#unfortunately weight fluctuation

[aliosne]

Awright anyone got recs for size-inclusive nonbinary-but-with-huge-gazongas-friendly funky button-ups? Mum has offered to get me something for my birthday and I’m feeling :/// about the options I have.

These are a couple shirts I own and like that are in the general zone I’m looking for:

[greatgoddyke]

giving him a swirly

[laidback-thrills]

Sorry for blowin yall up tn lmfao

AS MUCH AS I LOVE DRAWING THE STUPID LITTLE ORANGE SPRITE...this is what i think he actually looks like. Sorry y'all </3 he scares me too

[viperwhispered]

I kept on talking about it, now I finally did it: put together a few outfits for Emi to wear outside the school uniform - once she has the reason to start filling out her wardrobe in Twisted Wonderland, at least.

Ngl, these pull heavily from what I wore at that point in life, with a dash of wish-fulfillment for extra pizzazz.

First of, the casual - when she doesn't feel like dressing up and is just throwing something on:

Add an extra hoodie or something for colder weather.

The strappy - feels a bit extra but like... she would:

Also works with a dramatic blouse with some flowy sleeves (think Morticia Addams).

(There's also a variant of these two known as the "the boyf's not here and I miss him" with one of Jamil's hoodies, probably the one with the flames that he wears with his school uniform. Particularly prevalent during Emi's third year, when Jamil’s away doing his internships.)

Dressing up, tartan edition:

Dressing up, waist corset edition (prob with the prev shoes, I couldn't bother with repeating elements):

Also works with some long, flowy sleeves and thicker tights.

Also like... feel free to throw in spiked wrist bands and belts and things in there, they're definitely part of the assortment, too.

And like, not to say these are the only things Emi has (there's definitely more of like, basics in her wardrobe too, and cozy oversized things to get wrapped up in), but I feel like these gets the general vibes across, especially for the more standout things she likes to wear.

So yeah, it's like... You can often hear Emi coming just from the clatter of chains, especially when she's taking a seat, lol.

Tagging @scint1llat3 @diodellet @moonyasnow @bibi-cha

If you'd like to be tagged for Emi things, just let me know!

[ebonyslasher]

Them Thangs Thanging, Unfortunately

Basically, reader is a woman who has extremely large breast. Aka ME, this shit isn't for the weak. Just wanted to write about a few struggles we have. This doesn't even cover half of it.

Big Breast!Reader x Michael Myers, Daniel Lamb, Chromeskull, and Ghostface (Danny Johnson)

-----

Growing up was a struggle. 

That statement is true for many, especially during early teenhood. Middle schoolers were the most ruthless and awkward looking individuals to exist. However, there was an extra layer of struggle for the girls who had very progressive physical development(s). Specifically, those who developed their breasts early.

That was you. And unfortunately, your breast kept growing and growing. Even through early adulthood, with your weight fluctuating, your breast kept growing. They were always big, mind you. But now, as an adult, they were humongous. And what other people called a blessing, you just called a problem. Many problems at that included: 

Price

Bra’s, already, were expensive. For one piece of specialized cloth was $30 to $40. Add onto the fact that you had big breast? Oh, now the price wanted to double. Good luck if you were so big that you had to order custom. Prepare for your soul and wallet to be hurt. Custom bras can set someone back at least $100 easy!

With Michael, it was an odd situation. He would hear you complain about the price, but never understood why. He could just steal them for you, either from the store or from a victim. You, of course, didn’t want a bra from some random, especially with blood on it. EW. His plan could work if he would remembered your size...and if they even had it in store. 

Well, price wasn’t an issue with Chromeskull! He already treated you like a queen. If you wanted, he would have someone find bras for you. That way, you don’t even need the stress of looking. You find the bras lined up on a table every few months for you to pick from. What a life!

Daniel listened to your problems and saw firsthand how much they could get up to. Eyebrows shot up at the $79 bra that sat on your screen. After his missions, he would steal money or cards off corpses to give to you. You’d find a pile laying on your desk when he couldn’t stay, with a note saying ‘For your bra troubles!’ He was so sweet.

Ghostface didn’t care. He didn’t have to pay for the bras, so not his problem! He barely listens, pretending to only see any bras you might get next. Pervert. He wouldn't mind you getting a smaller bra, trying to imagine you as those anime girls wearing the smallest bikinis. 

“So you want me to look like I'm from One Piece??! Natural breasts in real life don’t work like that dummy!”

Size availability

Speaking of One Piece, it felt like you had to travel through the seven seas just to find bras in your size. Trying to find cute ones? You’re asking for the impossible. Most stores didn’t have your size. Forget about places like Victoria's Secret and especially Aerie. Lane Bryant may have your size, unless your band size is small. So, that means you have to order your bras online. Sucks, since you couldn’t try them on before buying. 

Michael stood in the store, comically looming behind you, surrounded by multicolored bras. He noticed that your posture fell as you spoke with a store worker. “Unfortunately, we don’t carry those sizes in store. We have them online and you could get it shipped here.” No thanks. It’d just be better to get something shipped to your house. You sighed in disappointment. Michael squints his eyes at the worker. Maybe he could come back and look to see what they really have in the back…

Availability was no longer a problem thanks to Jesse. Your masked sweetheart hired a personal designer that would make bras tailored to you. And you can tell them just how cute you’d like the bra to be.

A comforting hand lands on your shoulder as you relay the issue of finding your cup and band size in store. Daniel listens on as you rant, throwing your hands up in frustration. “Of course, I’d be the one with a small band size and huge ass breast!”  While you talk, he peruses the internet for different online stores that may have your size. You two curate a list of some, avidly reading any reviews that pop up.

“Oh well, hey, maybe this gives you the excuse to not wear bras anymore. Heh, I definitely won’t mind the view,” Danny joked after you told him the news. You roll your eyes and tell him to shut up. He really doesn’t care about your dilemma, pushing you to go braless, so he could see those juicy tatas bouncing. Although, if you get on him enough and promise him something nice, maybe he could magically get you some bras.

Clothing restrictions

There were certain articles of clothing that you couldn’t wear. Sad, since there were some cute looks that you just couldn’t do logistically. Bralettes and button down shirts were the devil. You saw the bralettes trending and said, “Nope. No way I could do that”. Button down shirts were deceptive. It would work up until the point the button around your breast would pop open. Understandable, since the small button couldn’t handle the pressure of holding back such big bouncing melons. You tried again one day, hoping that the designs became better throughout the years. As you walked around, the buttons popped open. The image of soft brown breast were revealed to the world in…

Michael’s steel blues, which immediately pinpoint the wardrobe malfunction. His head slowly tilts. Michael stoically ogles, secretly licking his lips as he enjoys the view. He notices your embarrassment and frustration. He feels a little bad, but that was overshadowed by the deliciousness of your reaction. He loves seeing you get worked up. He wouldn’t mind watching you bouncing around to throw a tantrum.

Jesse’s eyeless mask gleams. He raises his eyebrows at the incident. You try to button your shirt back up. The button only stays a moment before it gives up, bouncing off the shirt for the sweet release of death. The button clinks against the marble floor. You look down in disbelief as Jesse’s shoulders shake in glee. This was the funniest thing he’s seen all week!

Daniel’s zenith blue eyes pop wide open, mimicking the poor button that flew off. His face was a light shade of pink as he observed the scene. “Oh Shit…,” he whispers. Trying not to stare at your obvious malfunction, he peers up at your face that looks beautifully frustrated at the button on the ground. His eyes were full of empathy as walks over. “How about we try another shirt, huh?,” Daniel asks as he chuckles lightly.

“Hallelujah!” Ghostface shouts as he zeros in on this fantastic view. His perverted chocolate eyes were glued to your happy accident. You scoff and cover the malfunction with your hands. The view of that amazing bosom was now obscured, which angered Ghostface. He marches over right as he says, “Hey! Don’t cover those. Ghosty wants to see!”

Back pain

These breasts weighed heavy as gravity worked against your favor. Lugging around these gigantic bust meant the pull and strain against your back muscles. Those back muscles were only so strong, which would get weaker as you got older. The random aches in the upper, middle, and lower part of your back plagued your existence. You tried your best to keep good posture, but it was tiring.

Michael will rub your back if you ask. Well, only if he gets something in exchange. Dessert, you bent over, a good meal, or a new knife. You choose and it better be the right choice depending on his mood. Be warned that Michael is heavy handed as hell. His digs feel like he’s punching through your body. It might be a while before his massages become beneficial.

Jesse will hire a professional masseuse when he's on a spree. However, he would never turn down the opportunity to knead your supple muscles. You don’t mind if he goes a little lower, right Princess? He’ll also treat you with a doctor to get some treatment options going. 

Skilled and dangerous hands rub your back, the heavenly sensation of warm oil glides with every movement. Daniel, the sweet man that he is, gladly volunteers to bring you temporary relief. If he’s unable to caress your lovely form, he leaves you some pain medicine and healing meds that he comes across. The healing meds were heavenly. He, later, suggests having a reduction so you won’t have to suffer anymore.

Danny will massage you only because he wants his hands on that perfect body. And lowkey wants you to stop complaining all the time. God, it was annoying. He frequently offers to hold your breast up as you walk around. “I’ll even hold them up out in public. Just think, you’ll have your own boobie holder everywhere you go.” That shit eating grin on his handsome face didn’t faze you. Your face scrunches at his perverted comment. You take him up on the offer…only at home. You wouldn’t admit that it was a big help for your posture. You didn’t need to, Danny could tell how much it was helping by your relieved expression.

[sunflowersandsapphires]

Finding You

Small Creatures, Chapter 2

Series Masterlist Next Chapter

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader 

summary: Matt Murdock always assumed he’d never meet his soulmate. After all, who would want to end up stuck with a blind vigilante carrying enough baggage for a whole jet? Unfortunately for you both, his cursed love is closer than ever and determined to support him as his paradoxical life falls apart.

warnings:  minor swearing, misunderstandings, awkward meetings

a/n: there isn’t a ton of Matt in this chapter, but there will be MUCH more of him from here on out. We are running straight for the hurt, comfort, angst, and fluff of this story, y’all. As always, please reply and reblog! And a huge shout out to @zomtart for helping me create this AU!

w/c: 4.5k

You couldn’t shake the feeling of him. 

A tight coil of smoke, constantly twisted around your every limb. Your dreams were now hazy with clouds of ash, the bitter taste of charred organic material blanketing your tongue when you woke. 

On the surface, he was dangerous, filled with a rage that burned more intensely than any flame in this realm. You understood that it was meant to scare you, to create distance. But, you were drawn to it like a newly hatched moth–seeking its warmth and light, not shying away from its destructive power one bit. 

Whether your intense longing was due to your bond or simply a lack of self-preservation, you weren’t sure. 

Walking home after the Devil snatched you from the jaws of death, it all suddenly made sense. One of those “you have to feel it to believe it” kind of things, meeting your soulmate. Your steps were unsteady and too light, like your weight was constantly fluctuating as you moved, or you were being carried along by an external force. You felt thoroughly inebriated, oxytocin and dopamine saturating every cell.

With each wobbly pace home, your chest pulsed with clipped waves of pain, like you’d been bruised. But even the dull ache couldn’t ruin the pleasant floaty feeling carrying you back to your place. 

At points in your life, you’d heard musings. Of what it was like to be bonded with another. Though none of them had ever truly made sense until now.

You were torn, unsure of how to feel about it all. On one hand, knowing he existed was comforting. You weren’t crazy or damned or any other awful thing people sometimes said about marked souls. On the other, watching him creep away from you in terror was definitely a blow to your ego.

It was possible he’d had to go take care of something—there was never a dull night in the Kitchen—but given how your mark was radiating a concoction of doubt, shame, and another feeling you couldn’t quite place…it was probable he was truly not interested. You needed a clear answer, though. Whatever his decision was, you’d respect it, but you needed to be sure before giving up on him.

Therein lay the issue. How could you ask him for a clear answer when you didn’t even know his name? You had no idea where to begin looking for him, or if he could even be found.

And what would you say if you did find him? “Hi, you clearly want nothing to do with me but apparently we are destined to mean something to each other so here’s my card”?

What if he was in love with someone else? He could be married, have a family..oh god what if he was married–

A familiar voice called your name, snapping you out of the trance you’d apparently been in. Ripping your gaze away from where it had been listlessly staring at your coffee cup, you met your friend’s amused look with a sheepish laugh.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

Imogen shook her head fondly, clearly not actually upset that you’d zoned out.

“Nothing more important than whatever’s on your mind. Spill,” She giggled, poking your arm with a manicured finger.

You groaned, pulling your exposed limb out of harm’s way. “Midge, it's nothing–”

“It's not!” Crossing her arms, the woman across from you gave her best attempt at a stern mom stare. “You've been out of it all day. We've been friends long enough for me to recognize when you're stuck in your head. So tell me, what's got you in such a funk?”

Sighing, you dropped your chin to your chest, overwhelmed with indecision. It's not that you expected Imogen to react badly, but how much could you tell her? I mean, he was a vigilante, a criminal. Would she truly be ok with that?

Taking a leap, you allowed her to clutch your hand, your nerves settling slightly under her encouraging gaze. “I may have met my soulmate last night?”

As if an earthquake had suddenly struck Manhattan, the two flimsy cups standing on the table quivered as the table vibrated beneath them. Your friend had erupted with joyful movement, kicking her feet and gripping your hand painfully tight as she shrieked gleefully.

“WHAT!? WHEN? HOW? Tell me EVERYTHING!” Eyes boring into yours with more enthusiasm than you'd ever held for something, Imogen beamed at you.

As much as you appreciated her zest for life, the other patrons in the small cafe were glaring daggers in your direction, apparently not willing to risk hearing loss for a stranger's happiness. Sending them an apologetic glance, you lay your free hand on Imogen's.

“Hun, I love you, but people are staring.” You chuckled, flicking your eyes to the annoyed regulars behind her.

“Alright, alright, I'll try to contain myself,“ Midge rolled her eyes. ”What's his name? Is he cute? Oh gosh, I shouldn't have assumed it was a he–”

Shaking your head, you patted her hand reassuringly. “'He' would presumably be correct. He sort of..helped me out last night.”

“Helped you out how?”

Deciding on an altered version of events, you left out the part about him donning a mask and saving you from certain death. Two birds, one stone in terms of things Midge would worry over.

“I was trying to snap a picture on the roof of Ink 48. He saw me struggling to get in position and..spotted me? I guess? When we touched...god, Midge. You weren't kidding.” Your voice was breathy, your heart pounding as you thought of his beautiful smirk, his warm hands.

“It's..indescribable.” She agreed, her smile softening as she studied your love struck expression. “What's his name?”

Averting your eyes, you felt a haze of lingering doubt settle over you. “See, that's why I've been out of it. We connected, forged a bond or whatever you want to call it, and he ran away. I..didn't get a good look at his face and I have no clue what his name was so I'm kind of at a loss.”

“Oh sweetie,” Midge pouted, dragging her chair closer to wrap an arm around you. “No leads? He wasn't wearing anything with a company emblem or an ID badge?”

“No, and honestly..I don't even know if he'd want me to track him down. I mean, he ran, Midge. Full on beelined outta there like I had the plague. He could be married? Or just not interested?” Your voice trailed off. You were at a loss, that much was clear.

“Or!” Imogen interjected, her voice optimistic as always. “He was surprised and he panicked. I think we both can relate to that.”

You raised a brow at her in disbelief, but Imogen was undeterred. “Babes, it's a big thing, finding your soulmate. Cut the poor guy some slack! He's probably nervous just like you are.”

“It's possible.” You relented. “But I still don't know if I'll ever see him again.”

“You will.” Your all-too-positive companion shrugged, withdrawing her hand from your hold. “You're way too capable and determined not to.”

“You're too sweet to me.” You scoffed, heat fluttering in your cheeks.

“I'm just being honest!” She giggled, tossing back the rest of her coffee. “C'mon.”

“Where are we going?” You laughed, draining your coffee so Midge could toss both cups in a nearby waste basket.

“You're going to show me exactly where you met him and we'll see if there are any cameras or other things we could use to track him down.”

Steps faltering, you blinked in shock before scurrying after your friend who was confidently traipsing out of the store.

Shifting the strained handle into the crook of your elbow, you angled your body so the weight of the large bag bumped against the flesh of your hip, rather than knocking into unsuspecting strangers. One solid kick from a passerby and the carefully stacked contents would topple–either into the street or onto you. Regardless, you’d have a mess on your hands and you’d be out a solid chunk of money. Take out wasn’t cheap these days, dammit.

You just hoped the hefty bill would be worth it.

It had been almost a week since your run-in with your soulmate and you were still mostly at a loss. Despite Imogen's confidence and your combined dedication, you were no closer to knowing his identity. Your failure to find anything definitive at the scene was partially because nothing had been left behind and almost entirely because Midge was still under the impression you were looking for a standard nine-to-fiver.

You weren't quite sure how to come clean, not when she'd spent so much of her free time over the past few days accompanying you to the same street, scouring the crowds for anyone who might look familiar to you. But, until you knew whether he wanted you in his life, you were hesitant to confess  the one thing you did know about him.

After the third day of returning home empty-handed, you'd cut your friend loose. Telling her you were going to regroup before trying again. As lovely as Midge was, she was as clueless about the Devil's whereabouts as you were.

The internet, however, was chock full of fanatics and critics overly willing to share the opinions they had about him. In general, the city appreciated his efforts--the local message boards and blogs brimming with praise and gratitude. You couldn't help but feel a gleaming rush of pride with every compliment, appreciating the citizens for recognizing the man's work.

Of course, there were negative threads too. Calling Daredevil a threat and a coward. Screaming at him to give himself up, leave the crime-fighting to law enforcement. At first, you'd engaged with those users too. But, after one argument sparked so much rage you almost shattered your laptop screen in an effort to remove yourself from the fight, you began to ignore anything less than positive. Whether because of your bond or your genuine admiration for your soulmate, the disapproval created a primal urge to protect, to defend. Standing by wasn't an option, so you put blinders on to filter out the objections.

As a whole, however, the online forums were helpful. There were a few sites dedicated to tracking local vigilante news, allowing you to assemble a makeshift map of places the Devil frequented. You'd reached out to a few of the more active users to see if they could help you, but pretty quickly realized that the claim 'daredevil is my soulmate' was probably more common than you'd originally thought. So, for now, your feeble, hand drawn maps would have to do.

Unsurprisingly, Daredevil seemed to have a flexible schedule that mostly revolved around where he was needed. The idea of staging a crime, or intentionally putting yourself in harm's way did occur to you, but you weren't that desperate quite yet. And you doubted that would be well-received. Instead, you categorized locations by number of sightings and planned to work your way down the list.

Tonight, you were starting just before sunset for the roof of a building near the Clinton Community Garden. According to your limited research, the crimson-clad vigilante was often spotted between 47th and 50th street, around the intersections of 9th or 10th. A decent area to start with for sure, given that it was pretty central within Hell's Kitchen, and 10th street was a haven for petty crime.

Two failed attempts to buzz into apartment buildings later, someone finally answered your request over the intercom, unlatching the door for you. Dashing up the stairs two at a time, your stomach was in knots by the time you found a roof access door. Your every breath was measured, laden with doubt in the wake of so many possibilities. Pulse racing, you gulped in the humid evening air, bending at the waist to allow blood flow to your brain.

You'd been so nervous to confront him, you'd neglected your own needs. Dehydration and low blood sugar were only exacerbated by this obnoxious heat. Cringing at the realization, you paced to the edge of the roof, settling into a cross-legged position with your back against the squabby brick perimeter. With the back of your hand, you swiped at the beading sweat along your brow, doing your best to mop it up.

Now for the fun part. Waiting.

Patience was a virtue that didn't always come easily to you. Especially when your anxiety stepped up to the plate. Twiddling your thumbs, anticipating every possible thing that could go wrong only made time pass more slowly. And it wasn't as if there was a deadline you were inching towards.

Not a set one, at least. The food you'd brought wouldn't last forever, though you were hoping the thermal bag would keep it from spoiling too quickly. If it didn't, well, you'd feel pretty foolish for bruising your arm carrying the sizable thing around town.

Lifting the strap from where it was currently digging into your shoulder, you set it carefully on the ground, peeking inside to inspect the contents. Everything looked ok, thankfully. A bit banged up from the journey, but mostly unharmed and definitely just as tasty.

Relaxing into the prickly surface holding you upright, you scanned the skyline, admiring the wash of pinks and oranges slipping between skyscrapers. You hadn't wanted to tote your camera around in addition to all the food, but you were regretting that decision now. Somewhat remorsefully, you pulled a paperback book from an outside pocket on the tote. Imogen would be thrilled you were finally starting it.

The book was better than you'd expected. A historical fiction novel about the Nazi invasion in France–something you knew very little about. It managed to keep your attention for nearly 90 minutes, though you did take brief breaks to stretch and scan the horizon for a familiar figure.

As much as you wanted to stick it out, the food wouldn't last too much longer. Knee-deep in a mental quarrel with yourself about whether to give up for the night, your stomach dropped–yanked by an extreme force as if you were driving over a massive hill. It was intoxicating, thrilling and terrifying all at once.

Scrambling to your feet, you teetered on wobbly legs, nearly faceplanting on the concrete. All sense of balance had been ripped from you, as if the flat roof had been replaced with a trampoline, bouncing with every step you took. Before you could regain your bearings, a shadowy figure appeared at the opposite end of the roof.

His chin was angled down, mirrored fists clenched on either side of his broad, menacing stance. In the sliver of remaining sunlight, you could make out his sharp jawline and pink lips–your heart fluttering as they parted.

“You shouldn’t be up here.” He strode toward you, graceful and precise. Far more coordinated than you felt at the moment.

“Please,” You murmured, focus lost in the glow of fading light lining his body, a flexible halo around him. “Please, I-I just want to talk.”

“Are you sure you have time?” Stopping his approach about 10 feet from you, his mouth twitched with a smirk. You were surprised to sense humor in his words. “Seems like you might be late for your dinner plans.”

Chuckling weakly in response, your face flooded with heat. Something about his presence made your brain melt into soup. His confidence and cocky attitude stole the explanation right off your tongue, leaving you to stand there uselessly until he nodded to the rectangular bag lying at your feet.

“Oh, sorry, um,“ Scurrying for the shining handle, you pulled it into your arms, extending it out to him. ”I brought this for you actually.”

In a remote corner of your stomach, a tiny curl of something warm unwound. Surprise, then a much stronger sensation, not unlike fondness or gratitude. A mix of both perhaps?

“For me?” As he whispered, you couldn't help but smile. Those sudden emotions, they were his, not your own. The hesitant acceptance continued into his rasping voice.

“If you will accept it, then yes. As a thank you. For saving me and, well, for everyone else you’ve saved.” You answered, taking a step in his direction.

Hands shooting up, blocking an incoming hit you hadn't thrown, his guard slid back into place. With each inch you moved forward, he withdrew, like there was an invisible barrier forcing the two of you apart.

“I don't do this for handouts.” He growled, shoulders squaring off. You'd spooked him somehow.

“I never said you did.” You shrugged, sending him a soft smile. Retreating towards your end of the roof, you drew the bag towards your chest. “I just wanted to thank you, and to ask you a few questions. I figured they would be easier to swallow if I had something for you in return.”

Tilting his head at you, Daredevil flexed his fingers, no doubt fighting the urge to lock them into fists. His tongue dipped between his lips, sliding over the lower as he pondered. “What sort of questions?”

A bubble of pride rolled up your throat at the idea you'd gotten this feral cat of a man to trust you, even marginally. “About the other night. Nothing about your identity or anything, and if they seem too invasive you don't have to answer them at all. I'll respect whatever boundaries you need to set, but I would have regretted never asking. Does that make sense?”

The stubby horns on his helmet arced in semi-circles as he nodded. “I think so.”

“I just...did you feel it?” Grimacing as the question slipped out, you tried to clarify. “I mean, that's a horrible way to ask that but, er, when you..caught me, I think something–”

“Yes.” He interrupted you, his voice barely audible.

“What?”

Another coarse nod. “Yes. I felt it.”

“Oh my god,” You'd expected this answer, but you were still dumbfounded. “I thought maybe I was just crazy.”

“You're not crazy.” He huffed, a glimpse of his teeth shining in the city light as he smirked.

“So, that means we're...” You trailed off, not wanting to scare him away with the word.

The Devil stilled, his jaw quivering as his teeth grit together. The fragile peace you’d somehow achieved began to crack.

“It's ok!” You hurriedly reassured him. “I don't, I'm not–”

Tripping over your words, you held up a hand. After a deep breath, you tried again. “It's up to you what we mean to each other. I didn't come here to nag you, or demand things from you.”

“You didn't?” The question was posed as a statement. He didn't believe you.

“Not at all. That wouldn't be fair. To you or..well, to the other people in your life. I just wanted to know if it was real and to show my appreciation for the other night.” Shifting your weight from foot to foot, you watched as his posture slumped slightly.

“You didn't,” He sighed, crossing his arms. Holy shit was he hiding saplings under there? “You didn't have to do that.”

Swallowing harshly as you collected your thoughts, you giggled nervously. “I know, but I wanted to. Can't be easy to eat while flipping around the city.”

Another puff of breath, a hint of laughter. “What exactly is my reward?”

Chewing at the flesh of your lip, you fumbled for the zipper. “Well, I wasn't sure what you liked, so I brought a few options. They're sort of all over the map.”

Laying out the thin cotton blanket you'd packed, you withdrew a myriad of plastic containers and lined them up, describing each as you went. “Gnocchi and bolognese from Il Tinello, very hearty and comforting. If you want something a bit different, an Alice sandwich from that shop 'Toasties'? And, if you don't eat animal products, seitan satay from Plant-Blossom.”

“You weren't kidding.” The Devil remarked, creeping towards the edge of the blanket. “You ventured all over the city for this. You didn't–”

“Please don't feel bad!” You rushed out, stomach sinking at the guilty little pout on his face. “I was looking for something to do. Besides, you deserve a decent meal for sticking around to hear me out.”

“As much as I appreciate it, it's more food than I can eat.” The man protested, crouching beside the edge of the blanket, not quite crossing the boundary yet.

“I'll have some of whatever you don't want. And, if we still can't finish it, well I'm sure there's someone around here who will take it.” You reasoned, settling atop your folded legs. Despite your nerves, you kept your voice steady and your stature unassuming, not wanting to activate the man’s “scary Devil mode” again.

“Thank you.” Kneeling on the concrete, the vigilante cocked his head at the lineup of options, fingers dancing over his thighs hesitantly. His gravelly voice diffused into a murmur, showering you like a spray of glass beads. Cool and solid, steady as rain.

You nibbled at the inside of your lip, smiling softly as the treacherous defender of the city flushed pink in the pale golden hue of the sun. Despite his harsh exterior and skeptical nature, you were swooning at the glimpse of the man behind the mask. He was passionate and humble, truthfully taken aback by your gratitude. “I'm pretty sure I'm the one who should be thanking you. So, are you hungry?”

Lips splitting with a beautifully subtle grin, the Devil nodded. “Always.”

Satisfaction tugged at your heart, making you crinkle your nose as you held back a proud smile. “Help yourself!”

You hadn't been lying to him, the array of options was for his benefit; it wasn't much of a repayment if he didn't enjoy the food. As his hand reached for the first take out container, you realized there was something in it for you as well. In addition to him answering your brief question, and spending more than a moment nearby, you'd end up learning about him.

Something as simple as choice of meal wasn't overly revealing, but it confirmed some suspicions you had about your other half. He wasn't adventurous for the hell of it, his decisions–though seemingly rash–were purposeful and thought out. You understood the enticing pull, the desire to stick to your routine or things you already knew.

Bruised fingers popped the seal on the gnocchi, cradling the warm plastic tub with a fond glance in your direction. “Did you happen to bring silverware?”

Heat rushed to your face, embarrassment swatting at you as you scrambled for the utensils in your bag. “Oh gosh, yes, I am so sorry–”

“Don't apologize.” A comforting weight settled over the back of your hand, the rough pad of a thumb brushing over your knuckles. Tearing your eyes away from the packets in your grip, your mouth hung open in surprise as Daredevil tenderly swiped his finger over your skin. You froze in place, scared that the smallest twitch would ruin the moment.

Face slackening with realization, the man dropped your hand, sliding a set of plastic silverware out of your loose grip. “This will work. Thank you.”

Shoulders hunching, he pointed his body away from you, still kneeling rather than fully relaxing into a seated position. Busying yourself with your own plate of food, you tried to shove down the disappointment that gnawed at you, your fragile consciousness unable to stave off the feeling of rejection as he turned to face the city.

“Has it been busy tonight? The crime fighting, I mean?” You posed the question, hoping to bridge the literal and metaphorical gap once again widening between the pair of you.

The man opposite you hummed thoughtfully, swallowing before he spoke. “Not too bad.”

“That's good. Hopefully you'll be able to get some rest, then. If you need rest, that is. I mean, if you don't have a day job that would make it easier but how could you afford to live in this city? I guess you could probably bounce around and evade capture, but that sounds exhausting. How do you–” Cutting yourself off, you clamped a hand over your mouth. “Shit, I am so sorry. I really didn't mean to ask about that,  I'm just nervous which tends to make me ramble.“

Scratching at the back of his neck, Daredevil curled further in on himself. “I, uh, I guess I can't blame you for being nervous.”

“Oh, it's not your fault.” You promised, shaking your head violently. “I'm sort of like this with everyone. Lack of experience, I guess.”

Studying you for a moment, his lips briefly flickering with a smile. “I understand that. People are complicated.”

“Understatement of the century.” You huffed, a familiar blossom of warmth pooling in your chest when he echoed the chuckle.

Sitting in cozy silence, you ate quickly, stealing peeks at the muscular man every so often to gauge his discomfort. As much as you wanted to believe you were making progress, the rational side of your brain recognized the finite nature of this exchange. It was likely that he didn't intend to do this again. This was a favor extended to you for your appreciation.

As darkness descended on the skyline, cloaking the stark angles in shadows, a tightly wound knot of sorrow clogging your throat as you tried to finish your sandwich. Choking down the last bite, you lifted the final plate.

“Don't suppose you'd want any of this for the road?” Ignoring the tremble in your words, you began folding the blanket, avoiding his gaze.

“Sure,” He gently accepted, prying the container from your grasp and taking extra care not to make contact with your skin. “Thank you, again.”

“You don’t need to thank me.” You croaked around the lump in your throat, coughing to clear it. “Just, be safe out there.”

Giving you a sad smile, the masked man nodded firmly. “I’ll try my best.” 

Swaying awkwardly as you stood, shouldering your bag on the way up, your mind raced through its entire vocabulary in an attempt to find the words for a proper goodbye. You’d interacted with this man for less than an hour, yet he meant the world to you–but telling him that would be weird, wouldn’t it? You really needed a manual for these things. A roadmap to help you tread lightly, avoid landmines. Unfortunately, you were pretty sure the whole “my soulmate is a vigilante” thing wasn’t common enough to warrant an expert. 

“I, um, I’m going to head home before it’s super late. But, here–” Rushing through the excuse as quickly as you could, you held out a tiny rectangle of cardstock, holding your breath while he slipped it from your outstretched fingers. “My phone number is on there if you, er, if you ever need it.”

Chin dipping towards his chest, he cocked his head, studying the scrap of paper. “I appreciate it. Be safe getting home.”

“I will.” You vowed, blinking back the building sheen across your vision. “Take care of yourself.”

Before you could stumble and say something he didn’t want to hear, you made your exit.

Taglist: @reluctanthalfwayoptimism @marytheweefrenchie @cheshirecat484 @siampie @xxdrixx @gracethyomen @ignore-mp3 @silas-aeiou @screechingphantommaker @spiderstyles04

[the-californicationist]

¡Hola Cali! 🩷 Te dejé un mensaje con un DILF que pesqué hace algunas semanas, pero creo que se perdió por aquí o no pudiste leerlo. ¡Te extraño tanto! El trabajo me está consumiendo porque estamos en plena campaña política y solo quiero que termine, con el mejor resultado, e ir a descansar (y escribir).

Leí que estabas de vacaciones o algo así. ¡Espero que la estés pasando increíble! *Besito en la frente*

Vine con una idea que me está rondando la cabeza: Precio como candidato a Senador y Lector asesor, deciden mandar todo a la verg* y simplemente ACEPTAN QUE ESTÁN ENAMORADOS Y TIENEN SEXO CALIENTE Y DESORDENADO.

*guiño guiño*

Griss!! Lamento mucho la demora, mi amor. Espero que esto sea lo que esperabas <3

After serving in the SAS, John Price has decided to run for a seat in the House of Commons. You are one of his closest political advisors, helping him deal with a runoff election. The only problem? Your incurable crush on your giant, hot, bearded, future member of Parliament.

English translation of the ask: Senator!Price and Advisor!Reader, decide to send everything to hell and simply ACCEPT THAT THEY ARE IN LOVE AND HAVE HOT AND MESSY SEX.

Unfortunately, this fic is in English, but if you are looking for Spanish-language fics, please go read (and reblog!) @pricesugarwife and her amazing work!! She's the best!

The Runoff

The tremble in your hand wouldn’t be abated by the drink you clasped in it, the alcohol losing the battle against your nerves, and the brown neck of the beer bottle kept waving in little shivers, giving your fears away. You squeezed the glass tighter, feeling the sticky glue of the label you’d picked bare, its shards still caught under your fingernails, but you kept trying to control your muscles; mind over matter. 

Only the blue, hazy glow of the computer screen reflected in your eyes as you watched the election results come in. Down twenty-two, up seventeen, down four, up twelve; you watched the number fluctuate as if it was your life hanging in the balance. Hell, this wasn’t even your race. 

But, it sure felt like it was. You were entrenched in this campaign, elbow-deep in the muck of it, wearing its failures like dark purple bruises and its successes like lipstick-stained kisses, feeling the highest of highs and trudging through the lowest of lows. Every rally felt like a homecoming, and every debate put your nerves on edge. More than anything, you believed in your work. You stuffed envelopes and pressed flyers into the palms of your fellow constituents as if you were bringing them food for their empty bellies, passing out prayers for their unsaved souls. It was the most important work you’d ever done. 

You needed John Price to win. 

Being elected to the House of Commons was a big deal for an independent in his district. Luckily, John’s reputation quietly but effectively preceded him. His service to the RAF and SAS, his commitment to defeating agents of terror, his loyalty to the Crown – all of it gleamed just like the shining medals that hung on his chest, even if he grumbled about them. Despite his distaste for pomp, he sure did wear it well. The accolades looked good on his broad chest, each one more splendid than the last, all lined up in neat, indomitable rows. 

Maybe I should spend more time looking at my stat sheets than his uniform, you thought, feeling guilty at just how many times you’d turned on incognito mode and searched for his award ceremony on YouTube.

The video had a few hundred thousand views, but it felt like most of those were from you. Seeing him walk out on stage, every bit the hero they’d introduced him as, made your breath catch in your throat. His sharp hat, the starched fabric of his coat, the bright, red sash slashing across his big, heavy body… you wanted to feel him sinking his weight on top of you, that power stealing your breath away, crushing your ribs, stopping your lungs from gasping in their precious oxygen. You wanted to feel the cold of those shining brass buttons upon your breasts, their rounded edges curling and chilling your heated flesh. You wanted the stubble of his beard to burn your soft cheek. 

You wanted John Price, and that would be a huge mistake. The last thing he needed was tabloid pictures with a garish, screaming title like “MP CANDIDATE SNOGGING HIS OWN STAFF!” No, you wouldn’t embarrass him like that. You wouldn’t risk it. Even if the way that he looked at you across the war room table made you think that you could, you would never. His seat was too critical. 

You needed John Price to win. 

Your eyes flashed up to the screen, again, noticing a change in the counting. You watched the numbers slow their terrible give and take, the shifting ups and downs slowly trickling to a halt. You did a double take, checking the clock. The recount was over. It was a tie.

Your phone started to buzz. Then another. Before you took your next breath, it was vibrating fast enough to cancel out each subsequent ping, like a barrage of alerts, all fighting for the front of the line. You shut it down, hoping you could get a kill command through the thunderous notification storm. Finally, the screen went dark, and you saw yourself staring back through the black mirror, startled to see your sunken eyes, as if you were confronting a stranger. You kept the dead phone centered in your hand, gazing into your own face just a little longer as if to ask what she was looking at, daring her to flinch. 

“Yours, too?” 

A dark, smoldering voice rumbled toward you through the quiet of your shared office. You snapped your head to find him leaning against the doorway, the collar of his oxford missing its tie, unbuttoned thrice, wrinkled and lilting from sweat and rain and the stress of the day. His beard was shaggy, and his five o’clock shadow bristled across his neck, spreading on his cheeks as he gave you a half-smile, wiggling his dead phone in the air. 

“Yeah,” you sighed, coming back to yourself, “Don’t look now, but Twitter is going absolutely mental.”

You pointed your chin at the screen, tilting your head up and leaning back in your chair so that he could look over your shoulder. There was barely a meter between the wall and the desk, so between you and the chair, John needed to lean close to see the final score. As he watched the screen, you watched the pulse of his heart beat through the wide vein in his neck. You could smell his musk, the human of his earthly form filling your nose and mouth, then his aftershave, fading, only the woody base notes remaining. A lingering scent of his favorite cigars clung to his hair and clothes. He smelled like a fire, a whirling inferno of vanilla and licorice and sweet tobacco that you had grown to love, to crave. 

“Christ. A fuckin’ runoff. As if I haven’t put you lot through enough already.” He shook his head, crossing his thick arms across himself, sighing from a resigned frustration. 

“We wouldn’t do it if we didn’t believe it was worth it,” you murmured in a hushed half-tone, your voice almost gone from all the shouting and mayhem you’d been a part of earlier when they’d called for a recount, “We believe in you, John.”

His smile widened, not enough to show those straight, white teeth, but enough to soften his eyes as he looked down at you. He tapped you on the shoulder and motioned for you to come with him. 

As he disappeared through the door, you followed him into the office hallway, past the common room, scooting past half-dead interns, rabid with a new task. One of them was juggling three phone calls at once, but another was curled up beneath her desk fast asleep using a cheap fleece blanket for comfort. Your campaign office had been through Hell, and it was far from over. 

A few of them tried to stop you and ask some questions, but you put them off, telling them to take a breather, get their minds right before making another phone call, and you continued to follow John as he led you through the winding office maze. 

Finally, he pulled you into his office, grabbing your forearm with some force, and locking the door behind you. 

“Got a surprise for you,” he said, pulling out two white bags from under his desk. 

You smelled it before he revealed it to you, and you couldn’t help but gape in excitement,

“Is that… oh, my God. Is that Padella’s? Are you serious right now?”

You helped him tear into the bags like a feral hound, ripping at the tight plastic bow, pulling out the takeaway boxes greedily and without shame.

His grin was smug and satisfied as he watched you open the box and take in a huge whiff of the hot food, 

“Yeah, it is. The seafood alfredo, right? Your favorite.”

“John,” you said his name like he had given you something far more salacious than food, ignoring his rolling chuckle, eager to get a morsel in your mouth as soon as you could. 

“If I knew it’d get you to say my name like that, I’d bring it by every bloody night,” he laughed, hiding his pleasure under a joking tone. He leaned in closer to the open takeaway box, peering inside, “Go on, love. Give us a bite.”

“This is how you know I’m devoted to the John Price campaign,” you joked with him, raising your eyebrows with some sass as you prepared a forkful for him. You speared a juicy scallop, twirling some pasta around on the plastic tines of the single-use utensil, crafting the perfect bite for him. “Giving you first dibs?”

“Lucky bloke, me,” he said quietly, winking at you. 

You pulled the fork into position, lining it up with his mouth, and you watched him open up those full lips for you, showing you his flat, pink tongue that bent to anticipate the creamy taste of the pasta. You placed it gently inside, the act of feeding one of the most dangerous men in the world suddenly too intimate, too endearing. His eyes watched you through the whole ritual, only fluttering closed when he shut his lips and began to chew his bite, savoring the flavors. 

He let out a long groan, the sound of which made you want to squeeze your thighs together, your mind repeating it over and over like an echo, imagining your name falling in between his ragged, guttural sighs. You felt your cheeks run hot.

“Mm, fuck,” he smiled, talking with his mouth half-full, “That is damn good.”

You took your own bite, nodding, tasting the buttery alfredo, the perfectly-cooked noodles, and the light, savory scallop. It was almost better than sex. Almost. 

Sharing the same fork, since you only had the one, you and John traded bites, sitting in silence for a while before the conversation turned back to work.

“They wanna put us in the runoff in less than ten days,” he said ruefully, understanding that timeline would be a brutal one.

“Ten days? Are they trying to kill us? The interns are falling asleep standing up,” you sighed, exaggerating a little, but making your point. 

“You should head home. Get some rest. I’ll hold down the fort here, love,” John said, wiping a smear of stray alfredo off of his lip decisively. 

You balked,

“No. Absolutely not. I can’t leave you now, not when we’re this close to winning this thing.”

He studied you for a moment, leaning his hulking forearms on his desk, spreading his wide hands across the soft wood of its tabletop, letting you see the small muscles in his hands as they stretched and pulled across his bones. He looked down at the space between his palms, grounding himself before he spoke, his voice just above a whisper, 

“You make me feel like it’s actually possible.” 

You reached out, your hand holding onto his wrist, making him look up to meet your eyes,

“John. It is possible. You’ve got Stallworth’s endorsement. Marchande will lose if you can get the Labor constituents behind you. I’ve run the numbers. Believe me, you can do this.”

“I can’t do it without you,” he frowned a bit, his brow knitting together, the timbre of his voice low and steady. 

You smiled up at him, feeling his fingers lace themselves into yours, experimentally testing the boundaries of his touch, 

“I’m here until the bitter end,” you let out a short laugh, nervous from how good it felt to be held in his hands, “And probably even after that.”

John was silent for a while, his thumbs massaging your knuckles in little, slow circles, his touch becoming more and more sensual, and then, he abruptly pulled away, leaving your palms face up on the table, your fingers bent in the shape of a shallow bowl as if begging to be filled. But, you remained empty, so you pulled your hands back to your lap, suddenly unsure, your body wanting his touch but mentally feeling as if you shouldn’t ask for it back.

He looked away, staring past you at the closed door and muttered, 

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” You challenged, keeping your volume as low as his, not wanting to break the fading spell you had cast over each other. 

“I ask too much of you.”

You listened to the words as he sent them out, hearing two implications fighting within that one phrase. 

Too much of my time, or too much of my body? You wondered. 

So, you tried to make it easy on him. You didn’t want to be the distraction that ruined his race. You stood, closing up the box of food, cleaning off the tiny smear of alfredo that painted the corner of his desk. He stood with you, waving you off of the mess, taking over to clean it himself. 

The bag rustled, the box popped hollowly as he closed it, paper and cardboard and plastic all swishing and clattering, a cacophony of noise. And then… a deeply still silence. 

He was standing right in front of you, too close for you to think straight. You let yourself linger there, leeching the warmth from his heavy body and taking it into yourself, letting it seep into your skin. You vowed to keep the memory of it in some recess of your mind, saving it for dessert when you could be alone to savor its silky texture, tasting a ghost of all of the mirror universes where you knew what it felt like to be covered in him.

Suddenly, you felt his finger under your chin, a coaxing pressure, lifting your face to look at him. It was hard to look into his eyes. Some part of you knew that the moment he peered into them, when he studied what they were trying to hide, he would know your secret. He would be able to see all of your guilt, all of your stolen pleasure, all of the nights where your hand tried to replicate his presence, working itself between your legs to indulge in your fantasies about being taken by him, about serving him not as his campaign advisor but as his woman; his shelter and his release. He would look into your face and he would immediately know that you dreamed of being used like his own personal toy, helping him unwind after the stress of this election, putting all of his frustrations into you as he pounded himself into your mouth or between your spread legs, using you like a salve on a burn.  

But, you showed him anyway. Your eyes flicked up to his, and you let him see it. 

John towered over you, his shadow darkening your vision, framing you with his round shoulders. He had his thumb pressed just below your bottom lip, opening your mouth a little, watching your breathing crash heavy into your lungs.  

You stood frozen in place, watching as his neck bent over you, the great trunk of his body craning down, shading you, closing around you like the boughs of an immense oak, promising that you were safe here nestled in his roots, some sort of primal argument, convincing you to stay still so he could devour you in peace. A rabbit, statuesque beneath the snarl of a wolf.

His face was now upon yours, close enough for you to see the little silver scars that crossed over his cheek and brow, hints at a dangerous life, whispers of old pain. A light spattering of freckles littered the bridge of his nose, fanning out beneath those pale blue eyes he had fixed on your mouth, staring into it as if hypnotized.

Finally, when he was near enough to taste your air, to feel the heat of your breath against his mouth, his lips broke their seal, opening in anticipation of another first bite, another chance to sate a different type of hunger. 

His lips brushed yours, every moment taking an eon to pass, seconds stretching into thousands of hours, the office, the building, the city melting away from you like wax from a flame, the world giving way to dark infinity, and you opened your mouth to taste him, allowing your tongue to slip over your teeth so that you could know the sweetness of the smooth skin of his lip. 

The moment you touched him, you were taken. He crashed into you, his mouth to your mouth, his chest to your chest, scooping you up like a greedy falcon, trapping you in his arms, flying away with you. Or falling? You felt like you were falling; like you had leapt too high and now would tumble through the sky forever, whirling helplessly. He tasted of the rich alfredo, and of his cigars, buttery and rich, masculine and heady. He was prying your jaw apart with his own, eager to fill your cheeks with his broad, heavy tongue. John pulled back just enough to allow you to take a breath, but he returned, unable to stop himself, softly sucking at your bottom lip, slanting his mouth over yours, the fever in him beginning to cool. Then, he pulled back altogether, resting his forehead against yours, his eyes wrenched closed, his body heaving from his desperate breaths. 

He leaned back, staring at you with a worried look on his face, his voice deep and gravelly, a demonic purr, 

“I… I’m so sorry.”

You nodded, lowering your eyes, 

“I know. We can’t.”

“Can’t?” He panted, still reeling, looking at you like he was lost, like you knew the way out, “Do you want this? Me?”

You leaned your head into the strength of his hands as he cradled your skull, drunk on hope,

“More than you know. But, I don’t want to distract–”

John lunged at you, his mouth pressing to yours again, hurting you with his power. The weight of his jaw crashing into your lips, making you wonder if you would bleed from it, your own teeth cutting into the delicate membrane inside. But, he didn’t seem to care. He wasn’t concerned with your comfort. He was only there to consume you, to steal your breath, to drink your soul from your throat. 

He moved his body against you like a python, curling and squeezing you with his arms, constricting your movements, pushing and pulling you this way or that, whatever would give him deeper access to your pink tongue. His aggression shocked you, and it was everything you could do to just keep your balance, unsteady on your feet, your hands clutching at his waist for support. 

John’s kissing made you feel weak, like he was drugging you, forcing your mind into a daze. You tried to remember why you had tried to stop this from happening, unable to even imagine a consequence. You felt his hands wander away from your face, rushing down your neck, finding your breasts and roughly fondling them over your shirt. You’d ripped off your bra long ago, hot and tired, needing relief. 

When he realized that your heavy tits were hanging freely, hidden beneath your oversized button-down, you felt him shudder, groaning into your mouth at the mere fantasy of seeing them, of marking your nipples in dark hickeys as he suckled you, letting his teeth tattoo his claim on your flesh. 

You were brought back to the physical world when you felt your ass shoved into the long edge of the desk, stopping his forward progress. He pulled away from the kiss and stared down at you with a look that made you feel as if you might be in some kind of danger, even if you were relishing every fearful moment of it. 

John had only shown you this expression once before. You’d been working late again, trying to keep yourself awake by brewing coffee in the break room. There’d been an incident or two with one of the interns, a bloke who didn’t know how to take no for an answer. You’d shut him down twice, and now, you hadn’t realized he had followed you inside the small kitchenette. This time, he wasn’t asking, and when you felt his hand on your neck, you’d screamed, fighting back, but not making much difference. Mere seconds later, John had marched in wearing this same expression stretched across his face. 

It was a sort of ravenous joy, almost playful, but it was terrifying. He’d broken the intern’s wrist in his crushing grip, and then his jaw bone, striking the smaller man down to the dirty, tile floor with a single, cracking punch. Then, he’d stared at you, trying his best to control his visage, to push down that fiery arousal. Eventually, he was back under control, helping you out of the office, checking you for any wound, no matter how minor, worrying himself over you, promising that you’d never see that arsehole again. And you never did. You’d put it out of your mind until just this moment, always having more work to do. But now, you wondered if that intern was still walking around out there or if John had let his old ways return just for that evening. He was always good at eliminating threats. 

You had assumed that his feral heat had been for the fight, an expression of rage. But now, you thought that perhaps it had been for you. The thought that this reckless lad had dared to put his hands on something that John had claimed as his own, righteously possessive over you to the point of fury, baring his teeth and curling his lip into a lupine snarl, briefly revealing his wrath before tamping down on it and hiding it from you out of fear that you would not agree to be his. 

Now, he was not controlling his face. There was no polite gentleness in his eyes, no casual ease in his shoulders, no respectful distance between your body and his. No; now that you were in his grasp, he had no plans to let you go free. 

He grabbed you around your waist, his fingers cutting into your full form, squeezing your hips and lifting you with ease onto the desktop. He distracted you with kisses, lulling you back into a hazy, pleasure-filled lust, making you aware of his desire by shoving himself between your thick thighs, the threat of his heavy erection pressing through his slacks and onto the crotch of your jeans. 

Your body reacted on instinct. You felt yourself widening your legs and canting your hips to rub against his hardon like you were in heat, your biology doing everything it could to get his attention. 

But, you had it regardless. He tugged off your shirt with a deft sort of accuracy that took your breath away. When he let his eyes drink in the sight of your round breasts, peaked with smooth, puffy nipples, his rushed movements stilled, and you waited while he studied you, reaching out his fingers to see if you were as soft as you looked. As he discovered the truth, his big fingers wrapping around each of your heavy tits, applying pressure, caressing the sides of them, feeling the thin ridges of your stretch marks, plucking delicately at each nipple, looking up at your face to watch your reactions; all the while, you could feel the throb of his fat cock fighting to touch you through your clothes. 

Then, his touch became feverish again. Instead of a caress, it was a burning friction; instead of tender plucking, it was a shocking pinch. He was making you writhe beneath his hands, manhandling your tits to his own end, enjoying your whimpering cries of pain that fizzled into bright pleasure, the pressure of his dick against your sex making you aware of the growing wetness there, your panties proving your desire to you, warm and slippery. 

You reached up your hand to touch his chest, mimicking his affection, admiring the firm muscle that spanned beneath your palms. Your fingers found the gap between his buttons, running through the dense patch of hair that lay on his sternum, raking your nails lightly across his skin. He furrowed his brow, wanting more, looking down at your touch and starting to unbutton his dress shirt. Within seconds, he was peeling it off of his shoulders, leaving it rumpled and inside-out on the floor. 

Sitting up, you started to explore him with your mouth, letting your lips drag along his furry skin, licking your way across to his highest ribs, to that sensitive spot just below his armpit, changing your gentle exploration into a sucking, lustful kiss, aiming to leave a mark of your own. He let you bite him, enjoying the pain and groaning from it. Then, he grew impatient, and he fisted your hair at the nape of your neck, yanking you away from him, bending over you again, forcing you to kiss him as he pressed your jaw up to his, controlling your head. 

But, he did not have control of your hands. Without breaking eye contact with him, you began to fumble with his belt, hurrying to open the latch, moving on to his button fly, popping each one away to reveal his boxer briefs, the cotton of them soft across the back of your hand. You watched his face, chaotic and full of a decadent sort of desire, as if he couldn’t believe what he was feeling. 

He kept his hand in your hair and let you work his pants away, peeling his underclothes down as far as you could get them, glancing down as the pink, swollen head of his dick peeked over the hem as you revealed him. The head was pointing at his hip, trapped there by the wide elastic of his briefs. Now that he was free to move, his length stood at attention, fully erect with a girth that made you dizzy. 

“Holy fuck,” you gasped, muttering a curse under your breath. 

He jerked your head back, tearing your eyes away from his heavy phallus and forcing you to look at him instead,

“Something wrong, love?” 

You gave him a submissive look, curling your lips into a sly smile, your eyes wide like a fearful doe, 

“I don’t think you’ll fit.”

He smiled down at you, pleased by your appraisal, his gaze turning sinister,

“You’re not leavin’ ‘til I do.”

Quicker than you could breathe, he released his hold on your head and used both hands to ruck off your jeans in one violent pull. Your panties got stuck halfway, getting caught in the rough stitching of the denim. John looked down into your lap, staring at the silky fabric clinging to your wide hips, hanging off to one side at a messy diagonal, showing him the top of your unshaved mons. 

You heard him sigh through his smile, his hand reaching forward and ever-so-gently helping the edge of your panties back into place. You were confused. He was supposed to be ripping them off and fucking you stupid, but he slowed things all the way down, returning to his delicate caresses. 

John played with your breasts again, kissing your mouth, sucking on your neck. Then, he reached between your legs and touched you, his hand slipping over your covered pussy, groping you through the thin fabric. His fingers were warm, and the way he pressed them beside your tender clit made you tremble, your thighs shaking a bit as your legs hung off the side of the desk. 

He fell to his knees in front of you, his hands wrapping around the curve of your ass, pulling you as far forward on the edge of the desk as he could, throwing you forward like you were as light as a feather, his grip fierce and bruising. Then, he leaned forward, eager to put his mouth over your pussy, but you protested, gasping,

“John, my… my panties.”

He pinned his bright blue eyes on yours, looking at you unblinking, and leaned forward, showing you that he didn’t give a fuck about your panties. His hot tongue began to push and prod at your lips through the fabric, and you could feel your pussy clinging to the gusset, the wet cloth conforming to your shape as he licked and sucked.

As his tongue delved deeper, he discovered your sticky precome that had been soaking you right through ever since he’d found you staring at the vote count. He used his lips to suck on your folds, the knit of the fabric allowing only the tiniest bit of air to escape, making little chirping sounds as he applied more and more pressure. Then, you watched in a sick sort of awe as he took the gusset fully into his mouth, pulling it away from your body to suck your wetness from it like he was lapping up the last bit of ice cream from its cone. He even used his hand to loop it over his fingers, stretching out the thin triangle, making sure to get every last drop. 

By this time, you were pretty sure you had dripped your stickiness straight onto his desk, and you could feel your pussy slipping around on the smooth surface with every little movement. John decided to finally give you what you’d been whimpering for, and he pulled your panties aside to drink from the source. 

When the hot curl of his tongue finally connected, sealing wet flesh against wet flesh, you cried out, biting into your hand to keep yourself from being heard. You watched him eat you from your center, writhing his tongue deep into your hole and sucking on the head of your clit, using his bottom lip to reach that space underneath, teasing you within an inch of your life. Without thinking, your hand went to the back of his head, fingers raking through his hair, and you watched his eyes flutter, loving the feeling of your nails on his scalp. 

Your legs were partly resting on his shoulders, and John stood up quickly, slamming you back onto the desk and hauling your legs over with you, shoving your knees into your chest, putting your pussy on full display. You felt his fingers curve down through your wet lips and into the sensitive divot where you were leaking from. As he sank his hand into your hole, you felt like you were so close to coming. All of his licking and teasing had put you on the edge, and now that his thumb was sliding beside your clit and his longest fingers were stretching out your pussy, you felt the spark of an orgasm ignite in your belly. 

“Yes, love… That’s… ungh, fuck…” John felt it, too.

His hand was making all sorts of noise as he fucked his fingers up into you, the messiness only getting worse as your body flooded you with shock after shock of your orgasm. You were convulsing, your abs tight and protruding beneath your layer of fat, your feet pointed straight like a ballerina, all of your limbs frozen and tense, letting the orgasm wreck you and leave you boneless. 

He pulled away from you, gently removing his hand, and he bent his mouth to you again, aiming to taste your fresh come, hot and silky, coating you in natural lube, doing its absolute best to convince him to listen to his instincts and sheath himself inside of your body. 

But, John was careful. He pulled your legs back down to a bent position, one hand on each knee, prying you apart slowly, his eyes fixed on your flower so he could watch it bloom, covered in your sweet nectar. 

“You okay?” He asked, his voice husky and broken. 

You nodded, 

“Yeah, I’m more than okay.”

He smiled at you, using his hands to push your breasts together, playing with your nipples in his warm hands, pinching you cruelly and then soothing you in small circles, never letting you know when the pain or the pleasure would come. 

On the outside of your pussy, John rested his cock, spreading your outer lips with its weight to fit his girth right on top of your clit. He thrust forward, and you watched as the drooling head of his prick was shoved toward you. 

He humped himself against you in a steady pattern, pumping himself across your wetness, trying to relieve some pressure. Eventually, you thought he was about to come, but he stopped, slowing to a slick grind. He looked up at you and ran his palm down his face, frustrated and beyond horny.

“I wanna fuck you so goddamn bad.”

“So do I,” you moaned, rocking your hips up and down, adding to his thrusting friction, using him like a toy to bring yourself back to a shivering edge. 

“I don’t have a condom,” he confessed, helping you use his smooth head to massage the body of your clit. 

“I’m clean. I actually don’t think I’ve had sex since I moved to the city,” you shrugged, slowing down with him, waiting for his consent before giving in to your mind-altering want, “But, if you wanna stop, it’s okay.”

He kissed your ankle, holding your foot in his hand, leaving little licks and love bites down your calf as he warred with himself, 

“Haven’t been with anyone since Dahra.”

His ex-wife. She’d gone back to Urzikstan one day without so much as a note, packing a bag and leaving her rings on the counter. Apparently, when they’d finally met to fill out his divorce papers, he said that she looked happy in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time, so he signed without question. You remember when he had told you about it, three whiskeys deep and sharing a cigar on the roof of his loft, too late to go to the pub, but too early to stop drinking. He’d held your hand while he talked to you that night. You’d just thought he needed the support, and you tried to be a good friend. But now that he was getting himself off by slipping through your come-covered lips, playing in the mess that he made, you imagined that moment much differently. 

“I trust you,” you looked up at him through your lashes, holding your breasts and teasing your nipples between your fingers, your skin feeling as if you were electric, sensitive beyond comprehension, every touch and pinch feeling like ecstasy. 

Apparently, he didn’t need much convincing. In your next breath, you felt his head sloppily notching against your throbbing core, fitting snug in the soft entrance of your cunt, cradled there in your warmth. You gasped, enjoying the sensation of being gently licked by his cockhead in the center of your folds, filling a void, a missing piece slotting into place. 

Then, he met your eyes, staring into them with a fondness that you had only dreamed about, framed by that same furious arousal, like staring at a white-hot flame and knowing it could kill you but admiring its beauty anyway. 

“Hands on your knees,” he said, jerking himself a bit as he dipped into your entrance.

John watched as you grabbed your knees, pulling your legs apart, opening yourself up to him in the most vulnerable way, presenting yourself to him fully, without shame, all the guilt you’d been dragging around now gone, giving yourself to him freely and wanting him to take you like a prize. 

“So damn pretty,” he muttered to himself, staring down at your coupling, watching as he stuffed himself inside of you as carefully as he could, trying to let you adjust but unable to stop himself from thrusting deeper and deeper. 

He pulled himself all the way out and tried to sink into you again, his eyes snapping up to your face at the sound of a hiss coming through your teeth as he made his way through your tight muscles. You felt him stop, thinking he had hurt you, but you shook your head, 

“Don’t stop. I need you, John. I wanna feel so full.”

An animal noise escaped from his throat, and he rewarded your bravery, finishing the job with a snap of his hips, sealing himself fully inside of you. The root of his cock knocked the breath out of you, making you gasp in wonder at the sensation of being stretched beyond any memory. Yes, it had been a while, but you were no virgin. Nevertheless, John Price’s fat shaft was making you question whether you had ever truly been fucked before. His girth was changing your definition of the word.

If you had thought that he would treat you reverently, like you were made of precious lace, you had another thing coming. It was as if he had been waiting for this very moment, and he planned to take every advantage of the opportunity. Now that he had you, he used you. 

His huge hands scooped up your legs, silently instructing you to lock them around his hips, keeping your thighs wide as he rutted into you. You hooked your ankles together, admiring the pulsing feel of his large glutes as he thrust forward, feeling him squeeze and release, pounding himself into you with his heavy weight. 

John was too big. You had to admit that to yourself at this point. You could feel him stretching your hole, pushing your flesh beyond its usual limits. But, you were drunk off of the way his dick made you feel like you were constantly coming. You’d never truly been able to find your g-spot. Every now and then, when you had a really great partner, you thought that you’d orgasmed from the grinding thrusts of his rod, but it was rare. This, though, how John’s cock was spreading you, how you could feel him on all sides, the unimaginable pressure… he was hypnotizing.

He would pound himself into you, slamming his weight into your hips, and the shudder of your bones would make your body tremble. Then, when he was in, the pressure of his dense cockhead would flash a glittering wave of orgasmic pleasure through your core, making you think that you were about to explode. But, you never did. The pleasure never stopped. It never found a peak. It would just build and build in crashing, tumultuous waves, whirling through your blood like a cyclone, each throb feeling like spark lightning. 

Your mind was racing. Should I stop him? Is this normal? Am I gonna pass the fuck out? But, you couldn’t speak. If you tried to form a sentence or even a coherent phrase, he would bottom out again, flooding his shaft with your wet slick, and you would be overcome by another wave of bliss, nothing more than a warm sheath for his mighty sword. 

The edge of you lip was cool and wet, and you realized you were drooling, your tongue resting on your bottom teeth like a panting dog, helping you whimper and mewling your moans as you felt him mold you to fit. 

“Shit, you are still so tight, love. Can barely put it in. Squeezin’ me… fuck,” he was sweating, hoarsely groaning in long, deep breaths, his belly expanding and contracting as he labored over you. 

You didn’t reply. All of your words had been crushed into whining cries, helpless gasps. You took his hand and lifted it up to your mouth, placing it on your tongue, hoping he would fuck your throat with his fingers. The look on his face was one of desperate curiosity, wanting to please you, to serve you however he could. So, taking the hint, he curled his fingers away and pushed his first and middle fingers deeper into your mouth, exploring you softly. 

You moaned loudly from the relief and closed your lips around his knuckles, shoving him all the way in to the top of his palm, beginning to suck and lick him as if it were a heavy cock instead of his hand. 

His eyes rolled back in his head, and he tilted his chin up to the ceiling, his neck bulging with his ragged breaths. Then, he turned his gaze back to you, watching you comfort yourself with his fingers, suckling on them like a hungry calf, needy and persistent. 

“Fuck,” he exclaimed, “Tha’s bloody hot. Suck them deeper for me. Wanna feel your throat.”

You obliged him, your lips now reaching over his last knuckles onto the back of his hand and the callused ridge of his palm. If you stuck out your tongue, you could lick the middle of his palm, choking yourself with his fingertips and swallowing around them, clenching your throat in time with his thrusts. 

“Mmmf-fuckkk,” he rasped, his face set in an agonized fury, “Gag yourself again. Choke on me, love. Just like that.”

You knew why he liked it. You could feel his response. Because every time you choked on his hand, your body would heave, trying to get air, trying to fight him away, and your pussy would contract, milking his thick shaft like a strong, wet fist. So, you gave him more, ignoring your mind’s fear and confusion, mentally moving past it, focusing only on his pleasure, and yours. 

After a few more thrusts, the look in his eyes became one of concern, a worried flash of panic. He was going to come, and you knew it. 

John tried to pull his hand back, gently attempting to leave the warmth of your mouth, but you didn’t let him go. You held his giant wrist in both hands, gripping him cruelly, forcing his fingers even deeper, bobbing your head as if you were sucking his dick. 

“Gonna come. Fuck, I’m gonna – ungh. C’mon! Come with me, baby. Come with me. Lemme feel –”

He used his free hand to swipe roughly over your clit, changing those waves of cracking pleasure into a blistering orgasm, the heat of which seared over your whole body, making you feel like you had a fever. You felt yourself gushing between your legs, all of the wetness he had been churning within you being pushed out by the rhythmic clamping of your own muscles. You were screaming, but no one would hear you. All of your keening was subdued by his heavy hand, getting lost every time you choked for air. The only thing you heard was the rushing of breath from his spreading lungs and the creamy, slapping impact of his body against yours.

Then, a barking, guttural growl that he tried to hide, cutting it off and grinding his teeth to prevent himself from screaming as he emptied his load into you. You felt it hit your flesh within your core, like a burning splash of lava, shooting into you over and over, foaming and folding around the swollen head of his prick. His come felt heavy as it pooled at your end, deep in your belly, coating you like a glaze and settling over your womb.

You wanted him to stay inside of you forever, but he was finished and totally spent, his strength fading to a relaxed daze. You unhooked your legs and let him step away, feeling the loss of him in your mouth and your pussy, unable to even roll yourself off of the desk. So, you had to hang there, your legs unsupported, dangling wide apart, showing him exactly what he had just done to you. And he looked like he was enjoying the view. He stared down between your legs and watched his cream ooze out of your fucked hole, the flesh red and shining from its ordeal. 

There was nothing in his office for comfort. But, he needed to soothe you. Some instinct within him was screaming in his mind to hold you in his arms and keep you safe. So, he pulled you off of the desk, holding you in his arms, and guided you down to the carpet, sitting with his back against the wall and letting you lean against his body, keeping you in his lap with tired arms. 

You were both so sticky, but the sweat didn’t bother you. You were happy to rest your cheek on his shoulder, caressing his furry belly with your hands, trying not to pass out. 

“You alright, love?” He asked in a low whisper, “Did I hurt you?”

“Gonna be sore tomorrow,” you smiled, not lifting your eyes to look at his face, choosing instead to stare at how his soft body hair ruffled over your fingernails as you lightly scratched them across his skin. “Are you okay, John?”

“Worried about you. About this,” he murmured, some of his strength coming back to his voice. You looked up at him now, watching as he carefully crafted his next words, “Don’t want this to be a one-time thing. But, we can’t… I’m –”

“John,” you interrupted his turmoil, “In ten days, you’ll be in the House of fucking Commons. Then, you can do whatever you want. Until then…” You reached down and fondled his exhausted cock tenderly, making his body jerk from how sensitive he was, “I can be your little secret.”

He lifted your chin with his thumb just as he had at the start of this dreamlike encounter, kissing you tenderly, making sure he could feel your mouth against his, slipping his tongue over your lips just to reach the ridge of your teeth before pulling back again, his eyes turning back to that lascivious rage, 

“You don’t deserve that. I want them to bloody well know that you’re mine.”

You didn’t ask who “they” were. That was just how John spoke to you. It was always you and him versus them. The media, the Parliament, the world… it didn’t matter. They didn’t matter. But, you knew better than to let idealism cloud your judgment. 

“Be patient, John,” you caressed his cheek, “Win your seat. I’m not going anywhere.”

Finally, a small smile twitched on the corner of his mouth and he held you closer, hugging you to his chest,

“Not true,” he paused, looking down at your quizzical expression, a playful gleam in his eyes, “You’re coming to my flat, crawling in my bed, and letting me fuck that perfect cunt again.”

AO3 Link

[spurgie-cousin]

These are the pictures people are speculating over and I hadn't seen them when I answered that last ask, so I just want to point out a few things:

This could very well be a hernia that directly resulted from one of her SEVEN pregnancies. I know a woman who only has one kid and has a ventral hernia from that birth, and she unfortunately often gets mistaken for being pregnant 😕 it's like an umbilical hernia and if it weren't disrespectful af I would share a side by side photo bc it looks very much like this

People on reddit have also pointed out that this could just be the way her body has settled with diastasis recti, which again after 7 births it feels more likely that she has that than doesn't.

And then finally maybe this is literally just weight gain, and I'm not standing up for Anna as a person just to be clear. She is an unwavering supporter of a confirmed child predator, I don't like her, but weight fluctuates esp with stress, and regardless of how bad of a person is she is almost certainly going through it. I point this out more for the sake of others than her, but gaining weight is not a crime and many people on other platforms are using this as an excuse to be fatphobic as hell. Anna's weight and looks are not personality traits, they are not what makes her a disgusting person.

Anyway I just wanted to throw that out there now that I've seen those pics. And if turns out she's having an illegal prison baby I mean, that certainly would be a turn of events lol, but especially since she's been pregnant 7 times (at least) it just feels icky to me to not acknowledge that that might be the source of any physical changes, not a new, extremely unlikely pregnancy.

[mintedwitcher]

So I was going to reblog further on that "Scott believed Theo over Stiles" post from yesterday, only by the time I'd finished writing my addition I realised 2 things:

I was writing from a reactive standpoint. I felt a negative way about the previous reply and I let it impact how I responded, and

I ended up talking myself out of the stance that I'd started with.

So in that vein, I'm going to rewrite it here as it's own post, with the encouragement from @prettyshon10 (the OP of the previous post).

Sorry for the long intro but I wanted to be transparent about where I'm coming from here. I'll put the rest under a cut because this is going to be long.

(Edit: it got Very Long, sorry.)

The key thing to note first of all is that I wasn't giving Stiles a "free pass". I acknowledge and agree that both he and Scott mishandled the situation. However, because of the power imbalance inherent in their dynamic, with Scott being an alpha werewolf and Stiles being his Second, I do believe that there is more weight on Scott's shoulders here than on Stiles's.

The timing of the discussion alone is a misstep on Scott's part. He initiated the conversation in the rain, while they were already short on time, trying to save a girl who was dying. Stopping to have any kind of heavy conversation at that point in time wasn't going to end well, because there are simply too many details that have to be hammered out. There is too much to say, and not nearly enough time to say it all. Especially with the emotional weight of the situation on both parts.

I also say that Scott bears more weight in the moment because he is the leader of their group. Stiles might have plenty of influence with Scott, but Scott is still the leader, and so it falls to him more than anyone else to sort out conflicts within the group. That's not to say that Stiles shouldn't have come forward about it - in fact I think that Stiles should've gone to Scott first about it - but that Scott has a responsibility to their entire pack to make sure that everyone is as comfortable as possible. That is the role he's taken on among them, and in confronting Stiles the way he did, he failed in that role. (Stiles' failing is not trusting Scott to have his back if he'd told him the truth, and I desperately wish that the canon had gone deeper into the reasons why he didn't trust Scott with this. I've seen fanon interpretations that the trauma from the nogitsune could be influencing Stiles' distance, but again, that's never really discussed in canon so... it's an interesting theory, but it's another place where the show's writing fell short.)

In my initial response, I said that Scott has a "killing = bad" mentality, and I do stand by that, because from canon observation, his morality is fickle at best. He allows - and even encourages - murder when it suits him (killing Peter to "cure" himself, killing Gerard to be with Allison, killing Jennifer to save his mother) but condemns it when it doesn't (letting Jennifer go after her ritual failed, locking Peter in Eichen after Mexico, letting Deucalion and Gerard live). There are even points where his fluctuating morality doesn't make sense, such as when he refused to kill assassins who were actively targeting people he knew and loved. He persists that killing is wrong, and that murdering a Bad Guy makes you Just Like Them. But he overlooks it entirely when it suits him, when it can be justified as something that the Good Guys did. (Most notably here can be the way he overlooks Allison hunting and nearly killing Erica, Boyd and Isaac; not because their deaths would benefit him but because going against Allison would damage his relationship with her.)

It's actually a very interesting contradiction, and if Scott was an adult in the series it would be on a whole different level, but unfortunately, he's a child. Which means that his contradictions aren't exactly novel and groundbreaking, they're just... teenage conflicts. He's doing the best he can with the limited information he has, and the limited experience he has as well, and that leads to some very black-and-white thinking.

His worldview is black-and-white not as a character flaw but as a result of his age and the life he's led so far. He's still a child for the majority of the show, and so his worldview is limited by what he knows. He knows that murder is illegal and that killing people is not a good solution all the time, and that people who kill anyway are bad, ergo, killing = bad. Until he needs someone dead for whatever reason, which he can then justify to himself as "But I'm a Good Guy, and this person is a Bad Guy, and I'm going to save a lot of people from them if I kill the Bad Guy, so my actions aren't Bad because I have Good Intentions." Which is a very black-and-white thing to do. (I'm not saying this is a fault or a failing of his character, it's just an observation. This mentality also isn't specific to murder but also to many other 'immoral' actions.)

Stiles, similarly, has a black-and-white worldview for the same reasons; age and life experience. Where the two differ, however, is that Stiles has experienced more trauma than Scott has at this point of his life. So his priorities are skewed in a different lens than Scott's are. Scott is very much "Save Everyone, no matter what," whereas Stiles is more "Some people can't be saved, protect your own." Which are both very fair views to have.

Stiles watched his mother mentally decline for months(?) before she died. He was in the room with her when she died. And if the very vague timelines can be believed, he would've been around 6-8 years old at the time. There was nothing that he could do to save his mother, and there was nothing he could do to save his father from his grief after her death. I do really wish we had more lore about the Stilinski family during that grieving period, because that would likely inform the way that Stiles behaves now, too.

But what we do see from Stiles is that he is suspicious. He has one friend and he likes it that way. He distrusts anyone who gets a little Too close, especially too close to Scott. (This to me reads like a protective behaviour rather than the fanon-preferred possessive; Scott grew up with severe asthma, and Stiles likely would've been the one helping Scott deal with that throughout their childhoods.) But he's not suspicious to the point of paranoia. His suspicion is always firmly rooted in reality. He notices Matt's weird behaviour in season 2, in fact he's the only one to see Matt as a potential threat. He notices - though doesn't actually put the pieces together right away - that the kanima was familiar to him the first time he saw it. He's the one who goes through the process of actually investigating and documenting the weird shit that keeps happening to them. His pattern recognition skills are unmatched, though severely underutilised in canon.

What I'm trying to get at is that Stiles is the realist in the Scott+Stiles dynamic duo. Scott is the Optimist. Scott is the one who always wants to find the peaceful solution, who wants everyone to walk away happy and satisfied - or at the very least, alive - at the end of the day. Stiles is the one who recognises that sometimes that's just not an option. Sometimes there are going to be people you can't talk down, threats you can't just peacefully walk away from.

Their dynamic should - and normally does - function perfectly. But there are times that it doesn't, because Scott has a bad habit of ignoring or dismissing Stiles' concerns.

Which brings us (at last) back to the actual point.

Stiles had said from day one that he doesn't trust Theo. That there's something off about him. That he's not the kid they knew growing up. Scott humours it at first, but ultimately decides to make his own judgements about Theo (which is a fair choice). This, however, plants the seeds for the discord that Theo is about to sow within the pack.

(There are other instances of Scott dismissing Stiles' theories but if I get into that I'll be here for hours.)

Theo has spent all this time trying to ingratiate himself into the pack, to get into Scott's good books, and at every turn, he's met with Stiles barricading him. He's got Stiles' alarms ringing, and Stiles isn't going to drop it. So what does he do? First, he shows empathy to Stiles, by saying that he knows about Donovan - and dropping that in the middle of an already emotionally heightened moment so to deliberately keep Stiles off-balance - and then using that to plead Stiles's silence about Josh. Stiles, in response, backs off of Theo. Not entirely, but he keeps his distance, because now Theo has incriminating information about him and Stiles doesn't want Scott to know about it. Once Theo has some breathing room, he escalates. It's now not just about getting in with Scott, it's about getting rid of his overprotective packmates. So he tells Scott an edited version of the story. He lies through his teeth and Scott, the bleeding-heart that he is, laps it up. He's horrified by Stiles' involvement of course but he feels for Theo. Which is exactly what Theo wants, and exactly what Stiles wanted to avoid.

The crux of it all is the confrontation. Scott and Stiles are having two completely different conversations, and due to the timing of the moment, they can't go into further detail to untangle the miscommunication between them. So it keeps getting worse.

From Scott's point of view, he's trying to understand what would make his best friend snap so violently. He's trying to understand, to be there for his friend. He wants to help. Why can't Stiles see that he's only trying to help?

From Stiles' point of view, he's being punished. He's being pushed out and away, he's being lectured at for trying to defend himself, why won't Scott just see that he was only defending himself?

Neither of them know what the other is really saying. They both Think that the version of events in their head matches the reality, and they both walk away from that moment feeling like they've failed.

The problem - and where my own stance on the discourse is really rooted - is that the way the scene is presented, makes it look like Scott is choosing Theo over Stiles. It looks like Scott is turning his back on his lifelong friend. I'll have to rewatch the actual episode to get a better analysis of the specific placement of that scene, but that was the impression that I walked away with the first (and almost every) time I watched that episode.

To sum up: I don't think that Scott "believed" Theo over Stiles, but to the characters, it would feel that way. The problem is that fandom tends to project themselves onto the character they like more. I've seen people insisting that Scott underreacted to the situation in equal measure to the people insisting that Scott overreacted.

I think it's kind of fascinating how our personal preferences interfere with the way we interpret media.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

Hello! so I got an IUD about a year ago and for the most part I absolutely love it. Im the kind of ADHD where I know taking the pill consistently would be a huge issue for me so I like that I don't have to think about it and not having to deal with periods is a huge plus. My only real issue with it is that it has given me acne. While I am seeing a dermatologist about that I'd be interested to know if there are other forms of birth control where this is a less common side affect? Just curious for options in the future, as well as because IUD insertion was not fun so something similar that doesn't suck to get inserted would be nice (though I do think the pain was worth it in the long run)

hi anon,

your best bet here would probably be to look into nonhormonal birth control options, since anything that alters the ebb and flow of hormones in your body is going to have the potential to replicate the side effects of the menstrual cycle - including, you guessed it, acne outbreaks.

many nonhormonal methods are a bit more hands on than pills or implants, including things like condoms (which we should be using alongside other forms of birth control anyway, as a reminder!) and slightly more old school methods like diaphragms (a cup placed into the vagina before sex to catch semen and prevent it from reaching an egg), spermicide (chemicals put in the vagina to paralyze sperm), and foam sponges (these work similarly to diaphragms, but they also have spermicide in them). no painful insertion, although given what you've said about having a hard time remembering to take the pill, these might not be the best fit for you.

the nonhormonal method that requires the least attention is a copper IUD, which goes in the uterus and kills off sperm. (it's crazy that copper kills sperm, btw, truly the world's wildest rock/paper/scissors situation.) copper IUDs have a very high success rate, can be effective for up to ten years, and don't cause side effects of hormonal IUDs like acne, weight fluctuations, and mood swings, although cramping and irregular bleeding are still possible. unfortunately this one does also require an insertion that probably won't tickle, but no birth control method is perfect.

[sneakyfordethklok]

Toki Headcanons

Baby.. baby man baby...

He's 5'8", the second shortest in the band below Pickles.

Toki's weight fluctuates between about 170 and 180, depending on his eating habits and his health. Obviously he is very muscular, but he tends to slim down more unintentionally during the summer, when it's warmer and he feels like he has more time to workout.

He's about 25 now, though he was going on 17 when he joined Dethklok back in the day.

He doesn't exactly exercise a lot, but he definitely tries to. He works with weights sometimes, and counts his anxious rearranging of his room on occasion as a workout.

Charles had a home gymnasium, the size of their dining room, built in one of the wings of Mordhaus for Toki. Though, he really only uses the treadmill and some of the weight machines. He likes rowing.

His bunny tattos are shitty, faded stick-and-poke pieces Murderface and Pickles helped him with. He cried the first two times, but has been pretty strong since.

Aside from the two rabbit tattoos, he has an angel wings and halo piece on his other arm, and the Dethklok logo tattooed on his chest, right under his ribs.

His mustache grows from his top lip like catfish whiskers.

Toki doesn't wear them to concerts or most publicized events, but he likes to wear the featured hair clips and other accessories for his own tastes.

As part of that, he very much enjoys scenecore and early 2000s emo/scene fashion.

His English is noticeably and (arguably) significantly better than Skwisgaar, in large part due to him learning English at a younger age.

His back from between his shoulder blades to the small of his back, and to the edges of his shoulders are covered in welts. The edges are dark flesh-tone, some of the newer-ish ones being a shiny pink. Just the lightest touch will send Toki into a panic.

Generally, he responds negatively to criticism, loud noise (that he wasn't made privy to prior), or anything perceived as aggression. He cries and gets upset easily enough, something his band mates ridicule him for, but in turn he is also the most understanding, gentle, and affectionate member of Dethklok.

Even after being treated poorly or outright mocked by his friends, Toki will be quick to do anything for them. Especially affectionate acts of kindness. (See the episode Dethmas.)

Toki got a nose piercing for aesthetic and symbolic reasons, following a drunken escapade with Murderface, of course. The bassist convinced him to get the piercing, and after paying a visit to a tattoo shop, it happened.

Despite the.. interesting story behind his piercing, he's still quite happy with it. And it's the only one he has.

It's pretty much obvious just by looking at him, but Toki has massive eyes compared to his bandmates. They're big, doe-like pools that make him look at least 5 years younger than he is. His baby-like appearance, especially in the rare times he's shaved his mustache, don't exactly help his appeal to children.

Toki's unfortunate adoration of Rockzo also apply to just about everything else clown-related or clown-themed. He likes carnivals, circus acts, clown music, ICP, clown Halloween masks, etc. You could call it a special interest.

He was officially diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder and CPTSD from a psychiatrist at age 21, just a few years after joining Dethklok.

His knife injury from Magnus during Doomstar Requiem did get infected, and left an absolutely ugly scar behind. It's just behind his left shoulder blade, and is a marred, ugly pockmark against his mostly smooth flesh otherwise, even when compared to his welts from the child abuse he endured.

Toki still has nightmares about his father's death, and his treatment while kidnapped with Abigail by Magnus.

Following the events of Requiem, Toki regressed mentally, but not fully. His childish behavior from before didn't change, but his ability to cope with stress and uncomfortable/unfamiliar situations worsened immediately. He can't handle almost any stress or antagonizing without crying or getting very upset, and he wears sensory headphones quite often now.

He enjoys the old My Little Pony and Strawberry Shortcake cartoons, but won't admit it to Skwisgaar or his other bandmates.

While being in a poly with his bandmates, his predominant partner is Murderface, being the main pairing of mine (Warface).

NSFW BELOW THIS

LAST WARNING

His main kinks are praise kink, breeding, BDSM, body worship, knife-play, and edging.

Very sensitive, needy, and easy to turn on. He'll do anything for approval, and to make his partner feel good. Almost to the point of desperation.

He's a switch, though is mainly a bottom.

That being said, he can snap at a moment's notice and can turn the tables very fast. Never underestimate how being horny and desperate can make him lose his resolve and patience.

With barely any hesitation, he can flip you over or pin you down, whatever is necessary, and make you do whatever he wants. He's certainly strong enough to use force on anyone to get his way, though of course he would never hurt a partner on purpose.

If he's not trying to hold himself back, he can get too excited and cum too quickly.

Big into breeding, with a hyper focus on bodily fluids. He wants you a soaking wet, moaning mess while he fills you with cum. He can be pretty forceful about it too— Toki's the kind of guy that has been wanting to knock up any female partner he gets from probably the first date.

He's big into gentle aftercare. He loves to cuddle, make out, shower/bathe together post coitus, whatever his partner wants. He's the kind of guy to rub your back after and play with your hair while you both coming back down.

[foldingfittedsheets]

Question for you please? I have a five year old (to my knowledge) bed (not from a box) that’s pretty firm. Firm suited me at the time but is now causing a lot of pain. How do I know if I should get a new, softer mattress ($1000+ in my currency) or just an expensive topper ($250-300+)?

Also, does changing weight impact whether one needs a softer or firmer bed?

Changing weight does impact how a bed feels to us, yeah. Unfortunately as our bodies change our body’s needs fluctuate too.

To be honest I’d see it a cheap topper works for you first, before shelling out big money depending on the type of pain. Low back pain is dicey to treat with a topper as it means not enough support and adding fluff is less likely to help. If it’s hips and joints aching most try the topper.

[liddolwitch]

Sharing my personal opinions, I am not every person lmfao

ARCANE S2 SPOILERS (ep 1-3)

tw/cw: Viktor, disability, body dysmorphia, weight changes, suicide, I think that's all?

Okay! I cannot stop thinking about how it would feel to be in Viktor's position right now. There's a lot going on, but I want to start with the fact that this is someone who contemplated suicide not too long ago. Everything we knew up to the attack indicates he wanted to live at that point, but the suicidal ideation must be kept in mind. That being said, it's a clear parallel to Jinx being saved by Singed. Side note, I think Jinx's reflexes might not let her die anymore.

Anyway! He did not want to be saved. He had made Jayce promise to destroy it previously, and this is the ultimate betrayal; regardless of Jayce's intent. At best, he trusted his own judgement over Viktor's after promising otherwise. That kind of integration was against everything Viktor wanted and believed. So there's a huge loss of autonomy, which is traumatic. It's also a theme very familiar to people with disabilities, especially ones that affect mobility and/or are degenerative. I cannot imagine that kind of situation would not be a trigger.

In regards to body stuff, he's completely different now. Any change in your physical body that you're not in control of can be absolutely terrifying. Weight fluctuation and minor scarring can have huge effects on a person's sense of self and self-esteem. Those are only the two I'm currently dealing with. These are changes visible to everyone in a way Viktor's clearly not comfortable with. There's often a feeling of moral impurity that unfortunately is part of the grief caused by disability. It's also a common effect of long-standing trauma in general (especially C-PTSD). Viktor is now only alive because of a weapon he felt needed to be destroyed at the cost of his life's work.

Jayce justifies himself by saying, "I never asked for this!" As if that hasn't been a constant thread in Viktor's life. I'm certain the line was meant to draw attention to that, but to me it indicates just how little Jayce recognized the loss of autonomy for Viktor.

For days? weeks? months? the people around Viktor have been telling him that they're sorry, but it's his lot in life to die young. That it's unfortunate his life's work can't be completed, but that's just how it is. Then, the closest person in the world to him completely disregards that sentiment, when it was clearly a line no one was willing to cross prior. Viktor himself had made the choice not to proceed.

I'm just thinking about a lot. People with terminal illnesses often aren't allowed to die with dignity and by their own volition in a comfortable way. Othertimes, people who are ill cannot receive the treatment they choose because other people determine the risk to be too great. Occasionally, people will be pushed to go through with treatments they'd rather not have, just for the chance to live a bit longer with low quality of life. Regardless of the situation, Viktor has never been allowed to call the shots.

I was really worried about how they would choose to force Viktor down this path. I thought maybe he would simply choose the risk of the hexcore over the pain or fear of death/dying. I was scared other people wouldn't understand that and there would be little sympathy from people who have never had to make choices like that (quality of life vs time, but also work vs rest when working harms you). I think it offers so much more room for exploration of Viktor's feelings and perspectives now that he didn't get that choice. I really hope they choose to dive into that.

[mountainstogo]

So I’ve gained a bit of weight. The 1st photo is from 2021 and the 2nd is from today

I went from 160ish to 125lbs in one year (2020-2021) and then was able to sort of fluctuate between 120-135 from 2021 till like March of this year. Although even before March it’s been awhile since I was under 130..

Unfortunately I’m now at 140lbs. Im still happy with how I look and I look so much different than the last time I was 140 thanks to all the muscle mass I’ve put on. But I’m disappointed this weight gain happened like 5months before my wedding. If there’s one time in my whole life I’d really like a 6pack it’d probably be during my beach destination wedding

But I’m not discouraged! I still have until February, and the holidays aren’t an easy time to lose weight but I think I can get back there again. Part of the problem has been field season, I haven’t been able to maintain a routine in 2years, but especially these last 8months. I’m finally home now with no travel planned until the wedding so that should help.

I think I’ve also sort of plateaud with my workouts. I love working out at home but I’m limited with how much weight i can use and I’ve been just doing the same workouts since 2020

So, my plan to get back to 125-130lbs by February:

- get back to my routine of working out 5x a week

- clean up my diet. More protein, less processed foods. Find ‘healthy’ dessert options for the nightly sweet cravings

- more cardio! Get back to running! I haven’t gone trail running in ages and I used to love that. Get on the bike more too

- switch up the workouts. I’m doing a consultation with a personal trainer this afternoon. Not sure i can afford this gym but I can try for like a month or so. Or find another trainer. Or try Pilates or orange theory for a bit. Just try new things

- track my progress and celebrate the wins. Get back into habit tracking and set monthly goals

Wish me luck. I want this to be difficult, I want this to be intense. I want to come out the other side with more discipline and knowledge of nutrition/exercise/how to care for my body. And I want to be proud. I want to wear a bikini in February in front of like every person I know and be confident and proud that I worked hard for this body

[amostimprobabledream]

Starlander headcanons

Omg I am a dumbass, @whatevermonkey please forgive me for taking so long with these! This is for my milestone giveaway celebration from a couple of months ago. I borrowed a shipping template for these, I hope you enjoy them! <3 These are some thoughts on Homelander/Starlight if the writers weren't COWARDS. Who Confesses First?: Homelander is the kind of guy to jump right to the L-bomb very quickly, especially if he's feeling his partner is withdrawing from him or his need for love flares up. Starlight, by contrast, tends to be a lot more hesitant about bearing her heart like that.

Who apologises first after a fight?: Starlight - Homelander is fucking impossible to deal with when he's riled up and he will mansplain, manwhore, manipulate in order to convince both the other person and himself why it isn't his fault, actually. Starlight will hold out because she doesn't like to apologise if she doesn't mean it - however, she knows that Homelander is likely to calm down enough to listen to reason if she prefaces it with "Sorry but..." so she tends to find workarounds.

Who is the more popular?: Homelander. Starlight might be America's sweetheart (while she's part of the Seven, anyway), but he's literally been the face of the Seven and he's been doing it for years, much longer than her. Plus there's the fact that while Starlight has people from her past who can tweet about her or air her dirty laundry on live TV, Homelander's image has been carefully curated since he was first debuted as a Supe.

Does the most speaking: Homelander, again. He was coached from a very young age of what to say and he's an attention whore at heart. Plus since he's the leader of the Seven he's used to doing the talking on their behalf - he does it with partners too, Maeve rarely got a word out when they dated.

The best caregiver when the other is sick: This is a tricky one as Homelander doesn't really get ill - the V in his system means that not only is it extremely difficult to damage him, but his immune system is insane. Germs boil to death inside him. Unfortunately he's not sure how to care for a sick person except bring stuff, so Starlight is the best in theory but doesn't get to show it.

Who has the most experience with relationships: Starlight, by a mile. She had a relatively normal upbringing and was implied to be popular during her highschool days and she canonically dated Supersonic and probably others before she met Hughie. Homelander fucks but all his relationships have been curated by Vought or have some other heavy angle of manipulation. Plus, Starlight's canon relationship with Hughie is like, the backbone of the show.

Sensitive to subtle changes in their partner: BOTH. Homelander knows every little physical change to Starlight - if he pulse or her heartbeat or whatever is off, he's going to pick up on it and demand an explanation. He also notices when her weight fluctuates or she hasn't been sleeping. Meanwhile Starlight becomes a connoisseur of Homelander's micro expressions and body language - initially to see when he was going to blow up at someone, but over time, she became attuned to his moods to know how he was feeling.

Uses pet names: Need you even ask? Homelander is the king of pet names. There's standard things like darling, sweetheart, babe, honey, etc, but he goes specific too like little star, twinkles, etc. Starlight tries a tentative "hun" once and he loved it.

Who does the cooking?: Starlight - Homelander has never cooked a damn thing in his life. He doesn't even use a microwave, he just heats what he wants with his laser vision, but he rarely if ever needs leftovers when Vought have some of the best chefs in the world just a phonecall away. Starlight can cook, though the show has implied she has a complicated history with food and I doubt her mother was too interested in teaching Starlight domestic skills when she was too busy parading her around the beauty pageant circuit. They probably go out to eat most of the time.

Who is most into PDA: Duh, Homelander - the man has no personal space with anyone. He'll pull her in by the waist, boop her nose, flick her hair when he wants to be annoying. Always wants Starlight to sit on his lap and sulks if she doesn't, even if it's during a board meeting or some other professional environment. He likes picking her up and carrying her like a little doll as well, he likes her nose scrunch whenever he does it.

Who proposes: Homelander - he man! He propose! Plus he's a big fan of grand romantic gestures because he is the kind of person who thinks love is something you need to prove. And he'd want to lock Starlight down and let everyone know she's spoken for. He'd probably fly her somewhere private to give her the ring - one he forced some poor sod at Vought to spend meticulous hours hunting down before he found one he deemed good enough. I think he'd go for a star sapphire - blue for his suit, star for her name.

[kylo-wrecked]

Name: Ben.

Nickname(s): Occasionally, a friend, a foe, or a love interest will call him Benji or Benny. Obviously, all Bens are united in their hatred of this.

Relationship Status: Verse dependent. Modern!Ben's articulated the words 'I love you' to but one other.

Gender: Cis male.

Romantic Orientation: Exploring or unsure.

Preferred Pet Names: Music!Ben will call you 'baby' if he hates you.

Opinion on True Love: All Bens believe true love exists... but maybe not for hims.

Opinion on Love at First Sight: Music!Ben thinks he's fallen in love at first sight many, many times. Modern!Ben is somehow more suspicious. Ex!Con Ben has never looked another person in the eye (Jk, he's not a believer) and Smuggler!Ben...

How ‘Romantic’ Are They?: He's unpracticed, not unromantic.

Edited for E.: Music!Ben can charm the pants off anyone but I still don’t think that makes him a ‘romantic.’

Ideal Physical Traits: This one is tricky because mun struggles to understand what makes one physical trait more desirable than another :') but we shall try.

Based on copious evidence, mun believes Bens generally prefer longer hair for [women/femmes], short to medium curls for [men/mascs], notable thighs (strong, long, or thick), or other limbs and extremities (Smuggler!Ben). Striking eyes, chest hair for [men/mascs], a nice smile, a brazen or unique laugh (for Music!Ben especially, laughter is physical). Scars and other proof of life.

Because he's 6'4", he prefers his partners tall, but because he's 6'4", he invariably accepts smol.

Ideal Personality Traits: If he likes you, be yourself. All of yourself, preferably, because he's greedy.

All Bens find humility attractive in a person. Music!Ben covets meanness and whatever he interprets as power today. Let's not think about tomorrow.

Unattractive Physical Traits: We're struggling again, and that's okay.

Redubbing this part 'least desired observable characteristics.'

Shaved or bleached brows, dreads on heads where they don't belong, notable cosmetic alterations (Music!Ben specific), literal body language (Smuggler!Ben specific), worm physique (Smuggler!Ben specific), problem skin.

Unfortunately, Music!Ben can veer on fat-phobic (he's certainly weight-conscious himself) and Modern!Ben thinks women should shave their legs for him or something ridiculous like that. Not that he'd ever say it. (Dirty fingernails are fine by him, though. The more, the merrier.)

Unattractive Personality Traits: ☝️ Do not lie to him.

Ideal Date: bullets? Bullets.

Modern!Ben: movie/museum and dinner, in that order, because post-movie/museum-going conversations reveal much about a person.

Music!Ben: goes from 1 to 111. He's not dating you; he met you someplace awful and will never leave you alone again. Hint: He's never the dumper, always the dumped.

Ex-Con!Ben: Somewhere quiet, outdoors, away from the public eye. Said date must make it clear to Ben that he's on a date, or else he'll be utterly lost.

Smuggler!Ben: kidnapped Poe Dameron once—and it was awesome.

Do They Have a Type?: Bens are often attracted to sensitive, mysterious persons... or people who 'yell' at hims (Music!Ben, Smuggler!Ben).

Average Relationship Length: Six inches. One to two years.

Preferred Non-Sexual Intimacy: Smush-

Commitment Level: Fluctuates. Bens are serious about those they care for, but.

Ah, the various buts.

Opinion of Public Affection:

Modern!Ben: Outlook good/You may rely on it.

Music!Ben: Don't count on it/My sources say no.

Ex-Con!Ben: ???/Ask again later.

Smuggler!Ben: *loudly in the cantina* —we're NOT married?!

Past Relationships?:

Modern!Ben: Has entered two serious relationships. The first was young and short-lived. The second ended in California. She cheated on him, and he has never recovered.

Music!Ben: Sadly. And before then, a fling with Rey, which he fucked up beautifully. And before, after, and somewhere in between, a thing with Armitage (verse dependent). It wasn't a romance, but it was certainly something.

Ex-Con!Ben: Nope.

Smuggler!Ben: Verse dependent but primarily occupied with and committed to Not Dying Between Now and Centaxday.

tagged by:// @godresembled <3 thank you, fren, for the much-needed distraction during my moving frenzy.

tagging:// anymun who hasn't already done this meme and wants to share~

singling out, @valkxrie, @debelltio, @itmeanspeace, @themckaytriarchy, @ofthestcrs (muse of choice), @certifiably-i (muse of choice), @ifyoucatchacriminal (muse of choice). @etoilebleu (muse of choice eris).