call me K 𼰠she / her / they ⨠24 ⨠18+ only, NO AGE BLOGS & MINORS DNI - i will block you :) multi fandom blog - star wars, stranger things, game of thrones - probably more lmao eventually thereâll be a masterlist link here i guess?
youâre called in to be the life drawing sitter for au university fine art professor!boba part 18/?
this part contains sexually explicit content â¤ď¸
missed part 17?
all links on part 1.
boba feels as though his composure could almost shatter at your words, how bold and empowered youâd become under his deft fingers, his lustful gaze.
he was flattered by how unabashedly you wanted him. from the first moment he saw you, he knew what lewd thoughts were flying through your head just by the way you looked at him. at first, he was only going to tease you; he wanted to see what kind of reactions he could wrangle out of you, to see how red you could blush. but now, it was something more. he wanted you on a deeper level. he wanted to run his fingers along your every curve, wanted to memorise every shape, every gasp, every moan; heâd swallow all of you in a heartbeat.
you werenât like the women heâd meet in private clubs, women who were only interested in his money. women who would climb in bed with him and leave in the morning without so much as a goodbye. he could tell you were itching, just as much as he, to undress him, his soul, to figure him out. maybe one day heâd let you.
âboba..â you whine, turning his face with your fingers to kiss him deeply, and he falters for a moment before he melts into your soft lips, his heart aching in his chest.
his fingers, guided by your eager hand, dip between your thighs to run the length of your heat. immediately youâre moaning into his mouth, the pads of his fingers gathering your slick before he starts a slow circle on your clit and you keen into the kiss.
âprincess..â he groans against your lips, his breath hot, the smell of whiskey hitting the back of your throat. âyouâre soaking.â
youâre gasping and whimpering into his mouth as he kisses you deeper, tongue and teeth and brutal passion and it sends you yearning all over again. he picks up his motions, circles growing in a crescendo and his other hand follows suit, pinching and teasing your nipple in tandem until youâre a pliant mess beneath him.
the rolling of pleasure through your body, from your lips to your toes, burns scaldingly hot under his fingers, his kisses growing more and more frantic until youâre teetering on the very edge of your release, your stomach tight and body tensed.
âboba-!â your voice is high pitched, breathy and foreign to your ears and you probably wouldnât recognise yourself if not for the moan boba emits against your lips in reply, breaking the kiss to suck messily along the junction of your neck.
ââm close.. fuck!â
boba doesnât let up his motions, keeping his calculated pace until he feels your cunt twitching in preparation for your orgasm under his fingers.
ânot yet.â he whispers against the shell of your ear. âhold on for me princess.â
youâd slap him if you could, desperate and rearing for your release, your heartbeat thumping in your temples, but you try to hold off for him.
with a whine of protest from deep in your throat, he releases your nipple from his grasp and instead curls his thumb and fingers around the tender flesh of your neck. your breathing stutters somehow heavier than before, heart pounding beneath his fingertips and youâre sure he can feel the way your cunt grows even slicker with arousal when he gives a testing squeeze.
your fingernails dig into where they hold purchase on the broad and fleshy slope of his shoulder, your toes curling as the pressure builds and builds and god you werenât sure you could hold out any longer, your eyes squeezing shut and head falling back to rest on his shoulder, mouth open and chest heaving as you focus on that overwhelming sensation building.
and itâs just as you do so that his grip tightens on your throat, his fingers pressing even more purposefully in their circles on your clit, and his lips fan his hot heavy breath right against your ear.
âcum for me.â
and you do. the pleasure crashes almost painfully, a wave breaking on a rocky shore as white hot bliss courses through your veins, pricking every nerve along your skin as it does. raw and guttural moans and cries of pleasure fall from your parted lips, sounds which boba is sure heâll be remembering next time you sit for him to paint. heâd etch them into the brush strokes if it were possible. your cunt squeezes almost painfully around nothing as you continue to orgasm, the emptiness prominent and obvious.
"soon, little one." boba purrs against your skin as he mirrors your thoughts, his voice having dropped an octave as his circles slow with your release, your pussy still twitching with his touch.
something something, Simon sees you at a bar all dressed in pink and acting shy around other people and gets intrigued. He buys you a drink, the gentleman he is, and you simply stare at him, the hulking man in the scary mask, before throwing back the drink in one gulp.
Oh. Oh. Now that peaked Simon's interest.
He walked over to you, your friends all but abandoning you the second he started walking over. You blink up at him with big, adoring eyes as Simon buys you another drink.
Eyes that Simon finds himself getting lost in as he drives the two of you home, hand on your thigh, the truck silent as he autopilots to his flat. What a risky move, trusting a man like him to take you somewhere other than a dingy bathroom in the bar.
When Simon pushes open the door of his flat, he's on you instantly, lips locking against yours as he presses you against the wall. His hands roam your body, gripping your hips as he slots his knee between your thighs, listening to you moan and whimper as you rut against him.
He thinks he knows what this is, just a quick fuck with the pretty girl in pink that he met at the bar, that is, until his hands brush your chest and you mewl rather loudly. Now what did he have here.
He scoops you into his arms, carrying you to his bed as he gently tosses you onto your back. Kicking off his boots, Simon walks over to the bed before he gets on the bed, caging you between his arms.
It takes Simon taking off your dress, letting your tits free, before he realizes. In the pale moonlight shining through the curtains, Simon sees them.
Silver bars, pink jewels at the end. Nipple piercings.
His shy little girl, the one with a metal-less face and no tattoos, had nipple piercings.
Oh he was so whipped.
A/N: this is nipple piercing propaganda, i may have tattoos but i was just really intrigued by the idea of simon not expecting this shy, covered in pink type reader to be pierced
Younger omega!reader, a new addition to the 141 and not all that comfortable with anyone on the team hesitantly asking older beta!price for help during heat??
You, in a weird way, trust him to take care of you. He's essentially the pack leader, and has no qualms scruffing or correcting anyone who acts foolish. So you approach him with leave papers that need his signature anyways, and try not to stumble over your words when you ask "would you...join me? It's okay if not! But I tend to get a bit lost, strong heat hormones, and I don't talk to anyone outside the team..."
Which is how you end up with your nose tucked into price's neck on the second day of your heat. Slick between your legs as you ride the knotted dildo strapped to his thigh for the fifth time that morning.
"Yer doing good, pup, just two more for me?" He pushes a calming scent, palm pressed to your head to keep you right against that scent gland. He's been working you down since you woke up in the middle of the night, overwhelmed when you didn't smell a mate nearby. "Two more, then you can stop, yeah?"
He makes sure to wear you out as much as possible on the toys, feeding you when you get cuddly and fuzzy. It's...really nice. Having someone there to make sure you won't be miserable post-heat.
When you eventually get needy again, it's price flipping you chest-down in the nest, stuffing you full of cum. He might not have a knot, but he's got a nice plug to shove into you afterwards that gets your instincts purring. It's the best heat you've ever had. Especially when he groans "settle down, pup. Just take it, yeah? Let me take care of you."
69ing with Simon, but that motherfucker is a large fucking geezer, greedy as bloody hell too, and he has you draped on top of his massive body, coaxed you into trusting him with this.
And now he is spreading your ass cheeks in an iron grip, thick fingers digging and bruising your flesh while his relentless tongue laps and slurps at your puffy cunt like a rabid wolfâall while you're too short and wrecked to even touch his rock hard cock, let alone suck it, so you opt to watch it throb and drool precum into his ashy blonde pubes like a leaking faucet.
Walking through the park with your new dog, a great big mutt that you fell in love with at the shelter. Lovingly named chai for how her tail wags whenever you play tchaikovsky.
She's well behaved, really a gentle giant more than anything. which is why you nearly fall over when she suddenly barks and starts yanking at her leash. Bodily dragging you with her eyes set ahead. To your absolute horror, she is beelining straight for two older men who look like they throw knives for fun.
But she's a strong girl, and theres no stopping chai. As your dog pulls you closer and your tugging becomes more frantic, the men take notice of the commotion.
"Oh! Hi there sweet girl!" The man in all black drops down to pet at chairs fur, cooing and nodding along to her excited barks. You stand dumbfounded as he pulls kibble from a pouch on his belt and feeds chai, completely ignoring you.
The other man snorts, glances down at the pair then up at you. Hes got a few Grey hairs in his mustache, thick muscles and fat. He's the kind of guy youd describe to your friends as 'a total dilf' unfortunately. "Dont mind simon, most of the dogs around here love him. Did you just get her?"
You nod, a bit off-kilter by the 6-foot-something man still kneeling on the grass to give chai belly rubs now. "Ah, that explains it," the man hums, nods down at simon. "Simon likes to visit the dog shelter when he can, most of the long term residents know him well. Hey, simon, introduce yourself to the kid at least?"
He stands up, practically casts a shadow over you with the way he looms. Even behind the facr mask you can tell his lips are set into a frown. "You feedin' her right? An' making sure she's exercised? Dolly doesn't do well without exercise."
He says it like he's already decided youre a bad dog owner, just waiting for you to trip up. The implication alone has you curling your lip in offense "of course I take care of chai! What do you think I didnt do my research-"
You get so heated you end up ranting on and on about how annoying it is to find good food options for chai without ordering it online, and how your neighbors dogs always attack her because they aren't fucking friendly, chad so you have to take her to the next park over andâ
You dont see it, but price watches as ghosts eyes start to flare with intensity. An appreciation for you love of chai/dolly, and some desire under that too. When he mumbles some excuse about joining you on the rest of your park visit 'just to be sure yer doing alright, kid' price doesn't call him on it.
Hopefully ghost can finds an excuse to make sure your house is 'well suited for dolly' too.
18+ | dubcon/noncon, stalking, fawn response, intoxication, size difference, johnnyâs just so big he doesnât mean to hurt you :(
or; the strangers to husband/wife vacation!au
pt. 1, pt. 2
Days three and four come and go as you and your friends fall into a routine,
and Johnny slips into the cracks.
You wake and run your ring finger under the cold tap to stem the pain. At breakfast, Johnny slaps piles of food and scalding cups of coffee in front of you before leaving to sit close by. Lunch too. You stop bothering with plates of your own. The rest of the day is spent by the water, basking like cool-bloods.
Johnny comes by with dripping cocktails that melt under your lounger until the staff comes to whisk them away. Johnny frets over your skin, waking you up from your dozes by the pool or the ocean with squirts of cold sunscreen slapping onto your stomach, thighs, shoulder blades. Rubs it into your flesh with dense hands and starving eyes. Johnny hovers when your friendsâ flings of the day stop by for a chat or a walk in the sand. Johnny invites the girls for dips in the sea, and they want to, but you asked them not to leave you alone and so they mumble and fix their hair when you decline.
Itâs like he only exists when you see him. When he brings you flowers; delicate, vibrant things ripped from the bushes dotting the resort, crumpled in his palms when you receive them. Or tries to coax you back to his room; a shower sounds nice, doesnâ it, doe?
If heâs acting as your husband - if thatâs the game he plays - why does he only walk your periphery?
It confuses and scares you. The other shoe hangs over your head, waiting to drop when he finally slips into your room one night. Not that he would. At least, you donât think so. Your friends tell you heâs harmless. He just has a crush on you, Destiny said the last time you complained. Heâs obviously joking. Would it kill you to be nice to him? Have a little fun?
What does he do when heâs not in your line of sight? You spend most of your hours on edge, wanting so desperately to know where he is, what heâs up to, so you can prepare yourself.
You think he followed you to your room last night.
You canât be sure. After dinner - a la carte affairs reserved on the day you arrived - you walked by Johnny sitting in one of the lounge areas, sipping a cappuccino. He had waved, and when you turned around after you had passed, he was gone.
But youâre paranoid, surely. The footsteps behind your group did not belong to him.
You couldnât turn around to look.
Next time, you say to yourself. Next time he steps over the line, youâll make a fuss. Tell one of the staff and they will listen. Tell Johnny to back off, and heâll tuck his tail and disappear. Doesnât matter that the line keeps getting ground into fine powder, doesn't matter that the goalposts keep moving. Next time. Next time. The confrontation will be justified next time.
But what would the next time be? After you got mad at him by the swim-up bar, heâs kept his touches family-friendly. Johnnyâs version, at least. His words, not so much, but he doesnât drape his weight over yours, doesnât tug at your clothing. Youâre worried Johnny thinks that you are simply shy. That you prefer to keep such things behind closed doors.
Youâre worried about deadbolts and key cards and shadowed, lonely alcoves.
On the night of the fourth day, sitting around a table at the outside sports bar, your friends approach you with conspiracy in their eyes. The conversation is rehearsed, like theyâve spoken about it while you were not around, and agreed who would say what. An idea is pitched:
They want to go on an excursion tomorrow, but theyâre worried about leaving the resort. âItâs just us here,â Beth explains. âYouâve heard the stories about women travelling alone.â
âThere are four of us,â you begin. âIâm sure it would be safe if we booked through -â
âYeah, but wouldnât you feel a little better if we had someone with us?â Destiny asks, shrugging. Leading you to the conclusion that she wants without actually having to say it.
âYou want me to invite Johnny?â
Ally grins. âThatâs a good idea!â
Youâre not so sure.
Despite his constant presence there, the resort feels safe. Itâs somewhere you are accounted for, name and passport in the records.âI donât know,â you waffle. Out in public with Johnny feels like too large a playground. Too many possibilities.
Your friends slump, disappointment on their faces. With various sighs, they start to make other, half-hearted plans.. Well, I donât want to go alone, so ⌠I guess we can just stay here tomorrow, and It wouldâve been nice to see the island, but itâs totally fine. Then they go quiet, nursing their drinks and not looking at you. The pressure is covert, hidden in tight-lipped smiles so it doesnât have to be voiced.
You donât want to be the bummer of the group - the friend who doesnât get invited on the next trip.
âOkay, Iâll ask him,â you say. You can suck it up for one day.
Ally straightens. âYay! Awesome - Iâll go book it.â She stands from the couch she was sinking into. Before she gets too far, she turns around. âOh, tell him weâll pay his fare - in exchange for his scary-man services.â
âWhere is he?â Beth asks. âWe need to ask him tonight.â
You shrug and stand as well. Youâll just go for a walk alone
- heâs sure to turn up.
âSo, weâre going on an excursion tomorrow. Itâs a catamaran trip to a little island off the coast, then weâll spend the day there. Relax, swim, eat lobster.â
Johnny dips his chin, but youâre not sure if he heard you.
You made it past two tall, white buildings and onto the small avenue of gift shops - a fake âshopping districtâ on the resort filled with overpriced snacks and sundresses - before large arms circled your middle and snatched you into the dark. Johnny, dressed smartly for dinner, had stuffed you, yelp muffled under his palm, into a cramped alley between two of the shops. A space so tight you can hardly move.
Your legs are interlocked, one of his thighs pressed between yours. The narrow strip of ground means your knee must be hitched over his hip, because Johnny insists both of your spines be pressed against the sharp stucco. One forearm rests on the wall beside your head so he is bent over you like a top-heavy cattail, the other hand rolls your fingers in his own to catch the light.
Admiring his turquoise ring strangling your knuckle.
His lips are pink, wet, a plush, stern pout. Music thumps somewhere beyond the palms, like a radio in another room, but all is calm and dark in the alleyway. Itâs just the leaves rustling in the night breeze, ocean lapping against against the nearby sand, and Johnny - his jaw closed but unclenched, muscles lax under the shadow of his scruff. When he looks at you, all quiet contemplation and unwarranted intensity beneath the set of his heavy brows, it sucks the air from your lungs. Heâs settled tonight, tempered.
If he were not terrifying, Johnny would be handsome.
Without breaking your gaze, he brings your hand up and pops your ring finger into his mouth. Teeth knocked over the second joint, tongue cupping under the pad beneath your nail. The ring clacks against his canines, silver on bone, when he twists it around. It must taste like metal, like sour pennies and the salt of your skin, but Johnny groans all the same. Itâs vile. The feeling of the tip of his tongue prodding where the silver meets your flesh, digging below the band for more skin - it makes your knees weak. Makes you sick, flushed and fevered as your gut churns.
Johnny watches your reaction from under his lashes. Drops his hold but keeps your finger in the slick clutch of his mouth, shuffled against the inside of his cheek and locked between the ladders of his teeth. Your wrist hangs limp out of his mouth - like an arm drooping from the clamped maw of a wolf.
âWhen dâwe leave in thâmorninâ?â he asks, rumbled deep and soft. Dulcet. Lax syllables drooled around your finger as if it were a lit cigar. Answering a request you hadnât voiced yet, invitation assumed.
âSeven,â you say, but itâs more a breath than a word.
Johnny drops you back at your room with teeth-indents in your knuckle.
He led you the entire way.
Here is the thing about Johnny:
Heâs fun.
He is. His energy is bright and infectious when he wants it to be. Heâs loud. Confident. Good-looking and warm. Itâs how he gets away with any of it.
At seven on the dot, he is waiting in the lobby for you and your friends. Green t-shirt, swim-shorts, and a baseball cap. His âmorninâ!â is accompanied by an excited clap of his hands and a bruising squeeze of your ass. He carries your bag, helps you into the shuttle, slips crumpled bills into a handshake with the driver - so no one cares when he crams you into the back seat. Shoved against the window with his arm slung over your shoulder, the only available air recycled from his lungs.
Your friends chat animatedly in front of you, and no one but you cares about his firm grip on your thigh.
Seats in the shade are limited on the catamaran.
You havenât been able to handle the heat the past couple of days but the girls want to lie on the nets. The thought of stretching out, sizzling on the canvas and swelling up like a bloated, beached fish - it makes you nauseated. Sunstroke roasting your grey matter like your skull is a forge and youâre the only one getting sick.
âIâll sit wiâ ye, doe. Câmon.â Johnny wrestles a seat under the canopy at the stern, and youâre almost grateful until he takes it and pulls you onto his lap.
The excursion promised a âparty boat.â
Music starts up, watered-down rum is passed around. Your friends, behind the sail at the bow, dance with a group of men and sing and take pictures. And you bump and bounce along with the boat on the choppy waves as something firm and hot presses into your backside.
Johnny only laughs, eyes bright when you turn to look at him. âCan ye blame a man? Mâonly human.â
Sea-sick, you say when youâre too dizzy to disembark.
The captain tries to offer you a helping hand into the surf, but Johnny is there, heaving you with two hands under your armpits like youâre a child. Youâre dumped into an empty lounge chair on the new islandâs beach, head swimming. Johnny crouches in the sand near your knees, real concern on his face.
âGet âer a water, will ye?â he barks over his shoulder. Your friends and the men behind him trade glances, not quite sure who heâs talking to.
Itâs any of them. The men, more spindly new-grads, crumple their faces in disobedience. Get it yourself, their expressions say. But Johnny wonât leave your side. You feel like an expensive Yorkie with a stomach ache. A show-dog who ate too much grass and your handler is simply distraught over it.
Itâs Beth who finally agrees. âYeah, sure,â she says, walking off to the beach bar close by.
You feel better after the few cold sips Johnny coaxes past your lips when she returns. He stays with you when the girls are tugged away, rubbing your back until your vision stops spinning. Soon, youâre up for joining the group again, and Johnny introduces you as his wife. Welcomes the congratulations from the guys as your friends giggle.
Destiny, Ally, and Beth drink the many cocktails theyâre given, carefree and unconcerned. Normally, you wouldnât. Normally, your nerves would get the better of you and youâd be too anxious to have even a sip of alcohol in a situation you werenât confident in.
But ⌠Johnnyâs here.
âHere tâtake care oâ ye,â he says. âSâmy job, aye?â So you accept the rum he bumps against your lips. Then the next. Then the next.
Then itâs volleyball in the sand, and roast corn on the barbecue, and finding little colourful seashells on the shore. More drinks. Itâs splashing in the crystalline sea with his hands roaming your backside, sneaking kitten-licks of salt-water from your neck when he thinks no one is looking. A chicken fight breaks out as you swim, and Johnny plants his ball cap on your head before heaving you to his shoulders. Pushes your thighs against his ears - hold on, bonnie - so you can clasp hands with Destiny and try your best to shove her into the ocean.
Top-heavy and tipsy, youâre not sure who wins.
You do know you end up pressed against Johnny in the waves, mind a carousel, stuck on the sensation of your torsos sliding together. Youâre sure he flicks the rim of his cap, sopping wet and still on your head, up and smacks a brazen kiss against your lips.
But the rest of the day is a foggy, sunburned memory. Washed away like sea-foam.
Youâre groggy, exhausted when you get back to the resort.
It was too easy to doze on Johnnyâs shoulder in the return shuttle, lulled to sleep by the rhythmic rocking of the tires and the liquor in your stomach. Too easy to slip your mind into a warm, dark pocket in the back of your head and just let Johnny take care of everything. And he does. Makes sure you have your bag, your shoes. Carts you to the buffet and stuffs you full of water and carbs.
Youâre a little more clearheaded by the time heâs walking you back to the room. You donât know where your friends are, but Johnny assures you theyâre fine.
âBed time for ye, though.â He pats your hand where it rests in the crook of his elbow. âCannae handle yer liquor, doe, can ye? Ahâv got ye.â
Johnny scans a keycard and leads you into a room.
Itâs dim inside. Freezing cold. You canât quite find the light in your fumbling. Johnnyâs body is a furnace when he pulls you in by your hips, all height and heat and muscle packed beneath tan skin. His forearms wrap around your lower back to bend you into him, lift you until your toes scratch against the cool tiles.
âGimme a kiss goodnight,â he murmurs, breath fanning over your nose. Eyes burning, almost glowing in the dark.
Some instinct still wheezing in the background has you turning your face, even as your palms come to rest on his chest. A needling whisper that something isnât quite right, is it? Rum-smothered intuition. Heâs so, so warm.
Johnny takes it as a game.
âLet me kiss ye, jusâ one. Maybe a few. Câmon - ye look so good, Iâve been dyinâ for em all day. Dyinâ to get my mouth on ye.â
He chases your chin as it swings side to side.
âHow am I supposed to -â He cuts himself off with a grunt, arms tightening around your torso with every exhale from your lungs. Soon, there wonât be any room for your ribs to expand into. âNot? Kiss me, kiss me, please, bonnie. Fuck -â
Then he palms your head in one, large hand and forces your lips against his.
Itâs sweet - for a time.
Coaxing and careful despite his grip on the base of your skull. Gentlemanly, almost - like youâre being dropped off at your front door after a first date.
But then Johnnyâs other hand draws up to clamp underneath your mandible. His fingers dig into the corners and the muscles give in, jaw popping open painfully. His tongue, wet and hot, slicks over your own. Slides over your molars to goad the saliva out from the back of your throat, the intrusion sudden and gagging. Itâs sloppy, obscene. More a thoughtless devouring than anything.
Johnny tastes like Dos Equis and kisses like a dog.
Youâre mangled against him from knees to shoulders, crushed into the humid plush of his chest. Like heâd tuck you inside himself if he could, slip your crawling skin under his own for safekeeping. You donât try and kiss back. Doubt you could keep up if you tried. Instead, you just let him.
What else would you do?
Bite down? Push him off and spit onto the marble? Wipe the bile from your mouth?
Of everything, of it all, what frightens you most is the not knowing. Not knowing how he would react, what the outcome would be. If you donât object, youâll never have to find out.
You donât want to let it get mean.
Better to let him lick into your mouth, rut his hips into your belly until it bruises. Johnny pulls away with a wet smack and a groan. Your neck is led backward, bent, under his paw until youâre looking at the spinning ceiling-fan above and his face hovering over yours. Blue eyes dark and half-lidded with need, swollen lips pulled back over white teeth, and panting, panting, jaw slack as if he's waiting for a spoonful of something.
Saliva, thick and warm, drools from his pink mouth and into yours. Strands of shining, foamy spit drizzling over your tongue, your teeth, the back of your throat.
Johnny laughs when you gag.
You donât remember getting into bed.
You donât know how you got out of your clothes, but you can feel the thin sheets scratching against your skin.
The last thing you recall before dreams take you is the wide, hunched back of a man across the room. He slides open the mirrored closet door and bends inside. Buttonâs click. Metal creaks. You want to ask the man what heâs doing, but, well, youâre already slipping into sleep.
18+ | dubcon/noncon, stalking, fawn response, size difference, johnnyâs just so big he doesnât mean to hurt you :(
or; the strangers to husband/wife vacation!au
part two of this
You rationalize it this way:
You asked Johnny to play your husband.
Over breakfast - a stunted, quiet affair in one of the resort buffets - you justify his absurd actions until they are reasonable.
Your friends are hungover. Green around the gills and moaning over cups of too-strong coffee. Beth is the worst of them all. She stares at the bacon and eggs on her plate like theyâve personally offended her. The others have some modicum of life in them as they add pieces of memories to the post-night-out debrief.
They puzzle together events, like how Destiny lost her shoe, or how so many nacho chips ended up underneath Allyâs pillow. They talk about the guys they met last night, laughing at their ridiculous pick-up lines, acting like they didn't work. Making fun of too-much-tongue Brad and premature-ejaculation Noah. Glossing over how they got that information in the first place, hard-won with poolside makeouts and forays into bathroom stalls.
And all the while, you shuffle the impression of the evening, of Johnny, in your mind until it is hilarious. Until itâs something you can make fun of together. Not even just hilarious - something to be envious of.
âThe guy Beth bumped into in line?â Destiny asks, eyebrows raised to her hairline. âLucky duck. Dudeâs built like a fridge.â
You shrug, picking at the ceramic of your mug. You didnât think your stomach could handle any food this morning, so you hadnât grabbed a plate.
Ally takes a prim sip of her coffee.
âWait.â Beth wipes her eyes under her sunglasses, pushing the frames askew. âWho are we talking about?â
Destiny sighs. âBeth, you literally rammed into the guy before we got into the club.â
âDonât feed me tequila.â Beth shrugs. Then: âHold on. Blue eyes, mohawk, a little scary? Looks like a brick house? Walks like he owns the place?â
You frown at her across the table. âWhat -â
Beth brings her hands behind her ears, pushing down on the stems of her glasses so they pop to her browline and back down again. Does this a couple of times. In the sneaking peaks of her eyes behind the shades, you can just follow her gaze to a spot in the distance behind your shoulder. You turn, unable to stop the instinct, and find Johnny. A little way away across the many tables, but closing in.
Your heart drops into your heels.
The club you and your friends were in last night was off-resort, sure - you had to leave the property and walk across the street to get to it - but it was still owned by your hotel. As were the two other resorts neighboring you. They all belonged to the same company, so they all got free and exclusive access to the club. You had banked on the chance that Johnny belonged to one of the other resorts allowed into the party. Thought that there was no way he was booked at yours, of the three. That fate wouldnât be that mean-spirited.
Apparently not.
Johnny catches your eye and grins, steps quickening.
Your neck whips back to face front, hand coming up to clap over your mouth. Your friend's eyes are wide and bright, pleased surprise lighting up their features. Destiny sucks her lips behind her teeth to strangle a smirk. No, no, no. This canât be happening. Youâd buried last night under a gossamer sheet of humor. Heâs not coming this way. He can't be.
Ally grins, tilting her neck up to look at something right behind you. âGood morning,â she simpers.
You can feel the heat radiating off of him, even in the humid, muggy air of the outdoor buffet. Can feel his torso close to your head like hot breath on the back of your neck. You bring your hands to rest in your lap.
âLook who it is!â Destiny says your name, placing her chin on a curled fist, elbow resting on the table.
Just loving this, arenât they? Itâs funny. Itâs funny. You can smell Johnnyâs cheap sunscreen hovering just on your periphery.
It's funny.
You plaster on a smile and turn. Are greeted with the sight of pthalo blue swim-shorts stretched over the meat of his thighs. Straining, digging into the thick muscle there, pulling at the dark hairs. With you seated, and him standing, Johnnyâs hips rest at your eyeline.
â- my husband.â You try for nonchalance, siphoning make-shift comedy from your friends into your voice, but it comes out swallowed. Small. The inside joke doesnât feel very much like a joke at all.
Johnny has a white, short-sleeved button-up plastered over his torso. Testing the mettle of the stitch work. The linen pulls taught over his mass, waffled texture lost in the stretch. In his hands are two plates piled high with food - fruit, hashbrowns, eggs, sausage, toast - and he gently sets one down on your place-mat in front of you. âEat up,â he says. âCannae have mâwife goinâ hungry, can I?â
You gawk at the plate. At your friends. At Johnny, grinning down at you - so high up, your neck hurts - in delight. Mouth dropped open like a fish, tongue useless and dumb, poking against your gums.
Destiny covers a laugh with a cough.
âThanks,â you whisper. What else can you say?
Johnny scoffs, patronizing amusement folded into his smile. âCourse,â he grunts, like this is old hat. Like you shouldnât have expected anything else other than him dumping a mountain of food at your breakfast table. Johnny then lands his free palm on your crown, petting down the hair there before ruffling it. Your head jostles, neck unable to support the weight of his touch. Molars clack into your upper teeth.
Then he leaves with a playful, boyish wink, and youâre left mashing your hair back into place in his wake.
He finds a seat not far away and begins to eat.
You search the faces of your friends, unable to comprehend what just happened. Your brain feels dizzy, shaken up, like it can't quite grasp the events of the last minute. The cheek, the nerve, the ⌠the ⌠you canât believe it. Shame bleeds high onto your cheekbones. Humiliation. You hunch in your seat, bringing your palm to your brow to shield your face. Hiding from the whole world, from the sticky, rotten feeling brewing in your chest.
âYour face,â Destiny whispers. âI canât-â She brings her shirt up to cover her nose, stifle her giggles into the fabric.
Your stomach turns looking down at the greasy pile of food.
Johnny, three tables away and facing his entire body towards you, stares until you take a bite.
You donât know how you end up alone at the swim-up bar, but you know it is a mistake.
Your friends peeled off one by one for this reason or that. Beth needed to lie down. Ally went on the hunt for a snack. Destiny, your last soldier, got tugged away by a large man with a thick beard and pretty eyes. At least sheâs close, still in your line of sight in a corner of the pool. She pours tequila down her throat as the bearded man laughs and pulls her in. Youâre having a fine, if lonely, time sitting at the bar. The music is good. Your drink is cold. The sun on your back is a balm, the good kind of heat soaking into your skin. Palm trees sway in the background under an azure-blue sky.
Everything would be perfect, picturesque, but for the man lurking in your periphery.
Itâs not Johnny.
You haven't seen him since breakfast, even though itâs long after lunch and you know heâs somewhere. No, the man nearby you saw as you were scanning the crowd for Johnny. Lean, tall, thin eyebrows and platinum blond hair. Youâd accidentally locked eyes with him and silently cursed yourself. For men, that was as much an invitation as anything. Heâs been trying to catch your gaze ever since.
You keep your eyes staunchly on the bar top, now, but this means you canât look around for him anymore. Leaves your back exposed. You should just go back to the room. Give up on fun in the sun until you can have it with your group.
A lithe, pale body sidles onto the stool next to you in the water, and you sigh.
Youâre being unfair. The blond isnât skeletal. Heâs got muscle, thin but corded over his arms and chest. But you canât help but compare his form to Johnnyâs, and next to him, he looks almost unhealthy.
Also unfair.
Anyone next to Johnny would look delicate. Frail.
âHey,â the blond man begins, poking his light head into your vision.
You smother a groan and instead offer a smile. Guilty thoughts spur you to give this poor guy a chance. A pleasant conversation builds slowly as you thaw. He tells you his name - David, maybe, or is it James? - and asks you yours. Asks where youâre from. If youâre having a good time. He even cracks a couple of jokes that make you laugh. Itâs nice. Easy.
David - Josh? Nico? - grows a little handsomer as the conversation goes on. As you accept drinks and the day wanes into evening. You decide that youâll learn his name and remember it this time. Youâre about to agree to a walk on the beach with him when a forearm wraps around your collarbones from behind. Heavy and smothering. Tan, weathered skin cages you in, knocks you off balance. If you werenât locked fast, smacked back into the torso behind you, you would be slipping into the pool.
âAlrighâ over here?â Johnnyâs breath disturbs the hair on the top of your head. You dig your fingers into his forearm to support yourself.
David pales, leaning back on the stool until he slides off. âSorry, man. I was just leaving.â And then he scurries away as fast as someone can chest deep in water.
Youâre not sure you want to know the look Johnny gave the poor guy.
Your fault. Your fault for letting your guard down. For not paying attention to your surroundings. If you had been, you could have seen Johnny coming and made a swift exit. More guilt hammers into you until your bones are lead. You try to turn around in his hold, but only your neck finds movement. You catch the twist of a scowl and a Y-shaped scar that rests below his bottom lip.
âYou didnât have to ⌠he was nice -â you start, struggling to move in the circle of his arms. Not too much, though. You donât want to draw attention to yourself, something feeble and pitiful inside you not wanting to embarrass him.
Johnny grunts. âAh know whatâs on lads minds when thâlook at ye, bonnie. Believe me, he wasnât sniffinâ to be yer friend.â
You frown. That's not at all what you meant. Part of you hoped that Johnny thought he was coming to your rescue again. Saving you from the unwanted attentions of some snivelling guy. You thought you could call him off, let him know that you were fine and didnât need him scaring anyone off anymore. You could tell him straight. Explain that you want him to leave you alone. Thank him for trying to help, but that you could manage by yourself.
But ⌠thereâs a hard edge in his tone you donât want to prod. Some lingering fury at the long-gone blond. It keeps you still and silent. Plaintive, limp.
When you donât argue, Johnny huffs. âYer too sweet. Good thing ye have me, aye? Here, got ye somethinâ.â
The chlorine water and oily sunscreen mix into a slime on his skin, pressed into you from your lower back all the way to your shoulder blades. Johnny removes his arm from your chest only to plant it beside you on the bar top. The other wraps around to cage you in from all sides. He smells like beer and salt, and old sweat, and something shines in his palm.
A cheap gift-shop ring. Dull turquoise set into tarnished silver.
Before you can do anything, Johnny grasps your left wrist in his hand and wrestles the ring onto your finger. Itâs work. The ring is already a size too small, and your hands are swollen in the midday heat. His lips mouth against your temple when he speaks next. âThere. Cannae have ye walking around wiâout my ring on yer finger. Some people might get thâwrong idea.â
The skin on your finger burns - the knuckle already bruising.
Johnny grips the bartop again, squashing your entire world onto the tip of a needle. He blocks all light, all sound, around you, and youâre frozen in the shadow. His head dips into the well between your jaw and shoulder, and he hums pityingly.
âMâsorry, bonnie,â he murmurs. His lips graze the mottled bruise he sucked into your neck last night. âGet carried away sometimes, sâall.â
A thousand things, a thousand things he could apologize for, and itâs the hickey. The thick mess of hair on his chest scratches along your upper back as he pushes closer. His arms squeeze in, forearms mashing against your own until your wrists clack together. You feel dizzyingly like a rat getting sized by a snake, inch by inch, until you have no room at all. You can hardly breathe, choking on the scent of him filling your lungs.
âChrist - christ ye smell good,â Johnny moans as sweat pools on your forehead. He shoves his nose into the hairline behind your ear and inhales.
Nearby, the bartender watches on with a curled lip.
Itâs hot, so hot in the pen of his hold. Like youâre a minnow left in a plastic bottle to bake in the sun. His hands curl over your own until youâre sure that, from behind, not an inch of you can be seen. Youâre swallowed up. Itâs treason, how your body responds. How hard you have to pretend that you donât like the thought of being engulfed, crushed underneath this body that is so much larger than your own. You chase away thought after traitorous thought of what it would be like - to be trapped below him. To be rutted into, as callous and uncaring as his tungsten touch on your waist. To be pushed down and bent by someone who could so easily break you.
You know what he keeps in his swim shorts. Felt it pressed into your belly last night.
His scalding, heaving breaths fog your ear as he nips at the soft lobe. His tongue follows, and itâs disgusting, itâs drugging. Your eyes flutter shut as you clamp your jaw down, molar against grinding molar, to keep the whine behind your teeth. Rub your thighs together under the water to stem the burgeoning ache there.
How many, other than the bartender, are watching you two right now? Do you want the protection in their gazes, or do you want privacy?
âLetâs go back to thâroom, doe. Eh? Get out oâ this heat?â
Johnny drips the idea into your ear like tacky molasses. Butts his forehead against your jaw like a cat, forcing your face to the side. When you only swallow, he glides an arm in between your bodies and pulls the string of your bikini top from where it rests on your spine. Pulls, pulls. Snaps it back against your skin where it stings. âGet ye out oâ this thing?â
âJohnny!â you admonish, voice harsh but whispered.
Youâve had quite enough, you think, of this mean teasing. He doesnât have the right to poke and prod you, invade your space, or send you spinning. Crush you against a bar top and chuckle when you wheeze. But he just keeps talking. âNot that it covers much. Scraps, really. But ye look fuckinâ gorgeous in it, bonnie. Wearinâ this fâme - fuck. Let me take tâoff?â
His fingers tug at the knot.
You rip your eyes open. The sun burns dim but blinding, blue tiles of the bar swimming back into view. The sounds of the pool around you crackle once again, staticky like an old TV. Couples perch nearby. A group of women laughs in the shade.
So many people around.
Broad daylight and he was trying to untie your bikini top.
You push hard against his arms with a great huff, and Johnny relents, allowing you to spin around on the stool. Not far, though, not fully. Your knee knocks against the firm meat of his hip.
âSorry, sorry, doe.â He laughs. Laughs. Wraps his paw around your nape and tugs you forward to smack his lips on your forehead. His fingers dig into the tendons there, thumb and forefinger notched in the dip of your skull. âYe drive me crazy.â
Staring up, agog, at his shaded face, you wonder how many times his boyish good looks have gotten him out of, and into, trouble. Wonder if anyone has ever read him the riot act for his behaviour. When his blue eyes go round and wet, his brows pulling together as he pouts, you decide that no, nobody ever has. You cross your arms and your elbows graze against his pudgy abdomen. Dig in until they meet the muscle hidden there.
You hope it hurts. You hope it doesnât.
âWhaâ? Cannae touch my wife?â Johnny tucks your hair behind your ear. Kisses your cheek, soft and sweet, and leaves behind a wet patch to cool in the breeze. If you succeeded in hurting him, he pays it no mind. You doubt you actually could, anyhow - no matter how hard you tried. âDonâ be mad.â
It sounds like an entreaty, but you know itâs not.
You canât handle these rapid shifts in mood. These touches that vandalize and then soothe. It hasnât been twenty-four hours of them, and already youâre lightheaded. Staggering. If the rug keeps pulling from underneath you, youâll never find your feet.
Itâs unfair to use your body against you. Johnny knows what his hands sow.
Confusion. A disconnect between mind and body. Thoughts race, wrong, and stop, and no more, as he stokes you like a coal furnace. The images in your mind, theyâre implants. From him.
Someone calls your name. Itâs Ally, hands on her hips, standing at the edge of the pool. The sun dips below the palms behind her, tinging the sky a newborn shade of pink.
âWeâre going to shower and get ready for dinner. You coming?â she asks, voice high to carry across the water and crowds. Then she looks at Destiny, still occupied in the corner. âDiz? Letâs go.â
Johnny frowns, playfully tilting his head. Like youâre two kids at the park, and youâve been called in as the streetlamps turned on. But he backs off. Lifts you off the stool and turns you toward the pool stairs.
âGo on,â he allows. Gives your ass two, gentle pats beneath the waterline to urge you forward.
Padding barefoot along the still-warm tiles back to your room, arm-in-arm with a stumbling Destiny, you speak. Your ask earns you a quizzical look from Ally. A sloppy bark of laughter from Destiny. They share bemused grins, but relent, both shrugging as if agreeing on which pizza place to order from.
As if you chose a greasy hole in the wall, and theyâre saying yes just to keep you happy.
âDonât leave me alone again.â
You sit on the balcony that night when all of your friends have long gone to sleep.
The evening breeze is cool but clammy, sticking a chill to your pores. The resort is silent other than the occasional couple passing by, clinging to one another along the cobbled path. Youâve left the balcony light off, not wanting to disturb anyone, so itâs just you and the navy sky.
The ring Johnny gave you still sits on your finger, silver band digging into the fat there. If you stare at it in the light, the skin toward your nailbed looks thin and wan. Below the ring by your knuckle, itâs swollen. Pumped with blood that wonât reach your fingertip.
Tanning oil, maybe, would slip the metal over your joint.
But then you think of how Johnnyâs face would fall if he saw you without it. How hurt he would be. He would say something, surely. He says everything else thatâs on his mind.
You flex your hand and slip back through the sliding door, hoping sleep can find you through the ache.
18+ | dubcon/noncon, stalking, fawn response, size difference, johnnyâs just so big he doesnât mean to hurt you :(
or; the strangers to husband/wife vacation!au
Based on this post of mine that I simply could not leave be. When all the parts are up I think Iâm going to post it on AO3 and link it here!
âHappily?â
Youâve heard it probably seven times over the last two hours, accompanied by a smarmy smile and a boyish laugh. Salad-days charmers either calling your bluff or believing you can be swayed if they bring their hot breath close enough to your face.
Happily?
Itâs their one comeback for your defense. âIâm married,â to them means âconvince me.â Means youâre playing coy, hard to get, even. Means buy me another shot, means give me an excuse. You keep hoping they will take it for what it really means:
Fuck off.
Like the one sucking up your oxygen now. Neon pink swim-shorts with umbrellas on them, stringy, greased back hair, limbs so thin you have to keep an eye out for a stiff breeze. Foam from the murky pool clinging to his shoulders as he drips chlorine and alcohol onto your toes. He murmurs into the shell of your ear, low tones droning over the pulse of the club music, something about your âhusbandâ letting you leave the room dressed like that.
You canât hold too much against him. Heâs on vacation, too. Youâre in a ludicrously small bikini. Youâre standing alone at a pool party, nursing a sad rum and Coke not for the alcohol, but for the caffeine. To keep your eyes open.
But youâre annoyed. At your friends, who promised a relaxing beach getaway, a girlâs trip, and are now paired off with juvenile college grads wearing far too much cologne. And at every pushy, handsy, loud guy who wants to take their shot at you and not take no for an answer.
It takes confidence to start a conversation with someone. You know that.
Youâd just have more sympathy for him if he would take the hint.
âWhere is he?â
âWhat?â you yell back.
You have to yell. Everyone else around you is yelling, laughing. Bass blares over the speakers. Neon lights strobe. Partygoers dance, grinding and bumping into you with their sweat-slicked skin. Bubbles stream from the ceiling into the large, two-foot-deep pool in the center of the open-air atrium. The club staff walk around in loud, glittering costumes, pouring shots into peopleâs mouths and keeping the party alive, fun.
It would be fun - if your friends were with you. You could dance and drink and let the music float you away, let the bass thump into your chest and laugh and joke with all the rest.
But leaning against a table by the pool, alone, you're stuck on the defensive.
âWhereâs your man? He here?â the boy asks. His hand slips to your waist - whoops, just leaning in to hear you better, that's all - and squeezes.
You picture swatting him out of the air like a fly.
âHeâs âŚâ you begin. You scan the crowd for your friends. If one of them were here, they could pull you away - see the call for mercy in your eyes and snatch you into their protective bubble. You think you see a swish of Allyâs skirt amidst the crowd, and then itâs gone.
You could also tell the pest to buzz off ⌠but some ingrained instinct gives you pause.
Despite everything, you don't want to be rude.
Itâs a club. Heâs only doing what people do at clubs. Thereâs no need to hurt his feelings; you just want him to go away.
Youâre about to say that your husband is back in the room - ate some bad shrimp, is working remotely, doesnât like loud music, etc. - when you see him across the way. Sitting alone at the crowded bar, bottle of beer in his massive paw, turned around on the stool so the great expanse of his naked chest is facing the open room.
Heâs just a strobing, multi-colored face in a sea of others, indistinct and blurry in the distance - but you saw him before. Beth bumped into him in the lineup outside, already too drunk to offer an apology so you had murmured one on her behalf. He was huge, towering over the heads of everyone around. Certainly not someone you wanted to piss off.
Intimidating. But the quicksilver flash of his smile, canines sharp and impish, that he gave you before you were tugged through the doors softened him just a fraction in your eyes.
Heâd help a girl in need, surely.
Itâs a split-second decision when you point a finger at him across the pool.
âRight there,â you finish. The boy at your side follows your eyes to the man at the bar, landing on him out of all the faces in the crowd.
It helps that the man is already looking at you, rim of his beer bottle turning up into his waiting, open mouth.
The boy laughs. âThe big one?â he asks. Scoffs. âWhatâs he doing over there?â
His bemusement rankles. You imagine for a moment that the man by the bar really is your husband, and is watching this pink-footed irritant bother you with mirth. Waiting for the moment he steps over the line. Itching for it.
âKeeping an eye on me,â you say. You dip your head and take a gamble, twinkling your fingers at your âhusbandâ through the throng of bodies.
Itâs a powerful, heady feeling - watching the boy's face fall when the man waves back, wide palm dancing in the air for a moment before landing back on his large thigh. Makes you feel safe. Protected, even. And a little cruel, as the boy goes a shade of green. His hand slips from your waist as he straightens his spine.
You offer him a simpering smile, suddenly having fun playing this part. âHave a good night,â you say, and walk away.
But the boy isnât done yet.
Heâs scorned, now.
âSânot your husband,â he scoffs from behind you.
It shouldnât matter. Even if youâre lying - which, you guess, you are - the message should be clear. I donât want to talk to you. Your breath smells like cod and tequila. Go away. You should just tell him. Crush his confidence and hope he doesnât get too mad about it. But they never listen to you. The only excuse that works is some imaginary man at your shoulder, and that's only sometimes.
So you turn around. Raise an eyebrow at the boy. âNo?â
And you hustle through the crowd toward the man at the bar.
You take the winding route, sneaking along the edge of the pool so you can be seen the entire journey, even if it means youâre almost pushed into the water a couple of times. Halfway to your destination, a thought hits you:
What if heâs taken? What if he actually is married?
You should probably figure that out before you take this any further. Sure, male friends of yours with girlfriends have saved you at bars before - happy and willing to pretend for the length of a conversation that you were theirs - but those were friends. You knew their other halves, and they knew you. If the man had a scrappy woman in the wings, you needed to know first.
Yeah, he waved at you, and heâs been alone all night from what youâve seen - but you can never be too safe.
So:
âDo you have a girlfriend?â
Even seated on the stool, the man has to lean his head down to hear you. He watched your approach with hungry eyes, tracking every step that brought you closer to him.
Heâs even larger up close. All bright blue eyes and dark scruff and corded muscle under plush flesh. Spine bent on his seat, the soft bulge of his stomach spills over the waistline of his shorts, black hair trailing from beneath all the way up to his barrelled chest. Ams like trunks, expansive thighs barely fitting on the stool. A man.
Compared to him, the others populating the club seem limp, sickly. Your mouth goes a little dry, suddenly feeling nervous.
The man shakes his head, amusement tip-toeing across his blunt features.
âCan you be my husband?â you ask, before you can decide against it. Not your most poetic moment, but youâre feeling very small and silly in front of him. A little desperate to explain why youâve come over and bugged him. âPlease?â
The man finishes his drink in one quick swig, the beer swirling around the bottle and funneling past his pink lips. Then he sets it down on the bar top and levels you with that sneaky grin once again.
ââcourse I can, doe, when ye ask so nicely.â
Oh. You werenât expecting the accent: a thick brogue that rumbles from deep in his chest like an old diesel. But youâre relieved.
âThank you,â you say, gesturing the the boy still staring from the other side of the pool. âThis guy wonât -â
âAch.â
The man cuts you off, waving your words away before planting two, sweaty paws on your waist and tugging. Just like that, your center of gravity is pulled off kilter, and your feet have to stumble their way back under you. Youâre corralled into the open, humid yaw of his legs, the coarse hair of his thighs rubbing against either side of your hips.
In the floundering, your watered-down drink splashes over the rim and all over your front - a shock of cold that makes you gasp, indignant and startled.
The man either doesnât notice or doesnât care.
Wet palms slide down your sides until his fingers dig into the meat at the top of your ass. Searching, assessing. Inappropriate for a stranger. A sudden, heavy-handed violation that sends tingles up your spine.
Completely normal, though, for a husband to do to his wife.
His thumbs and index fingers slide just a hairsbreadth under the elastic of your bikini at your lower back. An accident, surely. Heâs just playing the part you asked him to - wandering eyes drinking in the view of your chest pressed against his, the way your top has slipped just a bit, swallowed by his own muscle so that birdâs-eye, you could almost be naked.
It strains your back, bending into him like this. Your upper thighs dig into the thin strip of the barstool not devoured by his mass. Your toes struggle to find purchase on the slippery tiles beneath them.
âWhatâs -â Your voice is shakier than you want it to be. Aborted when he hefts you again, rearranging your form to rest impossibly closer against his. Shovelled into his space like a rag doll. The condensation on his skin slides against yours, trails of warm sweat sticking to you in his wake. Your hand flies to his shoulder, just to keep yourself upright.
âWhatâs your name?â you try again. Try to inject some normalcy, some manners, into this situation that is rapidly spiralling out of your control.
âJohnny,â the man murmurs, like an afterthought.
âJohnny,â you repeat. âIâm - oh!â
His mouth is on you. His mouth. Partway through your words, he descended, cramming his face into the side of your neck and nudging your jaw away. Youâre frozen, stock-still as his wet, warm lips mouth against your pulse point. His tongue follows, hot and slippery as it drags from your collarbone to below your ear. A confusing, unwarranted pulsing starting between your legs. Shock. Amazement at the gall of him.
Heat, raging and sudden, bursts over your face. Maybe embarrassment, maybe chagrin, but maybe something else.
The coarse stubble on his cheeks and chin scratches the column of your throat raw. âTaste sâgood.â
Oh my god.
Your head is bent at an awkward, upward angle, spine twisted as you gulp for air. You feel crushed, like youâre strangled in a pulsating crowd, straining over the mass of heads for a fresh sip of oxygen. Shoved by your shoulders into a pool of traitorous arousal, just trying to keep your nose above the water line.
The delicate, thin flesh of your neck is sucked between his teeth, blood vessels giving in under the assault as his hands knead your ass, and you gasp again.
âJohnny!â you whine, piqued.
Your mind reels for the words you shouldnât have to say. You shouldnât have to tell this stranger not to put his mouth, his hands on you. You look out at the club, at the flashing lights and tipping party-goers, and find no one to come to your aid. Even the boy has escaped into the masses.
Johnny groans when his name leaves your mouth, a guttural, growling thing that resonates into your bones deeper even than the thumping music. His hips shift on the stool as he cows you further, further, into him until your feet are off the ground. Something long and hard digs into your belly, something burning and thick and poking.
Oh my god!
Turncoat desire floods from to top of your head, cracking like an egg from your crown and dripping until it reaches your core. Repulsion, disgust, and scalding want mix into a dizzying cocktail that leaves you flailing. Reeling. Panting for some modicum of thought so you can do something other than whimper in the constriction of his arms.
Salvation comes, mercifully, in the stumbling form of your friend, tipping along the corner of your vision. Beth toes along the edge of the pool, hair a soaking wet mess. Hands clutching her stomach and dangerously unsteady on her feet. The guy you had seen her with earlier supports her weight and laughs, corralling her toward the exit.
Itâs cold water on the coals in the sauna of your mind. Reality bleeds back in.
She might have pissed you off earlier, but youâre not letting some smarmy-mouthed pond-reed drag her back, skunk-drunk, to his room.
You push Johnnyâs great shoulders away from you - with more pressure than would usually be required - and eventually he sets you free. Itâs a battle, though. You can see it swirling in his acid-blue eyes. Heâs not particularly happy about letting you go. Annoyance settles into the crease between his thick brows.
You fawn. You canât help it.
âSorry, sorry,â you bleat, untangling your limbs from his. Every inch of space between your bodies is hard-won. âI have to - my friend, sheâs âŚâ
You gesture to her stumbling form on its path to the exit, her glassy eyes and open mouth, the guy hauling her home like heâd just won her in a raffle. Desperate for Johnny to understand, to accept your excuse.
You feel scrutinized, flayed as his eyes flick from your face to your friend. As if you are waiting on his decision to let you.
As if he has any say in what you do.
Anger bubbles in your chest. You tell yourself that if he tries to stop you, then you will let it out. Give him a piece of your mind, tell him exactly how much power he has over your actions. None, you tell yourself. None at all. Johnnyâs jaw clenches, mouth ticking to the side as he fights a frown. Because he is fighting it. Irritation, ire, scalding temper, flash over his face until they are smothered one by one. Your pulse picks up, adrenaline igniting as your blood goes cold.
His grin wins, eventually.
It comes easy and quick, as if it were always there.
âSure, doe. Go anâ help yer friend.â Giving you permission, his eyes crinkling in the corners.
âThanks,â you say. Immediately regret it. You shouldnât be thanking him for assaulting you. But ⌠he did get that boy to leave you alone. And he is letting you go. You have no doubt he could keep you there with him if he decided so.
âSee you,â you say, if only to fill the heavy silence between you two.
Then you run.
Later, safe in the air-conditioning of your shared room, your friends laugh at you in the mirror.
âI look like a teenager!â you whine. The mark Johnny sucked into your neck looks rotten and bruised in the harsh white light. A deep red, rapidly turning purple. In the morning, it will be green and garish. Ghastly. A beacon to everyone who sees you.
Know what she was up to last night!
Your friends giggle from their pile on the bed, dazedly shovelling soggy, buffet nachos into their mouths. Beth gags into the toilet bowl beside you.
âItâs not funny,â you murmur, poking at the hickey. A hickey. What are you, fifteen? Getting marked up like this on day one of a seven-day vacation was certainly, decidedly, not funny.
âWas he hot?â Destiny asks through a mouthful of cold cheese. Ally titters. Beth hurls, spine straining over the porcelain.
It shouldnât matter.
But already the memory is being warped. Laughter and distance diminish it into something soft, silly. If your friends took it seriously, maybe you would too. But theyâre not, so ⌠maybe you donât have to either.
Maybe it can be a good story, something to giggle about years later - the weird guy who tried to eat you alive at some pool party at a resort you canât even remember the name of. Maybe it would settle the sickening nausea roiling in your stomach when you think of it. Of him. Like an antacid, soothing the images until theyâre smooth along the edges. Digestible.
The muscle of his tongue laving against your skin, the weight of his hands kneading your flesh like warm dough, the anger swimming in his eyes as you pulled off of him.
It could all be just a funny memory.
Easier that way, you think.
âYeah,â you admit, pulling your hoodie up to your chin. âSuper hot.â
Johnny is sent to Ghost's motel room to grab some document his Lieutenant left behind, and finds the sweet little waitress from the diner they've been using as a pseudo-recon spot tied to his bed, legs spread and dripping Ghost's cum.
(OR: Simon might have left his sloppy seconds behind, but Johnny's just hungry enough to make a meal out of it.)
And it really is sloppy. Wet, messy. Your poor cunt swollen and dripping, leaking so much that it starts to puddle on the starchy sheets below. His Lieutenant is a big man, and he feels a pinch of sympathy swell at the fuckin' sight of youâlimp, like a doll; wrists bound above your head, skin inflamed and chaffed from struggling to get out.
On the end table, he spots a water bottle and scattered tablets. Sleeping pills, he's sure. Something to keep you docile and quiet while he's called away from the divine split of your lax thighs, and sent halfway across the city by Price. Leaving you all alone, unattended. Unable to do anything except wait for him to get back so he can stretch that sore, messy cunt on his cock all over again, fill you right back upâ
Poor thing.
But he can't really deny that the modicum of sympathy he feels is scrapped together from the sludge at the bottom of a dry well. Just droplets in the palm of his hand, and honestlyâit's more jealousy that Simon got to you first instead of real pity because he'd be lying (hand on a Bible, fingers gripping the beads of a rosaryâi shall not lie) if he said that the sight of you hasn't been haunting him since the moment they wandered into the diner. His mind spinning debauched thoughts of youâdressed up pretty in soft pink and chocolate brownâfrom the moment you wandered over to his table, looking like a dream. Like a cutout from a porno magazines his dad hid inside the shed in an old shoebox.
Just the sweetest little thing.
And he's not the only one.
They've all been prowling around you a little bit since landing in your sleepy-eyed townâasking for more coffee even though it tasted like shit and was burnt to hell, just to keep you close. To keep you coming back to their table as they soak in their fill.
Price dropping rasping sweetheart's and love's and thank you, darlin's that they all pretended not to hear. And Simonâ
Well. He sees now where all those lingering stares, the ones that made Johnny's hackle raise, hair standing on end, led his Lieutenant, and what they meant. He thought it was wariness at firstâor maybe that's just what he told himself late at night when he pulled his shirt up his navel, fingers grazing the thick trail of course hair to the soft, sensitive patch of skin at the base of his cock. Thinking about the way his Lieutenant looked at you. A whisper in the back of his head that screamed wrong and no and look away, she's fucking mine; little bites, nips, he couldn't hold back even when his hand curled around the base of his thickening cock, drawing twisted, ugly fantasies of what Ghost might do with a pretty thing like you.
And fuckâ
What that did to him. Does.
It would be another lie if he said he's never thought of it before. Got off on the idea of it. Something that started as a cutâjust this little papercut that he kept scratching and scratching until it tore, splitting further apart. Opening wide, like a chasm. This gaping hole that pulsed around the thought of his Lieutenant. A sick little thing that throbbed around the shape of him. The absurd width and the way he movedâlike a mean, old dog Johnny would sometimes find prowling corners on the outskirts of town. A grizzled tiger with broken teeth, snapping it's maw at anything that got close enough to eat. Just this awful, mean looking thing in size and shape and temperament. Hard, jagged lines. Solid like a brick. And thenâ
You. Recoiling when he curled a massive paw around the cup of coffee. His palm swallowing it whole when you could barely get your fingers to meet around the thick of the base. The size difference clicking in a way it sometimes did when pretty, feisty things would try to step toe to toe with him and have to glare up, up, because they barely even reached his chin.
The urge to overpower. To claim. To tuck something smaller and softer than himself beneath the bulk of his body, hiding his kill from view.
He's always been the driver, not the passenger. The one in control. The main character, not the one watching from the sidelines, thoughâ
But he really can't get the thought of Ghost swallowing up someone the way he did with the cup. A stomach-churning thought. Just a sick obsession burning in the back of his headâthe massive brute rutting against you. The juxtaposition between the big, nasty beast and the pretty thing beneath him crying out because he's just too big burns him sometimes.
And he should help you.
Wants to, too. Really, he does. Wants to be your knight in shining armour, rescuing you from the big, scary man who tied you to his bed and ravaged you like this, made that poor, little pussy ache when he stretched you on his fat cock. Wants to so badâ
But he wants a taste even more.
Wants to lick your messy, abused cunt until his Lieutenant isn't dripping from you anymore. Until the only thing glistening on your folds is his spit and your slick. Maybeâif he has timeâslide inside your poor pussy and fill it up again, like he wasn't even there in first place. Ghost wouldn't even know the difference, would he? Would come back to you leaking all over the sheets, just like he left you. Ready for seconds (or fifths, sixths, considering the fuckin' mess between your thighs, and goddamn, if that isn't one of the hottest sights he'd ever seenâ); pretty little cunt ready for that fat, thick cock to split it apart again, stuff it full of cum all over againâ
He palms his cock, thoughts of calling for help dissolved into a keening in the back of his head; just this unignorable, urgent need to eat. Hunger like he'd never felt before, strong enough that just looking at you splayed out like the helpless little victim you are, leaking and messy and full of fucking cum that isn't even his, is making his belly growl. He'd cut his own arm off at this point for just a fucking tasteâ
And he gets it. Drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, wrapping his hands around your thighs before he pulls you into his mouth for that first, scorching lickâ
And it's salty, bitter. Thick. Ghost's cum tastes pretty fucking gross, really (something he isn't too surprised by considering the man's diet mainly consists of barely cooked red meat, Marlboros, and bourbon)âor maybe he just doesn't have the acquired taste for itâand he winces, a little, thinking about the dried remnants of it around your mouth, how many times you had to drink down the same, briny taste; but it's notâ
It's not enough to make him stop.
Underneath the brine of it, the fuckin' smell of you and his Lieutenant dense in his nose, he can taste you. Sweet. Earthy. Slightly metallicâlike the first lick of a papercut, and it makes him whine in the back of his throat, rasping out a muffled, slurred, poor baby before laving his tongue over your abused cunt, soothing the ache Ghost must have left behind. The stretch that was probably on the wrong side of too much, turning his milky cum a pretty strawberry pink.
You poor fucking thingâ
He can feel just how swollen you are when he splits your bruised folds apart with his fingers, peeling them away so he can dig his tongue into your tender, chaffed hole to scoop out a mouthful of pink-tinged cum that pools inside of you. Salty and bitter and so fucking perfect, he could almost weep. It spills down his chin, stains his shirt, and despite the several swallows he takes, feeling the slimy, thick cum oozing down his throat, there's still so much of it. A thought that makes him whine, that has him rutting against the side of the bed like a dog because god, you're so fucking full, aren't you?
His hand presses against your pelvisâfingers pushing into the space between your lower belly and mound to push more cum from your cunt, sitting like an eager fucking thing between the split of your thighs, mouth open, tongue out to catch anything that spills from you. Fingers pushing and pushing. Swallowing it down, one mouthful after the otherâ
Ghost, when he'd changed after a mission that got him a little too messy, was just this jumble of scar tissue and thick pelt, and that's where it should have ended. Eyes politely averted, maybe a crass joke at his Lieutenant's expense (handsome, my bloody arse), but he couldn't stop looking at the thing dangling between his gnarled thighs. The way it hung there, swaying between his legs. Thick and fat and uglier than anything he'd ever seen before. The urge to askâfuck, LT, how do you ever get pussy with a hideous thing like that?âcrawling up his throat as he stared and stared andâ
got harder than he'd ever been in his entire life, coming so fucking hard, that his belly ached after
âand he thinks of it now. Almost the width of his wrist soft, and how much bigger it must have gotten when he peeled your panties away, unveiling the pretty, slick split of your cunt. His hand slides up your belly, resting above your belly button where he knows the tip of Simon's cock would reach by memory alone, and how deep he'd speared it into you. Stretching you out around his fat cock, making this pretty pussy swallow every fuckin' inchâ
He cums, then, rutting against the side of the mattress, head fuzzy with nothing but the thought of Simon ruining your cunt, coming inside of you over and over again, the taste on his tongueâsweet, wrecked pussy, and bitter, cherry-tinged cumâ
He grunts, groaning into the swollen mess of your cunt before shoving his tongue as deep inside of your fluttering, swollen little hole as he can get, and still, somehow, finding the taste of Simon even after his belly feels stuffed full with it.
A dream, he thinks, rubbing his mouth and chin over your messy, wet folds; the silken, swollen split of a tender, well-fucked cunt the most heavenly thing he'd ever felt against his skin. And the fact that all that pink-tinged cum soaking into his stubble belongs to his Lieutenant is something that just wrecks him more than he thought it ever would. A fantasy spinning behind his eyes as he imagines the way you'd have cried and thrashed and screamed when slid that hideous fucking cock inside of your tight cunt, balls slapping against your seam hard enough that he feels the irritated, burning skin above the plush dents of your ass cheeks. How terribly he must have treated you, such a sweet little thing, as he heaved above you, hands curled around your hips, maybe digging into your waist, as he pulled you back into each thrust just to make sure this sweet cunt he risked so much to fuck, to ruin, took every, hard earned inch. Rutting into like a beast, a man starved. The way he looked down at you probably taking on the same shape and colour of that look Johnny saw in his eyes when you turned your back to the table, shoulders tensing like you knew there was a tiger hiding in the bushes behind you.
Pretty, dumb little prey too bracket by the idea of safety indoors and the cellphone inside your pocket to notice the behemoth of a man luring in the shadows after you clocked out for work, following you to your car before he scooped you up and slaked his hunger on this little cunt Johnny can't stop fucking with his tongue either, too eager for another sip despite how sore he knows you must be. Stretched wide around something thicker than his own wrist, insides feeling like the same papercuts he itched to madness in the back of his own head.
Poor thing, he thinks again when you stir, letting out a sluggish little whimper. But it's a muted sense of sympathy. Like the oooh and ahhh of an ambivalent crowd; humming along in obligation instead of real pity because despite how tight your little hole gets around his tongue when he curls it inside, and the darkening of that pretty, pink-tinged cum to rose-red, he's too hungry to stop.
This is the first real meal he's had in years, and no matter how much you wince and whine, he knows he has to take what he can before the predator returns to finish off your bones.
Later, with his belly full and his lips sticky with dried cum and slick, he finds his way back to the diner with the document in hand, ignoring the piercing look Ghost sends him and offering up an easy grin.
Lax and nonchalant because the man will find nothing amiss when he gets back to his room because Johnny had no reason at all to go into the bedroom at all. He'll open the door and see you splayed over the mattress, pussy wet and messy and still leaking cumâ
(pink-tinged, of course, because Johnny got a little carried away himself by that sweet clench of you around the thick of him. something he'll coo about and apologise for later when he sneaks back inside for another tasteâ)
But what he forgot was the keen eyes and sense of smell on an apex predator, and when Simon snatches him up by the scruff of his neck before shoving him against the wall with a hungry, snarling, teeth-clacking kiss (that's more of an eating, really; a devouring that makes Johnny's cock throb and his stomach whine in longing), all he can say is whoops when Simon growls out,
"why can i taste 'er on your fuckin' lips, Johnny?"
