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#whose guard dog is this

lovethatmakingcoffee · 3 months

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qsmp fandom really got me out here defending a man with all my guts and gumption. That's when u know things be serious

#I guess I'm the devil's advocate right now #The Pomeranian guard dog whose gonna bite your fucking ankles #Qsmp #Quackity smp #Forever #Qsmp forever #Q!forever #Qsmpforever #Discourse

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jacqcrisis · 1 year

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People in the banpitbulls subreddit are something else. The vast majority of dogs belonging to the various bully breeds we collectively call 'pit bulls' go through their entire lives without a problem but if you just listened to them, every single one if those dogs will murder a minimum of seven school buses full of orphans by the time they are five.

Yes, it is a dog with a high prey drive that needs an experienced owner and plenty of exercise and mental stimulation in order to properly keep it. Yes, they should be leashed, properly socialized, trained well, and under supervision around children and smaller animals AS ALL DOGS SHOULD as every dog has the capacity to do a lot of harm. Yes, the five or six different bully breeds are responsible for more attacks than any single other breed. Yes, pibble advocates can be annoying, insensitive, and get a lot of the nitty gritty wrong.

But no, not every pit bull type dog is a ticking time bomb monster whose planning to eat you, your family, your other dog, and your house. In fact, statistically, most of them will not be a problem. Stop having a panic attack or a rage induced aneurysm every time you see someone posting a picture of their bully being cute.

#things i found on reddit #its so bad on there #a lot of them dont seem to understand how dog breeds with high prey drives work #and relish in videos of bullies getting shot or mauled by dogs they do like #the fix to these breeds isnt culling or bsl #you can breed aggression out of dogs whose genetics are literal taffy #and bitches and puppies recovered from dog fighting rings should not be adopted out into the general public #they question why people even want these monsters #and the answer is a properly trained socialized and stimulated bully breed is a loyal and affectionate pet #and a good guard dog #i could say a lot more about this. subreddits like this make me tired and sad

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starryylies · 28 days

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can we get baby fever simon when we tell him we're pregnant?!?

ੈ✩‧Simon when you’re preggo *ੈ✩‧

✰☺︎✰~ Bby fever: manifested to reality ~✰☺︎✰

🍼 Simon whose eyes betray him when tears flow out when you give him the news

🍼 Simon who falls to his knees on the ground kissing your stomach thanking you over and over for giving him such a blessing

🍼 Simon who gets right to it, finding baby supplies, trollers, pacifiers etc

🍼 Simon who buys a crib from ikea which leads to him cursing the instruction paper calling it stupid and badly explained

🍼 Simon who completely stops drinking infront of you, quitting it to release himself from the past.

🍼 Simon who makes you sit at home and relax like a pretty wifey so you don’t exert yourself

🍼 Simon whose praises for you are constant the entire day, from when you get up till when you sleep

🍼 Simon who gets very overprotective of you like a guard dog.

🍼 Simon who finally has the courage to visit his fathers grave only to look down on it and say he will never treat his kids like that

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kiwisbell · 2 months

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helen ; chapter one

dear joel

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the inciting incident.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, (retired) hitman!joel, husband!joel, graphic violence, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), blood + injuries, murder, cars, joel lifts reader once, reader has hair, oral sex (f receiving - aka munch!joel returns), married fluff, angst, threats of rape/SA, home invasion, disgusting awful men, childhood/religious trauma, the typical alcohol + smoking + profanity, erotic paintings, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 8.2k a/n: so i'm posting this and sprinting away because i'm terrified. that being said, this story means more to me than words can say and i sincerely hope you enjoy what i have to offer. thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think!! gigantic thanks to @cavillscurls for beta reading this chapter and being generally incredible throughout this whole process. i couldn't have done it without ya baby ❤️ next

PREFACE

“Love is my mover, source of all I say.”

— The Divine Comedy: Inferno, Canto II.

The blood is tangy, near-sweet, as he swipes his forearm over his mouth and smears crimson on his shirtsleeve. It tingles faintly on his lips and crackles, warm as the melt from a late-winter snow. He feels it settle in the grooves of his palms, the hairs of his beard. He’s drowning in it.

Joel Miller grins as the punch rocks his jaw.

His opponent hits hard, but he’s slow. He’ll take five punches in the time it takes to wind up for one. Joel brings his arm up to block the next and delivers a blow to the sternum with his knee as his opponent’s guard drops. Wide open, the man stumbles a few steps back, choking down the telltale wheeze of being winded. Joel marches forward, relentless in his crusade, grasping him by the scruff of his neck, teeth bared like a mad wild dog, and bears his skull down on the side of the railing. Around them, the wind howls and lashes at his clothes, but he still hears the pained scream as if it were poured into his ears.

The man drops to his knees, and Joel grabs him again, bashing his head repeatedly against the steel bar, the lapel of an Italian leather coat bunching between his fingers, tainted by rainwater and the fist of the man who's about to take his life.

And fuck, Joel wants to make it last.

But there's a knife in his opponent’s hand, conjured from the darkness of his coat pocket, and Joel must release him to avoid the lethal slash of the blade. Blinking blood and lashing rain from his eyes, the man lunges with a snarl, and Joel recovers from his lost victory, stopping him with his fingers curled around his opponent’s wrist. He brings his hand to the crook of the man’s elbow and uses his leverage to snap the bone.

Yowling, the man drops to his haunches, the knife clattering to the ground. Joel, chest heaving, stands over him, flexing his fingers as he readies his fist for the killing blow.

His name leaves the man’s bloodied mouth, accompanied by a mouthful of crimson-tainted saliva spat on the ground at Joel’s feet.

“Joel…” He lifts his head, cradling his own broken arm, and sneers. There’s a chilling glow of satisfaction in it. “Did you get your perfect life, Joel? Do you really think you’ve won? It won’t ever stop. Not after you’ve killed me, not after you’ve killed all of them. Is that what you’re going to do? Kill them all?”

Joel staggers backward to pick up the knife, clamping his hand over the curve of his opponent’s shoulder, and drives the blade down into his neck.

“Yeah.”

He leaves him slumped against the railing, choking on his own blood, and limps his way to one of the beaten-up Range Rovers whose front right bumper was totaled in the crash. Joel groans as he settles into the front seat, gnashing his teeth together as he lifts the hem of his dress shirt to inspect the damage.

The bullet has pierced the soft flesh of his stomach. Blood blossoms bright through the white fabric and spirals outward. Joel blinks away rainwater and pulls his phone from his pocket, the screen smeared with blood. He doesn’t know if it belongs to him.

He grits his teeth and makes a call.

In the back of his head, Joel vaguely recalls an old song of prayer. He used to watch others sing it while he lingered in the shadows at the back of the cathedral. He would memorise the shape of the words leaving their mouths and wonder how a benevolent God, who had shaped man—perfection—from red clay, could have made him.

He would lower his head as if swept up in a tide of repentance, examining the bones beneath his hands. The flickering of tendons. The bulge of veins as he delicately folded his fingers into a fist.

Red clay. Blood. The old dance of serpent and man.

He was fourteen when he escaped.

Joel looks down at his bloodied hands. They’ve grown since then. They’re stronger, thicker, scarred. There are no pictures of him as a young boy, but if he saw one, he knows he would not recognise himself. Not his eyes nor his hands nor the set of his jaw. God makes man makes boy. He is destined for Hell.

The call goes to voicemail.

Joel curls his hand into a fist and whispers a prayer.

Something cool and wet collides with Joel’s forehead as he stalks into the airport. It’s begun to rain.

His target gate is close, and he's early. The press of bodies begins to crowd him. Prickling body spray and sickly-sweet perfume and sunburned skin from Spring Break return flights. Joel shoves through them, unseen, unnoticed amid the rowdy din of reunions. The collar of his shirt sticks to the nape of his neck. It’s the sensation of being strangled, clammy palms slick against his own skin. He adjusts his jacket and tightens his grip on the black fabric dangling from his hand.

Joel waits by the gate, his eyes flitting between its apex and the people milling about him, reuniting with partners and parents and children. Nobody seems suspicious, but his fingers still dance upon the blade hidden in the inner lining of his leather jacket. Those performing wide berths around the scowling man try not to make eye contact. Most don't notice his presence at all.

He waits, flicking his sleeve up every couple minutes to check the time on the inside of his wrist. Every tick of the thin hand registers in the pulse of his heart against his ribs.

He hears the suitcase before he sees it—and it’s hard to miss. One wheel is wonky, and the case stutters in its path along the polished floor. It’s huge, pink, hideous.

His hand dropping from the blade in his pocket, Joel makes his move.

You see him approaching and drop the lopsided suitcase, shrieking as he takes you up in his arms.

He swings you around twice, holding you firm against him, your fingers grabbing desperately at the locks of his curly, brown-grey hair. Joel nestles his face in your throat and breathes in: vanilla and shampoo and the unmistakable scent of a you he can never shake. Home.

You shudder into him, your feet barely scraping the floor as he holds you around the waist, one hand cradling the back of your head. Joel lets his eyes close.

Daisies made of diamonds dangle from your wrist, connected by a fine golden chain. He can feel the faux petals dig into the back of his neck, etching their shape into the phantom pain of the ink peeking out from his collar. Sometimes, his skin would pull back with the needle, briefly protruding from his body like a tent made of flesh, as if grasping feebly onto some innocent time before the black hands of Dürer were permanently his. His to remember. His to loathe.

There is a slight in the way his gift to you, wrapped snugly around your wrist since the first anniversary, kisses the old wound, the tip of the cross, and all he feels is the echo of agony. He holds you tighter.

“Can’t breathe, honey,” you croak, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Joel mutters an apology, loosening his grip on you just enough to pull away and cup your face in his hands. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, and you beam up at him, smoothing back the hair you’d tousled with your fingers. A curl swoops back down over his forehead.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“Hi,” says Joel, already on his way to kissing you, his mouth slanting over yours.

He tastes of mint and smells of his dark cologne, pine, Joel. Your Joel. And you kiss him like it—your hand cupping the nape of his neck, the other sliding up his strong, broad back, your lips meeting in a consuming kiss that knocks you off-kilter. He bends slightly over you, keeping you upright with a large hand on your lower back.

“Never leave again,” mumbles Joel, grinning against your mouth, his hand sliding down your arm to your left hand, where two glimmering bands rest on your third finger. Your hands intertwine, and he bumps his nose into yours.

You give him another short kiss. “Get me out of here.”

Joel slides your raincoat over your shoulders and you slip your arms through. He presses his lips to your forehead and closes his eyes, letting himself linger briefly in your space before he scoops up the handle to your affront of a suitcase and escorts you out back to the car.

He opens the passenger-side door to let you slide into your seat, securing your case in the back, and makes his way around the vehicle. You reach for the collar of his jacket and pull him toward you for a kiss, grasping his jaw between your thumb and forefinger. He grins crookedly when you pull away, bushing the pad of his thumb across your cheekbone.

“Missed you,” he says.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip. “Yeah? How much?”

He reaches across the console and kisses you deeply, making you gasp into him as his hand slips underneath your silky little blouse and fits his fingers in the grooves between your ribs. Your skin prickles with goosebumps under his touch as his exploration migrates to your belly, sliding south, ever lower, his hand playing at the waistband of your panties—

“Okay,” you laugh, smacking his hand away. “Okay. You’re paying for parking, Miller.”

“I’ve got money,” he says plainly, dipping his head to kiss you again, his pupils fattening as he tries to gorge on all of you at once. You place a hand on his chest, enjoying the strong pulse of his heartbeat where you typically rest your head, and gently push him back.

“Take me home,” you coo, your gaze sweeping fondly over the face that hasn’t changed, that you cannot forget, “and show me how much you missed me.”

His wedding band coolly kisses your cheek as he retracts his hand, reluctantly turning his key in the ignition. “Yes, ma’am.”

He’s always been a meticulous driver, expert in the way he flattens his palm on the wheel, his other on the back of your headrest, turns the car out of the spot, and merges onto the freeway. When he no longer needs his other hand, he gives it to you, and you bring his long-scarred knuckles to your lips.

His hands are marked by years of use, of abuse, speckled with little white scars, freckles, divots, curves. You already know the lines in his palms, have traced them and painted them and put them under sensitive study with your body. But you turn his hand over nonetheless, your own fingertips careful in their examination, following their contours as if searching for a change. But they’re the same—he’s the same—and so you tuck your fingers between his and bring your palms together in a warm, awaited kiss.

It’s only been a month, but you study his profile as if years have passed. He’s still Joel, still surly, plush lips curved into a permanent pout, the space between his brows marked by a ponderous gash, the vein in his throat fluttering in silence when a driver cuts him off or he spots a car following too closely. He’s a good study, practised in his stoicism.

His nose is artful. Its convex slope, pronounced, strong, curves deliciously into his upper lip, the soft greying hairs in between a space of waiting. His mouth, soft, learned, often languageless, is what you know best of him. You know it like your own—can trace its shape in the dark, hands behind your back. The strong jawline, the slight wrinkles beside his eyes, ones he never had before you met him, the patches of skin disrupting the fullness of his beard: they’re the picture of the man you married, and there’s always something you’re disappointed in discovering you’ve missed. A something you’ve never noticed, a something you wish you could go back and add to all your canvases.

When you left him at the airport, it was a freckle just beneath the hollow of his throat. Now, it’s the frayed hairs just behind his ears, crimping in frizzy patterns that don’t match the languorous curls on the rest of his head. They look singed, as if he’d put a match to himself.

Maybe it’s making up for lost time, for all the days you’d missed being away from your Joel. But there’s a second, smaller something: the little round scar beneath those wild hairs. You lift your hand to it, and before your thumb can make a pass over the white, puckered skin, he speaks.

“It’s a burn.” Merging off the freeway, he pulls into a gas station. His fuel ticker is tapping gently at the E. “From a cigarette.”

Your heart tips off the edge of a yawning chasm, and your hand pulls back in a wary twitch of your fingers. Throat tightening, you feel a distinct pressure behind the T of your nose and forehead. “From the people who raised you?”

A muscle in his jaw spasms, and he lifts your joined hands to his mouth. “None of that,” he says softly, meeting your eyes that well with unshed tears.

No tears for me, he once said to you. Not until I’ve earned ‘em.

You sniffle, watching him nuzzle his cheek against the soft flesh of your wrist, his lips finding your vein and following it halfway up your forearm.

“Tell me about your show.”

You let him tuck your tears away in the grooves between his joints and smile. “Successful, but lonely. So many people knew my name, and I’m pretty sure I knew about a quarter of theirs. Made me feel like some snobbish pig.”

“Nah, that’s my job,” says Joel. “Everybody loves you, baby.”

You roll your eyes. “Either way, the gallery was a hit. The triptych sold for the highest at the auction.”

Joel smirks. “The nude ones?”

“Yeah, dirtbag. The nude ones.” Your smile is dry, still somehow saccharine.

“I liked those,” says Joel, fingers playing upon your upper thigh.

“Perv.”

He playfully smacks your thigh. “Goddamn right.”

“It was good. It was. But I missed you.” Your voice breaks, and Joel squeezes your fingers in response. “Could hardly sleep without you there.”

He nods like he knows. And you know he does; he barely sleeps, even if you’re on top of him. “I know everybody loves you,” he says, “but next time you go away, remember I love you most.”

You blink away the shimmer of tears so you can see him clearly. “Casanova.”

“That's right,” he says, nosing his way into another kiss. “Don't ever leave me again, baby. My heart can't take it.”

You shake your head, laughing into his mouth as your tears slip onto your tongue. “Never again,” you whisper, “unless the hotel food is good.”

He nods. “I’ll make an exception, long as I can go.”

You grin. “You know… if I’m at home all the time…”

“We’re not getting a puppy.”

“Joel—”

“No.”

“Don't you want to make your wife happy?”

He faux-snaps at you like a dog, catching his teeth around your earlobe. “As a goddamn clam.”

You gasp as you feel his mouth suckle gently at the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “I… I want… We should at least talk about…”

“Hmm?”

He’s playing with the hem of your blouse, deft fingers leaving warm imprints on the soft skin of your belly, fingers enveloping your precious heart when he places his hand on your upper back. The organ pounds under his touch, pouring its blood into his palms.

You haven’t felt his touch in so long.

“I want…”

Joel hums again, prompting, his pinky finger dipping under the strap of your bra and pulling back, snapping it against your skin.

“What was I talking about?”

He chuckles, bringing his lips back to yours. You grasp for him greedily, trying to fix him to you this time, your fingers bunching the fabric of his T-shirt. But he’s pulling back, his forehead falling against yours.

“I’ll consider it,” he says, “if you can convince me.”

Giddily, perhaps stupidly, you smile. “I’m very prepared to convince you.”

“Uh-huh. I don't doubt you, baby. How ‘bout you let me fill up the car first?”

The throbbing bass of house music Dopplers as another car approaches the gas station. Three men exit the vehicle, one of them already lighting a cigarette while the other two make for the convenience store. One is wearing a backwards cap and the other a pressed suit.

Nice move, you think, sinking back in your seat a little as Joel slides out of the car, smoking by a gas pump.

“Nice ride,” says the man at the opposite pump, puffing at his cigarette.

“Thanks,” says Joel with a polite smile, locking the nozzle in the fuel tank and folding his arms over his chest. He’s hovering by the passenger door, halfway to blocking you from view.

The man surveys the hood, his fingers gently tracing the cool silver. “Boss Mustang 429. She a ‘70?”

“‘69,” says Joel.

“Very nice,” muses the man, drumming his hands on the hood. You feel the crude vibrations in your spine and straighten in your seat. This man—this kid, all his puffing and grinning and loud music—is bad news. Your stomach coils taut when his gaze shifts from Joel to you, staring hard through the windshield.

“How much?” he asks Joel.

You notice the minute stiffening of the muscles in Joel’s shoulders. “What?”

“How much for the car?”

Joel pushes off the car and dislodges the pump, brushing the kid aside on his way back to the driver’s side. “It’s not for sale.”

The kid wanders to the passenger-side door before Joel can turn on the car and roll up the window. He leans his elbows just inside, his face mere inches from yours, and you can smell the sickly, cloying smoke of his cigarette as he blows it in your direction.

He says something to Joel in Spanish that makes your husband’s hand still on the wheel.

And your Joel, your courteous Joel, your never-the-shit-stirrer Joel, narrows his eyes at the kid and says something in kind, his voice a low scrape that shudders through you.

It’s too fast for you to hear, and you never learned Spanish, and you were under the assumption (until right fucking now) that Joel never did, either. But he starts the car and rolls up the window, and you’re peeling away from the gas station before the kid can reply.

“That was…” You cast around for the words and instead rest your eyes on Joel, whose jaw looks ready to snap. “Joel, honey, when did you learn Spanish?”

He’s silent for a long while, and you would assume that he didn’t hear you—if you didn't know that he has stellar hearing. When he pulls onto the long stretch of road, signalling your first firm tug away from the stifling noise of civilization, he finally speaks.

“Picked it up in the Marines.”

“What did he say to you?”

Joel’s skin is stretched taut over his knuckles. “Somethin’ stupid.”

You hum, letting him linger in silence for the remainder of the trip. Scenery, green and grey sky and the drizzle of rain, swoops by the window, and you're going home. It isn't much different from what you found in Vancouver, but it's familiar. It’s the smell of the air after the rain and the way your shared home comes into view the same way it always has.

It isn’t a modest home. You and Joel had it built before the wedding, both eager to get away from the city and exist in relative peace when your job allowed it. It sits low and broad, geometric pillars framing the front porch, sleek modern lines in black and white. Your compromise: he assumed responsibility for the exterior, and you took everything within. Joel pulls into the garage, next to your beige SUV, and helps you and your hot-pink luggage out of the car.

The walls are littered with canvases. Mostly, there are paintings of Joel. The first time you brought him to your studio, a few weeks into the relationship, he’d sat stone-still for hours. You don't recall even a twitch of a finger. He’s in shades of blue, red, green, grey. He’s sitting, standing, lounging, sleeping. His lashes lie in repose over his cheeks, eyes closed, sometimes open, often averted. You’ve captured him in bed, by the pool, in the kitchen, in your studio. Like a spider, you’ve ensnared his shyness, his care, his devotion, weaving it into a tapestry of oil, watercolour, pastel.

You’ve never sold a single one. This Joel—whose eyes are sometimes closed, sometimes open, often averted—is for your eyes only.

The curls at the nape of his neck are creeping under the collar of his jacket. Winding your finger around a rich brown lock, you give him a tug. “You haven't been taking good care of yourself.”

Joel brings your hand to his mouth, kissing the rings on your finger that bind you to him. “You told me you liked it long.”

“You told me it itches.” You shrug his jacket off his shoulders and trail your hands up his muscled arms. “It's not about me, honey.”

Joel hums, cradling the crown of your head in his palm and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “When will you learn”—another hand around your hip, tugging you forward by the small of your back—“that everything is about you?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That's a good answer, Mr. Miller.”

He grins crookedly, backing you against the kitchen counter. “Yeah?”

You scratch his scalp and feel his mouth descend on your jaw. “Mhm. You’ve been practising.”

“Didn't have much else to do,” he grumbles, fisting the fabric of your blouse and untucking it from the waistband of the old jeans sitting low on your hips. “My wife was gone.”

“You're getting whiny,” you chide, smacking his hand away from your fly.

“Is it working?”

“You really wanna make your wife happy?”

“Yeah, baby. Yeah.” He looks down at you like he's close to pleading.

“Then you'll let me cut your hair,” you purr.

His pout lasts as long as it takes for you to get his hair soapy and your fingers in his curls, massaging slow and sweet. You take your time ridding him of the excess length, chopping carefully, your hands assured of their strength. You tell him to tilt up and look down and to the side, honey, and he obeys because it's your hands, and your voice, and he's pliable as molten glass.

You get lost in the musical shhhick of the scissors cutting through hair, humming a tune that does not match, and he's reminded of ballet. Watching you in the mirror is like seeing the dance through a glass he cannot permeate. You may be touching him, but most times he's struggling to grasp you in your entirety.

He sees an angel in his sleep, reaching out with a hand made of gold to guide him up from hell.

You tell him more about the gallery. You tell him about whale-watching and being too seasick to take photos for him like he'd requested. Joel wants to shake his head but he stays still and tells you it’s okay, baby, all I wanted was to know you were happy.

And you tell him I was happy. But it would've been better with you.

And he's joking, telling you I’d be throwin' up on the other side of the boat, but his body feels cold when you set down the scissors and leave his side.

“How’s Tommy?” you ask, rubbing gel between your palms. This, he knows, is your favourite part: styling him up all pretty like your personal doll.

It’s his favourite part, too. He holds you around the waist while you work. “He’s panicking.”

“Oh, come on,” you laugh. “He's read every book on the shelves. And your brother doesn't read.”

“Books can't prepare you for the real thing,” says Joel. “‘Least, that's what Maria told him.”

“Maria’s probably right.” You thread your fingers through his locks and watch with a smile as he closes his eyes, his forehead dropping to your belly. “But that doesn't take away from the fact that Tommy will make a great dad.”

Joel hums, pressing a kiss to your belly. “He’s been askin’ after you to paint their nursery. Want me to tell him to fuck off?”

You're beaming, curling one lock of hair around your finger and dangling it teasingly over his forehead. “Tell Tommy I'd be delighted. Maria shouldn't be doing any of that, pregnant as she is. You should smack some sense into your brother.”

“I tried every day when we were little. Didn't take.”

You give his styled hair a finalistic tug and brush it back from his ears. “Such a good model for me,” you coo, dropping into his lap, “just like always.”

“And what do I get?” he says, watching his own hand cup your breast, thumb ghosting over the soft swell, obscured by layers of fabric.

Your wicked eyes feel heavy on his skin. “What you always get.”

You take his hand in yours and lead him to the bedroom. You’ve done this a thousand times, it seems, this methodical undressing, made new with every hour spent apart. The dance replenishes in the sunlight, coming alive as spring blossoms, never stale, never withered. There is something new to discover each time.

Joel kisses you, staggering backward until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. You climb onto his lap without breaking the kiss, your arms winding around his neck as he tucks you into him. His cock is a hard, heavy weight between your thighs, accustomed to the touch of his hand alone in the month you've been apart.

The revitalising warmth of skin-on-skin strikes him true, blooming like blood from his heart. He clutches you so close that your heartbeat skitters from your chest to his, your mouths exchanging breaths, your bodies sharing heat. He knows nothing but the shape, smell, sound of you.

He trails his knuckles up and down your spine and wonders if he can make certain that he will die like this. He doesn't want to know an afterlife. It will spoil the memory of his very last moment, when he brings you in close and kisses your soft cheek and lets the darkness gently pull him down.

The sisters at the orphanage would tell him things. You will never know peace until you know Him. You cannot know a person’s love until you know His. You will never understand, child, what it is to breathe, until every breath you take is in His name. Joel drags his open mouth up the column of your sternum, its golden pillar, his tongue dipping to taste the nectar that pools in the hollow of your throat. He tastes you instead, and he feels he has not cheated God.

You gasp his name as he licks molten salt from your skin, and he feels the golden hand curl around his heart. His lids grow heavy with every taste. Intoxicated, he seeks more, putting his mouth to the crook of your neck. Your back arches, your chest flush with his own, melting and moulding together. Every second of time spent apart withers and dies.

You have taken Joel to bed and felt him angry, happy, morose, insatiable—but the Joel you’re feeling now is tired. A drowning man finally cresting the surface, he touches you like he never will again. Your skin bunches and folds under his too-eager hands, rubbing you raw. Your muscles pull taut as you try to accommodate his frantic mouth. He bites you and your lips part in a silent scream. He pulls your hair and you gush, your chest hot, prickling with friction and sweat and heat.

There is anguish in the way he holds you. It feels deep as a wound, old enough to still ache when it rains, old enough that you were never around to know him when it was cut into his body. You want to rescue him from the wordless pain, the agony that has no name.

You want to know what has made him this way. Because there are times when you see your husband and it strikes you suddenly that a different person exists in the black of his eyes. Because there are parts he keeps hidden, for your sake or his. Because there is a little boy in his chest who's been hurt and you do not know how to save that sliver of him.

Leftover hairs from his trim sting as your bodies slide together. Your scalp prickles at the desperate way he holds you at the crown of your head. You whisper his name and he looks up at you in the darkness, and there is water brimming beneath his irises.

“Tell me what you need,” you say.

He brings his hand between your thighs and touches the wet, warm place he seeks. You nod, letting him roll you onto your back, his mouth trailing kisses down your navel. When you squirm, he pins you by your belly, his palm flat to your skin. When you mewl his name, your chest heaving, he nods his head in reply, dipping his head and sliding his hot tongue through your slit.

Joel is the prayer you chant. He kneels at the edge of the bed, bringing your thighs around his ears, closing his lips around your clit. You cry out, your hand flying to his hair, tugging him closer, eliciting a groan from his chest. It rumbles through you, his face buried in your pussy, his hands fastened around your thighs. He places searing kisses between your legs, lighting you ablaze, leaving scorch marks wherever his lips touch you.

“Tell me you're mine,” he says, and the fractured sound of his voice cuts into your skin. He's watching you, his pupils puffy and seeking, hands squeezing, desperate. “Please.”

You whimper at the sight of the kiss he places on your clit. “I’m yours,” you tell him, reaching for his hand and threading your fingers through his. “I’m your wife, Joel. I’m not going anywhere. I’m yours and I love you.”

He lowers his head, an apostate seeking redemption, and his tongue slides heavily over your clit. At the suction of his mouth around the slick pearl, you gasp, “Oh, God,” your head thrown back, your spine arching into his palm. The cut of the diamond on your finger is sharp against his skin.

Joel relishes the cool bite of the gem as he licks through your folds and his saliva mingles with your wetness. He kneels with fervour, presses his mouth to you as if whispering his confessions through the lattice, and makes you his.

The flat of his tongue is scalding, his palm a brand. He licks and sucks until you’re quivering, suffocating his hand in yours, and he wants to bare the imprint of your sigh forever. He should be the one submitting to you, and here you are, lending him your body to please, if only for another moment. Joel flicks his tongue over your clit, takes it into his mouth, and makes you sob his name.

I’m yours.

Yours.

And it sounds so permanent that, for a second, he believes it himself.

You come with your back curving and your hips grinding and your nails in his skin. Joel doesn’t stop until you’re begging him to, until you push yourself onto your elbows and tell him to come here.

You swing your leg over him and bring your mouth down to his. Joel squeezes his eyes shut and kisses you so deeply that it bruises him somewhere he cannot reach. His hands cupping your face. His cock heavy between your bodies. The sun lowering, casting you in bronze. He loses his grip on the world.

“Now,” you whisper in the growing dark, “it’s your turn to tell me.”

You lift yourself onto his cock and bring yourself down, and Joel’s fist opens against your back. “I’ve been yours since the restaurant,” he rasps.

You beam at him, and dusk ends.

There is a thumping beyond your bedroom door.

Joel hears it before you. In a flash, he hooks his leg under your knee and rolls you over, pinning you under his body. He reaches for the nightstand on his side, throws open the drawer, and pulls a gun.

You grasp his shoulders, nails digging into flesh. Eyes meet in the slippery darkness. Wide, careful. Words wordlessly exchanged.

Your fluttering heartbeat begins to pound in your ears. The noise migrates down the hall.

Footsteps.

In the kitchen, glass shatters, and your stomach swoops, down and back up, lodging in your throat.

“Joel,” you whisper, your own voice trembling out of you. He shakes his head, his finger coming to his lips. Your body begins to tremble. The chill digs a pick into each knob of your spine as it climbs up to your brain stem.

Your home begins to pound with its very own heartbeat. You can hear its tightly-wound tension in the walls. Nobody breathes except for your husband, slow and steady, hovering over you with a gun in his hand.

You hadn’t known he owned a gun.

His hips ground you against the bed and his fingers intertwine with yours, bringing your hand to his chest. His heart pounds strongly into your palm, his eyes narrowed, fixed to you. But you know his focus is split down the middle, divided between keeping you safe and listening.

Your breathing peters out until it’s silent as the breeze outside the window. A man’s voice carries from the kitchen, and another answers. Joel shifts slowly off the bed and brings you with him, handing you his T-shirt and boxers. He tucks himself into his jeans and pulls another shirt over his head while you silently dress. The fabric slips from your hand as your trembling fingers struggle for a purchase. Once you’re dressed, Joel pulls you into him, pressing his lips to your forehead.

“Under the bed,” he whispers.

Oh, fuck that.

“You want to go out there and confront them by yourself? Are you fucking crazy?”

He shuts you up by lowering his mouth to yours in a scorching kiss. “Do not fuckin’ argue with me,” he rasps, his teeth scraping against yours. You open your mouth to do exactly that, but another glass shatters, and you flinch away.

“Under. The. Bed.”

And he’s gone, leaving you alone, helpless, the predatory prowl of his gait something unfamiliar to you. It’s learned, utterly silent, the curve of his elbow guiding your gaze to the gun held behind his back. His head juts out before him, peeking around corners.

There are dust bunnies underneath the bed. You’re a better cleaner than Joel, but he makes an effort. He gets lost in it sometimes, sweeping his way through the house as if there’s a grid on the floor, precise in his methods. He doesn’t attend to the details, like the corners of the trim or the grooves in the floorboards. And yet, your floors are polished. Your plants are watered. He cares for you in quiet ways, when words fail.

Your heart thuds against the hardwood through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. It smells of rain and him. There are no more noises coming from the kitchen.

You drop your head into your folded arms and will yourself to breathe. The claustrophobic space between the bed frame and the floor edges in on you. The only light disrupting the vignette is the small lamp. You’re alone.

When you lift your head again, a pair of heavy black boots stares you right in the face.

You bite down on your scream as your heart swoops down into your stomach, pressed hard against the cold floor. Though you do not breathe, the thrum of your heart echoes in your throat as the sputtering of an engine in the dead of winter. The boots leave scuff marks on your floors, the boards groaning under the weight. The owner is heavyset, likely male from the size of his feet. And he's calling for you.

“Here, pretty kitty.” He pitches his octave high as he taunts you. “Come on out, sweet girl. Don't make me mad.”

You watch the path of his boots across the floor as he approaches the nightstand, throwing open the drawer and rummaging through your belongings.

Objects roll under the bed with you as he periodically drops them, careless in his vandalism. Your journal lands next to your head with a thunk, and you hear the low buzz of your vibrator in his hand. “Hmm, kitty likes to play.” And it lands on the floor, rolling to a cool stop in the groove between two boards.

Petrified, you can only watch him stalk across the room, his heavy footfalls thundering in your ears. He whistles a tune you don't recognise, and you wonder what's taking your husband so fucking long.

Joel, cries your heart as the man halts in his tracks, lowering himself to the ground, taking a knee. JoelJoelJoelplease—

And there's a spark of recognition when your eyes meet in the dark, like you've been acquainted with their black depths, before you're scrambling out from under the bed and kicking him square in the face with the heel of your foot.

He grunts, holding his nose, free hand grasping for you like wisps of smoke. You crawl to your feet and begin to run, only for him to wrap one cold hand around your ankle and pull.

You crumple back down to the floor with him, barely saving your own skull from cracking on the hardwood as you throw your hands in front of your eyes. The impact to your elbows radiates up to your neck, and you scream your throat raw, kicking out at your assailant, your blood roaring, weeping.

With a firm kick to his throat, you force him to let go, his hand flying instinctively to his windpipe. He wheezes something crude, probably, but you’re running—limping, mostly, slamming the bedroom door behind you with a shattering thud that quakes the frame.

“Joel!” you cry, turning the corner in the hall, feeling the walls as you go as if your own home has become foreign to you. What if he’s dead? What if you’re about to stumble over his body in the dark—the only body you’ve ever been able to know as something more than a vessel for art, for a painstaking study? That body, the body you could trace in the black with fingertips, not brushes, does not make itself known.

“JOEL—!”

A hand comes to rest on your cheek. It is not Joel’s hand. It is no hand at all, but the edge of a blade, a cool stinging thing that nicks the tender skin beneath your eye.

Blood from his nose drips down his mouth, staining his teeth red. You feel a small thrill of victory.

Joel is on the kitchen floor in a heap, vaguely stirring from the impact of a baseball bat to his ribs. The bat which a second intruder now uses to smash the framed pictures on your wall. Glass rains down on him. Shards have cut Joel’s soft belly, shredded the fabric of his shirt. Your captor holds you by the hair.

A third man smokes a cigarette, sitting on your countertop, swinging his feet back and forth, and it strikes you that he’s really only a kid. Twenty-five at most. You know young hands, young eyes. Your pencils and paper know them better.

“Nice of you to join us,” says the man from the gas station, making shapes of the cigarette smoke. You watch the way it curls around the low-hanging light.

“Joel,” you whisper, the salt of your tears stinging in the wound on your face. “Baby, please… get up…”

“He’s fine, chiquita,” says the kid. “Don’t waste your energy.”

Joel’s eyes peel open, his hands blindly grasping for something he does not have. He’s curled in on himself to protect himself from the inevitable next swing of the bat. You wonder if he’s been struck in the head, and you can feel pieces of your heart slowly wilting as petals untended.

His gun, you realise, your eyes dropping to the belt of the man who holds you hostage. It’s tucked into his waistband, but you cannot reach it with your arms trapped in front of you. His arm is a heavy band around your chest, glueing you to him, helpless. You’re fucking helpless and you cannot get to him and he will die.

Your Joel will die and he will know pain in the way you want him to know love.

“Let him go, please. You hurt him.”

The kid sniffs, tossing his cigarette to the floor beside Joel and jumping down from the counter to stomp it out with an expensive sneaker. “He disrespected me,” says the kid, leering down at your half-conscious husband like a speck of dirt on a polished glass. “But he doesn’t matter.”

You choke on your sobs, writhing in your captor’s grasp in a futile effort to feel not-so-suffocated, not-so-stuck. “You can have anything you want. Please, take anything. We have money, we have cars, we have paintings. They’re worth something, I promise you. Just—just look up my name. They’re worth a lot, please, just take them and leave us alone, please—”

The anger explodes through the gash in his face where he’d put the cigarette, that yawning maw eager to swallow blood and pain. “I don’t want your fucking paintings!” he screams, stalking toward you and yanking you free of the other man’s grasp.

Your stomach swoops as he shoves you, hard, to the floor. This time, your arms do not take the blow. It is your temple that absorbs the impact, striking hard on a floor already flecked with blood. Black seeps through paper. Your eyes darken. A man—you do not know which—is speaking.

“Go on, Emil, have some fun with the bitch,” he says. “We can put her up in the kennel when we’re done with them both.”

You hear the rustling of a belt as the man above you flicks open his fly, laughing all the while.

You're still blinking hard to clear the fog when you hear a growl rumble in your husband’s chest, the faraway noise of a fist meeting flesh, the scuffle of feet across your freshly-washed floors, the first gunshot.

Your cheek meets cool hardwood as you succumb, the shape of your Joel’s rage etched into your eyelids.

There’s a painting on the wall depicting two bodies in orgasm. Curved spines, feverish hands, dimples where fingers meet flesh. There is a hole in the canvas where the woman’s heart should be. A splatter of blood taints the image where the man drags his open palm down her back.

His face is obscured, but his mouth is on her throat, exposing the cut of his jaw. The scruff of his beard. Careful strokes of oil paint join their bodies in harmony. It’s knocked askew on the wall.

He’s rusty.

He can feel it in the taut pull of his shoulder as he brings his arm back for the death blow. The blade comes up against the rough skin beneath the man’s chin, slicing him open just beneath the scruff of his beard. Blood bruises the hardwood floors, and although the man is already dead, Joel grasps him by the hair at the crown of his head and brings him down against the wall.

His shoulder aches. His finger joints crackle. His knuckles are already bruised, his abdomen sore. He spits out pinkish saliva and turns his attention to his next job.

His gun now back in his hand and its thief dead, Joel puts a bullet between the eyes of the third man, and another in his chest. The baseball bat clatters to the floor.

He thinks of the first time he wanted to kill for you and couldn’t.

A man at the bar had groped you while you were out with friends. A little tipsy, you told Joel as he tucked you gently into the passenger’s seat, wrapped in a pretty black dress, and fell promptly asleep. He remembers the cool flutter of your hair from the air vent. He remembers the way your lashes spread like spider legs on your cheeks at every red light, the way the street lamps turned you golden.

He remembers the man’s name. His face. His address. Some of the little wrinkles in his brain still hold echoes of information he'll never need again. But he keeps it tucked up there anyway. Maybe it reminds him of what he could never do, now that he had you.

It seems the rules have been bent.

Glass crunches underfoot behind him. Joel turns just in time to see the retreating figure, the fucking coward, sprinting for the door. He fires a shot that chips a piece of drywall and goes nowhere significant. Cursing himself, Joel hears the roar of his Mustang come to life as the kid leaves with his fucking car.

Everything has a price, he'd said, blowing smoke in your face. Including your bitch.

Joel curls his hand around the hilt of the knife. Blood begins to crust along the edge. Some of the blood, he realises, has been stolen from your sacred body. There is a cut on your cheek.

And does your bitch have a price? Joel had replied, glancing behind the kid at the lackey he'd brought along. He seems to like you.

You teeter on your way to standing, and Joel rushes to catch you before you can hit the floor. He flicks on the safety and sets his gun aside, cupping your face in his bloodied hands.

Your eyes, blurred with tears, struggle to meet his. They're fixed to the man in a heap over Joel’s shoulder—the man who'd cut you.

“Baby,” he says.

Trancelike, you shake your head.

“Baby, I gotta see you're still with me. Don't look at him; he ain't important right now. You’re important. Hear me?”

His voice is gentle, guiding, his thumbs hooked just behind your ears, hard eyes flickering between each of yours.

“You killed them.”

“Yeah,” says Joel as the pad of his thumb traces the soft skin beneath the cut on your cheek. Your fingers curl around his wrists as if you’re trying to strangle him, temper him.

“You’re hurt.” Your soft cry inverts his ribs, sits heavy and wrong in his chest. When your glassy eyes slide to meet his at last, Joel remembers the second time he wanted to kill someone and couldn’t.

A man from your past had visited your apartment and told you he wanted to try again. You'd politely escorted him out and laughed it off. Terrible in bed, you’d joked.

Joel remembers kneeling in the cathedral, surrounded by the lick of a thousand votives coaxing sweat from his glands, as he tried and tried to find faith and only felt the agonising scrape of the floor against his kneecaps.

He remembers the first time devotion meant something to him. In the name of your second gallery showing. Paintings lined the walls depicting couples in embrace. “Which one is us?” he asked.

“I don't sell those,” you’d replied.

“Why not?”

“Because you're only for me,” you told him. “But I’ll tell you a secret.”

He’d ached to hear it. Even leaned in, a co-conspirator.

“There isn't any devotion in these paintings. They're all hired models.”

“Then why bother at all?” he'd asked. “Why call it that?”

“Because I like showing people that there’s love in the world. And because devotion means something to me now.” You’d looked up at him and tucked your hand in his and he knew what all those nights spent kneeling meant.

Faith, he thinks now, glaring at the shallow cut on your cheek, is knowing your purpose.

The wound is his purpose.

“I’m not hurt, baby girl. We need to pack a bag, okay? I have somewhere for us to stay.”

“Are they—are they coming back?” you ask, your bottom lip wobbling.

Joel swallows bile and a bit of blood. “No. No, they won't be comin’ back. But we need a safe place while I take care of things.”

“Take care of things.”

Your echo is ominous in his ears, and when your eyes leave him again to watch the way the blood trickles into the grooves between the floorboards, Joel knows what you will say next.

“Who are you?”

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #john wick au #joel miller au #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #tlou fic

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luminousbeings-crudematter · 2 months

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there’s a divinity in every writer who writes a Ghost whose love language is being a guard dog

#simon ghost riley

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woso-dreamzzz · 2 months

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Icy

Mapi Leon x Ingrid Engen x Teen!Reader

Summary: Ingrid gets angry

You break your wrist the day Mapi does her meniscus.

You're just playing around when it happens. Mapi's got you on her shoulders, despite Ingrid yelling at you to get the hell off, when she takes a misstep. She yelps loudly, drawing everyone's attention, and crumbles to the ground.

You're thrown across the grass of the pitch and skid. It knocks the wind out of you and you can hear the snap of your wrist when it hits the grass, bent at a weird angle.

It throbs and tears spring to your eyes but you don't think of anything but Mapi and practically crawl your way towards her.

Ingrid's already there though and she fixes with the iciest glare she can manage.

You freeze.

Ingrid's got a cold kind of anger that festers beneath the surface. It's very scary and you've never been on the receiving end of it before. It's like a bolt of lightning is shot down your back and you freeze, drawing your limp wrist into your body.

She turns back to soothing Mapi and you stay where you are.

It's clear that she doesn't want you to approach, clear that she's angry with you so you sit frozen on the grass.

Her glare is scary and she's mouthing something at you. You can't really make it out but it's something along the lines of staying the fuck where you are because you've already done enough.

Mapi rolls around in pain, slapping the ground so she doesn't scream and the medics come running on.

Most of them go to her but one comes to you.

He reaches for your wrist.

You pull away.

"Mapi," You croak out," Mapi."

"She's going to be just fine," He promises you," But you need to let me take a look at that wrist."

"No." You shake your head, desperately trying to peak over his shoulder to see Mapi.

Ingrid is standing up now, looking around like Mapi's personal guard dog. Her eyes rest on you and they narrow. You look away before she can say anything again.

She's angry at you, you know this, and you try to think of whose house you'll have to sleep at tonight. You live with Ingrid and Mapi but you don't think either of them will want you around tonight.

You yelp when the medic moves your wrist, instantly tearing it from his grip.

He grimaces and you freeze.

"What? What is it?"

"I'm sorry."

"Why? No, what is it?"

"Have you looked at your wrist, y/n?" He asks.

You shake your head. "No...Mapi-"

"I need some bandages!" He yells out to the others. He glances at you. "And probably a green whistle too."

It's funny, you think. You barely felt any pain when you were focused on Mapi and pumped with adrenaline. Now that you're looking at your injury, you feel the blood rush from your face.

Your bone is sticking out of your skin. Your stomach rolls as the pain hits you in full force. You're pretty good with injuries. You're not squeamish or anything but the sight of your bone poking out makes you turn and throw up all over the grass.

You feel so incredibly sick and disorientated that you barely notice Mapi demanding Ingrid tell her what's wrong with you. Ingrid's looking at you again. No longer is there an icy look in her eyes but genuine horror instead.

You're completely out of it as the medic tries to stabilise your wrist without agitating your bone. Someone sticks a green whistle into your mouth and you suck down hard.

Your eyes are all glazed over as you watch Mapi be placed onto a stretcher. Ingrid walks with her but keeps looking back at you. She drops Mapi's hand and moves towards you but you think you flinch away when she does so and one of the older girls (Marta or Paredes, maybe) pushes Ingrid away to follow after her girlfriend.

Unlike Mapi, who is wheeled to the physios to get scans, you're brought straight to the hospital and taken into surgery.

By the time you wake up, it's already dark out and there's someone holding your non-injured hand.

"Hey," Mapi says softly," You're looking rough."

You blink groggily at her. "How's your leg? Is it a..."

You don't want to say those three letters but Mapi just shakes her head.

"Meniscus," Is her answer," I'll be alright though. Just a little surgery in a few days."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"Ingrid thinks it is. She got really scary."

"She's sorry too," Mapi says," She knows how she reacted was wrong and she's getting you ice cream right now."

You're not too convinced but you don't want to argue with Mapi so you lift up your arm. You've got a cast around your wrist and you gather they doped you up on painkillers because it doesn't even twinge.

"It was a nasty break," Mapi says," Snapped part of your radius which then pushed your ulna out through your skin. It was gnarly." She pats you soothingly. "But you'll heal up in no time. We can be rehab buddies together."

That brings a smile to your face but it drops the moment Ingrid comes through the door.

You bottom lip wobbles. "I'm sorry." You hate how you sound so pathetic and broken.

Ingrid shakes her head and takes a seat next to you. "No, I'm sorry," She says," I shouldn't have treated you like that no matter how worried I was about Mapi. I'm very, very sorry."

You offer her a weak smile. "Does this mean I can still stay in the spare room?"

"Spare room?" Ingrid laughs," That's been your room for nearly a year now. You're not going anywhere."

#woso x reader #mapi leon x reader #mapi leon #ingrid engen x reader #ingrid engen #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso

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buckyalpine · 6 months

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I’m an absolute sucker for sexy Bucky. Fuckin’ hot and damn well knows it Bucky. Lowkey, flirty and smooth as fuck Bucky. Cocky bucky. No thoughts, just imagine a couple of drinks in and you are absolutely feeling yourself because you look amazing. You’re fine as hell. Gorgeous. You lock eyes with that pretty stranger whose been watching you all night, his blue eyes locked on your hips each time you sway. Doesn’t take long for you to feel his hands around you hips, pulling you close, chest pressed against your back, his lips tickling your ear.

“You’ve been teasin’ me all night, doll” He whispers, smirking when you press your ass back on him, his hips moving with yours, catching you off guard. His body moves in a tandem with yours, sexy and dirty, giving the club a show while lost in your own world. He’s a shy and broody person until he gets his hands on something he likes and you’ve brought out a side in him he didn’t know existed.

“You sure about that” you tease, gasping when his bulge pushes and grinds against your harder.

“What do you think” He smirks against your neck, rutting his hips up once more so you feel the effect you have over him, his large hands splayed on your body, keeping you all just for him the entire time. You sing the words along with the song, the bass making your heart throb, your panties soaked with the scent of his cologne.

Do I make you horny baby You whisper in his ear, his eyes darkening, gripping your hips tighter.

It doesn’t take long for him to sweep you out of the club, hailing a club to hightail it to his place. Your clothes are thrown off piece by piece into the hall, leaving you both naked as hell once you land on his bed with just his dog tags around his neck. His metal arm makes you drool with a mix of admiration and excitement. You knew exactly who he was and how the fuck was he prettier in person.

“You’re dangerous doll” he growls, rubbing his weeping tip through your dripping cunt, pressing against your entrance. Neither of you waste any time, feeling way too hot and heavy, desperate to just tear each other apart in the most primal and lustful way. “You’re such a pretty little thing but m’gonna fuck you like a dirty little whore”

“Fuck me-OH GOD” You cry out when he slams into you, setting a brutal pace, making the headboard slam against the wall. He grips onto it, bringing his knee higher to get a deeper angle, your tight pussy struggling to take all of him as he slips in and out. “SO-GOOD”

“Yeah bunny? Feel good?” He lets out a dark chuckle, the metal tags hitting your chin with each thrust, letting him use your body as his own personal fuck doll. “Don’t think I'll be able to hold back with you pretty girl”

“U-Use me Sargent” You plead, bringing your legs higher, wrapping around his waist.

“That’s it, such a good girl” He growled, his eyes rolling back a your arousal soaking his length, squirting out of you each time he went deeper, “My nasty girl”

He manhandled you into different positions, no giving a fuck about the neighbors. He yanked you off he bed, keeping his cock in you, pressing you against the wall with no effort, fucking you hard and fast like you were nothing more than a cocksleeve.

“Dancing on me like you’ve never had cock, grinding on me with those fuck me eyes, you wanted this, huh baby”

“Wan-wanted it!” You wailed, nodding while he fucked you dumb, smirking at the way your jaw hung slack, unable to formulate words.

“So cute when you’re dumb with my cock in you baby, I could get used to this”

Something about those words made your stomach flip, thinking about doing this again. Your train of thought was short lived when he moved to the floor to fuck you dirty and nasty, his eyes feral as his hips snapped forward. He went at it all night while you took it, drunk off pleasure, the both of you cumming until the room was drenched with the scent of sex.

He’s so dirty when he cums, moaning and panting, giving you his spend for minutes on end. He pumps you full, using your mouth for when he doesn’t stop leaking, not wanting you to waste a drop.

You scream till your vocal chords are fried, your pussy too sore to even close your legs. You barely notice the cool cloth he wipes you down with, humming softly when you feel him wrap his arms around your trembling body and pulling the covers up.

“Mornin’ sunshine” He drawls out in hat deep, raspy voice, eyes still closed while his cool metal finger traces down your spine. He doesn’t do this often and he certainly never lets anyone spend the night but for some reason he’s reluctant to let you go that easily. You’re so warm and soft and he’s not done with cuddling you; a couple more hours wouldn't hurt. Maybe a coffee. Or dinner.

“Morning soldier” You whisper, feeling a shiver as he presses his soft lips against your bare shoulder, pulling you closer to his chest before softly snoring again. It doesn’t seem like either of you have any plans on getting up soon and you’re both perfectly okay with that.

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wileys-russo · 8 months

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bad dog II a.russo x reader

slight warning for suggestive content?

she just gives off MAD boyfriend vibes in that gif and i won't be convinced otherwise

bad dog II a.russo 4K words

alessia's team mates watched on in amusement as she scanned the stands which were rapidly emptying, arms crossed and eyebrows knitted into a frown when she couldn't find you.

"she's right there less you big dope." ella chuckled pointing out where you were leant against the barrier chatting with your best friend a couple hundred metres away.

alessia's face instantly lit up as ella and leah shared a look, rolling their eyes as leah shoved alessia away, the blonde mumbling she'd see them at training before sprinting across the field toward you.

"incoming, i'll see you for coffee tomorrow. i'd say tell her she had a great game but i don't think her ego needs the boost." your best friend spotted alessia making her way over and teased, kissing your cheek and waving at your girlfriend over your shoulder before heading off.

"hi superstar." you smiled as she neared, the blonde effortlessly jumping over the barrier and returning your smile, pulling you into a bear hug. "that last goal was beautiful!" you mumbled into her chest as the taller girls arms wrapped tightly round you, lifting you up and spinning you around a few times before she put you down on your feet.

"i know it was." the blonde grinned, pressing your body against the barrier with her own as you rolled your eyes at her cockiness. "not as good as millie's but a near second i guess." you teased with a shrug, squealing as she pinched at your sides and took the moment to press her lips to yours.

you knew the comment bothered her more than you intended when she rammed her tongue down your throat, your cheeks flushing bright red at the sudden intensity of the kiss, unable to push her off as she pinned your hands by your side.

she finally pulled away and left you almost gasping for air, your chest heaving as she lazily pecked your lip a few more times and smiled smugly at the dizzying effect she knew she had over you.

"er excuse me mrs and mrs russo some of us didn't sign up to watch the washing machine demo!" ella gagged dramatically, maya turning around to hug herself and pretend to be making out with someone as your blush deepened.

"back off tooney!" alessia noticed your embarrassment and stood up straighter, glaring at her best friend and placing her hand protectively to the small of your back as ella simply pulled a face, the guard dog routine doing nothing to her as she jumped on maya's back, the two of them racing off to the change rooms with the rest of the team.

"that was your fault!" you punched your girlfriends arm with a whine, the blonde not even flinching as she chuckled. "sorry tesoro...or not." before you could even say a word the striker had you hoisted over her shoulder, sprinting off toward the change rooms.

"less put me down!" you couldn't help but laugh and smack at her back, the taller girl ignoring you as she charged into the change rooms, you hanging your head at the teasing's which instantly flew toward the two of you from her friends.

eventually your girlfriend sat you down on the bench in front of her cubby, placing a hand either side of your body and bending down to kiss you with a cheeky smile, pouting as you squished her cheeks and playfully shoved her face away.

though that was replaced with a murderous warning glare as she turned around toward her team mates whose teasing's immediately ceased. ella who was already changed sat down beside you, keeping you company as the two of you chat one anothers ears off whilst alessia disappeared out the back to the showers to change.

you spoke with her team mates and waved goodbye as they all slowly filtered out, exhausted from the mid afternoon match. alessia eventually returned forever taking her time as over half the team had already left, kitted out in a matching brown sweat short and hoodie set.

"thanks babe." the room went dark momentarily, your girlfriends dirty uniform landing on your head as she threw it at you with a grin, you peeling the sweaty clothing off of you and tossing it back at her with an unimpressed glare.

"dog house tonight if you're not careful russo!" maya teased as she grabbed her kit bag, ella barking loudly beside her to rile up her best friend which worked as the taller girl stepped intimidatingly toward them, both girls running off with a laugh out of the room.

"what are you doing?" the blonde sighed and crossed her arms as you pretended to go fishing, throwing an imaginary line toward her. "fishing, you know since you're so easy to wind up and get on the hook." you teased, your girlfriend staring blankly at you before she advanced with a shake of her head.

once again she placed her hands either side of your body, leaning down so her face was level with yours.

"dolcezza if you'd like to be able to walk tomorrow i suggest you stop that." the blonde spoke with the hint of a smile, your face heating up both at her suggestive tone and the italian pet name as your girlfriend pecked your stunned lips grabbimg her kit bag from her cubby behind your head and straightened up, leaving you reeling from just a few words.

"alessia!" you snapped out of it and cried out in disgust as she now dropped her dirty socks on you, throwing them into the corner as she only grinned again, acting as if she hadn't just sent you into a spin with a mere sentence.

"god you're like a teenage boy, grow up." you huffed as you stood to your feet, her arm draping over your shoulder and pulling you into her side as she walked the two of you out of the stadium and to her car. "you love it." was all she replied, dropping her sunglasses down onto her face with a smirk.

"don't forget we promised your parents we would have dinner with them tonight." you reminded as your girlfriend dumped her kit in the boot, opening your door for you and you heard her groan from outside after she'd closed it.

"did we really?" alessia sighed, dropping into her seat and closing her own door as you hummed, flipping down the sun shade and opening the mirror, fixing your ponytail.

"yes we did. i don't see the issue baby you love your family, and you made me lie about being sick last time so we didn't have to go, so don't even try it." you flashed her a smile as she revved her engine into gear.

"being needy isn't a good enough excuse to no show either." you smiled knowingly, snatching her sunglasses and placing them on, well aware that was the main reason your blonde lover was hesitant.

for days now you'd had to dodge her advances given it had been that time of the month, and somewhat selfishly you'd also refrained from helping her out, repeatedly telling her that if you had to miss out so did she, much to her ongoing frustrations that the most you'd allow her was a passionate kiss and a dry hump followed by a clumsy feel over the top of your shirt before it was quickly shut down.

"alessia!" you groaned as the older girl reached over and tugged your hair out after you'd fussed over it, sending her a dirty look as she grabbed her sunglasses back, sliding them onto her nose with a wink and pulling out of the car park, heading for her parents house instead of her own flat.

"-i've got two more exams and then graduation is next month." you smiled at carol who smacked your knee in congratulations, pulling you into a tight hug. "you think she'll realise she's out of your league once she's got a full on degree?" gio bent down to mutter in his younger sisters ear.

"slumming it with a footballer...and an ugly one at that." he continued with a tut, alessia clenching her fists and launching off the sofa with a yell, racing after him as you watched on with an amused shake of your head.

"sometimes its like they never left." carol sighed also watching on with the hint of a smile as alessia clung onto her older brothers back, arm around his neck trying to choke him out as the taller boy furiously struggled to shake her off, alessia admittedly a lot stronger than he anticipated.

"less! get off him please." you called out, sending the blonde a firm look as she opened her mouth to protest, gio's face almost turning blue as he gasped and alessia jumped off him, punching him in the stomach as he doubled over before returning to your side with an innocent smile.

her other brother luca made a whipping noise with his mouth and hands, his wife lauren nudging him with a stern look as alessia sent him a filthy glare and you placed your hand on her knee with a gentle squeeze.

"down girl." you teased quietly, pecking her cheek as her arm stretched itself across the back of your shoulders. "lessi sit like a lady please, for god sakes!" carol clicked her tongue in dissaproval with a shake of her head, kicking at your girlfriends manspread legs, the blonde rolling her eyes and crossing them, watching her mum disappear into the other room before returning right back to her former position, tugging your own legs to lay across her lap.

dinner went by quickly, alessia settling a lot more as her brothers finally laid off their relentless teasing, too engrossed in filling their plates and mouth with food. she busied herself discussing the upcoming first match of the champions league with her dad as you caught up with lauren, not having seen her or luca since they'd been on their honeymoon.

"god i think i'm too full to breathe." alessia exhaled as she collapsed into the sofa, pulling you down to sit on her knee. "why don't you both just stay here tonight love? your rooms the exact same way you left it and you can just drive home tomorrow." carol offered and you accepted before your girlfriend could decline, alessia's brothers beginning their routine argument over what movie everyone was to watch.

"no! elio get down." alessia commanded strictly, shoving off the dopey chocolate labrador as he jumped up on the sofa beside her. "you're so mean. come here baby!" you cooed, grinning as the dog jumped on top of you, alessia grunting at the added weight as you leaned back into her more still sat on her lap, the dog trying to lick at your face.

"dad i thought you were training him!" alessia groaned, the dog their newest addition to the family as mario tried to call him off. "i am! but he's just like giorgio, doesn't listen." the man grinned at his youngest son who was out of earshot, engaged in a furious round of rock paper scissors with luca over the movie choice.

"get off elio! don't call him back." alessia reached around and shoved the dog off of you, warning you firmly as you rolled your eyes and continued to make faces at the dog who sat eagerly by your feet.

"seems he listens to someone." lauren laughed as elio dropped at your order, eagerly doing whatever you asked as you grinned, your girlfriend shaking her head with a sigh, glaring at the dog over your shoulder as all your attention was now on him and off of her.

"get home safe, let me know once you've arrived!" carol called out as you all waved luca and lauren off, and with a honk they were gone into the night, everyone else exchanging goodnight's and making ways to their separate rooms.

"i'll make breakfast for you both in the morning, don't you dare leave before i have!" carol warned playfully as you agreed with a laugh, hugging both alessia's parents and shoving gio who ruffled your hair and sprinted off to his room before alessia could pounce on him again.

you had barely stepped foot into your girlfriends teenage room, fondly glancing around at the pictures of her childhood and adolescence scattered around her walls before her arms wrapped around you, pushing you into her dresser.

"finally." the blonde breathed out with a grin, wasting no time in kissing the life out of you as you tangled your hands in her hair, her own hands roaming your body and squeezing at every slit of skin she could find.

"i need to change! and your parents are right down the hall." you shoved her away from you as her hands toyed with the waistband of your jeans, knowing what normally came next as you took a moment to steady yourself.

"sit on the bed please." your girlfriend ordered, pecking your lips and nudging for you to move as you did so and she rifled through her dresser drawers, always having some clothes kept here for when things like this would happen and she'd wind up staying over.

stealing another kiss she handed you an old man united shirt. "can i get some shorts please?" you asked as she shook her head. "no you may not." the blonde smiled, tapping your bum cheekily and disappearing to the bathroom as you rolled your eyes but changed. the height difference between the two of you meant the shirt hung down just above your knees as you folded your other clothes and placed them neatly on her desk.

you soon joined her in the bathroom, the blonde having stayed in her shorts from before but ditching her hoodie, leaving her just in the shorts and a sports bra as she brushed her teeth.

"no." alessia held your toothbrush out of reach as you grabbed for it, already having put toothpaste on it for you. "less i can brush my own teeth!" you laughed as she firmly shook her head and continued to hold it out of your reach before you gave in with a sigh.

"oi!" you smacked at her bare stomach as she purposefully missed, swiping toothpaste on your nose as you grabbed her toothbrush where it hung from her mouth and did the same, the two of you brushing one another's teeth with childish grins, poking and pinching at one another with your free hands as you did.

rinsing out your mouths and exchanging a minty kiss you left your girlfriend to use the toilet and returned to her room. the temperature quite pleasant you settled yourself on top of the covers of the neatly made bed, flicking on the tv and logging into your netflix.

your girlfriend soon joined you, switching off her main light and turning on her lamp before promptly belly flopping herself down on top of you. you laughed as she pressed sloppy kisses all over your face before settling.

"what do you want to watch baby?" you asked her quietly, pressing a kiss to her head before she grabbed the remote from your hand, tossing it wordlessly over her shoulder and hovering over you.

"you." she grinned cheekily, settling herself on top of you. "come here." the blonde ordered, balling your shirt in her fists and pressing her mouth to yours as your hands grabbed her bare back, tracing your nails lightly down her spine making her grind slightly against you.

your tongues fought for dominance before hers of course won, slipping into your mouth as her hand grabbed your neck and deepened the kiss even further. the striker biting down suddenly on your bottom lip and tugging it into her mouth you gasped slightly and your hips bucked up against her, the girl pushing down with her hips and pressing your body flat to the bed.

"what happened to 'i'm so full i can hardly breathe!" you mocked her with a grin as she switched her lips to your neck, peppering light kisses across your jaw and shivering as your nails dug in deeper, leaving the tanned skin of her back with little half moon shaped dents littered across it.

"i'm hungry for something else now." your girlfriend whispered sultrily as she tugged on your earlobe with her teeth, slipping her leg in between yours and nudging them apart slightly, your eyes fluttering closed in bliss as she took her time kissing at your neck.

though the bliss was short lived as she nipped at the column of your throat, sucking harshly at the love bite as you let out a needy whine and she continued on her path, marking across your neck like her own personal map.

your mind reeling and body burning for her touch you suddenly pushed her off of you, moving to now straddle her as the taller girl smirked, sitting up a little more and gripping your behind, pulling your body in closer as you now buried your face in her neck and she grabbed a fistful of your hair in her other hand.

though her own pleasure was short lived as suddenly the door swung open and gio's hand appeared, letting go of elio's collar and calling out it was alessia's turn to have him for the night.

before she could even open her mouth a bundle of brown fur barreled into the two of you, effectively knocking you back down to the bed as the puppy pounced on top of you.

"oh my god get out elio!" alessia grunted angrily, chest heaving and the ache worsening between her legs as she grabbed at the dogs collar, letting go in surprise as he growled at her.

"don't you do that to me!" alessia warned sternly, the dog sitting himself down beside you and growling anytime alessia tried to reach for him.

"for fuck sakes!" the blonde swore, dragging her hands down her face with frustration as you couldn't help but smile, having had no intention of letting her have her way with you with her parents and brother just down the hall anyway.

"baby call him off! he listens to you." the blonde pouted, crossing her arms stroppily over her chest and glaring at the puppy, eyebrows knitted together in a frown.

"but he's so cute, look at that face." you cooed, scratching behind the labs ears who melted at your touch, quite the opposite to alessia. "but what about what we were..." the taller girl trailed off suggestively as the dog laid down, resting its head on your leg.

"you weren't getting much more than that my love, we are in your parents house." you smiled knowingly, offence flashing across her features as she huffed.

"then why did you agree for us to stay here!" "because i like spending time with your family." "well no wonder, you're their favorite now." "aw sorry golden girl, stole your thunder and your desired happy ending tonight did i?"

"you're going the right way for a smacked ass." alessia warned, leaning in to try and kiss you as elio suddenly sat up, licking at her face as she exclaimed in disgust and pulled away.

"i will ask you again, what do you want to watch baby?" you grinned, shuffling down to grab the remote from the end of the bed as alessia let out a deep exhale, mumbling she was going to the bathroom and didn't care.

you chuckled at her sour mood and flicked through a few movies before settling on something funny, elio moving to lay down beside you. you clicked play as the striker eventually returned, pout still ingrained on her features as she glared at the puppy beside you and flicked off the lamp, the room now lit only by the blue glow of her tv.

"aw c'mere stroppy." you cooed to the taller girl who huffed but again laid down on top of you, burying her face in your neck and shoving away elio as he tried to do the same. "mine." the girl turned her head to the side and glared at the puppy.

"baby you're not seriously jealous of a dog are you?" you smiled as she rested her chin on your sternum, piercing blue orbs luring you in. "you barely paid me a second thought once you realised you were dog trainer of the year." the blonde mumbled moodily, feeling your body vibrate underneath her taller form as you cupped her face.

"you're my favorite dog to train lessi, don't worry." you assured sarcastically, teasingly scratching behind her ear and patting her head as she grabbed at your hands and bit the tip of your finger affectionately.

"i maintain you're going the right way for a smacked ass and you better wait till we're home." the girl threatened grumpily as you leant forward to kiss her nose, heart melting as she scrunched up her face.

"oh you're so cute." you smiled softly, knowing she detested the word as she sighed, collapsing her head into your chest tiredly. "go to sleep baby." you encouraged gently, tangling your hand in her hair and scratching at her scalp as she exhaled deeply, nodding as you lowered the volume of the tv.

"i love you." she mumbled out tiredly, lulling off at the repetative scratching of your nails against her scalp, your other hand wrapping around her and rubbing comforting circles on her bare back.

"i love you more." you promised sincerely, your head dropping deeper into the pillow behind your bed as your girlfriend adjusted herself on top of you so she was more comfortable, arms slipping up your top and resting on your stomach as her eyes fluttered close.

but not before one eye slipped open and she glared at the pair of eyes from the canine on your other side.

"bad dog."

#woso x reader #woso fanfics #alessia russo x reader #alessia russo #woso #engwnt #woso imagine #woso blurbs

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one-idea · 4 months

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Can someone please do a retelling of one piece from Wado Ichimonji’s perspective.

Because Zoro talks to his swords and whenever someone gives them personality I love it.

For generations Wado was stuck at a dojo as a guard and that’s great but then Kuina comes around and starts dreaming of more. She has the skill to becomes something more then a dojo owner and Wado can feel it. Adventure is coming.

But then Kuina dies.

And the dream is over. Wado is going to stay as a guard for this dojo for years to come.

Except that crazy kid, the one who liked to fight Kuina. The one whose first day at the dojo grabbed as many swords as he could hold because THAT was a good fighting style. Is begging Wado’s old master to GIVE him Wado Ichimonji. And there is a prideful part of Wado that wonders how the kid dares because she belongs to the Shimotsuki clan. Not this no name orphan. But then Zoro declares his dream.

To become the worlds strongest swordsman and make the heaven know his AND Kuina’s name.

And ya he’s crazy but in the best way. And Wado Ichimonji decides it wants to go with him. She wants to see what this little no name can become. Because in the moment he declares his dream she believes him.

So there partnership starts but Zoro still needs to prove himself. Wado never fails him as a blade and Zoro grows stronger developing his skill. By the time Zoro sets out Wado adores her idiot son.

Now if only he could get her some appropriate company. If he’s going to insist on using three blades (she is more then enough and could bring him to the top on her own just fine thank you very much) he could at least get her some higher grade swords to talk to. But so far they are so low level they can’t even communicate with her.

But that will come with time. At least they’ve left the dojo.

But Zoro, despite his skill and passion, is terrible at directions and they are lost. (It takes her a long time to admit to herself that her son is directionless, she is a prideful sword and she is very proud of him)

And then comes their lowest moment. When that sniveling brat stole her and her companions from Zoro and tied her boy up in the yard like a dog. How dare he! How dare he attempt to wield her (I love Helmeppo trying to wield Wado in opla) this is degrading, where is Zoro!?!

Then this kid comes in. And at first she ignores him because, he’s not Zoro😠 but then the boy is grabbing her and her companions, and how dare he! But then he says something about Zoro, but there’s no way Zoro sent this boy to come get them. And now they boy is taking them somewhere and Wado’s not sure what is worst, the blond who doesn’t know how to wield them or this boy who barly knows how to carry them.

But the kid takes her back to Zoro! The kid saves Zoro’s life! And for that she can be thankful. Except the kid instantly turns around and blackmails Zoro. And how dare he! Zoro is her swordsman. They will not bow to such a boy. But Zoro agrees.

Wado knows Zoro is an honorable swordsman and won’t go back on his word. But really, this boy is their captain?

And sure it’s fun to fight next to him. And he believes in Zoro’s dream, in their goal. (And has anyone ever believed in Zoro besides her?) and he’s got his own crazy dream. Maybe, the boy isn’t so bad. He did return her to Zoro, and saved her boy. Maybe having this boy as their captain will be a good thing?

Zoro seems to like him. And the captain has done what she couldn’t for Zoro. He put him on a path to his dream. So ya Wado decides pretty quickly that she likes the captain.

The navigator is obviously hiding something. Wado’s been around for a long time and she knows the girl is hiding something from the boys. Zoro knows to but he’s not willing to push, not when the captain isn’t.

The sniper is silly. Wado likes him. She hopes he becomes stronger soon but she like him. The captain smiles around him and he makes Zoro laugh. Nothing else matters.

At the Baratie they met Mihawk. And Wado is ready. She knows her master is strong. This is their goal. Their dream. And while she didn’t think they would get here so soon, she’ll have to thank Captain for that, she’s ready to face their destiny.

The captain doesn’t stop them, and for that he earns her loyalty because he believes in Zoro just as much as she does.

But the unthinkable happens. They lose. And Zoro is hurt. (Never mind the death of her two companions they weren’t talkers anyhow, her boy is hurt!)

But then Zoro his drawling her again. And for a moment she fears her idiot will try to fight again. Instead he makes and oath upon her blade. To never lose again until he becomes the world’s greatest swordsman. And he makes this oath to the king of the pirates. Their captain.

And from that moment Wado knows two things, they will defeat Mihawk, and Monkey D. Luffy is their king. And Zoro and Wado will defend him like one. What ever he needs his swords will do. For Zoro is the sword of the pirate king and Wado Ichimonji is Zoro’s sword.

The first test is Arlong park. Wado Ichimonji enjoys cutting the fish man down. They hurt the navigator. Zoro cares for the navigator. And their king wants her own their crew. So they will remove any obstacle in the way of what their king wants.

She meets the cook for the first time at Arlong park. At least it’s the first time she’s paid attention to him. She can admit he’s an excellent fighter. But something about him grates on her. And she can tell that Zoro feels much the same as her. There’s nothing wrong with him per say. She’s just can’t wrap her head around the idea of a human not fighting with their hands.

Making it to Lodgetown brings with it the opportunity for new swords (because Zoro still insists on using three) and this is where Wado meets her worst nightmare.

Sandai Kitetsu.

#wado ichimonji #shimotsuki kuina #monkey d. luffy #one piece #straw hat pirates #roronoa zoro #one piece zolu #zolu #Sandai Kitetsu #Wado Ichimonji’s pov au

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unreliablesnake · 4 months

Text

Big reputation (Simon Riley x reader)

Summary: You got injured on the field and now Ghost feels bad. Well, maybe it's not just guilt...

Note: The people have spoken. Soft!Ghost. Fluff. Short story.

In your previous team you managed to enrage a general that you shouldn’t have, and apparently kicking you out of your comfortable position was his way of punishing you. So now you came to meet your new team at the base, already having ideas of who’s who based on rumors circulating in the military.

There was Price who was fair and relatively calm, Gaz who was loyal to the fault and was a surprisingly nice guy in general once he warmed up to you, and you couldn’t forget about Soap–whose call sign you found utterly ridiculous–who was a big mouthed but reportedly funny Scotsman.

And then there was Ghost, the man who was a mystery to most. No one has seen his face from the people you talked to about the team, and you had a feeling you wouldn’t get to see it either. But that was okay. Him being a big and scary guy wearing a skull mask that every single person was terrified of was more than enough to make you cautious around him.

Fast forward to four months later, when Ghost became your shadow after a fucked up mission where you got hurt. It happened under his watch so he was probably blaming himself, but he never really gave you a reason why he was always near you. Soap was the one who mentioned him possibly feeling guilty, and since you had no better idea, you believed it to be true.

The big scary guy didn’t seem so scary anymore. He was more like a loyal guard dog that followed you everywhere and scared off people you didn't want to be around.

“You should go to bed, it’s late,” he said one evening after a briefing.

It was only the two of you in the room, everyone had left already, but he was going through some reports before taking them to Price. You let out a sigh and leaned forward to rest your elbows on your thighs as you observed him. He had left the room before, but after it emptied and it was only you in there, he came back with the files. Out of nowhere. Without a warning. He mumbled something about needing a quiet place, but that was a terrible excuse considering he had his room to go to.

For some reason he glanced over at you every once in a while, watching you as if there was something he wanted to say to you. But every time your eyes met, he returned his attention to the papers in front of him. He didn’t speak up and you weren’t about to bother him with questions. Ghost was usually pissed if someone asked too many questions, this is how Soap got burned a few times in the past.

Then something changed. He closed the folder and turned his attention to you again, this time not shying away from making it obvious he was staring. You raised an eyebrow in question, hoping he would say something, but he remained silent. With a groan you stood up and walked over to him, gently pushing the folder away so you could sit on the edge of the desk next to the lieutenant.

His hand inched closer, just enough to let his little finger brush your thigh. “It’s late,” he repeated his previous statement.

“I’m not sleepy,” you replied with a shrug. “Why have you been watching me like this? Did I do something wrong?”

“No.”

“Then?”

Ghost sighed under the mask and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He was toying with it for a few moments, his eyes focused on the item instead of you. “You’re causing me quite a few sleepless nights, Rabid,” he muttered as he pulled out a cigarette from the box. He called you by the nickname that awful general had given you a few months back, and you knew he never did that without a good reason.

What were you supposed to say to that? I’m sorry? No, that wouldn’t be right. So you chose to be careful with your next words. “You can’t sleep?” you asked him, genuinely interested.

“Not when all I can think about is you and what I’ve done to you,” he replied quietly.

“Why, what have you done to me?”

He shook his head, mumbled something like ‘fuck it’, then pulled his mask to his nose and lit the cigarette. You couldn’t help but smile at the thought of him getting in trouble for this. Price would be angry, because he believed if he could refrain from lighting a cigar indoors, so could others. So now that Ghost was inhaling the smoke with closed eyes, you didn’t know what to do or say. He would eventually speak up, right?

Just when you were beginning to think he wouldn’t talk to you, his amber eyes landed on you and he said, “I sent you in there. You got hurt because of me.”

Soap had been right, he really did blame himself. Interesting. “Ghost, that wasn’t your fault,” you assured him. “Shit happens, it comes with the job. Don’t blame yourself.”

His free hand moved to take yours in his, and his long, thick, and gloved fingers wrapped around it gently. “I’m not blaming myself for you getting hurt, I know it comes with the job. I just can’t stop thinking about the what ifs. What if you died? What if you got so injured you would be discharged from the force? What if you were mad at me? What if you left me behind?” This last one made you raise an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you haven’t considered this after what happened,” he told you.

“Never thought about leaving you behind,” you admitted. “You would mind? If I left and we never met again, I mean.”

Instead of answering, he raised your hand to his lips. “You and me… That would be quite a conversation, wouldn’t it? With your reputation and mine… Well,” he said, and you could see the shining in his eyes that gave away he was smiling.

It took you a minute to realize he was talking about the two of you being in a romantic relationship. He was right, this would be huge. You were also a lieutenant, he wasn’t your superior, but people feared you both for different reasons. Ghost was… Ghost. All he had to do was stare at someone for five seconds and they would run away screaming. You, on the other hand, were feared because you were unpredictable. One wrong word and you would be at the poor bastard’s throat.

So yeah. If there was anything to know, people wouldn’t shut up about it. You wondered if he was aware of the bets recruits were making about you. If there was anyone from base you slept with, it would be Ghost according to most of them. Maybe they were right. Maybe that was bound to happen. But maybe Ghost was taking part in the bet for fun.

“I don’t care about that bet,” he suddenly spoke up. You were terrified for a moment since you had no idea how he figured out what you were just talking about. “I care about you. Would you mind if I kissed you?”

You were too stunned to respond, all you could think about was the fact he dared to ask you this. You weren’t that close, not with him keeping a comfortable distance all the time. “Right now? Yeah, I would mind. Let’s just get to know each other first, yeah? Maybe over a drink.”

Ghost placed a soft kiss on your hand. “Anything you want,” he told you with a smile before pulling down the mask and getting rid of the remains of his cigarette.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #mw2 #call of duty #modern warfare #mw3

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thegnomelord · 4 months

Note

I REALLY LOVE THE STRAIGHTFOWARD WEREWOLVES SOAP. OMG. Its just really funny in my head, imagine the way soap would act so shameless around the reader, uncaring about the stare he got because thats just how they are! The werewolves race with their no-shit and unfiltered attitude, and oh if they take interest in you, prepare your heart especially if you has a weak one; because surely they'll cling their every waking moment with you, sniffing every spots of you that they can reach. Absurd yet endearing flirtiratios compliments would hurled at you, catching you off guard cause they just come out of nowhere. Baring their fangs at potential rivals, worst case scenario if its their own race, because they can and will get violent, best calmed the werewolves down before anything awful happened. Just a thing between werewolves to prove which one is the stronger and more qualified, whose more worthy of your love, in their point of view.

If you have the time can you make a short fic, it would be the highlight of my life for weeks!!

Okay yes but also because I love needy clingy pathetic Soap too much lol

CW: NSFW, gn reader, grinding, somnophillia, quick and rough.

You've noticed that Soap has started to act. . . strange.

He's started trying to feed you all types of stuff, mostly meat, seeking you out at all times of the day. You'll see him go out to the woods and come back with some large animal, and an hour later he'll be coming to you with a plate of food and a 'Kiss the cook' apron on (every time you have to bite back from drawing attention to the fact the arrows point down to his dick). "Hey, need that wonderful mouth of yer's to try this out." He says, watching with rapt attention as you try his food, taking every critique with a wagging tail.

And if you like his food, oh, there's a giant grin spreading across his face. "Yeah, ye like that?" He comes closer, the plate in your hands forcing distance between you two. "Reckon this cook should get a reward." He's already stepping around to press his chest flush with your back before he can finish his sentence, and you don't have the heart to stop him because the food is mouth watering and he's just scenting you, even if the occasional flick of his tongue against your nape makes you shiver. (You, again, try not to draw attention to a hard bulge grinding into your ass)

That's the other thing. He's gotten really clingy.

He's always been clingy with all the team members, nuzzling his cheek against Gaz, whining like a kicked puppy when pushes him away with a hand on his face, tail wagging as he scents Price. Usually he's satisfied after he's done scenting the lads in your team, happy to continue with his business.

But with you. . .

You can't even sit on the couch for five seconds before his burly body is snuggling up to you, taking his seat in your lap like he owns it, like he's a lap dog. Doesn't even excuse himself before his hands are groping your biceps as he nuzzles your neck. "Aye, yer so hoht," He purrs, full body rubbing against you. "Could use ye fer a blanket on cold nights." You don't know how to feel about that, his words causing your mind to stutter long enough for him to replace the scents lingering on you with his own.

And when someone enters to find you like this, he doesn't even throw them a glance, gripping onto you like a koala and all you can do is mouth a 'help me'. Doesn't work though, as the second he senses someone is getting near he's growling like a monster truck's engine, glaring at the poor sod with his face still stuck in your neck.

Or, if you're busy with something, he'll saddle up to you, ears perked up. "Oi, bonnie, hold som'ting fer me." He'll whine, tugging on your arm until you sigh.

"Fine, just give it here." You growl, holding out your arm, still concentrated on what you're doing.

Next thing you know you're cupping his jaw, his head resting on your hand. "Anyone ever tell ye, yer got perfect hands te grope with?" Johnny grins at you, that one snaggletooth fang pinching his lip, using your confusion to rub the scent glands in his cheeks against your palm, making sure you smell like him.

You shake out of your stupor and pull your hand back, resisting giving in when he gives you such a heartbroken whine. "No, Johnny." You growl and shoo him away, but he still manages to brush his tail against your leg.

You make the mistake to fall asleep on the communal couch after a grueling day of training recruits. When Johnny finds you, his nose immediately trying to get a whiff of your scent, he growls when he can barely get traces of it beneath the smell of dirt and sweat and way too many people when the only scent you should have on you is his. His inner wolf growls along with him, his ears pricking up straight, staring at your sleeping form.

He's more than happy to rectify your mistake.

He lays on top of you, purring happily to himself when you don't even shift. "Good mate," He hums to himself, wrapping around you like a blanket, face buried in your neck once again. His hands slide beneath your shirt, making him pant into your skin from the sensation of your muscles beneath his hands. He moves his body slowly, seeking to have as much skin contact as he can, mouth watering and angel bells ringing in his skull at how he can taste his scent replacing everyone else's on your skin.

He doesn't notice when he starts to nibble on your neck, but it's the sensible next move, what better way to keep competition away than let everyone know you're taken? Johnny's marks bloom across your throat as he sucks hickeys into your skin, his wolf and himself standing on common ground to make sure you're covered in his marks.

He pulls back his head to look at his work and groans, cock immediately hardening in his pants from you covered in his marks. His hips gain a life of their own, thighs gripping your own as he grinds down, already half drunk on your scent.

You wake up to find his hot breath fanning over your face, the sensation of something hard grinding against your leg dissipating any residual drowsiness. "Johnny, what the fuck?" You ask, voice rough from sleep, only now registering his weight on top of you.

"'m sorry bonnie," Johnny whines, burying his face into your neck to muffle his whining. "Just- hah- needed ye."

You grumble, but you can't hide the way heat burns through your veins at the sight of him, his face flushed, claws gripping you like you'll disappear, desperately humping against your leg.

"I can see that." You say, tensing your thigh to give aid him in his grinding, your eyes growing wide at the loud moan that escapes him, like he's a whore on camera.

"Oh, shite, thank ye, thank ye, thank ye-" He whines, his humping growing faster, butterflies fluttering in his stomach at the way you hadn't pushed him away, that you're accepting his advances, muttering 'mate' under his breath as he chases after his orgasm.

He cums before either one of you knows it, a dark stain forming in his pants as he bites down and groans into your neck. You grunt, but Soap's quick to release your skin and lap at the aching spots with his tongue, soothing the pain.

"'m sorry bonnie." He mumbles, cock still hard in his pants, his wolfish eyes settling on you. Shame nibbles on his stomach for cumming so fast when he can't smell a lot of arousal on you, his wolf growling at him to show you how good he can be.

You jump when his hand slides down to grip your crotch roughly, his pupils dilating at the way a small moan slips past your lips. "Lemme make it up fer ye yeah?"

#gnome's tea break #gnome correspondence #cod mw2 #x reader #trinkets from the hoard #john soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #monster cod au #monster 141 au #soap x reader #gn reader

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kaurwreck · 7 months

Text

If you're considering when Dazai noticed Chuuya wasn't a vampire, keep in mind that if Chuuya were a vampire, he wouldn't have killed the guards in Meursault. He would have turned them into more vampires.

Also, if you think that it cheapens the scene in which Dazai drowns Fyodor and Chuuya for Dazai to have known Chuuya was human: it doesn't. Regardless of whether Dazai knew Chuuya would survive (he did; see his explanation of how he would kill Chuuya in Fifteen, the light novel, and further how he approached Verlaine in Storm Bringer):

Imagine how fucking miserable it must have been to do that to someone he loves and trusts. Imagine how difficult for Dazai to lean into and trust Chuuya to be okay, not only after Dazai drowned him, but in such close proximity to Fyodor, whose ability is touch-based. Imagine Dazai recalling that when he was 16, his botched timing meant that Chuuya was tortured. Imagine Dazai reminding himself that Chuuya suffered then because Dazai didn't trust him, didn't let him in on what he was doing, thought only he could pull the strings up until he was too late— and yet Chuuya remained okay anyway. Imagine Dazai considering how time and time again he's received Chuuya's unadulterated trust and choosing to reciprocate with unequivocal faith. Imagine Dazai being unable to express any of this to Chuuya typically, except for in moments when the demands of the circumstances and Chuuya's inability to respond together loosen his inhibitions and his tongue.

Further, usually when Dazai's batshit machinations are exposed, his eyes flatten, his voice slickens into condescension, and he palpably slips into a version of himself that even unnerved Mori. But, in Twilight Goodbye/ep 61, Dazai's eyes were honeyed and light, his voice playful, and his mannerisms bright and animated. Those were not his typical machinations, because rather than attempt to control the variables, which he admitted he couldn't, he responded to what happened as it unfolded, and trusted those he loved to do the same.

He trusted Chuuya, Chuuya trusted him. Because of that, everything was okay. It's not cheap that Chuuya was never a vampire, nor would it be cheap if Dazai knew as soon as Chuuya tore through Meursault that he wasn't really a vampire. Angst is not the source of Bungou Stray Dogs' intensity; hope, faith, and love are, and they're just as heady.

#bungou stray dogs #soukoku #bsd chuuya #bsd dazai #bsd spoilers #twilight goodbye #bsd season 5 #bsd anime #anyway tired of seeing takes that discount how euphoric this reveal was #because i've spent the last several weeks dizzy over how much dazai has grown as a character #bsd meta

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weretheones · 1 year

Text

To The Bone

Plot: You can’t stop shivering and Daryl can’t sleep. (Season 2-3 interim)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Word Count:  1.2k (I can't believe I wrote something this short)

A/N: it has been so cold lately, hence this small, barely proof-read fic. I hope it gives u some warmth :*

———————————————————————————

The farm fell and winter came.

There wasn’t a moment more heartbreaking to lose your home. Where the walls that fostered generations of Greenes would’ve warmed your heart, the cold and sprawling forest took their place.

Some nights the walls of a different home kept you warm. Homes that once belonged to people you would never know, absolute strangers that were just gone; dead or lost.

Tonight was not one of those nights.

Tonight, there were no strangers whose pictures still lined the walls— because there weren’t any walls. Only the forest and a small fire. Barely embers.

“They might see.”

Rick’s voice echoed in your head frequently these days. An hour wouldn’t pass before he had another demand to make. His last, before patrolling the camp’s boarders with T-Dog and Daryl, was to keep the fire down. Since the incident with Randall’s group and the herd that ripped through the farm, you had a pretty good guess who they were; the living and the dead. A fester of fear and exhaustion lodged in the back of your throat the night you lost the farm, and it’d kept you in line with Rick’s order since.

The fire was nothing but a soft glow. Enough light to see the colour of the fallen leaves beside your head, but that was it. No warmth and certainly no comfort was found in the glowing ashes.

Your shivering had started an hour ago and despite your best efforts to curl under the scratchy blanket, the damp floor of the forest chilled you to the bone. The others had fallen asleep by now, lulled by the aches of exhaustion and the body heat of their closest family, and if you hadn’t spent an extra hour on guard duty, you were sure Lori would’ve pulled you in alongside her and Carl. But the constant worries in your mind kept you awake and alert— so your guard shifts lingered longer and longer with each night, and by the time you retreated, your ‘bed’ for the night was only yours.

Months ago, when the farmhouse had been packed with suitcases and sleeping bags, you would’ve cherished the space. That was before the empty air became cold and bitter, biting at whatever slivers of exposed skin it could find.

Now, being alone felt almost like another type of fight. A struggle to just get through the night without catching frostnip.

There were footsteps ahead of you. It took a moment too long to register it— blame the exhaustion— but when you had, your mind was awake again. Light and calculated, they avoided the crunch of crisp fallen leaves like they knew the forest floor off by heart.

Daryl.

You knew it even before your eyes peeked open. Fighting against the weight of your eyelids, you narrowly watched his shadowy frame sneak through the sleeping bodies of your people, until he moved around the fire and behind you. Your eyes shut again and you listened for the soft rustle of him laying down a blanket.

Another shiver hit and your muscles clenched.

Beyond the clatter of your teeth, a second or two passed in silence. Eventually, your shiver subsided and your body relaxed again, but your jaw was still stiff from the frigid air. You yanked the blanket up further, covering you up to your red-tipped nose, and waited for the tension to pass.

Something touched your shoulder— a hand— and your head snapped to the side. It was Daryl, crouched behind you.

“’S jus’ me,” he mumbled.

“What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer.

In one swoop, he draped his blanket onto yours and laid down on his side beside you.

“Come ‘ere,” his voice was low. Not only quiet but soft, like he was worried it might break if he spoke any louder.

The blanket helped initially, you felt an extra layer of coziness engulf you, but when he finally moved closer...

It was almost instant, the way your body melted into his.

So tender and whole that every bit of you that had frozen from the constant death and heartbreak cracked open. It’d been months since you felt even a hint of comfort, since you’d even been touched beyond Maggie’s supportive hand at your shoulder. The way you curled into him was almost instinct; your nerves, once turned to ice, finally thawed again and felt.

Against your better wishes, your voice shuddered, “Are you sure?”

His arm snaked around you, pulling you closer by the waist.

“Can’t sleep with your teeth clatterin’ so loud.”

You huffed a breath, huddling your shaky fingers closer to your lips to catch a moment of the hot air. Even with his body heat sinking into your skin, your body was still stiff with the last effects of the chill, and you shivered once more.

He moved you— you couldn’t register where his hands touched specifically, but there were spots of heat up your arms and around your shoulders, like the touch of his skin was separated by thick gloves instead of the thin sweater you wore. You vaguely registered how cold your skin must’ve been for the sensation of his touch to be so numbed. Without any protest, nor much thought, you followed his directions, guiding you deeper into him. Even if it hadn’t been for that pesky crush of yours making you a willing listener of the man, his body heat alone was enough to convince you entirely. As long as you never had to feel that cold and disheartened again, you’d do whatever he asked. His hands stopped moving when you were facing him, forehead touching his chest and face almost completely hidden under the blanket.

Save those big, beautiful eyes that you looked up at him with.

“Thank you,” your voice was smothered under the thick fabric, but he knew what you meant from your stare alone.

He mumbled something, but you barely heard it, finding distraction in the way his chest rumbled with the effort— or the quick pound of his heart.

Daryl wasn’t particularly known as an affectionate man, hell, the stories you’d heard of his interactions with Merle sounded more like resentment than love. And for a while there, when he pulled away after Sophia, you wondered if he knew love existed beyond what his brother defined it as.

His pounding heart made sense, then. A life of inexperience didn’t give him the necessary bravado for sudden, almost intimate, contact with a person he only met a few months ago. No matter how necessary it might’ve been with the dropping temperature, holding you in his embrace seemed like an understandable source of nerves.

The feeling along your back, the slow rub of his thumb down your spine, became less fuzzy as your skin warmed up. By the time you lost your last chill, his heart slowed to a steady pace, and you could even feel the way he’d chewed his nail down to the edge through your shirt.

Thump.

When you inhaled, the air was still cold, but it was tolerable.

Thump.

His heat sunk into you, deeper with every beat of his heart.

Thump.

Daryl held you throughout his sleep. You weren’t sure how inviting your body could have been after hours of lonely shivers, but he held you closer and closer as the night passed.

Perhaps he just needed a little comfort, too.

———————————————————————————

A/N: if daryl was ooc in this... no he wasn’t <3

also-- not sure if I should put a read more on this or not bc its so short... please lmk if it was taking up too much room in the tags/on ur dash :)

if you’re reading this, thank you! I hope you enjoyed this fic. please feel free to leave feedback, it helps so much and I love to read it. have a lovely day <3

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x reader #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon / reader #daryl / reader #daryl dixon x you #The Walking Dead #twd fanfiction #Norman Reedus #daryl dixon imagine #norman reedus imagine #twd #madi writes

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358jours · 1 year

Text

Yanqing x GN!Reader⎢But I’m so ‘eepy

Word Count⎢1300

Genre/Tags⎢SFW, fluff, Reader is a big introvert and is sleep deprived, shopping dates, PDA, written and posted before game launch⎢Crossposted on AO3

You stifle another yawn as Yanqing drags you around. You’re holding hands, fingers laced together. He walks ahead of you, loud joy in his steps. He’s almost always sporting a smile in public, but the happiness radiating off of him right now is something else. He forced you out of your room today, and though you love his presence, your social battery can only last so long. At this point, you’re practically dead weight he’s carrying on his own.

Yanqing is an energetic young man, extroverted, optimistic, though perhaps a bit naive. He enjoys anything that has to do with swords the most such as taking care of them, training, competitions. He’s also a big spender on his hobbies, always ending up begging his father –or even you– to finance his basic needs. Many people are aware of who he is due to all that, and also the fact he’s the lieutenant.

You are the opposite. An introverted soul, sleep deprived, fond of staying inside. You tend to stay up far too late into the night, kept up by good video games, and bad decisions. “I can still play, like, fifteen minutes more”, cue three am beeping on your alarm clock after hours passed unnoticed. You could count on one hand those aware of who you are too. First General Jing Yuan, the leader of the Luofu himself, then an unnamed accountant, whose existence only matters for a single reason (your pay), and Yanqing himself. Perhaps Marshal Hua might count as well as she knows about everything, but you never met her personally.

Yanqing is the only person able to drag you out of your room for more than an hour, and the only person able to drag you out outside at all. Perhaps ‘drag you out’ is too strong a word as you always consent to going out with him, but your mood is a bit sour from your dead social battery and the fatigue in your body. As far as you’re aware, everyone on the Luofu market street has dubbed you “Yanqing’s sleepy partner” (You can’t really blame them, it would be quite awkward to ask “so what’s your name?” while your self-proclaimed knight in shining armor is right by your side). You have a very “cat and dog” personality contrast that makes people laugh, opposites attract or so they say.

Yanqing pulls you forward amidst the crowd. “Finally, we’ve arrived at the Artisanship Commission!”

You take a moment to take in the sight. The sun is high, barely two in the afternoon, and illuminates the red city radiantly, this shop as well. The view is beautiful, yes, but honestly your mind is so jaded, it’s hard to grasp reality. Hopefully this is the last stop for today, Aeons know you won’t survive if you don’t get your afternoon nap. You hear Yanqing's voice and– oh he’s talking to a vendor, nevermind. They seem to know each other, by the way they laugh at least.

You look over to the swords on display. They’re all impressive, a vast range of different colors and sizes. The one you like best is mainly clear blue and has a yin-yang on its guard, it looks pretty though perhaps a bit heavy for Yanqing? The second one is thinner, it’s mainly black with white and blue accents. It would look good in his hands. The one beside it is ew full-gold yellow, and though the color is less than attractive, the details forged on it are stunning.

You don’t notice the vendor handing Yanqing a sword. He lifts the hand you’re holding, and looks at you curiously. You let go sheepishly to which he only smiles. The vendor giggles. Ah, embarrassing.

You space out once more while Yanqing listens with grand attention to the explanations about the ki-controlled attacks the sword can perform. You’re kind of staring at him as he tests the sword through different movements, touching the blade with the tip of his finger. It looks alright, but the swords on display are prettier. He hands it back, the vendor leaves for a moment, and comes back with another. The same happens, and again, and again, and you feel your legs more and more. Trying not to yawn becomes harder and harder.

Your interest is peaked when the vendor brings him the sword with the yin-yang guard. They talk about the features again, he moves it a bit. He hums, does bigger movements, it seems he likes this one too. You rest your head against his shoulder “I like this one.”

He shifts his head slightly. “Really?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty and it goes well with your outfit. You should take a dark gray scabbard to go with it.”

Yanqing hums. He looks at the sword one last time before handing it back. “Alright, I’ll take two, and two dark gray scabbards.”

The vendor looks very surprised, but happily obliges. They shuffle, occupied in preparing his purchases. Your partner sports a smile on his face, his happiness showing through his proud stance. You don’t fight your yawn this time, and close your eyes. You open them soon after at the sound of a pathetic whine and your name however. Yanqing’s face is contorted in dread. You’re a bit confused about what is wrong, your mind foggy— oh.

His wallet is completely empty.

You laugh loudly, which makes him even more embarrassed. “Hey, come on! How am I supposed to pay now? And I already said I was taking it home too…” But it only worsens your fit. You grip onto his arm to not fall. The vendor comes back, and Yanqing hastily hides the hollow pouch. He looks at the vendor worriedly as you continue laughing against him.

“You two are adorable together. Mind repeating your joke?” The vendor smiles at you both.

“Yeah, thank you. Uh.” Yanqing let out an embarrassed laugh as he scratched the back of his neck.

You recover enough to hand your credit card to the vendor. “He forgot his money at home.” Yanqing stutters as the vendor snorts. You’re handed back your card, and your partner receives his new swords. He carries them with his left arm while his right hand is occupied, as he refuses not to hold hands with you whenever you are out.

You walk together for a bit, saying nothing. He’s not dragging you everywhere like before anymore, thankfully. The sun is still high, but at least forty minutes have passed, if not more. Yanqing is the first to break the silence, “You should name it, the sword. But it’s important so you should think deeply about it, yeah?”

You hum, your mind occupied by other priorities. You pull him in a direction. “Nap time.”

“What?!” He’s taken aback, clearly confused and in shock. “No way I’ll let you name it that!”

You pull him again and— push him to sit on a bench? He’s still lost, looking at you for clarification. He’s by the far side while you go sit in the middle. He’s about to ask more when you suddenly lay down. Your head goes to rest on his lap. “Nap time, wake me up in one hour or if it starts raining.”

Yanqing opens his mouth and closes it, still confused although now flustered. “Really? Right here, right now? I thought you disliked being in public.”

You hum a bit, shifting, making yourself comfortable on the hard bench. It would take longer than one hour before getting sunburned right? So this is probably fine. Between the sun high in the sky, the soft breeze, and the comfort of Yanqing, you don’t think you’ll have much trouble resting in public. “Bed is too far, and I’m so ‘eepy.”

He huffs, although there’s a smile on his face. “Alright.”

#yanqing x reader #HSR Yanqing x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #star rail x reader #honkai x reader #x reader #nekonohanashi

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