#lostintransit

“Oh! Iced chai with two espresso, sorry about that. I should have been watching where I was going.”

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.

“You know me, ja?” At your confused nod he continues, “How much I pay you pretend we together?”

Blinking rapidly is your only response before your mouth forms a “wha” shape.

“Five hundred enough?”

“Uh-u-sure?”

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.

“How was work love?”

He stares down at you expectantly. The sound of pounding feet reaches your ears, the volume rising with each step.

“Honestly love? It was exhausting.”

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 ‘overly large, vagina-tearing noggin’. It’s a bit of a tight fit but the layer of change helps his shoulders relax a fraction.

“What made it so bad?”

You start walking as he continues the charade, tugging him along despite his clear resistance.

“So, you know how my boss is a complete asshole right?” He grunts and you continue, “Well he just hired his daughter to be the office manager, which first off is clearly a nepo choice but I’m just a part-time employee what the hell can I say about it?”

Two men dressed all in black and guns on their hips race past the two of you with barely a glance.

“Not much,” he agrees, ear tipped toward the retreating footsteps. “How much to go to your apartment until I can get a ride here?”

“Your name.”

He looks down at you, brows pinched together under the brim of your borrowed hat.

“König.”

“Thank you, König. Yes, you can come and hang out at my apartment until you get your ride scheduled.”

The stress from his shoulders and the pinched look on his face disappeared.

“Now tell me more, I thought you worked at the coffee shop.” He falls into step with you now, slower shorter steps keeping up with your slightly elongated to accommodate for him.

“I do, I work the early shift at the café and then have a few hours off for school and homework before I do my late-night job so I can make rent.” Bumping his thigh with your hip you continue, “What do you do other than running from gangsters?”

“Mobsters,” he countered, “Blow stuff up, mostly.”

“Mmm. Quite impressive.”

The sound of footsteps, speeding back toward you sent both your hackles up.

König leaned down into your ear, “How much to kiss you?”

Mind can’t keep up with all these jumps and you spit out the first number word you can think of.

“Hundred!”

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. König’s lips are on your before you can think of much else.

Could a brain give a blue screen of death? That’s 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.

“Six hundred,” 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.

“Seven hundred,” you breathed on his lips.

Breaths mingling König watches you watch him. The condensation of his breath warms and cools your face.

“Those kisses are worth a hundred a piece,” he whispers as if worship is his primary language.

Movement from the edge of your vision alerts you to the mob’s incoming presence.

“Pick me up, keep pretending. I can direct you to my apartment,” 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 König’s earlobe. He pulls you tighter when you start to murmur.

“This next door is mine. They are still following but looking way less suspiciously at us. Smack my ass.”

König didn’t 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 didn’t 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.

“First door is unlocked. Head to the top floor. I’m in six.”

He isn’t 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 weren’t 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.

“Get comfortable, call your ride. I need to change and get ready for bed. I have to be awake in five hours for work,” you don’t 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 König staring out the window and down at the street.

“Wanna watch a show while you wait for your ride?” You twist the inner portion of your hoodie pocket around one finger.

“Ja,” 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.

“My ride is delayed. Can I purchase more kisses?”

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.

“König, I am going to do my best to bankrupt you,” your fingers creep up his arms as his hands settle on your waist.

“Gut.”

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 König: @demothers-empty-blog @machveil

"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 react—you knew Johnny was watching—you 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 stop—you 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 do—you 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.

“I thought you said you have seven piercings,” 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.

“One, two.” The hint of his breath across your eyes told you where he headed next. “Three, four.”

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.

“Five, six. But where is seven?” 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.

“Curl your finger, Ghost.”

Hot damn you hadn’t been this turned on since…well, 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.

“Seven.” 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 dead…sorry bout that unexpected hiatus…still 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.

Simon doesn’t have time to yell at you before you are through the door and locking it behind you.

“The hell do you need?” He snaps at you from the toilet.

“I need you to cover up and let me get in the shower without asking questions,” 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 Simon’s voice reaches you.

“Why are you bleeding?”

He doesn’t sound alarmed, only vaguely concerned.

“Wouldn’t you know it this is a pretty regular process for me?” The sarcastic reply slips out.

Fabric rustling behind you alerts you that he isn’t going to kick you out.

“Come on then, I can’t start the shower from here, but I can take your clothes when I am done and start a load of wash for you.”

Turning and seeing compassion on Simon’s face has your lip starting to quiver. He holds out a hand to you. Crossing the long bathroom, you take it gratefully.

“I’m really sorry,” you wipe a hand under your nose, “that I had to bust into your bathroom time.”

Simon lifts and drops one shoulder.

“Not like Johnny wouldn’t do the same if I didn’t lock the door.”

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.

“Milady,” 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 Kyle’s 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 didn’t 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.

“Touch or no?”

“Push,” 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 John’s 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.

“Go and rest, I will take care of these,” 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 café 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 Johnny’s attention.

“Can I lay on you?” You try and look pitiful.

He would have said yes either way but it made you feel better about asking for help.

“Course,” he places his book face down and scoots down until his feet rest against the other armrest. “Come here.”

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.

“God dammit! John!” 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.

“What? What’s wrong?” John questions you.

“John, you’re buying a house.” Before he can ask stupid questions such as why, you point to the bathroom. “This is the second time I have to change my outfit because there is only one bathroom, and my period will wait for no man.”

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.

“What did I miss?”

Shoving past him into the bathroom you reply as you slam the door closed.

“John will explain.”

@the-loneyest 😘 @lilynotdilly

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 “Soap” 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 brother—the 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 breasts—he would have blamed Soap. But no. You were half the problem, and John would treat you as such.

He couldn’t hold back the snarling, though.

“What the fuck is wrong with you two?”

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.

“I didn’t do anything wrong, Johnny just hauled off and bit you for no good reason.” You fold your arms, pointedly not glancing into the back seat as you lob the blame.

“No good reason, my ass,” Johnny muttered under his breath.

Spinning in your seat, you glared at him.

“Correct, you are an ass. But like I was saying, you had no. Good. Reason. To bite.”

“Trying to seduce my captain in front of me counts as more than a good enough reason.” Johnny rushed his next word. His hand clutched the corner of John’s seat. “And no, you don’t get to deny it. You’ve done everything in your power to fuck with me, and I’ll not be having it, Bunny.”

“You’ll not be having it?” Incredulity colored your words. “You 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!”

John slammed on the brakes. You and Johnny both let out oofs of pain.

“That is enough! Both of you,” John glared at you and then at Johnny as he ignored the honks of irate drivers who had to now swerve around him. “Shut up. One more word from either of you and I’m canning the whole mission.”

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.

“You are like papa.”

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 alive—at 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 driver’s 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 Johnny’s neck, John tossed him out into the night as well.

Both stood under the covered portion of the patio. Johnny’s 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.

“You can come in when you’ve dealt with your issues.”

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.

“Cap?”

Kyle called from the hall.

“Leave the lights off,” John replied. He sipped on his whiskey; he’d 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, didn’t bode well for ‘fixing your issues’.

The men couldn’t 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.

“Think she’s gonna—”

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.

“Man has a fucking rock for a skull, I know that had to hurt.”

The next three hits were batted away. Unfortunately, the military didn’t train men for a ‘step on foot, push a man over, and knee him in the balls’ 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 Soap’s 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 ‘Thanks’, 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.

“I would dive for them myself, but your jeans are too tight and might cut off the blood flow to my hand.” 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.

“My jeans are not too tight.” Simon leaned forward to let the words drop on your shoulder.

The smirk is clear despite the exhaustion when you reply.

“Says the man who tucks left in his jeans and hangs free in his boxers.”

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.

Part 16 | Part 18

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Cute divider from @/jimzittos

“I can’t call her.” Kyle slapped a hand over the card before dragging it from the counter and stepping to throw it in the bin.

“Now hold on,” John swirled his liquor in his hand. “Why can’t you? And who is she?”

Simon watched John watch Kyle, eyes flicking back and forth.

“Cara. She’s Bunny’s best friend. She’s in the photos that got sent to you from the dress shopping day.” Kyle’s hand stays raised, paused in its arc.

“She’s pretty, and she’s your type. What’s the issue?” John sipped from his glass, eyes shrewd as he studied his sergeant.

From Simon’s position next to Johnny he caught Kyle’s glance to his best friend. Johnny didn’t see it though, eyes down plucking another grape free of the once life-giving vine that trapped it in a death of consumption.

“The issue is he doesn’t want to be steppin’ on toes Cap.” Simon must have nailed it from the roiling anger in Kyle’s glare.

“My toes?” Johnny pointed to his chest. “Have at her. It’s not like you’re going after my wee sister.”

The demons in Simon’s 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. Didn’t stop the wanting.

“Soap,” John leveled a hard look at the sergeant over the glass he tipped to his lips.

“Captain,” Johnny replied, stance firm and voice sharp.

“You need to find some peace with her or you won’t be playing bodyguard at any events. We can’t have you breaking roles,” 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.

“How do you recommend going out about that Cap?”

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.

“One 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.”

Johnny opened his mouth to say any number of things but paused at the hand John lifted.

“When 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,” 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. “Most of all stop using her as a whetstone for your self-hatred.”

John’s eyes didn’t 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 didn’t 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 don’t 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 hadn’t declared it a war?

Simon couldn’t 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 wouldn’t 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 weren’t 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.

“Hmm, I was right. Now question, hair up or down?” 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 ‘I’m only hired muscle’ 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 mother’s old parish always droned on about would be your only reward for the desire ripping through you.

“What have you tried?” 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 you’ve already tried.

“The only thing I can’t do is a French braid. I would do a Dutch braid but it doesn’t fit right with the outfit,” you let your hair slap against your back as you drop it.

He doesn’t 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.

“I can braid. Sit.”

“Ooh starting off the day with orders,” you send him an ugly look. “Try asking and I’ll get you the supplies.”

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.

“Damn man, go back to the table,” 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 wouldn’t 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 didn’t 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 wouldn’t 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 aren’t able to open the small hair tie and after the third accidental tug on your braid as he tries you snap at him.

“For the love of fuck! Quit yanking me around. I'll tie it off.”

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.

“Ready to go big man?” 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.

“You’re right, that was too much. I’ll fit in better once we get there,” 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.

“Come on spooks,” glancing over your shoulder at the man you slide them on. “We’ve got men to conquer.”

Part 11 | Part 13

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Cute divider from @/jimzittos