#and that fat acceptance and the love fat people can have for their bodies has ruined the body positive movement.

[itsseriouslyridiculous]

I really hate how my physical body looks so so so much. unfortunately there isn't much I can do about it.

[peniscat]

.

[laikinz]

when your entire brand as a youtube personality is going after fat people who just want to live their lives and maybe change the climate for other fat people existing in this stupid world i think youve just become the most embarrassing person in existence

[snekdood]

idk why ppl think you wanting a different body, or in this case specifically, weight, somehow has something to do with them or you judging them? like i've worked through the fatphobia i grew up with and was used against me, idgaf what other people do and im also not repelled by or somehow grossed out by fat people given i tend to date fat people (not seeking them out, it just happens)-- if this is the case, how can you say that im somehow demanding you change in someway because I want to change myself? maybe stop seeing other people as extensions of you and this wouldnt be an issue..?

[dmitriene]

simon riley is an easy lover, a man that shrugs when you ask him what he wants, what he loves, he had a purpose which was completed in the face of revenge, and so, he struggles to name anything except your name when it's a topic of love and want, because he doesn't has anything else to wish for.

he's a giver, a pleaser, he'd rip the last thing he has off his bones to give it to people who need it more, because he knows well what it is to be at a very bottom with no one's help and sympathy, and while he could have become selfish, this word is associated with childish, innocent fear he bears in himself, which is why it is so far from his nature.

far from how tender he is, with you, willing to give you anything you'll wish for, his guts, his soul, his devotion, doesn't matter how you'll treat him, wire him up to machines, or make him your prisoner, he'd kiss at your arms and legs, descend over your body with whispered, hoarse admirations, give you all he can.

chant your name like a prayer, dripping from his chapped lips that brush and press biting, tender kisses to the juncture of your neck, rutting his fat, swollen cock between the fluttering, spread folds of your pussy, slick and puffy, welcoming him in without resistance as your legs flex at his hips, squeezing, shivering up to your spine with rushing goosebumps.

simon yields to you just like you are to him, accepting the heavy weight of his body that pins you against the messed sheets, pulled up from where you fisted them with your clenched hands, until simon's warm palms didn't replace their place, letting you claw at his fingers that lace with yours, calloused thumb rubbing at your knuckles, as he loves you gently.

like a young boy, so simple and lenient, tensing under the gliding touch of your smooth palm, covering over protruding veins at his thick neck, pale skin sweaty and flushed with warmth, as he shakes at his arms, holding himself over you, hips rocking forward and back with slow, squelching glides that make him so unbearably weak.

unable to hold his hoarse keens when you look at him tender and loving, kissing simon's scarred knuckles and squeezing down on him until he moans and sputters, trembling, sinking his whole sturdy weight over your body where you envelop him with your hands, legs looped around his lower back, heels digging just over his ass, holding him close as he pumps you full.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

hiiii friend!! I just recently discovered your writing and I am l o v i n g it. If it's not too much to ask, can I request some comfort with soap for a fem!plus size! reader. Maybe reader has really bad anxiety about every day things, or is insecure about her looks? really anything works for me, I'm not picky. Thank you!!

Hello! 🩷

so sorry for the long wait, but I hope this helps you and any other girl who might feel bad about her extra pudge <3

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall 🪞

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Johnny comes to find you upset about your looks. Lucky for you, he always has a way to cheer you up.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

A downtrodden sigh slipped past your lips, your brows scrunched together as you were staring at yourself in the mirror.

Your day was doomed from the start; the second you caught an unflattering glance of your sleepy reflection, the corners of your mouth turned down into a frown, you knew today was only going to get worse.

No matter where you went, there always seemed to be a mirror situated somewhere, only reflecting the worst angles.

Whether it was a tinted window, the shiny surface of a cupboard, or the telly, the image of yourself followed you like a shadow. Your eyes always found the flaws first and overlooked all of your good qualities. Immediately drawn to any imperfections.

The extra fat that cushioned and softened your silhouette, the dimples on your legs, the rolls on your back that deepened when you twisted your body, your tummy that dented your clothes and rested on your thighs when you sat down.

Despite loving and accepting all of these parts of yourself, sometimes a parasite of insecurity and doubt planted itself in your mind for a day. It would eat away at your brain, sending you down a dizzying spiral.

With a huff you grabbed a blanket and threw it over the mirror, successfully covering up the smooth glass.

A much wiser decision than shattering it and living with even more reflections of yourself and bad luck for the next seven years.

You slipped into bed, burying deep into the blankets and pillows, hoping to soothe the heavy ache in your chest. Maybe sleeping would help, you thought.

Yes, maybe it would. At the very least, if would stop any more thoughts, and even if it was only for a moment, you wouldn't have to feel anything at all.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

The door fell shut with a thump, followed by a relieved sigh slipping past Johnny's lips as he toed off his boots. The weight off another day at Base lay heavy on his shoulders. At least he wasn't in an active warzone for once.

He dropped everything by the entrance, not caring enough to properly put his shoes away. All he wanted now was to find his soft bonnie lass and let the outside melt away.

Johnny wasn't surprised to not find you in the living room as he stepped further into your shared home. It wasn't uncommon for you to be taking a nap at this hour, but the way absolutely nothing in the house seemed disturb made him raise a brow.

With quiet steps, he made his way to your bedroom and cracked open the door, peaking his head in. You weren't facing him, your form obscured by far too many blankets, at least for Johnny's liking.

Nonetheless, the sight made him crack a soft smile. This was his proof that all he had done and will do was worth it so people like you would be safe.

From the corner of his eye he caught the covered mirror and with a slightly twisting feeling in his stomach he sat down on the edge of the bed, denting the mattress.

"Mo leannan?" He called softly, placing a gentle hand somewhere on your cocooned self.

Your response of a soft grumble made him chuckle. You were obviously not ready to leave your cozy paradise, and he couldn't blame you.

Johnny slipped under the blanket(s) with you, the tension easing from his muscles. He could finally rest his weary bones.

He scooted closer, ignoring how he would be boiled alive under all these layers, and wrapped his arms around.

He was about to rest his hands on your soft tummy, his favorite place for them to be, but as if you were struck by lighting you gasped and tightly grasped his wrists, stopping him in his tracks.

You had never been more thankful to not be facing Johnny, your head hung low in shame.

His brows furrowed in worry, the uncomfortable feeling that sat in the pit of his stomach proving to be an instinct he hoped would be wrong.

"What's wrong? I ken somethin's off." He spoke softly, his faced nuzzled into your hair.

The grip on his wrists loosened and you tucked them back at his side.

Stubborn as ever, Johnny managed to grasp at your hips, needing his hands on you.

"This alright?" He mumbled, waiting for your approval before going any further.

You managed a small verbal confirmation and he immediately pulled you back against him.

"The mirror-" he began, stopping when you tensed beneath his touch.

"Bad day?" Johnny asked quietly, gently rubbing his hands over your hips.

You nodded, your hair moving while he was left staring at the back of your head.

"Hen, let me see tha' pretty face o' yours, will ya?" He prompted gently, teasingly poking a finger in your side.

Your shoulders sagged with a heavy sigh, but soon you were maneuvering yourself onto your other side. You were greeted by empathic eyes and a soft, lopsided smile from your lover, who promptly wrapped his arms around you fully, pulling you into his chest.

You relaxed in his embrace, your head resting right above his heart beat. You let your eyes fall shut for a moment, letting Johnny's warmth and comfort deep into your flesh.

"Whatever is goin' on in tha' clever wee head, it's all lies." He whispered, making you pull your face from his chest, looking up at him with your beautiful doe eyes.

"Ah love all o' you. Every imperfection. Every flaw. Every pound. Ya hear me?" He sounded almost scolding, raising his brows at you.

It managed to pull a small giggle from your throat and a faintest hint of a smile.

"There she is." Johnny smirked, watching as you rolled your eyes at him. He cupped your face.

"Ah love these round cheeks. Ma wee chipmunk." He cooed, pressing sloppy, wet kisses all over your face.

You squealed, pushing against his chest to get him away from you.

"Ew, Johnny!" You laughed, his stubble scratching your skin.

"Does ma affection disgust you, bonnie?" He accused, grinning. You got a hold of his cheeks and looked at him with a smile.

"No, but... can we try a little less drool?" He winced, his lips forming a thin line.

"Ah'm afraid tha's not possible."

As you took a breath to reply, he surged forward and continued smothering you in sloppy kisses, moving to your neck.

You screeched and laughed, feeling the rumble of his own chuckle against your throat.

Johnny didn't let up, only stopping when you had tears in your eyes and gasping for air. He pulled back and dramatically wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"All tha' kissin's making me tired." He yawned, stretching his shoulders.

"Time for ma favorite pillow." He grinned at you.

"What're you up to?" You asked suspiciously, squinting yout eyes at him.

With a cheeky smile he dove under the blanket, expertly lifting your shirt up at the same time before pressing his entire face into your bare tummy.

"Johnny!" You gasped, followed by a laugh.

His rough stubble was prickling your skin.

Right now, he was just and odd bulge denting the blanket. You lifted the layers and found him smiling up at you, contently resting on your pudgy belly.

"Best spot in the house." He sighed, intertwining your fingers. You chuckled, smiling down at him softly.

"Thank you." You said quietly, running your fingers through his mohawk.

"Anyhtin' for ma bonnie lass. Ah love you. Promise." He replied in a low timber, pressing a kiss beside your belly button.

"I love you, too, Sudsy."

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

I hope you enjoyed 😚

Don't forget, you're beautiful just being yourself 🩷

More of Johnny and others -> 💫

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[fatliberation]

If its ok to ask; how do you feel about fat kinks? I havent seen any fat acceptance blogs talk abt it. /genq

I know it's a sore spot for a lot of fat liberationists (and yes, I'm quite familiar with why so please do not take to my inbox), I think people are scared to talk about it. personally, I think it is crucial that people with fat kinks are able to access fat liberation spaces so long as they leave the kink at the door. I say this not only because the majority of them are fat people, but because that community is steeped in a deep shame and feeling of brokenness for taking delight in fatness and/or weight gain, which perpetuates rampant fatphobia. and fat liberation is what will heal those wounds. I don't understand it when fat activists tell kinksters/fetishists/feedists, whatever you want to call them to stay out of the fat liberation movement. because what is the alternative? do you want them against the movement? that doesn't make sense at all. I think people are so uncomfortable, disgusted, or afraid of this community they don't understand, that they just wish they wouldn't exist. they aren't going away. kink is akin to sexuality, to identity, to queerness. I think what people really mean when they say feedists should stay out of fat lib is, "kink should stay within spaces designated for kink." we aren't talking about kink when it comes to who can belong in a movement, we are talking about people. it is wrong to equate every person who has a kink or a fetish to a predator. it causes very real harm to those people, because they internalize that message that their kink makes them a bad person who is inherently worthless, who has to hide. if feedists aren't welcome in fat liberation, they aren't welcome anywhere.

I think that people who love fat people, love feeding people, love their own fat bodies, who see their fattest selves as their most satisfying selves, would be natural allies to this movement once they find their way to it and feel safe and accepted here. I want to make it absolutely clear that ANYONE is welcome on this blog as long as they aren't harassing or harming anyone. so many of my followers and biggest supporters are kink blogs. some of my closest friends and fat liberationist allies are feedists. I know feedists who are way more educated and passionate about fat lib and body politics than most people I've met. I don’t wish for anyone to feel alienated on my blog - especially fellow fat folks and fellow fat allies. we are 100% FAT POSITIVE AND SEX POSITIVE on this blog, babey‼️

In fact I feel really glad when I see fat kink/feedism blogs engaging with my content bc it means that person is putting the work in to understand systemic fatphobia, how to be an ally to fat people (if they aren't fat themselves), but also healing their community through education and acceptance. and HOT TAKE, BUT: when it does happen?? when feedists aren't shrouded in internalized fatphobia, shame, and isolation, and instead start embracing this innate, powerful appreciation for fatness, it's literally so fucking beautiful? and so very queer?

choosing to gain weight on purpose as an act of self creation. because it feels Right for you. gaining weight to affirm the relationship you have with your body. getting fatter because you feel so much of your identity (even gender presentation!) is attached to your fat body. feeling sexiest when you're fat. someone else worshipping that about you. giving unlimited permission to nourish yourself and/or others - and taking carnal delight in it. releasing food rules and food guilt through centering pleasure. food and fatness as an erotic and sensory experience. finding feedist partners who also have this ingrained love of fatness that can't be replicated, partners who are willing and eager to support and adore your fat body, NOT merely tolerate it. reclaiming tropes used against you through kink, and turning a loving gaze inward. saying "fuck you" to the system and choosing to take up more space in a world that consistently tries to shrink you. never denying yourself pleasure even though everyone is telling you you don't deserve it. feedism is such an interesting facet of the endless spectrum of human sexuality and I think that once people in that community find liberation and heal their relationship to the kink, it can be one of the most radical forms of self acceptance and exercising complete bodily autonomy.

I already know that a love letter to feedism coming from a fat lib blog is gonna piss people off. I'm going to lose a lot of followers, I'm going to get a lot of hate. but. kink in general is SO demonized and SO misunderstood and as liberationists we should also be open to sexual liberation. so much of this discomfort around feedism comes from a lack of education and understanding about kink in general. feedism doesn't = fatphobia in the same way that bdsm doesn't = misogyny or abuse. quite the contrary, if practiced ethically, with informed consent. every community has assholes. especially when those communities are small, ostracized, and so young that there are next to zero resources for self acceptance, safety, education, and accountability. in fact, the assholes are the ones that you're going to SEE because every respectful person is staying away and out of your business. if you've been harassed by someone with a fat kink, that is so shitty and I'm sorry that happened to you. I know it happens a lot. try to remember that what you experienced was abuse, not kink.

what consenting individuals choose to do with their bodies is entirely their business and there is nothing wrong with kink. (and I will not stand for sex-negative, puritan bullshit in my inbox, thank you very much.)

reminder: fat pleasure is fat liberation.

[goosegoblin]

"The Substance" is about a lot of things to a lot of people, but to me, it's so very very about eating disorders- bulimia, in particular.

Elizabeth wants to stop, but she can't. She wants the 'good parts' without the 'bad parts'. A lot of people with bulimia view the binge-eating as the issue, and the purging as a natural consequence- part of recovery is learning to keep eating normally even if you binge. You have to love / accept yourself in all parts, even when you eat and you're fat and you're old and you hate it. But I don't think we ever see Sue eat, do we? We only see her exercise- we only see her burn calories, not take them in. Food is a source of horror to her, from the dream with the chicken leg to having to clean up after Elizabeth. She has no issues throwing the food out. To me, she represents purging/ restriction/ the goal of thinness, while Elizabeth represents bingeing/ losing control/ the body and habits that haunt you.

Hearing them scream "You have to control yourself!", Elizabeth wanting to stop but being unable to, Elizabeth describing Sue as "the only part of me that's loveable", Sue calling Elizabeth fat and old, the binge-eating not even being properly shown because it's too shameful to acknowledge head-on, Sue having to 'deal with the consequences' of Elizabeth's binge eating, the constant reminders that you can stop at any time but you can't undo the damage you've already done, the teeth damage (common with purging), the fucked-up finger (can happen with purging), the desperate desire to split the part of you that is thin and pure and capable of control from the part that eats and wants and needs, Sue teling Elizabeth 'eat slowly' and failing to give her the nutrition she needs, so much vomiting until she's throwing up her own self, both of them only achieving something close to happiness when Elizabeth is freed from her body completely...

woof. What a movie.

[luveline]

hiii, i just wanna say i absolutely adoreee ur writing ur amazing and fabulous. I wanted to request something with hotch where reader gets hurt pretty badly in the field and is gonna have to spend a lot of time in recovery (so like not being able to work in the field for a while) and just a lot of fluff and comforting? (thx ur the bestest ever ever ever and i <3 u i’ve been reading ur stuff for years)

love u <3 fem

Your leg is broken in four different places. 

Hotch is sure you're going to cry the moment you realise what that means, but he isn't expecting for it to be a minute after you've woken up. 

“We'll get you something for the pain,” a nurse promises.

“It's not that,” you say, you sob, looking between your leg and Hotch as though you're hoping he'll tell you something different. 

You live for your job. They all have their reasons, and they all have their vices. You and Hotch are the same —you can't live without this. There's no alternative. 

But your leg is undeniably broken. 

The nurse gives him a look, hoping he'll calm you down, and he would've started the moment your eyes welled with tears if he thought he could change the outcome. Still, it breaks his heart to see you so immediately upset. He has to try something. 

“It's not forever,” he says.

“How long?” 

“Not forever.” The break, the surgery, the physical therapy. He asked for the estimates. He doesn't want to be the one to tell you, but you won't accept it from anyone else. “Six months.” 

The broken leg isn't the end of it. Your wrist is fractured, your pinky and ring finger broken, a laceration the length of his hand up your thigh. You were concussed, you're still at risk of agitating all the things you've hurt. Your face crumples and you can't even cover it with two hands like you would. It is, admittedly, the worst you've ever been at. Hotch can't stand it.  

“Would you excuse us?” he asks the nurse. “I have her.” 

“Hotch,” you say as the door closes, your voice achingly unhappy, “make them check again.” 

He takes your uninjured wrist. Holds it. “They've done everything they can do. I promise you, I was here for all of it. I argued against the pins, I knew they'd keep you here longer, I– against my better judgement, I sent people away because I knew you wouldn't want them to see you like this. This is the best outcome I could salvage.” 

“This is the best?” you ask, shaking your head at him. “This is my life.” 

You didn't see yourself. The way you'd laid there after it was over. You don't get that this is a good thing, that you weren't hurt worse. All you can see is months of desk duty, and he can't even blame you, because six months away would make him ill. 

“This is the best I could do for you,” he says, rubbing your wrist with his thumb. “I'm sorry.” 

His apology catches you off guard. You make a sound near a hiccup and turn to him completely, the fat body of a tear dripping down your cheek to your chin, where it stays. He can see the question before you've asked it and he won't make you, either, leaning down to cover you up with his arms, his chin atop your head. “I'm sorry, honey. I know how much it means to you.” 

“It's…” Your good arm works around him weakly, a hesitant touch to his back. “Not your fault. I…” 

He lets you fade, rubbing at the top of your arm, enthusing you with as much warmth as he can. “Six months recovery doesn't mean six months out of the field,” he promises. “In two months you'll be walking. It won't feel as long as you're thinking.” 

“In a boot.” 

In a full cast, poor thing. He frowns, pressing his nose into your head. “You can consult from home just as soon as you're home,” he says softly, still rubbing your arm. The touch turns to a gentle stroking, his palm numb to the ticklish sensation your naked arm brings, the sleeve of your hospital gown bunching with each line he makes. 

“I know you're unhappy, but it will heal. And you have an army of people who can't wait to see you. We… things have been complicated.” 

“How long was I out?” you ask. 

“You were awake between surgeries, but it's been two days.” 

You hug him with more insistence. “Thanks for looking after me,” you whisper. 

Oh, sweetheart, he could say. He could kiss your crown. Honestly, Hotch could take your face into his hands and suddenly he is, he's holding your face and looking down at you, eyes dark and sorry to your silvery tears. 

He strokes your cheek. “It'll be alright,” he promises. 

You dissolve into tears again in his hands. He wipes them away as they come, for as long as they will. It's the least he'd do for you. 

[jcksn1jpg]

To tease or not to tease

Not so long ago I’ve come up with the understanding that I don’t like teasing, maybe not even accept the whole concept of teasing in a relationship with a big guy. It just seems so rude to me to tease your own partner about his weight. I was a fat kid myself and I know firsthand how much it can hurt to be called names. I can see why fat people might like teasing in their sexual life, it comes from a deep trauma and basically it’s just their coping mechanism.

But I don’t see myself being a teaser. I want to worship my partner, to make him feel good about himself, to embrace his fatness and tell him every little nice word dictionary has. I want him to drown in my love and affection. I want him to feel cared for. And honestly, I don’t think I’d ever build my relationship only around this fetish thing. I want to be a friend to my partner, I want to be a person he can always trust to, talk to if he feels bad.

When he has a bad day i just want to hug him and kiss his soft cheeks and say that everything is gonna be alright. I imagine him hugging me back, pulling closer into his soft and warm embrace, my small body is against his bigger one. When he feels a little better I’ll boop his nose and giggle softly saying that he’s my cutie and my favorite dummy.

When we have sex i want to tell him how handsome he is, how sexy his body is. I want to feel the weight of his belly on my back when he has me from behind and moan his name from pleasure. I want his chubby hands on my chest. I want to admire his man boobs, seeing that they’re bigger than mine. I won’t tell him about that and just softly caress them to make him feel good from playing with his sensitive nipples. I want to feel his body in all its fat glory.

In no situation would I tease him, because he doesn't deserve being made fun of. He deserves only love.

[lomlhotchner]

❛ ethereal! ❜ … aaron hotchner

warnings: plus size!reader, talks about insecurities, talks abt body image issues and insecurities, but it gets a little suggestive towards the end ;)

a/n: comfort fic for big girls like me <3 i wrote this when i was feeling a little down and i didn’t have the gut to finish it but here we go 🤍 i know everyone is probably tired of a chubby!reader fic where she is insecure but believe me when i say that every fic i write i always have a plus size reader in mind, this is just more specific i hope this doesn’t rub yall the wrong way 🫶

main masterlist!

you are bigger than what society claims how you should be. you always shop in the guys station when you're out because the large sizes in the girls area just didn't make sense. you have more flesh and fat in some areas that sometimes it makes you insecure but other times make you feel like you're pretty.

you do think you’re pretty.

sometimes.

but when you don’t, you just don’t.

to be with someone is to also accept their flaws and problems. and aaron thinks he has a lot of problems. problems that can be seen as a burden for some people.

but not to you.

never to you.

“hey sweetheart.” aaron muttered in a small voice as he wrapped his hands around your hips. head tucking in the crook of your neck. “you look absolutely stunning.” he press kisses at the sides of your neck making you flush.

“thank you, baby.” turning your head to give his lips a soft peck. your eyes moved back to the mirror in front of you, staring at your reflection. the sage green dress didn’t look the same on you as it did on the first time. a frown takes over your face.

aaron picks up on this immediately, “what’s wrong?” his rough hands massaging your chubby hips. his chin resting on your shoulder, as he stared into your eyes through the mirror.

“nothing.” you shook your head, eyes turned downwards, “i just liked the way i looked in this dress last week. now, it’s just— i don’t know. it’s different now.”

a sigh made aaron furrow his eyebrows, “what do you mean? you look gorgeous then, you look gorgeous now.” he insisted, thumbs softly caressing your sides.

you shrugged, you didn’t know how to explain it. “i don’t now, its just weird. i have this thing were if i look at myself for too long then i’ll notice everything that’s wrong with me.” inside of your cheeks bitten in frustration, you don’t like being weak in front of aaron. not when he’s so strong.

aaron’s heart dropped at your words. he turned you around, eyes determined and sharp, “you are the most beautiful, precious, prettiest person i have laid my eyes on.” he started, your mouth opened to reject but one look from aaron has you shutting your mouth, “and you’re so so sexy.” he almost whines, forehead pressing against yours. “i sometimes can’t think straight when i look at you.” the corners of your mouth curved upwards, making aaron melt, “i love everything about you.” a kiss to your nose, “and i know my words won’t probably shut those nasty thoughts in your head i hope i can at least quiet them.”

“aaron-“ your eyes widen as he went on his knees, his slacks straining against his thighs, “you’re gonna be late for work-“

he ignored you, grabbing the back of your thick thighs, scrunching the dress of your fabric up, making way for his lips to attack your skin, “you’re so hot.” a nibble on your thigh made you whimper, “fuck, i love the sounds you make.”

your hands went to tangle in his dark locks, “baby, you don’t have to do this-“

he groaned, breath hot on your skin, “i love it when you call me baby.” his fingers trailed the edge of your panties. squeezing the soft fat there, “you’re fucking ethereal. heaven sent just for me.” he whispered, leaving kisses all around your thighs. “you are everything to me.” he repeated, his brown eyes looking up at you softly, molten irises full of love and desire for you.

for you.

for you.

for you.

“everything.” he whispered softly, begging— pleading for you to understand.

and maybe these insecurities won’t fully go away, but aaron definitely did help made you feel better. so much better.

reblog for a kiss 💋

[getosbigballsack]

Just imagine getting punishment and having sex with Yakuza Gojo inside the bathroom.

Nothing you love more than to feel your husband's hands caressing your soft, subtle skin beneath the shower.

His lips moving along side your neck, tasting every drop of water from the shower, breathing in the scent of your cinnamon flavored body wash, hands fondling and gropping your soft tummy.

And his cock, hard and rubbing between your wet backside, you just needed him. "Daddy, please fuck me," you muttered impatiently, only to receive a firm slap on the plush skin of your stretched marked ass and his teeth sneaking into your neck.

"What did I say about begging?" He asked, his hand connecting with your ass once more, watching as the skin rippled from the impact. Your body jolts from the harsh slap, hips thrusting back against his as you cry out in pain. "Mhm... what did I say about being impatient?"

"Good... *slap* Ah! Good girls don't beg unless... unless Daddy wants her to. *slap* Mhm ah! Good g- girls should all... always be patient and wait for Daddy to give her *slap* her reward," you stuttered in response.

He smirked and pulled away from you, "That's right," he mumbled as he pushed you up against the cold and foggy bathroom shower glass. Your nipples grew hard from the cold sensation seeping through your body. "So why are you testing my patience?" You had already pissed him off earlier by walking in on his important meeting, and when he asked you to leave, you were just so rude and out of order. Almost throwing a tantrum for no reason.

He was going to scold you about and let you off with a warning, but then you had to go ahead and did something he taught you not to do unless he ask. You deserve a bit of punishment.

It's a bit normal for you to get punished. People thought that being a Yakuza's wife meant that you could easily get away with minor things. But that's far from the truth because one thing your husband taught you, even the simplest fuck up can get you in trouble.

"I'm sorry," you muttered, but knowing him, you know, sorry is not good enough. You weren't being Yakuza Gojo’s good chubby wife, so now he has to punish or, let's say, reward you with maybe five spanks on each ass cheek.

"Count," and that word had you trembling before he even began. The first slap had your whimpering. The second slap had tears pooling at the corner of your eyes. The third slap had you crying out for him. It was already too much for you, and he only spanked your left butt cheek thus far.

"Daddy, I'm sorry *slap* four, I'm sorry," you cried out.

"Mhm... next number," he said as he soothed his hand over your ass before delivering another spank. You cried, butt cheeks clenching tightly in hopes to soothe the pain. But you know it's useless, not when he's already moving onto your right butt cheek, to deliver another set of fives.

By the time he was done, he could see his hand prints marking the surface of your skin and those tiny welts forming. Your ass felt raw from his spanking, and it stung too due to the water from the shower connecting with your ass.

"I'm sorry daddy," you said once more, feeling his hands caressing your swollen tender ass before parting your butt cheeks to get the most perfect and precious view of that perfect fat cute cunt.

"I hear you," is what he said before lining up his cock with your aching entrance. "But no apologies accepted, baby. Daddy has to ensure that his adorable wife learns her lesson, yes. Don't you wanna be daddy’s good girl again?"

"Yes, I want to be daddy’s good girl."

"Then relax and take your punishment," he said before pushing his cock pass the tight rings of your pussy, thrusting deeply until his cock was poking at your cervix. "Oh, and you won't get to cum ok."

God, I just love Yakuza Gojo.

[whereserpentswalk]

Everyone talks about your relationship differently now that your girlfriend is a vampire. She was turned a couple of months ago during a lab accident, it wasn't as violent as most non consenting vampire transformations, but it was still traumatic.

Nobody is openly bigoted about. Your freind group is pretty diverse, you know witches and a few werewolves and other assorted cryptids, but very few vampires other than her. And it feels like they're weird about her now, in this way where most humans are supportive but don't understand, or how most cyrptids see vampires as the monsters they have to prove they aren't like to be accepted.

People are suddenly more likely to take your side in an argument. More likely to be worried for your safety if she's mad at you. More likely to be afraid that she might hurt you. And they won't say why, but you know. And when you hug her suddenly it's more sexual, and when she has sex with you suddenly they're worried you're being manipulated.

You have to give her blood. Because you don't want to think of the terrible things she might have happen to her if she didn't have a steady source. And people think that she's going to use that to manipulate you somehow. But she doesn't. She wouldn't. And you could more easily use it to manipulate her, to threaten to withhold blood, if you wanted. But nobody ever accuses you. And people question how you feel safe when she could so easily physically overpower you now, how easily she could kill you, but you know she wouldn't, because you love eachother, because she's a kind person. And meanwhile if you chose to kill her you could so easily claim self defense, but you never would, and nobody would ever think you were a danger to her because of it.

And of course there's also the weird mourning. The way people say they miss her when they could still contact her. The way people talk about it as if it's a fate worse than death, as if it's something that will prevent her from ever feeling happiness again. How when you say that your girlfriend turned into a vampire they'll talk about how sorry they are for your loss, how they'll be so surprised that you're still with her. Or how when they learn that you're still with her they act like this is some sort of noble sacrifice you're making out of love, as if you wouldn't want to be with her. And of course the darker things, the threat of people who really think vampires are dead. The fact that her parents stood at her empty grave, the fact that her pastor preached that her soul is in heaven. The way that you know she'll never be safe outside of the city again.

Of course. There are things you've lost. Her body has changed, her muscles and fat faded so now that her ribs can be seen through her skin, her skin is blue and vainly, her eyes turned solid red, and her teeth now sharp and pointed like a shark's. Her back has sprouted wings, and her penis has been replaced with a fanged worm. And it hurts her. She doesn't pass for human at all, and it hurts her. And you tell her she's pretty, as much as people act like you're the victim for losing your human girlfriend she's much more hurt by losing her human body. So you pet her, and make her feel small and cute when the world considers her something dangerous and scary. And when she's upset about how her body looks you tell her she's still beautiful, or when that feels like denial you'll tell her that it's ok to be upset. And when she's sad that her body is cold now you'll cuddle her to make her warm. And when she misses sex, or hates herself for craving your blood, you'll let her drink from your breast or from between your legs, and people won't understand why but that's love, at least for you. And things will never be the same, but they can be ok, even if just for a small momment they can be ok. And you'll call her pretty, and she'll feel loved, she'll feel loved.

[stevesgother]

Strange - S.H

Pairing - Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

WC - 2.1k

Contains - angst, hurt/comfort, swearing, alcohol consumption, mentions of addiction, mentions of childhood trauma, exes to lovers, second chance romance

AN - Part 2 of 'Little Red Lighthouse' ! for the sake of not having to use “y/n” bc i hate it, reader goes by Lizzy. Use your imagination idk

'Isn't it strange/how people can change/from strangers to friends/friends into lovers/and strangers again.' - 'Strange' by Celeste

There was a biting chill to the air as you sat shoulder to shoulder on a rock overlooking the lake with your best friend. The shadow from the towering lighthouse did nothing to help your lack of warmth, but the heat radiating off Steve’s body beside you almost made up for it. In his hands he held a worn piece of notebook paper adorned with his signature scratchy handwriting, slightly crumpled from hours of reading and rereading; frustration bleeding between the inky blue lines.

“I don’t even know why I'm bothering with this shit,” he sighs, “dad thinks college is a waste of time anyway,” he gives the paper one last squeeze in his fist before chucking it into the water.

“Steve!--” you practically shriek, “what’d you do that for?!”

“Cause’ Liz, we both know I’m not getting accepted anywhere worth going to,” he says with finality, like he’s already made up his mind despite it only being January, “and you’re gonna go somewhere fancy schmancy like Feinburg while I rot here,”

“Well certainly with that attitude you will,” he shoots you a deadpan look from where his head is propped in his hands. “Stop worrying about what your parents want, Steve. What do you want?”

“Right now I want to get off this boulder. It’s fuckin’ freezing out here,” the end of his sentence is muffled by his cupped hands around his mouth, huffing into them in an attempt to bring some warmth back into his numbing fingertips.

“I’m perfect, actually.” you feign self-assuredness just to tease him. He knows you’re cold too, the tip of your nose is bright red and frozen to the touch, giving you away.

“Oh, are you?”

“Yeah” you chirp, “I am,”

“Oh, okay,” just then he slides what could've been an icicle but really was just a frigid hand up your shirt and presses it firmly to the small of your balmy back, earning a squeal from you.

“Asshole!” you shove him away playfully and he removes his hand, deciding for once, to spare you. 

You spend the rest of the night bundled under layers of quilts, watching movies your mother rented from Family Video that afternoon as snow falls from the pale sky in big, fat flakes. At some point during the second film, you feel yourself curl into his lap where he’s seated on your sofa, fighting and losing a battle with sleep. Just before slumber overtakes you, you note the feeling of his hand tracing soothing circles over your spine. The arm that isn’t holding you against his torso snakes around to tuck a few strands of hair behind your ear, selfishly so he can steal an unobstructed view of your peaceful expression.

He almost enjoys being with you more when you’re sleeping. Not because he doesn’t adore listening to your winding tangents or your infectious laughter, but because you can’t see him unabashedly staring at you when your eyes have drifted shut like they are now. It’s as if the world has stopped spinning on its axis and time has halted just for him. His own personal sleeping beauty. You looked like the rest of his life.

Memories have a mortifying way of appearing gold in hindsight; nostalgia like a knife that’s gutted him, leaving him emptier than he was before. Now, whenever the air gets older, Steve is reminded of how your presence used to feel.

–

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

Stepping into his orbit for the first time in all these years, the love you still have for him beats inside your chest like a second heart. You long to reach out and touch him, to weave your fingers through the hair at the back of his head and nuzzle your face into the tender skin of his neck, to cry how sorry you are and ask “How could you let me leave you?’--

“You look well,” the low register of his voice shakes you from your spiral and you remember with a sharp pang of guilt just how long it's been since you heard him speak. You feel like he’s taller now than when you left, even though he hit his last growth spurt during the last summer you spent together. A soft dusting of hair that wasn’t there before graces his upper lip. That cheeky, boyish charm you always loved had suddenly morphed into something more gruff. It made your stomach churn.

“Thanks, I don’t–” you cut yourself off with a soft shake of your head, “Thanks, Steve. You do too,”

He gives a meek shrug as he glances down at himself. There was simultaneously so much and yet nothing at all to say, and the silence was suffocating.

“How long are you in town for?” he asks, hoping the answer is indefinitely but knowing it won’t be.

“For a week, then I have to go back to the city,” you struggle to ignore the subtle disappointment that flashes across his features. “I was offered an internship in graphic design. It starts next month.” You say with a tight lipped smile. You wished you wanted that, but now that you were home, all you wanted was to stand under Steve’s gaze like a bug under a magnifying glass.

“That’s wonderful, Lizzy. I’m really happy for you.” Of course he was happy for you. If this was what you wanted, Steve was thrilled for you. But in all the 15 years you’d been inseparable, he’d never once seen you take an interest in graphic design. Maybe it was because your father was an architect. Your mother, an artist. To not follow in their footsteps, Steve knew, would make you feel like you failed them. It doesn’t change the way he can see your expression faltering when you utter even a word about your future career.

“You– what about you? Are you working for your dad?” 

“No, actually, I took over for Hopper. At the station.”

This time, Steve’s blessed with your real smile. A genuine one. You never wanted the alternative for Steve. Being constantly surrounded by corporate goons, taking over the family business just to be miserable and burnt out in less than a decade. The boy never could make up his mind about what it was that he really wanted to do, but he knew it wasn’t that. The trouble was, Steve only ever felt like he belonged somewhere when he was anywhere with you.

A gentle hand to his bicep sends him reeling, and it’s all he can do not grab you by your shoulders and pull you into his chest with as much force as he can muster. But the moment is gone as soon as it arrives, and you’re being whisked away by some other friend who’s vying for your attention. Absently he wonders if he left, would people miss him the way they seemed to have missed you? He supposes it’s best not to dwell.

–

When you arrive home later, the house is empty with a note from your parents stuck to the fridge claiming they’re out tonight. You’re grateful for the reprieve from socialization as you pad your way upstairs and down the hall towards your childhood bedroom.

It looks almost identical to when you left it, with the exception of a spare unrecognizable object here or there. Things your parents must have picked up for you at some point with the hopes of being able to give it to you the next time you visited home, but never could. Your mother had made your bed neatly, adorned with all the stuffed animals and bedding from your youth. Everywhere you turned, there were mementos of your lifelong friendship with Steve. Greyscale photo booth pictures, old movie stubs and the dried remnants of the corsage he gave you for prom. It was a memorial; a cemetery of your life together.

When you finally managed to lie down, all you did was toss and turn until the analog clock tick tick ticking on your wall informed you it was one A.M. In your sleep deprived haze you absentmindedly sat up and reached for the baby blue corded phone resting on your nightstand. It was only when you brought the phone to your ear and heard the droning dial tone that you realized what you were doing, and set the phone back in its cradle. Your fingers ached to press the digits to the only number you knew by heart: Steve Harrington.

–

You weren’t sure why your mom kept renewing her Cosmopolitan subscription for you, since you hardly took interest in the issues, but she did nonetheless. Tonight, struggling to find something more productive to do, your curiosity got the better of you as you mindlessly flipped through the pages with freshly manicured nails. It was a Friday, and the prospect of sleeping in tomorrow delighted you. You were in no hurry to get to bed. 

Just then you heard the shrill ringing of the new phone your parents got you to keep in your bedroom for your birthday. You knew it had to be at least twelve o’clock in the morning. Only one person would be calling you at this hour.

“Hello?”

“Hey, can I– can I come over?” Steve's voice was hushed and trembling. Muffled yelling could be heard in the background over his unsteady breathing.

“Steve? Yeah, ‘course, I'll unlock my window,” you pause, “everything okay?”

“Yeah just– I’ll be there in ten,” and with that you heard the receiver click back into its place on the wall.

Magazine having been discarded on the floor next to your bed, you sat at your desk, knee bouncing rapidly as you waited for Steve to climb through your window like he had dozens of times before. At sixteen, you’d be caught dead having a boy in your room at this hour, even if it was just Steve.

You hear a soft tap tap tap on the glass, signifying his arrival. In a rush, you hurry over to your window to help him in. When he regains his balance with both feet on your carpeted floor, you’re finally able to get a good look at him. He’s bleary eyed and his nose is chapped raw, like he’d been rubbing at it continuously for hours. 

“Hey,” you say softly with a gentle hand to his forearm, “What’s wrong? Did something happen?” You feel guilty pressing him on the matter immediately, but you can count on one hand the amount of times you've seen Steve genuinely distressed. Last Halloween when Nancy Wheeler had proclaimed that he and their whole relationship was ‘bullshit’ had been the last time.

“Mom and dad were fighting. I guess– I guess he found these pills she’s been taking? I don’t know,” he looks dejected as he fidgets with the hem of his sweater, “Jus’ couldn’t listen to it anymore.”

Your eyes round into saucers when you looked to him, concern gracing your features. It was always something with the Harringtons. If they weren’t screaming at each other, they were screaming at Steve. Catherine had substance abuse issues, John was violent. Broken dishes and holes punched in drywall were becoming the norm. All Steve wanted was a way out; an escape. You gave that to him. Always.

Without another word, you propped yourself up on your tiny twin bed and motioned with open arms for him to come lie with you. He accepted the invitation instantly, sinking down into the mattress with you. His head rested on your chest, just above your rapidly beating heart. A heart that beat for him alone. You silently prayed he knew that.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence and softly petting his hair, you felt two distinct drops of tears land on the silky satin of your pajama shirt. You attempted not to make a scene, with the knowledge of how difficult it was for him to be vulnerable. Instead, you simply continued your ministrations on the back of his head and held him a little tighter.

“It’s okay, Stevie,” you whispered against the crown of his head, “You’re safe now. We’re gonna get out of here someday, y'know? I promise.”

He nodded bleakly in acknowledgment against your sternum as his tears fell a little quicker and a little harder. “Okay,” he whimpered. The sound nearly tore you in two.

You’d never intended on breaking that promise. Not really.

–

Against your better judgement, you reached for your phone a second time and dialed his number for the first time in five years. You hoped he didn’t get a new landline.

His voice was gravely and thick with grogginess when he picked up after six torturous rings, “Hello?”

“Meet me tomorrow. DiBella’s. Ten o’clock.”

You slammed the phone back into the receiver before you had time to regret it.

taglist: @sheisjoeschateau, @ohwauwdoritos

divider credit to @/strangergraphics

[willows-escape]

Phantom HCs - Cherik with a Chubby!Reader

Pairing: 1990!Erik x GN!Reader

Warnings: fatphobia and nsfw content (has its own section)

Word Count: 2,370

Notes: This was a request that somebody sent me that I was really eager to write, as somebody who is plus sized/chubby myself. I might do it with the rest of the Phantoms I write for, but I don't know if that's something people would want to read?

Also, the series I spoke about in an earlier post - it’s still being worked on, but it shouldn’t hopefully be much longer. I’m looking to write around 11-ish parts, probably more, and I want to have three solid chapters written before I post the first one. Just so I can have the chapters to post while writing the next few. Having both female and male versions to write is also slowing it down, but I hope the wait will be worth it !

⟢ Erik does NOT care if you're chubby, skinny, average size or whatever. Your size isn't even a thing to him.

⟢ This Erik isn't as focused on stereotypical beauty as the others - he originally takes notice of Christine due to her voice, and the fact she looks like his mother is only an extra added bonus lol.

⟢ So I feel like your appearance is just not an important factor to him. It would be other things about you that would attract him first. Anyone could be stereotypically attractive, but not everyone could be you.

⟢ But don't be mistaken, he definitely thinks you're the most beautiful person in the world.

⟢ If you worked at the Opera Populaire, and he saw the way other workers teased you or gossiped behind your back, he'd be scratching his head in confusion.

⟢ He may be hopelessly infatuated, but he couldn't see anything about you that was laughable.

⟢ I'm not trying to imply this Phantom is ignorant or unaware of societal norms - unlike the others, he has a strong relationship with somebody who links him to the outside world. He hides due to his own flaws, after all.

⟢ He knows being slender and thin is the current ideal, but he also knows that ten years ago having a bigger body with soft curves was also largely desirable. So he didn't like to pay much attention to societies trends. They changed like the wind.

⟢ Which is why he'd sometimes forget that not everybody looked at you as if you were an angel that was sent from heaven to grace the earth.

⟢ If people's teasing and rude comments ever affected you so deeply that you brought it up to him, that would be the only time he ever acknowledged your body type. And his acknowledgement would only be vehement reassurance and exclamations of his affection towards you.

⟢ "But my cheeks are so fat, it makes my face look like a ball!"

⟢ "A very beautiful and loveable ball!"

⟢ He wasn't great at the whole reassurance thing.

⟢ After a while of courting you and as he began to realise how cruel some people could be to the most gorgeous person he knew - he began to feel a sense of solidarity with you.

⟢ He believed he was beyond hope and that he could never be accepted into the real world, and he wouldn't ever insult you by trying to say you were as repulsive as him. You were anything but that. Yet he felt as if you two were on some kind of wavelength.

⟢ You were both looked down upon for things as flimsy as physical appearances, and he felt a little closer to you due to that.

⟢ And he had a few existential crisis' where he laid awake at night thinking about how maybe society is the problem, not him, because how can they even ridicule you when you were perfection!

⟢ Then he'd take off his mask and look in the mirror and be like nope, he's definitely the problem.

⟢ Anyways. Less sadness and insecurity, and more fluff!

⟢ He loved how comfortable and soft you were. Erik had never held another person in his arms before you, never laid with his head on somebodies lap while they read him a book and mindlessly ran their fingers through his hair.

⟢ And he loved it.

⟢ His favourite time of day was when it came time to go to sleep, and he could lay with his head on your chest, arms wrapped around your waist and drift off into sweet sleep.

⟢ It took him a while to become so comfortable with this, though. It was weird enough that you two didn't have a chaperone during your meetings, never mind sharing affection. But if you asked him enough and tried to sneak in lingering touches and small caresses, he'd fold.

⟢ "Want to hold my hand yet?"

⟢ "Same answer as half hour ago, no."

⟢ "Am I truly so horrid that you do not wish to even hold my hand?"

⟢ "That is not what I said."

⟢ He didn't understand that couples followed these courtship rules in public, but were definitely smooching and snuggling in private. Even if you tried to explain that to him.

⟢ But eventually he caved.

⟢ He was touch starved beyond belief, so it didn't take him long to give in. Maybe a month or so. But it was also an awkward experience for him at first, so expect to give him a lot of guidance.

⟢ "This just doesn't feel right, why on earth would somebody lay like this when they are far more efficient and comfortable positions for somebody to lay?"

⟢ "That's because your arm's meant to be behind my neck, Erik, not over it."

⟢ "Ah. Yes, that feels better."

⟢ But once he got the hang of it, he was obsessed. Every part of you just fit so perfectly in his arms, you slotted together like puzzle pieces. It was glorious.

⟢ If you ever lived together, whether that be you go down below to stay with him or he manages to somehow bring himself to live with you amongst the real world (which would take many years and a ton of hard work), your evening conversations may look a bit like this:

⟢ "Excuse me, but when are you retiring to bed? Your scarf can wait until the morning." He was subtly glaring down at the knitting needles cradled in your hands as he spoke.

⟢ "Not long, just give me a few more minutes. I just want to complete this row of stitches."

⟢ "Alright, but when you come to bed, can you wear some of your summer nightwear?"

⟢ "But why? We're in the middle of winter, I'll freeze."

⟢ "I'll keep you warm." *leaves*

⟢ He definitely didn't just prefer the thinner fabric of your summer nightwear, which meant he could feel your body press against his and also allowed him to feel every curve of your figure with no barrier.

⟢ If you ever got married, expect him to just ask you to sleep naked. Not even for sexual reasons, he just loves the feeling of you.

⟢ You'd have a hard time refusing him in the colder months.

⟢ Also, imagine him singing you to sleep? His back resting against the headboard while you snuggled up against him, his hands delicately trailing over your skin and leaving goosebumps in their path as he sung to you.

⟢ That's an idea to elaborate on for another day.

⟢ Returning to the previous topic of his love of physical affection, kissing you would be magical.

⟢ And he'd be terrible at it.

⟢ The first time you kissed, you'd be the person to lean in first. And he'd look at you as if you'd grown two heads, but he wouldn't deny you. He'd go through many mood swings in the two seconds it took for your lips to touch.

⟢ "Erik," you'd eventually have to pull away, "Pucker your lips, and close your mouth a bit."

⟢ "My apologies."

⟢ That also has nothing to do with the head canon topic, I just wanted to include that.

⟢ Erik would love to draw you. Before he ever approached you, he'd spend his time making sketch after sketch of you, trying to immortalise every vision of you he had in his mind.

⟢ He'd get frustrated that he couldn't properly capture your true charm, but after a while of drawing for hours a day for a long period of time, he'd soon become an incredible artist. He wouldn't use this particular skill for much, unless you asked him to.

⟢ He also couldn't really draw anything that wasn't a person, considering his practice was very limited to one subject.

⟢ He'd have to send Gerard on trips to the store often to keep up with his new hobby.

⟢ "Erik, why do you suddenly need all this paper? The store clerk said he's had to order an earlier shipment of the stuff, because I'm buying up all his supply!"

⟢ "You wouldn't understand."

⟢ He'd also design and create the prettiest clothes for you, ones that would flaunt and uhm, extenuate, your best assets. So much material and thread would be stolen from the company in his pursuits.

⟢ He'd start doing this before you two even properly met, and when you began courting, you'd be taken aback by his display of clothing that he kept scattered around the catacombs.

⟢ Those dresses were probably not intended for him.

⟢ You'd grow especially suspicious when he began offering you these items of clothing, and how they all seemed to perfectly fit you like a glove.

⟢ "Erik, why are all these clothes my size? It's as if you took a measuring tape and made these clothes specifically to fit me."

⟢ "Just things the costume department had laying around."

⟢ "The costume department definitely does not keep clothing in my size."

⟢ "Well, they did when I got them."

⟢ Moving on lol

⟢ There are many reasons somebody may gain weight, but assuming you don't have a condition that causes it and simply appreciated food, Erik would be floored at all your weird and wonderful ways of preparing and eating your meals.

⟢ "What is in this bottle? It looks grainy, you aren't planning on putting this on your food, are you?"

⟢ "It's seasoning! Come on, try it! It makes the food taste a thousand times better!"

⟢ "Seasoning? Isn't that expensive?"

⟢ "Hey, you give me the money for the food, you don't tell me what category of food it needs to be spent on. I'm sure your salary is more than enough to cover the cost."

⟢ He'd grumble about how he was saving it for more important things, like wedding attire and a new instrument that he wanted to learn, but he wouldn't actually mind. His salary was definitely generous.

⟢ One time, he caught you sitting in the sun in the woods, and he was about to approach you when he saw the most baffling thing. You had a cloth splayed on the grass, covered in a weird brown substance that you were dipping strawberries in!

⟢ "What the hell is that?"

⟢ "Melted chocolate! *nom nom nom, gulp!* It's delicious with strawberries, would you like to try?"

⟢ "I'm quite alright, thanks."

⟢ Okay, your food choices were pretty normal, but for sheltered Erik who only ate things in their original state with no added flavour enhancers, he was shocked.

⟢ He might eventually expand his food palate, but it would take plenty of convincing on your behalf. He was perfectly happy with his unbuttered bread, thank you.

⟢ He was exceedingly stubborn.

⟢ But he's a fool for you, really <3

NSFW SECTION

⟢ You'd either have to be the most seductive person to walk the earth before Erik agrees to do anything sexual with you, or you'd have to be married.

⟢ Considering his intense attraction to you, it wouldn't be hard for him to consider you the first option.

⟢ For the purpose of this head canon, let's assume either one is true and he says yes.

⟢ The moment the first article of clothing comes off of you, he's starstruck. He can't believe he didn't say yes sooner.

⟢ He's torn between being regretful that he waited that long and feeling euphoric that he's really about to worship your body to his hearts content.

⟢ He's incredibly touchy feely. Consider every part of your body groped and kissed at least five times.

⟢ Favourite position is definitely you riding him. He'd have a few hang ups on it at first, as missionary back then was the only sex position that the church approved of, and he felt guilty about making you do so much work.

⟢ But he'd learnt his lesson about denying you by then.

⟢ You always had the greatest ideas, if those strawberries dipped in chocolate were anything to go by.

⟢ His eyes were greedy, watching the way you'd lower and lift yourself up and down his aching length. The way your skin stretched over your muscles as you chased your climax, eyebrows furrowed and shoulders hunched as you rested the palms of your hands on his chest.

⟢ He didn't know whether he wanted to keep his eyes locked onto you, or where your bodies were connected down below.

⟢ Just the thought made him so worked up and flustered he'd break a sweat.

⟢ His hands fit so perfectly in the dips of your waist, encouraging your movements as you rutted your hips against his. You looked like a painting, your plush thighs pressed tightly into his sides as you worked yourself into bliss.

⟢ He'd run his hands over every part of you, being extra cautious of being gentle. The last thing he wanted was to hurt you.

⟢ He definitely finished early the first like. 20 times you did that position. He felt terrible, but you considered it an amazing confidence boost. All apologies would die on his tongue the minute you'd lay down and ask him to finish the job by other means instead.

⟢ And speaking of thighs - his head being crushed by your thighs as he went down on you? God yes. He was used to the feeling of something constantly covering his face, and your legs were a welcome addition.

⟢ He's definitely messy and obviously inexperienced, so his rhythm would be uncomfortable and all over the place to begin with. But he'd figure out what drives you crazy in no time.

⟢ He's very, very eager to please. He'd worship every inch of you at every opportunity he could.

⟢ And have you seen this man's hands? Yum.

⟢ If you ever surprised him by wearing something skimpy or risqué? I hope you didn't have any plans for the next few hours. He's definitely taking his time with his gift.

THIS MAN UGH HE'S SO 😭💗

[saveyourblood]

Pretty Boy - Ch 3 (Buddie x Reader)

Summary: You can feel Buck staring. When your eyes meet his, you realize he’s staring at your hand, which is still on Eddie’s knee. You slowly retreat, which makes Buck turn his attention to your face. You smile softly. He just looks out the window. The one where you’re an advanced paramedic, Buck and Eddie are firefighters, and you think you might be in love with both of them.

Ch 1 | Ch 2

Chapter Summary: You have a new, beautiful coworker.

A/N: Ladies and friends, he's arrived Word Count: 3.4k Warnings: somewhat graphic description of a medical procedure, mentions of blood

“You are cheery,” Hen says with a weird face as Bobby walks through the garage.

You and Hen are standing next to each other in your street clothes; she’s just finishing her shift, and you’re starting yours. You were catching up with her when Bobby made his appearance, and now you’re both following him up

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Bobby counters.

“Maybe 'cause you've been like this for weeks, and it's starting to get on my nerves,” Hen counters. “What’s goin’ on with you?”

Buck walks in with his phone over his head in one hand and his duffle bag in the other. “I got another DXA scan, and guess who dropped another half percent!”

“What?” Hen asks.

“A DXA scan measures your body fat; you can see your percentage in every part of your body.”

“You know that’s not why people get them, though, right?” You ask Buck.

He gives you a confused look.

“DXA scans are used to screen for osteoporosis. So the majority of people getting them are post-menopausal women, people older than 50 with fractured bones, and… you,” you explain.

“You’re in good company, Buck,” Hen laughs.

“Hey, can that scan measure the fat in your head, too?” Chim says as he joins the conversation. He gets a laugh out of Bobby.

“Ah, see, that would be funny, but we're about a week away from submissions being due for the Hot Days, Smoldering Nights: Men of the LAFD wall calendar, and I'm already at my goal weight, so it seems like my head is clearly working perfectly,” Buck returns.

“Do you really need to use the whole title?” You ask.

“You could just just say ‘hat idiotic, reductive, sexist calendar that insults the dignity of this organization and furthers the myth that all firefighters are male,’” Hen agrees.

You offer her a fist bump, which she accepts.

“Yeah, that’s not any less words,” Buck argues.

Bobby smiles. “Hen, come on, it's for charity.”

“No, Bobby, you too?”

“Why not? They say a man is at his sexiest when he reaches 50.”

“This is so not a conversation I want to be having with you people,” you interject.

“I think sorority houses all across this great nation are ready for a new Asian sеx symbol,” Chim takes a bite out of whatever he’s eating. “It’s our time.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You know what? I’m team Chimney.”

“I think it's great. You know? I like that you're both going up for it,” Buck agrees.

“Oh, because you don’t think we stand a chance,” Bobby argues.

“Did I say that? I mean, sure, let's be real. They are only picking one candidate from each station—”

“—That is a beautiful man,” Chim interrupts Buck.

“Where’s the lie?” Hen concurs. “And I like girls.”

You follow their line of vision to a man about 15 feet away, changing into an LAFD t-shirt. His abs ripple with each movement, as do his biceps. He has dark brown hair, matching eyes, and god, his face. He might be the prettiest person you’ve ever seen in real life.

“Who the hell is that?” Buck asks, turning back to Bobby.

“Eddie Diaz: new recruit,” Bobby clarifies. “Graduated top of his class just this week. Guys over at Station Six were dying to have him, but I convinced him to join us.”

Your head snaps in his direction. “The probie? My probie?”

“Your probie?!” Buck asks in complete dismay.

Bobby smiles again. “He served multiple tours in Afghanistan as an Army medic, got a silver star.”

“I get to see what he’s made of,” you tell your Captain. You smile wide. “What a niee present, Bobby! And it isn’t even my birthday.”

Everyone except Buck laughs at your remark.

“The air nozzle is embedded in his asscheek,” The mechanic says he walks the team over to the victim, Hector. “I shut it off, but I was afraid to move him.”

The second you lay eyes on him, you know it’s the worst case of subcutaneous emphysema you’ve ever seen. You’ve seen air get trapped under the skin from gnarly chest trauma, but this definitely takes the cake.

“Alright, let’s get him on his side,” Bobby instructs, “maintain pressure on the wound.”

You, Eddie, Buck, and Chim carefully lift on Bobby’s count, then set Hector on the floor. You immediately grab your stethoscope and listen to him while Eddie gets vital signs and Chim starts an IV.

“Systolic is in the 80s,” Eddie says as he takes his own stethoscope out of his ears.

“Hypotension, respiratory distress, and ipsilateral absent lung sounds … what are we look at here, Eddie?” You ask.

He catches your gaze and contemplates. You can see when the light bulb goes off. “Tension pneumothorax.”

“So how do we fix it?”

“Needle decompression,” he says almost immediately.

“I’ll get a 14 gauge,” Buck volunteers, already going through your bag.

“If his systolic is already in the 80s, he needs more than that,” you say calmly as you cut away Hector’s clothes. “What’s your next intervention?”

Eddie smiles in that way only a trauma junkie can. “Finger thoracostomy.”

“Buck, Eddie needs lidocaine, betadine, a hemostat, and a scalpel,” you instruct. “Chim, get us a three-sided occlusive dressing ready.”

“Wait, you’re letting me do it?”

“Have you seen one?” You counter.

“Yeah, in the field once or twice.”

“See one, do one, teach one.”

You take everything from Buck as he hands it to you. You pass the betadine to Eddie. “Prep the site, I’ll draw up your lido.”

Eddie pours the reddish-yellow antiseptic over Hector’s side. You draw up some lidocaine and pass it to him.

“Where are you giving it?” You ask.

“5th intercostal space, anterior axillary line,” Eddie says, using his fingers to find the landmark. “A pinch and a burn here, Hector.”

Hector winces as the medication is injected.

“How big should the incision be?” You ask Eddie as open the scalpel and hemostat packages.

“2-3 centimeters.”

You smile and hand him the scalpel. “Go for it. Once you make the incision, use the hemostat to spread the tissue to get down to the intercostal muscles.”

Eddie nods and makes the incision. When he’s ready, you pass him the hemostat, and he does as instructed. “Now what?”

“Use your finger to spread the muscles and enter the pleural cavity. When you get in, you might have to sweep your finger to release any adhesions. Once you do, you should feel and hear the air come out.”

Eddie nods and inserts his finger into the incision, twisting his hand once it reaches the pleural cavity. You can hear a ‘hiss’ as the air rushes out.

“Nice work,” you tell Eddie. “Leave your finger there until it stops, and then we’ll place the dressing.”

“Good job, both of you,” Bobby praised.

“That was badass,” Chim agreed.

Buck just stared at you both.

After dropping Hector off at the ER, the day’s pace came to a crawl. Rather than sit around and binge-watch something, you decide to sneak in a workout. You already know what you’ll be doing — your local gym has a squat rack, but it doesn’t have a punching bag. There’s something so therapeutic about channeling all of your anger into your hands and just hitting something.

“Need a partner?” Eddie asks from behind you.

You stop, turning to look at him. He’s wearing black sweats and a tank top of the same color. The sides of his shirt are low-cut, so you can see the definition of his ribs peaking out. It should be illegal for someone to look that good.

“Sure,” you say, nodding to the bag.

Eddie gets the memo; he stands behind the bag in a shallow lunge stance, holding each side. You begin punching again, but now, it doesn’t swing as violently. It makes for better strikes and a better workout. After a few minutes, you have to stop because your heart is pounding and you’re dripping in sweat.

“Thanks,” you tell Eddie breathlessly as you grab your water bottle.

“Are you kidding? Thank you,” Eddie says with a smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever done something that cool before, even in combat.”

“Yeah, our job is pretty cool, isn’t it?” You agree. You were always bad at taking praise.

“Well, it helps that you’re an excellent teacher,” Eddie continues, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, you were so calm and collected. I gotta be honest, I was freaking out a little, so seeing that you weren’t really helped.”

“Wow, I… never would’ve guessed that you were scared. You did great.”

Eddie smiles again. “Thanks. It’s just… different, helping civilians instead of soldiers. It’s more pressure sometimes, I guess. I mean, when people hear you made it out of Afganistan, twice, they set pretty high expectations.”

“You live up to them,” you assure with a smile of your own.

“What’s going on here?” Buck says as he approaches.

He changed too, now wearing black shorts and a navy tee with the sleeves cut off. He looks less than thrilled to see you talking to Eddie.

“Just talking about the call between sets,” you say.

“Oh,” Buck says with a shrug. He looks at Eddie. “Yeah, good call.”

Buck brushes by both of you, heading towards the squat rack. You and Eddie share a look. His words were kind, but his tone was not.

“What’s your problem, man?” Eddie asks, approaching Buck.

“Okay… you. You’re my problem,” Buck replies. He puffs up his chest a little; it’s subtle, but you pick it up. “You're-you're not supposed to just walk in here like you've been here for years. It's meant to be a getting-to-know-you period. You're meant to respect your elders.”

“You’re not his elder, Buck,” you point out.

“Look, I in no way meant to, uh, be too familiar or step on anybody's toes,” Eddie raises his hands. “I get you’re frustrated, but you don’t have to take it out on me or be threatened by me. We’re on the same team.”

Buck takes a step closer to Eddie. “Why would I be threatened by you? The only reason you did so well today is because she walked you through everything. If it weren’t for her, you would’ve done needle decompression, and the guy might not have made it. You’re not impressive—she is.”

Something you always hated about working with men? Being dragged into their dick-measuring contests. Upon hearing Buck call you ‘impressive,’ though, your stomach may or may not have done a backflip.

“Glad to see we’re both on the same page,” Eddie agrees.

Now, both of them have called you impressive. Maybe working with men isn’t always so bad.

The next call you go on is to a supposedly detonated grenade. You say ‘supposedly’ because if it actually deployed, you don’t think the man who did it would be the one calling 911. But he did. So it probably didn’t.

Bobby, Buck, and yourself are the ones who enter the house first. It’s clear from everything in the room that the man is a fanatic of the military.

“Militia nut?” Buck says as the three of you follow the muffled calls for help.

“In here!” The man calls out again.

Bobby is the first to open the door, and judging by the way he rushes inside, you know he found the caller. You and Buck follow him.

“What’s your name, sir?” Bobby asks as you and Buck get to work.

“Charlie,” he responds as you wrap a blood pressure cuff around his arm.

“Alright, Charlie, tell us what happened.”

“Damn grenade went off while I was taking it apart,” he replies.

You aren’t entirely convinced that’s what happened, but you can tell something happened. His thigh is a bloody mess, and without looking closely, you can see shrapnel.

“Why are you taking apart a grenade?” Buck asks.

“I was cleaning it. I’m a collector.”

“No kidding,” Bobby remarks as he surveys for other potential injuries.

“You pulled the pin?” You asked, moving to inspect the wound.

“It ain’t that kind of grenade. It's a 40-mike-mike. A practice round for an M203 grenade launcher. I picked it up at a flea market in Brea, part of my 'Nam collection. My screwdriver must have touched the propelling charge.”

“I see metal and a lot of shrapnel, Cap, and I think the femoral artery’s been nicked,” you explain as you move your flashlight around. “We gotta transport him. Now.”

A few men from another rescue team help you and the boys get Charlie onto the stretcher and out the door. You can see Eddie is waiting in the rig like you told him to, and he helps pull Charlie into the rig.

“Buck, I want you to travel with him to the hospital, help keep him stable,” Bobby instructs.

You’re already climbing into the rig, but you spare a glance at Buck, who looks rigid and unimpressed. “Copy that, Cap.”

“Hey, you gotta learn how to play nice,” Bobby continues. “It’s one team, Buck.”

“I’m guessing you’ve seen a lot of shrapnel wounds, Eddie,” you say once the ambulance takes off driving.

ETA to the hospital is 10 minutes, and you’ve already instructed the boys to apply a tourniquet and bandage the wound. There isn’t much else to do other than trend vital signs.

“My share,” Eddie nods. “Those dressings are soaking through. I’m gonna change them.”

You give him a simple nod.

Buck sits on the bench, simply watching the two of you. When he catches your eye, you shrug. He scoffs and laughs.

Once Eddie pulls the bandages back, the look on his face changes. “I thought you said this was a practice round.”

“It is,” Charlie says.

“What’s going on, Ed?” you ask.

“You see that cap?” Eddie says, pointing to a piece of metal in Charlie’s leg. “Practice rounds have blue caps. Gold caps are live.”

The cap is gold.

You start banging on the ceiling to signal the EMT driving. “Pull over!”

Within 10 minutes, you’re all now standing in a random parking lot with multiple EMS crews as well as the LAPD bomb squad. They took an X-ray of Charlie’s leg, which clearly shows an encapsulated piece of metal.

“He has a goddaamn live round in his thigh,” you say in disbelief.

“I thought the thing already went off,” Buck interjects. “Isn’t that why we were called?”

“The launch grenade has two components: gunpowder which makes it travel and an explosive charge that makes it go boom,” Eddie explains.

“So… why didn’t it go boom?” Buck asks the obvious question.

“It's fitted with a proximity fuse. It's a little smart sensor that tells the cap it's traveled a safe enough distance from the shooter to explode. From his hand to his leg probably wasn't far enough.”

“Well, we can't bring him inside a hospital full of people, not with that still stuck inside him,” Bobby says.

“We called the military for help,” Jim, the bomb squad officer, explains.

“Why can’t you do it?” You ask. “You’re the bomb squad. Isn’t this sort of your job?”

“You can’t diffuse a grenade,” Jim clarifies. “We need to find someone who knows how to pull that thing out of him without setting it off. They're sending someone up from Pendleton. Should be here within the hour.”

“Captain, he doesn’t have an hour, not without a trauma surgeon,” you say.

“I can do it,” Eddie volunteers.

“You’ve done it before?” You ask before Bobby can.

“Well, none of the guys I served with were dumb enough to shoot a live round in themselves, but I'm familiar with the ordinance.”

“I’m in,” Buck says.

“Fuck it, so am I,” you say.

Next thing you know, the three of you are getting strapped into bomb squad attire, which you find kind of silly. If the grenade goes off, you’re all fucked, heavy vest or not. But you aren’t in the position to make smart remarks, so you stay silent.

“You know you don’t have to do this,” Bobby says as a bomb squad tech straps you in.

“Someone has to make sure those two don’t claw each other’s eyes out,” you smile.

He doesn’t laugh.

“We’ll be okay, Cap,” you promise softly. “All 4 of us.”

Once you get back into the rig, you station yourself at Charlie’s head while the boys are to his side. You push ketamine through the IV line, and within a few minutes, he’s out.

“You ready?” Eddie asks, looking between you and Buck.

You give a firm nod.

“Ready,” Buck says.

Eddie instructs Buck to apply pressure around the wound bed, which helps expose the grenade. He begins using the tool given to him by the bomb squad to extract it.

“Pull it out,” Buck says. “Come on.”

“I gotta be careful,” Eddie says slowly, concentrating on what he’s doing instead of Buck’s remark. “The sensor measures the distance traveled based on how many rotations the shell made after the launch. The key is not to turn the shell while we pull it out.”

“Okay, yeah, so don’t turn it,” Buck agrees.

You can’t help but chuckle.

Eddie manages to extract the grenade, and Buck helps him deposit it into the box.

“Well, gentlemen, I say we get the hell out of here,” you remark.

You all do exactly that. Leaving the box with the grenade on the rig, you all carefully move the gurney out so you can get Charlie on a different ambulance. Bobby has a rig on standby, so it’s the easiest task of your night.

“You’re badass under pressure, brother,” Eddie says, turning to Buck.

“Me?” Buck asks as if Eddie would be talking to anyone else.

“Hell yeah. You can have my back any day.”

“Yeah. Or, you know, you could... you could have mine.”

Both you and Eddie laugh.

Eddie offers Buck a hand, which he accepts. “Deal.”

“Nice work, all of you,” Bobby praises. “Glad you made it out of there.”

“Come on, the guy’s a professional,” you say, gesturing to Eddie. “I was never worried.”

Less than a second later, the ambulance explodes. The doors are blown open, and the windshield simultaneously pops off the vehicle and shatters. You all duck for a moment, then turn to look at Eddie.

“You guys hungry?”

“What about GI?” Buck says to Eddie as the latter plays pinball. “Like GI Joe! That’s a great nickname.”

Buck is trying to come up with a nickname for Eddie, which apparently, he’s been doing for awhile. You just haven’t been around to hear about it, either on different calls or not on shift at all.

“More like Gastrointestinal,” you chime in as you finish up charting a case. Hen, who’s sitting across from you, laughs.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Eddie says as he continues playing.

“Alright everyone, listen up!” Bobby says, grabbing everyone’s attention. “I’ve got an announcement to make. I just got off the phone with the people from the calendar, and they have made their choice.”

“Well, no hard feelings, no matter who won,” Buck says to Eddie, offering him a fist bump.

“That's good, Buck, 'cause they didn't pick you,” Bobby says.

“Well, it’s obviously a fix!” Buck replies. “Nah, congratulations anyway, GI!”

Eddie laughs.

“They didn’t pick him either,” Bobby continues.

“Huh. You?” Buck asks.

You all look to Chim, who is crunching on some celery. “No way, you gotta be kidding me.”

“Hah! I called it from the start,” you shout with pride. “Everyone remember that?”

Everyone stares at you.

“Right, not about me,” you laugh awkwardly. “Congrats, Chim!”

“Or should we say, ‘Mr. April’!” Bobby chimes.

Everyone approaches Chimney, offering high fives.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Sergeant Grant says as she enters the loft.

Bobby approaches her, and she apologizes for something. It’s clear that something happened between them, but you have no clue what it is. She grabs his face and kisses him.

You all stare at them.

“What are you all lookin’ at?” Bobby eventually says. “There’s no more announcements.”

You and Hen share a look, then turn to the boys.

“Pay up,” you say simultaneously.

Ch 4