sanderson locked up in one of the safe rooms in the penthouse, the room itself hidden behind a false wall that very few people knew existed. It was intended to be used as a panic room, but John had more frequently used it for special guests he wanted to keep close but out of sight. A man could be tied up inside, screaming for help and the person on the other side of the wall would never hear them.
Sanderson was destined for that room and even though Simon had reported back that the man had been cooperative John wanted him to know what was at stake, just how serious this situation was. Sanderson’s benefactor might have promised him death if he spoke but the 141 could do worse.
Ryder was soaking wet by the time Kyle arrived. He had been bathed, or rather, washed down with a hose and then shoved into clean clothes. He was knelt on the floor, his hands tied behind his back. His hair hung stringy from his head, dripping into his eyes. His face was covered in half healed bruises and a patchy beard.
Not even man enough to grow a full beard, Kyle thought viciously to himself, but then he banished that line of thinking. That wasn’t what made a man, Ryder was less of a man because he was a disloyal, spineless rat.
“Alright?” Kyle asked, sneering down at the bound man.
Ryder spit at Kyle’s feet.
“Careful,” he warned, Ryder recoiling from the perceived threat. “We have places to go, and if you behave you might lived to see this room again.”
"Fuck you, mate.”
"Not your mate, you made sure of that, didn’t ya?”
Ryder didn’t speak again, not after one of the guards bullied him into a gag and pulled a sack over his head. On the ride over to the penthouse, he didn’t move from his spot on the floor of the SUV. They could drive into Price’s private area of the building parking and head right to the private elevator to the penthouse. They controlled all of the security feeds for that part of the building as well as any other public areas that they may host guests in. They didn’t typically bring trash home, but many of their other guests, their business partners, appreciated their anonymity that came with their visits.
The penthouse was already buzzing with activity when they arrived. Simon and Soap were sat on the couch, Simon sipping a bourbon, the Scot drinking a beer and grinning at some joke Simon had said. They were looking comfortable and Kyle hoped that Simon took their talk seriously. He wasn’t trying to pawn off his lover on someone else, but Simon had lived a hard life, the man deserved all the happiness he could have.
Kyle knew the dangers of this line of work, the dangers of their past life. The incident with Ryder had more than hammered that home. And while the thrill of danger could be exhilarating, that moment had reminded Kyle that it wasn’t just about him, because when he came home that night his lovers had pampered him, showering him in their own versions of affection. Knowing that he could leave them behind? That he could be the cause of a gaping hole in Simon’s already fragile heart? Kyle knew that Soap’s affection wouldn’t be a replacement for him, but it made him feel better knowing that Simon was taken care of.
This wasn’t his typical line of thought, Kyle had spent years as a solider, many of those with John and Simon, and they knew the risks when they took those first tentative steps to being more. During that time and after, in the early days of the 141 becoming part of the Price family he hadn’t had this nagging worry.
It may have been this threat hanging over their heads, and unknown thing that could take his lovers away from him or him from them.
Kyle couldn’t let this cloud his decisions though, he needed a clear mind if they were going to tackle this thing head on. And that meant not worrying about Simon, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the sight of the two men squashed onto the couch that was meant for men of a much smaller stature. Soap may not have been as tall as Simon or John, but he made up for it with brawn.
“That him?” Simon asked, peeling his attention away from Soap.
Kyle nodded. They had both met Ryder since coming to work for the Price family, but he was looking decidedly unlike his usual self. No flashy new clothes, no bejeweled watches, no gold chain handing around his neck. He had been stripped of all of that.
“Waste of space, keeping him around.”
Ryder started to pull against his binds, his fingers flexing around nothing where they were tied behind his back.
“Don’t rile him up, save that for our guest.”
It was unlikely they would let Ryder go after this much time. He knew too much and had been far too abused by their organization. It went with the territory. They didn’t claim to be good men, they had done unspeakable things for crown and country, what was a little bit of crime from the comfort of home? Who got to decide when the killing was justified? Was righteous? Was for the common good?
It had been too easy for the Kyle to adjust to it. He hadn’t grown up around it like Soap or John, he didn’t have the rough upbringing that Simon did. Hell, he only knew about half of what Nikolai got up to when they were in the army.
In another life it might have bothered him to watch two of their men frog march Ryder into the room that had been prepared for this evening, it might have given him pause when they dragged out Sanderson, making a show of Ryder being dragged into the bedroom.
This was not another life and he felt nothing but annoyance as Ryder shouted against his gag.
A live stream had been set up of the bedroom where Ryder was taken. Sanderson was tied to a chair facing the screen. From there he could see Ryder. He was similarly bound to a chair.
“Yer goin’ tae watch this screen and then yer goin’ tae tell us what ye ken.”
Soap was all business now, none of the previous cheer remained.
On the screen Ghost appeared, walking across the space and roughly pulling the bag off of Ryder’s head. This was not Simon, not Kyle’s lover, this was the hardened solider, the man that got assignments others would not take, the suicide missions that he somehow always managed to come back from. John had put an end to those when Simon had joined the 141 but it didn’t take away from the fact that the man had talent.
Ghost had changed into all black, his face covered with a balaclava, the skull painted on it was worn at this point, but the idea was all the same. it was an intimidation tactic, they were putting on a show for Sanderson at John's request, but they were hoping for something more from Ryder.
He was half dead already, they had been feeding the man just enough to keep him alive but not enough to sustain him. He was gaunt as Ghost cut off his shift revealing a caved in chest, half healed wounds, and yellowing bruises. He had tacky tattoos, done in the traditional style but just a little too on the nose for someone who gave off the air of a wannabe gangster.
“Ready to talk?” Ghost’s voice was muffled over the stream, but the question was clear to Ryder, the man’s eyes wide as he tracked Ghost’s movements in the room, circling him and making a show of stopping at the table of instruments that that been set up for him.
Kyle knew he wouldn’t use any of them, he had seen the other man get more answers out of a prisoner with a pocketknife and cigarette than any of the fancy implements on the table. They were for show, part of the ambiance.
Ryder was mumbling something, the sound lost because he was still gagged.
Ghost picked up his knife, one that Kyle had seen him cleaning almost sensually on more than one occasion. He flipped a few times, shows just how comfortable he felt with it in his hand before approaching Ryder.
“This is ‘ow this is goin’ to go. I ask a question, you answer it and you get to keep your fingers. Fair?”
Ryder didn’t respond, he just continued to eye Ghost.
The camera angle was set up so that they had a clear view of Ryder, and at the moment the broad back of Ghost. Ryder was pale, paler than he had even been when Kyle pulled him from the warehouse. When Ghost removed the gag he took in wheezing gasps of air, his chest rising and falling rapidly. They hadn’t even gotten started and the man was shaking.
“Tell me who sent you.”
Ryder shook his head.
“Tell me, or I start with the pinky and work my way over.”
Ryder pulled against the zip ties around his wrists.
“I don’t want to watch this,” Sanderson whispered.
No one acknowledged him, not yet. Ghost had barely even started.
“Y’better start talkin’,” Ghost warned, approaching from the side of the frame so that his masked face was in view, the knife glinting in the light. He had a flare for the dramatic.
The door to the penthouse opened, the man gathered around the computer looked up as John entered the room they had Sanderson set up in.
“I miss anything?” He asked, casual, as if there wasn’t someone being tortured the room over. It wasn’t a rouse that it didn’t bother John, they had done worse, but it was a show for Sanderson. It said, look at us, look what we can do if you don’t cooperate.
They might have lacked the morals that other man had, that compass that told you right from wrong. That didn’t mean they didn’t have rules, guidelines for engagement. When John took over in his father’s place he wanted to make this city safer, he was given the opportunity to make the lives of these people better while still feeding the hunger for violence and control that the military had bred into him.
Kyle admired him something fierce.
He also couldn’t take his eyes off of him, Price was currently dressed like the mafia boss he was. Three piece suit, perfectly tailored, as he crossed the room he pulled the bow tie undone, cracking his neck and letting out a sigh. It was over the top but not all for Sanderson, Price had had a prior commitment that evening, a very convenient cover for the activities they had all been up to. Even though he very much was the driver of the truck that Simon and Soap had carried Sanderson into.
“Just gettin’started,” Soap answered.
"This is just getting started?” Sanderson asked, finally finding his tongue and looking very green around the gills.
“We take threats very seriously,” John explained, pulling the bow tie the rest of the way off and shrugging out of the jacket.
Sanderson didn’t look away from the screen as Ghost yanked Ryder’s hand free of the binds and positioned it on the table in front of him. He was babbling incoherently now, the words incomprehensible through the stream.
Ryder’s scream of pain was cut off by John pushing shut the laptop, ending the stream but not the interrogation that would hopefully get Ghost answers.
“I promise I’ll tell you everything,” Sanderson’s words were rushed, his chest rising and falling rapidly, the man was near to hyperventilating.
“Who is your boss?”
“I don’t know his name. When he first reached out it was to purchase Hermes, a solicitor contacted me about a buyer. But the app was outdated, I hadn’t worked at it all since I first made it. After I explained the technical side he offered to hire me. He arranged for everything, the move, the apartment.”
”And the threats?” John asked, crossing his arms over his chest and looming over Sanderson.
”Threats?”
“The ones that I have been receiving, deliveries courtesy of an Hermes courier.”
”I didn’t know it was threats. He told me to send him a list of couriers to choose from.”
”Why? Why not different people each time?”
”I don’t know, I asked, told him it was easier to just let anyone take the jobs. He didn’t want that. I have the emails, you can read them.”
"Why that courier?”
"I don't know why he chose them. They had a good rating on the app, worked most days. I could almost always price the deliveries well enough for them to take the job.”
"What does your benefactor know about them?”
"Personally? He has all of the credentials to access the admin, it has all of their employment info. It’s just me so I had to build the system to maintain itself as much as possible, but we can both access it, create any shipments, access any manifests. It’s not an unprofitable model at this scale, the overhead is minimum.”
"Don’t care about the overhead, mate.”
Kyle set a notebook on the table and a pen in front of Sanderson. The other man flinched away from him as he undid the ties of his left hand, the shows had done its job. Sanderson was appropriately afraid of them.
“I’m going to need you to write down everything you know about this man, no detail is too small.”
"I’ve tried to find him, back when he first reached out. He’s a ghost.”
"We have better resources, now get writing.”
*****
John hadn’t been able to pay attention to the interrogation, Sanderson’s words were meaningless when all he could think of was Simon, Ghost, in all black, the painted skull mask covering his face, eye black obscuring his skin, eyes hard like amber as they stared ahead. The shift from the man who had accompanied him to pick up Sanderson to the man who walked into that room with Ryder was breathtaking.
Hours later, when they were back at Price’s place on the edge of the city, John still couldn’t get the image out of his mind. Simon hadn’t returned yet, Price had sent Kyle and John home once they had gotten sufficient information out of Sanderson. Kyle was making calls the moment the car started, John driving them through the already familiar route from the penthouse to the house. He wanted to ask more about Ghost, about what they would do now, but Kyle had disappeared into Price’s office, leaving John to wandering the house alone.
It wasn’t until much later into the night that he woke to the sound of the door slamming shut, and hushed voices whispering before another door shut.
John had fallen asleep on the slick leather chesterfield in the living room, one of the plush throw pillows tucked under his head as he stared at the ceiling until his eyelids grew heavy and he drifted off to sleep. The light had been on when he had laid down, Kyle must have turned it off at some point. It wouldn’t have been the first time one of the 141 had found him asleep somewhere in the house that was not his own bed. He hadn’t been out of the service as long as the rest, his body still wired to get sleep whenever he could and where ever he could.
The couch was comfortable enough that he could just roll over and sleep the rest of the night. No one would bother him, not until the morning when Price would wake up at the crack of dawn and start banging around the kitchen as he made coffee.
It was a good enough plan, one that didn’t take much consideration when he already felt himself slipping into unconsciousness, convinced he was dreaming when he heard the footsteps approaching, heard his name being whispered.
John’s snapped open. The room was still dark, but not dark enough to miss the shadowy figure looming over him. Simon still had the mask on, he’s shoulders rising and falling as he breathed, tension clear in the slopes of muscle.
“Y’lright?” John asked, voice rough from sleep.
”Shouldn’t sleep ‘ere.”
”S’nae tae bad,” John replied, eyes closing again.
It was a testament to how comfortable John had been with the 141 that he barely acknowledge the feel of arms slipping under his neck and his knees. It was surely a dream, no one had every carried him to sleep as a child, the MacTavishes that had raised him had let him run wild in the Highlands and had never been the nurturing type. Maybe that’s why the sleep habits of soldiers had come so easy to him.
It was nice to imagine this was what it felt like to be loved. The feeling was fleeting, and even in his sleep John wanted to savor this moment, savor the warm press of another body against him, the beating of a heart, the smell of smoke, the smell of blood—
John’s eyes snapped open. It wasn’t a dream. He was very much being held in the arms of the man who just hours ago was cutting the fingers off another man.
A flurry of words poured from his mouth, his brain struggling to catch up.
"English, MacTavish,” Simon warned, hefting John up in his arms.
John couldn’t help but squirm, how the fuck was Simon carrying him like a baby?
Simon brought John to his room, dropping him unceremoniously on the bed, bursting the warm bubble. He didn’t move to leave, just stood there at the side of John’s bed looking down at him in the dark.
Knowing that Simon was still wearing the clothes he wore to interrogate Ryder, the scent of blood thick, the balaclava still pulled down over his face did something to John. Simon was a vision, even in the dark, even when he hid himself from the world, John saw him.
And now that he had felt those powerful arms around him? Lifting him up like a wean? Fuck, he was hard and if Simon didn’t leave soon the masked man was going to be treated to a show as he rubbed one out.
“Ye comin’ or goin’?”
”Wot?”
John shifted over in the bed, it was more than big enough for the two of them. When he had imagined being with Simon, and he had imagined it more than once, it hadn’t been like this. It had been far more hot and heavy, but there was something about the other man that put John on edge.
“Sit.”
It was too dark to make out Simon’s eyes, those little micro-expressions that John thought he could sometimes understand, so he held his breath as he waited, trying to will away his hard on.
When he thought the other man was about to leave, Simon took a step forward, twisting as he sat on the edge of the bed facing away from John.
Kyle and Price had cornered John after they had finished their plan to pickup Sanderson, the plan was easy, straightforward. John knew he could handle it, he was ready to show them he deserved his place here and when they stopped him he assumed it was to warn him to protect Simon, to have his six, but that had been so far from what they wanted.
Don’t have to mean anything, but you have our blessing.
Kyle had later sat with him and explained their relationship, explained how the unconventional partnership had started and how they had always left it open to more. Explained that the three of them had agreed that they deserved happiness in whatever form they could get it as long as they always remained loyal to each other in the ways that mattered.
What they hadn’t told him was how Simon felt about all of that, because right now John wanted nothing more to reach over and give them other man anything he wanted. Anything to quell the nervous energy that poured off of him.
“Ahm goin’ tae take yer jacket off,” John’s voiced was steadier than his hands as he reached out, giving Simon more than enough time to move.
Simon’s body radiated heat as John pulled back at the collar of the jacket, peeling it away and carefully maneuvering each of Simon’s arms out of it. The positioning was awkward, John knelt behind the other man, but it felt right.
Next was his shirt. John reaching between Simon’s waist and his arms, grasping the shirt at the bottom hem and pulling it up, forcing Simon to lift his arms as the shirt came up. It was discarded one the floor.
The pants were harder. He didn’t want to break the illusion, the semblance of privacy, push too hard against Simon’s boundaries. A shiver raced down John’s spine as he slipped off the bed and came to kneel in front of Simon. He only needed to scoot a few centimeters forward and he would be boxed in by those thick thighs.
With delicate, light touches he reached forward and unbuttoned Simon’s pants, pulling the zipper down before reaching up to grasp the belt loops and pulling them down. Simon helped, lifting his hips when the material bunched up. John wanted to savor this moment, savor the expanses of skin that was revealed, pale enough to see in the dim light.
He was knelt at the altar of a man who smelt like gunpowder and blood, but when his hand reached out and cupped John’s face it felt like salvation.
John looked up, not for permission, but something else, something he didn’t have words for. His mother had died before she could hold him, his father cast him aside in the name of safety but it was just a thinly veiled attempt to escape his own grief, the women that raised him did so out of duty, not out of love. He knew when he joined the army it would never fill that cavernous place he felt in his soul. No amount of rage, or anger, or bloodshed completed him.
“Kyle talked to ye?” Simon asked, finally breaking his silence, his face still blocked by the mask, his hand pulling away from John.
“Aye, both of ‘em. Got the full Captain treatment. ‘Ave tae ‘ave ye home by midnight or we're both grounded.”
It felt easier to tease Simon then to acknowledge the ache in his chest.
“Bloody hell.”
John wasn’t sure Simon had ground to stand on when he was sat in boxer briefs and a balaclava looking straight of a cheesy porno. But the quip had the intended effect as Simon’s shoulders dropped, muscles relaxing more and more.
Could that be enough for John? Could knowing that he helped the Ghost relax be enough when he knew the man he was knelt before could always just go back to his other lovers and John would be right here, alone, just an afterthought, a bother.
"Wot's goin' on in that pretty 'ead of yours?"
John wished the light was on in the room so that he could see Simon better, could study the planes of his chest, the scars that bisected his skin, the splotches of blood that had permeated his clothes and stood out against the pale expanses.
He stored it all away for later when he could draw it in the sketchbook he had stashed in his nightstand.
"Ye think Ahm pretty?"
"If you could shut your bloody gob for more than five seconds you'd be the prettiest thing around."
"Ah ken a way ye could shut me up?"
John liked to think he could see the heat in Simon's gaze, but the room was dark and all he had to go on was the way Simon's hand reached back out, fingers digging into his hair and pulling his head back.
John couldn't swallow down the whimper or the heat that crept down his neck when Simon chuckled darkly, leaning forward and crowding in to John's space.
"Y'wanna suck my cock?"
John tried to nod, not trusting his voice, but the hold Simon had on him kept him in place.
Tonight he would suck Simon's cock, tomorrow he could worry about that emptiness no amount of cum would fill.
"Gaggin' for it already?"
His gaze fell to Simon's lap, his cock was pressed again the fabric of his boxers demanding John's attention. He felt cross-eyed, trying to see more but Simon's still held is head back.
"Please, Simon, please let mah go, please," John begged, his own cock pressed hard again his jeans.
"Come on then."
As soon as John felt the pressure abate, Simon's fingers releasing their hold, he was leaning forward, fingers slipping into the waistband of Simon's boxers and yanking them down impatiently.
Again he lamented the darkness of the room, he would give anything to properly see the beast of a cock that now laid heavy on Simon's leg.
John reached forward, one hand snaking around Simon's leg and pulling himself forward so that he was between Simon's thighs firmly while the other ghosted over the velvety skin of his cock. John wanted to savor this moment, savor the musk of Simon's skin, the warmth between his legs, that first taste as he pulled back Simon's foreskin and lapped at his slit.
Simon groaned as John swirled his tongue around the head of his cock before sucking it into the wet warmth of John's mouth. John was certain he had never sucked a cock like this, the girth of it was impressive and intimidating. The fact that this wasn't a quick hookup in a dingy pub bathroom or broom closet on base hiding from their CO had his head spinning.
He hallowed out his cheeks, sucking on the head before popping off, wasting no time before licking down, tonguing at the veiny shaft.
When he reached the base he nuzzled into the warmth there, the delicate skin, the vulnerability. This giant of a man reduced to nothing but a moaning mess when John sucked Simon's sack into his mouth.
The feel of the delicate skin had John rutting against nothing, his own cock painfully hard, pressing against this zipper in search of any amount of friction.
It was the most exquisite torture.
Simon's hand tightened in John's hair while John's hand slicked up and down Simon's spit soaked cock. John had spent weeks thinking about this cock and now that he was here, in a place he never thought he would be, he didn't want this moment to end.
"Goin' to let me cum down that tight little throat?" Simon growled, pulling John away so that Simon could peer down at him.
It might have been dark in the room, but John could feel the hunger in that heavy gaze.
John didn't bother to answer, diving forward with renewed enthusiasm, quickly working Simon's cock as far as it could go. While John bobbed and swallowed against Simon's cockhead, his hand was wrapped firmly around the base, sticky from spit and precum, adding that extra pressure that John knew from experience was delicious.
John was lost in the movements, the rhythmic back and forth, his own heart beating so loudly he couldn't hear Simon's warnings that he was going to cum, didn't know what was happening until he was gulping down Simon's milky spend, the unexpected thrust hitting the back of his throat, blocking his breath in a way that had his limited vision blacking out around the edges.
Then he heard it, two works breaking through the static, fuck Johnny.
Johnny. Johnny. Johnny.
His name on Simon's tongue bouncing around his head, the sudden loss of air, the lightheadedness, the taste of Simon on his tongue, the combination of it all had John cuming in his own pants.
He pulled off of Simon's cock with a pop, leaning in to lick it clean before sitting back on his heels. His thoughts were fuzzy, his breathe still ragged, shoulders rising and falling as he tried to regain his composure.
"Fuckin' hell, Johnny," Simon murmured, leaning over and pulling John to his feet.
Had he had his wits about him he might have admired the sheer strength of this man, but he was cumdrunk and a bit lightheaded still, letting himself be manhandled until John was tucked away in the bed and Simon had put back on his boxers but had discarded the balaclava, the darkness doing the work to hide his face.
John hadn't meant to, but the moment he noticed Simon walking away he whimpered, the sound slipping out unexpectedly.
"Not leavin' ya, calm down," he chided, before disappearing not out the door to the hallway but into the attached bathroom.
When he returned he had a warm rag and had filled the glass of water that John kept next to the sink. With a tenderness that seemed impossible for such large hands Simon wiped John's face, the wetness cooling his skin as it dried.
"Liked suckin' my cock so much y'came in yer pants?"
"Fuck off," John said, trying to roll away, but Simon kept him in place, unbuttoning John's jeans and pulling down both the jeans and his boxers to reveal his sticky cock.
Simon then wiped away the cool cum before pulling John's pants the rest of the way down.
This time when Simon returned it was with a fresh pair of boxers, he moved as if to pull them up John's legs but John had regained enough control of his body and snatched them away, pulling them on himself.
"Ah should be the one doin' this fer ye, Ah was tryin' tae take care of ye."
"I know Johnny, now I'm takin' care of you. Budge over."
John hadn't expected anything that had happened this evening, but he had most definitely not expected to be manhandled in his bed, rolled over and moved around until the Ghost was cuddled up against his back, heavy hand firm against John's sternum as if to kept him in place.
Could he have left if he wanted to?
"Thank you," Simon murmured into his hair, long after the two had fallen into a comfortable silence. The Manc's accent was heavier with sleep, John had noticed it in the mornings when he sipped his coffee and Simon drank his tea.
"Huh?" John mumbled the words, not sure he was even awake.
"Get in my 'ead sometimes. Could 'ave just told me to piss off but ya didn't."
John wiggled around in Simon's hold until he was facing the other man, their bodies pressed firmly together, Simon's hand pulling him flush. Their faces close enough that their breath mingled and Johnny could rest his forehead against Simon's. All of that naked skin he couldn't see but he could certainly feel.
"We're a team now, aye? Couldnae let ye go it on yer own."
"More than a team, Johnny."
John's breath stuttered. More than a team?
"Dinnae say shite ye dinnae mean."
"Sayin' what I mean, Johnny."
John fell silent. Was this just the afterglow speaking? The adrenaline drop after the violence, the danger and then best head John had ever given? Did Simon really mean it?
John opened him mouth.
"Go the fuck ta sleep, Johnny. Can talk in the morn and then I'll fuck that tight little asshole of yours. And then, if ye need it we can talk again."
John didn't respond, he simply swallowed hard, his heart racing hard enough in his chest that there was no way Simon couldn't feel it galloping away.
They would talk in the morning. When John woke up, Simon would be here and they would talk and then maybe fuck.
Definitely fuck.
John focused on the sound of Simon's breathing, pushing away all of his chaotic, spinning thoughts, pushing away the creeping ache he felt less and less since joining the 141. Maybe cum and companionship could fill the hole in his life?
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