#dilf.

When (or if) I'm finished with my Mydei post, I'm fucking writing about Ao Guang (probably, who tf knows what my brain does) because this son of a gun can't pass up on a hot dilf.

But fr tho the movie was fantastic, Nezha is such a funny little prick and Ao Bing is just the cutest.

a joel miller drabble

y’all im sorry i really tried to turn this into a full fic but writers block beat my ass.

The mattress heaved with his dull weight as he creaked his way into bed, sat stone still beside you still dressed in his dust warped clothes from his ration card job earlier today. Joel was always tired and you could see it everywhere, in his hunched posture, smell it in the stench of scotch on his breath, hear it in his “hey baby” when he walked through the door. Your favorite way though was always to taste it, when his lips slid against yours and he’d let out that heavy sigh, that sigh that told you that burying himself inside you was the only way he would sleep tonight and it’d leave a tang of relief on your tongue. So when you hear that thud of his body colliding with the torn fabric that's exactly what you expect. You’re fully prepared to quiet the exhaustion and like a soldier taking solace in repetition you wait in your position, laid back with your knees slid up begging for Joel to take his place between them.

But you keep waiting and staring and waiting and staring.

Had he actually fallen asleep? Maybe there was no longer a need for your warm touch or his substance of choice to abuse. You begin to tap at your legs, the staring contest with the off white paint on the ceiling becoming tedious.

Maybe he thought you were asleep?

You let a slight grumble, a short reminder of your ever growing impatience.

“Tommy told me about that shit you pulled”

Your tapping stops, in fact you’re sure everything stops, the whole world stops spinning on its axis as you listen to Joel's scolding words reverberate through the midnight air.

‘Fuck you tommy’ is the first thing you think replaced quickly by a fervent panic as you wonder how you’re gonna squeeze out of this one. Play the traumatised victim? Pick a fight and hope he’s too exhausted to follow through? He mutters again, not so eagerly waiting for you to make your selection of fight or flight.

“I’d sure like to know what the fuck you were thinking?” You can hear the frustration riddled in his voice, watch his face screw up as it suffocates every word he speaks, anger tightly wrapped around syllables like tangled vines. And to top it off you just sit there mouse-like and silent when Joel asked you a question. A genuine question. Because he could not for the life of him understand why you thought it’d be ok to talk to those guys for him, to work out a deal and try and take something off his plate because it was his goddamn plate. His mess, not yours and Jesus you could've at least been smart about it. He seethed as he imagined you talking to those guards. Vulnerable, unarmed, hands annoyingly twisting with the fabric of your shirt like they do when you're trying to negotiate extra time in bed with him or a kiss goodbye.

He begins to feel you shuffling around behind him, quietly crawling across the sheets, an air of mischief in the way you move.

You couldn't bring yourself to tell him how sorry you were but you sure as hell could show him.

You take your spot beside him, head resting on the faded plaid of his shirt. Slowly you start to lower yourself, big wide eyes looking up at him whilst you slide onto your knees.

Joel doesn't say anything. He finds himself forgetting all of the things he so desperately wanted to say as he lifts up one of those big callous hands of his and runs it gently across your face. His features softening as he stares into you.

Part of you, A very cocky part of you wants to push it. Wants to tell him how far into the city you wandered, wants to tell him the agitated tone you took with the guard, Wants to lay it on so thick you’re almost salivating staring down at his thick leather belt, a promising opportunity looped in his jeans.