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nsharks · 11 days ago

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bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-five —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

A hand grips your shoulder. "We'll take care of them. Keep low and find a place for all of you to hide. Do not come out until we say."

His words blur together, but you manage to act accordingly, ignoring the pit in your stomach when he disappears around the truck. The concrete is covered in glass and rusted debris, so you keep low without letting your knees touch the ground and motion for the others to follow.

The closest place is an old café, the door closed with chains but the glass window shattered enough for you to crawl through. You pull the knife from your ankle as you move everyone behind the cash register, gripping the handle tight once you lean your back against it. The café is quiet. Still. No one else is here. You steady your breath. Staring at you are the double doors to the kitchen in the back, a thick waft of mold radiating, and behind you are tipped-over chairs and tables.

The noise outside has drifted. When you take a quick peek, you don't see anyone near the truck anymore. It is as if the three of them have followed whoever was shooting.

"Twix, I—"

You look back. Blue is holding her hand out, a shard of glass thrust in her palm.

Blood oozes.

You have no supplies on you, but you carefully pinch the glass between your thumb and forefinger. She bites her lip as it wriggles free, releasing another gush of blood. As if on cue, the kitchen doors burst open with ear-splintering screeches, and three Greys surge toward you.

Blue's bloodied hand reaches for her ankle knife as one tackles you, grinding your spine into the counter's edge. Two gunshots ring out over the snarling in your face. You thrust your arm against its throat, keeping the chomping jaws at bay, and with your other hand, stab the knife into its skull three times, until it whines like a dying animal.

When you shove the corpse to the tile floor, you see the two others on the ground. Blue is pulling her knife from one skull, and Ari has a gun in his hand.

"I only have one more bullet," he pants, double-checking the barrel.

"Someone could've heard the gunshots," Nereida whispers frantically.

"Then we find somewhere else to hide. Come on." Your eyes land on a graffitied door on the side wall. It leads into an alleyway that smells putrid. You motion for Ari to give you the gun as you lead the way, sandwiched between brick walls. You can still hear rounds firing from the street. They stutter in sync with your heartbeat.

You shove a rusted crate that blocks the path. You catch sight of movement, and something scurries between your boots. Blue squeaks and grips Ari's arm, your hand tightening on the gun—but it's only a raccoon.

"There."

You spot a sizable dumpster around the corner, where the narrow alley widens enough for cars to pass behind the buildings. Nereida helps you shove off the debris on top and heave open the lid. A thick waft of rot rises, along with a buzz of fruit flies. The dumpster is half-filled with blackened garbage and charred bones, but no Greys. You don't have time to find another spot as two male voices echo from down the alley.

"I heard it over here!"

"Let's check, come on."

Shit.

You lace your fingers for Blue to step on them. "Quick, get in."

Once the kids are inside, Nereida grabs the edge and hoists herself up. You glance back, stomach coiling as two shadows approach the corner. Quickly, you close the lid after her, scatter the debris back on top, and scurry behind a nearby crate, palm sweaty around the gun.

A fevered study of the shadows reveals two healthy, fit men. One bullet. Something in the second one's gait seems slightly off. You make a split-second decision, peek over the crate, and aim for the first man's chest, doubting your ability to land a headshot.

He falls dead with a thud and then you are launching blindly at the second man with your knife, but you fail to pierce flesh when a strong grip snatches your wrist. The man's rifle skids across the ground and your back is slammed against the wall, your skull colliding with the brick hard enough to make stars dance across your vision. A muscled forearm presses into your neck, effectively cutting off your air.

"Fucking bitch."

Even through the blood rushing between your ears, the growl in your face is—familiar.

You blink up at a man swallowed by a massive burn scar.

The tip of his nose is gone, with eyelashes and scalp burnt away, revealing poorly healed ripples of flesh.

One eyelid fails to open properly, the skin too scarred.

The recognition unfurls your eyes.

He presses harder. "I know you, don't I?" Anger cuts through his gaze. "Ah. That's right—a thief and a killer. You're full of surprises, sweetheart." The curl on his burnt lips makes you flinch, but there is nowhere to go. "I guess you found new friends."

"I guess—I guess you did... too..." Short gasps leave your mouth.

"Shut up," he growls. "I don't want to hear a word from a stuck-up bitch like you who thinks her tits and her cunt are worth more than my goddam face." He is yelling now, spit flying in your eyes. "Don't you dare look away from it! What, not proud of your handiwork?" He breathes hard and looks you over with a snigger. "Finding you is just my luck. I was going to go easy the first time, but now I think I'll kill you then enjoy you. How's that sound? Your corpse being passed around? Hope your cunt is as good when you're dead—"

White-hot anger ripples through your veins and you snarl before hurling a wad of saliva in his face, using the brief distraction to drive your knee into his groin. His staggers back enough for you to escape his hold and push away from the wall.

Gulps of air feel painful down your throat. You back away, readjusting the hold on your knife while he rubs his eyes furiously.

"You're sick," you growl, voice hoarse and low.

"And you're not, princess?"

"I'm not a goddamn rapist."

"You ruined my fucking face," he retorts, stalking you down the alley. At least you are drawing him away from their hiding place—you make an unnoticed glance at the dumpster to ensure no one else has approached, relieved to see the lid unmoved. When your eyes flick back to him, a sick curl twitches on his lips. "You're not innocent here. You're damned like everyone else. That ride of yours now has a shot tire, and that boat—" he chuckles, "—what? Thought you were gonna get out of this hell? We made sure to put a hole in that, too."

His words sink in.

For a moment, horror grips you.

But you channel it through your veins as something useful—rage—and launch at him without abandon. He anticipates an attempt to stab his side again, so he blocks there, but instead, you reach for his marred face and claw the unhealed wounds, reopening them. He howls like an animal, stumbling back and cradling his cheek as blood seeps between his fingers.

"I'm going to kill you, bitch—"

He blindly reaches for the rifle on the ground but you are quick to kick it away. You jump on him, this time bringing him to the concrete, which scrapes against your exposed skin as you wrestle to come out on top. But he is stronger. Heavier. For the second time you become pinned, he tries to dig his hands into your throat. The lack of oxygen threatens to turn the world black, but you slap a hand back on his face and rip off his scarred eyelid before it can.

He roars.

You spit in his face.

Your knife—you lost it in the midst.

As blood pours from his eye, you outstretch an arm and feel for the handle.

The leather is in your palm.

You stab his side.

You shove at his shoulder to get him off.

Then you pin him down, and plunge the knife over and over into every piece of him you find. Neck, chest, cheek, shoulder.

Again and again.

A slashed jugular. Ripped arteries.

Your vision is consumed by blood. You let yourself drown in it. Hot, thick—

Arms grab you by the waist and lift you into the air.

You attempt to wriggle free and dig your knife in them, but the person is quick to disarm you.

"Twix."

A skull face stares down at you. Your bloodied fingers wrap around Ghost's shirt as you pant heavily. It's him. He's here.

"Where are they?" he shouts over the ringing in your ears.

He sets you down, gripping your shoulders to steady you. It takes a moment to gather your senses, to comprehend his words. Your hands, shirt, and face are drenched in blood. Your head throbs with weight. Slowly, the world snaps back into focus. You glance around, spotting Kyle and Price standing behind him.

"There," you finally breathe out. "The dumpster. They're...they're in there. Safe. They're safe."

His eyes flick over the length of you, perhaps to ensure all of the blood is not yours, before the three of them thrash off the debris and lift the lid to the dumpster around the corner. They help out Nereida, Ari, and Blue.

"Ghost." You try to swallow, but the pain hums with each attempt. His eyes snap to yours just as he checks over Blue. "He... They've shot a tire."

"I know. I've got a spare."

"The kayak, too. How are we—"

"We figure that out later. We need to leave." Price slings the rifle over his shoulder and grabs his wife by the arm. "Those fucks are going to be drawn straight to us now."

Blood. Right.

You push through the ache in your head and run after them back to the truck. The absence of gunfire signifies everyone else has been taken care of, but just as predicted, a chorus of moans begins to filter through the buildings. From windows, underneath cars, and benches—Greys begin to crawl out. The faster ones are quickly shot by either Kyle's handgun or Ghost's rifle. Price helps everyone into the car and slams the door shut as Ghost and Kyle continue firing.

"Wipe yourself, quick. And change inside." Price throws a rag at you. Your backpack.

You get into the passenger seat, wiping your face and hair with a splash of water from Blue's canteen, then toss the stained rag out onto the street.

You don't care if anyone can see as you slip off your shirt, throwing it out the window, and slipping on a clean one.

Outside, Price and Kyle shoot away any Greys that approach as you suspect Ghost is changing the blown out tire, because you can't see him even in the side mirror.

Within ten minutes, he flings open the door and takes seat behind the wheel. This time Price and Kyle hop in the truck bed with their guns as Ghost starts the ignition with a loud rumble, veering sharply back onto the road.

Time has been stolen. It is high afternoon, the sky a clear blue even though the streets you leave behind in Halstead are tainted red.

Now the map is in your hands, but Ghost seems to know the way from here.

"How long can the spare go for?"

"Long enough." His words are clipped. "But the kayak we need to figure out."

"It can't be fixed, can it?"

His silence is your response.

Your mind races.

Minutes blur. Behind you, Nereida quietly helps wrap Blue's hand.

Colchester whirls by without obstructions, but you keep looking out the window and squinting, paranoid. You make it to the coast within an hour. The buildings turn into colorful, seafaring cottages and the streets turn to uneven cobblestone. Seashell chimes dance in store fronts that are plastered with old signs reading KEEP OUT IF INFECTED. Ghost makes a sharp right down a narrow street and parks the truck in front of a lone, blue cottage that seems remote enough to be safe. Even if the kayak was fine, you'd have to stop for the night in order to get out on the water at the start of morning.

A flock of oystercatchers scatters as the truck doors slam open and close. The air, thick with salt and spume, is cooler here, the breeze tugging at your tangled hair, where bits of dried blood still clings. The view of the sandy shore and rocky pier would be beautiful, if your mind weren't elsewhere, if the day hadn't been marked by panic.

Ghost circles around to look at the kayak. "How bad is it?"

"Bad," Price mutters.

He helps him pull it out.

Blue and Ari sit on the steps to of the cottage's porch and listen in silence.

Nereida watches from beside you, tucking a sweater on against the chill.

Ghost flips the kayak, revealing a bullet hole that goes through one end and out the other. Anger radiates from his tense shoulders. "Christ."

"We can't patch it like we did the raft, can we?" Kyle asks, bending on his knees to look at the damage.

Price raps his knuckles against the hollow sides. "No, it's hard plastic. It would need welding to fix holes like that."

The understanding lingers in the air as you cross arms over your chest. "I'll stay behind, then," you speak up. Nails cutting your palms. You're damned like everyone else. Nereida looks at you with wide eyes, touching your arm. "If we can't fix it, then all we have is the raft and it only fits six. You guys take it in the morning and I will stay behind here—"

"No one is staying behind," Ghost grits fiercely. He gestures at the truck bed. "It doesn't even matter if we got rid of a person. The supplies have to fit, too. Even if we make it across, we're dead without the ammo and food."

Price trails his thumb over the hole in the plastic. "Two would have to stay behind in order for us to fit all the supplies." Your breath hitches as you watch him calmly stand up. "Or... two would have to swim."

"Swim?" you repeat, shaking your head with a disbelieving chuff. "You can't just swim it. I mean—it's open water ."

"Nothing we haven't swam in before." Kyle leans against the side of the truck, crossing his arms. "But it's further across than the strait. Jesus, what is it? A 40, 50 kilometer swim?"

"Then we take turns," Price says. "Two of us at a time."

"I can take a turn," Nereida offers. "I used to swim in college. I mean, it can't be so bad if we go in intervals, and hold onto the raft."

You breathe deep, looking at the water that crashes upon the shore in the distance and then at Ghost, who is already staring at you. "I can take a turn, too."

"The three of us will start it off. If we need you two to cover, then you'll be ready to go. The kids stay in the raft."

You swallow. "It's not just about getting tired, we need plenty of water to drink. You can still get quickly dehydrated, and the temperature of the water—I mean, hypothermia can set in fast even it is warm."

"We load up on clean water tonight and have blankets and towels ready to go," Kyle says.

You glance back at Ghost. The rise and fall of his chest turns more steady as he nods his head in resignation.

"That's our only choice, then."

The evening is thick with silence.

No one has the energy for conversation, only exchanging brief requests or simple instructions. Starting a fire is risky even here, but you need clean water. A freshwater creek lies a few kilometers back, so Price and Ghost take the truck while the rest of you work on inflating the raft for tomorrow. Whatever happened between you and Kyle goes unspoken, both of you focused on the task at hand, taking turns pumping and checking the seams for anymore holes. When the two return, you help boil the water over a small wood-burning stove in the cottage, praying the smoke rising from the chimney isn’t too noticeable in the growing breeze as the sun sets.

The cottage is mostly bare, with only a dining table, a knocked-over chair, and a stripped bed frame in one of the rooms. The bathroom is quaint, its sea star wallpaper faded, and a warped mirror hangs above the sink. You stare at your reflection while the others lay out sleeping bags on the dusty floor, turning in early to conserve energy for the new plan to cross the channel. Ghost has taken first watch, sitting out on the porch with a rifle.

You listen to their soft murmurs outside the bathroom door as you work on getting out the rest of the blood in your hair. There is a red mark on your throat that is sore to the touch, and the back of your head still feels like someone has taken a hammer to it. Your eyes seem darker than the last time you saw them. You take another rag, wet it, and wipe it all over your skin. Then, you pad back out where the last lamp has been turned off and only moonlight through the boarded windows is left.

You slip into the empty sleeping bag next to Blue and stare at the ceiling. It is impossible to sleep—to even close your eyes for longer than a few seconds. Your heart refuses to even its pace, furiously pumping blood through your veins.

After an hour of lying still, the itch becomes intolerable. You slip silently from the sleeping bag, grab your backpack, and creep to the back door by the kitchen. It opens to a patch of overgrown grass. The cold air raises gooseflesh on your arms, but after emptying your bag, saving only the clothes, and tying it up on a branch, your blood runs hotter. Teeth gritted, you pound your fists into the makeshift punching bag, breathing hard through your nose to keep the noise to a minimum.

You hit it until your lungs burn cold, and take a pause only to grab the backpack, close your eyes, and lean your forehead against it while breathing deeply.

"I would say you can't sleep because you're excited for a swim tomorrow, but I know better."

His voice is just behind you, a rough murmur over the distant lapping sea.

You don't turn around. "I'm thrilled for it, actually."

A pause. Then, "Quite heroic of you. Offering to stay behind."

"I wasn't trying to be a hero. It just made the most sense."

You let out one last huff and then settle back into your stance, reopening your eyes to take another swing, but a hand on your wrist wretches you away. You glare up at him as he holds both of your closed fists, peering down at the raw, reddened knuckles.

You’re ready to argue—to tell him to leave you alone and let you hurt your own hands if you want to—but instead, he surprises you by letting go and stepping back. He chucks off his jacket and tosses it to the ground, unrivaled strength evident in the width of his bare, inked biceps. His feet widen, and his fists rise, silently beckoning you.

It’s been over a week since your last sparring session, but as soon as your fists are raised, the familiar rhythm takes over. He doesn’t hold back—not here, not ever. You abandon strategy, driven by the primal satisfaction of ramming your knuckles into his ribs. The adrenaline surge becomes the perfect distraction, each punch feeding your hunger for more. Your breath quickens, harsh and ragged, as you throw punch after punch. Most of your hits are deflected with effortless grace. He mirrors your every step, matching your intensity with his own.

He sweeps his leg out, sending you to your hands and knees. A growl escapes your lips as you spring back up.

He circles you like a vulture.

"I saw his face."

Cold sweat trickles down your bruised neck. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"It was burned. Well, what was left of it. You fucked him up more than necessary." He lowers his fists, eyes locking onto yours with an intense scrutiny. Your nostrils flare as you aim a swipe at his jaw, but he catches your forearm, yanking you close until your chest is pressed against his. With a firm grip on your chin, he tilts your face upward, forcing your narrowed gaze to meet his."You can't hide, Twix. Not from me."

"He was the one who almost raped me, is that what you want to hear?" You dig your free hand into his chest. "And I killed him."

The shade of his irises darkens. "You did what you had to do—what I knew you could do when I left you. You protected yourself and the others."

"I enjoyed it. I wanted to kill him, and I have never wanted that before." You swallow through your sore throat and feel a subtle tremor up your spine as the fresh images brandish your mind. "I wanted to feel his blood on my hands, and if you hadn't stopped me, I would've kept going."

"He deserved it ten times over. I would've done the same."

"And what do I deserve?"

His voice is harsh. "You deserve to cross the channel tomorrow, and keep going. It was life or death. He got death, and you got life."

"And how much longer do I get it? Until the next time people start attacking us? The next horde of Greys? Even if we make it there alive, it will never be a normal life. I can never be a normal person again. Never. I feel like...like there is something broken and rotten inside of me, a-and maybe it was always there, like you said. But only now can I truly feel it."

By the last word, your voice has quieted to a harsh whisper. You avoid the stare bearing down at you by turning your chin. You failed to realize how close your faces have become. Your gaze drifts to the arm still holding you, prominent veins trailing beneath the inked skin, and you swear you can see a pulse in them as fast as your own. Heated breaths pass between your bodies in silence before you look back up at him.

"You murdered someone, didn't you?" you breathe out. "Before shit happened. Outside of the military. Actual murder."

His jaw ticks. "Yes. I did."

The blunt admission doesn't surprise you, nor does it frighten you.

He lowers his face a bit, enough for his exhalation to leave gooseflesh across your cheeks. "Ask me if I enjoyed it. Go on."

"Did you?"

"Very much so."

You swallow hard. "I guess you haven't been normal for a long time."

"No. I guess not," he murmurs.

The air feels thick between you. He studies you intently, fingers uncomfortably tight around your wrist, when the tip of his masked nose nudges tentatively—experimentally—against yours. Your breath hitches at the top of your throat. Your fingers absentmindedly slip under the hem of his mask on their own accord, peeling it up his neck to reveal a stubbled, scarred chin and full, pink mouth.

He doesn't move to stop you.

You study the sight before you—one you didn't see so close up even when he broke his nose.

Then—the last thin thread of sanity within you snaps. With a surge of abandon, you firmly close your lips over his.

Heat instantly spreads through your mouth, through your limbs, and down to your socked toes. It is enough to flood you with the raw need to taste more of it. Your hands lower to twist tightly in the fabric of his shirt, drawing him closer, and for a moment, those warm lips move slowly against yours. Then, he firmly presses on your shoulder and breaks away with a thin thread of saliva joining your mouths.

"Ghost." You pant raggedly, eyes darting across his face. Humiliation is ready to sink in at his rejection, but he growls under his breath and kisses you again—harder this time, drawing you in with a hand to your jaw.

It quickly turns into a clumsy, greedy mess of clanking teeth. One of your hands curls around the short hair at the nape of his neck. It is difficult to comprehend that it is his tongue, hot and demanding at the seam of your mouth, pushing in once you part it open. It is his hand moving from your jaw to your hair, fisting it to the point of pain, while his other grips your hip and backs you into the tree.

Your spine presses roughly against the bark. The heat and solidity of his chest against your breasts makes your mind go numb. You can't think about anything, not the day behind you or the one ahead, only feel. Blood courses through your veins with the same heat as when you fight him, but instead of growling in anger, you release a throaty sound of desperation, moving your hands to the backs of his shoulders and digging your nails into the flexed muscle. It encourages him to grind his hips against yours with a low groan, striking an unfamiliar wave of warmth between your legs.

You try to recreate the satisfying friction, greedily bucking into him, but it's difficult with the standing position. The mess of emotions inside you is impossible to sift through, but one certainty stands out: you need more of this, whatever it is.

You attempt to lift your legs and lock your ankles around him, biting his lip as a demand for him to help you, but his hand suddenly releases its hold on your hip and he rips away from your mouth, breathing hard through his bitten lips.

"That's enough," he says roughly, stepping away.

What?

It doesn't feel like even close to enough.

Before you can reach for him, he gives you his back and leaves you there, trying to regain your breath.

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost #simon ghost riley #cod #zombie apocolypse au

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imrovementcompany · 2 years ago

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Quality Management for Process Excellence - Basic Quality Concepts

Definition of quality What Do We understand by the word “Quality”? Definition and Example Most of the time, we get confused when defining the term “quality.” The meaning of the term “quality” varies from place to place. Such as: from the human viewpoint, the term quality refers to the distinctive feature of the individual. In other words, the quality of any individual makes them different…

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#Continuous improvement #ISO 9001 #Lean Management #Operations excellence #Process Improvement #Quality Management #Six Sigma #Supply chain management #Total Quality Management

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blackkatmagic · 3 months ago

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Jon Antilles/any Opress brother; chained together and/or other forced proximity. (Or maybe Feemor, if you’re not in the mood for Jon)

“This would be easier if I were smaller,” Savage says, frustrated, and Jon can feel the boiling edge of that temper rising, ready to spill over into a fit of blind rage.

It’s happened before, and the only reason Jon's arm is still attached is because he still has some modicum of his healing ability, even drugged to the gills with something that makes it almost impossible to use the Force.

Containing a wince, he reaches back, twisting as best he can to find Savage’s hand on the other end of the short chain that connects them. The tunnel is tight here, but the press of hot skin under his fingers is familiar at this point, easy to find, and Jon just…eases the rage. It’s not mental influence, isn't control, but—an added barrier to keep the anger from overwhelming.

Savage keeps losing his own mind to that rage. This is just an attempt to help him keep it.

“Easy,” he says quietly, and when Savage’s eyes narrow, he tips his head. “This would be slow going even if you were smaller. The ground is unstable here, and we can't trust our senses. Moving slowly is the best way forward.”

Savage grimaces, but he pulls back slightly, takes a breath. This time, when he slides forward through the narrow crevice, he’s more careful, wary of his horns and his armor instead of just trying to force his way through. Jon helps as best he can when he’s not a small man either, works buckles free and takes the rough bundle of their supplies when Savage manages to work it through, wrapped up in Jon's old cloak. Everything else they were stranded with is halfway down a mountain and through a forest filled with vornskrs, and Jon isn't willing to go back there until he has at least one lightsaber.

Finally, with a grunt of effort, Savage tumbles forward into the slightly wider stretch of passage, his armor and skin scraped. Jon catches him, holding him on his feet as he catches his breath, and asks quietly, “Are you all right?”

Savage casts him a deliberate, unreadable look, then grunts, straightening as best he can given the passage’s low ceiling. “You still think this leads to a Jedi temple?” he asks instead of answering.

Jon nods, allowing the change in subject without protest. “There was a statue of one of the Founders carved into the cliffside,” he says. “I saw it as the sun was setting. My Master gathered rumors about this place years ago, and I remember that was the marker.”

Savage makes a sound of assent, following Jon down the passage. Jon lets him be, following the vague, half-vanished, distant sense of the Force where he can and listening to its warnings about loose rocks and shifting earth. It’s hardly the most objectionable mission he’s been on, and Savage is grim and Dark and full of rage, but…

He’s sharp with care, too, in a way Jon wouldn’t have expected in a Sith apprentice. And it gives him hope that maybe, by the end of this, that Darkness will have lightened slightly.

They’re just passing over a low arch of stone, so low that they have to almost walk double with their chained hands carefully braced between them, when Savage says unexpectedly, quiet but edged with something like humor, “Better I'm stuck here with you than the other Jedi. Feral’s.”

Jon glances at him, a little surprised by the easing of Savage’s tension over Feral being out of reach when he spent the first day here in a constant state of berserker rage over being apart from his brothers. “Master Feemor?” he asks, confused. Feemor is hardly objectionable, even for someone like Jon, who tends to avoid most people when possible.

Savage huffs, catching Jon's arm before he can leap down off the broken end of the bridge. Instead, Savage leans over the side, wary, and then slides down and offers Jon a hand. Bemused, Jon takes it, dropping down onto a thick carpet of white moss and then straightening to work the kink out of his back.

“He’s…cheerful,” Savage says, and that tone makes it a damning indictment of Feemor's character. “We were fighting, and he was still cheerful.”

That does sound like Feemor, Jon allows with a wince in agreement. He’s kind, and a Jedi to the core, but…it’s a lot of cheer, sometimes.

Savage grunts, apparently satisfied that he made his point, and keeps moving, feet careful on the thick moss. “I would have drowned him in the river,” he says flatly.

It’s not fair to Feemor, but Jon coughs to hide his laugh, putting a hand up over his mouth. Jon is a Jedi, and he likes to think his equanimity could hold through most things, but…Feemor really is a lot. Especially for people like Jon and Savage.

“It would have been a long walk,” he says deliberately, and knows Savage catches his meaning when he snorts. There's another stretch of silence as they make their way towards the sound of water, and after several minutes Jon says quietly, “I think the same about Maul, too.”

Savage looks like he wants to defend his brother, and he hesitates, then sighs through his nose. “He and that clone are both irritating. They deserve each other,” he finally says, and Jon chuckles, ducking his head to hide it. From what he’s seen of Commander Fox, that’s not entirely inaccurate.

“We should find somewhere safe to sleep,” he says, not about to argue that matter, either. “It will be safer to navigate the temple in the daylight.”

Savage nods, following Jon towards a stretch of particularly deep moss. After several more seconds, he says gruffly, “That thing you do. To keep me from losing myself. Can you teach me?”

Surprised, Jon glances back, finds golden eyes watching him warily in the gloom. That buried seed of hope is almost overwhelmed by the way Savage is braced for mockery, rejection, but—

It’s still there regardless, and that tiny spark deep down in the darkness makes Jon smile.

“Of course,” he says quietly, and pulls Savage down with him onto the soft moss.

#kat answers #trope drabbles #savagejon #savage opress #jon antilles #star wars #my writing

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spnbabe67 · 2 months ago

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Fire Up The Night

Kinktober Day 30: Against The Wall (B.B.)

Pairing: Billy Butcher x Original Female Character

Warnings: Smut, Throw away character gets a little handsy, PiV, Sex in an Alley,

Summary: Butcher can't stand the sight of seeing Samarra flirt with someone else. But she isn't his, right?

Word Count: 2233

Authors Note: Title is the title of a song by New Medicine

I know I wrote something similar to this with my last Jake Seresin entry, but I what can I say? I'm a sucker for the possessive type, and I hopefully made this different enough to count. I also decided halfway through I could have written it another way, but by that point it was too late for me to go back and change it because I still had to study for an exam the next day.

Butcher was two seconds away from crushing the tumbler full of whiskey in his grasp. He didn’t know how long Samarra had been across the bar talking to a sleazy looking guy, a Supe high up in the Vought chain if the info they were given had any credibility. Not quite as god-like as one of the Seven, but definitely had enough clearance that if they managed to snatch the wanker, they could get some good intel off of him. But fuck, if he had to watch Samarra flirt with him for any longer, Butcher was gonna kill someone. The Supe, Steve or Tony or something, had her leaned back on her elbows against the bar, shooting her a thousand-watt grin, plying her with a seemingly endless supply of alcohol. Butcher could help the twinge of satisfaction he felt every time the Supe bought her some fruity little drink. At least I know what she likes.

Samarra, to her credit, seemed to hold her liquor well, holding out through the conversation like a champ. Maybe a little too well. Butcher gritted his teeth at the nagging thought. Her smile looked just a little too bright, laugh sounding a little too real for his liking. From his vantage point in the corner of the club, he could see the way Samarra didn’t balk from Tony/Steve’s hungry gaze devouring her body on display. Butcher had argued the dress made of gold-accented black gauzy material that hung off every curve and dip of her body was too damn revealing, but Annie had insisted, and Samarra had agreed with her. He knew she was stunning, but why choose that dress in particular; she could seduce a sworn celibate in a pair of week old sweats, she didn’t need all the makeup piled on her features or the glitz and glam. It was simply adding insult to injury.

The worst part was he knew he wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Wasn’t supposed to feel this raw and grating jealousy every time Samarra trailed her finger up the Supe’s arm. They were fuck buddies for fuck’s sake, not going steady. So all Butcher could do was watch on in silence, doing his best to keep his cool as she worked her magic, every tinkling laugh and featherlight touch on the poor sap’s arm, chest, shoulder, only pulling Tony/Steve further and further into her web of lies. Butcher should have been disturbed how easy this was for her, but instead it had the opposite effect. Maybe it was the atmosphere, the pounding music and flashing lights, mostly naked bodies grinding on the floors and poles, but he’d had to readjust his pants more than once watching her seduce Tony/Steve.

After what Butcher deemed too damn long, Samarra’s gray eyes caught his, disappointment and anger ebbing over him at the subtlest shake of her head. Not necessarily at her, but at their informant for giving them wrong intel, wasting their time and needlessly putting them in danger. He’d definitely be killing somebody later. Maybe now, Butcher thought as Tony/Steve’s hand landed on Samarra’s waist. Way far past having enough, he downed the rest of his drink before weaving his way through the crowd.

Samarra kept the preformative smile plastered to her face, looking up at Steven beneath heavily lidded eyes, playing the drunken bimbo to a T. She had to stop herself from viscerally recoiling from his sweaty palm on her waist, feeling his humidity through the very delicate fabric of her dress.

“Oi, cunt. You messin’ with me girl?”

That feeling of disdain and exasperation quickly faded as Butcher’s familiar accent came from her left. She had to bite her lip to keep from bursting into laughter as he muscled his way between her and Sleazen, as she’d named him in her head, Sleazen’s eyes going wide at the intimidating figure Butcher cut, immediately stepping off her. His familiar scent wafted over her, putting her nerves less on edge as they’d just been. She had full confidence she could drop Sleazen if she had to, but knowing she had back up only helped matters.

“I’m alright, Baby.” Samarra turned to Butcher, feeling her heart pounding in her chest as she gave the quickest sidelong glance to the Not-Supe before passionately, and loudly, kissing Butcher, hoping he understood the angle she was playing.

He clearly got the message, big hands falling to her hips, replacing the same area where Sleazen had just had his own grip. After a second, Samarra peeked an eye open, checking to see if the coast was clear. When she saw Sleazen was nowhere to be seen, she pulled away taking a breath, giggling to herself.

“Holy shit was he a loser.” Samarra adjusted the strap of her dress, the satin strip having almost slipped off her shoulder. What she missed was the way Butcher’s dark gaze caught on the movement, pulling his attention back to her face.

“I bet.” He guided her by the waist away from the bar and through the throng of people. “You can tell me and the others just as soon as we get back.”

Samarra didn’t think too much about it when Billy led her out one of the side exits, the dark doorway leading into a small alleyway behind the club. The fresh air was welcomed, Samarra breathing it in deeply as the chill of the night sent a shiver down her spine. She damn near ran into Butcher’s back, her gaze skyward to look at the stars speckling the pitch black backdrop.

“Butch, why’d you stop?” Samarra wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m freezin’ my tits off out here.”

Her brows furrowed as Butcher looked at her over his shoulder, turning around to face her. His pupils were blown wide and the way he was looking at her had heat pooling in her core. It was so different from the entitled gaze of Sleazen, this heated look was welcomed, encouraged even.

“What?” Samarra asked, laughing awkwardly as Butcher took a step towards her, making her step back. Or she would have had the cold stone of the brick wall hadn’t bit into her back, making her flinch at the harsh temperature contrast.

“Do you,” Butcher took another half step closer; if Samarra tilted her head up and leaned in just a little, their mouths would touch. “Have any idea, what you do to me.”

Samarra ran her tongue over her lips, her mouth parting open slightly as her breath hitched as he got closer. “I have an idea.”

All it took was Butcher dipping his head to capture her lips, kissing her deeply, sweeping his tongue into her mouth. Samarra let her eyes fall shut at the sensation of his mouth on hers, his body brushing up against her arms. He took hold of her wrist, unfurling her arms from around her body and a small noise escaped her as Butcher guided her hand down between their bodies to press her palm against the very obvious bulge in his jeans.

“Alla that just from watchin ya work your magic on that sleazy cunt.” Butcher groaned against her skin, trailing his mouth down her jaw to her neck.

Samarra bit her lip, palming him through his jeans. “I think that says more about who you are as a man than it does about my skills.”

She felt him snort a laugh against her neck, nipping playfully at the junction of her neck and shoulder. Samarra tipped her head back against the wall, rolling her hips against the thigh he’d nudged between her legs, pinning her against the brick. Butcher’s hand slid up the outside of her thigh, teasing under the thin fabric of her dress, the hem having fallen about mid-thigh. A cheeky grin tipped the corners of her lips upward as Butcher cursed against her neck as his hands slid high enough on her thigh and hips to realize that she was not, in fact, wearing any panties.

“Fuckin’ diabolical.” Butcher growled, kissing her harshly. “Gonna give this old man a heart attack pulling shit like this.”

“Who said it was for you?”

Butcher’s answering swat to the inside of her thigh had Samarra laughing breathily. The teasing was short lived as he palmed her ass, kneading the softness there before hoisting her upwards, wrapping her legs around his waist. The leather of his trench coat was cold against the bare skin of her legs, but the heat pooling between her legs more than made up for it, along with the warmth of his torso through his dress shirt

Samarra knew her arousal was soaking into the bottom of his shirt but she couldn’t find it in her to care as Butcher’s hip chased her hand as she deftly undid his belt and the button of his jeans. His beard chafed at the side of her neck as he worked to kiss and suck dark marks into her skin, his hand coming up to knead her breasts through her dress He groaned deeply, the sound reverberating into her body when as he went to kiss her, Samarra brought her hand to her mouth, licking her palm wrapping it around his length, pumping her hand up and down him loosely as she pulled him free from his clothes. He bucked his hips against her hand, rutting his cock through her fingers as she guided him to her center.

They both groaned as the head of him slid inside of her. Butcher leaned in, reclaiming her mouth. Samarra’s desperate moans lived and died on his tongue as he slid in and in until his hips sat flush against her. Butcher slid back out, almost all the way, before slamming back in, making her cry out, the sound swallowed by his mouth. Again and again he rocked his hips back just to slam back in, driving her into the wall. Samarra could feel the roughness of the brick at her back digging into her skin, scraping and scratching every time he bottomed out with a sharp thrust.

Samarra slid her hands up and down his torso, trying to find someplace to steady herself against the onslaught of harsh thrusts, ending up on his shoulders. She rolled her hips back against him, keeping up with his punishing rhythm the best she could. Her head goes hazy at his seemingly omnipresent existence; he’s around her, he's inside her, even as her breaths grew into ragged pants she breathed in his scent. Butcher’s lips migrated back down her jaw, ending up on her neck as he braced a hand on the wall beside her head.

“Fuck, Mara.” Butcher mumbled, nearly inaudibly, and Samarra wondered if his utterance was meant to be incoherent as he continued. “I shouldn’t be jealous. You aren’t even mine.”

Samarra bit her lip hard as the revelation was punctuated with a harsh thrust, his movements becoming more uneven, snapping up into her harder and harder until she started to see stars behind her eyes. Samarra clung to him as that coil in her belly grew tighter, her thighs starting to go lazy around his waist. Butcher came with a string of curses into her shoulder, hips stuttering, gripping her thigh to keep it in place on his side. Samarra rolled her hips against him, garnering the friction of his still-on pants against his clit to supplement the change in rhythm. He continued to fuck into her until her inner walls squeezed around him, a keening moan falling from her lips as she came.

Butcher pulled away just enough as they both panted harshly in the post-climax high. He helped set her back down on her feet, holding onto his arm since her legs were still shaky. Samarra straightened the skirt of her dress back down her legs, running a thumb under her lip to swipe away her smeared lipstick.

“You got-” Butcher gestured to her mouth as she did.

“Here?” She rubbed a different spot.

“No, a little more over-not that far.” Butcher huffed at her before grabbing her wrist. “Just, let me get it.”

Samarra stood still as Butcher reached up, dragging his thumb along the side of her lip, his minstations gentle as he removed her smudged lipstick before pulling his hand away.

“Thanks.” She said quietly, suppressing a shiver as the loss of heat reminded her just how cold it was outside. “Shall we. I’m sure M.M. and the others are thinkin’ we got ourselves into trouble.”

Butcher nodded, gesturing for her to walk ahead of him around the back of the building. Samarra flinched when as they rounded the corner with the parking lot in sight, something warm encased her shoulders. Butcher’s cologne filled her nose as she realized it was his trench coat, patched many times over and warm, that he’d plunked down on her shoulders. She looked up at him with pinched brows, but his only reply was a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. Samarra opened her mouth to say something, anything. Maybe address what he’d muttered into her body minutes before. But in the end she shut it, chalking it up to the heat of the moment; it wasn’t like she knew how to broach the subject if it wasn’t anyway. Instead she stayed silent, sliding into Butcher’s car as he pointed the headlights back to the apartment.

#billy butcher x oc #the boys billy butcher #billy butcher smut #billy butcher imagine #billy butcher x reader #billy butcher #william butcher #the boys amazon #the boys fanfiction #the boys smut #the boys tv #billy butcher brainrot go brr #kinktober 2024 #kinktober

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group-50 · 1 month ago

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zepskies · 1 year ago

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Show Me - Part 2

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Plus-sized Latina!Reader || Sam Winchester x Eileen Leahy (background)

Summary: Dean meets your infamous ex-boyfriend at a fallen hunter’s funeral. You just forgot to mention that he’s a hunter as well. Maybe because he still has the power to get under your skin…in the worst of ways.

AN: I know I said I'd release this on Wednesday, but I thought I'd get this out a bit early. Here’s Part 2! **Read Part 1 here.

Word Count: 5,300

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, angst, body insecurity, hurt/comfort, body appreciation.

☕ Midnight Espresso Masterlist

Part 2: “A Thorough Reminder”

It’s a few hours’ drive back to Lebanon.

Dean stops at one of your favorite restaurant chains for takeout, though he notices how you only eat about half of what you ordered. Even he managed to eat all of his bacon cheeseburger, and that was after an entire afternoon of snacking and day drinking.

“Thought you were hungry,” he says.

You shrug as you package up the rest of your dinner and lean back in the passenger seat.

“I don’t know. Guess I don’t have much of an appetite today.”

You’re normally a stress eater, by trade. But today, a familiar anxiety has crept in, taking root in your chest, and creating a mental block between your throat, your brain, and your stomach.

Despite what some people might like to believe, Dean does notice the small things, when it matters.

He glances at you, catches the way you rub at your tired face and release a small sigh.

“You okay?” he can’t help but ask.

You nod absently. “I’m fine, Dean.”

His lips press together. That doesn’t sound like fine. It sounds a lot like Winchester fine.

“I didn’t know he was a hunter,” he remarks.

You both know who he’s referring to. You look over at him, resigned, and a little annoyed.

Dean’s palms lift halfway off the steering wheel as he shrugs.

“You made it seem like he was a normal Joe,” he says. “Some dude you met in Miami.”

“We did meet in Miami,” you confirm. Part of you falters with another sigh. You don’t want to talk about this, but you suppose you might as well get it over with. Dean deserves an explanation.

“Okay, here it is,” you begin. “Carter came into town on a job. I caught wind of it not long after he did, and when we eventually ran into each other, we agreed to work the case…”

And you and Carter were good together, at least on the hunt. There had been a certain rugged charm and confidence to him that had drawn you in (apparently, you had a type). When he’d asked to stay with you for a few days, you hadn’t been able to say no.

“I thought it was because…he wanted to see more of me,” you explain. Your expression turns dry. “Maybe that was part of it, but mainly, he was broke. He literally couldn’t leave. Not until he scored some cash.”

Dean doesn’t want to think about how that guy charmed you, luring you in with what he thought you might want to hear. Though he processes all this with a nod. You’ve filled in most of the gaps, and he thinks he knows where this part of the story leads to: the one thing you did tell him about your ex.

“So you helped him get a job,” Dean supplies. His wry gaze meets yours. “At the local strip joint.”

“As a bouncer,” you specify. “He wasn’t qualified for much else. As it was, he needed me to talk to the manager for him. It was a Miami club run by Latinos. They weren’t going to hire a random white guy off the street who didn’t even speak Spanish.”

“Not until you finessed them,” Dean smirks.

You flash him a small smile. “I’m good with people.”

You hadn’t realized it at the time, under the haze of a hunters’ romance, but everything with Carter had been at his convenience, and whatever he needed from you. A hunting partner. A bit of money (a loan, he’d claimed). Some good food and a place to stay, free of charge. Not to mention a warm bed.

The giver in you had been all too ready to oblige.

“And when he got enough money to hit the road, he asked me to go with him,” you continue. “My grandma was still alive at the time. I had never left the city for more than a few days before, in case she needed me, but she told me to go. To live my life…so I did.”

You turn to Dean then. You suck in a breath as your eyes begin to sting.

“It’s my biggest regret,” you say. “She was gone by the end of the year.”

Dean sobers. His eyes soften, and he reaches across your thigh for your hand. You lace your fingers with his.

“I told you, she basically raised me,” you say. You brush away a tear from your cheek, sniffling. “…I should’ve been there.”

Dean raises your hand to his lips. “That’s not on you.”

You shake your head instead of answering. You’d been on a hunt with Carter when you got the call from your grandma’s neighbor. For almost a year, you’d lost what you hadn’t realized was precious time.

Meanwhile, you’d become what you’d thought was a partner, both on the Job and in life. Turns out, you’d been more like a sidekick, allowing Carter to tell you where, when, and how. It took your grandmother’s death to snap you out of the trance.

So you went home, picked up the pieces of your life…and you started again, somehow.

“A few months later,” you say, squeezing Dean’s hand. “I met you in a dirty bar in Las Cruces.”

He shoots you a more amused look.

“You mean you tried to hustle me,” he says.

Your lips curve into a grin. “Oh, please. You knew what you were getting into.”

Dean chuckles at that, tossing his head back against his headrest.

“Well, not exactly,” he says. Your hand is still tucked in his, and his thumb draws back and forth across your fingers.

He hadn’t known you were a hunter at first. He’d noticed your curves in those tight jeans and fitted top, your red lips, the shade of your hair, the perceptive gleam in your eyes—he’d liked it all.

Still, after he watched you hustle a guy out of all his money that night, just to give him $30 back so he could afford to get home…he’d known then that there was something special about you.

Then you’d slid into the seat next to him at the bar. Your English had been as smooth as your Spanish, and he’d been all too willing to get hooked into a game of pool with you.

He hadn’t known then that he was staring into the face of his future.

“I knew I wanted you in my bed that night,” Dean says. His easy smile is flirtatious, but his eyes are honest, finding yours. “I just didn’t count on you being even more badass than I took you for.”

Your cheeks warm as you fight a deeper smile, shaking your head.

You lean over as far as you can with your seatbelt on and press a kiss to his cheek. You linger there, with your hand reaching out to caress his face. You don’t want his eyes to leave the road, but you want him to know what he means to you right now.

After you pull away, he gives you one of those grins, and his eyes are dancing. It makes him both a giant dork, and incredibly charming all at once.

Not for the first time, you’re grateful to know this man—let alone be with him.

And yet, Dean knows.

Something’s not quite right with you.

He feels it in his gut when you two get back to the bunker that night. You shower quickly and alone, and you took a change of clothes into the bathroom with you, like he’s never seen you naked before.

By the time Dean finishes his own shower and gets dressed, you’re getting ready for bed as you putter about the room. He eyes your long pants and sweatshirt.

“You cold?” he asks, while digging in his dresser for a clean pair of sweatpants.

You spare him a glance, but you don’t fully turn to him while you go through your skincare routine with your hair clipped up.

“No, I’m good,” you reply.

“So why the long johns,” he quips, gesturing at your pants. He can’t remember the last time you wore anything but a shirt and underwear to bed (or less). He catches the look on your face in the dresser mirror: a slight pause, a press of your lips, but your face is otherwise guarded.

“I guess I am a little cold,” you say. You head to the bathroom again to finish the rest of your nightly routine, but you don’t see the way Dean’s frown follows you.

He later waits for you in bed. He pauses in his iPad scrolling when you slip in beside him under the covers. You've let your hair back down, nice and wild the way he likes it.

You heave a sigh. “Good night.”

“Hold up,” Dean says. With a hand on your shoulder, he stops you from facing away from him. He leans in and caresses your cheek with his thumb. You give him a small smile.

And he gives you a slow, purposeful kiss. He pulls away, just enough to see your eyes, beautiful and warm. He leans in again and angles into a new kiss, one that deepens with a spark of heat. He props himself up with a forearm above your head, digging into your pillows.

His thigh slots between your legs. For a reason you don’t want to name, you fight the instinct to press your center against him. His hand on your cheek slides down your neck, down the front of your close-necked shirt, between your breasts. He finds purchase on your hip and squeezes soft, tender flesh.

That’s when you stop him with a gentle push on his chest.

You slowly break from his kiss and lick your lips. Your eyes are apologetic.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m just…I’m tired,” you say.

Dean nods and lets out a sigh through his nose. He shifts more fully onto his side, lifting his weight off of you, and brushes your hair back from your face.

“You sure you don’t have anything you wanna talk about?” he asks.

You raise a brow at him. “Like what?”

“Like how you’re letting that asshole get back into your head,” Dean replies.

His gaze feels heavy on you, and you pause, staring back at him in soft shock.

“I’m not—”

“Look, I know you. And whatever this is, it’s more than what we talked about in the car,” he says, with a firm, yet gentle gaze. “If there’s something else you need to get out, you can tell me.”

Dean has worked hard to help you through the mental roadblocks you’ve had in the past—about you being comfortable with yourself, and with him. He’s not going to let some dipshit like Carter undo all of that, unraveling you with a single thread.

But your mouth works as you start to get annoyed, and even a bit angry at his accusation.

“Just because I don’t want to have sex, doesn’t mean I’ve got a problem, okay Dean? I just want to sleep,” you say tersely.

Dean’s jaw clenches at your tone. His head quirks, and he nods.

“Fine,” he says. “We’ll sleep.”

He turns around and shut off his beside lamp, casting the room in darkness. You huff and turn onto your side, away from him.

You cover yourself with the blankets up to your shoulders, but the longer you lay there in silence, the more that guilt prickles in your chest, along with the tightness of anxiety that welled up when he started to touch you.

Fuck, what’s wrong with me? you think, trying to work through the emotion clogging in your throat. You haven’t felt like this in years…

Slowly you turn back towards Dean. By now your eyes have adjusted enough to see the outline of his broad back in his gray shirt. You steel yourself with another shaky breath, and you scoot forward across the bed. Your curled hands rest against the middle of his back, where you also press your forehead. You feel his body tense up a little.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper in the dark.

After a beat, you hear him sigh. Dean reaches out to turn the lamp back on, filling the room once again with soft light. He turns and finds you haven’t moved, though you stare up at him with shining eyes.

His own soften. He takes one of your hands and presses the back of it to his lips.

“Talk to me,” he says, and he waits for you to gain your courage.

After another couple of steadying breaths, you begin.

“There’s too many things I didn’t realize at the time,” you say. “He didn’t force me to go with him, to stay with him. Even when I felt like shit inside, I thought he was right about me. About how I looked, and…and what I was good for, I guess. I thought he needed me, and that made everything else okay.”

You sniffle, and a tear rolls down your cheek. Dean’s hold on you tightens a fraction. He’s listening intently, but in his silence, there’s anger. He wishes he really had broken that guy’s hand. Or at least his goddamn mouth.

“I mean, what the hell was I thinking?” you ask, laughing a bit through your tears. “I always thought I was stronger than that, you know? I just realize now that…I must not have liked myself very much.”

Dean lets go of your hand, just to dry your face. He’s no stranger to looking in the mirror and not liking the man staring back at him, but he doesn’t think that’s your problem.

He caresses your cheek, shakes his head, and he offers a rueful smile.

“Nah. You just have a habit of fallin’ for poor sons of bitches who don’t deserve you,” he says.

You read between his self-deprecating lines there, raising your brows at him.

“Hey. That might be true, but you better not be lumping my boyfriend in with the rest of them,” you say firmly. Your arms slip around his waist, and you press yourself in close.

Dean chuckles and welcomes you into his arms as well. His hand tangles in your hair, and his lips find your neck with a deep inhale.

He knows what kinds of thoughts are likely plaguing your mind, just like he knows that whatever he says will only go so far. He presses a kiss to your neck that grazes with teeth. You let out a little hum of surprise. He smiles and begins to move down, letting his lips brush across your skin.

“I’ll just speak for myself then,” he says. His hand trails lower and brushes the side of your breast. “If you need me to remind you how beautiful you are, how goddamn sexy…then I got no problem showing you.”

His hand moves down the soft slopes of your body and comes to rest at the curve of your waist. Hearing your faltering breath, Dean pulls back so he can see your face.

“Let me take care of you for a change,” he says. His lips pull at a grin, and it makes you smile in turn.

You take his face in your hands and bring him down to you for a kiss, languid and a bit devouring. It makes heat lick up Dean’s spine.

“Okay,” you whisper, close to his lips. “Show me.”

His grin deepens, teeth shining. “Yes, ma’am.”

This man is nothing if not endearing, and it earns a giggle from you as he moves down your body. First, you help him with getting your sweatshirt up and over your head; the collar is close to your neck and he doesn’t want to choke you (yet).

His gaze focuses on the rise and fall of your chest, the familiar sight of your full breasts, waiting for him to touch and tease.

Before he can start to follow through with his mental plans, you sit up with him and your hands dive under his shirt, both to start inching it up, and to feel him. His stomach clenches under the soft graze of your nails, but he gently pushes you back down onto the bed.

“What’d I just tell you?” he chides.

You give him an incredulous smile. “What, I’m not allowed to touch you?”

Dean reaches up to pull his shirt off from behind his neck. It’s a smooth move, and your eyes roam over his chest, and lower still.

He smirks. “Just be a good girl and wait your turn.”

You bite your lip to stifle a laugh. You let him finish undressing you by peeling off the sweatpants. You were getting hot in those anyway.

He leaves your panties on for now, but he travels back up to slot himself between your open legs. With a forearm braced above you, he starts again from the top.

He caresses your cheek, and begins with a trail of warm, open-mouthed kisses down your neck.

You sigh at the attention, tilting your head to make room for him. The sound of your voice is just one thing that he loves (and you know it), but Dean also loves the smoothness of your tan skin. He doesn’t mind a few faded stretch marks here and there, the lower he gets. He’s got a few scars and worry lines himself.

What matters to him is the sounds he’s able to pull from you as he nips and licks down between your breasts. He massages and teases one with his hand, while his tongue lavishes attention on the other. He earns a breathy sigh, a moan when his lips find the hardening buds, your knees starting to bend and squeeze his waist. He already feels the dampness of your clothed core brushing his thigh.

“Already squeezing on me, huh? I’ve barely touched you,” Dean teases. He nips at a plush spot on your left side, below your breast—something you might’ve been insecure about, if his thumb wasn’t also still distracting you by swirling over a nipple. His hands are sinfully good (something you love).

You utter a small moan and grasp his wrist just for something to hold onto as his mouth continues worshipping every curve of your body. Even the parts you’d usually rather him steer away from.

Dean senses your tension, however, when his teeth graze your soft stomach. He glances up at you, finding a bit of insecurity in your eyes.

“Here’s the thing,” he says, and his lips move against your skin. “You act like I haven’t already seen and conquered every square inch of you. Like I haven’t torn you apart, time after time.”

He sits back up, and his hands squeeze your hips and thighs and ass. He moves up to look down on you with almost predatory focus. Like he’s trying to determine what part of you he wants to devour next.

It’s a look you’ve seen before, though it still makes your face warm and your pussy clench on nothing. Your mouth parts with an unsteady laugh.

“You’ve got a point,” you nod. Dean shoots you a smirk, but he still takes your hand from where it’s been tangled in the sheets. He presses a kiss into your palm.

“You don’t gotta hide from anybody,” he says. “For damn sure, you ain’t hiding from me. You're too damn beautiful for that.”

You smile up at him, softer now as you thread your fingers with his.

He soon lets you go though. Because his hand moves down and down, to brush his fingers along your clothed core. You breathe deeper in anticipation, but his grin tells you that he’s not going to make this quick.

“Dean,” you implore him.

“Yeah, baby,” he answers. The pads of his fingers stroke and press into you. You lean into his touch, wanting and craving more. But he doesn’t give it to you just get.

He keeps teasing you, brushing your clit through the soaked fabric of your panties. It’s sort of what you want, and yet nowhere near enough. You can taste the edge of pleasure, just starting to make you squirm against his hand.

“You’re killing me here,” you whine.

“I’m ‘a need you to be patient,” he says.

You laugh, both incredulous and frustrated. His grin is damn near insufferable now.

Dean’s fingers move your panties aside, but they do no more than brush against the wet seam of your pussy. You hum and try to press into his hand. He doesn’t heed your unspoken demand.

He thinks you’re sexy as hell like this, writhing and waiting for his touch. He just wants to savor that for a bit longer—that he’s the only one who gets to see you like this. He’s the only one who gets to tease you, to be with you, to love you.

You’re getting impatient though. With a ragged sigh, you sit up and hook a hand behind his neck and pull him down into your kiss. He chuckles against your lips when he feels your hand sliding from his chest to the generous bulge in his sweatpants. You stroke up and down the full length of him with a practiced hand.

“I get it, baby. I do,” you pant, “but I need you.”

He falters for a moment, grunting when your hand slips into the front of his pants and boxer briefs and takes his cock firmly in hand. Your touch is soft and warm and you know how to elicit a shiver running down his spine.

Dean has a plan though, and he forces himself to focus through gritted teeth. He takes your wrist, carefully guides it out of his pants, and pins it beside your head, using his strength against you. It’s as frustrating as it is hot, making your skin flush as you stare up at him.

“We’re not there yet,” he tells you. Amusement gleams in his eyes. “But I like the enthusiasm.”

Without warning, he pulls away from you. He sits up on his knees and grabs the nearest pillow. He grasps your thighs and raises you up enough to slide the pillow underneath your ass, which he bares after snatching off your panties. You yelp and the suddenness of your underwear sliding off your legs. He tosses them elsewhere.

“What, now you’re speeding things up?” you remark.

Dean raises his brows at you. “What gave you that idea?”

He shifts down the bed and sinks down between your thighs. You lean up just on your elbows so you can try to figure out what he’s about to do (though you have a pretty good guess). For a delicious moment, you feel his warm breath against your pussy. You clench in anticipation…

Until he veers further down the inside of your thigh. His hand moves smoothly underneath one of your thick thighs and hooks it over his shoulder. He starts with wet kisses from the inside of your knee, steadily moving up your thigh. Your eyes close as your breathing shallows.

You force yourself to take deeper breaths as the gentle feeling of his lips, and a hint of teeth, continues to make your body tingle with pleasure. You feel warmth and wetness pooling between your legs. Your core is already throbbing with need.

Just as Dean draws near to the apex of your thighs…he changes course, starting the same path of kisses up your other leg. You blow out a shaky sigh and have to clench your hands into the sheets. His name falls from your lips, both a reverent sigh and a plea.

You know what he’s doing. He’s worshipping your body in the sweetest of ways. You knew he was going to take his time with you, working you up, but this is both heaven and hell.

“Would you relax?” he says, chuckling into your skin.

You release a breathy giggle. “Yeah, right. I love and hate you right now.”

Dean’s shoulders shake with near silent laughter. His free hand soothes up and down the thigh he holds propped up on his shoulder.

“As long as it’s more of the first one, we’re good,” he teases.

You groan, but eventually you relax against the bed. You realize now that you’re more comfortable, more focused more on the pleasurable sensations he’s giving you than on how exposed you are right now. You smile begrudgingly, as you realize that’s probably what Dean wanted all along.

Just when your body is starting to settle into this, you gasp when you feel his tongue finally lick a warm stripe up the seam of your pussy.

Your head raises, and you see your man’s mischievous green eyes and the edge of his smile between your legs. Your mouth opens to say something petulant, but you cry out when his fingers slip past your wet folds and find your clit.

He knows where you’re most sensitive, what’s going to have you even more slippery and pulsing with need. His tongue replaces his hand, licking and sucking at your clit, while his fingers slip into your tight entrance and fuck into you slowly.

“God, Dean,” you breathe. Your nails dig back into the mattress.

You feel his voice reverberate inside you when he says, “Relax…”

He's already hooked your thighs over his shoulders. The pillow under your raised hips just gives him even more leverage to work you over. His mouth is noisy and makes you blush down to your neck, but you can’t help fisting a hand into his hair and clenching tight as he brings you right to the edge…

And he tumbles you over. His fingers brush deliberately and firmly against that sensitive spot deep inside you, until your inner walls quiver and your legs shake around his head.

Then you’re coming all over his hand. Your whimpers turn into a moan of release as warmth travels from your center, throughout the rest of your body. His tongue doesn’t stop, and your skin tingles, causing a shiver to run up your spine and arch your back as you moan.

He doesn’t pull away until your clit becomes oversensitive, and you start to squirm away from his hold. When he finally gives you reprieve, your body sags on the bed and your head rolls to the side as you try to catch your breath.

Dean’s panting hard too by the time he’s done. He has to wipe his mouth, nose, and hand, but he still strokes your thighs after he guides your legs off his shoulders and back to the bed.

Since you’re incapable of speech at the moment, you tug more gently on his hair to get his attention. He greets you with a grin as he takes in how wrecked you are.

You smile back and beckon him with a curling finger. “Come ‘ere.”

Dean obliges you, moving up your body to prop himself up on a forearm, next to your head. You grab his chin and bring him down to you for a searing kiss. You shudder a little, as you can taste yourself on his tongue. The press of his fingers along the small of your back brings more tingles across your skin.

You feel him hard and heavy against your thigh. You let your hands run down his back as well. Down the slope of his spine, and under the waistband of his sweatpants.

“I need you,” you whisper, in the small space between your faces.

“Yeah?” he pants, though his tone is teasing. “Where?”

“Inside me,” you reply. Your thighs squeeze his hips, pressing his length against your center and earning a groan out of him. “Fuck me ‘til it hurts.”

Dean’s grip on your hip tightens. He drops a biting kiss to your throat and nods. He quickly gets the rest of his clothes off, then he directs you to move onto your side. You’re a bit confused at first, but you oblige him. He kneels between your thighs, straddling the bottom one, then hooking your top leg over his.

He pushes his cock into you slowly, making you both breathe harder as he stretches you and finds his way home.

This angle is different, but it’s good. You feel him bottom out deep and snug inside. Already your inner walls respond to the feeling of him, and you tighten on reflex.

Dean makes a sound of pleasure and presses his forehead against your shoulder for a moment.

“What’s this, like doggy style?” you ask.

“Kind of,” he says, giving you a grin. “This way, I can still see your pretty face.”

You can’t help a giddy burst of laughter, even though your face warms. Yes, he still manages to make you blush when he talks like that.

Dean smirks in amusement. Once again, he swipes a thumb across your cheek and presses a kiss to your lips. You hold him there and lick into his mouth. When he starts to move, rocking out, then back inside of you with ease, you shudder at the feeling of him. Your thigh curls tighter around his hip, and he squeezes your soft flesh there.

“I happen to like a little give,” he says, with a lusty gleam in his eyes. “You know why?”

You’re already panting for breath. His slow strokes make you feel every inch of him, but you lick your lips and meet his hot gaze. You start to smile as you humor him.

“Why?” you ask.

“Call it a ‘soft landing,’” he grins. “Makes it feel that much better when I fuck you good and deep.”

Your mouth falls open, this time more in shock as you blush further and shiver in arousal—not only at his words, but the sound of his voice, and his sincerity. You unintentionally clench on his cock, and he groans. He gives your ass a heavy smack. You jolt with a gasp.

“Keep that up,” his voice deepens, rough with pleasure. “’Bout to fuckin’ wreck you.”

All you can do is nod and hold on tight for the damn ride.

He builds up the pace, until he needs a hand on the headboard for balance. The old mattress creaks to the tempo of his pounding strokes, and he’s hitting your G-spot with every single one of them. Your toes curl and you grab onto his thigh to help keep both of you steady.

You feel that coil starting to tighten, but you’re not quite there. You reach down between your bodies and massage your clit in time with his thrusts. Your eyes close on a gasp.

And the coil eventually snaps. Your inner walls spasm and flutter around him, making his hips stutter.

“That’s it, baby. Let go for me,” he grits out. He chases his own release as well as yours. “So fucking sexy like this, coming apart for me.”

He's spurred on by the way your voice echoes in his ears. A few more hard thrusts, and he’s spilling into you. He fills you up with his warmth and makes a shiver run through your body.

You’re gripping his thigh so tightly you’re probably giving him bruises, but it’s not unlike the fingerprints you often find on your ass and hips (and probably will find tomorrow).

You finally twist onto your back and relax. Dean catches himself against the bed before he crushes you with his weight. You welcome him anyway, with your hand soothing up and down his back.

“You okay?” he asks. Somehow, his gruff voice is still soothing to you.

You smile, giving a teasing squeeze on his arm. “Much better.”

He chuckles at that. His skin is dewy and sticks to yours, but you don’t mind. In turn, he brushes your now frizzy hair away from your face and neck, so it fans out on the pillow instead.

After he untangles from you and rolls onto the bed at your side, he lays there on his back and tries to regain his breath. You turn toward him and press a kiss into his shoulder.

“Thank you…for reminding me,” you say.

For making me feel beautiful, wanted, loved…

You try to blink past the sting of tears, but you know your eyes are shining.

“I love you,” you remind him.

Dean’s face warms and softens. He reaches over and takes your hand. Again, he presses it to his lips.

I love you too, that gesture says. Then he smiles.

“Any time you need a little show and tell, I’m here.”

AN: 😮‍💨 Well then! lol I hope you liked this! For me it was equal parts fun and cathartic, being a plus-size girl myself. 💗💗

I was definitely thinking of that scene in 9.13:

Mala: "What can I say? Sometimes it's nice to feel a little give."

Dean *has an epiphany*: "Oh. Yeah, I get that. A little extra cushion for the, uh..." *fist pounding motion* (lmfao)

🎙️ Again, if you want to listen to the whole story narrated in podfic form, check it out here!

Keep Reading:

Next up in this series is "Get Stuffed":

Summary: Dean enjoys the way you cook Christmas dinner with a Latin flair, even if Sam likes to tease him about his insatiable appetite. You remind Sam about the true reason behind one of Dean’s biggest quirks.

▶️ Next Story: Get Stuffed

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Dean Winchester One-Shots

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Ko-Fi Me ☕

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@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @simpforbuckyb @vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester @spnexploration @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @iprobablyshipit91

@melancholictearz @nic-kolas @sanscas @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons @antisocialcorrupt @lacilou @adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @brianochka @branj19

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#Show Me #Part 2 #dean winchester #dean winchester smut #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x female reader #dean winchester x latina!reader #dean winchester x plus sized!reader #dean winchester x plus size!reader #Midnight Espresso verse #dean winchester x you #spn #supernatural #dean winchester x poc!reader #poc!reader #latina!reader #plus sized reader #zepskies writes

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syrupfog · 4 months ago

Text

Law knew from the very beginning that Penguin was a vampire.

There aren’t many other explanations for coming upon two kids in the woods, one of whom is covered in blood next to a passed out polar bear.

Penguin hadn’t meant to let it get that far! He’d just been so hungry. An entire clan of vampires— generations of them— wiped out in a single tsunami, and suddenly Penguin had found himself the only one left. He only managed to survive after that because Shachi had insisted that Penguin feed from him. And Penguin had been so careful.

But escaping Shachi’s aunt and uncle and coming to live in the woods was hard, and food was scarce, so Shachi was taking longer to recover. Penguin’s hunger had taken over when they ran into Bepo.

He’ll always be grateful that Law found them when he did.

So Law knew from the start that he was taking a vampire onboard. Penguin had promised that he ONLY fed from Shachi, that he was safe to be around, and Law had called bullshit. He said no vampires are safe, but he said more importantly that Penguin needed a rotating blood supply.

So as Law’s crew grew, Law made SURE that Penguin fed off of everyone equally, for his own health and for the crew’s health, so no one was out of commission.

(Penguin refused to ever feed from Bepo again, though. He couldn’t bring himself to).

It was a good system! Penguin’s photosensitivity was covered pretty well between the hat and the boiler suit, and on any missions everyone made sure that he stuck with at least one to two other members at all times. Penguin marvelled time and again how he got so lucky.

But most good systems fail eventually.

Penguin gets separated. They’re looking for leads on the pirate with the burn scar, and Penguin’s snatched up by a group of ex-marines with a grudge against pirates who think they can make more money on the black market.

He puts up a fight, would’ve won easily in the water, but they’re on land, and one of them manages to tear his hat off.

In the direct sunlight Penguin’s all but blind, and his skin burns. He can’t see to escape them.

He’s thrown into a blessedly dark jail cell.

It’s damp and dirty but at least he can see. Hopefully his crew finds his hat, Clione is going to be pissed if he has to sew another.

But the longer Penguin sits here alone, the more he starts to worry. He fed two days ago, had been planning on feeding today, already pushing it.It’s been a long time since he had to suffer hunger, he’s not sure how his body will react.

It feels like he’s there a good 24 hours before anyone appears. They slide a bowl of oatmeal to him. He can’t eat it.

It’s another day still until they return, and this time not with oatmeal, but with a man in chains.

They’d not bothered to chain Penguin. He feels put out by this.

The man is shoved into the cell with Penguin and suddenly the dots are connecting— it’s the Massacre Soldier.

He’s sans helmet though, blond hair covering most of his face instead. Arms chained behind his back to keep him from brushing it aside.

The Massacre Soldier. Killer. They met briefly, years ago on Sabaody and again at Wano. Not that Penguin expects to be remembered.

Penguin actually hopes that Killer doesn’t try to interact at all. He can practically HEAR the man’s blood pumping. He has to concentrate on not doing something he’ll regret. Even chained, Penguin’s pretty sure the man would kill him in an instant.

So they sit in silence for quite a long time.

Eventually, Killer shifts. He speaks. “Is the food poisoned?”

“What?” Penguin jumps. He glances down at the very old oatmeal. “Oh. Don’t think so.”

“Pretty fucking foolish to waste food just because you’re a snob.”

“It’s all yours,” Penguin says, leaning down and pushing the bowl in his direction. He doesn’t rise to the bait. Safer to let the man think he’s a snob.

Killer sits there and doesn’t take the bowl, and Penguin’s about to snark about the snob comment when he says, “you a Heart?”

“What gave it away?” Penguin asks, looking down at his boiler suit, logo proudly emblazoned.

“Just never saw one with eyes like that before.”

Shit. Right. Penguin ducks his head. He’d almost forgotten about his hat, but no. Those stereotypical red vampire eyes on full display.

“You going to eat that or not?” He blurts out instead.

Killer chuckles. “Thought I might be able to get you to help me, considering only one of us has free hands right now.”

Penguin shrinks back a little. “Sorry man,” he says. “You’re on your own for that one.”

Killer’s smile goes flat. “Fine,” he says. “You’re on your own getting out of here, then.”

Fucking shit. Penguin feels his blood run cold. He wants to take to back and offer to team up, but honestly the longer he sits here the more he has to keep himself seated.

It’s like he can smell Killer’s blood in the air, and he’s dizzy for it. Better to be a little rude to the man than rush outright attacking him.

Of course, that thought flies out the window as soon as Killer leans forward, likely intending to stick his face directly into the day old oatmeal bowl. That’s when Penguin sees and smells the fresh wound, barely closed, across the back of his neck.

Penguin doesn’t remember the way he launches himself at Killer, and he barely remembers the way Killer bodily throws him off and rolls on top of him, pinning Penguin’s arms to the ground with his knees. All he’s really conscious of is the few seconds of hot, rich blood he’s able to draw from that wound.

“I’m sorry,” he chants, shutting his eyes as Killer looms over him, entirely in control even with his hands chained behind him. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—“

“You’re that bird,” Killer says. He sits down heavily on Penguin’s chest. “I recognize your voice.”

He sounds almost… intrigued.

“Penguin,” Penguin supplies. “They took my hat.”

A drop of blood from the reopened wound falls on Penguin’s suit, and Penguin starts to struggle a bit, desperate for it. But Killer’s control is unrelenting.

“Kid said there was a freak on your crew, but I didn’t know which one.”

“Probably meant Law,” Penguin mutters before he can stop himself.

But Killer just laughs. “Him too,” he says.

He sits back and Penguin finds it difficult to draw in air. “You going to attack me again if I get up?”

“Yes,” Penguin says without hesitation. “I mean. Sorry. I can’t help it at this point. It’s been too long since I ate.”

“You could’ve had oatmeal.”

“I can’t eat oatmeal,” Penguin snaps. “That’s the whole thing about being a vampire.”

“Oh,” says Killer. And then, “Ohhhh.”

Penguin collapses a little. “You hadn’t actually connected those dots, had you.”

“Nope.”

Penguin and his big mouth.

“That makes sense, though.” Killer says, sounding like he’s reasoning through everything. “How many days has it been?”

“Three… or four.”

Killer whistles. “Hungry boy.”

Penguin’s starting to see spots from how hard it is to get air in with Killer on his chest.

“Listen,” he wheezes. “If you’re— gonna kill me— just make sure— someone tells Shachi— what happened.”

“Oh, I’m not gonna kill you.” Killer shifts back onto his knees and Penguin sucks in air. “You’re gonna drink from me and then you’re gonna play nice and feed me that oatmeal.”

Penguin gapes at him. “No im not,” he says. Then starts to panic as Killer lifts one knee off of him. “No, stop! I don’t have control at this point, I’m not going to be able to stop drinking once I start.”

Killer gives him a pitying look, visible even under his fringe.

“Little Bird,” he says. “You couldn’t hurt me if you tried. I’m three times your size. Take as much as you want, I’ll be fine.”

Penguin as a pre-teen brought down a polar bear. He shakes his head but Killer swings his other leg off of Penguin and then in one swift motion leans down and bares his neck— his neck— to Penguin. And Penguin latches on immediately, both with his teeth and with his arms and legs. Blood pours into his mouth and it’s so right. So good. He loses track of everything else but the sensation.

When he comes to, Penguin finds himself half- propped up against Killer, limp like a discarded doll.

“Whuh,” says Penguin.

“Have a nice nap?” asks Killer.

Penguin’s wide eyes meet his and Killer looks like he’s. Fine. He’s joking, even.

“You’re not dead,” Penguin slurs.

He feels rather drunk. He’s never drank so much in one sitting.

“I am not, in fact, dead,” Killer says.

“Holy shit,” Penguin says. “Fuck. Fucking shit. Hell. Piss.”

“Listening to you is like listening to a baby curse.”

“Shut up.” Penguin holds up a hand. “I’m processing.”

Killer waits patiently.

“Are you sure you’re not, like, about to pass out at least?” Penguin asks.

“Only in that I am owed oatmeal,” Killer says.

“Right. Shit.”

Penguin scrambles over to the disgusting and cold oatmeal. “You sure about this?”

“I’m not wasting food,” Killer says.

Penguin nods and, fulfilling his end of the bargain, holds a spoonful of oatmeal up to his mouth.

It’s surreal.

He feeds Killer the whole bowl, although he’s so full of blood that he’s a bit sleepy at this point.

“Am I still on my own for getting out of here?” He asks after the bowl is empty.

Killer snorts. “I suppose I’ll bring you along,” he says. “It’d be a waste not to, after pouring so much blood into you to keep you alive.”

“Appreciated,” Penguin says. “I mean— yeah. Thanks.”

Killer’s snort turns into a badly suppressed laugh. “Go to sleep, little bird,” he says. “I can tell you fed enough to make you sleepy. I’ll wake you once I’ve come up with a plan.”

Penguin nods, settling against the wall. He’s full— more full than he’s ever been— and sated.

The last thing he notices is Killer coming over to sit next to him, a large, warm, comforting presence.

Penguin doesn’t know how long he sleeps. It’s not long enough, though.

He wakes to a flash of light and a lot of yelling, and suddenly their cell has twice as many people.

Law is there, paying absolutely no attention to him, instead he’s yelling something at the man who appeared right next to him— Captain Kid, red hair sticking in all directions and a scowl on his face.

Penguin cannot make out what they’re fighting about.

The next thing he knows, though, Kid flicks his wrist and Killer’s arms are free, and he’s suddenly standing and stretching and leaving Penguin alone on the floor.

And Penguin misses that warmth for all of three seconds before Killer fucking sweeps him up into his arms.

And Kid and Law are both pausing to stare at them.

Killer points to Law and says, “you’ve gotta let your little bird friend come visit us sometimes. You’re all too scrawny. He was too hungry.

Penguin, in Killer’s arms, covers his face in embarrassment.

Law gapes at him.

There’s a moment of silence.

And then Kid is yelling something about fraternising with the enemy and Law is yelling something about how he cares for his crew perfectly well, and Killer looks down at Penguin and smiles.

“You’re welcome to feed from me any time you want,” he says, voice low. “I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

And Penguin shivers. He knows Killer feels it happen. He can’t help it.

For the first time, Penguin thinks there’s an upside to being a vampire.

It becomes a thing. When they run into each other two islands later and Killer walks onto the Tang like he belongs there and demands Penguin come “get his fill,” Penguin is both mortified and terribly turned on.

And that’s before they even add kissing and fucking to the docket.

(Law and Kid are scandalised but Shachi’s into it)

(Fin)

#kilpen #kilguin #my writing

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