#this qualifies as hurt/comfort right??? the man's insecurities are big enough to be seen from space

[blackbutler-readerinsertsandjunk]

Imagine waking up in the morning after spending the night in MAURICE‘s room, and waking up in the middle of his beauty routine.

He clearly didn’t anticipate you waking up so early, because you’ve never seen him... quite like this. You were aware he wears makeup because he’s told you as such on a few occasions, but it appears to have been heavier in application than he led you to believe.

While he doesn’t look like a completely different person, he doesn’t look nearly as perfect as he wants everyone to think he is.

His hair is pinned back away from his face while he works, and it falls more in waves than in ringlets like usual. His cheekbones look lower, creating a bit of an unflattering angle to his face. He‘s got a few blotches on his cheeks as well, that he seems to be trying to cover with smears of foundation.

It’s almost funny, because he truly doesn’t look bad. It’s more the expression he’s making that makes him appear comical, that all-encompassing focus which draws the whole of someone’s attention. Some people might stick out their tongue while concentrating; apparently Maurice purses his lips and furrows his brows.

Does he really think he needs all that makeup? The fake lashes that probably make it difficult for him to see, the foundation and powder that almost certainly irritate his skin further, the contouring that makes his cheekbones appear higher?

Does he think he’s ugly without it?

He’s not. Even if he wasn’t physically attractive, he’d still have worth as a person.

(But he is just as attractive to you as ever. God. He’s not gorgeous to you because of how the lines on his face are arranged or how his hair is curled or how thick his eyelashes are. He’s gorgeous because of his bright smile and his breathy laugh and the passion that lights up his face when he’s talking about things he likes.)

You can’t just leave this alone. You’ve never seen him without his makeup until now, and even though there must be a reason he hides it, he shouldn’t have to. Even if he doesn’t want anyone else to see him without the cosmetic mask, he’s your boyfriend. You’re his partner. He should feel comfortable around you.

He looks to be so engrossed in fixing his face up, sitting there at the vanity, he doesn’t realize when you creep out of bed. He only notices when you circle your arms around his waist and make a point of kissing his cheek, the one he hasn’t yet applied any product to. ... The one that still shows patches of pinkish bumps.

“Good morning, beautiful,” you murmur against his skin.

A yelp tries to escape, though he does his best to bite it back. Now his face is a little redder, because he’s blushing. “Get... get back in bed!” he huffs. “I’m not beautiful yet. You’re not supposed to see me like this!”

You hum in response, only tightening your grip. Not only do you need to show him how pretty he still is to you, you’ll also be damned if you let him tell you what to do. “Mnh-mnh. You get all that goop off your face, then you get back in bed. Suddenly I don’t think we’re going to be leaving the room today.”

Although he fights you the whole way, you finally manage to wipe off the things he’s applied to his face. As you tug him back under the covers, you unclip the barrettes in his hair, setting them on the bedside table.

“Why?” His voice comes out in a whine, even as you pull open the sides of his dressing gown. “Not leaving the room? Because you’re embarrassed to be seen with me now?”

You give him a snort, then lean down to press a long kiss to his throat. “No. Because now that I know what you look like without all that junk, if I let you leave without it, someone’s going to steal you away from me.”

With that you yank his sleeves down using one hand; with your other, you card your fingers through his hair.

“And I just can’t let that happen,” you smirk. “I rather prefer having the real you all to myself.”

[crash-cinematic-universe]

Blurry

pairing: Peter Maximoff/plus sized!reader

summary:  Hi! Would you ever do a Peter Maximoff x plus size reader oneshot (if you're ok with it)? The reader always sees a blur in the corner of her eye, she thinks she needs her eyes tested but it's Peter chickening out from asking her out on a date (just him running away). She sees the blur again when she's upset (maybe she gets teased) and Peter gets the courage to comfort her. - @morganofthecoves1

warnings: bullying on the grounds of weight, language

notes: peter is a cutie pie and I intend to do that fact justice. this is kinda short (just over 1,000 words) so sorry

______

It’s been happening for weeks; I’d be reading a book or exploring the campus and I’d see it-- a silver-ish blur in my peripheral vision. I think I’m going crazy, it happens so often I’m beginning to believe that something’s wrong with my eyes. It’s odd; whenever I bring this up to Jean she just laughs and ensures me that nothing is wrong. Nevertheless, I’m getting worried. 

“Uh, Hank, how experienced are you in optometry?” I ask, catching the tall man’s attention.

“Depends on what you need done. I’m decently trained, but I’m not qualified enough to perform surgery or anything.” He explains, becoming more and more confused by the second.

“Well, something’s up with my eyes.” Hank’s confusion is joined by concern. 

“What’s happening?” He grabs a clipboard and leans against the counter, a pen gripped tightly in his hands. 

“I dunno, sometimes I see this weird blur in my peripheral vision.” Hank scribbles down some notes. “It’s only there for a second, but it happens a lot.”

I fiddle with the hem of my shirt. When I look at Hank, he’s got an amused smile on his face. 

“Well, there is something wrong, but not with you.” Hank says humorously, setting down the clipboard.

“Hank, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I spit, my patience running thin. “I’ve been seeing this weird fucking blur for weeks and no one seems to care!” 

“Y/n, have you seen Peter lately?” Hank asks. I’m flabbergasted at his behavior. Hank is usually very professional, and yet here he is asking stupid, unrelated questions?

“Hank, what does Peter have to do with this?” Hank just grins.

“Sleep on it. I’m sure it’ll go away with time.” I huff and stomp out the door. This is ridiculous! It’s almost as if I’m being set up. I round the corner and my stomach drops.

Now, a bit of context: I don’t exactly fit the beauty standards set for women. I’m bigger than most girls, but at this point, I learned to accept it. That’s not to say that I’m not insecure, but I’m not as insecure as before. However, it doesn’t help when my crude, cruel classmates deem it appropriate to harass me because of my weight. It hurts, of course, but today it hurt… more than usual. 

“Y/n, I feel oddly drawn to you.” Someone next to me snarls, “but that’s probably because you’re big enough to have your own gravitational pull.” Laughter erupted within the group, and I was quick to storm off.

“Hey, don’t stop too hard or you might break the wooden floor!” Someone calls after me, and I make a sharp turn into my bedroom. My day keeps getting worse as I look down at my feet, realizing the aglet at the end of my shoelace has broken, the shoelace itself frayed and torn to the point of no return. I plopped myself down on the floor, pulling my knees to my chest and backing into a corner. I just bury my face in my knees, letting the world around me fade away as I switch on my Walkman, losing myself in the music. 

I yelp when I feel someone grab my shoulder, my fight or flight responses causing me to kick outwards towards my attacker. It isn’t until I hear his voice that I realize my attacker isn’t an attacker after all.

“Woah, woah, woah, Y/n, chill.” Peter laughs slightly. “It’s just me, not Ted Bundy.” 

“Oh, hey Peter.” I say, quickly replacing my sad expression with my usual confident facade. “What’s up? Please tell me you didn’t get your goggles stuck on the roof again.” Peter chuckles nervously, his hands trembling a bit. 

“You okay, Maximoff?” I ask quietly, standing up to meet his eyes. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

“I just…” He trails off. “You know they’re just assholes, right?” At first, I’m confused. Was he referring to the guys in the hallway or Hank and Jean? “They’re just mean, you’re like… super hot.”

“Peter, are you talkin’ about those guys in the hallway?” Peter nods slowly. “Aw, don’t worry ‘bout them. I can take it, I’ve been taking it ever since I was a kid.”

“I just really want you to know that they’re jerks and that you’re super fucking cool and attractive and fun to be around and that I’d probably die for you and--” Peter rambles on and on, his nerves most likely getting the best of him.

“Hey, Maximoff, take a breath.” I laugh slightly, amused by his antics. “Just say what you wanna say.”

Peter does just that, he takes a deep and shaky breath before speaking. “Hank told me you went to see him today. He told me you thought you needed to get your eyes checked because your eyes would go blurry all the time.” I nod, and he continues. “That… that was me.”

“You were… the blur?” 

“Yeah. I, uh, I wanted to ask you out but I kept… I kept chickening out last minute. I ran away, and I didn’t think you could see me but I guess I was wrong.” 

The room is silent for a moment, Peter’s face desperately searching mine for some sort of reaction. Peter’s worry turns to confusion as I burst out in thunderous laughter. I can’t stop laughing at the present situation, at my own foolishness, at Peter’s adorably confused face.

“Uh, I think I’m gonna g-go now. Sorry for bothering you,” Peter says, his voice sad and slow. I try to compose myself enough to speak clearly.

“N-No Peter, wait,” I gently grab his wrist, urging him to stay. “I just think it’s funny, I thought I was going crazy but it was you the whole time, all because you wanted to ask me out.” He looks relieved, yet on edge.

“And, uh, i-if I were to ask you on a date would you be interested?” His fingers are timidly intertwined, his eyes trained on the floor. I gently move his chin, his eyes slowly meeting mine.

“Yes, Peter, I would.” he beamed up at me, grinning ear-to-ear and chuckling slightly. This isn’t exactly how I thought this day would turn out, but hey, I’m not exactly complaining.

[krissysbookshelf]

Enjoy An Exclusive Sneek Peek of: Under Her Skin by Adriana Anders!

    Chapter 1  

Old hag in need of live-in helper to abuse. Nothing kinky.

Uma read the ad again.

Jesus. Was she really going to do this?

Yes. Yes, she was. She’d come all the way back to Virginia for the hope its free clinic offered, and if this was the only job she could get while she was in town, she should consider herself lucky to have found it. Especially, she thought with a wry smile, since it’s one for which I’m so qualified.

Taking a big, bolstering breath, Uma slipped the newspaper clipping back into her pocket and knocked.

There was a light thunk on the other side, followed by what sounded like footsteps, a scuffling, and then nothing. She waited, trying to hear more over the drone of a nearby lawn mower, and thought of all the reasons this was a horrible idea.

Abuse? Abuse? How could she possibly take this job in the shape she was in?

But as usual, the desperate reality of her situation pushed all arguments aside. Food, shelter, money. There was no arguing with necessity, even if this place felt off.

And the situation was perfect. No one could find her here. In theory. She was pretty sure her new employer wouldn’t be phoning up any references or doing a background check. The woman must be desperate, too. She’d practically hired Uma over the phone, for goodness’ sake.

Someone should have answered by now.

Uma knocked again. Hard, her hand starting to tremble.

Something moved in her peripheral vision, startling Uma into a gasp. The curtain in the front window?

The cloth twitched a second time. The woman was watching. Making Uma wait out here, overdressed in the unseasonable heat, sweat gathering along her hairline. Okay, fine. She could see how it made sense to check out a stranger before letting her in. She’d give the lady a few more minutes to finish her perusal. If only she could get some air. Just a little air in this stifling heat.

When there was no response to her third knock, Uma panicked. According to the oversize watch on her arm, three minutes had passed. Three minutes spent standing on a porch, enduring the scrutiny of a self-proclaimed abuser who represented her last chance at a job. Not the auspicious beginning she had hoped for.

It was all so familiar, too. Maybe not the exact circumstances, but the feelings she lived with on a daily basis—insecurity, worry, fear, clawing at her chest, crowding her throat so each inhale was a struggle. Before they could overwhelm her, she shoved them away and walked down the rickety porch stairs and around to the side of the house, where she could gather herself unseen beneath the first-floor windows. She needed to breathe.

Uma took a shaky breath in, one out, another in, before biting into the meaty pad of her thumb. The ritual was safe, easy to sink back into, the shape of her teeth already worn into her hand. Just a little while, she thought. Until I sort myself out, and then… Then she had no idea what. She had nowhere to go, nothing left to aspire to.

One step at a time. That was her life now. No planning, no future.

She was vaguely aware that the lawn mower drew near, no longer background noise­­­—buzzing close and echoing the beat of her heart. She’d have to push off this wall sooner or later, but the warm clapboard was solid against her back, and along with the sharp smell of freshly clipped grass, it kept her right here, present, in her body. A few more breaths and she’d move. Time to decide whether she’d head up to the house to give it another try or cut her losses and take off, find something else.

Yeah, right.

The problem was she wouldn’t be cutting her losses by leaving—she’d be compounding them. How on earth could she go back on the road with the gas gauge on E and ten bucks to her name?

Strike that. After this morning’s breakfast, she had only $6.54.

Uma sank down onto her haunches, the ground squelching under her heels, and squeezed her eyes shut so hard that black dots floated behind the lids.

She had nothing left—no home, no job, no way of making money, no skills but one…and Joey had destroyed any chance of pursuing her true livelihood when he’d smashed her cameras. Doing that, he’d destroyed her. Six months later, she was still trapped.

If she let herself feel it, there’d be no shortage of pain, inside and out. As usual, her wrist under the watch was raw, and her skin itched everywhere. It must be psychosomatic. It couldn’t still itch after all this time, could it?

Visualizing his marks on her skin was enough to make her hyperventilate again. And the tightness was there, that constriction that had left her constantly out of breath these past several months. She’d thought the miles would clear the airways, but they hadn’t.

And now she was back. Back in Virginia. Shallow breaths succeeded one another, pinching her nostrils and rasping noisily through her throat. Joey was close. Two hours away by car. Way too close for comfort. She swore she could feel him looking for her, closing in on her.

Suddenly, something cold and wet swiped Uma’s hand, snapping her back to the present. She opened her eyes with a start, only to come face-to-face with a dog. A black one with a tan face and floppy ears, pretty brown eyes rimmed in black, like eyeliner. It smiled at her.

It was something else, that dog, with that sweet look on its face. Like it gave a crap. Weird. The expression was so basically human, it pulled back the tunnel vision and let some light seep in. The dog nudged her chest, hard, and pushed its way into her arms in a big, warm tackle-hug. Uma had no choice but to hug back.

Its cold nose against her neck shocked a giggle out of her. “Oh, alright. You got moves, dog.”

“She does,” said a deep voice from above.

Uma’s head snapped back in surprise, sounding a dull thunk against the clapboard. Oh God. Where had he come from?

“She’s a barnacle.”

Uma nodded dully, throat clogged with fear. Stop it, she berated herself. You’ve got to stop freaking out at every guy who says two words to you. She tried for a friendly smile. It felt like a grimace.

The man just stood there, a few feet away, looking at her. She waited. He waited. He looked like a big, creepy yard worker or something. Tall. Really, really tall.

“Gorilla,” he said.

“What?”

“My dog, Squeak. She’s a guerrilla fighter. Thought about callin’ her Shock ’n’ Awe.”

“Squeak?” She stared up at him, craning her neck with the effort. She was wrong before. To say he was tall was an understatement. The man blocked out the sun. With the light behind him, it was hard to see much, aside from the big, black beard covering half his face and the shaggy mane around it. His voice was deep, gravelly. Burly. It went with the hair and the lumberjack shirt. You didn’t see guys like him where she came from.

“Wasn’t her name originally. She earned it.” When he talked, the words emerged as if they hurt, purling out one slow syllable at a time. As if being sociable was an effort. Yet, for some reason­­—for her—he was trying.

He waited, probably for her to say something in response, but she’d been running too long to be any good at repartee. She’d turned into more of a watch-and-wait kind of girl.

The man finally continued, tilting his chin toward the house she was leaning on. “You her next victim?��

Uma winced, embarrassed. “Guess so.”

He lifted his brows in semi-surprise before turning to the side and stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of jeans that had seen better days. They were stained and ratty and littered with what looked like burn holes.

Backlit by the sun, his profile was interesting, despite the bushy lower half of his face. Or maybe because of it. He looked like something you’d see stamped into an ancient coin—hard and noble. The scene came easily into focus: clad in something stained and torn, wading into the thick of battle with his men, sword in hand, face smeared with enemy blood, and teeth bared in some primal war cry. Her hands came to life, itching for a camera.

Then she blinked and emerged to see him as he was: a filthy redneck with a rug on his face. He was intimidating, to say the least. Not the kind of guy she’d choose to work in her yard—not looking all roughed up like he did.

But this new phase of life was about taking back what Joey had stolen. It was about courage, and because this guy was so intimidating, Uma decided to face him head-on. Show no fear. Another rule for this new self that she was constantly reinventing: no more letting men intimidate her.

“Help me up?” she asked.

After a brief hesitation, he complied. His grasp was rough and solid, ridged with calluses in places and polished smooth in others. For a moment, after pulling her up to stand, he didn’t let go of her hand. Instead, he turned it over and eyed the crescent her teeth had left behind.

She fought the urge to snatch it away.

He raised his brows but finally let her go without a word. Burning with the need to put some distance between them, she took a hurried step back.

“Thanks,” she said as he squatted down to scratch Squeak roughly under the chin. The dog’s eyes closed in ecstasy.

Forcing herself to steady her nerves, Uma caught his eye and held it. He was even scarier without the sun behind him, skin marred by a shiny white scar along his hairline and a dark bruise on a cheek already peppered with errant beard hairs. His nose was crooked and thick, no doubt broken in a barroom brawl or something equally disreputable. She envisioned him in a smoky basement, duking it out for some seedy underground boxing title. Carved squint lines surrounded eyes that were a cool blue.

Or…oh. No. She realized with a start that his left eye was blue and the right was dark gold. She was instantly thrown off-kilter. Which one was she supposed to focus on? She blinked and turned aside, uncomfortable with the way he so effortlessly unsettled her.

“I’ve…” he rumbled, coming up out of the squat to tower over her again. She waited for him to continue.

“You’ve…?” she finally asked after the silence had stretched too long. She wondered if she was as off-putting to him as he was to her.

“Ive. It’s my name. Short for Ivan.”

“Oh. I’m Uma.” She gave him her real name without thinking. “You mow the lawn here?”

“You could say that.” His eyes crinkled. What little she could see of his mouth turned up into a surprisingly warm smile. “Figure I might as well mow her lawn while I’m doin’ mine.”

She looked at the house behind him. “That’s your place?”

Her surprise must have been obvious, but he didn’t react, just gave a single, brief nod.

“Wow. Nice.” The house was nice. Really nice. Incongruously…civilized. He looked like the kind of guy you’d find chopping wood by his cabin in the boondocks, not maintaining the lawn of his lovely old farmhouse.

It was straight out of Southern Living, nicer than some of the places she’d photographed.

The caricature she’d formed in her head of this man melted partially away to reveal something a little softer, less defined. It didn’t jibe inside of her, but she’d been running on stereotypes and first impressions and messed-up wrong impressions for so long that her instincts clearly needed a reset. Another thing to add to the growing list of upgrades for Uma 2.0.

He nodded, face serious, but she thought she could detect pride beneath the gruff exterior.

She caught sight of a bright-red tricycle in the drive beside a clunky Ford pickup. Kids. Probably a wife. Her perception shifted yet again, and he didn’t seem half as scary as he had a moment before. Wow, she couldn’t straighten her life out at all, and this guy seemed to have his shit together. So much for first impressions.

Uma briefly wondered what he’d look like without all that fur on his face.

She took in the house, the trike, the coziness of this sweet mountain town. A town so small that elderly ladies hired you right over the phone without even asking for references.

That reminded her of why she was here: the ad. Maybe not such a sweet town after all.

“Well, I’d better get to it.” She kept her hands in her pockets, not wanting to risk another touch of his rough skin.

“Yeah. Don’t wanna piss her off.” Was that a joke?

She gave Squeak a quick pat on the head and turned away from man and dog. His voice stopped her after a couple of steps.

“Hey, Uma.” It came out rough, and he cleared his throat. “You ever need a break, come on over and see us. Have a beer.”

“Oh. Sure. Thanks.” Us, he’d said. Yep, married.

She shot a last look at the house over his shoulder, thinking she might even be willing to marry a guy like that for such a great house. Oh well. Maybe she and his wife would become friends.

A friend. That might be nice.

When she got back to the porch, something had changed. Was the gap in the curtains a little wider? Was it possible the woman had witnessed her panic attack? Strike one against Uma if she had.

The lawn mower started up again somewhere behind the house.

Uma took a deep breath in, blew it out hard, made a fist, and pounded.

    Will she be strong enough to fight for what she wants?

  Battered by a life determined to tear him down This quiet ex-con’s scarred hands may be the gentlest touch she’ll ever know. …if only life were a fairy tale where Beauty was allowed to keep her Beast Ivan thought the world was through giving him second chances. Who’d want a rough ex-con with a savior complex and a bad habit of bringing home helpless strays? Everyone in Blackwood, Virginia knew he wasn’t good enough for the fine things in life; they knew he was too damaged to save. He just needed to keep his head down, work himself to the bone, and pretend he was content with the lot he was given. Until she came into his life. Until she changed everything. Until he realized he would do anything, fight anyone, tear the world apart if it meant saving her.

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