#johnnyslaughter

…

Johnny wasn’t an easy man to love but fuck did he know how to make you want him.

The way he carried himself—deliberate, confident, like he was always five steps ahead of everyone else—made him impossible to ignore. He had this charm, the kind that made you lean in closer when he spoke, the kind that made you forget the way his eyes lingered too long on people when he thought no one was watching.

And with you? He was different.

He was soft.

He’d sneak up behind you, hands sliding slow over your waist, his lips brushing your ear as he murmured, “Damn, you smell good.” He’d press his forehead against yours when he was tired, exhaling slow, like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. He’d call you things no one ever had before—sweetheart, baby, mine—like the words belonged to you alone.

So when the small details were starting to show you were observant.

Johnny had a knack for deflecting questions about his past, often dodging your questions. Whenever you pressed him about where he grew up or what he had done before you met, he would flash that charming grin and casually change the subject, as if it was no big deal. One moment, he mentioned his mother but there were two?

Your questions were left with more.

_______________________________________________

One afternoon, as you sat together on the couch, the flickering light from the television illuminated the room in a soft glow. Curiosity nagged at you, and you found yourself wanting to know more about Johnny’s past. You had always sensed there was more to him than the charming persona he presented. With a gentle nudge, you asked, “What was your childhood like? Did you have a good relationship with your family?”

For a brief moment, silence hung in the air. His expression darkened, and the playful glint in his eyes was replaced by a cold stare. “Why do ya wan’ ta’ know about that so much?” he snapped, his southern accent drawling harsher and sharper, making you flinch. You hadn’t meant to touch a nerve; it was just a question, after all.

Johnny leaned forward, the tension radiating from his face. “Chu’ think ya’ can just dig into my past like it’s some kind a game? It’s not pretty, okay? Just drop it.” His tone was laced with aggression, the way he clenched his jaw and fists showing his frustration.

You could feel the heat of his anger washing over you, a wave of intimidation that made your stomach twist. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” you said softly, trying to diffuse the situation.

“Upset me?” he echoed, his voice rising. “You have no idea what it’s like ta’ be me! You think you’re entitled to know every lil’ thing? I’m not some open book for ya’ to read.”

As he spoke, you noticed the way his body was coiled with tension, his energy shifting from defensive to aggressive in a heartbeat. It was a stark reminder of the very things you’d been trying to ignore—the moments when his charming demeanor could so easily turn into something completely different.

Realizing you had ventured too far into territory he wasn’t ready to share, you held up your hands in a gesture of peace, feeling the urge to retreat from the sudden confrontation. “I just wanted to understand you better,” you said softly, wishing to calm the storm that had erupted between you.

But Johnny remained unyielding, the anger in his eyes dimming slightly, yet still lingering like a dark cloud overhead. “Well, maybe some things are better left in the past. You should respect that.” His voice softened, but the warning in it was unmistakable. The tension lingered, leaving you wondering just how deep his scars ran and how much of his past he was truly willing to share—or hide. To relive the tension in the air you look back at the TV, seeing missing people on the news, and you let you a sigh, “All these missing people are making me feel sick…” He let out a chuckle grabbing his beer on the near by coffee table, “People die everyday, babe. That’s just how it goes.”

_______________________________________________

The inconsistencies in his timelines nagged at you, but you had wrapped it up to the conclusion that he didn’t like his childhood…

Hell, maybe that’s why he’s always had a knife on him, its cold metal glinting ominously whenever he moved in the light. At first, you thought it was just a quirky habit, something that made him seem rugged and stoic.

“What, are you expecting someone to attack us in our own kitchen in the middle of the day?” You asked. He would often joke about it, saying, “Chu’ never know when trouble might come knockin’.” But as time went on, the constant presence of the knife began to unsettle you. It was tucked into his belt when he went out, resting on the kitchen counter when he cooked, and even slid under his pillow at night sometimes. The way he handled it sent shivers down your spine.

But the biggest problem you had with Johnny is that he would disappear some nights, returning hours later, smelling faintly of something metallic… oil?

Once, you saw dirt caked under his nails, trailing up his forearms. You asked him where he’d been. “Just out,” he said, flashing that lazy grin. “Got into a little trouble at work, is all.” The smell of perfume filled the air but an scent of unfamiliar cologne joined the air too that was definitely not his— could be all the people he was around at his job.

So you let it go.

One night, you woke up to find him sitting at the edge of the bed, staring at you. The moonlight caught the sharp angles of his face, his jaw tight, his hands flexing against his knees. You blinked, your voice thick with sleep. “Johnny?” His lips twitched into a smirk, but something in his eyes was unreadable.

“Just watchin’ ya dream, baby,” he murmured, reaching out to brush his fingers along your cheek. A chill skated down your spine. But you smiled anyway. Regardless of what you felt, you knew he meant good… but deep down, you already knew something wasn’t right.

The next night you learned the truth, the air is thick with the scent of rain, heavy and humid, clinging to your skin as you lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. The house is silent except for the occasional groan of wood settling, the distant sound of wind pressing against the windows. Johnny was gone and it was late— a little too late.

But that, in itself, isn’t unusual. It doesn’t shock you when he decides to stay at the mechanic shop in town late at night trying to fix the dozens of vehicles in line to get fixed. But tonight, something feels different. Maybe it’s the way the wood creaked through the cracks in the house, or maybe it’s the strange heaviness in your chest, a weight that has been pressing against you for months now, slowly growing stronger, harder to ignore.

Was he cheating? No, he couldn’t be…

You sit up, rubbing your arms as if to shake off the unease curling around your spine, but the feeling doesn’t go away.

You don’t want to be the kind of person who snoops, don’t want to be the kind of person who questions Johnny when he’s never given you a reason to doubt him—not really—but the thought plants itself in your mind, firm and unrelenting. You hesitate for only a moment before slipping out of bed, stepping carefully across the creaky wooden floorboards.

Maybe getting a little bit of air outside would help.

The house is dark as you make your way to the back door, barely illuminated by the dim glow of the moon filtering through the windows. The smell of the soup you had saved for Johnny you made for dinner lingering in the kitchen drifts past you, making you sigh. Outside, the yard stretches out into endless black, the distant tree line swaying in the wind, casting long, skeletal shadows across the damp grass.

And that’s when you see it—Johnny’s truck, parked farther away than usual, close to the old shed at the edge of y’all’s property, the driver’s side door hanging slightly open.

Johnny never parks his truck like that. Never far away and open…

Your heartbeat picks up as you step onto the porch, the cold texan air nipped at your face. The wooden planks cold beneath your bare feet. You hesitate, half tempted to turn back, to crawl under the blankets and pretend you never got up in the first place. But your feet keep moving down the steps, down the path of your garden, slow and hesitant, carrying you across the yard and across the property. The damp grass soaking through the thin fabric your pajamas was unpleasant but you weren’t stopping over some wet cloth.

Walking down the long path of the dirt road, all the way to the edge of the property to the old shed, you couldn’t help but tell yourself that maybe this was a bad idea. You could still go back inside to the warm soup you had prepared, rid yourself of cold needles poking your bare feet and cuddle with your blankets but… when you did reach the truck, you see it immediately—a large, worn duffel bag slung across the passenger seat, the zipper barely closed, something dark spilling out over the edge.

Your breath catches, fingers twitching at your sides as you stare at it, mind racing with possibilities you don’t want to entertain.

But you have to look.

With trembling hands, you reach out and pull the zipper down, just enough to push aside the fabric.

The first thing you see is a small delicate locket, could it be a gift he was going to give you? It was the kind a woman would wear, its chain snapped as if it had been ripped from someone’s neck. Opening up the locket, you don’t see you… you see a random women, blonde and happy.

Was he actually cheating?

Turning the locket around, the surface is smeared with something dark, something rust-colored, something that your mind refuses to name. You swallow hard, your pulse hammering against your ribs, and dig a little deeper.

“No…” You whispered.

A scarf, torn at the edges. A sliver bracelet, more fit for a man, the kind that wouldn’t fit around your wrist but definitely not Johnnys style.

IDs. A small, zippered pouch filled with driver’s licenses, seven in total. Different names. Different faces. Four of them, men. Three of them, women. You sucked in a sharp breath, your chest tightening, your pulse a frantic drum against your ribs.

And then something slipped from inside the pouch—a polaroid.

The breath left your lungs.

It was a man and woman tied up, their faces tear stained and unmoving. Their eyes stared into oblivion, their souls gave up. If that wasn’t worse, a visible wound was peaking at the camera spilling out of the man’s side.

Your hands begin to shake.

The realization comes slow, creeping in at the edges of your mind, twisting into something suffocating. You stare down at the collection of trinkets, at the evidence of people, at the undeniable proof of something that cannot be explained away.

Johnny wasn’t cheating.

He was hurting people.

Your stomach lurches violently as you try and properly shove everything back into the bag as quick as possible, and you stumble back from the truck, hands trembling, breath coming too fast, too shallow. You try to tell yourself there’s another explanation, that this isn’t what it looks like, that there’s some kind of reasonable, logical reason for why Johnny would have these things—but you already know there isn’t.

Because deep down, you always knew something was wrong.

And now you have proof.

Before you can think about what to do next, the air shifts behind you, and you feel it before you hear it—the presence of someone watching.

Footsteps crunch against the wet grass, slow and deliberate, and every muscle in your body locks up as a shadow stretches over you, long and familiar, swallowing you whole.

You don’t want to turn around, don’t want to confirm what you already know, but your body moves on instinct, reacting before your mind can catch up. You step towards the truck again, grabbing the near by beer bottles on scattered on the truck floor. One, two, three bottles. You turn and there he is.

Oh my god… was he watching the whole time?

Johnny stands a few feet away, his boots caked with mud, his damp shirt clinging to his skin, darkened in places you don’t want to look too closely at. His dark brown hair is messy, strands sticking to his forehead, but his expression is what sends a chill down your spine. He isn’t angry. He isn’t shocked. If anything, he looks amused.

Like he was waiting for this moment.

Like he knew you’d find out eventually.

His head tilts slightly, lips curling into a slow, easy smirk as he watches you, his sharp eyes flicking from your face to the open duffel bag, then back to you. His hands are relaxed at his sides, fingers flexing slightly, and something about the movement makes your stomach twist in knots.

You don’t realize you’re shaking until he takes a slow step forward, and your body reacts on instinct, feet stumbling backward, hands curling into fists around one of the bottle.

Johnny’s smirk widens slightly as he closes the distance between you, his voice low, smooth, the drawl as thick as honey.

“Somethin’ wrong, sweetheart?”

The words are casual, almost teasing, as if this is just another late-night conversation, as if he doesn’t already know exactly what you saw.

You try to speak, but your throat is too tight, your mind racing through a thousand different responses, a thousand different ways to react, but none of them feel right.

You look at the beer bottles in your hand.

Because what the hell are you supposed to say to the man you love when you realize he’s a monster?

Johnny watches you for a long moment, and then he does something that makes your blood run cold— He laughs. When he looks at you again, there’s something almost fond in his expression, something that makes your stomach twist into an even tighter knot.

“You really shouldn’t be out here this late,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his voice taking on that familiar, lazy warmth, the kind that usually makes you melt. “It’s too cold out here, you’re shakin’.” His hand sits on his hip, on his knife… with his head tilting in curiosity.

You don’t move. Can’t move. Because you can’t stop yourself from thinking of every possibly— if you run, he might chase you. If you fight, he’ll win. And if you scream, no one will hear you. So you do the only thing you can.

You raise your bottle handling wrist in the air and force yourself to breathe. You force your body to relax, even as your heart slams against your ribs, even as every instinct tells you to run. You lift your chin, swallowing hard, meeting Johnny’s gaze with as much steadiness as you can manage.

You smile, “No Johnny, I was looking for you and figured I’d help clean your truck.”

Barely there, barely audible, but just enough to make his smirk soften, just enough to make his hazel gleam with something like approval.

Just enough to keep yourself innocent in his eyes.

The drive back down the gravel weaving path you two had spent weeks making to the house is quiet. Johnny hums softly under his breath, one hand resting lazily on the steering wheel, the other draped over his knee, fingers tapping against the denim of his jeans. His posture is relaxed, completely at ease, like nothing is wrong. Like you didn’t just find proof of something horrible.

The truck bumps along the uneven dirt road, the tires crunching against gravel, but the only sound in the truck is the low crackle of the radio, playing some country song you can’t focus on. Your hands are clenched together in your lap, knuckles white, nails digging into your skin, trying to anchor yourself to something like there wasn’t a spiral of thoughts screaming inside your head. It didn’t help much when the duffel bag is touching your feet on the truck floor.

You should say something. You should confront him but you don’t. You can’t bring yourself to it. What would that change?

You glance at Johnny from the corner of your eye, at the way the dim glow of the dashboard casts shadows across his sharp features. His dark brown hair falls messily over his forehead, his lips still curled at the edges in that easy, knowing smirk, like he’s waiting for you to break the silence first. Like he’s curious about what you’ll do next.

Grease stains decorated his worn out jeans— could it really be grease? The scar on his face, he might be lying to you about how he got that, too. Your stomach twists painfully thinking about it, you lean away for a moment trying not to lose yourself in your head.

Johnny isn’t stupid, no matter how much he plays up the carefree charm. He’s watching you, even if he doesn’t make it obvious, gauging your reaction, measuring every little shift in your expression, every nervous flicker of your fingers.

And you don’t know what he’ll do if you give him the wrong reaction. So you keep your mouth shut because you don’t know what happens if you don’t.

The truck goes around to the front of the house, rolls to a stop, and for a long moment… neither of you move.

You feel his gaze on you, sharp and heavy, waiting for something. Instead, you swallow hard, forcing your voice, “Well? Let’s get inside.” You open the door as swiftly and calmly as you could and step out with a slight pep in your fake step. You lightly hum as you listened to his turn off the truck and do the same.

You didn’t sleep that night.

Johnny lays beside you, one arm slung over your waist, his body radiating warmth. His breathing was slow, steady—completely at ease. Like he hadn’t maybe spent this night taking someone’s life. Like he hadn’t kissed and held your face with blood still under his nails.

Your mind messed with itself, rethinking every moment you two shared, every laugh, every touch. Could someone like him really be capable of this?

Yes.

But then—

He loves you.

Then the next few weeks were torturous.

You played your part well. Smiling when Johnny expected it, keeping your voice light, pretending that everything was the same. But it wasn’t.

How could it be?

Every touch made your skin crawl. Every whisper of sweetheart or mine felt like a chain tightening around your throat now. You knew too much. But the worst part wasn’t just knowing— it was not knowing what to do.

For two years, Johnny had been everything to you. He made you laugh with his charming antics. You remembered the way he used to tuck you into his side after a long day, ignoring the label of him being ‘just a friend’ hiding in his farm house back at his home. His warmth seeping into your skin, his hand absentmindedly tracing patterns on your arm. You remembered his voice, that teasing, cocky lilt that could make your heart race in a way you once found exciting.

Could someone like Johnny really love? Had it all been a lie? The thought made you sick. But then there were moments—small ones—that made you wonder.

“You’ve been different lately,” he murmured, his voice slow and measured.

Your pulse stuttered. “What do you mean?” You put down the knife, swiping the cut strawberries into a bowl and turn around… only to see he’s already standing behind you.

He hummed, dragging his fingertips to your wrist. His grip tightened just slightly. “Quieter. Distracted.” His hazel eyes searched yours, narrowing as his hand gripped your wrist in a tight squeeze. “Is there somethin’ you’re not tellin’ me?”

Your breath caught.

Did he know?

You forced a laugh, leaning up to kiss him, swallowing your fear between your lips.

“No,” you whispered and peck his lips, but his body didn’t budge. His hand let go of your wrist as you turned around hoping he’d give you any sign that he’s let it go. His head rests on your shoulder and wrapped his arms around your waist, “M’kay.” Is all he said before kissing the back of your head and leaving the room. For now, he seemed to believe you.

But things did change after that.

Johnny watched you more closely. His touches lingered too long, his words held unspoken weight. One evening, he brushed your hair back, tilting your chin up. His grip was just a little too firm, his fingers warm against your skin. “You ain’t ever leavin’ right, darlin’?” He asked under his breath.

And you knew, then, that you could never leave. Johnny wasn’t just dangerous, he was watching too.

You stood at the sink that night, gripping the edges so tightly my knuckles turned white. Just a few moments ago you were leaning into his touch promising that you weren’t going to leave him and now you’re rethinking your life choices.

You still could walk away. You could turn him in. But the thought of it—the thought of Johnny knowing, of him coming for you in the dark—chilled you to the bone. More than that, the thought of losing him did something worse.

Just months before your third year anniversary it became more obvious to Johnny that you knew everything, and he was never going to bring it up and neither were you.

It was a silent game, one where the rules were unwritten but deeply understood. You carried on like nothing had changed, like the world hadn’t shifted under your feet the moment you unzipped that duffel bag. You laughed when Johnny cracked a joke, kissed him when he pulled you in, played the part of the woman who loved him.

Because, in a way, you still did.

How could you not, after all these years? After all the whispered affections, the late-night drives with his hand resting warm on your thigh, the way he made you feel like you were the only thing in the world that mattered?

So you ignored it. Blissfully. Desperately.

And Johnny?

Johnny accepted it with quiet amusement, as if this was the outcome he had expected all along.

There was something almost fond in the way he looked at you now, like he was proud—pleased that you had seen the truth and stayed anyway. He had no reason to coax you into compliance, no reason to explain himself or offer any sort of justification. You hadn’t run and that told him everything he needed to know.

So he didn’t press. Didn’t ask. Didn’t so much as mention what had happened that night by the truck.

Instead, he kissed your temple when he came home late, murmured a soft, “Missed you, sweetheart.” He held you tighter when you stirred in your sleep, warm and possessive, like you were something worth keeping safe.

Despite everything— despite the horror, despite the blood on his hands—part of you still loved him.

And that part? It was winning.

He pulled you into his lap, his hands warm and steady on your waist, Johnny tilted his head, studying you with something close to admiration.

“You’re real good at pretendin’, sweetheart,” he murmured, his lips just barely grazing your temple.

He loved your hipdips. He loved rubbing them with his dirty hands under your sundress as you made sandwiches and lemonade for him after a hard day of working on your car. His rough large hand were able to grip them as your body slammed down onto his cock, giving you leverage and aid in pleasing him.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

It’s not enough to cum in you—it’s about keeping it there. He likes filling you up until it’s dripping out of you and then shoving it right back in with his fingers. His head tilts, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth as he watches you squirm.

“Look at that, sugar. Leakin’ all over the fuckin’ floor. You’re gonna keep every drop for me, yeah?”

And if you can’t? He’ll press his palm flat against your pussy, his rough fingers curling up to make sure you’re stuffed full and crying his name all over again.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He’s been in your house. Before you ever knew his name. Before he ever touched you, he knew where you kept your panties, what lotion you wore, and how you bit your lip when you read those filthy little romance novels at night. That diary? He didn’t just read it—he memorized it. That first night he had you crying under him, moaning about being choked and ruined? He wasn’t guessing. He knew every dirty fantasy you’d written down. And he plays them out exactly how you wanted—just to watch you realize you never stood a chance against him.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He is very experienced. He was… experimental in his younger age. As he got more handsome there was more girls on him like fleas. You’d assume he took advantage of this, of course.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Cowgirl. He loved the idea of knowing that even if you were on top he could still have more power over the whole situation. However, if you decided to do something you’ll regret— trying to slap that beautiful ass of his— you will have your face in a pillow and your ass being pounded. And his most favorite, doogystyle, he loves watching the way your ass and tits recoiled with the snap of his hips, the control he has over your body. the memory of his dick sliding in and out of your pussy lives in his head. he loves it even more when you push back into him— do it, you womt regret it~

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Expect no funny moments when you get Johnny in the mood. When he’s horny, everything else in the world is radio silent in his head. Even if you tried cracking a joke he’d probably wipe that smile right off your face by slapping your ass and slamming his lips onto yours. But I know you’d gladly kiss him back, won’t chu’?

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He’s fairly well kept. He cares about his looks! He doesn’t let anything get too out of hand, but he will make sure that it isn’t bare either. The bare skin freaks him out…

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Everything else seems nonexistent. His energy is so dominating and rough that your body just gives yourself to him.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He rarely masturbates, but there’s been a few times he has. Once, he sat in the corner of your bedroom at night when you didn’t even know he was there, stroking himself while you slept. He was watching you, whispering under his breath how good you’d look on your knees for him, even in those moments.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Possession. Fear. He loves that wide-eyed look you give him when you realize you’re too deep and there’s no way out. His biggest thrill is knowing you’re scared of what he’s capable of—and still, you stay. That’s real loyalty. Or maybe it’s just survival.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He will do it anywhere. He doesn’t care if his family walks in, he doesn’t care if he fucked you in front of a dead body. As long as he can have his hands on you? He does not care.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Killing. That’s what drives him—what keeps the blood in his veins hot and his cock even harder. And when it’s over? When his hands are slick with blood, splattered up his arms, drying in streaks across his chest?

That’s when he finds you. He doesn’t even bother cleaning up. Doesn’t waste time with words. He drags you down to your knees, one blood-slicked hand tangled in your hair, the other fisting his cock already hard and throbbing.

This is his release. Your lips stretched around him, blood smearing against your cheeks where his fingers grip too tight. He killed for it. He earned it. And you? You take him down your throat like you know exactly what he’s done… and exactly why you’ll never tell him no.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

There’s bold… and then there’s stupid.

And the stranger in the diner? He was both. Eyes raking over you like he didn’t care that Johnny was sitting right there, an arm draped over the back of your chair, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your shoulder as a silent warning. But that bastard had the nerve to ignore it—leaned right over the counter with that cocky grin and said, “Hey sweetheart, a pretty girl like you shouldn’t be sittin’ with a guy like him.”

Johnny didn’t say a word. Just smiled slow and easy like a loaded gun being cocked. Later that night, the man found out exactly what that smile meant.

He was tied to a chair in Johnny’s basement, wrists bound tight, chest heaving with panic. And right there—right in front of him—Johnny had you. Bent over the workbench, dress shoved up to your waist, panties torn clean off.

“You wanted a show, didn’t ya?” Johnny growled low against your ear, his teeth grazing your skin. “Wanted to see what it’s like to really have her? You’re gonna watch, ‘cause that’s the only way you’ll ever get close.”

And the next day? That man was gone. No questions asked. No trace left. Just a sick, twisted memory burned into your mind every time Johnny pulls you close…

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

While he loves eating you out and watching you squirm beneath his tongue and feeling your thighs squeeze around his head, he enjoys getting blowjobs unshamfully more. He loves the way you would take all of him at once, and the feeling of your warm mouth all around his hard cock. He likes how your eyes teared up when placed his hand on the back of your head and slowly guiding you deeper and deeper onto his dick. The way your hair got messy while doing it made you seem like something out of the porn magazine he used to look at. Don’t even get him started on when you licked the underside of his dick while staring up at him with those pretty little eyes, he will make sure his tip kisses your cervic when he fucks you.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

This man loves it fast and rough. He just really fucking enjoys pounding into you more than anything. But, if you really impressed him and made him proud— like killing someone for the first time— his touch is as gentle as a butterfly. His lips slightly graze your skin as his rough fingers rubbed your clit in slow circles.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Loves them. He lives for way your tits looks in that milk maid dress, lives for the way you gasp and whine when his fingers go under your dress, lives for the sheer joy of how your fingers frantically grasp at his belt to fuck in the bathroom of his mothers place. God forbid if Nancy heard you too… You’d be out of the bathroom in the nick of time before Nancy notices anything.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Abso-fuckin’-lutely. He loves taking risks, it gets him going. He constantly almost gets caught killing people— he loves the thrill. Johnny will definitely take risks. The thought of being caught almost exhilarates him. Almost. But the idea of the man that tried to swipe you off your feet was the same man hearing Johnny slam his hips on your ass in bathroom? Oh~ He loves that.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He can go for a couple rounds until he finally gets tired out, and he can definitely last a while too. That’s actually very surprising because of how much he smokes. But the last round will always be him pumping him warm thick cum into your aching pussy. It gives him a strong sense of pride knowing you’re walking around with his cum in you.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Collars. He would love to put a collar around your pretty lil’ neck. Some of the leather collars hes collected has engravements of ‘Johnnys’ Property’, and ‘Johnnys’ lil’ Slut’. He loved pulling the metal chain, forcing you to sit in his lap. Tugging on the chain he manipulated your body into bouncing on his cock, when you’d cum he’d tighten the collar to overstimulate you, of course. He loved when you bounched your ass onto his length as he tugged on the chain too.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Your whole relationship is unfair, what did you expect? You don’t get to tease Johnny, if you somehow did… Sometimes he’ll go along with your teasing. He thought it was cute how you thought you were the one in control. You better hope you’ll be able to sit down due to the hand prints on your ass cheek later.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Grunts and growls echo in the shack. He loves dirty talking to you, “Like that? Like that you dirty whore? Who knew you’d be so… fuckin’— Mmh— slutty?” With how much he smokes his mental pain away, he huffs and pants more than he’d like, his lungs are slightly given out… it sounds really hot when he’s out of breath at least.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

When you drink with him? Oh, he will make out with you. He loves the taste of your tongue when you’ve drunken his favorite alcohol. He loves the way you in your drunkened state sloppy grabs at his shirt and how your tongue rolls out only for him to lick yours back up. By the time y’all jaws are weak from making out you’ve both passed out on his couch.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

His cock is fat, around 5 1/2 inches and even though he isn't abnormally big, the way he's gets balls deep into you makes it feel like he's fucking huge, pushing against your cervix at all times. The girth though, fuck, it stretches out your pussy so much, it hurts every time but when the pain subsides? You’re gripping his hair as your calves rest on the back of his ass pushing his hips closer to yours.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

His sex drive is through the roof, by the time you were pulling your panties back up after a quickie his cock was already standing tall once again. The amount of times he’s grabbed your shoulders pushing you down to your knees to fix his raging boner has been… way too many times. “What can I say? It’s your fault. Won’t chu’ fix it for me, sugar?”

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)