Mafia!König with Sexworker!Reader who he immediately is drawn to for some reason when his eyes land on her because it’s so painfully obvious that it’s her first day on the job because she’s awkwardly nervous and looks out of place. Maybe she’s also a virgin and had wanted her first time to be special, but times are tough and she needs money. He becomes reader’s first and only client from now on.
Usually, he doesn't bother with virgins.
He is bigger than most men, and his size intimidates even experienced women - plowing a virgin would be cruelty to the poor thing and to his aching cock that would probably be strangled by the end of the deed. Konig is a busy man with a tight schedule who can only indulge rarely in pleasant company among his gun deals and drug moving. He doesn't have time to soothe some pliant and poor thing, who is going to be absolutely destroyed on his cock.
So, when the pimp - a guy with some fancy title, but still just an asshole with too much money and women - sends you to him, mistakingly promoting your virginity as some special quality, Konig almost has half a mind of sending you back, waiting for some other perverted fool to pop your cherry. He needs to relax and get some steam off, not thinking about someone pretty, but absolutely useless and broken in bed. Then, however, you cling to his arm like a kitten you are, and almost plead with him to not send you away.
God, he is weak for pretty women crying while throwing themselves at him. Might actually be some unresolved trauma from bullied childhood.
Konig can't let you go back to your pimp - not when you look so damn pretty, hugging his arm and pressing your chest against it, begging for him to just...get this over with. Poor thing, you actually don't know that being with your pimp would possibly be the best solution. Konig is going to eat you out for hours, his anger and irritation suddenly disappearing with the first sweet orgasmic sounds.
It still hurts when he actually fucks you - but at least now he has the sense to do proper aftercare and kiss your shoulders as you whimper at the aching between your legs. He knows he will pay you three times more than what your sex skills are actually worth - but he also knows that there is no way in hell he is actually letting you stay at the brothel. If anything, he will take you away as soon as you fall asleep, your adorable, exhausted form fitting snuggly in his arms.
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part 2
You walked back to your small clinic after making a house call to an elderly couple. The streets were serene, wrapped in a pristine blanket of fresh winter snow. A soft breeze carried the faint scent of pine and cinnamon from a nearby café, blending with the crisp chill of the air. Yet, your mind was miles away.
The couple’s gratitude lingered in your thoughts, their warm smiles and kind words a gentle reminder of why you had chosen this path. In a world where you often faced indifference—or worse, outright hostility—moments like those made it all feel worth it. Despite the challenges, there was purpose in what you did, and that was enough to keep you going.
As you walked, Your thoughts were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a small cat, sleek and gray, slipping out from the shadows of an alleyway. It meows softly before weaving between your legs, its tail flicking playfully. You crouched, extending a hand with a soft smile, but the cat darted away, disappearing into the dark alley.
“Hey, wait!” you called instinctively, curiosity tugging at you.
The alley was silent, the air colder here in the absence of light. Your breath puffed visibly in front of you as you trailed the cat’s paw prints in the snow. But something unusual caught your eye—a patch of crimson staining the pristine white.
You froze, your heart skipping a beat. Red snow. The metallic tang of iron wafted faintly in the air. Blood.
The doctor in you overrode every other instinct. You bolted toward the source, boots crunching against the snow as your mind raced. Someone was hurt. Someone needed help.
As you turned the corner, you saw it—a large male figure slumped against the wall, motionless. Blood pooled beneath them, painting the snow in a macabre contrast of red and white.
Your heart pounded, but your hands steadied as you dropped to your knees beside them. "Hey! Can you hear me?" you called, already reaching for their pulse.
As a doctor, you were bound by one unshakable rule: to save a life, no matter the circumstances. And right now, you were prepared to do just that.
The pulse was slow but steady—a small relief that eased the tight knot of anxiety in your chest. You let out a soft sigh, your breath visible in the icy air. Your hands moved with practiced precision as you assessed the situation.
The man’s face was partially obscured by a makeshift balaclava, one crudely fashioned from a torn shirt. It clung to his skin, damp with sweat and streaked with traces of blood. You instinctively reached to remove it, thinking it might help him breathe more easily.
But as your fingers brushed the fabric, a sudden movement stopped you in your tracks.
His hand, rough and trembling, shot up and grabbed your wrist with surprising strength for someone in his condition. His grip wasn’t crushing, but it was firm enough to communicate a clear message: don’t.
His head tilted slightly, icy blue eyes locking onto yours with a piercing intensity that sent a shiver racing down your spine. Despite his battered state, his voice emerged steady, edged with a cold sharpness that only deepened his aura of danger.
“What do you think you’re doing, kleiner weißer Hase?” he asked, the German words slipping out in a tone as cutting as the accent behind them.
You straightened under his scrutiny, meeting his gaze despite the unease clawing at your chest. “I–I mean no harm,” you replied calmly, refusing to waver. “I’m a doctor. I was trying to remove this to help you breathe. Do you know where you’re bleeding from?”
For a moment, his eyes narrowed, and you thought he might ignore you altogether. His grip on your wrist tightened briefly, but then, slowly, it loosened. His gaze shifted, the icy edge softening, though his expression remained distant—haunted, almost lifeless.
“Doctor…” he muttered, his voice low and strained, as if the word carried more weight than it should. “A little Hase like you should leave. You don’t want to get tangled up with someone like me. Men like me only have one ending. The kind reserved for mobsters. So go. Pretend you never saw me.”
His words hung in the frosty air, heavy with bitterness and self-loathing. Your jaw tightened, the weight of his resignation settling over you, but you weren’t one to back down.
“I will not,” you said firmly, your tone unwavering as you met his distant stare. “I am a doctor, and you are not a dead man yet. So I’ll ask you again—do you know where you’re bleeding from?”
Something shifted in his expression. His eyes widened just slightly, caught off guard by your defiance. A bitter smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, fleeting but noticeable a glam of life in his eyes.
“Stubborn little Hase, aren’t you?” he murmured, the faintest trace of amusement cutting through his somber tone before his features darkened again. “Fine. Lower left side. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
You nodded briskly, already moving to assess the wound. His words lingered, though, like a shadow curling in the corners of your mind. Whatever weight he carried, it was more than just physical—burdens you couldn’t begin to imagine.
Carefully, you lifted his shirt, exposing the bullet wound oozing dark, viscous blood. Without hesitation, you reached for the tools you’d gathered: a pair of tweezers, a needle, thread, and a bottle of alcohol. The chaos surrounding you melted into insignificance as you focused, your hands steady despite the urgency clawing at your nerves.
“Okay, hold still—”
“König,” he interrupted, his voice low and gravelly as he offered his name. His icy blue eyes never left yours, watching you intently, as if assessing whether you were friend or foe.
“Okay, Hold still, König” you instructed, reaching into your bag for your tools.
He grunted, his lips quivering faintly. “I’ve been still this entire time.”
Suppressing a smile, you worked quickly, sterilizing your tweezers and cleaning the area around the wound. “This might sting,” you warned.
He didn’t flinch, his jaw tight as you began extracting the bullet. His muscles tensed under your touch, and a low groan escaped his throat, but he didn’t move an inch. His control was unnervingly precise, a testament to the kind of man he was.
You gripped the tweezers and leaned in, the edges of your vision narrowing as your focus honed in on the task. With painstaking care, you maneuvered the tweezers to locate the bullet. König’s muscles tensed under your touch, his jaw clenching, but he stayed perfectly still, his control unnervingly precise.
As the metal object came into view, lodged deep within the torn flesh, you adjusted your grip and pulled. Blood welled around the wound, and König let out a low, guttural groan, though his body didn’t move an inch.
“It’s almost out,” you murmured, more for your own reassurance than his. With one final tug, the bullet slipped free, clinking faintly as you dropped it onto the snowy ground beside you.
You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Glancing up, you saw König watching you, his expression unreadable, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes—perhaps relief, perhaps trust.
“Now the hard part’s done,” you said softly, your voice steadier than you felt. You grabbed the needle and thread, preparing to stitch the wound. “Just a little more, and you’ll be good as new. Well, almost.”
König let out a dry chuckle, though it sounded more like a sigh. “Good as new, Hase? I think that ship sailed long ago.”
“I don’t,” you replied, a gentle but firm conviction in your tone. “I believe you’d be lovely company to have around.”
Your words caught him off guard, and his lips quirked into a faint, almost disbelieving smile. He let out a low chuckle, this one lighter, more genuine than before. You couldn’t help but smile back, though your focus quickly returned to the task at hand.
With careful precision, you finished stitching the wound, your hands steady as you tied off the last thread. Grabbing a clean cloth, you cleaned the area around the stitches and reached for the bandages.
As you wrapped them around his waist, your fingers brushed against his skin, warm and solid beneath your touch. Despite the lack of defined abs, his build was undeniably strong, and you couldn’t help the slight blush that crept up your cheeks.
König noticed immediately. His icy blue eyes studied you with quiet curiosity before he asked, his tone calm but with a hint of amusement, “Are you okay, Hase? Your face is red.”
Your head shot up, and you stammered, “I’m okay! I’m fine!” You quickly glanced away, fumbling for an excuse. “It’s just… the cold, that’s all.”
His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, as if he didn’t entirely believe you, but he didn’t press the matter.
“We should call an ambulance,” you said, reaching for your phone. “You need proper medical care—”
Before you could dial, König’s hand shot out, gently but firmly grabbing your wrist. His grip was steady, his calloused palm warm against your skin.
“No, Hase,” he said softly, his voice carrying an edge of urgency. His icy blue eyes bore into yours, more serious than before. “But… Can I call someone? Just for a moment. With your phone.”
You hesitated for a moment, but the intensity in his gaze left no room for argument. Slowly, you nodded, handing him your phone.
As he dialed, you shifted awkwardly, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. You tried not to listen, but his deep voice made it impossible to tune out. After a few rings, a man’s voice answered, sharp and suspicious.
“Hello? Who is this?”
König exhaled through his nose, the faintest edge of irritation in his voice as he responded, “ Horangi. It’s König.”
A brief pause followed, the silence thick with tension. Then Horangi’s voice returned, his tone a mix of disbelief and reprimand. “König, what the hell happened?”
“I got shot,” König admitted, his voice lower now, almost begrudging.
“You what? Damn it, König. Where are you?”
“I’ll send my location,” König muttered, groaning lightly as if he were already bracing for the lecture he knew was coming. He glanced at you briefly, his expression unreadable, before returning his attention to the call.
“Can you pick me up?”
Horangi sighed audibly on the other end, muttering something under his breath in Korean before replying, “Fine. But you owe me for this. Stay where you are. I will be there in a few minutes.”
König ended the call and handed your phone back to you. “Thank you, Hase,” he said quietly, his tone softer now.
You studied him for a moment, unsure what to say. He seemed more tired than before, the weight of whatever world he lived in pressing heavily on his broad shoulders.
“You have a friend coming?” you asked gently, trying to gauge his condition.
He gave a small nod. “Yes. He’ll be here soon.”
Silence stretched between you, broken only by the faint hum of distant traffic and the occasional gust of wind that rustled through the alley. Your eyes lingered on König, studying his face—the sharp edges softened by exhaustion, the weight of something unspoken behind his icy blue gaze. You couldn’t help but wonder what kind of life he led, what kind of dangers waited for him beyond the walls of this quiet alley.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and gravelly, pulling your attention back to him. “It’s cold. You should go home, Hase.”
You straightened slightly, meeting his tired gaze with quiet determination. “No. I need to make sure you get picked up safely.”
A deep, amused chuckle rumbled in his chest, surprising you. It wasn’t bitter like before, but rich, almost warm. “You’re protecting me. That’s ironic,” he said, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.
Heat rose to your cheeks, and you puffed them in mock frustration, gently swatting his uninjured arm. “It’s my job,” you retorted, voice firm despite the blush creeping up your neck. “Would you do the same if you were in my shoes?”
König’s smirk lingered, but his expression softened as his gaze rested on you. For a moment, he didn’t reply, his icy blue eyes searching yours, as though your question had struck deeper than you’d meant it to. Slowly, his hand lifted, calloused fingers brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness.
The gesture left you momentarily breathless, and silence stretched between you once more, heavy but not uncomfortable. You both sat there, the world around you fading into the background, neither of you daring to break the quiet.
Then, suddenly, the sharp screech of car tires shattered the stillness, yanking you back to reality.
Before you could react, König’s instincts took over. His arms shot out, pulling you close against his chest in a swift, protective motion. His body tensed, shielding you from whatever unknown danger might be approaching.
“Stay down,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding.
The tension broke only when a familiar figure emerged from the shadows. Horangi appeared, sprinting toward you both with a practiced urgency, his sharp eyes narrowing as they darted between you and König.
Without missing a beat, Horangi waved over two more figures trailing close behind him. They moved with the same calculated precision, their presence commanding despite the chaos lingering in the air. One was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a sharp jawline and dark eyes—Oni, you guessed from the way he carried himself with silent authority. The other, slightly shorter but no less imposing, had a cocky smirk that seemed permanently etched on his face—Hutch.
“You’re reckless, König,” Horangi muttered, crouching beside him while sparing you a brief glance. “Is this what you call lying low, boss?” His voice carried an edge of exasperation, though there was an unmistakable undercurrent of concern.
König didn’t answer immediately. He shifted slightly, loosening his protective hold on you but not letting you go entirely, as though reluctant to leave you vulnerable. “I didn’t plan for this,” König grumbled, his voice gruff but steady.
Oni stepped forward, his piercing gaze briefly flicking over König’s wound before settling on you. His brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t speak, his silence unnerving yet oddly respectful. Hutch, on the other hand, let out a low whistle, his eyes darting between you and König with an amused grin.
“Well, well,” Hutch drawled, his tone teasing. “Didn’t know you had a personal medic, König. Gotta say, she’s a bit of an upgrade from the usual lot we deal with.”
Your cheeks flushed at the comment, but König shot him a warning look that shut him up immediately.
“Enough,” Horangi snapped, his tone sharp as he straightened. “Let’s get him out of here before we draw more attention.”
After Hutch and Oni helped König into the car, he leaned back against the seat, exhaustion pulling at his features. You stood by the door, briefing Horangi on König’s condition—quickly summarizing the severity of the wound, the care you’d provided, and his current state. Your voice was steady, your professionalism cutting through the tension like a beacon of calm.
What you didn’t notice, however, was König watching you intently through the tinted window. His icy blue eyes had softened, their usual sharpness dulled by something almost foreign: quiet admiration. He listened to the cadence of your voice, his gaze lingering on your focused expression. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself a moment of calm. There was something about the way you carried yourself—gentle but unwavering—that disarmed him more thoroughly than any weapon ever had.
As you finished and dismissed yourself, König’s eyes followed you. The faint breeze caught your white lab coat as you walked briskly toward your clinic, the fabric fluttering like wings in the wind. The image was seared into his mind, reforging the thought he’d had before—kleiner weißer Hase.
When you disappeared into the crowd, König’s lips twitched into a rare, almost wistful smile. For a moment, his icy exterior melted, replaced by something warmer, something yearning. A quiet vow slipped past his lips, too low for anyone to catch but himself.
“The hunt is on, Hase.”
Oni and Hutch exchanged a glance from the front seat, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and silent amusement. Horangi, leaning against the car, raised an eyebrow at König but said nothing. The three of them, seasoned in the ways of König’s unpredictability, decided it was best to leave him to his thoughts—for now.
Summary: MacTavish gets to see how the 141 really operates and is given an offer he cannot refuse.
CW: mdni, complete series warnings
AN: I wasn't going to post until tmrw, but I have edited this chapter a bunch of times and if I read it again I might lose it. Also the slow burn is really slow burning in this fic
John felt particularly lucky as he sat at the dining table with the 141. He had been included before, called into Price’s office to plan stakeouts and debrief on findings. Had sat huddled around a conference table while Kyle walked through presentations in awe of how professional the other former sergeant was.
Tonight was different.
Kyle had climbed into the car after dropping off the courier, giving John directions to the home he knew the three men shared on the edge of the city. On the books, Price kept a penthouse in the city center, the building smack dab in the middle of his territory. It was sleek, modern and a downright monstrosity. John had learned from one of the 141 underlings that the building had been Price Senior’s idea, a show of the Price family's commitment to being the future. But the white marble, grey walls and smooth black leather furniture was cold and uninviting.
This dining room was all Jonathan Price.
The table they sat around was sturdy, solid wood that showed the passage of time, a history of nicks and scratches, the varnish worn in places where men and women had sat before them. The walls were a warm cream, the art hung there eclectic and rustic, pieces gathered over the years. The chandelier overhead was turned low, casting a warm glow over the gathering.
Ghost had already been there when Kyle had led John into the room. His mask discarded, a glass of bourbon sloshing around his cup as he waited. He had eyed the two younger men as they walked in, nodding his head to the bar cart. Kyle had poured them each a glass, telling John he had earned it.
He wasn’t sure if he had. Following Ghost around like a puppy and playing chaufer to Kyle tonight didn’t feel like he was making a huge impact on this investigation. John was certain that the 14, at least the inner circle, didn’t fully trust him yet. Maybe in a fight, he had more than proved himself capable, but when it came to his loyalties? Even John wasn’t sure where they lay now and maybe that was part of the problem.
In this life family was everything. He knew Price’s story, knew of his father’s untimely death and that his son was called home to take over the family businesses. Price Senior’s influence had reach, his son leaving the military to take over his fathers legacy was never questioned.
John wondered what it would have been like to have his own father as committed to him. Iain had made it so there was no legacy, no years learning the business, John had spent years living off crumbs, wanting nothing more than to show his father he had what it took to make him proud.
He wanted someone to be proud of him, he wanted to be proud of himself. And if a stiff drink shared between him and the 141 was the best he was going to get he would make due.
“Price texted that he was on his way with Nikolai.”
“Old man was hovering like a mother hen, Nik being there was overkill.”
“The Russian?”
John knew Nikolai by reputation alone, had heard stories about the Russian during his time in SAS. He was the one they called for extraction when no one else could get the job done. His affiliations and loyalties were a grey area and rumors that he was a spy, a guns dealer or a traitor floated around long after he had gone silent. Stopped responding to requests. A ghost in the night.
It seemed like he was loyal to someone.
Or maybe loyal wasn’t the right word for it because John heard the booming laugh followed by Price’s grumbling before the two men stumbled into the dining room.
John had seen Price leave that morning, crisp white shirt, brown pants held up by suspenders, hair swept back with military precision. But now that crisp shirt was unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up revealing thick forearms, the watch from his father on display, hair mussed up as if someone’s fingers had run through it.
The culprit was the other man who stumbled through the door, a meaty arm looped around Price’s waist holding him up. Nikolai was the kind of man who commanded attention through force; tall, broad, hair slicked back and showing off the peppering of greys at his temples. He wore a maroon v-neck that revealed a swath of thick chest hair and a heavy gold chain that matched the rings adorning his fingers.
John couldn’t look away from the way those fingers dug into Price’s waist. It was possessive, controlling, claiming. And completely welcome based on the way Price leaned into the other man.
“John, you didn’t tell me you had company,” the Russian purred, his lips ghosting over Price’s ear.
“For fucks sake, Nik,” Price ground out, yanking himself from the Russian’s hold before stumbling over to the bar cart and pouring a glass of whiskey and a glass of vodka. “Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you.”
Nik shrugged, taking the vodka from Price and downing it before crossing the room and offering John his hand.
“No manners, these Englishmen. I am Nikolai.”
“John,” he offers, returning the firm shake, not able to ignore the way the Russians hand encompasses his own.
“Da, the other John.”
John nodded, not sure how to respond when Nik laughed, using their clasped hands to pull him into a hug, the bear of a man clapping John on the back with his other hand. Nik smelled strongly of sweat and aftershave. It was a heady mixture that clung to John even after they had parted.
Nik pulled up a chair so that he could sit next to Price at the head of the table, the other man’s cheeks were flushed, a scowl deepening on his face as he looked down at the glass of whiskey he had poured himself as if that was to blame for his present state. It looked like the man needed a glass of water and a lay down. Kyle wasn’t going to give him a break and cut in.
“Didn’t think I could handle making contact with the target without babysitters?” his voice was even, detached. He gave nothing away and John realized that was the tell. Kyle was upset, or mad? He couldn’t figure it out.
“See John? I tell you that Kyle doesn’t need you to oversee his date.”
Kyle sputtered, choking down a sip of his drink.
“And I told you it wasn’t a date and I wasn’t spying,” Price argued, taking a deep breath and running a hand down his face. “Fuck, give me a mo’”
Price lurched to his feet and clambered out of the room.
“Nik, what the hell, mate?” Kyle asked once the door had slammed shut.
“This is my fault. John needed to relax, he works too much, so I helped him,” he explained, a hand reaching behind his head to rub the back of his neck. “Maybe I helped him too much?”
“And why were you at the club? You also think I can’t do my job?”
“Nyet, that is my club.”
“Le Éphémère is your club?” Ghost was the one to ask this time, his whole body turning to look at the Russian. John might not have known how the 141’s territory worked but Nikolai was part of the 141 but the club was not owned by the 141, it would have been discussed when they had made their plan, it would have come up before. They would have had control over more of the variables.
“Da, I own it, but it is for Farah and Alex.”
“You can’t just buy people clubs, mate. It doesn’t work that way.”
Nikolai shrugged, “life is short and the club makes people happy.”
John could understand how Nikolai had disappeared after Price had retired. The man was dedicated to his people.
“Perhaps I should check on John?” Nikolai offered.
“No, I’ll do it, I don’t trust your version of checking on him. Man needs water, not a blow job.”
Nikolai was unabashed as he reached down to adjust himself.
Ghost pushed away from the table and left the room.
“So you really weren’t there to babysit me?”
“Nyet, you do not need watched. John trusts you. He does not trust everyone else. Your target is an unknown, da? John watches them, not you.”
Nikolai oozed confidence, it was hard to ignore as John continued to eye him across the table. The Russian had a healthy flush to his cheeks as well. The way he leaned back in his chair, legs spread wide made him look as if he sat upon a throne, not some spindly dining chair. When he caught John’s gaze he smiled wide, a single gold tooth to match his other adornments.
Gaz didn’t have a chance to answer, Ghost was pushing the door open, a very wet Price walking through. Water dripped from his beard, his hair pushed back, his white shirt damp. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a trashy paperback romance, not at the head of one of the most influential families in the UK.
John sat at the head of the table, a glass of water placed in front of him by Ghost before the masked man took his seat again.
“Kyle, I apologize if you thought I overstepped. That was not my intention.”
John knew the 141 was unconventional, both during their time in the service and since, but there was something reassuring about hearing the older man apologize to Gaz that sat well with John. It should be too early for him to have made a decision, but if asked today he would agree to work for Price.
“Accepted, now do you want me to tell you everything I learned or what I think?”
“Start with your thoughts.”
“I don't think they are involved. They were drunk enough to get a bit mopey, trusting enough to let me into their apartment. Nothing there stood out, it was honestly a bit bleak and empty. Definitely their apartment though, had the bike and jacket and everything. I don’t think we need to pursue them any further.”
“What did you think?” Price asked, looking across the table at John.
“Me?”
“Yes, you drove them didn’t you?”
“Aye, the courier was genuinely drunk, honestly, a bit worrying that they didn’t even question going home with a man they just met. Ah still dinnae think they ken they’re involved in this. Ah stand by that.”
Ghost glared across the table. John understood his displeasure, he saw the courier as a threat, probably still saw John as a threat, just the kind he had to accept. The courier though, Ghost could keep you at arms length. John wondered if the masked man was more annoyed that he had missed the fact that you were coming and going from the apartment without recognizing you or if he was more annoyed that most of the table, John included, found you easy on the eyes.
Jealousy maybe? John hadn’t noticed anything overtly intimate between Ghost and the other two men since arriving, but there was a softness in his eyes when he looked at Price, and fondness in how he talked to Gaz.
John would be lying if he said he hadn’t been stealing glances at as he drove you and Kyle back to your building. There was no harm in looking.
“I will ask Farah and Alex what they know.”
“They claimed that the singer, Alessia, was a friend of theirs. Might be worth asking about her as well. I can see what information I can find out about the two of them on my end.” Kyle was already typing furiously on his phone.
“Da, she has only been there a few months, very talented. Farah will know more.
From there Price had Gaz walk him through the night, the former captain taking notes on a pad of paper that Ghost placed in front of him before the older man could ask. Price is meticulous as he pauses on details, asking for clarification, handing out more orders as he learns more about the exchange. It's hard to accept that this is the same man who had stumbled in drunk.
“We can hold off on searching the apartment, no reason to risk it. We can wait until Nik gets more info before deciding how to proceed there on that front.”
“And if they make more deliveries?” Ghost asked.
“Then we handle accordingly, I hate to keep you tied up at Elmer Ave, I’m thinking we shut it down for the time being, it's obviously compromised. We can’t let this distract us from our other business. We have jobs to do. In the meantime though, everyone but Nik and Kyle need to avoid the club. Nik and I will have a talk about opening businesses without going through the proper channels. John, you’ll continue shadowing Ghost. We have shipments coming in this week and still have to deal with Ryder.”
John nodded. He could handle Ghost and was happy to know sitting around in the empty office was no longer on the table.
“Ghost, Soap, we’ll debrief in the morning. I’m fuckin’ knackered.”
With that the man downed the rest of his whiskey, followed by the water after a pointed glare from Ghost, and left the room. Nik’s gaze trailing after him, before the Russian was also out of his seat, following the former captain with a hunger that John could feel across the room.
“You’re gonna want to invest in ear plugs.”
“Me?”
Kyle laughed, “yes you. I have some throwaways you can take for now, unless you’re a vouyer and want to fall asleep to Nik fucking John all night. Got clothes you can borrow as well.”
“Ah dinnae ‘ave tae stay. Ah-”
“Nope, you’ll stay here now. Unless,” Gaz paused. He looked tired, not in the way Price had, he didn’t have the weight of an entire criminal enterprise on his shoulders, but he worked hard, John had seen it himself. The man needed a break.
He was also hesitating.
“Are ye in or are ye out?” The way Ghost asked it felt more like a threat than an offer.
John looked between the two of them, wide eyed. Did they mean it? Was this an offer?
“Don’t look so surprised, John doesn’t invite just anyone here, and he certainly would not have let you stick around while Nik was eye fucking him at the dinner table.”
Ghost snorted into his drink. “Give ‘em a few weeks and ye’ll ‘ave front row to them fightin’ and fuckin’.”
“Ignore him. Come on, let’s get you set up in the guest room.”
Guest room was an understatement for the bedroom that Gaz brought him to. It was a blank slate, with drawers already filled with clothes in his size, a laptop with a sticky note on it with the login details, and a set of toiletries that looked very similar to the ones he had bought for himself while he had been staying at the hotel.
The bed was more comfortable than anything the Scot had ever slept on, it felt like a dream compared to the cots and camp beds he had slept in during the service. His brief time with Fergus had been spent jumping from relative to relative, never staying anywhere long enough to make it home. And then there was his childhood…
John sat up, shaking away the memories of the Highlands and his youth. That time was over, the military was over. He was only a MacTavish in name now, but he found that he could deal with that if it meant having a purpose and a soft place to rest his head at night. He could deal with the deafening silence of plugs shoved into his ears in an attempt to block out the sounds of Nikolai and Price, the Russian making no efforts to quiet himself. And if he found himself tugging one out in the shower that morning, still hard from a night of ignoring his boss and his bosses lovers fucking? He could deal with that too because when he sat down to breakfast, a black coffee in hand, he was being put to work, he was being asked about his skills, he was asked his opinion.
John had a feeling he was going to like being part of the 141.
Blind!Reader who accidentally bumped hard into Mafia!Konig, hard enough for to Konig thought it's some punk who wants to pick a fight with him but only to find a cute girlie with a walking stick that sprawled on the floor because of the wall of meat he is (feel free to use the "you hurt your ankle!?" excuse for him to take Blind!Reader for his own)
Konig was ready to kill when he felt someone bump into him. A fucker should be blind not to notice this wall of muscles and bottled anger coming his way - and Konig sure as hell would make them blind if they are dumb enough not to look around when they are walking. His hand goes to grasp his gun - an instinct, in case the fucker wasn't just dumb, but an enemy...and then he hears a whimper. Clacking of a stick falling to the ground.
Cute whimpers. Female whimpers.
The "oh my god, sir, I'm so sorry, I didn't want to bump into you, but they changed the street layout since winter and-"
God, you were fucking adorable. Precious. Pretty. Cute.
Whimpering like a kitten when he helped you stand up, letting you clutch on his hands as a guiding line. Supported you by your waist while handing you the walking stick - and not letting go of your body even as you were trying to stand up without being wobbly. He knows you're probably fine, you didn't fall that badly, but he grasps for straws in trying to keep you by his side. Apologizes, even, his nervous and anxious self returning for a second as he understands that the situation isn't about possible murder. It's about possibly finding a cute girlfriend.
Now, he obviously can't leave you to fend for yourself. Konig doesn't care that you survived on your own and is perfectly fine without him - he also doesn't care that you really hate having him dote over you like you're some helpless creature. He needs you by his side, preferably under him, and the fact you survived for so long on your own actually doesn't say anything - he needs to protect you, even if it means being as overbearing as possible. Even if it means simply picking you up like a lost cat and getting you over his shoulder, squeezing your ass one time before packing you into a dark vehicle.
You can calm down by trying to memorize his face through your hands, and he can memorize himself with the curves of your sweet body. God, he is going to enjoy making you his...even if it means locking you up in his mansion so no enemy could use you to get to him.
Mafia!König x Baker!Reader? It’s a small, self owned business and the only reason it’s still running is because König funds it, but he’s not going to hurt her feelings and confess that.
Konig knows heaven, and it smells like fresh cinnamon rolls at 6 am.
He goes to your bakery every day - when he can afford to have a routine, to slip through the glass doors first thing in the morning and the last thing before you're closed. Get himself a set of fresh little pastries that he would throw at whatever poor secretary is going to cover up for his money laundering this day. Gets himself trays worth of cinnamon rolls and imagines smearing the white cream all over your lips. Making you suck his fingers clean. Maybe drop icing over his cock and push it over your mouth until you finally learn how to please a customer properly.
He buys the whole building - gives you a hefty discount on rent, and makes sure to harass and beat down any poor fuck who thinks that getting money for protection from his turf is a good idea. Hires new security all around the block, discreet men in hoodies, allowing him to come here almost every day without risking you or himself.
You're shit at doing business. Give away free stuff to students, never chastise the occasional workers you hire. They never stay for long - mostly because a lot of them are trying their hardest to rip you off, and Konig doesn't really appreciate the ones who wrong his future wife. It's easy to make the dough guy number three disappear - it's much harder not to stare at you, to stop his fingers from trembling and forgotten anxiety to whisper at his mind whenever you ask if he wants a free cinnamon bun to his order. He says it's a bad way of managing a business, and you giggle. Such a naive, precious little thing. You wouldn't survive without him - and you have absolutely no idea that this man will gladly shoot half of this damned city if you'd ask him.
Konig wants nothing more but to press your pretty soft body to the counter and fuck you like it's the last thing he can do. Push you around and get his hands under your pretty skirt. Make you laugh, make you cry - make you whimper and claw at his shoulders as he pushes in, smearing sweet sugar powder all over your face. He was thinking about being just a bit more cruel - demanding something more for his protection. Having your pretty pussy on display for him, fuck you behind the counter. Drag you in his car and make you his sweet little baker back at the mansion. He isn't acting on his fantasies - not yet, at least, content with stealing soft touches and making his men steal your underwear for him. Visit your apartment sometimes, touch your pretty face and make decisions on how exactly he is going to whisk you away.
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Bimbo! Reader that no one suspects comes from a mafia family too X Mafia!König
You just...weren't threatening enough.
Spoiled, of course - Konig sometimes wanted to punch your daddy for raising such a bratty daughter. He never acts on it because you're too damn adorable - every time you pout and ask him some stupid question, he completely forgets everything bad that happened in his long life, and he suddenly finds himself resting his head on your lap as you chirp something about wanting a new dress, at the phone and some generic sweets from a cheap bakery you loved so much. There isn't a single evil bone in your body - and to be completely honest, sometimes Konig feels like it's all just squish and fluff. That he will squeeze your thigh and won't see resistance at all. You're just too damn soft like that.
Oh, but how much he adores treating you like his adorable pet. Whatever you want, you will get - and you don't ever have to worry about the price. He likes to think of himself as your protector, your only source of income - honestly, you're so silly and fragile, he just can't imagine a pretty thing like you working anywhere that isn't with your mouth on his cock. Not that you complain...Konig is overly controlling, but he compensates it with lavish gifts and giving you his card every time you want something.
You're just so...different, even from babes that used to cling to him. You're not a mob wife, you're a mob pet who needs constant head pats and a cock stuffed in your whiny hole so you'd stop being so horny all the time. Which is exactly why Konig was so shocked to learn who your daddy was.
Not a businessman - a rival gang leader, pretty angry that Konig snatched his pretty daughter and saved her from an arranged marriage with some old fart. Not that mafia boss!Konig is a much better age-appropriate partner...but at least you went into his hands willingly, even as he had to lock you down in his house in order to keep you in place. But oh, now he knows that his pretty innocent and dumb girlfriend isn't as innocent as she likes to seem...
You sell flowers.
Nice little bouquets for teachers and housewives who want to make their routine a little brighter. Cheap ones, mostly wild things - you'd have to swat at the bees trying to get a bite, apologizing for messing with the natural pollination. You sell big, expensive things - graduation gifts, consolidations roses. Man coming in and trying to count how much their cheating was worth - and how much they could pay in ribbons for missing an important date.
Then Konig came in, and brought at least 10 orders for funerals.
Crimson-blood roses, expensive white lilies. Died black ribbons and some nice plastic dark plants to finish the composition. At first, you said you were really sorry for his loss, then you thought he ran a funeral home - he looked the sorts, a bit creepy and big. His mask covers the lower half of his face, the hood of his nice jacket - Patagonia, you think, out of your pay grade - dropping over his eyes. He ordered expensive bouquets of funeral flowers every other week - never the wreaths, just bouquets. Sympathy arrangements. The first he paid in cash - crispy new banknotes, looking too good to be true, made you look at them through the light and apologize - he grazed your hand in his when you gave him the change. Konig wrapped his fingers around yours for a second, held a bit too long - you didn't know what to say, so you said nothing. He grumbled something and left.
He buys funeral flowers, and you aren't sure if you're curious or terrified. One night you went home a bit too late - boss asked you to close for a bit more of cash, and you can't really disagree with your late for a week rent - and you came across some weird guy. Dangerous guy. You clutched your hand around your pepper spray - useless, EU-safe kind - and then shrieked when a bullet got through the guy's skull. You think it was the first time you actually saw a gun. Heard a gun.
Konig holds your hands as you scramble to your feet, and this time, he doesn't let go until you stop trembling. Pockets the gun like it's a normal Friday, and puts a worried hand over your waist. He still doesn't talk - a slight tremble in his head gives away his nerves - but he silently follows you home like a big dog. You have half a mind about letting him in, but he just stares, his head not dipping into your apartment.
Next time, he buys flowers - red roses, pink lilies, dyed whites and tiny pink ribbons. He sets the bouquet on the counter for you - you don't have the heart to tell him you're sick of flowers after working with them all day, but he gets it without words. Sees your expression, nervous twitch of your lip - and silently leaves.
You aren't even surprised when you're dragged into an undisclosed vehicle after your shift, your head dropping on the wide lap of a man in a suit, his red hair slightly messy from the hood he pulled off, and his Patagonia acting like a blanket over your trembling form. Konig drapes a hand over your ass and settles it near, tapping on your asscheek in a nervous rhythm. Something tells you you're about to find out where all the bouquets went.
Imagine mafia könig secretly beaming as his hostage wife made him a lunch box for work only for it to get ruined by a underling bumping into him or accidentally eating it thinking no way their boss woykd have such a cutesy lunch
You're finally coming around.
Seriously, he checked all the ingredients three times over, and you didn't even try to poison him. He had his food testers test everything(and hot jealous they got to try it before he could), and he had you under supervision all the time...which resulted in a perfectly prepared bento with the most perfectly arranged foods. He didn't even know Austrian food could look this good, and not like a pair of fried shoe pieces - but you were too damn good at cooking. God, he adored it and adored you.
Konig was just so ready to get to his office, kill some traitors, seal a drug deal and move some guns around from Hungary to Bratislava, and then finish the first half of the day with perfect lunch that his perfect wife prepared.
The he sees one of the newest recruits - high enough in ranks to be on base, low enough to not know shit about boss's wife - already finishing with his lunch. Including pretty little fried pork bits in the shapes of stars, little Vienna sausages in form of octopuses, and the carrots shaped like hearts and bullets(which looked more like ball-less dicks, but you tried and it was the only thing that mattered). You even included a note, asking him to finally let you go and see your family - which he ignored, of course, reading between the lines and just knowing you'd love to have him. All of this was now tossed aside, into the recruit's endless stomach and...
Konig had people trying to betray him, to destroy his criminal empire, and to kill him. Still, he had never drawn a shot as fast before as he did now - and with the poor recruit lying dead on his feet, he couldn't even care to toss the body aside, instead just calling for servants. You finally came around and did something nice for him - and he didn't even get to eat it!
Oh, you will have his heavy, muscular body slumped on your lap, and you will feed him some bought sweets and listen to his grumbles, even if that means he has to literally chain you down and force you to stay with him. And, of course, you will cook him another lunch - and you will do it every day from now on. No good deed goes unpunished.
