୨୧ What do you once you're trained by the SAS and then abandoned by the military? Years of your life given away, everything you worked towards thrown away. Unable to settle back into who they were before the military they continue into a different career path, one that still utilises violence and timing.

୨୧ After a black ops mission goes south, Task Force 141 are announced MIA, by the very same man who gave them false information hoping to tie up loose ends. Although months and months stuck in Siberia they grew closer as a team and what was once a healthy disrespect for authority turns into a deep, profound hatred. As those seeds of hatred bloom into budding revenge plots they one by one become completely disillusioned with the cause they had dedicated their life to.

୨୧ Simon was the first, he began to snap at the others, annoyed that their hope lingered on. They were supposed to die in that mission and when they weren’t, they were left to freeze to death, they couldn’t trust anyone who wasn't in the tent with them, right then and there. People who you know can hurt you most after all

୨୧ John is second, he had doubts all before Simon but held on to hope, General Shepard had a hand in promoting him to a captain 10 years ago, worked together so often. Simon snapping, the constant freezing temperature and slowly watching his men start to fade, he snapped too. He wasn't just a loose end was? His team definitely weren't loose ends to be tied up in some bullshit suicide mission. John was going to survive this, as would his boys and they’d get back at those who failed them, General Shepard set this up but so many turned around, pretending not to see anything.

୨୧ Kyle and Johnny lost faith as John and Simon go on their rants, they couldn't ignore the truth laid out so clearly. They know where their loyalties lie now, with each other.

୨୧ They couldn't go back to the SAS or any military, they were on their own. Luckily John had money and money talked, his presence also  commanded respect and they had all seen how people ran these organisations. After a recent clamp down on crime back home they were greeted with a power vacuum.

୨୧ London was ripe for the taking and after London? They were going after shepard. 

John Price

୨୧ The Captain who falls for a cafe worker.

୨୧ Possessive and jealous. You really have no idea the effect you have on him do you? Or the rest of your coworkers and customers. His blue eyes filled with an undeniable lust for you, but you never picked up on it. Or the lust that lingering in the eyes of others. He often crosses the line of the boss, bringing you flowers, clothes, those pretty hair clips you wear, even allowing false nails, paying for them when you complain about the recent price increase. You are always so thankful, pretty eyelashes batting, but it didn’t belong to him, yet anyway. You gave them to everyone, never suspicious of what their intentions are. The little touches but not being able to indulge in you yet, tortuous. The lives he’s taken in your name, not too long a list yet but long enough to scare you. You're the reason his cafe has such a high turnover of staff, someone is a little too touchy and john stops putting them on the schedule. All the people you worked with before john took over management were long gone and now people assumed the two of you were dating. Dove. Doll. Love. Petal. Pet You should have told him to stop when he started but you didn't and it wouldn’t have changed anything anyway. He kept you behind after work praising you for work you didn't do, when you opened the store in the early hours of the morning the surprise feeling of someone grabbing your wrist and pulling you into their chest has startled you awake better than any coffee could. You don't notice how his grip tightens ever so slightly around you as your new coworker asks a question, you don't see the death stare either.

୨୧ Delusional. John adores you. The lonely longing and heavenly yearning he felt was the most addicting feeling. You gave him so many smiles, always found yourself bent down giving him a little show he was so grateful for and he never shied away from showing it through tips or pay raises that only you received. John wanted you to know he was a provider, just spread those pretty legs for him and never worry about the cafe or your silly degree again. Your brown sugar and vanilla scent danced on his tongue and haunting his dreams, he imagined you as the perfect homemaker, hopefully you’d be round with his babies by spring, twins ran in his family ya know? 

Simon Riley

୨୧ The Enforcer who falls for a fellow mafia member

୨୧  Stalker. You start to feel something wrong, so wrong. A strong chill pressing down on you, lingering around you, seemingly scaring people away. The chill was always there, seemingly haunting you. Ghost had been hunting, no, watching you for a while, you had popped onto his radar a while ago, Gaz knew you as a friend of a friend, someone who had a knack for creating false documents and getting into systems you have no business being in. A skill set that John needed. The organisation was young, still in their infancy  and they were able to dominate London in a short time but they were still nowhere near their goal and each day General Shepard’s own paranoia sent him further into hiding. They needed access to military files and you would get them there, they had time, enough money to make anyone crack and of course, Simon. a silent, foreboding man. He never spoke to you, just watched as you spoke to his boss. He was standing by the door, so you wouldn't be disturbed, Price explained but you knew the truth, he was standing there so Price got the answer he wanted and would stand between you and freedom until he did. Price didn’t care you had moved on from that part of your life, he assured you the boys in blue were the least of your worries if you didn’t take the deal. 

୨୧ Possessive. You start working for them, you were pliable, in over your head with them, you never said no to Price’s requests, just told him that it would take some time and he was okay with that, he knew you wanted simon away from you as soon as possible and that you wouldn't prolong the tasks. You’d get to their office at 8am and finish at 4. It was almost like a regular job. Ghost still haunted you, keeping you on task and you’d tell him your progress so he could report back to Price. He could tell you didnt like him, or price, making you quit your precious job and now spending your day in a sickening silence. Simon felt like he knew you, imagining your company on the battlefields of his past life and right now all he could do is enjoy your company during the work day and lurk in the shadows of your flat. He hated you, he saw you everywhere, in the petals of flowers, the dainty chains that hung around the neck of rich patrons, delicate feathers that somehow always fall from the sky when you cross his mind. You were so gentle, you’d never survive in this world without him.

୨୧ Obsessive. You somehow made him envious of euthanised dogs. You were so unaware of how much your presence lingers, even in a room, buildings, on him. You infected the air he breathed and he was sick of it, so sick of it. He wanted you out of his head but he feared that the part of you that linger so persistently would only be banished by his own death and he had no time for that.

Johnny

୨୧ The weapon supplier who falls for a stripper

୨୧ Stalker. Weapons, drugs, hell johnny was pretty sure he could get his hands on exotic animals, that wasn't really necessary and would bring some unwanted attention to the young organisation, they had dealt with this before, johnny knew if they gloated, created too much of a splash and the law would come down, sink your rotten roots into local law enforcement, politicians and businesses? A much harder root to pull out. He doesn’t need to be at the club but Ghost used to be there more often than not and he got to be surrounded by beautiful people and great drinks. After nearly losing his dick in the freezing temperatures of Siberia this place seemed like heaven. And seeing you? Johnny knew he was ruined.

୨୧ Manipulative. Johnny is pulling strings. Price doesn’t care too much, you're an attraction and a popular one but your appearances are dwindling and doesn't Johnny deserve to be rewarded for his loyalty and hard work? So when the bouncer you got too touchy with disappears he doesn’t so much as send a bad look his way. Price would do the same, he doesn't want his boys to grow the same resentment he grew, if a pretty little thing helps johnny who is he to stand in the way of young love? Hell, he could do worse. Price is almost impressed with how long it’s taken Johnny. he’s been lying in wait for what? A year now. His jaws wide open, waiting to snap around his prey.

୨୧ Invasive, He hears the sigh of his name slips past your lips, and it’s like music to his ears. He wants to hear more. No, he’s desperate for more, spamming the tip button and suddenly he has all your attention. Johnny knows it’s wrong but the website is public and you don’t have to know that pyromaniac.johnny is also the guy lurking at the strip club. Or that same man is currently hunting for a dirty pair of your panties in your washing basket, just a room away as you put on a ridiculously long video to sleep too. You won’t need that once you're with Johnny, he’ll chat your ear off.

Kyle Garrick

୨୧ The rookie who falls for a love that he missed out on

୨୧ Stalker and obsessive. There was something different about you, something even more different about kyle. You had written it off as him not knowing how to act after he rejected you. Normally, Kyle is pretty outgoing, loud, and always able to capture your attention. Now his once glowing golden presence has rusted and your eyes wander elsewhere. He started following you everywhere, it was his turn to be a lovesick puppy. You kept him going after being stuck in the hellish cold so long, your image warmed him, he imagined coming home and you fawning over him once again. And he came back to you, only you didn’t want him anymore. He was eager to retract his rejection and skip into a nice little marriage with you. But you needed space, and then actively avoided him. He had requested your phone to be tapped, find out how you really felt about him but you didn’t talk about him over the phone, eavesdropped but nothing, checked your diary and nothing, apart from not letting your heart get broken by the same hands twice but even then his name wasn't written down.

୨୧ Jealous. Kyle wasn’t used to this. Made his blood boil, watching you make new friends, go on dates. You didn't revolve around him anymore. Kyle asked to be stationed at your uni, explaining it away as a breeding ground for new recruits and a massive customer base, after all who took more drugs than uni students? After a week he had recruited one of your shared mates, Brooks and he was useful, got a hold of the ropes quick. Kyle and Brooks served together briefly and the military had left a bitter taste in his mouth as well, he felt abandoned when he went into a planned terrorist attack, that everyone knew about, unarmed and was left with life changing injuries. You stayed in the studio flats with other mature students and he had to say the security was lacking, him and Johnny were in there for two hours setting up cameras and no one even asked what they were doing, those false ID cards for nothing. Johnny notices Kyle’s quietness as of late, as do John and Simon. John knows how he feels, coming home to someone who’s moved on, Kyle had dreamt of you for three years and you had spent that time moving on. They all felt for him, Kyle had never been rejected like this, his life before all this shit dangled in front of him, you dangled in front of him and the hurt nearly suffocated him. Kyle knows its wrong and he wants you to be happy, happy with him, so he starts sabotaging any chance you may have with other people, rumours  spread across the uni campus as if its a secondary school, he’ll hears you cry on the phone and your confidence dip lower and lower, until Kyle can swoop in and save you, he would wrap you in his arms and tell you how you wouldn’t need to worry about impressing anyone else. Expect you don’t give a shit, you're too busy getting your masters. Kyle’s shocked about how much you changed and now that lovesick look appears occasionally paired with you singing praises, but never given to him.

Nikolai laughs, "I can request less hench looking men."

Farah rolls her eyes, "and what about Alessia? Am I losing my singer as well?"

"нет, what is phrase in English? Keep enemies close?"

"So she's an enemy now?"

Nikolai shrugs. Kyle and MacTavish were confident that the courier wasn't involved and therefore the singer would not be involved. John was cautious, diligent, thorough. He needed absolute proof you were just a pawn in whatever this scheme was. Simon was paranoid, his trust did not come easily.

Unless you were a pretty Scot, then it didn't take much.

"Not enemy, but John worries. You know this."

Farah sighs, "when this business with Price is over we get rid of the extra help and go back to running the business my way, deal?"

"да."

Farah nods, pulling out a printed out spreadsheet and placing it on her desk. Nikolai wishes he had a vodka as Farah reviews the financials, the purchase orders, the staffing, all of the parts of the business that Nikolai trusts Farah with, not because he doesn't want to deal with them but because he knows that she is more than capable. He does not need to be here, but he is nosy and likes to get the gossip about the lounge.

When Farah dismisses them Nikolai is quick to leave. Usually he would have haunted the bar, sipping vodka and watching the performers sound check for the evening's performances. He considers a vodka for the road, but he had promised John to meet him at the penthouse and he is running late after listening to Farah's displeasure with the new security measures.

There are already men lingering around outside of Le Éphémèrie when Nikoali leaves, he recognizes their faces but hasn't bothered with their names. There are similar men just parking across the street from the tower when Nikolai arrives. He nods to them before he enters the building.

Nikolai knows that John hates this building and hates the penthouse that they have to maintain for the business. Nikolai prefers the estate, he hates the city. He tolerates it for John.

"Hello Mr. Price!" the attendant at the front desk calls out to him.

Nikolai has met him more than once, he is young and without the same training and pedigree as the other attendants. Since taking the job the attendant assumed John and him were married, and while they did nothing to discourage that assumption it is always odd to Nikolai to be called John's name.

"There was a delivery for Mr. Price," the man starts, then frowns before plowing on, "the other Mr. Price. I sent them up to the penthouse."

Nikolai hadn't noticed it before, but he sees the bike now, tucked in the corner by the umbrella stand. He's seen it before in photos, grainy shots taken on phones sometimes left outside of buildings, chained to posts and sometimes with you upon it, biking your way across the city. There's a sticker on the battery pack that's the biggest tell, a bird that started peeling away from exposure.

Chickadee.

Nikolai makes it a point to watch the lounge when he can, when he's not being dragged around by John. He's seen you there with Alessia, he knows that Alessia is related to one of the bartenders, he knows she made the move to pursue theater and has been practicing every chance that she can. And he knows that the two of you are close, he's seen the two of you at the bar on and off, seen you sneak in to watch Alessia perform before sneaking out into the night so that you don't get dragged into getting drinks with her.

Nikolai knows she calls you Chickadee and you pretend to hate it, nose scrunched as you tell her off. Nikolai had to look it up, it was not a word that he knew, but he gets it. You flit about through life, through the city, in and out of Alessia's orbit, in and out of the 141's orbit for the last few months.

The elevator dings as it reaches the lobby. Nikolai steps in, not acknowledging the attendant, but instead shooting off a message to one of the men stationed outside to make sure he doesn't leave. He might be new and he might be young, but he should know better than to send someone up to the penthouse. There are protocols for this type of thing.

Nikolai knows John is home, they had plans for this evening, and judging by the fact that you have not come back down it seems like those plans will be cancelled.

The doors of the elevator slid open almost silently. You were standing in the entry way, shoulders tense, something that Nikolai couldn't see held in your hands. Even from behind Nikolai could see the way you shook.

John saw him, his eyes flicking over your shoulders briefly.

"Take them out," he tells you.

Nikolai watches as shreds of paper fall to the ground. John is surprisingly patient as you shakily reveal whatever it is you are holding. John's face is a mask, cold and calculating, but Nikolai knows he is holding back, dragging this out. He is not a patient man, but his pleasure in drawing out your misery outweighs his need for you to act.

Nikolai loves when John is a little mean.

Your body locks up the moment you stop pulling out the paper. Your breaths turn shallow. Nikolai can't see the moment the box slips from your fingers, but he hears the sound of something hitting the tiled floor, the clink of the metal then the thump of the box after.

Whatever it is you block it from his view, taking scurrying steps away until your body backs right into him. You're trembling like a leaf, even more so when he bands an arm across you, holding you in place. You start to wiggling, panicking as he increases his hold on you. Your nails dig deep into the skin of his arms.

Feisty.

"Ah, ah, ah, котик. Put those claws away. You are in trouble enough, да?"

Nikolai sees what was in the box. He recognizes the ring, has seen John wearing his own whenever he has to deal with the other families. It's ostentatious and gaudy, and very much of the old world of organized crime. Nikolai may wear his own flashy rings and gold chains, but he knows that is not John, has never been John and yet, he dons his ring when needed.

This one, the one still attached to a rotting finger is not John's. There is only one other man who had a ring like this and that man is dead and buried. Nikolai saw the body himself, all extremities very much intact.

"How did the courier get up here?" John asks, not looking away from the ring, frozen in place.

"дурак at front desk let them up. I have taken care of it."

"And you? Why are you here?"

Nikolai keeps his hold on you firm, not restrictive, not the force he would use on someone he meant to harm. He hoped it was grounding, but was sure you were too lost to the moment to see it for what it was.

If either of them wanted to hurt you then they would have already.

"I—I was doing a delivery for John Price, this was the address. I already told you, I'm just a courier," your voice trails off into a whine.

You're staring down at the ring as well, heart racing hard enough that Nikolai worries for your health. He reaches his other hand around you, it only take one to hold you in place, with the other he cups your face, forcing it away from the ring and directing it towards John.

"Perhaps we move to other room, have someone look for fingerprints, да?"

John doesn't reply, he merely turns and walks away.

Nikolai lifts you off the ground and follows, your legs kicking weakly as he moves you, keeping your gaze away from the ring.

The rest of the penthouse is quiet. Their captive is locked away in the panic room, close at hand for when they need him. The mess from the other night had been cleaned, even if they took this to that room you would be none the wiser. Only John doesn't walk down the hall to the other room, the one with the chair and the hidden restraints, instead he paces at the head of the dining table, hands clasped behind his back. Behind him, floor to ceiling windows reveal the quickly darkening sky, grey cloud lay low on the horizon and if Nikolai hadn't already checked the weather that day he would have assumed there was rain in the forecast.

John says nothing as he paces, his face pinched with annoyance.

"Don't take personally, he gets grumpy when he hasn't had tea," he whispers in your ear.

"For fuck's sake Nik, this is serious," John grumbles, still pacing.

“Come, sit. John will have questions.”

“John?” you ask, looking at John as he continues to pace. “But—"

“No talking,” John barks.

You jolt in Nikolai’s hold as he gently leads you to the table, placing you at the far end, away from John, away from the place John typically sits when they do dine at the penthouse. You let yourself be guided into one of the empty armchairs.

“Behave, or I will tie you down.”

Nikolai enjoys the way your eyes go wide, mouth opening and promptly shutting as you gaze flicks back to John who has stopped pacing to send off a flurry of texts. Nikolai’s own phone vibrates in his pockets, probably John in one of the many group chats they have.

“Bring in the other.”

“Таракан?”

Nik didn’t question John any further than that. He wasn’t sure what John’s angle was but if this is what he wanted this is what he would get.

The door to the panic room opened with a soft whir. Sanderson had been more than well behaved since his interrogation, probably would have been even without having to watch Ryder’s interrogation but Nikolai trusted John’s decisions. If he thought a strong hand was best than it was best.

Sanderson was sitting on the bed, back pressed firmly into the wall. He had free rein of the room but from the cameras they had watched him do very little of anything since being brought here. He pales the moment he sees Nikolai, and that he hasn’t come with food or drinks. This visit is different than the previous ones.

“Price wants you.”

“I promise I told him everything, everything I know. I’m sorry I’m so-“

“Shhh, come.”

Sanderson scrambles off the bed. He’s still in the clothes he was in when they brought him here, they hang looser from his shoulders despite the fact that they have been feeding him. Nervous, or scared, or both, the man had not eaten much since his imprisonment

Nikolai lets Sanderson walk ahead of him, coaxing him towards the dining table where you are still sat.

John has stopped his pacing, he stands at the head of the table, watching with narrowed eyes as Sanderson takes you in. He falters, staring until realization crosses his face.

“It’s you,” he whispers.

For your part you still look scared, but now some of that fear is replaced with confusion as you stare back at the very disheveled, very out of place Sanderson.

“Do you know him?” John asks.

You gaze flicks briefly to John before sliding back to Sanderson. He stands there, nervously shifting from foot to foot as you study him.

"I don't know him," you finally say, turning your attention back to John.

Nikolai is sure John cuts an impressive figure, standing menacingly at the head of the table, backlit by the window in a way that casts his face in shadows.

"Sit."

Sanderson takes the seat across from you.

"How do you know this is the courier?"

Sanderson looks at you again.

"All of the couriers have to submit an id when they apply to the platform."

"Why?"

"I was told to run Hermes like a real business. It makes real money, it has real expenses, I approved real people to be the couriers. Part of that was making sure that they were real people."

"Why bother? Why go through all of that work if the point was to send us packages."

Nikolai hears the door open and close, voices he recognizes stopping in the foyer followed by the rapid clicking.

“Why this courier? They didn’t have to handle our shipments.”

“He chose them. He picked.”

John considers the answer, it is the same as he gave the other night. Nikolai can’t think of why Sanderson would lie.

“You got enemies?” John asks you.

The 141 had looked into you, your family, you ex, your grades from uni. Kyle had done a deep dive but sometimes people get mixed up in things they don’t mean to. Things that don’t have receipts.

“Enemies? What am I, Spider-Man? Your friendly neighborhood courier?” you snap at John.

Nikolai smirks, feisty. That’s the you he had seen at the lounge, the you that had ensnared Kyle even if he wouldn’t admit it. The lad had spent more time than necessary building the case for your innocence.

You finally notices the voices, head whipping to the side, eyes wide as you look towards the entryway.

“Don’t worry about them, chickadee. Answer John’s question.”

“I don’t have enemies,” you say, dragging your attention to John. “I do my job and then I go home. I—wait, what did you say?”

“Chickadee?” John repeats the nickname, “that’s you isn’t? Not much of a songbird though, you leave that to Alessia.”

“How you do—have you been—what the fuck is happening?”

“Just, tell them what you know,” Sanderson looks across the table as if trying to convey something more, trying to be convincing.

It does not work.

“I don’t know anything!” you're close to shouting, hands clenching in frustration at your sides. "I don't know who this guy is," you say gesturing to Sanderson, "I don't know John Price, I don't know who's fucking finger was in that package. I just needed a job, a fresh start. I didn't even choose this fucking city."

"Who did?"

"What?"

"Who chose this city?"

Your mouth clamps shut. Its not wise to keep John waiting, but you don't know this.

When you don't answer John walks around the table, coming to a stop behind your seat. He leans forward, one hand coming around the chair to hold you in place while he whispers something in your ear, voice too low for Nikolai to make out. Your eyes widen as you listen, muscles tensing as he steps away.

"Nikolai, take them both to the room."

Sanderson stands without fuss, Nikolai worries he will have to force you, he doesn't enjoy the idea of manhandling you. Not like that at least.

"Come," he says, pointing to the spot next to him.

You stand slowly, something hardening in your stance, some decision made that they are not privy to.

John sees it too.

"Perhaps we have not made this clear enough," John starts, walking back to where you stand.

John may not look as lethal as he was when he was in the service, the fancy pants and the white button up shirts do not strike fear the way plate carriers and knives and guns did. Nikolai has yet to decide which version of John is more alluring, certainly John spread out naked in Nikolai's bed beats the rest. But this John is certainly a contender for second.

Its something about the way the suspenders hang loosely from his waist, his shirt still tucked neatly into his pants, but the arms are rolled up giving just a taste of the swath of hair that covered John's body. If Nikolai had his way it would be illegal for John to button the top two buttons of any shirt, propriety be damned.

John grabs your arm, you squirm in his hold but no amount of twisting and turning will free you.

"What is wrong with you," you hiss as John drags you away from the table. "Let me go, I didn't do anything."

You continue on like that all of the way to the panic room. John tosses you down on the sofa, your face wet with tears despite the look of hostility you turn on John.

"Give us the vest and anythin' else ye might have on you."

John towers over you, Nikolai stands to his side. It is part of the job, even when they were in the military, sometimes innocent people get mixed up in things that they don't understand, don't have control over. You might not have known what you were doing, you didn't seem to know who John was despite his name being well known around the city. Nikolai wondered if Alessia did, it was her cousin that had gotten her the job at the lounge. Sami knew of John, knew of the connection between where he worked and the leader of the Price family even if Nikolai hadn't advertised it.

Blessedly you give in, ripping the jacket off and tossing it onto the floor at John's feet, your phone and wallet follow.

John snatches them up.

"Sit here and think about anything you might have heard or seen."

John doesn't wait for you to agree, he turns on his heel and leaves you watching him with a glower that Nikolai thinks must work on some people but would be powerless against the 141.

"Be smart, chickadee. John is not forgiving man."

Sanderson stands nervously by the door to the panic room.

"Go, no funny business," Nikolai instructs, waiting until the man has given you a quiet hello before closing the two of you in.

John is already melting into one of the armchairs in the sitting room, a bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, a glass in his hand. Nikolai hears Kyle in the foyer, speaking with the crew there.

"Is keeping them together wise?"

"Fuck if I know," he pauses, listening as Kyle sends off their guests. When the door closes John continues. "My gut says neither of 'em are a risk, just mixed up in something dangerous. Can't let 'em go. Can't keep 'em here."

John doesn't look up as Kyle approaches, his footsteps clicking against the marble floors, he's wearing his fancy shoes meaning he had been at work when he got the SOS.

"Team's got the finger, the box and the packaging. Took as much forensics as they could. Already called in a favor to see about DNA testing on the finger. Sure as fuck looks like your ring though. What happened?"

John's face twists into a frown, not answering the questions and instead asking one of his one. "Made any plans for this weekend?"

"What?"

"This weekend? Any plans?"

"What are you—" Kyle freezes.

John has the vest in his hand, the phone and wallet on the coffee table by the bottle of whiskey. He turns over the vest until the Hermes patch is visible.

"Have to cancel those plans."

Kyle's face is impassive, hands loose by his sides. Had Nikolai not known the man for many years now he would have wrongly assumed that Kyle was not bothered by this. But he was.

"Do not tease, Любимый. Tell him."

"We have the courier, they're in the panic room. Got their phone here," he says, waving his hand at the table. "A couple of missed texts from someone named Kyle. Any guesses who that is?"

Kyle frowns, dropping down on the sofa. Nikolai joins him, leaving no space between their thighs and arms. Kyle sighs as Nikolai swings his arm over the back of the sofa, just above Kyle's shoulders, not resting over them the way Nikolai would like. They do have work after all.

"Unlock their phone," John instructs.

Kyle picks up the phone, typing in the passcode.

"I saw them type it in at the lounge," he explains before passing it across the table to John.

John thumbs through the phone, frowning as he reads.

"They only have messages from two people, the friend from the lounge and you.The rest are notifications from apps and Hermes."

"We already knew that. The clone already showed us all of this."

"Someone conveniently left out that they were making plans for drinks."

Nikolai looks down at his lover. Drinks? It isn't like Kyle to act so thoughtlessly, to make a move that hasn't been carefully thought out, planned, discussed. Approved. He can be loyal to a fault. It had taken months and months of careful coaxing to get him into bed with John and Nikolai, even longer to get over his shock that the reticent lieutenant was part of whatever this was. Kyle had tried to name it, a polycule, but they had all decided that a simple word could not describe what they had.

It was not like Kyle, but then you weren't the type of person they usually met in this business. Nikolai could see the appeal.

"I was—interested? I already told you I thought that they weren't involved."

"Reckless is what you were. They're involved whether they knew it or not. They delivered a fucking finger, right into the penthouse. Standing there in the foyer with this stupid vest, asking for John Price like I wasn't right fucking there. Stop thinking with your dick. Right now I have got enough problems, two of which are getting real nice and cozy in the panic room. Forget yer little crush. We have work to do."

König’s fist grabbed the front of Ghost’s shirt like it weighed nothing and hurled him backward. Ghost’s back slammed into the ground with bone-rattling force. His lungs emptied in a single gasp—then König’s boot crashed onto his chest with the weight of a sledgehammer.

Crack.

Ghost’s breath hitched. He gasped, straining under the weight pinning him. Pain flared across his ribs like fire. He tasted blood.

König crouched, pressing harder with his boot, his masked face inches from Ghost’s.

“ First I want you to feel what I felt,” he whispered, voice trembling—not with weakness, but rage. “The moment I thought they might be dead. The nights I couldn’t sleep knowing I couldn’t be there to protect them. What felt like weeks I begged for intel and to be answered with nothing.”

“I never meant..” Ghost wheezed, voice a rasp. “any harm—”

“You betrayed them.” König’s hand slammed beside Ghost’s head, cracking the floor tile. “And now you want to play hero?!”

König leaned in further, voice venom-coated. “Give me one good reason not to rip your lungs out.”

Ghost blinked past the sweat and pain, locking eyes with the towering soldier.

“Because I am the only one who can reach them without the shepherd noticing," he said. “Even if it kills me, they will escape."

A long silence followed.

König’s shoulders rose and fell. His breathing was ragged—he was fighting himself harder than he fought Ghost. Then, slowly, he stepped off Ghost’s chest.

He didn’t offer a hand. Just stared down, shadowed by the flickering light overhead.

“Then you better pray,” König said, his voice low, lethal, final. “You're not lying… because no existing God will save you when I kill everything you hold dearly.”

The words hung in the air like a blade suspended over Ghost’s throat.

His breath came in shallow gasps, pain radiating from his chest, but his gaze never wavered. He’d stared down monsters before—had been one himself once. But König? König wasn’t making a threat. He was making a promise.

Ghost slowly pushed himself up from the cracked floor, every movement stiff with ache, but deliberate. Controlled. He rose to his feet without flinching.

“No god's ever saved me,” he rasped, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his glove. “Don’t need one now.”

König didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just watched.

A current of silent fury passed between them—ancient, raw, unspoken. It was more than a grudge. More than betrayal. It was personal.

Behind them, Hutch shifted slightly by the door, his hand now fully resting on his weapon. Ready. Waiting for a command.

But König didn’t give it.

Instead, he turned his back—slowly, deliberately—and walked to the far end of the room. “We move at dawn,” he muttered. “You’ll lead. You fail us… and I’ll bury you where they can hear you scream.”

He stopped by the desk, placing a battered photo face-down beneath his hand—one Ghost didn’t need to see to know whose it was.

“You better be right,” König added, quieter now, but no less sharp. “Or I won’t just kill you. I’ll erase you.”

Ghost nodded once, jaw tight. “Then I’ll make damn sure we bring them back.”

—------------------------------------------------------------

Only a couple days in this hell, and already you’d lost your sense of time. Hunger gnawed at your stomach, but it was the lights—those damn buzzing warehouse lights—that truly wore you down. Too bright, too constant. You found yourself staring at them now, dry-eyed and half-delirious, wishing they’d just shut off so you could sleep without dreaming in fluorescent white.

You actually chuckled—hoarse, bitter. Of all the things to be thinking about, sleep?

Soap had come earlier, bringing you something that passed for food. But it didn’t bring comfort. Not really. Not when your wrists were still raw from rope, your legs bound together like you were some piece of cargo instead of a person. You weren’t going anywhere. You couldn’t.

Your skin itched, coated in grime. You needed a bath. A real one. Hot water. Soap. Not him, the man who brought you meals. You scoffed again at the irony.

Your neck throbbed with each breath—a bruise the size of a man’s hand splayed across it like a dark brand. You didn’t need to look to know it was still there, proof of someone’s anger. Of how close you’d come to losing it all.

But Price’s jacket still smelled like him. Like cedar and gunpowder and tobacco. A weight draped over your shoulders like a shield. You leaned into it, letting your face press into the fabric, nuzzling it like a child would a blanket. It smelled like safety. Like command. Like home.

It wasn’t much. But it was the only thing in this place that reminded you of who you were.

And of who was coming for you.

König. 

The name alone unraveled you.

Your breath hitched as tears welled up, unspilled but heavy. God, how much you missed him. Missed the way he’d pull you close like the world could never touch you again. Missed the way he murmured in your ear, voice low and reverent, as you moved together in the cramped heat of his car—moaning your name like a prayer. Like you were the last holy thing in his life.

His scent, all leather and musk and aftershave. The heat of his chest. The strength of his hands holding you like you were breakable, yet his to break if needed. His filthy, loving words echoing like gospel:

“So good for me, Hase… mine. Only mine.”

Your lips trembled.

“König…” you whispered, so soft it was nearly a breath, “where are you?”

The warehouse answered you not with silence—but with laughter. Cruel. Mocking.

A chill licked down your spine. Don Shepherd.

He strolled out of the shadows like a phantom, all arrogance and rot behind that smug grin. The kind of smile that made your skin crawl. He crouched low in front of you, boots crunching against the concrete floor. His face was too close. His cologne is too sharp. He reeked of power abused.

And just behind him, towering but eerily still, stood Price—motionless, face unreadable, eyes cast downward like a man shackled by something unseen.

Shepherd tilted his head at you, patronizing.

“Still calling out for your savior?” he sneered. “He’s not coming, rabbit.”

His voice dripped venom, the nickname twisting in his mouth like a joke. But you didn’t flinch. You just stared at him with hollow eyes, clutching Price’s jacket tighter around you like armor.

Because you knew König.

And he was coming.

No matter what Shepherd said.

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?