could we possibly get some more on underdeveloped dragon reader? i'd give my firstborn child to read more on them ngl
also good luck w the masterlist!!đŤśđť
We're finally getting to some smut! Surely this won't backfire at all... [Part 1][part 5]
Price is already trying to justify his actions before he takes them. Your wing is spread across his lap, and it looks so wrong and different from what a dragon's wing should look like. Does it matter if he's essentially groping you when it will help you heal?
He pointedly ignores the fact you've been shoved into your instincts since the op. It's difficult enough for dragons to control their instincts inside another's nest, but the fact that you're injured means you've been running on instincts for weeks now.
The pot of ointment is small, about the size of his palm, but Price only needs a little. He scoops out a small amount with his claw and tells himself it's for your own good, that he's doing this to help you. The ointment is cool against your heated wings and has you whining into the nest, wings fluttering because oh god that felt nice. The pain subsides where his fingers gently rub the ointment into the tips of your wings.
He has to bite back an appreciative rumble at the way you flare the wing out, inviting more touch. God, you look so tempting and you don't even realize it. Slowly, he works over the entire length of the wing. Ointment seeping into your skin where scales should be. Each press of his fingers into your delicate wings has a heady sensation you've never felt before rolling through you. Mind fuzzy and happy because your protector is here, your sire, and he's making you feel better so there's no need to worry.
His hands jerk a bit when you rumble out a pleased sighs of sire and happy. It sounds so wrong coming out in between pleased moans, and much to Price's mortification he feels himself chub up. The muscles near the base of your wing are taught with tension, and he presses down with more force to work them loose. Surely not for any other reason. Definitely not because his instincts are yelling at him to treat his mate so well. He mutters under his breath "Fuckin hell kid... you're trying to kill me..."
The rest becomes a blur of sensations that feel so, so good. You don't remember much aside from the safe cozy experience of your sire taking care of you, but price remembers it all. The breathy moans, the twitch and spread of your wings, how your back arched when his palm pressed over your spine. His cheeks flush at a particularly rough press that you tensing up with a whine then going lax.
Did you...? Fuck. Price finishes up quickly and lies in the nest just long enough for you to doze off. The air is cool when he retreats to his office. Shamefully wrapping a warm palm around himself and imagining you playing your wings out for him, at the stretch of him. It's a shitty orgasm, he can't smell you or hear your rumbles. Shame hits him quick afterwards. He's your superior, your captain. What he just did surely crossed a line. But...no one needs to know, right? He just...won't tell anyone and pray that you're too deep into instincts to forget.
Back in the nest room, ghost opens the door with a tray of food and vitamin tablets in one hand. His eyes scan over your form, taking it all in and narrowing at the conclusion he draws. He frowns, closes the door behind him.
During your visit at Porcolineâs restaurant, you realize your boyfriend, Dylas, isnât working today. You hear heâs free tonight, so you decide to pay him a visit upstairs. You arrive to something⌠interesting.
Male Gas Audio + female partner; upset stomach with noises, belching, farting, implied facesitting
someone stuffed and/or bloated, belching nonstop as they eat pussy, swallowing even more air that makes it impossible to hold back.
loud, rattling burps on their partner's clit, muffled deep bassy burps as they suck and lick at their most sensitive parts.
sarcastic apologies interrupted by belches:  âoh, fuckâ beeeeeeuuuuuaaaaarhhhh! pardon mâ uuuurrrrrrrrrpppp! â I donât mean to be so râ aaaaaaaauuuuuhhhp! â so rudeâŚâ
also for further consideration - their partner's hips bucking in a conditioned response, desperately fucking into their mouth to feel the burps rumble deep inside them
Recently just found your blog and I think itâs really interesting!! Since youâre into date everything, I wondered if you interacted with Koa at all? I havenât played the game proper, but he really stuck out to me. Since relaxation is his main thing, I like to think that itâs not rare for him to let it rip when he really wants to get comfy.
I have to admit I haven't discovered him before! I did some more K/oa interactions to properly get to know his character for your ask, and oh god. You're so right. And I loved him immediately. đđđ
I imagine that he believes in releasing any pressure within the body naturally, without putting unnecessary strain on any muscles; so whenever the need arises and he feels a bubble of gas forming in his belly, he simply waits for it to exit him on its own.
This usually leads to *a lot* of gas building up in him before it's released, resulting in his tummy being extremely noisy almost all the time, and all his eruptions extremely... potent, just as much in volume and bass as in length.
Just imagine yourself lying down together with K/oa, getting comfy after you've had an exhausting day. You're chatting sleepily as you rest your head on his belly - it's so big and soft like a pillow, and you get to listen to its constant gurgles and churns, loud, yet soothing and comforting like the best kind of white noise. Every now and then, there's a particularly powerful bbbbBBRRRlllllblble or grrrRRRRrrgggGGGLLllllllllsh rolling around his massive belly, and you know exactly what it means.
A few seconds later, the gurgling noise travels higher to his esophagus right before it booms out of him with a long, bassy BBbbrRReEEEUUUULLLch. It carries several more burps with it, and with every single one, K/oa's expression changes into one of pure, unbothered bliss.
"BBbuuuUUURRrrp... ohhh, that felt so relieving. BRRRRrrrraaAAAUUauRRrrp... mmmm, that's even better." - he enjoys the feeling of relieving himself of his gas so much he simply can't help commenting on every single outburst.
Same goes for farts, which you can feel drilling into the fabric of the bedding underneath you as he lets them freely rumble out of his ass. He'll moan with relief after a particularry bassy BBBBRRRRRFFFFTFTFTFTTT trumpets to an end after several long seconds, and continue whatever sleepy dialogue he was immersed in with you - as you're trying so hard to even remember what you were talking about, taken aback by that disgustingly hot sound and vibration underneath you that came with it.
And the best part is, those foul eruptions don't stop when K/oa falls asleep. With no movement at all from his sleeping body and his inner muscles being even more relaxed, all that tight-packed gas will rush out of him from both ends, powerful and unstoppable.
BBBBBRRRRAAAAAPPPPFFFFFTtttt! Brbrbrbrrrrlllllfffffffffshhhhh.... bbbrrrpppPPPPPTTT! - a series of growling, bubbly farts trumpets out of him and into the open air around you with the power and low sound of a trombone. Another gurgle moans through his gut, right next to your ear, and soon rumbles past his lips as a closed-mouth belch - "mmmMMMRRRRrrrrrpppppfffffhhhh...". The pattern repeats seemingly endlessly as he snoozes with an arm wrapped around you, completely oblivious to any of those foul, booming displays of gassiness lazily rolling out of his gorgeous body.
Despite the smell, all those sounds make up the best music you could imagine yourself falling asleep to.
Imagine youâre sitting on Dallyâs lap, he kisses you and runs his hand through your hair, you can feel his tummy rumble against your fingers and he casually rips a long, wet fart⌠the heat rises between your legs, the smell up to your nose⌠and he gives you a shy, apologetic smile⌠heavenly <3
Lowkey based on that texpost I made~Â
I just need gassy Dylas in my life, alright? Iâm sorry~
âThatâs not something Iâd brag about. But yes, I believe you have developed some affection for my 'arse' now, since it saved your lifeâ, Jon said, giving a smirk as he said the word ''arse''.
âAffection? For that? If anything, Iâll be having nightmares about it for the rest of my life. Your arse sounds like a dying direwolf and stinks like a spoiled stew.â
Jon raised a eyebrow, smug. âYet here you are, curled up against it like itâs your favorite pillow.â
She scoffed, shoving his shoulder lightly. âDonât flatter yourself. I was curled up against survival, not your legendary backside.â
âLegendary now, is it?â, Jon grinned.
She glared. âDonât twist my words, bastard.â
''No, it's fine. Maybe it really is legendary. Not even the Meistres must have records of an ''arse'' that could speak.
Ygritte looked confused. ''Speak?''
Jon pointed one of his buttocks to the side as he raised his index finger.
"See? It just spoke", Jon replied, smiling slightly.
The deadly and meaty stink rose quickly, like a noxious mist ready to engulf everything in front of it, entering both of their nostrils. Ygritte's expression represented well how filthy that odor of rotting meat and spoiled milk was. Her face twisted instantly into a portrait of sheer horror. Her eyes watered, her nose scrunched, and she recoiled rapidly.
do y'all remember this "tapping out" tradition, I don't know if it's a thing in the British military, but if it would be. . . I can only imagine how a teammates girlfriend "taps out" ghost (just because he has no one coming to him) and he randomly decides that huh. she seems like the one.
can't stop thinking about if it was soap's girlfriend. she taps him out first, of course, thick arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her close for a messy, almost obnoxious cheek kiss that has her giggling and swatting at him, playfully chiding that he's going to mess up her makeup. and he sees simon there, staring ahead and knowing no one is coming for him. no one has before, so soap's always done it himself. but something's changed between the two of them, their bond growing deeper, so he whispers in her ear to tap him out, a grin on his lips as she does so. such a shy little thing, going up to this mountain of a man, almost shaking as she touches him feather-like, not wanting to startle or upset him. simon doesn't move for a moment and her heart drops to her stomach, thinking she's made a mistake. but he looks to soap, sees the glint of understanding and encouragement in his eyes, the slightest nod of his head before he, too, is moving to crush her into a hug, feeling the way she hugs back to him without hesitation. maybe this is what love is. maybe this is what he's been waiting for his entire life.
âCome On itâs notâ only mumbles could be heard as the two brothers Kevin and Troy were being suffocated under their dads enormous ass. Sergeant Jones, the hardest drill instructor in platoon 522. A giant man clocking in at 10â3â, unlike his sons who stood at a shrimpy 4â7â. His swelling muscles and an ass that broke any seat unlucky(or luckyđ¤¤) enough to get sat on.
*grunt* was one of only two sounds that the two boys could hear from the father. The other one was,
BBrFrTTfTtTTTtTttffttfttttttttt
A bassy nasty fart hitting washing over and suffocating the boys. Each of Jones melting over and pushing each of the boys into his crack. A gas chamber with an endless supply of gas. âWeâre sorry we wonât do it again!â Kevin cries as ,PRRBBRBTPRRBRRT, an airy fart shoots into his open mouth him gagging and Troy sweating from the heat. A voice in the distance yells, âDinner in 5 mins!â. It was the boys mother and Jones wife. âOkay Honey, the boys wonât be joining us their pass out. *speaking to himself now* well about to be.â The first sentence they heard from their father in the past 30 mins. The cheeks in traping them began to sway and grind into the ground, their faces being brought closer to his hole. The way as it twitches a bit, Troy riling around tryunf to move his father to no avail. Kevin accepting his face as what he thinks is tears or maybe his dadâs ass sweat rolls down his face. *grunt* the hole opens twitches a bit. *grunt* it opens a little. A small but heavy fart escaping. The boys look at each other their noses flaring up. *grunt* The hole opens wide
BBRRBPRTBTTBTTOTTTBTBTTTBTT
A tidal wave of gas rushes over them. Filling their noses and lungs; coughing, spasming and finally unconsciousđľ.
Jones gets off their heads, pulling up his pants, a visible green haze rising from their mouths and nose like steam rising from a pot. As he walks shuts off the lights and closes the door.
AUHM what abt royalty!reader who is married off to king!price????
And ofc he makes the consummation as good as he can. You've been taught what to expect, warned that it wont always be nice, some of your younger tutors whispered he may be mean. But in reality? Hes wonderful. Spends hours between ur legs before he ever fucks you, coos at ur anxious twitches. He wants nothing more than to help his soon to be monarch feel safe.
The best part? He actually cares about you, makes you feel seen. You've seen how other treaty marriages have ended, but ur not left wandering the palace or stuck in a room. In fact, he involves you in alot of kingdom affairs, even lets you meet some of his most trusted advisors.
Which soon becomes a problem as you feel ur gaze wandering. Yes, you love price but you never even knew him before that day. All of them are so nice to look at, who could blame u? His trusted knight, riley, looks delicious beneath all that chain mail and plate. The royal advisor, garrick, has hands you cant help but drool over. The kingdom ambassador, mactavish, has a chest and shoulders so broad you cant help but drool.
Worst of all is that you *like* your husband, maybe even love him. Allowing ur gaze to wander sends guilt through ur heart, makes you clam up with anxiety. But price, Husband that he is, can see right through you. Instead of confronting you, throwing u out of the kingdom, he calls his trusted men to stand before you. Tells you that you can have them, for anything that is his is yours. Their loyalty and devotion, their bodies and souls, their yours.
He decides maybe you and his men need to consummate this new arrangement too. Don't worry, ur husband will make sure they treat you right, he'll be right next to u holding ur hand while they find absolution in you.
You wake up from a one night stand â ready to gather your shit and run just like you always do after a night of bad decisions â but turns out, Johnny has other plans for you.
cw: 18+ mdni. smut. slight dark themes ie. stalking. john price has a kid and is a great wingman apparently. reader afab. teacher!reader. morning after a hookup. domestically menacing johnny with a permanent shit-eating grin. first time attempting to write his accent so iâm sorry in advance. piv. voyuerism!kink. rip to johnnyâs neighbours. creampie.
for the absolutely lovely @spurbleu. thank you for offering me this challenge. i hope i did him justice đ¤ iâm so sorry iâm so late ilysm
You wake to something warm.
It washes over you slowly â spring streams pouring into fragmented consciousness, urging you from the depths of slumber with a gentle lull. Coaxing. Warm like summer sun internalized, flowing through your hair â hazing the room in a golden film as your eyes peel open with rapid blinks, and confusion hastily nullifies it.
You shift, becoming aware of what your body is subconsciously telling you. Warmth. All of it adding to the growing discombobulation. The lingering heat between your thighs. The cocooning comfort of sheets that arenât yours. The odd familiarity of a room thatâs too bare to be recognized. The grace of a bed thatâs glaringly empty save for dark sheets wrapped around bare, aching legs.
It takes you a minute, but your memory eventually resurfaces â gasping for air at the smell of coffee and the hum of movement from the other room.
Johnny.
Hard to forget that name after youâd spent the night screaming it. Your body knows before your mind does, muscles humming with the memory of hands that held too tight, a mouth that took its time. You inhale. Coffee again. A lure. A leash. It tugs at something instinctual, something inside you domesticated â until you glance at the clock sitting on an empty nightstand and realize itâs almost 9 am.
Shit. You should have been long, long gone by now.
You exhale, cursing your constant stupidity as you drag yourself out of his bed and up to your feet â fogged vision scanning the floor, brows creasing as you realize youâre wearing nothing save for a long white shirt that surely isnât yours â and your clothes are no where to be found.
Oh. Right.
Your clothes barely made it past the front fucking door.
Another exhale, forced from shaking lungs. Youâll have to go out there. Youâll have to face him, grab your clothes and change. Itâll be awkward, but itâs not like you havenât been here before. Not like you havenât been through this with past vices. Itâll be fine. Itâll be easy â you all but convince yourself. And within seconds, youâre halfway down the hall, practising your fake smile and empty thank youâs when the smell grows stronger.
Your stomach grumbles with the force of it as you step into the kitchen and â
Fuck.
Johnny stands at the stove, shirtless in grey sweats, bathed golden by the early morning light. It clings to his skin, drapes over the planes of his back, the ridges of his spine. His hair is a mess, wrecked and mussed â a souvenir from your hands as he fiddles with something in a pan, humming hypnotic under his breath.
And itâs then that you forget what you were supposed to be doing.
Because this? This is wrong. This is not how this goes. You donât wake up like this, wrapped in the scent of coffee and breakfast, staring at a man who shouldâve already been nothing more than a memory.
Your breath sticks in your throat, limbs made of cement as he turns. Catches you standing there.
And grins. âGâmorninâ, bonnie.â
You blink, the exertion of it painful. You should leave.
Instead, you exhale. âYouâre making breakfast.â
His lips twitch, amusement and archaism synchronized swimming in his ocean eyes. âAye. Thaâs usually what itâs called.â
He is so at ease here, itâs unnerving. You can feel it, see it in the way he moves. Unfettered. Relaxed. It makes a knot of tension bindle between your shoulder blades â because this is familiar to him, but not to you.
Two plates. Two cups of coffee. You should leave.
âYouâyou donât have to do that.â
Johnny just shrugs, turning that canvas of a back to you â red parallel lines catching under karat coated rays. Your own painting on display â you find yourself admiring it as if it wasnât created by last nights drunken fingers.
âYe thought Iâd jusâ kick ye out?â He flips eggs in the pan. Your chest aches. âYe were tryen tâsneak off first then?â
Your lips press into a thin line â indignant as you force your eyes to the floor. âAdmittedly, that was the plan, yes.â
He tsks, shaking his head like thatâs the most disappointing sentence heâs heard all week before he glances over his shoulder at you again â all beaming blue eyes and grins.
âShame. Poor things nae used te bein taken care of, is she?â
That indignation spreads, grows a vine around your throat. Twists your tongue. âWell, I meanâI donâtââ
Johnny cuts you off with a hum. Or, more like you cut yourself off, because you have absolutely nothing to say to that and what you did offer seems to be more than enough of an answer for him.
âYe think too much, bonnie.â Something sizzles in the pan â you watch the veins in his arms shift against whiskey skin as he lifts it off the element. âAll thaâ time plotting yer escape, ye couldaâ been enjoying breakfast.â
Christ. You really should leave. You should slip back into the skin of someone who doesnât stick around for things like this. But itâs like your feet have grown roots, burrowed beneath his floorboards. You blame it on the smell of coffee, the warmth of the kitchen. The way his fucking muscles flex as he moves.
Itâs all nurture to something long rotted in your soul.
âItâs not like I was expecting breakfast.â You mutter, tugging his shirt down your thighs before crossing your arms across your chest. âWasnât expecting any of this, really.â
Could you be anymore fucking awkward about this?
âThaâ right?â
You canât see it, but you can hear the grin on his mouth. It should scare you that you are beginning to predict him â expecting something smart to come out of him next.
âDidnae expect the shag either, but ye still took it real well.â
Perhaps it should scare you more that you were right.
You clear your throat, but the heat is already rushing down your spine. Settling somewhere inconvenient. He just gives you a quick glance, lopsided leisure tilting his lips as he turns with a plate and coffee cup in hand, gesturing with his head toward the table.
âCome oânae, I wonât bite ye.â
ââââââââ-
Turns out, Johnny MacTavish is real easy to talk to. Too easy.
Mostly because he doesnât stop talking, but nonetheless, it whiplashes you. You came here expecting the usual routine â get in, get out, leave nothing behind but the scent of mingled sweat on strange sheets â but the one-night stand has somehow stretched into morning and now youâre sitting at his kitchen table, fork scraping against porcelain, coffee steaming â actually talking like this isnât just borrowed time.
He tells you about Scotland. About real pubs, the kind where the floors stick to your boots and old men sing ballads in voices ruined by smoke. He talks with his hands. His shoulders. His fucking eyes â restless and full of movement, always wandering. Blue. Though that hardly cuts it â the colour of a storm sky split by lightening. Cool in the shallows and rich in the depths.
They hold contradiction well. Like theyâve seen enough of the world to be cynical but still manage to burn bright enough to keep that warmth kindling under your skin.
Perplexing.
Thatâs the word that sits on the tip of your tongue as you stare at him. Wondering if he was truly just another notch on your bedpost, would you still be here, trying to make sense of what you missed in the dark last night.
âSo,â he says, ripping a piece of butter soaked toast in half. âYe always bolt after?â
You pause mid-bite. Then your mouth moves dumbly. âAfter what?â
Johnny smirks. âAfter ye ride a bloke like yer life depends on it, scream his name loud enough tae wake the dead, and wake up wearenâ his shirt.â
âJesusââ you choke, grateful you at least swallowed your food prior to him starting that sentence, otherwise heâd be halfway to giving you the heimlich right about now. âYou donât do subtle, do you?â
âAye.â That grin grows over the rim of his mug. âSubtletyâs a waste on a woman like ye.â
Before you canât think better of it, you find yourself grinning back.
âAnd whatâs that supposed to mean?â
His eyes flick away to catch the sunlight.
âYe dinnaeâ strike me as the half-measures type, bonnie.â Then they wander back to yours. âMeans ye like a man thaâ says what heâs really thinken, thaâs all.â
That makes you pause, and you try to tell yourself youâre not blushing. Itâs the warm sun at your back, or the coffee sitting thick in your belly. Itâs certainly not those eyes â still on you, unashamedly, taking in whatever it is they see behind your own.
âYou think you know me?â You try to make it sound as casual as possible. You know you donât accomplish it.
âAye.â A lazy nod. âI do.â
And that â that makes you squirm. Makes you drop your eyes to his hands as they sit against the sides of his coffee mug. Capable fingers calloused with strength, a few bruised knuckles. Your gaze drifts up to the veins on his forearm, and you stop yourself before you stare too long.
âWhy?â
You hadnât even realized youâd asked it out loud until his lips quirk like he was waiting for it.
âWha happened te all yer self-preservation?â
You blink. Your tongue is heavy, but you make yourself use it.
â...self-preservation?â
He leans forward, arms on the table between you.
âAll it took te keep ye here was a little forward hospitality. Ye got no blasted clue who I even am â yet yer still here, asken questions ye shouldnae be asken in a voice tha doesnae belong te someone looken te run.â
And you donât know what to say to that, because admittedly it knocks everything off kilter. Leaves you wrong-footed. Lands a little too close to being right. There is safety in one-night stands and running before the sun breaks. There is safety in not learning anything about the man you share a bed with for a night if you donât have to. Youâve been good at it. Practiced it like a bad habit.
You didnât realize, until now, just how easy itâd been for Johnny to make you break it.
âI said I know ye,â he whispers. âBecause I do mâresearch on who I share mâbed with.â
He leans back in his chair after that â and your eyes follow. Milliseconds stretch to seconds which stretch thin to what feels like minutes before you find some sort of wherewithal to move. You donât want to know what he means by that, and you donât want to look too deep to find the answers â the incrimination dunked just beneath the ocean tides in his irises.
âYou are so bloody full of it.â You surprise yourself by not stuttering, staying steady as you stand. âIâI have to go.â
He throws his head back and laughs. âAye, I am.â
His eyes find yours again before you head for your clothes still scattered all over his living room floor. You swear to all kinds of unholy things that you feel the heat against the back of your skull as the flashes of last night flood your memory â his tongue on your cunt, your nails in his skin, his name on your lipsâ
âYeâll be back though, aye?â
You pause somewhere by the window, turning to note the morning light painting his hair a hundred different shades of gold. Thereâs an easy smile on his mouth, no trace of last nightâs drunken humour in his expression.
âWhat?â
His smile stretches to something devilish, and you are so not used to the feeling it elicits. Not used to being charmed. Being disarmed.
âYâlike a man who says what heâs thinken.â He wets his lips. You canât look away. âAnd what Iâm thinken, bonnie, is tha this willnae be just a one time thing.â
He rises, then, and you get the unsettling, stomach-punching feeling that he knows. That he can see the words spinning up and dying on your tongue, can see the flush rising up your neck knowing itâs something he put there.
âYe want te leave, go right ahead.â Your pulse thrums as he draws closer. âJust know tha when ye come back. Iâll be starven.â
Asinine, you tell yourself, but your heart is in your throat â that suffocating something licking up your spine and curling beneath your sternum. Your eyes dart to the clock on the wall. Time. Work. Reality. The real world standing just beyond the exit of whatever the hell this currently is.
You decide, then, that you actually do want answers.
âYouâyou researched me,â you find your voice, though it doesnât come easily. Drags itself up from the pit of your throat, scraped raw by the claws of confusion . âI donâtââ
Glass touches your back through the thin veil of his t-shirt as you take a step back, snow white fabric still lazily draping the curves you let this man get well acquainted with last night. A stranger who wasnât all that estranged, you realize.
âRelax, lass,â his voice drops to a soothing pitch. Something suiting for the cornered animal you currently feel like you are, as he steps closer again. âI didnae run a background check on yer whole bloodline, if thaâs whatâs got ye hackles up.â
You clear your throat, sun beating at your back through the glass. Suffocating.
âThen tell me. What you meant.â
Tongue over teeth, he nods, palms going up. Playful as a puppy, if the puppy was rabid.
âI jusâ know who ye are. What ye do.â A pause, glimpsing down at the way your chest is rapid firing, before flicking back up. âKnow someone whose kid ye teach. Speaks real highly of ye, actually.â
Thereâs no amount of blinks that can make those words make sense, yet you hope 10 might do it.
A parent of one of your students is talking about you. To Johnny MacTavish.
âIâm s-sorry?â Youâre stuttering, now. Goddamnit. âWho? Whatâd they say?â
He exhales, props an arm on the glass beside your head and crosses his ankles as his body brackets yours â watching the silence drag. Watching you ruminate in it.
âSânothin bad, bonnie. Quite the opposite.â
Youâre staring at his mouth. âJohnny, who was it?â
He makes you wait, the bastard. And thenâ
âPrice.â
The name punches the air from your lungs. âWhat?â
Johnnyâs smile turns smug. âCaptainâs kid. Ye teach âem, aye?â
It hits you somewhere between the grin and the way he leans in. Captain.
âPrice,â you repeat softly, the name tilting sideways in your mouth. âJohn Price?â
He stills. Just slightly.
âAye, Captain John Price.â
You blink once, twice, brain whirring. Heâs referring to him like an official superior. Routine. That means heâs either a cop. Or detective. Or FBI. or Militaryâ
âYou work with him,â you murmur.
âWork, kill, drink. Depends on the day,â he says, that thick Glaswegian accent wrapping around the truth like itâs not heavy. Military. âDidnae put it together, did ye? All tha time I was sittinâ across from ye. Ye never asked what I did. No idea I had credentials.â
You huff, stunned. Unsure what to say. Less unsure what to feel. âChrist.â
âOh, now yer sayinâ His name,â that smile is back. Rankles you in a way you never knew until him. âWhere was tha earlier when I had ye on yer kneesââ
âJohnny,â you warn. âKeep talking or Iâm leaving.â
He laughs, easy, leaning in until all the air feels like itâs his.
âDidnae have te dig deep, bonnie. Prefer te do all the dirty work mâself.â Eyes narrow, at that. He just keeps going. âCapnâs kid. Jamie. Talks bout ye like yer some kindaâ fairytale. Real sweet. Price said heâs never seen the kid so bright-eyed about school.â
The name finds your ears with a soft ache chained to it. Jamie Price â broad-shouldered for a ten-year-old, barely spoke unless coaxed, drew galaxies on the backs of worksheets when he thought no one was watching.
Gentle kid. Brilliant, too.
Johnny shrugs, that easy, terrible shrug like itâs all nothing. âPrice asked me if I knew ye. Ranted on about how ye treat âem. Said he overheard ye talken to someone about the bar ye frequent. Said ye had a backbone, a kind heart, and the sort of stare tha makes grown men straighten up like schoolboys.â Blue eyes glimpse your lips, again. âBut ye ainât ever been treated right.â
Heat crawls up your neck. Youâre still pressed against the glass, still unsure if youâre more flattered or frightened.
âHe said that?â
The amusement falls off his face, something stern replacing it, and nods.
âThereâs some things tha just stay with a man.â He shifts closer. Doesnât touch you, though. Doesnât need to. âHe said it. Like he was tellen me not te fuck it up.â
You try to laugh, but it comes out as a weak exhale, like your body doesnât trust relief just yet. He swallows, continues.
âI just cannae figure it out. Pretty thing like yerself. Real good with kids.â He breathes the last part thick, like it curls in his throat and tugs. Like it does things to him. âBit of a wild ride, clearly. And somehow â yer alone. Settlenâ for quick fucks instead.â
You donât answer immediately. You canât. You just peer up at him, breathing made heavy by everything youâve learned and everything he is.
âChoice, Johnny.â You whisper. âItâs by choice.â
âAye. Choice.â He whispers back, other hand finding the glass beside your head, knees knocking as he leans in impossibly closer. âBut all those men who let ye walk. Who didnae fight for ye, theyâre fools.â Heâs close enough your lips almost brush. No grin on them, now. Just gravity. âIâm no fool, love.â
Itâs all hitting you at once, in the same place youâre pressed â against the cool pane of the balcony door. It was all set up. Johnny pulled the entire night from the ether thanks to a man you hardly know. Captain John Price. Youâd only ever thought of him as John â the friendly, albeit quiet man who showed up to parent-teacher meetings with stories in his eyes. Said little. Watched everything. A ghost in your mind until now â until Johnny pieced it all together with soldiers determination and an easy tongue.
Sat beside you at the bar. Didnât come on too strong. Didnât press or sound too rehearsed. Made it real easy to believe it was all a coincidence.
How foolish you had been to not see through the performance.
But now, the shows over â thereâs no final act. No audience to entertain. The masks have come off, and you hear it. The sincerity in the way he says Iâm no fool. Like itâs not just about last night but about tomorrow and the one after that. Like heâs telling you heâll fight for you and heâll mean it. That this isnât just a night. That he doesnât want it to be.
And youâre still reeling from it when your hands find the heat of his chest. Curling around his neck without ceremony, pulling him in the final inch.
Heâs kissing you.
Not like he earned it, but like he means it â and youâre kissing him back, hard, moaning as his teeth find your bottom lip and tug. He pulls back before youâre ready for him to, and your head slumps back against the glass. Breathing. Trying to will the ground back into place beneath you as he traces your jawline with his thumb.
âWhat else,â you croak out as he drops his head into the crook of your shoulder and exhales. âDo you know about me?â
He hums, pressing closer, hips pinning your ass to the glass as you drag your digits down his chest, tracing scars like braille.
âEnough,â he answers, fervent fingers dragging the fabric of his shirt up your hips, torso. âEnough te drive me insane.â
You feel the moment your heart stutters â mouth parted with nothing to fill it but a gasp as your bare ass is exposed against his glass balcony door â giving neighbours and street dwellers a goddamn good view should they be glimpsing upâ
âWait. J-johnny.â He doesnât stop. Doesnât even blink as you catch his wrists, pleading for reason. âYour neighboursââ
âDonnae care.â He mutters, tugging the fabric up over your head. âLet the bloody bastards watch.â
You donât want to know what sound slips from your throat at that, but youâre sure itâs some ugly, gorgeous thing. Torn somewhere between lust and indignity as he moves â one hand bracing against the glass beside your head while the other wrestles with the waistband of his sweats, shifting until you can feel him â hot, heavy, throbbing â pressing low against your stomach.
And maybe thereâs a moment where you think you should tell him you canât do this. Something because of the neighbours or the noise or the glass sticking to your back. But his hand finds your face, eyes flooding you like atlantic as he leans in to kiss you before lifting you up, legs curling around himâ teasing with false thrusts, dragging his tip slow and sinful over your clit just to swallow the noises pulled from your throat. He doesnât need words to silence your protest but manages all the same as youâre rocking against his shaft in tandem â one hand holding his lips to yours and the other gripping his back until youâre slick and half out of your goddamn mind with need.
And if you thought heâd be gentle â well.
He doesnât ease you down. Doesnât waste time. Just slides into you in one heavy thrust until youâre stretched to your edges and his name is caught on a sound you donât recognize.
âJohnny! Ohf-fuck!â
He curses, teeth grazing your jaw, hips driving forward like heâs punishing you. Or maybe himself. Probably a little of both. Regardless, thereâs nothing easy or soft about this â the kind of frenzied effort that takes you apart and leaves you hoping heâll stitch you back together. Makes you realize you needed this â the pressure, the friction, the drive deeper into your belly with every excruciating inch as you choke on the sounds heâs drawing out.
You canât control the pleasure that pours out of you, dripping like honey over his lips as you grip the back of his neckâ
âOhâf-fuâohgodââ you canât find the right words, though youâre not even trying to anymore. Itâs better than a dream. Better than last night when it was all alcohol and adrenaline. This is raw. Real. And you realize, through the fog, just how easy it was to get lost in him. To let yourself. Even with nothing but the sound of his voice and the skin on his back to hold onto. âJ-johnnyâfuckingdeepâyesââ
He sets a frantic pace, teeth sinking into his lip like he can taste the curses youâre whispering against it.
âSâgood. Sâtight, mmfuck.â
Feral. Best word to describe this. Gnawing you from the inside out, leaving your thighs quivering as you fight to hold onto him, back slicking against the glass as he buries himself so deep you can barely choke out an inhale.
âMâgonnaâohmygodââ
Youâre going to cum. You can feel it in the way your belly knots and your thighs tense. His smile gets lost in the crook of your neck as he grunts â not daring to slow down or give you a moment to breathe. Instead, he just slips a hand around your throat, pinning your head back to glass thatâs just as humid as you.
And when his eyes finally find yours, theyâre a million shades darker than they were five minutes ago. All the blue eclipsed by dark, midnight hunger as he devours like you were served to him on a silver platter.
In some metaphorical way, you know you were.
âGâon. Make a mess of me, bonnie. Know ye need it.â
You want to look away. You canât. Not when he squeezes your throat like youâre his. Not when he rocks deep and hard and your blood is singing for more. Your pulse thumps wildly and you wonder if heâs trying to slow it with his fingers as he tightens his hold.
And so you moan, because itâs all you can do â while the words you whimper as he thrusts hard enough to make you keen donât sound like you. They sound like someone he owns.
âOhfuck, Johnnyâyesfuckyesyesââ
It hits you like the shatter of stained glass.
Your mouth falls open, soundless at first, a broken gasp caught somewhere between your throat and tongue. Your whole body tightens, back arching off the glass as you tremble, drowning in it, orgasm dragging you under like a rip current â teeth clenched, thighs shaking, fingernails digging so hard into Johnnyâs shoulders youâll leave marks. You want to leave marks.
âChrist, lass. Thaâs it. Thaâs fucken it, baby.â
He doesnât stop. Doesnât let you breathe. He fucks you through it, jaw clenched, hips snapping forward like heâs chasing your high to the end of the world â like your pleasure is the only map heâs following. Youâre crying out now, helpless and shaking and soaked, clenching around him so tight it borders on painful â more for him, you think â as he grunts, one hand bruised into your hip and the other braced against the glass, eyes locked to yours as you fall apart for him.
âThaâs it, bonnieââ his voice is wrecked, sweat dripping from his brow. âJesus Christ, sâtightâfuckenâ look at ye.â
And you do.
Your head falls forward, forehead against his, eyes burning with the kind of emotion you donât dare name as you watch him drive in and out, slick coating everything flesh. You sob a noise against his mouth, some choked half-curse, and he swallows it with a kiss thatâs all teeth and tongue and possession as his thrusts grow sloppy â rougher, more desperate, chasing his own breaking point.
âCan Iâfuckâcan I cum inside ye pretty cunt?â He pants, voice hoarse against your jaw. âTell me no. Christ, Iâll pull out, jusâ say itââ
You donât say it.
You just grab his face, kiss him hard, and whisper; âdonât you dare.â
Thatâs all it takes.
He groans â a guttural, broken sound â and slams into you once, twice more before heâs spilling inside you. Hips twitching, mouth open against your neck. And for a moment, the world goes still. Nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing. The steam on the glass. The thrum of blood in your ears.
You close your eyes. Let yourself float. You donât know what this is â but you know it wasnât just a fuck. Not with the way heâs still holding you. Not with the way youâre already aching to let him do it all over again.
Itâs a few moments before he pulls out. Another few before you find your head.
âChrist,â you breathe, rubbing your face as he fixes himself back to modesty. âI canât believe Iââ
You cut yourself off, because whatâs the point. Johnny doesnât move, just watches you with that maddening calm â sweat still cooling along his temple, chest rising and falling slow like heâs got nowhere better to be than right here. Looking down at you the same way he did when he sat beside you at the bar.
Like heâs well acquainted with the taste of your name.
âI told myself,â you try again, âthat this was a one-night thing. Just a fuck. Then breakfast. Then I leave.â
His gaze never wavers. âSo why didnâye?â
You open your mouth. Close it. Because you donât have an answer that doesnât make you sound like a fool. Until you give up caring.
âMaybe part of me still thinks youâre bluffing.â
âBluffen,â he echos, leaning closer â eyes soft like snow. âYe think I sat down beside ye at tha bar for just a fuck? You think I made ye breakfast just to be polite? Nah. I did it causeâ I already knew I wasnaeâ about te let this be just once.â
You exhale â stepping back like youâre reclaiming ground, but the glass is at your back and his voice is in your blood now.
âJohnny,â you breathe. âThis is mad.â
âAye,â he agrees, extinguishing the space. âBut Iâm noâ lettinâ you bolt just âcause it scares ye.â
You blink at him. âAnd if I try?â
Lips at your temple, he grins.
âGo ahead. But ye best put all tha practice te good use, bonnie. Causeâ Iâll find ye.â His fingers trail up your side, electricity coursing. âAnd each time Iâll fuck ye harder than the last. Leave ye walkinâ funny and thinkenâ of me every hour after.â
Those fingers pause, and you jolt, a shockwave behind the ribs as his words drive through you. Itâs maddening and itâs sick â how fast reason betrays you. How fast you clench around nothing, aching like heâs made good on that promise. Like part of you wants to be hunted, dragged back by your hair and wrecked until all your rules blur into white noise.
Itâs nonsensical. But all men before him were dull â a realization that makes your mouth dry. And all you can think about is the way his voice dragged over that sentence.
The way each time implies heâs already counted them.
âQuite the promise.â You reply.
He smiles all teeth and truce â and you know youâre already too far gone. He knows it too. Judging by the way he hums, pressing a kiss to your cheekbone.
And adds. âThis wasnaeâ chance. Wasnaeâ luck. I came for ye because I meant te. And mâstayenâ for tha same reason.â
i really need johnny with a bird whoâs never been eaten out before because I know that man is hungry.
johnny and you have been inseparable since the cradle. a friendship older than his siblings children. which means the both of you are entirely transparent with each other- the skin and bones of your stories is consumed without question. that includes, appropriate or not, sexual encounters.
when you tell him, heâs just shy of appalled. given, you hadnât been with too many men, but enough that itâs strange none of them have even offered to get their mouth between your legs. especially with how good he knows theyâd feel, on his-their shoulders. how sweet you probably taste. how hot it would be to watch you- fuck.
âah will.â
you throw a confused look over your shoulder as you pour the both of you another cup of tea.
âyouâll what?â
âeat ye out.â
you feel the lavender go up your nose and steam your sinus until it short circuits. you miscalculate where the stove is, and set the pot down with a loud clank. wincing, you look back up at him, searching the blue of his eyes for any sign of humor.
when you come up empty handed you realize heâs entirely serious.
âjohnny- i donât think-â
âdonae play coy nae, ah wanna show ye whatcha been missinâ.â
your lips flatten into a harsh line. you run your tongue on the backs of your teeth, trying to collect any courage youâve got in you to respond. friends donât eat each other outâŚright?
but heâs doing it to help you. toâŚshow you what youâve been missing. a favor. a kindness between you and the strong, wide shoulders youâve cried on.
your mouth is sticky when you respond. âokay.â
his grin is wolfish. âaye, thaâs a girl.â
he guides you to the couch, with enough gentleness to make you flush. kneels between your legs as you rest up against the pillows he set behind the arch of your back. slides your pants off with one hand, the other on your waist, thumb swiping in a soothing rhythm below your belly button.
you feel like syrup, leaning your head back and missing the way he licks his lips when he looks at your damp panties.
ârelax, hen. yer gonna enjoy tis, promise.â
he does not eat you out with the same softness he prepped you with. slides your panties to the side and immediately shoves his nose between your mounds, and you gasp, spine arching away from the pillows instinctively. he laughs, but itâs muffled by your soaked lips.
explores every fold until you donât know if youâre soaked by your own arousal, or his spit. but doesnât matter, because soon he focuses on your clit, and your hands come to crowd his hair. tugging at his mohawk, rolling your hips forward into his face.
âw-waitâŚhah..â
he doesnât, tongue ruthless against you. the sensitivity burns- new sensations flaring up from your core to your belly, legs beginning to shake. he feels it, and hooks them around his shoulders.
heâs messy, too. the sounds echoing off your cunt and against his nose are obscene, but he doesnât quit it until youâre riding his face and to lost in your bliss to still operate under your usual shyness.
you silently wonder what heâs getting out of this. youâve been friends forever, and although sometimes your banter feels flirtatiously charged, neither have ever acted on it. something you acknowledge but never name. water it and then shove it back in the closet you played dress up in as kids.
and now heâs eating you out. for fun.
you want to ask him, but you only get as far as, âJ-JohnnyâŚJohnny fuck- fffâŚw-why?â
you moan when he separates from your swollen cunt, only to be yanked from your stupor when he pulls you closer to his mouth by your hips.
âbecause,â again, eyes uncharacteristically serious, âahâve been tryinâ fer years.â
dives back in, and adds his two fingers deep into your hole as he sucks on your clit. at that, you cum over his face, limbs crowding his head with the incoherent curses your orgasms rips out of you.
when he pulls back away from you, he gives your cunt a harsh pat, and pulls your mouth apart with his thumb, before placing his fingers on your tongue.
âtaste thaâ?â his stare is hungry, like he didnât swallow everything you had, âthaâs what the bastartâs youâve been wastinâ yerself on haveâbin missinâ.â
you nod, like youâve been taught a lesson. he pulls his fingers away, stands and stretches. when he looks back at you again, whatever beast possessed him is gone, and he smiles at you smugly.
âfun, yeah?â
you lean your head back, spent, âfuck off.â
âaw, câmon nae, no tank yew? shame on ye, using me like tat.â
you throw your hands in the air. âyou offered!â
he laughs, and the air is normal. you almost forget youâre naked. almost forget you came over his face.
almost miss how he pockets your panties before grabbing the cups of tea from the kitchen.
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