KĂśnig runs into a spot of trouble with the mob. But wouldn't you know it, his favorite barista is heading home and is willing to play along.
For @backseatsoldier *hugs, kisses, and hopefully KĂśnig spends the night*
CW: 18+ Minors do not interact, kissing, ass smacking, suggestive themes
You stretched your neck as you walked the final stretch toward home. Two jobs, an early morning barista shift followed by a break, and then a half shift at a call center always left you drained. But between the two schedules, you had time to do two classes a day or settle at the school library and bust out homework before it was due. No matter the time the sun had always hidden itself away before you could leave the call center.
The shitty and small bathtub in your flat and a bath bomb someone had given you for Christmas two years back called your name. The well of the tub was so thin that water got trapped behind you as you emptied it. You forgot that until you went to stand up and a flood of water rushes over your legs and toes.
You are flung, quite literally, from your thoughts when you meet a wall nose first. Rubbing your nose you step back and look up, and up, and up. Oh! You know this wall! He comes by your coffee shop regularly enough and always gives K as his name.
âOh! Iced chai with two espresso, sorry about that. I should have been watching where I was going.â
The tall, broad man glances behind him. His face is hidden by a surgical mask, as always. When he glances back to you a spark of something, something concerning, lights in his eyes.
âYou know me, ja?â At your confused nod he continues, âHow much I pay you pretend we together?â
Blinking rapidly is your only response before your mouth forms a âwhaâ shape.
âFive hundred enough?â
âUh-u-sure?â
He rips the mask off, shoving it deep in his pocket before grabbing your right hand in his left and circling a long arm around you, caging you between the combined length of your arms.
âHow was work love?â
He stares down at you expectantly. The sound of pounding feet reaches your ears, the volume rising with each step.
âHonestly love? It was exhausting.â
His eyes get wider the closer the footsteps get. You wrench the hat off your head, ignoring the hat hair you undoubtedly have. Slapping it down over his massive skull you have never been more thankful for what your mother always complained of as your âoverly large, vagina-tearing nogginâ. Itâs a bit of a tight fit but the layer of change helps his shoulders relax a fraction.
âWhat made it so bad?â
You start walking as he continues the charade, tugging him along despite his clear resistance.
âSo, you know how my boss is a complete asshole right?â He grunts and you continue, âWell he just hired his daughter to be the office manager, which first off is clearly a nepo choice but Iâm just a part-time employee what the hell can I say about it?â
Two men dressed all in black and guns on their hips race past the two of you with barely a glance.
âNot much,â he agrees, ear tipped toward the retreating footsteps. âHow much to go to your apartment until I can get a ride here?â
âYour name.â
He looks down at you, brows pinched together under the brim of your borrowed hat.
âKĂśnig.â
âThank you, KĂśnig. Yes, you can come and hang out at my apartment until you get your ride scheduled.â
The stress from his shoulders and the pinched look on his face disappeared.
âNow tell me more, I thought you worked at the coffee shop.â He falls into step with you now, slower shorter steps keeping up with your slightly elongated to accommodate for him.
âI do, I work the early shift at the cafĂŠ and then have a few hours off for school and homework before I do my late-night job so I can make rent.â Bumping his thigh with your hip you continue, âWhat do you do other than running from gangsters?â
âMobsters,â he countered, âBlow stuff up, mostly.â
âMmm. Quite impressive.â
The sound of footsteps, speeding back toward you sent both your hackles up.
KĂśnig leaned down into your ear, âHow much to kiss you?â
Mind canât keep up with all these jumps and you spit out the first number word you can think of.
âHundred!â
He lets out a small laugh, pulling you tighter to him and moving you both forward as he directs your steps closer to the wall. Your back hits the wall as the men come into view. KĂśnigâs lips are on your before you can think of much else.
Could a brain give a blue screen of death? Thatâs the only way you can describe the complete lack of function your brain produces when his lips meet yours. Movement happens by need alone and that need has you pulling him closer, fingers digging into the flesh at his waist as you lick the seam of his lips. His forearm lands next to your head as his knees buckle slightly.
The footsteps slow as they pass you but the wanton, and frankly, too graphic to be outside of a bedroom or a porno sounds shoot erupts out of you, sending them scurrying away. Some masculine cologne sweeps into your brain, killing off the last of your brain cells. You would climb him like a tree given half a chance.
âSix hundred,â he whispers as he pulls back slightly.
Eyes unfocused, you blindly reach out and grab him by the collar. Dragging him back to your lips you catch his lower lip between your teeth, pulling gently as you lean away. The tiniest sound escapes from deep in his throat, a spear thrown that landed directly in your needy bits.
âSeven hundred,â you breathed on his lips.
Breaths mingling KĂśnig watches you watch him. The condensation of his breath warms and cools your face.
âThose kisses are worth a hundred a piece,â he whispers as if worship is his primary language.
Movement from the edge of your vision alerts you to the mobâs incoming presence.
âPick me up, keep pretending. I can direct you to my apartment,â an edge of panic creeps into your voice as you force your eyes to not move from his.
He does as you command, hands so wide they nearly span the width of your thighs as he lifts you, knees hugging his waist and ankles locking behind his back.
The giggle that escapes you is real. You were too solid for nearly any other man to hoist you like this. He settles both arms under your butt, holding you close. Flopping onto his shoulders, kissing up and down his neck you count the doorways until you see the one before yours and bite gently on KĂśnigâs earlobe. He pulls you tighter when you start to murmur.
âThis next door is mine. They are still following but looking way less suspiciously at us. Smack my ass.â
KĂśnig didnât need to be told twice. The crack of his large hand across your backside made the men following flinch and turn away, confident now that the man they had followed half a block was not the person they were looking for.
You didnât mean to, but your jaw tightened, pinching his earlobe tighter as you whine into his ear. He let out a groan that would haunt your masturbation sessions until you reached death, dildo in hand.
Letting go of his ear you rest back on his shoulder. He rubs out the sting of his smack; your inner walls clench at the care.
âFirst door is unlocked. Head to the top floor. Iâm in six.â
He isnât breathing hard when he tops the several flights of stairs, even despite the additional weight of your body.
When he lets you down it is with a slide down the length of his body, a slight bulge at his zipper confirms you werenât the only one affected by the shared kisses. You spin around, focusing diligently on the task of unlocking the door. Throwing the door wide you step in and gesture to the space.
âGet comfortable, call your ride. I need to change and get ready for bed. I have to be awake in five hours for work,â you donât turn as you stalk further into your small apartment.
Shutting the bedroom door you cover your mouth with both hands as you force the deepest breaths you can manage through your nose. After the tenth deep breath, you are calm enough to change. Your long pants and ugliest hoodie are your shields. A soft, wireless bra you pray is enough to keep the ladies from trying to claw their way to say hello and a clean, dry pair of underwear is the last of the changes.
Stepping from the bedroom you find KĂśnig staring out the window and down at the street.
âWanna watch a show while you wait for your ride?â You twist the inner portion of your hoodie pocket around one finger.
âJa,â he nods and settles into one corner of the couch with three massive steps.
Turning on something calming, settling yourself on the other side of the couch, a pillow wedged underneath your head. You are drifting when his phone buzzes once.
He curses in what sounds like German before tapping your leg with two fingers.
âMy ride is delayed. Can I purchase more kisses?â
Any sleep that might have been gathering fled like birds as a toddler ran full force toward them. You popped upright, looking over every bit of the man you could see in the shifting light of the TV.
The serious cast to his face decided your answer for you. Crawling into his lap, not unlike the way he carried you home less than an hour ago, you settle yourself pussy to penis. The layers of clothing between you would not prevent you from enjoying this stolen bit of time.
âKĂśnig, I am going to do my best to bankrupt you,â your fingers creep up his arms as his hands settle on your waist.
âGut.â
No more words are shared, only base noises, keening cries, and the wet sounds of sloppy kisses.
Preemptive tags because I know how much these two people love KĂśnig: @demothers-empty-blog @machveil
Happily @jackpeppiette @oliviachelltattoo and myself have had our art entries for @tattoocollectivelondon returned to us after they were delivered late and left in the doorstep of the closed convention centre. Many thanks to Eastside Tattoo on Bethnal Green Road for rescuing them for us - diamonds! Grant, Zack @mrjohntattoo @dianajaytattoo #lostintransit #yeswedidart #thanksnothanksups (at Insider Tattoo)
Your deep focus and contemplation on the fight you had with Johnny last night was shattered with the shifting of the chair across from yours. Dutson was a man who yearned for a 'chase'. You gave one. No exchange of numbers, just appearing in places he was known to frequent every so often. Predators noticed patternsâsometimes they also forgot they weren't always the largest meat-eater in the biome. Today's appearance took shape in the bistro that catered to the most expensive and elite in the city. How surprised would those at the table be to see a jackal in bunny skin in their midst.
Lifting your gaze as you did your mimosa, you let your eyes smile and warm at the idea of sharing a meal with such an important man. Both lies.
"Jeffrey! What a surprise seeing you here! How are you this morning?" Sitting forward on your chair, you reached across the table to grip his too soft fingers between yours.
"Been a hell of a morning." He chuckled in a high-handed fashion. You affected your expression to show the appropriate amount of concern. Duston gave a limp squeeze of your hand. "I must say, Bunny, you are one hell of a hard woman to find."
The brittle aspect of your smile couldn't be faked. Shifting in your seat, you pulled your hand away as you straightened your back, toying with the stem of your glass. He looked you over, not your face, but the tits hoisted high and the draping of the silk blouse you borrowed from Cara with the sole purpose of looking sophisticated. You had forgotten a silk blouse acceptable at brunch when shopping with Lover Boy. Sipping on your drink once again, you gave yourself a moment to recalibrate your face. Giving a small hum as you settled the base of the glass just so, you glanced up at him through your lashes.
"You've been looking for me? Find anything interesting as you chased the White Rabbit?" Placing your elbows on the white tablecloth, you layered your hands and rested your chin atop them. The subtle tug of the conversation to Alice In Wonderland likely would lead him astray. Men who thought themselves smarter than everyone around them often thought of themselves as the Cheshire Cat, and not the Mad Hatter who's brilliance had all been stripped away by degrees. Mercury poisoning. What a dangerous way to go.
Dutson smirked as he leaned back in his chair, a small finger wave to a passing worker. "I'll take the eggs Benedict and an orange juice." He turned back to you without so much as an acknowledgement of the bus boy he had just demanded usurp the actual waiter's job. "No rabbits found, I'm afraid. Who would you say you are in the story of Alice?"
"I've always been partial to the Red Queen myself," you tossed out with a shrug as you turned back to your cheese danish, where it lay neglected on your plate.
"Oh? And why is that?" Dutson pulled his phone out; a glance at the screen showed a contact labeled "Mother" calling him. He ignored it. The device went face down on the table.
"Classic literature tends to file itself neatly under the Madonna/whore complex." Cutting a bite-sized sliver of your food, you brought the morsel to your mouth, "If those are my options, I will choose the woman with the best chance of creating her own choices."
Holding eye contact with Duston, you wrapped your lips around the fork before returning it to the table with a sensual slowness. You were good at performing sex. The brightness of the lights didn't deter you. Not anymore. Dutson's eye dilation at your lips spoke of your winning strategy.
His words came in a slower cadence than before.
"What choices would you make?" Dutson's eyes finally drifted up to yours as you placed another bite of breakfast on your tongue.
The smirk you gave had to have been the most real reaction you had given him so far.
"The ones that leave me fucked well, holding the winning hand, and with enough money to disappear."
He laughed, that airy, stupid, rich person laugh.
You took it as first blood.
The morning Dutson had invaded your breakfast table, you made a point to do the whole exchange of numbers that would let his people reach "your people". The entire interaction made you want to roll your eyes so hard they popped out of your skull, and then continued on rolling without you. But you could play secretary as well as you could queen. Or whore. The only role you could never quite conquer had always been the one that read as authentically you.
The prick of that truth is enough to draw you back to the matter at hand. You needed to move. Dance. You needed to feel the floor shake from the base beneath your toes as every ugly thought and feeling flowed from your body and mind. Dancing freed you.
Dutson had rushed off before his breakfast had arrived, his mother squaking in his ear. You thanked the waiter, who wore no name tag, and asked for a box. Johnny sat in the car, playing chauffeur today, and he would likely not turn his nose up at a free breakfast. You hoped. The waiter blinked like you had forgotten you line when you smiled at him with a warm 'thank you' falling off your tongue when he handed you the box of breakfast and informed you that Dutson had covered the bill. He scurried away not long after that.
Striding to the door, you fired off a quick text to the unsaved number in your phone.
>Ready when you are.
<Already waiting. Moved the car when Duston fled the scene like his arse was on fire.
>Mother dearest called him home.
You didn't have time to see if a reply rolled in from Johnny before he was exiting the driver's seat and positioning himself at the open back door. Neither of you shared a word as you slid into the back seat.
Only once the cute waiter and the sour memories were in the rear view did Johnny speak up.
"How's the fishin'?"
"Grand, found myself a marlin in the wild."
The grin shared between you ached with the fierceness of old wounds as the winds began to change. The bastard you shared as a sperm donor had once gone on a three-week-long fishing expedition. When he stumbled back through the door, on any mix of uppers and downers, he could only mumble about a marlin he'd nearly had between his hands before the line snapped.
"Price wants eyes on you any time you're out and about from now until we wrap this all up." Johnny's eyes stayed firmly on the road, ignoring the piercing stare you stabbed at him from the rear view mirror or to his shoulders.
"How nice it must be to want," you replied icily.
A glance you caught into the mirror, a slight shake of his head to indicate the recommendation to not fight.
Annoyed at your acceptance and the bile creeping up the back of your throat, you folded your arms and turned your eyes to the passing buildings.
"What's he expecting me to do? Wait like a princess for a carriage?"
"Aye."
Instead of letting your face reactâyou knew Johnny was watchingâyou took a deep breath and focused on lowering your shoulders and tightening the muscles that sat neatly against your spine. You had learned how to do it when you needed to stop shivering. No one knew you could do it; it wasn't like you could explain 'I tell my body to stand up straight and tighten my core and lengthen my spine and I can hold back the shivers for three to five seconds at a time' without sounding crazy. It made your ribs ache if you did it for too long.
The silence lingered while the buildings became shabbier and more familiar. Nearly home.
"I dislike the highhanded changes made about my life. Tell Total that he only gets one more lateral move before I force him back to contract negotiations."
Johnny pulled the car to a stopâyou didn't wait for the wheels to stop turning before the door began swinging open.
"Total?" He called over his shoulder to you.
Turning, you bend down to see his face when it lands, "Well, if he can change the price, I can change the total."
Slamming the door on Johnny's laughter, you trudged up the stairs to your door. The itchy feeling in your soul hasn't left. Only amplified.
Ghost was the one that found you. Phone off, left at home with a note in your neatest handwriting sticking to the screen. 'BRB, blowing off steam.' Seems Total didn't like being given the slip. You wouldn't have needed to walk out the door without your music if you could have just trusted that he hadn't already bugged your phone. Your muscles froze as you spun slowly around the pole. He had to have bugged your car. The fucker was going to pay for that.
Sasha had let you borrow her private studio when you knocked on her office door.
"You look like hell." It had been the first thing she said to you after looking up from her computer.
"Thanks, Sash. You were always one to keep it honest." Shifting from one foot to another, you crumpled the elbow of your opposite sleeve in your hand. "Lot of childhood memories trying to surface right now. Can I borrow a pole for the night, and some music if you have any to spare?"
The jacket had been more a comfort than a need. Armor in cotton.
A softness Sasha held in reserve for the youngest girls at the club shifted through her expression like dawn. It sent an ache through your jaw and your fingers to clench tighter.
"All my public rooms are in use today."
You were the only one who heard the crack. It hurt like a fault line giving way.
Sasha continued, a look in her eyes that burned like the red-hot end of a cigarette.
"What I can do for you, though, is get you set up in my private space. That room has a dual connection to my playlists; you won't be able to choose what's playing, but it's better than nothing." Sasha tipped her chin toward her computer, "I've got to work on billing tonight and can't do that without music."
Not even the times you had fists around your neck had made your throat feel this tight. All you could do was nod in thanks. No conversation plucked at your raw emotional strings as you followed Sasha out of the office and further down the dark hall. Thank god. Roughly fourteen steps later, she reached for a specific portion of the dark wall and pushed into a new, darker space.
Sasha had the mood lighting on and set before your 'not presentable even for the grocery store' sneakers passed the threshold. She strode across the room, flicking open a hidden panel, and smooth jazz poured into the space, grains of sand replacing the air you needed to breathe. You hadn't made it more than two steps into the room when she turned on a heel and crossed the room. Sasha cared well for those she deemed as hers.
It hurt worse, the soft pat to your wrist of the hand that still clutched your sleeve like it could buoy you out of hell, because she didn't say a word. The click of the latch had you scrambling out of your clothes. Shoes went flying as you toed them off, followed by your sweater that got caught on your hair as you yanked. Pants turned inside out as you escaped them. No better than a toddler stripping; even your socks landed in two different directions. Then you did the thing you always warned new people never to doâyou launched yourself at the pole without warming up in the slightest.
The next hour saw you pulling out your hardest moves and holding them, fighting the quivers of pain as your muscles fought with your feelings.
You ignored him when the door opened. If he found this room, it was because Sasha let him; you did wonder what he had offered her for the knowledge. It took another five minutes before you addressed him. Ghost had planted him back against the wall, eyes tracking you as you spun round and round. He shifted only once, head leaning forward as he stretched his back. Due to your bad luck, he nearly took a heel to the temple for his trouble.
"You're going to end up with a concussion if you do that again." You had aimed for a neutral tone. What came out had been a growl.
"Wouldn't be the first," came the flippant reply.
Once your toes could scrape the floor, you stomped up to the man. Hands curled into your fists and resting on your hips, you glared up at him. Why the good golly fuck had genetics said this asshole needs to be excessively tall?
"The fuck is wrong with you?"
Dark eyes flicked between yours above his black medical mask.
"Don't know. Shrink refuses to see me anymore." Ghost gave a single shrug of his shoulder to accompany his blase statement.
"Of course he fucking doesn't." Annoyed beyond belief and not even sure why, you spun on the ball of your foot and shifted into a twirl around the pole.
You had completed one full rotation when he opened his big mouth.
"Never had a private pole session before."
Welp. Guess you were done exhausting yourself of emotions. Letting yourself rotate a half turn further, you shifted into a walk the instant your feet found the hardwood. Sasha had left the panel open for you. With a quick flick, it opened. A scan found a dial that wasn't pointed down like all the others. You twisted until it clicked. That done, you stalked back across the room and snatched up your clothes off the floor.
Both feet were back on the floor, hands shimmying your pants up your thighs, when a hint of a breath brushed over the back of your neck. The gooseflesh skittered down both arms.
That should have been it.
It never was.
Frozen, you watched as an arm, bare of tattoos and with a sleeve shoved up close to his elbow, curved around your waist, never quite touching as wide, thick fingers flicked at the jewel of your belly button ring.
"Never could figure out the appeal of these."
Breathing hurt. The physical stretching of the fascia between your ribs ached with Ghost touching you, but not.
"Piercings?"
"Gems." He gave a slight tug that yanked the bottom out of your stomach as he did it.
When the warmth at your back disappeared, you forced your shaking arms into motion. Completing the task of getting your pants over your ass, you turned to look at Ghost. He watched you. Something about the tilt of his shoulders told you he thought he had won something by taking you by surprise. That wouldn't last long. One should never battle outside their weight class for a reason.
Lifting your shirt from the floor with your foot, you slid the tight baby tee over your bra. Once it settled flush on your skin, you snaked a hand up the back, unclipping your bra. Everyone knows the move: left hand to right shoulder, down comes a strap. Right hand to left shoulder, and the girls are free. You pull your bra out from the front of your shirt and toss it to Ghost. Your battle lines drawn, you don't wait for him to catch the distraction to bend over and slide your socks on and begin to tie your shoes. Men had been taught to like breasts perky, up high for gazing. They never needed to be forced to like them as they hung.
The glance you pass over his groin as you stand confirmed what you hoped. Someone noticed.
"Gems are made to catch the light," you flicked one of the gems on the nipple piercing while staring at his face, "and the eye."
It took a long, long moment before Ghost could pull his eyes up from the taut fabric of your shirt. You smirked. He glowered. And so it began.
It went on like that, a brush of his hand over your ass as you stepped out of the room, and he turned off the lights. You raised him a step into his space, brushing all back against him as you opened the door to leave the building. He tried again after you had settled into the passenger seat of the car. Man thought he was so slick trying to 'help' you with putting your seatbelt on. You took it from him with a raising of your brow.
Ghost lost in totality when you forced him through a drive-through for some late-night takeaway. When the cashier's voice traveled through the ether, you shed your seatbelt and leaned over the center console, both hands on Ghost's thighs, your thumb brushing his tip, as you placed your order. At the window, he passed over his card without a word and drove away before you had a chance to reingage your seatbelt. You did nothing to contain the triumphant smile that toyed at your lips.
The small snack dragged out its existence until you were parked in front of your building. You watched him stiffly climb from the vehicle and round the engine for your door. Setting the empty container in the cupholder to force him to think of you later, you stood from the now open door.
Starting for the door, you heard his near-silent footsteps trail behind you.
"What a gentleman, holding my bra, buying me a snack, and even walking me to my door." You gave a hum of pleasure.
The light above your apartment burned out four nights ago. That's why you didn't see it coming. Before you could key in your door code, Ghost's hands were on you, spinning you.
âI thought you said you have seven piercings,â Ghost backed you against the door.
He dipped low, the puff of his air on your neck sending your spine straighter than before. He had taken off his mask. Not that you could see anything. You were a sadist, though, the tantalizing want making the interaction rank higher and higher.
Nose bumping your ear, you heard a whisper.
âOne, two.â The hint of his breath across your eyes told you where he headed next. âThree, four.â
Hands brushed against your shirt as they rose to your breasts. The lack of bra only now becoming a weapon against you instead of only him.
A whimper, nearly pained, escaped you as his thumbs brushed over them.
âFive, six. But where is seven?â The tip of his tongue flicked your tragus.
Grabbing the meat of one thumb, you pulled his hand down, fighting with the waist of your bottoms with the other. Throwing your head back against the door as his hand brushed the skin just above your lower lips, you pushed his hand further. Further still.
âCurl your finger, Ghost.â
Hot damn you hadnât been this turned on sinceâŚwell, ever.
He did as commanded, and white flashed across your vision.
The man became a gargoyle, allowing you to punch in the code, twist the doorknob, and slip inside. The light you left on above the stove gave you the hints of a strong nose, cheeks stained with scars, and a dumbfounded look.
âSeven.â You closed the door in his face.
Locking it, you headed straight to your room. You needed to write a sex scene for one of your novels and then work out your tension on a couple of toys and pass out for the night.
Part 17 | Part 19
Bunny Masterlist | Masterlist | Taglist
Cute divider from @/jimzittos
A/N: Hi..hello..not deadâŚsorry bout that unexpected hiatusâŚstill kinda on hiatus but I was able to finish up this chapter and am going to try and work my way through my open stories while I continue to suffer under the weight of my licensure choices.
KĂśnig knew loss. The loss of his place in KorTac due to an injury he had been unable to recover well enough to resume his duties though? That one crippled him worse than the knee injury.
On the advice of the discharge woman KĂśnig found a hobby, sculpting. Not the morphing life from clay but ripping it from stone. His darkest memories and darker thoughts, dreams, found release in the eyes of his viewers.
He keeps a gym routine; it helps him move the blocks of stone and keeps his body from betraying him further. It also helps keep his physical therapist off his back. That's where he runs into you. Tall for a woman and wide like your foremothers produced warriors, he watches you.
KĂśnig tries to keep his distance, despite his therapist challenges to branch out and attempt small interactions to create new habits. It works well until your form needs work and he can't stand to see you getting injured. That's enough for you to take up residence like an enemy brigade attempting a siege on his mind.
Upon waking you knew something in your life had shifted. Sitting upright in bed and feeling a gush of fluid pool in your underwear answered the question of what had changed. Waddling awkwardly out of your room a dubious feeling settles low in your gut.
The bathroom door is shut.
At least two male voices rumble from further down the hall. Fuck. One of the guys had to be in the bathroom. Knocking you pray it will open.
âBusy,â comes Simonâs gruff reply.
Double fuck. Simon would be in there for a while. Digging your fingers into your body you decide how to deal with the growing problem that is now sticking your loose pajama bottoms to your legs. Johnnyâs laugh and the sound of a kitchen chair scraping against the floor fling you into a decision. Reaching up your fingers find the long thin key to release the simple twist lock.
Simon doesnât have time to yell at you before you are through the door and locking it behind you.
âThe hell do you need?â He snaps at you from the toilet.
âI need you to cover up and let me get in the shower without asking questions,â you stare at the grain of the door as you strain your ears to listen for how he might be feeling about this.
A beat of silence longer than you can comfortably handle passes. You open your mouth to plead with him when Simonâs voice reaches you.
âWhy are you bleeding?â
He doesnât sound alarmed, only vaguely concerned.
âWouldnât you know it this is a pretty regular process for me?â The sarcastic reply slips out.
Fabric rustling behind you alerts you that he isnât going to kick you out.
âCome on then, I canât start the shower from here, but I can take your clothes when I am done and start a load of wash for you.â
Turning and seeing compassion on Simonâs face has your lip starting to quiver. He holds out a hand to you. Crossing the long bathroom, you take it gratefully.
âIâm really sorry,â you wipe a hand under your nose, âthat I had to bust into your bathroom time.â
Simon lifts and drops one shoulder.
âNot like Johnny wouldnât do the same if I didnât lock the door.â
The truth of the statement startles a laugh out of you.
Squeezing your hand in his Simon uses the other to jerk the shower curtain open for you.
âMilady,â the seriousness in his tone causes you to burst into giggles.
Stepping in, you pull the curtain shut and quickly strip. Folding the bloody portions of your pants into themselves you set all of your clothes in neat bundle on the floor just beyond the shower. Starting up the water you focus on getting the water in the pipes to a self-indulgent level of heat. When you are clean and refreshed, and you can somewhat manage the day ahead, you turn off the flow. The silence in the room beyond the flimsy barrier taunts you.
Holding the curtain tight in one hand you shift it enough to find the room empty of Simon. Instead, a candle is burning on the counter and a stack of your softest folded clothes sits on top of the toilet seat. Drying off you get your period situation dealt with as best you can for the first day of your flow and get dressed.
The underwear and bra are absolutely yours but the sweats in the pile look suspiciously like Kyleâs and the shirt could be either Johns. You accept the offering of them claiming you, but also the subtle hints of them and their laundry soap soothed you.
Cramping didnât hit you until you stood at the sink, trying to wash up your breakfast dishes. The dual stabbing at the base of your spine came as a surprise. Your finger curled over the edge of the sink as your vertebrae did their best to pull away from one another. Breathing got hard; short gasping sucks of air were all you could manage.
John materialized behind you. His hands roam down your back, he knows he hit the right spot when your hips jerk forward and bang against the cabinet. You let out a sharp whine.
âTouch or no?â
âPush,â you gasp out.
When his thumbs dig into your pain point you are granted the most exquisite type of relief. When it eventually subsides, and the pressure of Johnâs fingers begins to hurt again you shift to dislodge him. John pulls you into a hug before dropping a kiss on your forehead and sending you off to do something else.
âGo and rest, I will take care of these,â his beard tickles against your face.
Not one to miss out on not doing dishes, you squeeze John tight and leave the kitchen. The stirrings of your normal period cramps start. Spotting Johnny reclining against the arm of the couch you decide. Johnny is sketching away in his notebook. You really should look at getting him a real art book when the cafĂŠ starts turning a bit more profit and can cover all the back pay you are owed. Tugging lightly on one of his crossed ankles you get Johnnyâs attention.
âCan I lay on you?â You try and look pitiful.
He would have said yes either way but it made you feel better about asking for help.
âCourse,â he places his book face down and scoots down until his feet rest against the other armrest. âCome here.â
Collapsing on top of the hot-running Scot you settle down. Using him as a personal hot water bottle is the best idea you had all day. Johnny runs a hand down your back a few times before resting his sketchbook on your back as he continues to work. You wake to the feeling of your period overcoming your precautions.
Leaping off of a snoring Johnny you rush to the single bathroom in the flat and find it locked. Again.
âGod dammit! John!â Your shout wakes Johnny up as he rushes up from the couch and John from your room where he must have been resting if the pillow demarcations on his cheek are any clue.
âWhat? Whatâs wrong?â John questions you.
âJohn, youâre buying a house.â Before he can ask stupid questions such as why, you point to the bathroom. âThis is the second time I have to change my outfit because there is only one bathroom, and my period will wait for no man.â
The door opens, every pair of eyes in the hallways snapping to a now concerned Kyle who pulls out one earbud and tucks his phone into his pocket.
âWhat did I miss?â
Shoving past him into the bathroom you reply as you slam the door closed.
John (Johnathan to his older female relatives only) Price fumed as he held the steering wheel in his fists.
Night had fallen while they were inside. The lights from passing cars worsened his glaring. Every glance in his rear-view mirror did nothing but pump air to the bed of coals where his rage dwelt. John âSoapâ MacTavish glared at his sister in the front seat. His man, a sergeant who John regularly entrusted his life to, had bitten him. Bit. Him.
Soap had been given an ultimatum: shape up or get restricted on this mission.
Now, John liked to think himself a fair man, moving only in extremes against threats to his life or when circumstances called for it. Had he not seen it with his own eyes, watched how you instigated with your brotherâthe eye contact, the extra body rolls, leaning forward at the end of your explanation on pole dancing to let John lift his dog tags from your neck where they had been warm from your breastsâhe would have blamed Soap. But no. You were half the problem, and John would treat you as such.
He couldnât hold back the snarling, though.
âWhat the fuck is wrong with you two?â
You sent him the ugliest side eye John has ever seen. Soap settled back in his seat. Arms crossed and feet tucked under the front cushions, he looked prepared for the ass chewing that undoubtedly would come spewing out.
âI didnât do anything wrong, Johnny just hauled off and bit you for no good reason.â You fold your arms, pointedly not glancing into the back seat as you lob the blame.
âNo good reason, my ass,â Johnny muttered under his breath.
Spinning in your seat, you glared at him.
âCorrect, you are an ass. But like I was saying, you had no. Good. Reason. To bite.â
âTrying to seduce my captain in front of me counts as more than a good enough reason.â Johnny rushed his next word. His hand clutched the corner of Johnâs seat. âAnd no, you donât get to deny it. Youâve done everything in your power to fuck with me, and Iâll not be having it, Bunny.â
âYouâll not be having it?â Incredulity colored your words. âYou get no say in who I fuck or when. If I want to drag your entire team to bed for a fucking orgy, I will!â
John slammed on the brakes. You and Johnny both let out oofs of pain.
âThat is enough! Both of you,â John glared at you and then at Johnny as he ignored the honks of irate drivers who had to now swerve around him. âShut up. One more word from either of you and Iâm canning the whole mission.â
Mulish looks, a matched set, crossed both faces.
Two deep breaths passed before John turned in his seat. He eased off the gas.
The tension lingered in the air; it tasted like the nasty cigarettes his father used to chain smoke when he was home on leave.
As John prepared to take a full breath, you shifted in your seat. He glanced at you, noticing your crossed arms and the jut of your chin.
âYou are like papa.â
The cadence of words, so unlike your own, must have been a quote for the way Johnny busted out in laughter from the back seat.
Slamming his palm to the dashboard, John turned on the radio. Dialing up the volume to drown out you, Johnny, and the ache in his arm, John focused on keeping the wheels between the lines and everyone aliveâat least until he got to the house.
The silence following the engine turning off struck with the force of a fist. John stepped from the car, slamming the door before either you or Johnny had freed yourself from the vehicle.
He had never been more grateful in his whole goddamn life that neither of his ex-wives had produced children as he watched you scurry to plant your body against the back passenger door to keep Johnny from opening it. Instead of sliding to the driverâs side to escape, Soap continued to fight and push against your weight. By the third slam, John was striding around the back of the car.
Snatching you up by the arm, he walked you to and through the front door without a word. Johnny fell in step behind him. The back door proved no barrier as he flung it open and then you out of it.
Johnny might have thought himself at a safe distance. He was wrong. The younger man seemed to forget the orangutan-like reach his captain had. Slapping a hand on the back of Johnnyâs neck, John tossed him out into the night as well.
Both stood under the covered portion of the patio. Johnnyâs brows were nearly touching, face hard. Your expression held only retribution that would never find a home.
John dug a hand into his pocket. Pulling out an open carton of cigarettes, he tossed them between you. Swinging the door closed, he paused.
âYou can come in when youâve dealt with your issues.â
Plucking his lighter from a different pocket, he tossed it out. He aimed higher this time, allowing it to land neatly atop the cigs.
John locked the door. He did you the kindness of turning on the garden lights from the switch.
Simon and Kyle arrived nearly twenty minutes later. John must have been speeding. Oops.
He stood in the kitchen, leaning against the kitchen counter with the lights off as he watched you and Johnny through the window.
âCap?â
Kyle called from the hall.
âLeave the lights off,â John replied. He sipped on his whiskey; heâd given himself three fingers in hopes the fight outside would be finished before he had emptied the glass. It seemed more and more unlikely.
Simon and Kyle joined him. They stood in the silence; their companionship and the numberless missions between them, setting the precedent for observation. Sixty minutes passed before the last cigarette was pressed against the dirt. Simon and Kyle had both acquired a drink to help the time pass.
You and Johnny sat at the edge of the patio, feet extended into the grass. The distance between you, nearly large enough for John to lie down between you, didnât bode well for âfixing your issuesâ.
The men couldnât hear what Johnny said. Whatever it was, though, had you snapping your head to the side as if you could part his cervical spine from his thoracic.
Instead of responding, you pushed to your feet and strode toward the back door. Johnny called back to you without turning, resting his weight on his palms.
John leaned forward from the counter. He could see through the glass on the back door from his new angle. His boys did the same.
Your eye twitched. Fingers curled and uncurled as you decided how to respond. Toeing off one shoe and then the other, you reached down slowly and took one in each hand before turning around.
âThink sheâs gonnaââ
Simon is cut off by the answer to his question appearing in the form of you launching both shoes, one after another. Both nailed Johnny in the skull. He jumped up with a shout, hand on the back of his head.
All they got was volume. Any words, diction, or direction were lost in translation as they passed through the window. The yelling went back and forth, going on for nearly twenty minutes, before something Johnny said that caused you to push him. And push him again. And again. The grown men straightened up like the chant fight had just started down the hallway of the school. They crowded around the window, eyes flicking from form to form.
Johnny might have had the skills to kill insurgents, but in trying to avoid responding with violence that ends lives against his sister worked against him. Repeatedly. Especially since you did not seem to share the same restraint.
Kyle hissed when your closed fist punch caught Johnny in the cheek.
âMan has a fucking rock for a skull, I know that had to hurt.â
The next three hits were batted away. Unfortunately, the military didnât train men for a âstep on foot, push a man over, and knee him in the ballsâ combo while trying to avoid hurting the person you were fighting with. All three men in the house winced from sympathy pains as Johnny went down. You stood, huffing over him with hands on your hips. Once you straightened out, you pulled your phone from the pocket of your leggings and fired off a picture. The flash looked blinding even from this distance.
Phone clutched in your hand, you crouched down next to Johnny.
John watched with interest as your hand hovered above Soapâs shoulder. It finally settled on, light as a hummingbird. Johnny shifted, looking up at you. Whatever was shared in that moment belonged to two victims, children, siblings, who should have never had to endure. You help him up. Johnny gives you a searching look. Whatever comment had been offered, bread broken between enemies who now share a meal, had you throwing back your head in laughter before punching him in the chest.
Neither of you said much as you came through the back door. Kyle had unlocked it as soon as the two had started back. Simon stayed leaning against the counter with him.
You nodded to Kyle with a light âThanksâ, to your brother with a long look before ruffling the mohawk he styled so neatly each morning, and strode into the kitchen, flicking your fingers impatiently at Ghost for your keys.
Johnny and Kyle stood near the door talking; John admired their friendship.
âI would dive for them myself, but your jeans are too tight and might cut off the blood flow to my hand.â The threat held none of the usual spark.
Simon pulled the keys out and dropped them in your waiting palm. John turned to the sink to rinse his glass, regretful to hear the final whispered portion of the conversation.
âMy jeans are not too tight.â Simon leaned forward to let the words drop on your shoulder.
The smirk is clear despite the exhaustion when you reply.
âSays the man who tucks left in his jeans and hangs free in his boxers.â
Simon snorted.
Every time you opened your mouth, John swore he could feel more gray hairs starting to sprout. This flirting between you and Simon would end in bloodshed for someone before this was all over.
CW: BIG emotions, the men fighting back the demons of the past and mentions of sex toys.
Your presence lingered like the scent of an overly perfumed woman had passed through the room in the not-too-distant past. It showed in the sharp set of Kyleâs jaw as he leaned over the counter staring at a business card. It appeared in the way John pulled a glass down to pour himself two fingers of Johnnie Walker, and in the rigid posture of Johnnyâs shoulders.
âIf you want a sister and not an enemy you need to stop egging her on,â Simon took the grape from Johnnyâs fingers before he could crush it.
Training had been going well, you absorbed information and could regurgitate it in a way that didnât feel forced or unnatural. You worked at them though, the connections between the men. Simon wondered if you knew you did it. Picking at the wound between you and Johnny the blood, acidic, caustic burned the edges of their bonds with one another.
âShe doesnât seem like she wants a brother,â Johnny snapped at him as grabbed another grape. The small fruit objected to leaving its sisters and dragged the bunch out of the bag. He cursed under his breath as he cradled them in his hand.
âI canât call her.â Kyle slapped a hand over the card before dragging it from the counter and stepping to throw it in the bin.
âNow hold on,â John swirled his liquor in his hand. âWhy canât you? And who is she?â
Simon watched John watch Kyle, eyes flicking back and forth.
âCara. Sheâs Bunnyâs best friend. Sheâs in the photos that got sent to you from the dress shopping day.â Kyleâs hand stays raised, paused in its arc.
âSheâs pretty, and sheâs your type. Whatâs the issue?â John sipped from his glass, eyes shrewd as he studied his sergeant.
From Simonâs position next to Johnny he caught Kyleâs glance to his best friend. Johnny didnât see it though, eyes down plucking another grape free of the once life-giving vine that trapped it in a death of consumption.
âThe issue is he doesnât want to be steppinâ on toes Cap.â Simon must have nailed it from the roiling anger in Kyleâs glare.
âMy toes?â Johnny pointed to his chest. âHave at her. Itâs not like youâre going after my wee sister.â
The demons in Simonâs mind started to howl, scenting blood on the words. He liked the look of you. The curves that begged for hands, the wicked sharpness that sparked behind your eyes, and even the knowing you would fight for yours. Having you would not be an option. Ever. Didnât stop the wanting.
âSoap,â John leveled a hard look at the sergeant over the glass he tipped to his lips.
âCaptain,â Johnny replied, stance firm and voice sharp.
âYou need to find some peace with her or you wonât be playing bodyguard at any events. We canât have you breaking roles,â sipping the scotch in his glass.
Johnny crossed one arm across his chest to hold the opposite bicep. His free hand scrapped across the stubble on his face.
âHow do you recommend going out about that Cap?â
The tension in the room paused its upward spiral. Johnny asked, sincerely, for advice. Simon and Kyle shared a look. Johnny would rather walk naked to exfil after failing to defuse a bomb than ask for help. They both looked back to the monumental event unfolding before them.
Setting the glass down with a deep sigh, John looked from Simon to Kyle, and from Kyle to Johnny. Sighing again he lifted a hand to his face. Pressing his thumb and middle fingers from the space between his brows to his temples John rubbed both temples in small circles before dropping his hand to the counter.
âOne thing you learn as a captain is to watch and to listen. Your sister is smart and will sniff out any bullshit before you can pinch it off. If you want a better relationship with her, to have a sister again instead of a snarling hellcat snapping for your throat, you need to apologize.â
Johnny opened his mouth to say any number of things but paused at the hand John lifted.
âWhen you apologize you need to mean it. If you regret not going back for her tell her that. Do you regret not killing your father before you left? Tell her that. After you apologize you shut the fuck up and take any abuse she gives you. In saving yourself she was damned to the life she now leads, which is bound to create some rage,â John snatched up his glass throwing back the last swallow like a shot. He held the back of his hand to his lips, eyes distant. Simon thought he looked like a man remembering the times he damned someone. âMost of all stop using her as a whetstone for your self-hatred.â
Johnâs eyes didnât leave the memories that played along the counter for his eyes only. Kyle blew out a breath, eyes haunted. Johnny folded his arms and stared at the tiles between his boots. All four of them had made choices they hid behind happy memories and didnât dare pull out even on the darkness of nights with their vice of choice flowing through their bodies. Those memories played a barrier to living normal lives. How is someone supposed to act normal after finding out that intestines donât fall from the body like sausage links, but bulge as they are held back by the facisa? Can a regular life be possible for any of them when the choices they made would damn them to prison if someone deemed powerful hadnât declared it a war?
Simon couldnât help but rub the heel of his hand against his breastbone. Praying that enough pressure would ease his damnation and that the dreams of you in his bed, crying out to god wouldnât damn him any further.
When you rise the next morning you make sure to stretch while waiting for your toast to pop. Forgoing the heavy night club makeup and following a tutorial for a fresh-faced look with a warm pop of color on your lips you select an outfit that would blend in well at a country club brunch.
The plans did not include a round of golf, but Jeffrey Dutson loved to get his hands on girls when he took them out on the green. Making a decision you grab the golf outfit with the built-in shorts. Those damn skirts were designed to give a peek and you werenât ready to get a palm-to-cheek grab today.
Face appropriately affixed and outfit sitting snug on your body you dither over how to do your hair. You had pulled it up and down and side to side trying to find the right option. The knock at the front door comes as you are making faces in the bathroom mirror.
Walking to the door you guess at who is standing on the other side of it. The weight in the knock told you it could be your brother, Price, or Ghost. Kyle knocked lightly like he used to knuckles and rapt the door instead of slamming his strength into the motion. Silence behind the door tipped you more toward Ghost. Johnny fidgeted and John shifted.
Unlocking the door you pull it open.
âHmm, I was right. Now question, hair up or down?â You glance up and down Ghost appreciating the sight before you.
A black polo, top two buttons undone, stretched across his broad shoulders. Black medical mask and a black cap matched the shirt. His tan slacks and brown shoes completed the look of âIâm only hired muscleâ to a T. The half-sleeve tattoo on his left arm pulled your attention. Flames, skulls, and all manner of war tools decorate it. Hellfire and the whip of the devil the priest in your motherâs old parish always droned on about would be your only reward for the desire ripping through you.
âWhat have you tried?â He steps past you onto the dingy carpet of the living room.
Shutting the door tight behind him you scoop your hair up and show him the several options youâve already tried.
âThe only thing I canât do is a French braid. I would do a Dutch braid but it doesnât fit right with the outfit,â you let your hair slap against your back as you drop it.
He doesnât let his gaze roam like Kyle did. You think he saw everything anyway. Reaching around you he pulled out a chair from the table you shoved in the corner since that is the only place it would fit and not cause you to trip every time you headed into the kitchen.
âI can braid. Sit.â
âOoh starting off the day with orders,â you send him an ugly look. âTry asking and Iâll get you the supplies.â
Ghost stared down at you, eyes drifting from one of yours to the other. By some sign known only to him, he turned and started down the short hall. Darting past him you slam a hand into each wall, his chest flush with your back.
âDamn man, go back to the table,â you snarl the words at him without turning your head. If you shift even a bit then he might see the mortification painted on your face.
It wouldnât normally be a problem but last night you had decided to clean and air-dry most of your self-care collection. If you had used more than one while imaging rough, wide hands and thick forearms that would now include a half sleeve, well that knowledge belonged to you alone.
His presence retreats and you grab the comb, water bottle, and the small clear rubber bands that didnât rip your hair from your skull when you removed them. The handful of steps back to the table are enough to allow you to find composure again. If it had been anyone else at the door you wouldnât have had to stop them from entering the bathroom. But no. Price had to send the one man who could elicit that reaction out of you.
Ghost braiding your hair reads like a torture session for sexually repressed women. The firm hold, his slight nails scratching against your scalp as he drew up more hair, the near silent movement of his breaths. Torture. Finally, he is finishing off the braid. His fingers arenât able to open the small hair tie and after the third accidental tug on your braid as he tries you snap at him.
âFor the love of fuck! Quit yanking me around. I'll tie it off.â
Taking your hair in one hand, the other is busy stretching the band between your teeth and fingers. In less time than he dinked around trying to get it, your hair was secured. Now hot and bothered, you stand and grab your bag off the table. Leaving all the hair supplies behind you turn around and lift a brow at Ghost.
âReady to go big man?â You practice your big doe eyes and the tiniest pout.
Ghost takes one, slow, deep breath as he stares at you.
Relaxing you let your face fall into a natural rest.
âYouâre right, that was too much. Iâll fit in better once we get there,â waving a hand as if to clear smoke you strode to the front door.
Unlocking it with one hand the other digs out your favorite pair of sunglasses.
âCome on spooks,â glancing over your shoulder at the man you slide them on. âWeâve got men to conquer.â
