Peter Quill/ Star-Lord X Reader imagines

I'm Not In Love

   You're fuming right now! This happens all of the time with Peter! He acts like you're a child who can't defend themself! You've been a guardian for a long ass time now, and you've saved each one of your friends more than once, yet Peter insists on 'protecting' you! You're a big girl! You can take care of yourself!

  You've all just defeated a huge dragon monster thing that could shape shift. It was difficult to kill the damn thing, but all of you did. It would've been one of you favorite missions if Peter didn't jump in front of a damn spike that the dragon spit out at you. The spike would've just grazed your shoulder. That's it! And since Peter is a huge idiot, he jumped in front of it and got impaled in the right side of his chest!

    On the way back to the Milano, no one said a word. They all saw how pissed you were, and didn't want to make it worse. You're not he type to yell all of the time or get angry, but there are always times when something or someone makes you do it. This is one of those times.

  You've all made it to the Milano, and you have a few words to tell Peter. You give the other guardians the look, letting them know that if they want to spare themselves, they better go.

  "Well, would you look at the time. It's drunk o'clock." Rocket nervously speaks, rubbing the back of his neck. "I think everyone, but Quill and (y/l/n) should go get a drink."

  Peter looks down at you, noticing your deadly glare that's stabbing him in your mind. He sighs and turns to the others. "Well-I mean you don't have to go. You could-"

  "Bye, Peter!" Gamora leads the others out, including Groot.

  You stand there, staring daggers into Peter's head until you hear the click of the doors. Harshly, you drag Peter by his bad arm.

  "Ow, ow, ow! Bad arm, bad arm, bad arm!" Peter whines as you lead him to a little room that you set up for when anyone wants to relax.

  In the room is a round, comfy, white couch that you love so damn much. You managed to steal some Christmas lights from somewhere to hang around the room to light it dimly. On the floor is a fluffy white carpet which feels like a cloud when you walk on it with bare feet.

  You drag him over to the couch and push him down on it, making sure to put a lot of pressure around the spike in his chest.

  "Ow! What the hell, (y/n)!?" He belts out in pain.

  "Sit there and shut up!" You demand, getting on the couch, and turning his injured shoulder towards yourself.

  "You're being so rough! What's your problem?" He asks, his eyebrows almost gluing together.

  Your eyes meet his. Yours filled with frustration and an emotion close to hatred, but it's a level lighter. It's the kind of anger you feel when your parents don't let you get your way and say that they know what's best. His eyes are filled with concern.

  "My problem? Are you serious?" You reply with another question. You scoff, shaking your head as you turn to his injury.

  "Well, you're acting like I did something to piss you off when I didn't do a damn thing!" Now he's getting frustrated.

  Rolling your eyes, you grab on to the spike and get ready to pull. "Put this in your mouth." You sneer, handing him the closest soft thing which just so happens to be your favorite blanket.

"I'm a big boy, I can take it." He insists, taking the blanket anyway.

  "Fine. I don't care." You get a good hold on the spike.