Despite everything, you really werenāt ready for how big he was.
Sure, his profile had mentioned it- ātallā in bold, all-caps, like a warning label or a selling point, depending on your preferences alongside his equally intimidating name. And his vibe? Absolutely screamed haunted clock tower. You had expected ātallā in the way NBA players were tall, or the way celebrities looked tall on red carpets but were actually like 5ā10ā in real life. But this? This was different. This was architectural: Kƶnig didnāt just walk into a space; he filled it like a cathedral with opinions. You stood next to him and felt like a misplaced LEGO figure whoād been granted custody of an ancient war relic. Every time he moved, you felt the displacement of air like God was adjusting a chess piece.
You had thought all of that because the trip back to your temporary apartment had beenā¦ an ordeal. Kƶnig didnāt drive. You hadnāt even gotten far enough to ask why. It couldāve been a moral objection, a PTSD trigger, or just the fact that his knees probably touched his chin in a Toyota Corolla. You didnāt drive either (personal trauma plus urban nihilism), so rideshare it was. When the driver pulled up and caught a glimpse of Kƶnig, who stood beside you like an executioner summoned from a darker, angrier timeline, the man audibly gasped and his foot started to inch toward the gas pedal.
You leaned in through the passenger window with your brightest, most deranged smile. āFive stars and Iāll make sure he doesnāt flay you.ā
The driver nodded- poossibly blacked out. And drove like the devil was behind him, which, to be fair, he kind of was.
Arriving at your building was when the spatial tragedy truly began. Kƶnig had to duck to get into the lobby. Not in a cute, awkward way, but like a kaiju visiting a dollhouse. The fluorescent lights buzzed uneasily overhead, dimming just slightly as if reacting to his gravitational pull, and you became hyper-aware of everything you owned and how none of it was rated for the stress test of Austrian death cryptid.
The elevator? Out of the question. Your third-floor apartment? Suddenly way too far from the ground. Kƶnig climbed the stairs like a war machine from a documentary about siege tactics, each footstep a dull thud that you were certain would cost you your damage deposit, but at least he seemed to have no complaintsā¦ though you were sure he was unhappy with how you had to stop to catch your breath lseveral times while he remained military-commercial ready.
When you opened your apartment door and gestured grandly, the words that came out were: āThis isā¦ home. Temporary. Probably. Until you accidentally break the building and we need to live in a cave.ā
Kƶnig said nothing. Just paused in the doorway, ducking under the frame with practiced effort, and lingered there for a moment. His eyes- somewhere behind that hood, surely?- swept the place with a slow, methodical awareness that made you wonder how many exits he could already map and how many sniping points your living room offered.
You gestured to the couch with the fatal optimism of someone about to learn a lesson. āYou can sit. If it holds.ā
It did not. Or rather, it gave one last dramatic gasp of life. There was a creak, a pop, and then a long, soft crunch that felt less like furniture collapsing and more like it was filing for a legal separation. Kƶnig, to his credit, looked apologetic. Or maybe he didnāt; it was hard to tell with the hood, but his shoulders hunched slightly, and that seemed like the body language equivalent of a Canadian āsorry.ā
āā¦Okay. Floorās fine too. Floor is classic.ā
He lowered himself with all the elegance of a collapsing war monument, folding into a sprawl of limbs that somehow took up more space despite being on the ground. He sat cross-legged like a monk, if monks were built like tanks and radiated a kill count.
And then- the doorbell rang an unwelcome, familiar tune that made you freeze.
Not the good kind of freeze, and not the surprise-party kind. The fight-or-flight-oh-god-itās-him kind. That sound- that arrogant, familiar, triple-tap of someone who thought your doorbell was a buzzer for attention? That was him.
You turned slowly to Kƶnig, who had stilled completely. His body didnāt move, but his attention locked onto the door like a predator scenting blood. He was suddenly alert, dangerous, like a loaded gun that had remembered it had a purpose.
āOkay,ā you whispered, as if trying not to disturb a spirit. āThis is a test. A dry run. Like a fire drill, except instead of fire, itās a narcissistic man with commitment issues.ā
Kƶnig tilted his head slightly, and though you couldnāt see his face, you were 90% sure that meant, Shall I gut him or just remove the legs?
You held up one finger. āLetās justā¦ see what he wants first.ā
āHey, babe,ā he said with that smirk that had once seemed charming and now just looked like he was trying to seduce his own reflection. He completely brushed over the fact that he had followed you all the way here, to this supposedly hidden apartment you got until you had Kƶnig with you. āYou havenāt been answering my texts.ā
āI changed phones,ā you replied instantly. āAnd numbers. And species.ā
He gave a little laugh like you were just being coy. Leaned on the doorframe with the forced casualness of someone trying to win you back with zero self-awareness and all his tricks learned from BookTok. āLook, I know weāve had our differences, but Iāve been thinking-ā
And that was when Kƶnig rose. Not stood, but rose.
The doorframe went from well-lit to eclipsed in seconds. A gloved hand slid into view and gripped the edge of the door, the fingers longer than your exās attention span. Your exās expression did a full software reboot.
āā¦Who the hell is that?ā
You offered a cheerful shrug. āOh, thatās Kƶnig. My security system. He came with knives and trauma.ā
Kƶnig took one slow, deliberate step forward. He didnāt speak. He didnāt need to. The pressure of him, the sheer atmospheric density of his presence, did all the work. It was like standing in front of an oncoming avalanche and realizing the snow hates you.
Kƶnig stepped forward again. Just one inch. Just enough.
The air grew heavy.
Your ex backpedaled so fast you almost heard cartoon sound effects. āY-you know what? This is toxic. Youāre toxic. I was trying to be the bigger person!ā
Kƶnig tilted his head again. Just enough to reveal a single glint of eye behind the hood, and it made your ex scream.
Actually screamed. Like a man encountering the consequences of his actions for the very first time. And then he was gone. Fled down the hallway like the answer to a prayer you hadnāt had time to finish.
āWeāll talk later!ā
No, we wonāt.
You shut the door with the satisfying click of sealing a tomb, you grin slowly stretching.
Kƶnig turned back to you, then, silent and still waiting. .
You reached up and patted his arm- gently, because you were fairly certain that bicep could be registered as a medieval weapon. āA+, no notes. Extremely threatening. Ten out of ten cryptid vibes. You are great!ā
He made a low soun that was not quite a grunt and not quite a sigh, and you took it as a thank-you.
Later, after the adrenaline had faded, you handed him a mug of tea- which looked comically small in his massive hands, like a Barbie accessory. He held it delicately, reverently, as if youād handed him a precious museum piece instead of an herbal infusion from a grocery store.
You curled up on the wrecked edge of your couch, eyeing him across the room.
āYāknow,ā you murmured, half to yourself, āthis might actually work out.ā
He didnāt reply, but he did lean a little closer.
āWhat dāyou want for lunch?ā You finally remembered to ask, standing up with your hands on your hips like you were Superman awaiting orders from Batman and not actually one of the miserable civilians that need to be saved regularly.
āWe gotta keep you big and thick, Kƶnig! So just say what youād like.ā
Johnny strutting up to older!reader in a bar with the tired ācan I buy ye a drinkā and you just look him up and down and ask āoh baby. How old are you? Whereās your dad?ā In the most condescending yet sweet voice heās ever heard and the man is lowkey bricked up. Heās stunned just staring at you stuttering out ā ām 26ā You look over his shoulder to the rest of the 141 sitting at a table. āEither come back in ten years or send your mutton chops daddy over. Ok sweetheartā your hand is shooing him away and heās walking a little stiff bc you just unlocked a kink in him he did not know he had.
Johnny walking back to his table and theyāre all wondering why he is both sulking and blushing until he says ācapān she wants to talk to youā. Heās pouting as he slides into his side and watches Price stand up.
āYou called?ā His deep voice pulled you from your drink to turn and give a knowing smile to the man now sitting next to you.
āYou just let that poor thing go hitting on women older than him? Why not just send him to the pretty more age appropriate girls hmm?ā You motioned for the bartender to get Price another beer and you another one of yours
āThe boy doesnāt usually have a problem with the easy ones. Gotta give him a challenge or heāll get a big headā. Heās sipping his beer watching your lips wrap around yours.
āWhat about you? Howās your head?ā Youāre looking at him like youāre expecting an answer as your hand lands on his thigh. And now heās almost choking on his drink, fully understanding why Johnny had the look he did on the way back to the table.
āmy fuckinā pussyā simon says as heās pounding you in a mating press. your heel-clad feet are hung over his burly shoulders, flopping with every thrust.
āmmmn, yer fuckinā pussyā you slurred back.
āoh my, weāve gotta talker, doing a little repeat after me? fuckinā simon says, huh?ā
Sheriff Price has a habit of pulling you over, and you have a habit of seeing how far you can push him. Itās a game you've been playing for yearsāa harmless one, until he gives you exactly what youāve been asking for.
ā¤æ based on this | [ AO3 ]
18+ AU, fem!reader, small town vibes, porn with minimal plot, smut, oral (m receiving), dom!john (back and forth between hard and soft), brattyāsort of pathetic reader, fingering, squirting, public sex, smidge of voyeurism, size kink if you really read the fine print, implied slight age gap [ 6.6k words ]
You werenāt going that fast.
Maybe nudging 35 in a 25, but the road was emptyājust you and the soft, golden light of a July evening slipping into dusk. The cicadas hummed their lazy symphony, crickets chirping in harmony, while the air carried the scent of fresh-cut grass and summer warmth. It was the kind of night that wrapped around you like a blanket, slow and sweet, the kind that made you want to roll the windows down and let the world drift by.
But then the sirens sliced through the calm, sharp and jarring, shattering the stillness. Red and blue lights flashed in your rearview, splashing the road ahead in a chaotic swirl of color. Your hands tightened on the wheel, that familiar knot twisting in your gut. You didnāt even need to check the mirror to know who it was.
Sheriff John Price.
The small-town Sheriff (asshole) that had a sixth sense for catching you when you werenāt even doing anything wrong. The guy whoād written you up for a rolling stop at an empty intersection, or a right on red at 2 a.m. when the streets were dead silent. Sure, maybe you were five over on a straight stretch of road, but come onādid he really have nothing better to do than hassle you over that? It was starting to feel like he was just looking for excuses to pull you over.
At this point, you figured you were practically on a first-name basis. Hell, you were probably the most frequent flyer on his ticket roster. But that was the trade-off for living in a town where the sheriff knew everyoneās businessāand apparently, yours most of all.
You eased the rickety old Nissan Skyline to a crawl, tires screeching softly as you pulled onto the shoulder and shifted into park. Your fingers moved on autopilot, fishing the registration out of the center console before he even asked. If John Price had one talent, it was knowing where you were before you didāand youād learned the hard way to keep things within armās reach.
The music blared for a second longer before you killed the volume, the sudden silence pressing down on the summer night like a weight. You rolled down the window, letting the warm, sticky air flood the cabin, thick with the scent of grass and distant rain. Leaning back in your seat, one hand resting lazily on the wheel, you waited. Same old song and dance.
First came the slam of his cruiser door, sharp and final, like he was already annoyed at the prospect of dealing with you. Then the crunch of his boots on the asphaltāslow, deliberate, each step dragging out the inevitable. It was almost comical, the way he took his time, like he wasnāt the one whoād flipped on the lights and sirens.
The window hissed as it rolled down, the sound jarring in the quiet, and before you could stop yourself, a smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth. You didnāt bother hiding it this time. If you were walking away thirty dollars lighter, you might as well make it entertaining.
"Eveninā, John," you drawl, letting the words hang in the air with a playful edge that makes his jaw tighten.
He leans in, his arms braced against the window frame like he owns the whole damn road. His face is all sharp lines and shadows in the fading light, the faint scent of cigarettes and worn leather wrapping around you, mingling with the heavy, humid air of the summer night.
āDonāt call me John,ā he grumbles, his voice rougher than usual, like gravel under tires.
You raise an eyebrow, your lips curling into a grin. āWhy not?ā you tease, letting your fingers trail lazily along the steering wheel. āThought we were friends, John.ā You bat your lashes, adding a pout for good measure, laying it on thick just to see how far you can push him this time
He doesnāt smile. Doesnāt even blink. His eyes narrow, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he leans in closer, his presence crowding you. āWe arenāt āfriends,āā he says, his voice low, almost a growl. āYou know why I pulled you over?ā
Itās not really a questionāitās a challenge, and you canāt help but rise to it. You tilt your head, letting your gaze linger on him, your smirk widening. āHmmā¦ maybe ācause youāre a sucker for a pretty car?ā you suggest, your tone dripping with sarcasm, sweet enough to sting.
Johnās lips press into a thin line, but the subtle shift in his posture tells you everything you need to know. His gaze is unrelenting, sharp enough to cut through the cool facade youāre trying so hard to maintain. Internally, heās fighting not to laughāyou can see it in the way his shoulders tense, like heās holding back a cackle.
āIf thisāā he steps back, his eyes sweeping over the exterior of your car with deliberate slowness before landing back on you, āāis your idea of a āpretty car,ā I might have to issue you a ticket for driving without glasses.ā
You lean back in your seat, arms crossing over your chest, your mouth hanging open in mock offense. Just because Fergie was old didnāt mean she was ugly. āHas anyone ever told you youāre an ass?ā
He stands there for a moment, just watching you, his expression unreadable. Itās like heās weighing how much more of this heās willing to put up with. Finally, he tilts his head, his voice dry as dust. āHas anyone ever told you youāre a brat?ā
You two had been here before. Over and over again. Ever since youād come back home from college, heād been hot on your trailāalways showing up at the worst possible moments, right when you thought you mightāve gotten away with it.
This was your town. Youād grown up here, knew every road, every corner, every face. It was small, sure, but it was yours. And then John Price showed up. Sparkling, brand new hot-shot sheriff, fresh off the Mayflower. Sworn in by all the touch-starved wives and swooned over by every teenage girl in a fifty-mile radius. Ever since heād arrived, it was like Elvis all over again
You figured he didnāt have the right to boss the locals around like he owned the place. No shiny badge or gun on his hip was going to earn him any respect from you. This wasnāt some big city where the badge meant everything. Out here? You could be just as stubborn as he was.
Still, he had a knack for showing up when you least expected it, always lurking in the background, keeping an eye on you for reasons you couldnāt quite figure out. No one could explain it, but there he was, always hovering like you were some kind of problem. But you never did anything wrong. Not really.
āI bet you 50 bucks thereās about five disgruntled teens smoking pot under the high school bleachers as we speak,ā you say, leaning back in your seat with a grin tugging at your lips. āSurely, they deserve your devotion and attention more than little olā me.ā
He pauses, clearly weighing your words, and you can see the flicker of recognition in his eyes. āI donāt want your money,ā he mutters, his tone dry but with a hint of amusementāand something else you canāt quite place. āBesides, I doubt youāve got 50 dollars to spare, considering how often youāre in the precinct paying off tickets.ā He leans in just a little, his gaze sharp, like heās daring you to argue.
You shrug, playing the part, even though you know heās right. āHey, Iām just saying. Youāre wasting your time with me. Iām practically a model citizen. Those kids under the bleachers, though? They could be causing all kinds of trouble.ā
You give him a sidelong glance, letting the playful challenge hang in the air between you. āIām just trying to help you out here, Sheriff.ā
Your tone is sweetātoo sweetāand you can almost see the gears turning in his head as he tries to figure out whether youāre messing with him or just being your usual self.
He takes a slow breath, clearly trying to keep his composure. His hand pinches the bridge of his nose before he exhales, the sound heavy with exasperation. āOh, Iām sure you are,ā he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. āBig help, givinā me that advice.ā
You raise an eyebrow, leaning forward just enough to close the distance between you, your voice dripping with mock sincerity. āWhat can I say, Sheriff? Someoneās gotta make your job worthwhile.ā
For a moment, the world seems to narrow to just the two of you. The air grows heavy, charged with something you canāt quite name, and the silence stretches taut between you. But then the faint hum of a car engine cuts through the stillness, tires rolling past on the asphaltāa sharp reminder that youāre not alone out here.
āStep out of the car.ā His voice is calm, steady, but thereās a flicker of something darker beneath the surface, a low undercurrent that sends a shiver down your spine.
Your jaw tightens, anger flaring hot and sudden in your chest. Heās never asked you to step out of the car before, and the demand catches you off guard. You canāt afford to be arrestedānot with a shift at the diner at 6 a.m. tomorrow morning, not with the way your life is already balanced on a knifeās edge. The thought of cuffs, of being hauled into the precinct, makes your stomach churn.
But you donāt move. Not yet. Instead, you meet his gaze, your own sharp and defiant, and for a heartbeat, the two of you are locked in a silent standoff.
You donāt say a word, just reach down to unclick your seatbelt with an indignant sigh, movements slowālike dragging out the inevitable might change the outcome. The latch pops, the sound too loud in the quiet, and you open the door, letting the evening air rush in, cool against the heat prickling at your skin.
You step out, tugging your shorts down where theyāve ridden up, keeping your gaze on the ground, on the cracks in the pavement, anywhere but at him. You try to keep your breathing steady, try to act like this is just another bullshit stop, just another way for him to waste your time and break your wallet. But your heartās already racing, faster than you want it to.
Then his hand is on your hip.
Firm. Unmoving. Not quite guiding, not quite restraining. Just there. A weight that lingers, like a silent reminder that heās the one in control here, no matter how much you want to believe otherwise.
For a second, you freeze.
He doesnāt move, doesnāt speak, just watches you. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, charged with something you donāt want to name.
You swallow, still refusing to look at him. āGonna write me a bullshit ticket, John?ā Your voice is casual, flippantātoo much so. You know it, and so does he.
He doesnāt answer right away, and that makes it worse.
Because the truth is, youād rather he just do it. Write the damn ticket, hand you the fine, and send you on your merry way. That would be easy. Itād be normal.
But nothing about him has ever been easy. And this? Whatever this is? It sure as hell isnāt normal.
His fingers tightenājust slightlyābut itās enough. Enough for you to catch it, that flicker of something dark and barely restrained. His jaw tightens, his nostrils flare, and you realize heās at his limit.
Like heās weighing his options. Like heās wondering if he should just give you the damn ticket and walk away.Ā
You tilt your chin up, finally meeting his gaze, like a challenge. Would he?
His voice is tight when he finally speaks, low and strained, every word biting through the air.
"You think this is a game?"
You pause, letting the question linger as you ponder. Is it a game? Is that what this has always been? This back-and-forth, this constant chaseāwhere you go about your life, minding your business, and he shows up, lurking, watching, like heās got nothing better to do than make you his personal problem.
Would he really arrest you? Pin you against his cruiser and throw you in the back? Take you downtown like youāre some criminal? The thought sends a slow, involuntary shiver down your spine, but the more you think about it, the more ridiculous it sounds. If he was going to do it, it wouldāve happened already.
Heās just a big softie. A stubborn, gruff, self-righteous pain in the ass who acts like heās got the whole town in a chokehold but has spent too many years shadowing you for it to be a coincidence.
And deep down, you reckon he must have some sick, weird crush if the only way he can muster up the courage to see you is by stuffing a white slip of paper under your windshield wiper, like he canāt even be bothered to have a conversation without the safety of bureaucracy to hide behind.
You donāt even have to think about it anymore.Ā
This is a game.
You keep your gaze steady, watching him. Watching the way heās fighting to maintain that authority, to keep control. And through the harsh headlights from his car, itās almost cuteāthe way his jaw tightens, the way his nostrils flare ever so slightly, the way his fingers twitch against your hip like heās waging a war with himself. Like he thinks he can win.
But he canāt.
Not really.
His grip on you tightens, fingers pressing deeper, slipping beneath soft flesh to squeeze the bone. Like heās trying to ground himself. Like he thinks if he just holds on tight enough, he can remind himself whoās in charge here.
But you see itāthe shift in his expression, the cracks forming right in front of you. His eyes are darker now, narrowed with something heās still pretending isnāt there, and his teeth grit like it physically pains him to keep standing here.
You just canāt resist.
You lean in just enough, close enough that your breath tickles his cheek, and with a slow, knowing smirk, you whisper, āYouāve been dying to get your hands on me, havenāt you, John?ā
The words hang between you, sharp and saccharine, and for a moment, itās like the world holds its breath.
His eyes go dark, that flicker of anger flashing through them like a warning. But itās not just anger anymore. Itās something else, something raw. For a split second, youāre certain heās off the deep end.
Before you can even blink, his hand moves. Itās fast, and suddenly, heās grabbing you by the arm, yanking you toward him with a force that steals the breath from your lungs.
āGet over here,ā he growls.
The words are rough, guttural, scraping against his throat like heās been holding them back for too long.
The next thing you know, heās dragging you to the hood of his cruiser, his grip tight and bruising as his fingers wrap around your wrist, effortlessly dwarfing it. The cold metal of the hood bites against your skin as he shoves you down, bending you over the car.
And then heās on you.
His chest is solid heat against your back, his weight pressing you into the hood like heās making sure you stay there. Your breath catches, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven movements as you try to process just how quickly the shift between you has turned into this.
āTalk so fuckinā much,ā he mutters through clenched teeth, his voice a growl of frustration and something deeper, something rougher. His breath fans against your ear, hot and unsteady, sending a shiver down your spine.
One hand clamps over your wrists, holding them firm against the small of your back, while the other tangles in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to expose the vulnerable line of your throat.
The grip is possessive. Unforgiving, like heās staking a claim.
āYou think you can just keep pushing me? Keep fuckinā with me like this, hmm?ā
A soft whimper tumbles from your lips, and you bite down hard on your bottom lip, the rest of the sound dying in your throat. His hand pulls on your hair, making your neck arch back, and the sharp tug sends a jolt straight to your cunt. You try to choke back the reaction, but itās impossibleāthe way heās holding you, the way heās pressing into you with every word, every move.
His body presses into yours, the intensity of it all making your pulse race. Despite everything, despite the situation, a shiver runs down your spine. You can tell heās holding back by the way his teeth grit, the sharpness in his voice.Ā
You smirk, tilting your head slightly to meet his gaze from the side. āBy the way John Jrās more sprung than a rainy day in April, Iād say you like it,ā he groans and you chuckle, āYou do like it, donāt you, John?ā
The words slip from your lips, taunting him, and you can feel the shift in his posture before he even moves. His grip on your hair tightens, pulling you back further, forcing you to arch your neck more as he leans in, his breath hot and heavy against your skin, each exhale brushing over you like a warning.
āThink youāve got me figured out?ā he growls, teeth grazing the curve of your ear, his words a promise and a threat all at once. āSince youāre so fuckinā knowledgeable, tell me somethingā¦ā
Your pulse quickens, the anticipation like the loaded gun in his waistband. āTell you what?ā you ask, your voice quiet, almost breathless, but your eyes never leave his.
āTell me what I do tādumb girls that donāt know how tāspeak only when spoken to,ā he murmurs, his grip shifting, pulling you in closer, his body pressing against yours in a way that makes it impossible to ignore the growing bulge in his pants.Ā
You can feel his cock twitch with interest in his jeans, and instinctively, you roll your hips back into his. The firm bulge presses against your pulsating cunt, offering just the smallest bit of reprieve from the ache in your clit and you canāt help but whimper. āYou give them a ticket and send them on their way?ā
āNice try, love,ā he says, the words dripping with disappointment, like heās genuinely let down by your guess.
Before you can even react, his hand leaves your hair, and you hear the cold click of the cuffs snapping around your wrists.
You jerk against the restraint, but itās useless. You turn to look up at him, but the look on his faceāhands on his hips, blue eyes locked on youāmakes you stop.
No smirk, no joke. Just intensity.
āGet on your knees,ā he says, voice low, rough, without hesitation.
You bite your lip, the urge to snap back hitting you. But instead, you swallow it down and push yourself up, kneeling before him on the pavement. The roughness of it bites into your skin, the cuffs digging into your wrists, each pull reminding you of just how much control he has in this situation.
His boot taps lightly against your thigh, the sound sharp in the quiet air, a silent demand for your attention. You glance up, meeting his gaze, and the intensity in his eyes makes your breath catch. Itās a look that makes your pulse quicken, as if he can see right through you, into everything youāre trying to shovel deep..
āSit,ā he commands, the word simple, authoritative.
It takes you a second to realize what he means, but when his boot nudges against your clothed cunt, you get it.Ā
You lift your hips slow, like youāre not sure but canāt help it, settling atop his boot. The sensation makes a shiver run up your spine. His fingers find your hair again, firm, enough to tilt your head back and make you look up at him.
āThisās been a long time coming, hasnāt it, dove?ā His voice is quiet, almost a whisper, like heās savoring the sight of youāknees to the ground, wrists bound, eyes wide as you stare up at him. He canāt help but palm himself at the sight.
Your heart pounds against your ribs, heat simmering in your cheeks with anticipation. āIām not gonna beg,ā you sneer, defiant like your cunt isnāt already drooling for him. The lie sits thick on your tongue, heavy enough to choke on.
He smirksāslow like heās amused, but thereās something else there, like heās already decided how heāll play with you.
āThatās cute,ā his fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your head back just a little further. Your lips part on instinct, a quiet, pained mewl slipping out before you can stop it.
ābut you will,ā he hums with a smile so saccharine, it makes you want to smack it off his face. His free hand reaches for his belt, fumbling with the leather as he pulls it out of the buckle. You can feel your body buzzing with anticipation, the tension building in every nerve of your body. Everything in your mind is screaming at you, telling you how wrong this is, how this canāt happen. But deep down, you know heās right. This has been a long time coming.
But fuck, heās a literal cop, the Sheriff. This has to fall under some public indecency law.
But despite everything, despite all the warnings your mind throws at you, the pull is stronger, too real to ignore. And you canāt stop yourself from leaning into it.
He peels down the zipper of his blue slacks and the sound echoes in your ears. Youāre on your knees on the shoulder of a road, the last vestiges of daylight fading, and God help you, your mouth waters when you see the outline of his solid cock through his boxers.
He doesn't break eye contact, his other hand still tight in your hair, daring you to even try to look away. The recklessness, the sheer audacity of him whipping out his cock in the middle of a traffic stop. Itās all so palpable, like a stack of weights on your chest. He tugs down his boxers in one fluid movement, his cock springing free, and you canāt help but try to back away at the sight.Ā
He's massive in every sense of the word. Dark curls trail from his navel to the base of him, thick but neatly kept. His cock hangs low and heavy between his legs, thick and long with a few veins and just the softest blush of pink at his tip. Thereās no way you can take him all, let alone in your mouth.Ā
He could see the shift in your eyes, the sudden apprehension in your demeanor, and the hand in your hair loosened. He trailed his fingers from your scalp to your cheek, his thumb wandering to the plump flesh of your parted lips.
āYou can say no, dove. I wonāt hold it against you,ā he says softly, giving you an out. His blue eyes soften as they meet yours, and you know he wouldnāt force you. But the way the hard leather of his boot presses through your shorts, firm against your clit, has you fighting the urge to grind against him. You wantāNo, need him. Badly.
You bow your head to meet his cock, tongue darting out, hungrily swiping up the drop of precum dangling from his tip. He automatically groans and his hands find their way back to your scalp, feeding his cock into your mouth. Your lips tighten around him immediately, suckling as he presses in and stretches you out.Ā
āFuckā thatās it, love, so fuckinā tight,ā he babbles as he watches his length disappear in your mouth over and over. His eyes flutter shut as he tips his head backāhe knew if he looked at you any longer heād blow his load too soon. Your tongue is just so hot. He hadnāt expected it to be ice, but God you were sweltering. He nestled himself in the back of your throat so nicely, tickling and toying with your gag reflex each time you bobbed your head. You coat his length with slick spit, the sounds of your gags subconsciously making him push your head down even further.Ā
You focus on steady breaths through your nose as his grip tightens. Your hands strain against the cuffs, aching to touch, to feel, to at least stroke where your mouth canāt reach. So pretty like this, he thinks. The way you look up at him, defiant yet desperate. The way your breath catches and your throat flutters around his mushroomed tip.
It drives him crazyāhow much he wants to break that control, to make you lose it completely. His groans only spur you on further, your tongue moving with purpose, tracing the prominent vein along his underside.
Your hips jerk against his boot as spit gathers at the corners of your mouth, knees grinding into the asphalt, but you barely notice the sting. All you can think about is the way it makes heat pool in your cuntāsends sparks up your spine.Ā
You canāt help itāyour hips keep moving, grinding against his boot, the rough leather driving you wild, and youāre sure youāre leaving a wet spot. The friction is delicious, and youāre so lost in it that you almost miss when he speaks.
Ā āLook at you,ā he says, smirking despite how badly he needs to cum. āCanāt even help yourself, can you? Just a needy little mutt, humpinā my boot.ā
His hand tugs your strands, not rough but firm, just enough to make you gasp. āJust need your pretty pussy touched, that right?ā he tuts softly, pulling you off him, a thin strand of saliva connecting your glistening lips to the tip of his cock.Ā āOn your feet, come on.ā He guides you up, your legs shaky and chest heaving but his grip steadies you. āThere you go, sweetheart.ā
The skyās a deep blue now, the sun long gone, the cruiserās headlights casting faint shadows. He shoves you back against the hood, the metal cool against the backs of your thighs. His hands are on you immediately, rough and demanding, squeezing your thighs, your tits, like heās marking his territory.Ā
You bite your lip, trying to steady your breathing, but itās useless. His fingers dig into your flesh, and your hips jerk instinctively, craving more. āSo quiet now, hm?ā he hums, his face centimeters from yours. āWhat happened to that smart little mouth of yours?ā
The way he switches from caring to being so dominant, it makes your head spin. You glare at him, but he doesnāt care. His hand slides under the waistband of your shorts, fingers dancing over your soaked panties, and you canāt stop the way your hips roll into his hand, desperate for any touch heāll give. āAll this for me, sweet girl?ā he mutters, middle finger slowly circling your sensitive clit, āAll wound up, yeah? Need me to set you straight?ā
āFuckā,ā you whine, your hips bucking into his hand, you can feel his breath against your lips as he chuckles. He deftly pulls your panties to the side, groaning when his fingers slide through your folds. His lips find your neck and he mouths at the sensitive patch of skin above your pulse, sucking a dark, red splotch into your skin as if youāre his.Ā
You instinctively toss your head back, letting him lick hot, wet stripes from your clavicle to your jaw. He slips a single finger into you and your cunt squelches embarrassingly.Ā
āFeels so good, Johnā,ā you whine into the evening breeze as he pumps his finger in you, curling to hit your g-spot with precision youāve never experienced. He smiles against your skin before enveloping your lips with his.
Itās hungry, messy, and desperate. His tongue crowds your mouth trying to drink you whole, like heās been parched, waiting for you to quench his thirst since he first met you. He swallows your whines and pleas for more as he works you open, grinning when he slips in his ring finger alongside the middle and you gasp.
Itās a pathetic attempt, really, to kiss him backāto try to match his fervor. He has you at his mercy and youāre near collapsing into him as he finger fucks you, low heat pooling in your belly as the coil tightens, as you claw at the hood of the car, wishing the cuffs werenāt thereāwishing you could claw at him instead.
āFeel you gettinā all tight āround me, dove. Gonna cum? Gonna soak my fingers, doll?ā He questions against your lips. Your walls are squeezing him so tight, sucking him in and keeping them there. So greedy, he thinks.
You nod vehemently, biting your lip so you donāt screamāor sob, you arenāt sure how to feelāinto the air. He grinds the heel of his palm against your clit, and thatās all you need to finally break. You near black out when you cum, sparks shooting up your spine and making your vision go black for a moment, his fingers lazily working you through your orgasm as your legs shake and your walls damn near break his fingers.Ā
āThatās my girl, knew you could do it,ā he hums against your temple, wiping away tears you hadnāt known fallen.Ā
You hadnāt cum that hard in your life. Not by yourself, and most certainly not by any of the lame frat boys you fucked in your college days.
But John isnāt in a frat.
And he certainly isnāt just a boy.
He gently slipsĀ his hand out of your pants, bringing his fingers up to his lips before popping them into his mouth. The way his eyes flutter shut, eyebrows pulling together softly as he groans at the taste of you on his tongue, itās all fucking sinful. You watch him, mesmerized as he pulls the glistening digits out of his mouth with a pop.Ā
He dips his head to yours, kissing you again, but much softer this time, less hungry, more savoring. You can taste the subtle tang of your own juices on his tongue, and youād be a liar if you said it didnāt turn you on further.Ā
John subtly tugs your shorts and panties down, the fabric whispering against your skin. He fishes for a small key in his pocket, before using them on the cuffs. They open, releasing your raw wrists with a near-silent snick. You feel the moment the cuffs fall away, and your hands move as if drawn by an invisible force, reaching for him, clutching at his jaw, pulling him closer with urgency. Your fingers roam his shoulders, his neck, tracing the hard lines of his body as he spreads your legs, tossing your discarded shorts aside. He settles between them, lazily pumping his cock with his free hand.Ā
āYou want this, love?ā he whispers against your lips.
You nod almost imperceptibly before crashing your lips back to his, like you just canāt get enough.Ā
He kisses you back like a magnet, but just as quickly, he pulls away again.
āWords,ā he says sternly.
You huff, ever the impatient brat. āPut your fucking cock in me or I swear to God, I'll get in my car and drive right out of here.ā
āThat right?ā he scoffs, "You gonna drive off?" He brings his angry red tip to your sodden folds, teasing your sensitive clit with each brush, making you jolt, āYou want tāact like a brat,ā he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. āThen we can do this the hard way.ā He leans in, his lips brushing against yours. āUnless,ā he murmurs, ghosting the head of his cock into your hole, āyou'd like to ask nicely.ā
You bite your lip as you watch him tease you, fighting a groan at the way your cunt squelches and stretches around just his tip.Ā
āSheās so greedy, already tryinā to suck me in,ā he coos, ādonāt want to deprive her, now do we?ā
You whine as he notches just the head in. He pauses, waiting for you to speak before he moves any further. āYou open your mouth and your voice just breaks as you leak and drip around him and onto the hood of the car.Ā
āPlease, John, Please, I need youāPlease, Iāll be so good,ā You break and claw at his shoulders and back, desperate to pull him closer to you, to have you flush against him, chest to chest and full of his cock.
āSee how gorgeous you sound when youāre nice? See where that gets you, love?ā He coos as he inches his cock into you. Your walls are already fluttering, still all worked up from your last orgasm. He has to fight the urge to cum right then and there, gritting his teeth as his grip tightens on your thighs, fingers dimpling the fat as he spears you open.Ā
Youāre slack jawed, eyes glassy as he bottoms out. Youāve never been so full and stretched in your life. You can feel him in every orifice of your body, you feel him in the pits of your stomach, in the hollows of your lungs, in the cavern of your throat. His tip nudges against your cervix and all you can manage is a strangled sob.Ā
āOh none of that, lovie, none of that,ā he hums, pecking your lips and wiping the tears from your eyes with the pads of his thumbs.
Ā āGonna fuck you real nice,ā the thumb he used to wipe your tears away travels south, finding your clit and drawing soft, slow circles that have you gushing and relaxing around him, āJust be a good pet and take it.ā
You nod as he cradles your head in his hand. He gently moves his hips, inching his cock out of your cunt before sliding back in, squeezing the air out of you like a fucking balloon.Ā
Gasps fall from your lips with each stroke, not entirely from discomfort, but from the sheer intensity of the feeling. He repeats the motion, a slow, deliberate push and pull that sends shivers down your spine. He keeps his thumb on your clit steady, making your legs shake, a burning heat already blossoming low in your belly. You grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his clothed frame as you try to anchor yourself against the rising tide of sensation.
He continues, his movements becoming more insistent, more demanding. Each thrust is deeper, faster, steady plaps from where his hips repeatedly meet yours. He knocks the breath out of you, each stroke forcing a soft mewl from your lips, your body trembling with anticipation. The world narrows, focusing on the rhythmic movements of his hips, the feel of his skin against yours, the sound of your ragged breaths mingling with his.
He leans, his lips brushing against your own. āThat's it, doll,ā he murmurs, his voice low and husky. āTake it all.ā
His words ignite a fire within you, a raw, primal need that surges through your veins. You arch your back, meeting his thrusts with a ferocity that surprises even yourself. His pace quickens, his movements becoming more urgent, more erratic, and you know heās getting close. The burning in your abdomen intensifies, spreading outwards, and throughout your body.
His name falls from your lips in a litanyāJohn, John, John, johnāa prayer, both a plea and a demand as his cock plows into you with staggering precision. Your cunt clenches around him, milking every ounce of pleasure from each stroke. He groans, cursing as his grip tightens on your hips, until you wail, toes curling and clawing at his back, your voice hoarse as you squirt all over him. He continues to move, his rhythm relentless, until he too reaches his peak, groaning as his body shudders, as he spurts hot ropes of cum deep inside your cunt.
Youāre breathless, spent, your limbs heavy and relaxed. The dampness of sweat cooled on your skin, a pleasant contrast to the lingering heat between your legs. The world slowly comes back into focus and a soft smile plays on your lips as you trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips.
āThat wasā¦ā you murmur, your voice still rough.
He nuzzles your neck, his breath warm against your skin. āA lot,ā he finishes for you, his voice low.
You hum in agreement, tightening your grip on his jaw just slightly. You don't need to say more. The silence that settles between you is comfortable. He shifts slightly, and it reminds you he's still there, sheathed inside you.
You close your eyes, savoring the warmth of his body against yours, a comforting heat that seeps into your skin. Every nerve ending still fires, buzzing with aftershocks.
Slowly, he inches out of you. It feels weird to not be full of him, a sudden emptiness that makes you instinctively clench. He's out, and the cool air against your skin is a stark reminder of the reality of the situation. Of the fact that youāre literally on the side of the road. John reaches for your discarded clothes, picking them up with a casualness that borders on audacious.Ā
He starts with your panties, briefly bending down in front of you as you step into them. He pulls them up your legs, snapping the elastic against your hip. āSheriffās discretion,ā he murmurs, his eyes glinting with amusement as he fastens your shorts too. āWouldn't want you getting a ticket for indecent exposure.ā Fucking knew it.
You raise an eyebrow, a smirk playing on your lips. āYou were just as indecent as I was, if I recall.ā
He shrugs as he tugs up his own pants, a picture of nonchalant authority. āEvidence suggests otherwise, doll,ā he counters, his gaze dropping to your lips. āBesides,ā he adds, his voice dropping to a low rumble, āI'm the one writing the tickets.ā He finishes buttoning your shorts, his fingers lingering against your skin.Ā
The world sways for a moment, your legs still a little shaky. He steadies you, his arm around your waist. He walks you back to your car, the silence between you comfortable, filled with unspoken understanding. He stops just short of the driver's side door, his hand resting comfortably on your back.
āDrive safe,ā he says, his voice softer than you've ever heard it.
You nod, your eyes meeting his. You stand on your tip toes and kiss him, a soft, lingering peck on his lips thatās got him feeling like a teenager again.. He responds in kind, other hand moving to cup your cheek. Judging by how he holds you close, heās reluctant to pull away.
But he does, and he turns and walks back to his cruiser. Eventually, You watch his car fade away, a strange mix of emotions swirling within you. Then, with a deep breath, you turn and get into your car. The door shuts and you just exhale, replaying everything that just happened.Ā
You reach to crank the keys sitting in the ignition and your eyes fall on a small white rectangle tucked under the windshield wiper. You get back out of the car and pull it free.Ā
When you got plushies on your bed and youāre abt to fuck
Gaz: is turning them around so they donāt see
Soap: is lining them up so they ALL see
Ghost: is shoving one under your hips so he can raise up your ass and fuck it
Price: is putting one in your arms so you can hold it and squeeze it when youāre overstimulated and squirming
Nik: putting it in your arms and involving it in the dirty talk tbh (āCarrotcake and I are so proud of you, milayaā taking papochkaās cock to the base like this. Did you fuck yourself in this bed while thinking of me, malĆ½shka? Did your silly rabbit know what a slut you are for me before I did?ā)
i have a visceral need to put Soap in the most degrading positions imaginable but the twist is that it still gets him so horny that he nearly passes out
living next door to ghoap and while they (mostly Johnny) like to strike up conversation with you whenever you're getting your mail or tossing out the trash, lately, they've been catching you at every opportunity. even before work and they'll keep you around long enough to almost make you late.
maybe that's why you've suddenly started having raunchy dreams about them both. (but what makes it weird is that they're never together. it's only ever one or the other.) it's hard keeping the shame that sits hot in your chest below the collar of your shirt when you always end up cornered by either johnny or simon just to ask you how you've been recently, if you've slept well, that your skin is glowing.
how can you tell them that you've been getting the best sleep you've had in months because every other night, you've been having an actual orgasm or three to your wet dreams? that you've been waking up in the morning with release sticking your inner thighs together, your sex hot and tender to the touch because (in your imagination) he and his boyfriend eat pussy like it's the last one on they'll ever have?
none of this would be an issue if you just had you a nice boyfriend to give you the attention your neighbors have been forcing upon giving you.
(you don't. you give them a shaky smile, a weak excuse and run straight to your flat. it prompts johnny to chide simon for being so overzealous with you. "told ye to give 'er a few to recover, ye'd gone into 'er room just two days ago," as if he hadn't lapped up all the slick you'd left on simon's face after an hour of eating you out. as if johnny wasn't the one to suckle on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh long enough to leave the mark you'd confused for a bruise. hypocrisy at its finest.)
Soap being bitten by a weird looking attack dog on mission and does the usual rabies shots treatment/whatever. All his tests came back fine so he's not really worried about it.
It's just that....
Was he always this hairy? Like yeah sure he's never been sleek exactly, always had a dense bit of hair across his arms, legs, and torso. But recently it feels thicker, coarser.
Did you start wearing a new perfume? Weird he didn't notice until now. It smells amazing on you, he can't help but bury his face in your neck given any chance to do so, nibbles at your neck as you giggle and swat at him.
Everything's louder now. He mentions to Price that he can hear conversations from three offices over, and Price just shrugs and asks why he's complaining- his hearing has been damaged by so many close proximity explosions. Maybe it's just healed on its own somehow.
He keeps having to trim his nails for some reason, and doesn't miss Ghost's weird, observant stare as he sits next to the trash bin for the third time that week trimming his toenails. "Giving yerself a pedicure, Johnny?"
He's so hungry all the time. Gaz jokes he's going through a growth spurt the way he devours his meals, piles on the protein and craves red meat. Soap tells himself he was planning on going on a high-protein diet anyways so he can bulk out a little, so it's not really an issue.
You complain about the love bites he gives you, how he's biting harder than he should, and Soap swears up and down he isn't. The welts on your neck and shoulders tell a different story though, and when you frown at him Soap whines, wanting to tuck a tail he doesn't have under him in apology.
It's weird, but it's mostly explainable.
That is, until the next full moon, when you wake in the darkness of your bedroom to the low, dangerous growl of something wild and feral as he slowly creeps up your body and lets instinct take root.
Mother, what size of shirt do you think Kƶnig wears? š¤
*gaaasp* bby what have you done.
You honey have opened the floodgates of Kƶnig and his forever struggle of finding shit that FITS.
Letās break it down rq, pull up a seat.
The man is a mountain, we all know that. But the military wonāt allow you in past a certain height, keep that in mind. So that puts our dear Colonel at about 6ā6-6ā7, or 198-200cm tall.
I need to get this out of the way, he f*cks with tank tops. Anything sleeveless, he hates sleeves. Meathead loves to flex, plus itās more freeing.
Size wise I think heāll fit into an XL, mind you itās tight on him and heāll have to slim down. rip bulk. Letās say Kƶnig has a chest width of 55in (140cm) and a waist of a tree trunk I mean 51.2 inches (130cm) would put him at a size 3XL just to get comfortable.
He loves baggy hoodies but hates that most donāt come in 4XL, during desperate times he relies on those scratchy cardigans his grandmother knits for him every other Christmas.
Good luck finding a shirt that doesnāt rip past the expanse of those broad shoulders, I say ābroadā because that man is the definition of broadness. Heās just big, has a fat head too, no wonder the hem of his sniper shirt/hood doesnāt slip down to his eyes. I swear I donāt bully him.
He is a man. A man that would get an anxiety attack if he had to awkwardly sift through racks of clothing items just to find the right size. Itās always a gamble for him whenever he has to go online shopping for clothes.
Kƶnig would much rather try things on first before buying them, but he just isnāt damned enough to cram himself into one of those changing stalls. Heās had enough of stalls, honestly and he doesnāt need em outside of the military.
Bonus:
Shoes wise? buehuehue. He has a personal shoe maker. He has a personal shoe maker and let me tell you why: nobody has size 13 1/2 shoes that suit his taste. Thatās almost 12 inch shoes; the ones he does find are f*ck ugly. Fugly I tell you.
whatever you do, don't think about the idea that Captain John Price and Lietuenant Simon Riley likely have reinforcing patches on their work pants on the inner thigh
whatever you do, don't think about how thick they must be, being so tall and muscular, hands probably couldn't fit around a single thigh, a single thigh the size of my entire waist
whatever you do, don't think about how they generate so much heat, because they're so built, don't think about them needing reinforced pants because they're just that muscular
whatever you do, don't think about the idea that Captain John Price and Lietuenant Simon Riley likely have reinforcing patches on their work pants on the inner thigh
whatever you do, don't think about how thick they must be, being so tall and muscular, hands probably couldn't fit around a single thigh, a single thigh the size of my entire waist
whatever you do, don't think about how they generate so much heat, because they're so built, don't think about them needing reinforced pants because they're just that muscular
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