#⚘; — my masterlists ✧♡ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lunarw0rks · 1 year ago

Text

Old Bones | Chapter Three

Summary: After fleeing a toxic relationship, you fear for your safety and hire a bodyguard. He's masked, impassible, and damn good at what he does.

Warning(s): strong language, suggestive language, guns/gun violence, death, gore/medical gore, blood, canon-typical violence

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: I think this is my fav chapter so far, lemme know what y'all think... sorry if it's medically inaccurate but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ also the bastard finally has a name !!

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? ♡¸.•*' ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ prev. chapter | next chapter | playlist | ao3 ver. ꒦꒷ O.B MASTERLIST

Vaded

“Squeeze trigger slow, don’t forget to breathe.” His fingers are overtaking yours, contorting yours so they’re using the proper form.

Even if you wanted to make a mistake, his frame was caging you in, stomach pressed deeply into the curve of your back. You do just that, firing at the glass jars lined up several feet away. Not a solid hit, but closer than the others.

Simon steps back, lowering the cock of the weapon for you. “You’re hesitating. There’s no time to hesitate or you’re dead.”

“I know that.” You spit back. The fluster of continually missing, as well as being dragged out here nearly every day was getting to you. Not to mention the heat of the sun beating down on you, successfully blinding any shot you take.

“Then do it properly,” He stands near the jars in front of you now, crossing his arms over his chest in impatience. “You think I have time to ponder when I’m holding a gun to someone’s head? I don’t. I shoot first.”

Such a prick—an insufferable prick at that. His words only escalated the sour mood you’d had during this whole morning of make-shift boot camp.

You raise the pistol again, lining up the sights and tracing along his figure being outlined by the rays of sunshine. You exhale like you’d been coached, jerking the sights to the jar closest to him and squeezing the trigger.

The mason jar explodes, laying askew on the pallets he’d set them up on. He doesn’t jump in surprise, or lose his composure.

“Better. You might actually have a chance… If he’s a statue.” His lack of reaction only pissed you off more, practically wiping any form of a smirk you had after your first lucky bullet. You switch the safety back on, for his well-being as much as your own, and toss the iron to him.

He catches it without a second thought, returning it to the sack of weapons he’d brought to train with. A week, and you’d just barely made it to pistols. Not to mention, on your toes the entire time because there’s been nothing but radio silence on your spouse. Not a letter, not a piece of mail, no sign of a tail—nothing.

He begins the drive back from the countryside, somewhere about an hour out of town where none of the trigger pulls would be heard. His eyes are glued to the unpaved road in front of him, as usual. One hand on the top of the wheel, and the other taking up the entirety of his center console, leaving you little room to breathe.

“I’d say, you’re ready to carry one.” Simon’s words nab your attention. “Just don’t shoot at me again, or you’re shit out of luck.”

You don’t doubt the power of carrying, but it’s new nonetheless.

Perhaps his harsh feedback held weight, and you ‘might’ have a chance in hell of defending yourself. Might—as in, nearly none at all.

Thank the stars for that insufferable prick, then, because whether you want to admit it or not, his services are needed.

—

The weight of the piece is something you’ll have to get used to.

You refused the hip holster, to Simon’s annoyance, of course. Instead, it’s going to remain tucked into your waistband, the icy metal of the .38 revolver digging into the soft flesh of your tailbone.

He’s in the shower now, where he usually spends about two minutes anyways, despite you packing now. Bullets were your words now, if necessary. This situation was past legalities, or forms, or numbing and intrusive questions in the courtroom.

Three sharp pounds on the front door, and you’re already at your feet. The shower shuts off, and Simon has walked out with a towel concealing his waist and already started for the door.

“Wait.” You’re looking through the peephole only greeted with the sight of a badge and an impatient officer. Simon steps back a bit, watching the encounter from the hallway as droplets run down his frame.

Once you’ve opened the door, the officer holds out some sort of form. The prospect of an officer at your door has prevented you from hearing his introduction or caring to take a look at the badge. The only words that find you are ‘husband’ and ‘defamation’.

He doesn’t bother to let you respond, just shoves the form onto the entry table and gives Simon a sickened glare. At first glance, probably thinking Simon is your side piece showering off after a night of adultery.

The officer has retreated down the steps of the complex, leaving you unable to process anything. Simon doesn’t say a word, just retreats to his room to finish dressing, as if there wasn’t almost a dead cop laying in the foyer.

Your hands shiver as you skim through the document, seated at the kitchen table. You couldn’t believe the bastard—cops and judges already on his payroll, coming up with some bogus claim of defamation—all while you’re left with no evidence of the latter.

He’s returned quickly, resting his palms on the table as he soaks in the information. “You’re not going to that trial.” The paper is taken from your fingers, forcing you out of your discomposure.

“I’ll go to prison if I don’t show, Simon.” You respond quickly, wondering what the hell he’s getting you roped into.

“No, you’ll be dead.” He leads, the palms on the table turning to tight fits. “Once you’re in the courtroom, he’ll have access to you, or whatever shitty motel you’ll be staying in for months. You’re not going.” His commands are nearing that of a hardened soldier.

“This is my life you’re talking about. I can’t just pack up and run from the federal government. He’s not going to kill me, he’s going to try and put me in jail, then throw away the key.” Your tone has heightened, but his hasn’t.

He takes a few steps back from the table as if trying not to blow his top. “You’re hiding out in a shitty apartment, sobbing in the middle of supermarkets, and you’re confident in that assessment?”

“If he wanted you in jail, he would’ve planted evidence on you. I’ll repeat myself. You’re not going.” Simon sighs sharply, trying to calm himself again. “We need to get out of this apartment for now, before more police poke around and find you packing heat.”

The lack of decor, luggage still in the corner, non-perishables you’d bought—all for the inevitable moment he finds you. That moment was here, and now you were packing it all away. Somehow the place looked less pitiful with it all packed away and stuffed into his backseat.

—

You were somewhere in the countryside, only in the opposite direction of the shooting range you were at that morning. He hadn’t stopped once during the long ride and wasn’t planning to. You were in a small town before you knew it—someplace you’d never heard of, and probably with a population that doesn’t reach triple digits.

The barren landscape you were passing in the near forties seemed to continue forever. The endless crop and winding paths would provide cover, but the scenarios playing in your head depicted worse.

The entirety of the town was in a cluster—a few gas pumps, a motel, a pharmacy, and a diner—all of which much older than you’d been alive, visibly decaying under years of neglect.

His truck rolled to a stop, parking in the empty lot of the motel. You two seemed to be the only ones rooming in this apocalyptic townlet, and you were grateful for that, at least. He retreated into the office and returned holding a key to your room.

You climbed out, retrieving the duffel that had your entire life packed into it. His bag of weapons was slung over his shoulder, and he carried it as if the weight had no effect. He’d stayed quiet the whole trip, and it continued well into entering the shared space.

Two beds, a bathroom, and a kitchenette. Nicer than you expected, albeit the exterior painted a different picture earlier.

Your stiff limbs freed themselves when you sprawled out on the bed you claimed, remaining in disbelief of the situation at hand. You were on the run again, but this time not from him—from the law. How long could this go on? Living in motels, with an overbearing male roommate? Especially one without a sense of humor; the spiteful cherry on top.

He closed the curtains with a jerk, forcing you to stare at the dated floral pattern they had, instead of the secluded view outside. There was no time for error, especially when it was someone other than the law to figure out you’d skipped town.

Just when you’ve begun to close your eyes, he’s loudly rifling through the luggage sitting on the floor, muttering curses under his breath. You sit up in bed in a huff, glaring into his back. Finally, he pulls out the bottle of Kentucky, pouring himself a generous glass, before thumping it down onto the faux-granite counter.

“Seriously?” You sigh, sitting yourself up on your arms.

He takes a few seconds, savoring the burn running down his throat. “Gonna need it. Helps me focus.”

“We’ll need to pick up a few things at that pharmacy, so get up.” There’s no chance in hell he’s leaving you here alone, despite the store only being a few blocks away. Bickering only greeted you with an icy glare, so you grumbled to your feet, slipping into the jacket you’d removed only minutes before.

In usual fashion, he’s a few steps behind you, watching the few people that are out and about at the moment, most of which are retirement age.

You’re inside the pharmacy now, practically tapping your foot at him as he grabs the supplies you two might need. More non-perishables as well as a small kit used for camping. It was clear to you this little “road trip” wasn’t going to end soon—and he was quite used to being on the run.

As soon as he’s placed the bills on the checkout counter, you’ve exited the store, nearly skipping back to his truck. He begins the short drive back, but his eyes keep darting between the rearview mirror and over his shoulder.

“We have a tail.” He snarls, continuing to divert further from town. “I’m gonna make sure we lose it.”

His words make your hairs stand, whatever the hell he meant by that was nothing pretty. He was getting further from town, so whatever his plans were needed absolutely no witnesses.

“Gun?” You ask, looking over your shoulder at the black Mercedes creeping closer.

He nods, still frantically assessing his four corners. The road signs have disappeared again, and you’re back to crops and trucking warehouses. You lift yourself off the seat a bit, retrieving the revolver you previously had tucked away. You check the cylinder, indeed seeing six bullets loaded inside—bullets he’d filed X’s into the tips himself—they “blew a nastier hole” that way, according to him.

It’s in your lap now, as you bounce around from his speed increase. The tail does the same, nearly bumper to bumper with his trunk now. Simon diverts, trying to ensure it can’t clip it, but the unpaved road before you is already unsteady enough when you’re going straight.

The Mercedes clips into the side of his truck, but the size difference between the cars only causes it to swerve. Simon turns abruptly, making the tail believe he’s taking a right. In reality, he swerves left, causing the confused driver to go straight into the metal fence lining the road.

You only see the wreckage briefly; crushed hood, steam rising from the hood, and no further movement from the driver.

He slams the brakes, pulling off to the side. He pulls out his much larger caliber pistol, slamming the truck door behind him. He’s gone to make sure he finishes the job.

Your fingers find the lock button, about to hear that click, when the passenger door is whipped open, and you’re face down in the gravel before you know it. Your gun is askew somewhere, having been ripped from your hands.

The assailant's fingers dig into your scalp, forcing you to kneel on the sharp pebbles. He’s surely one of the men your husband hired. His nose is busted, and there are small shards of glass embedded in his face that he’s too determined to mind.

This was the moment fate caught up with you, just like you’d thought it would. Either with you dead in your apartment, or staring down the barrel of a gun like you are now—disarmed and on your knees execution-style.

He cocks it, pressing the metal into your temple.

The unmistakable crack of a gunshot echoes through the countryside, causing both of you to jump in surprise. Had Simon been ambushed? Was he already bleeding out in the dirt?

He seems to think the same, a lordly smirk spreading, revealing his bloodied teeth. You snap your eyes to the stars above you. His leer is not going to be the last thing you see—the night sky would be.

The ring in your ears is louder than the gunshot itself. Warm sprinkles have splattered across you now, dripping down your neck. But you’re not dead. Not clenching a bullet hole either. You have to look down to be sure, examining your body with sanguine hands.

Instead, it’s the man with a hole in his head crumbled in front of you, still your pistol in his dead fingers. The ringing subsides, but your eardrums are muffled slightly like you’ve just had your head underwater.

“Bastard got me,” Simon stumbles back, making you sigh in relief, “—came out of the fuckin’ backseat, didn’t see him.” He’s sputtering, putting a flat palm against the stab wounds on his stomach, while the other is against the door of the truck.

You use the truck for support as well, feeling the stray pebbles that were still digging into your knees, not to mention the crimson seeping into the fabric of your clothes, sticking to you. You snatch your pistol back, stuffing it back into your waistband.

He’s barely upright now. An uncanny sight at best, seeing him struggle to hold his own weight.

“We need to… Clean this up…” He takes his palm off the truck, but it’s returned when he nearly stumbles again. He’s fighting himself, forcing himself to be the one in charge here. Simon glowers down at his abdomen, lifting the saturated fabric. It’s worse than you expected, not in the deepness of the punctures, but how much blood he lost in the scuffle.

You can tell he wants to speak, to give you some sort of instruction, but the pants coming from him are too severe. He slides down the truck, leaning against the large tire for support. He’s gone even paler than usual—you can tell through the eyes of his mask.

His chest is rising and falling rapidly, at least. But it won’t be soon if you don’t do something.

It’s a blur; grunting and using all your might to put the dead man into the bed of the truck. You open the door to the backseat, finding the foil blanket in the camping kit Simon bought. You cover the bed, so his corpse looks like nothing more than a lump of firewood, or hay, or something other than what it is.

The skinny flashlight finds its way between your teeth, as you scoop and kick the dirt around to cover up the blood. The storm clouds forming are your only hope of washing away any evidence of this bloodbath. You shine the light on the side of the car, where some of the splatter had cast. You wipe it away with your sleeve, leaving only small traces of it.

Finally, it shined on him. A half-conscious Simon, who you can barely lift into the truck. He gives a little way, but your arms are putty by the end of the ordeal. He’s slumped in the seat, and you haven’t bothered to buckle him in.

You climb inside the driver’s seat, reversing quickly to make it back to the motel. The lack of guests will make patching him up easier, but the prospect of what unfolded is not providing much comfort. You’re speeding down the strip of unpaved road, eventually greeted by the few street lights illuminating the town.

You slow when you reach the parking space, claiming the one directly across from your room, so transporting Simon is easier. Luckily, the few residents that live there have retreated in for the night, leaving no prying eyes around.

You palm his pockets, locating the room key. There’s no time for slippery fingers or trembling hands. You make way for yourself and him by opening the door first, then pulling him out of the truck. He’s putting as much weight on himself as he can, but you’re left to do most of the literal heavy lifting.

Simon was otiosely dropped onto his bed, left to writhe only for a few seconds while you grabbed the rest of the camping kit from the backseat. When you return and lock the doors behind you, you’re quick to dig through the luggage for pieces of clothing. Ones you can put underneath his torso to prevent the mess his wounds are going to make.

You fish the knife he kept in his pocket out, cutting through the soaked t-shirt fabric. It glides off easily, allowing your amateur eyes to feast on the punctures. They aren’t deep, clearly not done with enough force to do serious internal damage, but there’s enough for the blood loss to be his biggest problem.

Simon must’ve finished him off before he could rough him up more—you could tell by how jagged the last stab was—like the man’s blade had been ripped away hastily.

“The bourbon…” He murmurs, bringing the bottle to your attention. Something you’ll be able to use. The self-medication that was slowly killing him might just be his saving grace.

You zip to the counter, unscrewing the cap from the bottle. He nods his head, bracing himself like he’s been through his a hundred times. He probably has, for all you know. The fawn-tinted liquid sizzles at his wounds, both disinfecting and irritating the reddened, puffy flesh.

He’s gritting his teeth under the mask, clenching one of the towels you laid out for dear life. Still, handling the pain better than you expected. You, on the other hand, were minutes from spewing.

The blood was coming out faster than you could keep up with, and no matter how many times you dug through that camping kit, it was only small bandages and ointment. You had no choice, you had to get to that pharmacy.

First, you’re hunched over the sink, scrubbing away the crimson coating you. You take off your jacket, ridding yourself of your bloodied clothes. One of his hoodies will have to do, and it will cover the remnants remaining in your hair. From how squeamish the sight was making you, you could swear you were paler than the man actively bleeding out.

Next, you’re out the door again, darting down the slick streets. Those storm clouds you saw earlier had begun to rain down on you. Good for the crime scene miles away, but not for your joints. That taste of blood, pinching in your side as you forced yourself to keep going, closing in on the pharmacy eventually.

Heaving in the first-aid aisle, grabbing any sterile gauze you see, then a box of gloves. Of course, the selection is limited. The townsfolk probably aren’t playing mob doctor like you are right now.

Once you’ve made uneducated guesses on what to get, it’s like you’re reminded of the dying man in your hotel room. There’s no time to pay, and no active cameras—no time to question the logistics of it all. Besides, the geriatric clerk barely gave you a passing glance when you stormed inside.

You’re out the back door, looping around the building until you’re back on the sidewalk again, racing with the supplies hooked under your arm. You’ve only been away minutes, but those were precious minutes where he could’ve hemorrhaged even more.

The rain putters heavily, coating your lashes like it did in the parking lot of the supermarket, daring you to stumble in disorientation.

You fiddle with the key, nearly kicking the door down when it struggles. It gives way eventually, and you’ve slammed it, already sitting on the edge of the bed. He kept a hand on his wounds while you were away, luckily, but he’s starting to slip again.

You peel Simon’s large fingers away, then look at the supplies before you. You rush to the sink and sterilize your fingers, darting your gaze from the sink back to him.

You look down at it—the engagement ring you haven’t been able to take off all this time.

“Fuck it.” You mutter, tearing it off your finger. It clatters somewhere in the sink, and you leave it there to get back to Simon. You tear the cardboard encasing the gloves, slipping them onto your trembling fingers—partially from the cold rain, as well as the know-nothing decisions you’re going to make to treat him.

Stitches are out of the question, so you’re going to have to pack the wounds—something you've seen on a medical show once. You unravel the roll of gauze, cutting off small sections of it with the knife, and then get to work.

He’s lucky he’s knocked out because he’d probably cringing right now—from your medical care, not your fingers digging around at his wounds.

You loop the bandage around your index finger, trying to recall the steps. You push it deep enough to prevent it from bleeding through, stuffing the gashes in a zig-zag pattern. One by one, you move to the next wound until they’re all packed.

If these stabs had been any deeper, there would be two bodies in the bed of the truck right now—one of which would be the owner. Opportunely, they hadn’t bled through the gauze so far.

The exhaustion caught up with you quickly, but you were determined to keep an eye on him. Without him, you were screwed, plain and simple. He wasn’t going to die and leave you with this unexplainable mess, one that he got you into when he took you on this hellacious joyride.

—

You must’ve dozed sometime in the night because the sunrise was peaking through the gaps of the curtains when your eyes opened. Not to mention, Simon was shoving you away from him, grunting as he was finally able to sit up.

He peered down at the evidence of the unpractised medical attention you’d given him. His fingers found the bottle of Kentucky still on the nightstand, and he took a slug from it, feeling the tension release a little bit.

The sight of the room surprised him a bit—the medical supplies and luggage thrown around, the clothing laid out below him, and not to mention the blood still dried on your fingers.

He finds his footing, despite the frazzled expression you’re maintaining. He’s been here before, in fact, been closer to death many times. This was nothing to Simon—“just a scratch” as he’d say. He grabs one of the only clean shirts left, slipping it on to cover himself.

After he’s taken another drink, he turns to you, standing above you with authority. This was no longer a game of cat and mouse, it was past that now. He had bigger problems, like the corpse in the bed of his truck, and the prospect of more of those men coming.

He finally finds the words when he sees you’re no longer wearing your ring. “What’s this bloke's name, the one who sent his dogs on us?”

You shake your head in confusion, but his clenched jaw is persistent and only going tighter. You’re forced to swallow the lump forming in your throat. You, too, can tell things are changing, and it’s become more personal for Simon than he’d like to admit.

You utter his name, as he’s forced you to reveal it. “Cal. His name is Cal.”

He takes a sharp inhale, taking in the information. The hands that were resting at his sides have now turned to fits. “After we take care of that problem in the back of my truck, we’re gonna find this bastard.” You could swear steam would be coming out of his ears by now.

He grabs his truck keys off the table and starts towards the door, growling something under his breath that you didn’t make out,

“I’m gonna find this bastard…”

TAGLIST: @random-thot-generator @littleobsessionsandlifeslessons @illyanam1011

#mw2 fanfic #mw2 #simon riley #simon riley x reader #call of duty #ghost mw2 #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader #simon riley smut #simon riley fluff #simon riley angst

413 notes · View notes

raccoonfallsharder · 4 months ago

Text

rocket smells nice. (headcanon whatever)

in my head, all the rockets i write for (and the ones i don't) have a scent. if you wanna make me real happy lmk your own rocket-smells-like headcanons or give me another rocket to dream up fragrances for. i'm happy to give any rocket (canonical or not) a bouquet

headcanons & imagines masterlist | main masterlist

"canon" rockets ~

eidos-rocket ~ i'm not technically writing for this guy (yet??) but i headcanon he smells like cedar & black pepper (he stole beard oil from some spartoi douche one time but it made his fur so healthy and glossy that he hasn't stopped using it), spiced caramel rum from mantlo's, iron, engine fuel, and gunpowder. burnt everbloom 'cause you know this guy smokes (i imagine it smells gingery).

universe-killer rocket ~ i don't write for this guy yet either, but i think about him way too often. burnt metal and high-iron-content meteorites. something like menthol ~ it activates your cold receptors, like you're breathing in the breeze right off a glacier. star anise & fennel. you'll be tempted to take a deep whiff of his fur but even if he decides not to kill you, you're probably still risking a lungful of toxic vibranium laser dust.

general mcu rocket ~ some kind of evergreen and foresty smell, petrichor maybe; something metallic like iron or copper, and something burnt and smoky. in the earlier years, he always smelled like some kind of cheap alcohol; in later years, a leatherlike smell from his armored-fiber uniform. i don't think this guy reads a lot of paper-books, but he definitely smells like 'em. (i use this as a template for a lot of "my" rockets)

general comics rocket (especially ewing) ~ angargal's limited batch of course (i suspect it smells like a combo of spiced bourbon and rich dark-caramel rum, once the overpowering scent of pure fuckin' alcohol has evaporated out). black-black-black coffee. dark chocolate. amber. vetiver. that burnt, gingery everbloom again.

skottie young's rocket ~ sweet almonds (see cicatrix-rocket's marzipan smell) and banana (from some kind of cousin to nitroglycerin). whatever he's using for jet fuel these days, which doubtless has a hefty dose of benzenes (sweet-smelling and actually intoxicating ~ though since we're talking about a sentient anthropomorphic raccoon i'm gonna go ahead and say the intergalactic space-faring community has figured out how to make 'em non-carcinogenic). you will get some sort of low-grade contact high if you huff his fur like you know you want to. probably also smells like some kind of alien hops, too (maybe acanti blubber ale if he's gotten any good contraband lately, though i imagine that smells like burnt tire).

"my" rockets ~

space pilot & sweatshirt girl ✩°｡⋆ rocket - campfires, strong coffee, and evergreen. amber and smoke. rich dark hot chocolate and yummy bourbon, when he's with you.

blackmail material ✩˚₊‧ ♡ rocket ~ sandalwood, oak, gunpowder. the undertones of some sort of alien citrus-fruit you've seen him eating (something between a plum and an orange), and what you think at first are mulling spices but later you realize it's just where your own Xandaran body oil has rubbed off onto his fur.

window across the galaxy *:･ﾟ✧ rocket ~ blue spruce, fallen leaves, oakmoss, ozone (or maybe that's just electricity). iron and copper, engine fuel.

florescence❀ rocket ~ campfires, wet stone, the peppery-resinous scent of the kind of machine grease he prefers (his own concoction). a faint hit of vanilla-mint-honeysuckle from groot's flowers, and the clove-like spices from your cider.

⭑˚.⚘𖡼𖥧𖤣 windfall 𖤣𖥧𖡼⚘.˚⭑ rocket ~ juniper, blackberry, and something like leather. a sharp and smoky scent, like laser-carved wood. on some occasions, a hint of yaro-root wine (which is basically a peachy hard cider, with a dangerously subtle alcohol flavor).

cicatrix .⋆☁︎ :･꧂ rocket ~ blue spruce, burnt wood, and a strong, rich, buttery-sweet marzipan from the broken-down components of his C4-adjacent explosives. petrichor, labdanum and camphor, and faint whiffs of engine fuel.

headcanons & imagines masterlist | main masterlist banners & dividers by @thecutestgrotto & @saradika-graphics ♡

#rocket smells like #rfh headcanons #rfh fluff #rocket raccoon #guardians of the galaxy #gotg rocket #rocket gotg #rocketraccoon #gotg #rocket raccoon imagines #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #mcu gotg #mcu #rocket raccoon headcanons

31 notes · View notes

shoccolatine · 9 months ago

Text

hi, you can call me ame! 30. they/them. mostly sfw. writing and musing about my beloveds (obey me, love&deepspace, and whatever else my brain latches onto). my inbox is open, so feel free to send me any requests, comments, or questions. let's chat about our mutual hyperfixations! ♡

⚘masterlist

⚘recent works

╰ mission failure—zayne x gn!reader

╰ things i associate them with—xavier, zayne, rafayel, caleb

╰ if MC was fatally wounded by wanderers and passed away—xavier, zayne, rafayel

⚘tags

#shoccospeaks: random thoughts

#shoccoplays: game screenshots/gameplay talk

#shoccoanswers: responses to asks

#hcs: headcanon posts

#fics: longer writing posts

⚘notes

╰ i use tone indicators outside of my writing, and appreciate others using them as well! (i'm autistic so it really helps 🫶)

╰ i'm uncomfortable with pregnancy/childbirth/breeding so i won't be writing any requests dealing with these topics. thank you for your understanding!

╰ on the other hand, i have an incredibly soft spot for hurt/comfort & comfort fics in general, so you can expect to see those often~

14 notes · View notes

halles-notebook · 7 months ago

Text

my page

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

masterlist.

hello! ⚘ my name is halle, (ha-lee), i’m from the united states, (more specifically florida), and i love writing fics!

i’m a cancer, i love dogs, i edit on occasion, and reading is my fav hobby ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

the characters i CURRENTLY write for include:

jon snow ♡

robb stark ♡

spider-man ♡

jj maybank ♡

my requests are always open unless i say otherwise! :) and if you just wanna talk about random stuff that’s okay too! i’m always down for making new friends ⋆ ★

i will not write:

self-harm/suicide ☒

non-consensual acts ☒

male reader ☒

rlly weird stuff.! ☒ just keep it normal pooks ♡

i can write fluff, angst, & nsfw :)

if you skip past the warnings on any posts, i am not responsible for how you react. lets just keep a positive vibe going on and have fun! ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

xoxo

#jon snow #game of thrones #robb stark #mattheo riddle #spiderman #peter parker #masterlist

12 notes · View notes

kichikichiko · 2 years ago

Text

A Writer's Masterlist!

For those who wants to read my work!!

This post will be updated often 🌹

Another way to find my fanfics just search #kichisfwfanfics 💌 only applies for my swf works :)

Masterlist for: Genshin Impact Honkai star rail Welcome home, Kung Fu Panda and more!

IF YOU WANT TO REQUEST, PLEASE READ THIS FIRST!

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Genshin Impact

WANDERER ¤ Eons adrift

Trust,6 months and physical touch (fluff)

Rainy day (fluff)

Not in my eyes (comfort,fluff)

"Lonely" (comfort, fluff, platonic/romantic)

"Thats my girl" (suggestive)

Just a quickie♡(smut)

SCARAMOUCHE/KUNIKUZUSHI ¤ The Balladeer

Bento box of love (headcannon, modern AU fluff)

Home (fluff)

3rd times the charm (fluff, modern AU)

Your neck my canvas♡ (smut)

Don't you dare leave me! (Headcanon, fluff, mild angst?)

KABUKIMONO ¤ Puppet without a heart

For you, and you only (headcannon, fluff)

KAVEH ¤ Empyrean reflection

Sweeter kisses (fluff)

Slow burn or love at first sight? pt.2 (Headcanon, fluff)

TIGHNARI ¤ Verdant strider

First valentines (suggestive at the end)

Exhaustion (fluff)

Slow burn or love at first sight? (Headcanon, fluff)

Accepting the loss of your animal companion (headcanon, fluff, comfort)

KAEDEHARA KAZUHA ¤ Scarlet Leaves Pursue Wild Waves

Slow burn or love at first sight? (Headcannon, fluff)

For you, and you only (headcannon, fluff)

Accepting the loss of your animal companion (headcanon, fluff, comfort)

Mr.Gentleman (smut)

Don't you dare leave me! (Headcanon, fluff, mild angst?)

SHIKANOIN HEIZOU ¤ Analytical harmony

Slow burn or love at first right? (Headcanon, fluff)

For you, and you only (headcanon,fluff)

VENTI ¤ Windborne bard

Bento box of love (headcanon, modern AU fluff)

ARATAKI ITTO ¤ Hanamizaka heroics

Bento box of love (headcanon,modern AU fluff)

CYNO ¤ Judicator of Secrets

For you, and you only (headcanon, fluff)

THOMA ¤ Protector from afar

Accepting the loss of your animal companion (headcanon, fluff, comfort)

KAMISATO AYATO ¤ Pillar of fortitude

Slow burn or love at first sight? pt.2 (Headcanon, fluff)

TARTAGLIA (AJAX) ¤ Childe

Slow burn or love at first sight? pt.2 (Headcanon, fluff)

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

Honkai star rail

DAN HENG

Luckiest man (headcanon, fluff)

SAMPO KOSKI

Luckiest man (headcanon, fluff)

GEPARD

Luckiest man (headcanon, fluff)

NANOOK

Destruction and love (drabble, fluff?)

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

Welcome home

WALLY DARLING ¤ Neighbourhood's artist

Trip to dreamland (fluff)

Opposites attract eachother♤♧ (fluff)

Our little family (headcanon, 8 neighbour cameo,fluff)

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

Kung Fu Panda

PO ¤ The Dragon Warrior

"What do you like about him?" (Headcanon, fluff)

TAI LUNG ¤ The great dragon

You, Always. (Headcanon, fluff)

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

OBEY ME

LUCIFER ¤ Pride