#i kind of want it to be patchwork | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sweet-as-an-angel · 1 year

Text

Miguel and Hobie Fighting for Your Love

Summary: Both men knew they were wildly in love with you. But, as you remain oblivious to their feelings, their conflict strengthens. A war is brewing.

“I won’t let you have her.” Miguel’s eyes gleamed between the velvet sheets of artificial night, the dim glow of the control panel at his back, casting a shroud over his front. Hobie stood before him, gripping his guitar by the neck, resting it over the back of his shoulders. His other hand sat in his pocket, creating the illusion of comfort. Yet, beneath his lax exterior, Miguel could hear his heart pounding. Racing. Hobie drew a breath, looked off to the side.

“I don’t think that’s your decision to make, Big Man.” Eyes half-lidded, he returned to Miguel, dragging his stare. Lethargy. Gave a thin smile. “Though, I suppose that if you knew that – really believed it – you’d know that you don’t stand a chance–”

Miguel’s fists clenched, the sound of his suit squealing beneath his grip causing Hobie’s gaze to flicker. He swallowed, shallow. He knew what Miguel was capable of – had seen how many lives he’d gladly put at risk for you. And he’d do it again if it weren’t for the fact that your friendship to both him and Hobie was what kept them locked in a stalemate; a spectral triangle; Bermuda. An anomaly in itself.

Of course, you had no clue that you’d captured the hearts of the two superheroes. The problem was that they did. Their softened attitude towards you, their care for the most banal of features of your life, their seemingly bottomless investment in your close circle of friends and beyond could have been construed as platonic concern. Friendship of the highest degree.

Once they realised that, individually, they were not alone in the pursuit of your heart, a competition was born. Miguel, ever the organised, careful individual he was, orchestrated your time together, manufactured it, monitored it – poured over it with a fine-toothed comb. Many a night had he spent awake wondering what your accidental brushing of hands had meant, whether the warmth that had flushed your cheeks was the result of his presence or the joke he’d just cracked, your laughter Calliopic. Persephonic.

He savoured every hug you shared, no matter how brief, sewing the patchwork memories into the fabric of his heart, the fragrance soaking into his bones. Your phantom warmth wrapped around him tightly, a second suit, whenever he needed it – needed you. He’d find ways of encouraging physical contact whenever he could, his heart throbbing at the feeling of your face pressed into his chest, your arms around his back as he embraced you.

He wondered what your kisses tasted like. Whether you thought of him when you used that chapstick he bought you, ice cream cake – the aroma of celebration. Because, to him, any moment with you was a celebration.

Miguel would offer to take you home after work. Though, not via ordinary means of travel.

He’d permit you to hop onto his back and slide your arms around his neck, taking you on a spin through the city, bringing you to the highest peaks, the pinnacles of human beauty through neon illuminations making the city sparkle like a sea of jewels. He’d feel his heart stutter as you shifted to get a closer look, your chin almost resting on his shoulder, cheeks just touching as you gasped, took in the scenery. In times like these, he was glad of the mask, of his ability to hide the effect you had on him, how you played his emotions like a string instrument.

“I’ve never seen the city like this before,” you told him, voice gentle at his ear, almost carried away by the wind. Miguel heard you. He strained his every spider sense to do so, no matter the conditions.

“Hobie hasn’t done this with you?” He tried not to let the hope in his tone show. You shrugged.

“He’s more of a stargazing kind of guy. Though, I’ll let you in on a secret,” your voice tailed off. Miguel leaned in. You whispered. “I think he just doesn’t want to go pivoting off buildings after a long day of already having done so.”

Miguel felt an idea spark in his brain. The start of a new ritual, routine, for just you and him. This would be for him what stargazing was to hobie – he’d bring you closer to the stars than Hobie ever could!

Whenever he’d return you home, whisking you through the midnight air, he’d place you at your door, imply what a good time he’d had. And, as always, you thanked him, eyes crinkling before parting with a hug.

Miguel would wait until you’d enter your apartment and locked the door behind you before leaving, and even then, he’d find himself perched atop a nearby building, waiting for something, anything to happen – for any opportunity wherein he could prove to you he was a hero. In times like these, he wished with a selfish heart that you lived in a more decrepit part of the city.

He realised how much he loved you – adored you – when you fell asleep in his arms after work one evening. He’d been carrying you to your room when you just nodded off. In his grasp, you were tiny, fragile. Weak. The responsibility of protection, the fierce need to watch over you, to possess you entirely, overcame him, overwhelmed every sensibility he’d cultivated throughout his life.

And so, he watched you. Eneamoured himself with your sleeping features, the trust you displayed to have fallen asleep on him. In his mind, this becomes a core memory. One which he turns into a joke between the two of you, his own fragment of sanctity – the beginnings of close friendship – one he’d use to build a statue like Hobie’s. A statue of you.

Hobie’s eyes narrowed. His nose wrinkled as his lips turned up in a half-sneer.

“You think the odd hug and a second of eye contact constitute as…what? A chance?” He scoffed. “A signifier that she feels for you more than she feels for the common man?” Incredulity danced in hobie’s eyes. Seethed from between his lips. The corner of his lips pulled back, revealed a smirk.

“Get over yourself, Mate. If she were interested, you’d know it by now.”

Of course, Hobie had his own collection of memories regarding you, his own wardrobe of moments sewn together with the thread of mirth to wear and fashion whenever and however he so pleased. He would wear it out to parties, on the town, to the Spidey-Station (as he referred to it with you). Show Miguel that his bare-threaded ribbon was nothing compared to his tapestry.

You and Hobie would wander the city when it was late and dark and quiet, talking about anything and everything that crossed your minds, more often than not leading the two of you to howl with laughter, leaning against each other as tears flooded from your eyes. The story, regardless of how funny it had been, held no weight compared to the joy that sparked in Hobie’s chest whenever you touched, whenever you simply existed with him. Fireworks.

You got him in ways nobody else truly could.

Many times had he come to visit you, only to lay his head in your lap and tell you what was bothering him. Sometimes it was trivial, others it was not. And every time, you’d sit and listen, playing with his hair and the badges on his jacket. And, of course, Hobie did the same for you.

One evening, you’d come banging on Hobie’s door, voice distraught as you called for him. He practically tore the door off its hinges when he heard how distressed you were, and, when he saw you, his heart tore. Your face was tear-streaked and your posture gave the impression of anguish, immortal and unrelenting.

“Hobie,” you cried. “Am–” your sniffing diced your words like meat in a kitchen. “Am I pretty?!”

Hobie blinked, unsure if he’d heard the question. And when he didn’t respond, you wailed.

Hobie knew what this was, for you’d spoken about it at length many times before. Insecurity was a powerful tool, especially when fuelled with sleep-deprivation and alcohol, one which Hobie wished he could destroy. But, while he couldn’t do that yet, he reached for you and took you in his arms. And as you cried into his shoulder, he told you how beautiful you were, how surprised he was that he was able to get a look in with you at all with how many men were chasing after you. And when you tried to say that no such thing had ever happened, he pulled back, gave you a smile, the visage of mischief.

“That’s ‘cause I scared ‘em all away!”

Your veneer cracked, and a laugh sprung from the concrete, the beginnings of life in an apocalypse. What Hobie wanted to say, though, what he nearly said, was everything he felt for you – how no word in the human vernacular could ever even begin to comprehend or compare how ethereal you were to him, how widely his love for you encompassed his very being, everything he said, did and wanted dictated entirely by the thought of you.

He opened his mouth, holding you close again. He could say it all now, while you were drunk – pretend it never happened if the exchange turned sour. But he knew he couldn’t live with your rejection, even if you’d have no memory of it.

He closed his mouth, swallowed the confession that teetered on his tongue like a pill. Consumed his contemplation, obscuring his feelings from you for just a little longer. While he couldn’t say it – not yet – he pulled you closer still, chest-to-chest, one hand at the back of your head and the other wrapped around your waist. A lover’s lock. And he held you. Tightly.

“You’re the most beautiful woman in every universe, (Y/N). I should know.” he murmured. He felt you nestle into him. You’d heard him. He sighed. “I just wished you could see it, too.”

Both men viewed the other as possessing some unattainable advantage, the beginnings of a fabled proverb blatant in their desire to attain what they thought the other had. What they were both striving for.

You.

For Hobie, the very thing he had prided himself on was his self-believed downfall. Friendship. The two of you had been friends for years, basked in a platonic limelight. Initially, Hobie hadn't needed to worry about how you viewed him, but as he fell deeper and deeper in love with you the longer he knew you, the fact that you’d maintained such a close friendship with him without once giving the indication of romanticism frightened him.

Miguel had only waltzed into your life a few months ago. You didn’t have to see him in a platonic light, didn’t have to bear witness to his deepest faults or his subtlest of quirks. Quite simply, you didn’t know enough about him for his mystique to be shattered.

On the contrary, Miguel saw how close you and Hobie were, how, without saying a word, the two of you knew what the other was thinking. He found your incessant asking of “Do you think Hobie would like this?” when visiting a store to be intimidating. He wondered if you asked the same when you went out with Hobie. If he was the subject of your concern as your best friend often was.

Whereas Hobie knew your every thought and desire, Miguel knew he clutched at straws by comparison, drinking in every detail you afforded him, taking nothing for granted. He’d bring you gifts, stories, regalements from his time out in the field, and his chest would swell whenever you watched him with wide eyes. He hoped, with every fibre of his being, that your astonishment was confined to him and him alone. He prayed that your years of friendship to Hobie was enough to dull any excitement you may feel when he told you similar tales.

This war was simply beginning, no two ways about it. And as they surveyed each other, Hobie and Miguel, weighing up the other’s pull on you, their minds conjoined to speak once and for the last time.

“May the best man win.”

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterpost

Yandere Masterlist Juicy Original Content <3

5K notes · View notes

lucky-draws · 1 year

Text

arts and crafts sunday: finished making my journal 👍

#this is NOT what i had envisioned LOL id thought the cover would be messier like junk journal patchwork kind of thing but i didn't rly have #the right sorts of fabric and it was too much of a headache deciding how to make it look SO i just used some pink satin i already had and #went for a simpler look . 10 year old girl ballerina core maybe #i should have tested how satin would glue first lol because it is very uneven and there are like raised bits around the sewing #(i sewed decorative squiggles across the fabric first)#i will maybe add a pocket envelope thingy inside the cover but i want to find some nice paper first #in those last 2 pics you can see the boards for the cover n spine #whenever i make books i usually use the cardboard backing from pads of watercolour paper i use lol.hashtag reuse and recycle #anyway .hopefully i wont like use a few pages and then abandon it. im envisioning doing collages in it and stuff because sometimes #its good to just cut and stick like you're in primary school again.

22 notes · View notes

zepskies · 10 months

Note

This is more of a Sam and Dean request than a reader and Dean request but what about Sam having a crush on Dean's gf? How would he react to that, I am honestly CRAVING angst and this is the angstiest, is that a word, thing I could think of, I am so sorry if you don't like angst or this makes you uncomfortable!!!

Oh my God. You killed me with this one, hun. 😫😫 I have another SB imagine coming next week, but I thought I'd put out this one for Dean to break it up a bit.

Pairing: Dean W. x Reader, one-sided Sam W. x Reader Word Count: 1,500

Imagine: You are Dean's one exception.

Sam knows it's wrong.

You're smart, with a degree in history that aids them well on hunts.

You're sharp, with a smart mouth that rivals Dean's (and keeps him on his toes).

But you're also kind. You take care of him and Dean with all the feminine grace and care they've never had in their lives.

Sam realizes it when he's up until 3 a.m. in the bunker's War Room. He's sat at the table, researching, eyes bleary, hands cramping from turning pages. And he finds a mug of hot tea sliding next to his idle hand on the table.

You're there with a smile and a hand on his shoulder. "Workin' hard or hardly working?"

Sam clears his throat and nods, chuckles a little. "I'm good." He eyes the mug. "Thanks, though I might need something stronger."

You eye him with gentle reproach. "Nope. Green tea is better for you this late at night. You really should go to sleep, Sam."

Sam tacitly agrees, but only because he can feel the warmth of your hand through his clothing, and it makes his face warmer than the tea. He watches you walk away, notices the curve of your ass in those little shorts. He can imagine your warm hands on his body, caressing him. He can imagine letting his lips graze your skin, exploring you, then devouring you.

And that's when his thoughts stutter to a halt. Sam inwardly cringes.

Despite his sleep-deprived brain, he's reminded that you're traveling down the hall to the room you share with his brother, and for Sam, it's nothing short of torture.

Because he realizes then that he isn't just fond of you. He doesn't love you like an older brother, or even a quasi-brother-in-law. He wants you.

Again, Sam knows it's wrong...but he can't help it. It's one of the saddest cliches in the fucking book. You're his brother's girl, and he wants you for himself.

And it's getting harder to hide it from Dean. They know each other too well -- a result of having no one but each other, but more practically, having lived in such close quarters for so long before they discovered the bunker.

When Sam gets hurt on a hunt, the cut is at a bad angle. He can't quite reach, so you dutifully come around and gently move his hand out of the way to do the stitch yourself. You tsk at him in playful disappointment. "I swear, it's a wonder you and Dean aren't walking patchwork quilts at this point."

Sam chuckles through his nose, wincing when the movement pulls on the stitch. You shoot him a stern look. "Stop moving."

"You're the one making me laugh!" he says, smiling incredulously.

"I don't accept excuses," you retort. "Keep still, please."

"Yes, ma'am," Sam says, his breath hitching for a different reason as he feels your soft hands along his side. He plays it off as pain. "Sorry," you murmur more sincerely. He tells you it's okay. His gaze flicks up, unconsciously finding Dean's face across the room.

He's just finished cleaning a cut on his hand. But he's been watching; Sam can tell. Dean's too perceptive not to notice Sam's discomfort. He probably even knows why. Sam can see a glint of it in Dean's eyes, the stoic front of his face.

"There we go!" you say in satisfaction, and you pat Sam's bare arm. He gives you a wan smile. "Thanks."

"You done, sweetheart?" Dean asks. You get up from your seat by Sam. "What do you need?" you ask.

"You. Come 'ere," he says with a smile, giving you a beckoning finger. "I felt that knot on the back of your head earlier. Think you're slick?"

You huff, but you also smile, in the way you only do for Dean. Sam watches you get up and go to Dean, who touches your cheek, stroking with a thumb first. Then he parts your hair to inspect the back of your head, and you wince a bit. You did fall pretty hard, now that Sam thinks of it. He frowns.

Dean lets out a deep breath. "You've got a nasty bump. You're taking it easy tonight, got it?"

"Yeah? Gonna help me relax?" you whisper. But Sam still hears you, because apparently no one taught you how the hell to whisper.

Dean smirks. "Watch it. I'll think you're flirting with me."

You give him a coy smile as your hand travels up his chest, between the open edges of his plaid shirt, then all the way down, to tease at his belt. "Believe me, when I do, you'll be the first one to know."

Dean's smirk deepens, but his eyes are softer. He closes a hand around yours and brings it to his lips. You lean up and request, wordlessly, for a kiss. Dean obliges you, capturing your lips with a soft kiss.

He eventually breaks from you, only to press his lips to your forehead next, closing his eyes with a sigh. He doesn't like it when you try to hide your injuries from him. You just don't want him to worry so much.

You smile and rest against his chest afterwards. It's clear as day what your heart holds.

It's hard for Sam to watch. His throat constricts, but he takes pains to avert his gaze.

He's so full to the brim with this that he sees no other recourse. He catches Dean alone in the kitchen and tries to make a confession. "Dean, we need to talk."

"Can it wait 'til I'm done?" Dean's plating up some stovetop mac and cheese -- your favorite.

"You're done cooking," Sam points out. Dean looks up at him. "We're doing a little dinner in bed situation. I made her promise to take it easy."

Sam admires the way Dean takes care of you. He really does. But it's also like a small oyster knife twisting in his gut. "Good. I'm glad," is all he says. "Yeah, we can talk later."

"Later" doesn't come for a long time. Weeks, in fact. But every time he tries to broach the problem, Dean finds a way to wiggle out of having the conversation. Always a distraction. A hunt. A fire you almost started in the kitchen. Being "in the middle" of something -- something in the bedroom that you insist needs Dean's immediate attention. Sam gives up for a while after that.

But Winchesters are nothing if not goddamn stubborn. Sam finally catches Dean alone in his room for once. You've gone to the grocery store, leaving the brothers alone in the bunker, but not for long, so Sam needs this chance.

"Dean, can we talk?"

Dean looks up at his brother from where he sits on the edge of his bed. He taps his knee, releases a breath. They both know what this is.

"Are you gonna do more than talk?" Dean asks. It's not what Sam expects. "What?"

"Whatever's on your mind, are you ever gonna do something about it?" Dean asks.

Sam stares back at his brother. He thinks. Hard. He's flipped back and forth for months. If he tells you how he feels, it's over. Things will never be the same between the three of you. It'll confuse you. It might even hurt you. It'll hurt Dean. Sam loves you both, if in very different ways.

So Sam is a bit deflated when he raises his resigned gaze and meets his brother's. "No."

After a moment, Dean nods. "Then we've got nothing to talk about."

But... Sam wants not to want you. Not to love you. Deep, deep down, a large chunk of him feels that he shouldn't have to hide himself. That you have a right to know the depths of what he feels, and what he feels for you.

"I see you're not convinced," Dean says dryly. Sam is silent, until Dean sighs and beckons him over. Sam obliges and sits down next to his older brother, the man he's looked up to (at least metaphorically) his whole life.

"I'd give my life for you. You know that. Right, Sammy?" Dean says. "If I couldn't tear the world apart, I'd lay myself out flat."

Sam sighs. "Dean..." Of fucking course he knows that. Dean already had given his life for him once. Remembering that only adds to Sam's guilt.

Dean meets Sam's gaze directly then. "But this is where I draw the line. She's my line," he says. His face is almost stoic, but his eyes are filled with unyielding fire. "I'm not layin' down on that. Not for you. Not for anyone."

Sam's heart clenches with every kind of pain, but he's also never respected his brother more. He nods. "I get it."

"No, you really fucking don't," Dean says. He's more than serious. "I mean it, Sam. I'll break your damn nose."

After a long moment, Sam nods. He knew Dean loved you. Of course he did. But this is the first time Sam truly understands how deeply. How completely. It's more than jealousy can fathom.

Sam realizes then that he lost, even before he began.

AN: Whew! 😮‍💨 I got way deeper into this than I expected to. Poor Sam. 😭 But I hope this scratched your angsty itch, my dear!

Read the Sequel

Here's the requested sequel to this: Sam crosses the line.

Also, if you want to read the reverse of this (Dean is in love with Sam's girlfriend): Dean gives you an impossible choice.

Dean Winchester Imagines

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Dean Tag List:

@hobby27 @this-is-me19 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesdeanvessel @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @ades106 @emily-winchester @deans-baby-momma @melancholictearz @luvs4dria @nic-kolas @katherineann83 @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @tipthejar @ajjustice @thewritersaddictions @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons @antisocialcorrupt @adoringanakin

@theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @mrshalverson2021 @iprobablyshipit91 @agalliasi @venicesem @waters-2567 @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @xsophianicolex @deansbbyx @mimaria420 @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @ultrahviolentart @beskarfilms @skyesthebomb @deans-spinster-witch @tmb510 @iamsapphine

#ask me stuff #dean winchester #dean winchester imagine #being deans one exception #sam in love with deans girlfriend #sam winchester #sam winchester imagine #sam and dean #angst #unrequited love #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x female reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fic #spn #supernatural #zepskies answers

1K notes · View notes

sirfrogsworth · 3 months

Text

We moved into this house back in the early 90s. We bought it from an old man named Fred Salmo. As we began living in the home every once in a while we'd discover some weird new thing wrong with it. Never anything catastrophic, but small frustrations that my dad had to deal with all the same.

Fred thought himself quite the handyman.

He was not.

He was a union sheet metal worker and I guess he thought that translated to home repair. But in actuality he would usually try to fix things with sheet metal even when that was not an appropriate solution.

And so whenever we'd find one of these issues we'd joke that we got "Salmo'd" again.

Almost all of the electrical outlets were wired backwards. "Looks like we got Salmo'd again."

A heating duct would have some terrible patchwork (with sheet metal). "He really Salmo'd this."

There was a bedroom ceiling fan that was not securely attached to said ceiling. "He's going to Salmo us to death in our sleep."

We kept finding these inept fixes for many years. One by one, my dad (who was an actual handyman) would properly fix them.

Eventually, we were pretty certain all of the Salmo'd shit had been addressed.

Until last night.

I noticed something looked off about the big light on our garage workshop on the back of the property.

It was... lower... somehow.

I walked back to figure out what was wrong and discovered this.

The wind was blowing pretty hard and the light fell off of its mount and was dangling by the electrical wiring.

Upon closer inspection I noticed something.

It was mounted to a piece of thin metal decorative trim. I could see nothing structural it could have been attached to. No stud or beam. Just that trim.

That light was here before we moved in. Which means it has lasted over 30 years without falling down. And knowing how it was mounted, that is kind of incredible.

But it definitely feels strange getting Salmo'd again after all this time.

I'm not entirely sure what to do about this yet. My brother took our only ladder a long time ago and never returned it. I'm not even sure how to power off the light without turning off all the power to that building. But I guess I should make that a priority today and go from there.

Replacing that light is one of the first things I wanted to do if I got some money to fix up the house. It has a horrible green tint and for as big as it is, it only lights up a small area. Hopefully that won't be a super costly repair.

Fucking Fred Salmo.

468 notes · View notes

harryslittlefreakk · 5 months

Text

late night talking

summary: a chance meeting with harry before his wembley dates leads you into a bizarre friendship

wordcount: 1.7k

a/n: i HATE writing meetings. this part is so slow but the next part is linked underneath, which is much nicer ;)

my masterlist can be found here!

“Just a caramel macchiato please”, you said, rubbing at your eyes as you spoke. You always had a hard time sleeping in hotels and tonight was no different. You’d travelled to London to attend some concerts with your best friend, and although she’d invited you to stay with her, you didn’t want to infiltrate her newlywed bubble. So now you were standing in a quiet Starbucks, in your pyjamas, at almost midnight.

You chose one of the comfy tables at the back, hoping not to be noticed by any of the other crazies out at this hour. But not long after you sat down, someone decided to sit in the seat immediately behind yours. You sighed and kept your eyes on your phone, knowing only too well what kind of person chooses a seat next to a woman in a deserted space.

“Sorry, do you have a napkin?” A man’s spoke came from behind you, interrupting your quiet solace. You grabbed one off your table and turned around to pass it over, not looking too closely at the man who asked. His gold rings caught your attention, an obnoxious H S that sent your wide eyes darting up to meet his. The brown curls peeking out from under his hood, the dimpled grin sitting on his chiselled face. It really was Harry. Your heart rate quickened, inches away from the face of the man you were here to see. His laugh broke your spell, and you realised you’d never even let go of the napkin. “Sorry, sorr-“, you spluttered, suddenly unable to think, let alone speak. Harry watched your brain reboot, his smile never faltering, before asking what you were drinking.

He looked over at you from the counter, taking you in. Your messy brown hair, your black vest top paired with pale pink pyjama pants. Your zip-up hoodie had slipped off your shoulders, allowing him to see some patchwork tattoos poking out.

When he returned, Harry sat down across from you and placed the drinks down gently. Holding out a hand for you to shake, he told you his name, which of course you already knew. “Y/N,” you replied, meeting his green eyes. “Well, Y/N, what are you doing in a Starbucks at this time?” Harry asked, taking a sip of his coffee. You mirrored him, bringing your cup to your lips before explaining how you couldn’t sleep in hotels and were in town for a show. He smirked, eyes glimmering knowingly. “I’m here for a show too. And I like being out at this time. It always feels more anonymous.”

~~~

The girl behind the counter called out to you, letting you know the cafe was closing. You hadn’t even noticed the tables being wiped down or the whirring of the coffee machines on their cleaning cycle. Harry slipped a 20 onto the counter as you stumbled out together, mumbling a quick apology. The air was cold after a warm day, and only then you realised how late it must be. “My hotels this way,” you pointed, not wanting to take any more of Harry’s time. His strong hand reached out and grabbed yours, tugging you behind him as he stepped in the opposite direction. “Come on,” he grinned. “I know somewhere we can get more coffee.”

You walked through an eerily deserted London, laughing alongside Harry but wondering now what on God’s green earth you were doing. If Harry was anyone else, you’d be running a mile. You glanced down at your feet, unsure why they weren’t taking you home. Your heart-print pyjama pants were just another reminder of where you should be going. But as you doubted yourself, Harry ground to a halt, sending you flying into the back of him. “What are you doing?” You asked, staring up at the skyscraper hotel in front of you. This was definitely nicer than your choice of digs. Harry only smirked in response, walking towards the doors. You followed him blindly, trailing through the entrance and into the lift behind him. He pulled down his hood and ran a hand through his hair, watching himself in the mirror before his eyes flicked to you. Finally, he spoke, “hotels will give you coffee at any hour on any day, I’ve noticed.”

“Are you staying here?,” you questioned, stepping out of the lift straight into what must have been the penthouse suite. Your eyes were wide in awe, you’d never seen a hotel room like this before. A small kitchen sat on one wall, with a living area big enough to seat an entire family. A king size bed peeked out from behind a glass room divider, everything accented with black and gold glossy metals. You ran your fingers across the back of one of the blue sofas, twirling round to take in your surroundings before your eyes rested on Harry’s. He nodded, amused by your wonder. “You’re welcome,” you scoffed, setting your jacket down on the table. Harry’s eyebrows furrowed, opening his mouth to question you. Swatting at his chest, you replied, “I paid good money for your shows. You’d be in a travelodge if it wasn’t for me.”

“You and thousands of others!” He interjected, swatting right back at your hand. You giggled, holding your hands up in surrender. “Okay, big man.”

Harry slipped off his hoodie, leaving him in only a sweatshirt and running shorts. You studied him properly for the first time, your eyes running from his tousled hair, to the way his sweatshirt was the perfect amount of baggy, to his toned, tanned thighs. If you weren’t careful you might have dribbled. He’d been the celebrity you’d pined over for years, and now you were standing in his hotel room. “You like what you see?,” he said, snapping you out of your daydream as he padded over to the coffee machine. “You got me here under false pretences, you know that?,” you grinned, plopping down on one of the armchairs. Harry’s head whipped around, mouth wide open in a half smirk. “I promised you coffee,” he gestured to the coffee machine, “here’s coffee.”

“You didn’t tell me the coffee was in your hotel room,” you smirked, before mouthing ‘weirdo’. Harry wagged a pointed finger at you, “ah ah ah. Only nice manners get you caffeine in my cafe.”

Your conversation continued well into the early hours. Tattoos, music, work, life, pets - you had everything and more to talk about. And you seemed to feel bizarrely comfortable around each other. It was almost 4am before you checked the time, and you stood up almost immediately to grab your jacket and leave. “My God, Harry, I should really-“ you tilted your head towards the door, your voice groggy now from talking and laughing for so long. “Stay here tonight,” Harry’s words came out quiet and almost shy. “It’s too late to go back to where you’re staying, I wouldn’t feel comfortable with you out alone at this hour.” He stood up as he spoke, yawning and stretching his arms. “Come on, I’ll show you where the bathroom is.”

As he led you towards the bathroom, you realised just how exhausted you were. And his enormous bed did look comfier than anywhere you’d slept in your life. “Harry, I’m really sorry, but do you have a t-shirt or something I can borrow?,” you asked, leaning on the doorframe. He looked you up and down, laughing. “You’re wearing pyjamas already pet.”

“I know! I know. But I went outside in these. Plus my legs get hot when I sleep.” This was true. You loved fluffy pyjama pants as loungewear but you only ever slept in a top and pants, and you couldn’t exactly wear your skimpy vest on its own tonight. Harry shook his head as he chuckled, his unkempt curls bobbing as he did. He yanked a shirt out of his wardrobe and chucked it at you. “Yeah yeah. You just want to tell the world you wore Harry Styles’ shirt.”

“Oh yes,” you rebutted. “Because ‘I slept in Harry Styles’ hotel’ wouldn’t make a good enough story.”

As you came out the bathroom, you resumed your post leaning against the doorframe, watching Harry throw a blanket on the sofa before trying and failing, several times, to stuff his long body on the loveseat. Stifling a laugh, you called out, “Harry, seriously. Not a chance you’re fitting on that sofa. Come to bed.”

As much as he tried to ignore it, you telling Harry to come to bed was far more inviting than he wanted it to be. He felt nuts. After all, you were a fan - a big enough fan that you’d go to all 4 of his Wembley dates. If word ever got out, he’d have hoards of fans outside every hotel waiting to be the next lucky girl. He just couldn’t explain why he was so drawn to you.

“Thank god for that,” Harry sighed, throwing his head back. “I have places to be tomorrow, I need a good sleep.” He whipped the covers bad and climbed in next to you, rubbing his hands over his face. You were thrashing around, trying to find a comfy position. Settling on your side, you tried to scoot as close to the edge as possible to make this slightly less awkward. Neither of you were used to sharing a bed without the promise of ending up tangled around one another.

“Hey,” he spoke quietly now. “What are you wearing tomorrow love?” Pulling you head up to look at him, you giggled sweetly. That pet name could be dangerous for you. “Why do you want to know?,” you questioned. Suddenly, you felt shy about your outfit choice. You were saving your best outfit for the final date, and now you wished you had something flashier to tell him - although, he’d seen you in your cutesiest pyjamas so the damage may have already been done.

“Want to see if I can spot you in the crowd,” he replied, shrugging his bare shoulders under the duvet. You tapped on your nose as you replied, “baby, you don’t need to worry about spotting me. Anyway, what are you wearing?”

Harry copied you and tapped on his nose, before switching off the bedside lamp and calling out a soft ‘goodnight’. You were pinching yourself up and down your arms to make sure you weren’t already dreaming. You couldn’t believe an insomnia stroll turned into Harry Styles’ bed. The Harry Styles’ bed. If only you knew what the rest of the week would hold.

part two

#harry styles #harry smut #harry x y/n #harry x reader #harry x fan #harry fic #Harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fluff

545 notes · View notes

theblueflower05 · 1 year

Text

Just a Little Taste

A/N: Welp. Somehow my breeding/breastfeeding kinks manifested themselves into a story. I wrote this sky high on painkillers and I am a little in love with the whole premise. @tiredmamaissy -I hope more than anything that you enjoy this. You deserve all of the goodness on this site. Your Masterlist is my personal spank bank lol

Word Count: 3k+

Warnings: This story is Filthy. Smut with very little plot. Breastfeeding. Pussy Eating. Slight mommy kink if you squint. Very pregnant reader getting pleasured, because pregnant beings can still be sexual. Aged up!Neteyam

You are responsible for cultivating your own online experience, please do not interact if any of these tags are triggering to you. Minors DNI.

Summary: You’re eight months pregnant with Neteyams child, and after a long day, you both need a little relief. Neteyam x Human! Reader

"Sugar, Honey, Iced Tea

Bumble-bee on the scene.

Yeah, I'd give up my bakery to have a piece of your pie"

- See You Again, Tyler the Creator ft Kali Uchis

Life in the village is always busy. Constantly bustling with life and movement as everyone; human scientist, Avatar and Na’vi alike, rush to keep things afloat.

High Camp is so different then Home Tree had been, the rage of war adding a constant edge to long days and restless nights. You miss the comfort of a slow life, of hazy days down in the jungle. The jagged cliffs of the Hallelujah Mountains still don’t quite feel like home to you.

Still, you go about your daily duties.

Being a Pandoran raised human had always given you a different insight, the two massively different cultures you we’re brought up in clashing and mending to create a skill set that was like no other- it had taken many years of painful trial and error to find your place within the Omiticaya, but healing had always come naturally.

Both holistic and surgical alike. You’d spent years shadowing Mo’at and learning the ancient herbal ways of the people, while well as taking advantage of the many PHD toting scientist back at Hell’s Gate. Medicine had no boundaries, was a way for you to feel close to both sides of yourself. To broach the gap between human and clansman.

You find your skills being needed more than ever. The ever constant raids against the RDA means your hands are rarely idle, forever in movement as you tend to the wounded. Some days you sit in the big Healers Tent with Mo’at and the other Taskarem, and others you’re in the makeshift Medi Bay, which is really more of an Avatar Pod Trailer turned OR, with the handful of human surgeons.

The long hours spent on your feet leave you sore and exhausted, but you have to pull your weight.

Even if said weight is far heavier than usual as of late-

“Y/N” you’re broken out of your thoughts by Max- as he enters the trailer with a holo-tab in hand and a concerned look in his dark eyes “What are you still doing here?”

“I was just finishing up inventory- our antibiotic stock is back way up. Jake was right, those helicopter raids were more than worth it” you’d sorted out the tiny vials of vital medicine by hand, not wanting any to be misplaced or mislabeled.

“You don't think maybe you should head home?” He continues and you sigh.

You miss your tent, and the soft bed of furs that lay inside the secure warm flaps. And the man that waits for you inside of the patchwork leather walls-

“I’m fine” you assure. And really, you are.

It's a fact you have to keep reminding people of.

Yes, you’re as big as a Strumbeast, but you are no less competent. No less able bodied.

Pregnancy is one of the most natural parts of life, a base staple in all’s existence. There are plenty of pregnant Omiticaya women who were expected to play their roles, even as the battle raged outside the safety of the mountain cave system.

It was the nature of your pregnancy that was more…fragile then average. Inside your womb grew a child that would be the first of it’s kind. A scientific mystery: no one had even known it was possible for Na’vi and humans to procreate.

And yet all of the evidence now lies under your shirt. Your stomach round and pronounced, full of growing life.

Full of the love between you and the Olo’eyktan’s eldest son.

Neteyam had left his permanent mark on you. Had part of himself growing inside of you. The thoughts we’re enough to make your knees buckle if you focused on them too hard.

“You’ve been here since 6am, you really should get some rest. Take one of the empty bunks if you want. Have you checked your blood pressure-”

You’re a grown woman. You’re not going to huff and puff and roll your eyes, but fuck, do you want to.

Everyone was so overbearing lately.

Norm and Max we’re constantly breathing down your neck; “The baby has a different growth rate then a human child, we need to monitor the way that your body is responding” Followed closely by Jake who watches you with sharp eagle like eyes and Neytiri, who used to all but ignore your presence, constantly checking in on you throughout the day. Mo’at’s always poking and prodigy, and Kiri almost always has her hands on you in some way shape or form.

You are glad for the support, happy that this baby would be so loved.

But really, you missed being treated like the competent, independent woman you knew you we’re.

“My blood pressure is fine. I thought since we ruled out preeclampsia we weren’t going to worry about it anymore” you know that it’s not going to silence his worry, but still. You can try.

Max goes on one of his science mambo jumbo spiels, and by the end of it you’re waddling out of the lab and back to your hut, annoyed as shit but placating your pseudo father figure all the same. Only a month and a half mor of this and then things could go back to normal.

Everything had just…changed so quickly.

You 're a caretaker by nature. Caring for others is easy, feels right. You’d tucked the much older scientists into bed when you we’re just a pre-teen. Made dinners. Looked out for Spider and the other Sully’s-

And the role reversal still didn't quite sit right with you. Your control freak ways didn't do well with not being the one in charge- you’d been stripped of your title so to speak. You we’re supposed to relax into your new role, enjoy being doted over before the nine month’s we’re over.

You and Neteyam’s shared tent is in the centered in the cave, close to his families, but standing on its own. As private as anyone could get in the busy, close quartered camp. The walls of the hut are familiar, adorned with your combined belongings. Cozy and familiar.

You shimmy free of your confining bra, step out of your cargo pants, then toe off your boots, releasing your swollen sock covered feet with a groan before collapsing into your well loved bed, the soft blankets and familiar scent of your mate lulling you into a deep state of peace.

It’s kind of wild how quickly you can fall asleep these days. Growing a little person from scratch tends to burn a lot of energy and the moment you relax, you’re out like a light.

You don't wake up, even when the horns are sounded for the return of the War Party.

Not when Neteyam makes his way through the camp and enters the tent. He’s wearty, grime covered and hunched over. He only softens when he sees you, tucked safely, into his bed. Your eyes still closed and face still scrunched up as he strips out of his battle band and shin covers. He’s quiet, washing off with the large freshwater basin in the corner before making his way over to his much-missed bed mat.

It isn't until he's crawled under the blankets and wiggled his way as close to you as possible that you begin to stir. His large cat like snout nuzzles into the vulnerable crevice of your neck, chuffing hot breaths against the smooth skin.

You’re not upset at him for waking you up, a drowsy half alert smile stretches over your lips as your hands run up his strong back. Gently working the tense muscles.

He gets so greedy when he comes back from the War runs. He needs to be comforted, to be held and you are all too willing to comply.

Everyone else infantiles you now, and yeah, Neteyam could get a little intense and overprotective, but your relationship had always worked because you were the one person in all of Pandora that babied the future chief.

He was such a sweet man, with so much responsibility on his plate. You loved nothing more than holding him in your arms. Letting him release any and all tension because you had him. You, a tiny soft skinned human, were the barrier between him and the ruthless world.

You’d be such a great mother to his children. His hind brain purrs at the thought. That even through all of the controversy, he knows he’d chosen the right mate. Little and fierce, he hopes the baby is just like you.

“Are you okay?” You ask, tone hushed in the darkness of the tent. The only light coming from the small dying embers of the firepit in the center of the space. Hypnotic shadows dance along the canvas walls and Neteyam's breathing grows shallow as he sinks into it.

The way you smell. The way your heart beats, strong against his cheek. The way your plump body feels so good under his wandering hands. He hadn't been okay, just moments ago. He was delirious, so sick of the fighting that he felt ill with it.

But how could any of those bad feelings exist when he had you waiting for him? Ready to welcome him into your body, your heart, your mind. He doesn't think he could survive without knowing the solace of your love.

“I’m okay, narlor(beauty). Just missed you” he mutters, still trying to dig his face deeper into your skin. He wants to escape inside of you, you chuckle at his futile attempts to mend you both into one entity. His large palms rest against your bloated belly, tenderly and your heart flutters “Missed you both so much”

Being so loved is overwhelming.

You wouldn't have it any other way.

“I missed you, my sweet baby. I missed you all day” you assure him with the words you know he needs to hear. “Our son here thought it would be fun to jump on his sa’nok’s bladder all day. It was like was playing the wokau(pendulum drum) all day long- I spent hours in running back and forth to the bathroom”

Neteyam's laugh is deep and rich. Thoroughly pleased to listen to your stories of your day, eager to hear every minute detail. Desperate to drown out visions of blood and gun smoke with your voice.

“Ah, you have to be nice to your momma, little one” he chastises the bump, raising your shirt over your head, wanting that flimsy barrier gone. His lips trail over the tight skin of your bulging belly as he speaks to his child.

Your son, still safe inside your soft body, knows his fathers voice already. Recognizes that slightly accented cadence, and squirms inside of you happily.

Neteyam usually speaks strictly in Na’vi to your unborn child-

“He needs to know the language of our people, first and foremost”

-he’ll spend hours whispering his mother tongue into your flesh. It always leaves you boneless and shaking. Feeling so special and cared for. Na’vi, though your second language, is familiar to you. You’re fluent in the language- but fuck. The way your mate speaks it is the most beautiful thing. It’s musical, he tells sprawling stories with his colorful words.

There is one English he’s very fond of though. Every time it leaves his plush mouth it makes you grin, sharp. Knowingly.

“Are you gonna be nice to momma, Neteyam?” you question him after a while. His ears quirk, swiveling on his head and his tale flicks once, in obvious excitement.

You know what he’s wanted, ever since he woke you up by nuzzling at your chest. Ever since he peeled off your top and left your heavy breasts bare. Did he think you missed the way his golden gaze would flick to them, eyeing them hungrily.

He needs this as much as you do, but as usual, your sweet boy is too selfless to ask. Won't trouble you with his wants unless you bring it up first.

You reach for his big hand that rests on your belly, and drag it to where you need him. His palm enveloping your tits, the rough callus’s catching on your sensitive nipple just right-

Your pregnancy had been different than regular humanoid pregnancies. Your body worked hard, thrown into overdrive in an attempt to keep up with the fast growing fetus in your womb. You’d started lactating months ago, far earlier then normal. Your breasts firm, full with milk. Ready to feed the child that had not yet come into the world.

At first it had been both painful and embarrassing. You had no child to drink what you were producing and the other breastfeeding women in the tribe we’re hesitant to feed their babies your tawtute(human) milk. Already over emotional due to the hormone change, you’d wept at the fact that you had no one to give what your body readily made.

The fact that you couldn't be a bigger part of your community due to your human heritage, combined with the intense pain that came from having backed up ducts had been too much,

Eventually you’d turned to Neteyam, both your eyes and shirt soaking wet. Begged him to help you. And of course, as always, he did.

It should be awkward, or shameful- but connecting with him on any level is something you cherish. Why would this be any different?

“I’m always nice to you, aren't I, love?” Neteyam gruffs as he gently works at the breast in his hands. Its firm and full of milk, his mouth waters “Do they hurt again?”

“Mhmm” you whine pathetically, and you’re not lying. The skin of your chest is now marred by stretch marks and you’d had to stuff precious, hard to come by toilet paper down your bra all day to keep them from spilling over “They’re so full, Nete”

“Oh” He hums, thumbing at your nipple “Poor momma, I’ll help you. Don't worry” his lips are wet against your skin as he kisses his way to your breast, his tongue peeking out to circle your puffy nipple. A pearlescent drop of milk tops the rosy bud and he groans as it hits his taste buds.

He tells you that you taste good, often. The juices of your pussy, your spit soaked kisses. He’s always been greedy for it, his tongue bullying its way into your holes, desperate for your essence. Your milk is just as delicious as the rest of you.

It quickly goes from kitten licking, wide wet stripes against your pebbled nipple to sucking your big breast as far into his mouth as he could. Careful of his fangs as he gorges himself on your flesh.

He’s loudly appreciative as he suckles on your nipple. Grunting and humming and moaning at the flavor. Your arms come around him, cradling his head to your bosom because it feels so good. Having him this close, knowing that he'd do anything to take care of you. That he truly loved the way you tasted-

Many people thought you and Neteyam would never last. It was lust, they’d claim. Curiosity. A childhood friendship that would fizzle out eventually. Na’vi needed Tsaheylu, it was the lifeblood of all their relationships. Why would the much desired future Olo’eyktan stay with you if he couldn't even properly bond you?

While you couldn't deny that there we’re doubt filled moments that you yourself wondered why he’d chosen you and stayed so loyal to you…you still felt your own form of connection to him. While you’d love to make that sacred bond with him, you didn't feel any less close to your mate.

You never thought that you could be so intertwined with another being.

As Neteyam takes his fill from your breast, you massage the base of his Kuru, firm enough that it makes him hiss. You have no special braid of your own, but he’s always been very free with his when it comes to you.

You can do with as you please. Stroke it. Lick it. Massage it. Hell, he’d even let you touch glowing pink tendrils at the end of it before. Let you feel his exposed nerves, so vulnerable and raw in your hands that he had shed tears as you explored.

Nothing was taboo in your relationship. There was no space undiscovered between you.

Your bodies we’re so very different, and yet you knew his like the back of your hand. All of the strong muscles and hard sinew. The cobalt expanse of his skin didn't have one blemish that you haven't memorized. You could point out his striped pattern in a sea of other Na’vi.

And he knows you right back.

Loves to dig his fingers into your doughy hips, into your pillowy thighs. Your wide ass and ample chest. He loves your form, goes crazy for all of your alien curves. He never cared for your human modesty, he’d wanted to part your ass cheeks and stare at plump of your pussy for as long as he could remember. Wanted to strip you of all of those clothes and just stare.

The fact that he gets to do just that, for the rest of your lives, is his favorite, favorite thing.

You watch him eagerly as he slowly nurses. You can't get enough of the sight of him, his hollowed cheeks, the bob of his throat as he swallows your free flowing milk. He's so strong, his muscles flex in the dim light. All of that strength, and yet he’s so very gentle with you, his rough tongue laving at your sore buds every couple minutes. Soothing and tickling you all the same.

You giggle at a particularly quick swipe, letting out a small squeal as Neteyam’s tongue plays with the flesh in his mouth. His eyes peek open, glittering with mirth and low boiling heat as he meets your gaze. Whin his lips split into a smile, a dribble of translucent white milk escapes. Trickles down from the corners of his lips.

Heat pulses between your legs and you know he can smell how aroused you are.

Neteyam has always been able to turn you on without even trying. A well spoken word, or even a pointed look could get you running your thighs together. All desperate to get him alone and put your hands all over him.

You hate that you cant kiss him the way you want to, your Exo Mask, while necessary to your survival can be suck a fucking menace sometimes.

Your thumb traces his lips, the ones you want pressed against your own so bad. You rub the spilled milk from his chin. Cleaning him up in a way that's so simple, and so beyond erotic.

He breaks eye contact first, like he just can't look at you anymore. His brows all scrunched up, his chest raising and falling rapidly. He releases your sloppy nipple, completely covered in his saliva, and presses his face against the damp skin. Making a sound of distress.

Your fingernails skritch at his scalp, tangled in his many braids “What is it, baby?”

“I wanna fuck you so bad. Eywa, do you even smell yourself, Y/N? So good. I have to-”

“Yeah, yeah, okay” You nod, agreeing blindly. He can have whatever he wants.

“Fuck you hard, though. Gotta pound you. I know I shouldn't but it’ll be alright, huh? Won't hurt the baby?” his face is still buried in your skin, you cant even see his expression as he pleads for your pussy. It makes you so hot.

You push at his chest, needing him to get off of you for just a moment. He’s heavy as shit, a dead weight- doesn't really move until you're pouting and demanding for him to just give you a little space.

Enough that you can wiggle out of your panties and spread your thighs wide for him. Your swollen, sticky pussy on display for your mate.

His nostrils flare, and his thin tail whips wildly behind him.

When he swings your thick thighs up onto his broad shoulders, you let out a low, appreciative moan.

“Such a good boy for momma” you praise him the way the people praise the Great Mother. The cradle of your thighs a sanctuary where you both come to worship.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Welp, I should be finishing up Part Three of First Love/Late Spring or plotting out future installments of The Sweetest Sylaung, but here I am writing nursing filth. Lol I truly have zero regrets, this story was so very self fulfilling(even though it partially came from a request). I hope you guys enjoyed though

As mentioned many times before, requests are currently open. Please send in all that good shit. I could use a good distraction from real life!

#neteyam smut #neteyam x reader #neteyam x human reader #neteyam sully smut #aged up neteyam #Neteyam x pregnant reader

2K notes · View notes

virgincels · 6 months

Text

STOCKING FILLER !

ft. leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. p in v, filming, throat fucking, ddlg dynamics, creampie, daddy kink

note. the first part to my xmas fics! hooray! starting off very short so i apologise! ignore any typos! this is a part 2 to my fic lovey-dovey if you would like to read that first! if you see typos just know i will detonate :3 not entirely proud of this as it’s slightly repetitive but I promise the next fics will be more interesting! reblogs n feedback is much appreciated!

lovey-dovey

Huh. So that’s what you want for Christmas. Cock. What a surprise. Leon didn’t peg you as an icky little perv, his sweet girl can get down and dirty when she wants, but a sex tape? That’s new. Guess he could whip out the old camcorder, make you into a movie star, you’re certainly pretty enough. And with those false lashes on? Yeah, that’ll be a mega-hit, could make a fortune off of it, no more getting skullfucked by monsters in the field, just sticking his dick in all of your tight holes to pay the bills.

“Daddy?” He feels small cold hands on his shoulder. Yelps in a way that makes you giggle.

“Scared me, baby.” Leon huffs out a breath, tucks the letter behind his back, but you’ve got a sharp eye. His little girl knows too much. Daddy tries to keep it out of your reach, it’s for your own good, but you’re so nosy. Curious little thing.

“Why you readin’ my letter?” You wipe your nose on your sleeve, caught the flu over the weekend, doesn’t stop you from peeking over his shoulder 24/7. “That’s between me and Santa.”

“‘Cause Santa said I could,” Leon says simply.

“Nuh-uh, he didn’t.” You shake your head in disbelief as if Leon’s breach of privacy is the greatest betrayal since the whole Judas debacle. He didn’t know you and Santa had terms and conditions like that.

“Well, he did, ‘cause how else is daddy supposed to know what you want?” Leon pats the seat beside him, you go to climb over the back of the couch but he gives you a look. The daddy look of disapproval. You grunt in annoyance and make the short trip over to him. Walking around the sofa is a total pain when you’re sick - perfectly happy to terrorise him though. “Why’re you up anyway?” He goes to check his watch, “it’s midnight.”

“I got cold, daddy.” You tell him, blink up at him with big eyes that tell Leon something’s up. “And, um, I lied to daddy.”

“You lied?” Leon repeats, raising his brow. His girl doesn’t lie. Only naughty babies lie.

“I lied.” You confirm with a solemn nod. “I don’t believe in Santa, daddy.”

Shock horror. Leon clutches his chest. “Why’d you lie to me like that, babydoll?”

“Shy.” Is your plain answer.

“What, like, about Santa?”

“No, daddy,” you shake your head and let out a frustrated puff of breath through your nose, kicking your feet to distract yourself, “‘bout what I wanted from you.”

“Oh, baby,” Leon chuckles, he wraps his arm around your shoulder, draws you to his warm chest and kisses the crown of your head. “What’re you shy about, hm? I’ve had my tongue in your ass.”

Your little fists smack against his chest, muffling your embarrassed whines of daddy into his chest. It makes Leon laugh harder. “All I’m sayin’ is, sweetheart, you could ask daddy anything and I’d do it for you.” Leon is rough and calloused, but for you, he aches to be kind and soft. He’d do whatever you say in a heartbeat. If you want porn, so be it, he’ll fuck you till his dick pops off from overuse. And even then he’d let you keep his disembodied cock as a toy.

You make your recovery by Christmas Eve. Thank heavens. You’re a nightmare when sick, more so in this headspace. Grown-up you is responsible. Knock back two painkillers, cough medicine and settle into bed. Little you? God, she’s wreaking havoc. He had to change the quilt about five times, you said it was too lumpy, too thin, too ugly. Fucking Princess and the Pea. Insulted the duvet his mom made way back when, yeah, it’s patchwork, yeah, it’s ugly as fuck. You don’t gotta say it outloud though. Then you insist on using anything but a napkin to wipe your nose and— God. He’s just glad it’s over. Also means Leon can touch you again. In the way he wants, in the way you want.

Dressed in the pinkest of pinks, you sit on your knees in the middle of Leon’s California king. He insisted on finding that old camcorder, but you looked at him like he was crazy, told him his phone would do the job. The frilled hem of your babydoll rests pretty on your knees, it’s dangerously low cut to show more than just your décolletage, and the cups don’t fit right, a little too tight. You had complained, said it gave you four boobs or whatever that means. Leon patted you on the butt and told you he liked it. What kinda man says no to a big pair of tits? You might be his little girl but there’s nothing little about those, or that fat pussy, Jesus Christ. Had to swap out the matching thong ‘cause it got swallowed up between your fat lips, instead you’ve gone for comfort. Cotton panties printed with these vintage-looking lambs. There’s a blue ribbon dotting the hem that sits snug below your belly button. Through the sheer pink, he can see ‘em. Drives Leon crazy.

The camera counts down. 3, 2, 1. He steps into frame, shaky like he’s got an audience. A rogue hand brushes the front of his pants, you’re making eyes at him, licking the gloss off your lips. “C’mon, baby, get to work.” Leon pinches your cheek when you go to unzip his jeans with your naughty fingers, “Babies don’t use their hands, do they?”

You shake your head, ribbons bobbing along with you. Then you lower your head, take his zipper between your teeth and tug it down in jagged intervals. He’d taken his belt off earlier, knows that would be a little too mean. You can’t even tie a cherry knot with that tongue. Not that Leon can either. You’re pleased to find out he’s not wearing much at all underneath, letting out a hum of delight when his cock springs free, almost hitting you in the nose. What a video that could be Cock So Fat I Give My Girl A Nosebleed!

Very diligently, you run your tongue along his shaft, suck on each ball for ten seconds, then you work the tip. Your cheeks hollow as you take him into your mouth, you gag and pull back with a cough ‘cause he tickled the back of your throat.

“Thought you were a big girl.” Leon snickers at the slightly dazed expression on your face, the stringy spit that’s trickling down your chin, falling in fat globs between your tits.

“I am, daddy.” You insist in that whiny voice.

“Suck cock like a big girl then.” He slaps your right tit hard enough to make them knock together like Newton’s cradle. “C’mere, sweetheart.” Leon tucks his hands beneath your armpits and drags you to the edge of the bed, your head dangles at an angle that’s entirely uncomfortable. The only thing that’s in frame is his bare ass, and that’s not pleasant, but come on. He’s gotta do this.

Leon wipes the fat head of his cock across your pout, you open up like a good girl, he stuffs his dick down your tight throat, balls pressed to the point of your nose. Thinks he hears you inhale, then your little hands come to fondle his fat balls and the no-hands rule flies out the window. “Jesus Christ, you fuckin’ nympho, baby.” He pats your cheek, bucks his hips into your mouth to hear those delicious gag, gag, gaggin’ sounds. Once you’ve lathered him in enough spit, Leon pulls out with a wet pop, drags his balls over your face like you want him to. Nasty little thing.

Panting for breath, you sit up, pressing the back of your hand to your head daintily. “That’s good for you.” Leon comments, “makes your hair grow ‘cause all the blood is rushing to your head, Claire told me.”

“Not true, daddy,” you giggle, rubbing your temple to soothe the bursting pressure. You smile pretty when he lays you back, your head dipping between the pillows. He kisses your cheek, and you take his hand in yours, kissing his knuckles tenderly. A soft creature with even softer tendencies.

Leon’s quick to get you out of your panties, hooks his fingers in the waistband and peels the soaked seat from your slick cunt. Much to your embarrassment - he lifts them to his nose and takes a whiff, his tongue pokes out to collect the arousal that’s gathered in the centre. Then he digs into the source itself, presses his nose into your chubby pussy, sucks on your clit like it’s hard candy. The muffled moans he lets out into your cushiony cunt don’t go unheard, so brazen about it, you grow fidgety and pull at his hair. Leon lifts his head, stubble shiny with your slick, licks his lips to catch every last drop. What was he doing down there? Motorboating it?

“Daddy…” You whine, press your foot against his face to stop him. Leon captures your ankle, then kisses the sole of your socked foot, he uses it as leverage, spreads you even further. Till your thighs ache, and your pussy parts ever so slightly, he’s quick to press his cock to your twitching clit. A steady hand drags Leon’s cock up and down your folds, cock catching on your bud each time.

“Look at her, baby, missed me, didn’t she?” Leon coos, his eyes zeroed in on your spread cunt, watching how your hole flutters around nothing. Poor baby. You need his fat cock so bad. Need to be plugged up before you spring a leak. Gosh, he wouldn’t want that. “She’s beggin’ for daddy, hm? Listen to her, she’s speakin’ to me.” He smiles when your drippy cunt squelches, the slick, gushy sounds going straight to his cock as it jumps. Way to give him away. Leon don’t have a tail that wags but he sure does have a cock, and it’s hard enough to break open a walnut.

Up and down, up and down. Leon guides his cock over your clit, and past your fleshy folds, teases your needy hole by stretching you out with just the tip. Then he pulls out. When he finally fucking pushes into your warmth, you squeeze him tight, he sinks in till all of him is wrapped up in your cunt. And you squirt for him. Eyes rolled back into your head, acrylics taking down his chest, back bowing off the bed ‘cause it was just too much for his baby and her precious princess parts.

“Mmmmmphhh!” You let out a squeaky sound into the palm of your hand.

“Yeah? That so, baby?” Leon clicks his tongue, tosses your flimsy legs over his shoulders, tugs down the cups of your babydoll so he can suck your tits.

Another stream of pitchy moans. “Uh huh?” Leon responds, nodding down at you like he knows just what his dumb little girl means.

“Daddyyyyyy!” His balls plap, plap, plap against your perky ass, gonna fuck you till his heart gives out. That’s what you deserve.

“Yeah, darling? You’re talkative today, huh?” Leon cranes his neck and bites down on your nipple, leaves it all puffy. His pace slows, focuses on giving it to you slow and deep, circles his hips so you feel every inch of him. The slow, sticky grind makes a wet noise, a ring of white glistening around the wide base of his cock. You’ve gone and creamed around him.

“Mmmm… Daddy…”

“Aw, is that right my girl?”

Then you bristle, go rigid in his grip, chest heaving and your mouth falls open in a silent moan. “Ohhh, is it right there, sweetpea? Yeah? Mhm? Right there? Gonna make a big mess for daddy?” Leon presses down on your abdomen, his dick hits that special spot just right, and his tongue swirls over your nipple.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy— oh, daddy,” you whimper, spurting your release each time his cock slams against your cervix, wetting his stomach with each burst. Getting him all messy in the way he likes.

“Alright, alright, keep it down, little lady.” Leon soothes you, his warm hand rubbing your side as you tremble in his arms, breath shuddering until he dumps his load in you.

You go slack beneath him, little hand coming to rub your tummy after his warmth floods into you. He spreads you open to see how your cunt gapes, empty without his fat cock, his seed dribbles out as your pussy contracts, spills down your ass crack. Leon gives your clit one last kiss, ‘cause it’s pretty and you’re pretty, and pretty girls deserve handsome daddies who kiss their swollen little clits.

“Daddy,” you point over his shoulder, brows drawn together as your bottom lip wobbles. Never a good sign. He turns to see his phone has fallen flat on its face. See, this is why he should’ve got the camcorder out.

“Oh, baby, it’s alright,” Leon coos, you preen as he peppers your sweaty face in kisses, “we can just start again, huh? We got all night.”

“But, but, but, daddy, I gotta be sleepin’ when Santa comes.” You blubber.

“Thought you didn’t believe in him, babe.” He flicks your forehead.

“I don’t, daddy, but, will you still fill my stocking? When I go to sleep, daddy?” You’re giving him those big eyes again, batting your lashes. Santa is a ploy to get more presents. He’d figured that out.

“Yes, baby.” Leon agrees to calm you down, “but first I gotta grant your Christmas wish, don’t I?”

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy smut #leon s kennedy x reader #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut

929 notes · View notes