On semi-hiatus.

Any pronouns, queer, mostly plus size reader fics.

[soft-for-them]

First Plate - Senshi x GN! Plus size reader

Summary: You fancy Senshi (and fantasize about him) and he fancies you too... it might take a while for you both to confess.

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works, hope you like!

A/N: I'm semi back and still not proof reading properly, so spelling mistakes are inevitable. This is gender neutral and with a plus size/chubby/mid size/fat/ect reader in mind but really anyone can read.

---

His body is strong; not the unhealthy skinny strong that you see come and go, not the type muscles that guys who’s never actually traversed a dungeon before have but the kind of muscle that’s developed over time in a dungeon along with a good balanced meal too of course.

His bulky arms aren’t just for show and his abs, solid and there, are covered by a thick layer of fat and a healthy flocking of dark body hair.

What more could a person want?

He’s shorter than you but it does not bother you in the slightest for if he were to wrap his strong arms around your middle then his face would bury itself in the softness of your plush tall-man body, oh and how you long for that, it’s the thing of dreams, your Senshi filled dreams that make you feel too warm for comfort.

You often wonder what his kisses would feel like on your body, you fantasise about the light feathering of his facial hair as he pecks at your exposed skin, his fingers gracing every scar and stretch mark on your soft body, his own desires being centred around you and only you.

Would he tell you how beautiful you are or would he just focus entirely of planting his quick kisses all over until you melted into a goo on the floor?

You’ve always daydreamed about him being gentle and considerate, he is when he speaks to you and he is to everyone else in the group, you’re mind just wonders too much about a more romantic scenario.

Does he even find you attractive?

You shake your head cutting that though off before it becomes rotten. You trying to rid your frazzled mind of the ever growing suggestive thoughts and feelings, your face hotter that the small campfire that currently cooks your team's late dinner.

You try to pry your eyes away from Senshi’s strong hair covered arms, said man currently frying some wild veggies that you found earlier on whilst of the rest of group hunted a monster or two, you really do try for but your eyes instead catch on to curve of his wide nose and the shine of his full moustache.

You’re like goo in seconds.

With an audible groan you flop backwards, a hand covering your eyes, the flowy fabric of your robes crumpling in odd shapes as you wipe away any sweat with your other hand.

You feel a shadow loom over you, a small shadow but one that blinds your limited vision non the less.

“What are you groaning about?” the voice of Chilchuck Tims in full father mode questions as you peak through slightly parted fingers at the more mature adventurer.

You’ve been with Laios’ party on and off since before Falin got eaten by the red dragon, the little adventures you had with them interspersed with you many little jobs that paid for your rent.

Before you joined Laios and co you did odd jobs collecting gold from the dungeon walls or helping lug dead bodies back up to the surface. Once you joined the party as a part time member, being good at finding things and knowing a small amount of magic, you had cut back on the more unsavoury jobs but still mulling around the top floors of the dungeon.

Chilchuck had been the man who made you quit your old jobs, back then you had been overworked and underpaid so badly that you didn’t even have a full room of your own (you shared with another adventurer for a while) nor a full bag filled with your possessions, so the half-foot rather fathers you like he does with a lot of the other party members.

(Itzusumi is obviously the closest to how his daughters used to been when they where little, though you moan and groan and mess around all the same despite being a fully grown adult.)

“I feel warm.” It’s true, you do feel warm, though not form sitting anywhere near the fire.

“Then move.” he says back nudging your arm with his boot, a hand on his hip and the other hand on his head as he peers down at you, “Stop moping around, foods nearly ready!”

You take your hand covering your eyes and swat it at his boot more teenage like moaning coming from you as you jokily call him ‘dad’.

Before you even know it Itzusumi comes over and starts swatting at Chilchuck’s boot too much like a cat would do, his two work children finding entertainment in tormenting the half-foot.

---

Senshi watches on as you and Itzusumi bug Chilchuck your laughter filling the air.

Your laughter that sounds like a siren song to his ears, your laughter that heals his soul… fuck, he’s down bad.

Truth be told Senshi has been in the dungeon a long time, long enough to recognise the odd ones out that prefer to linger around the dungeon rather than around the tall-men above ground.

He has heard about your for a long time; the tall-man who spends most of their time on the wooden bridges and inside the trees, hanging around graves and merchant stands around the upper floors. You were always a treasure collector or a goon to the revivers, an odd little goose among the ducklings always wondering off path to find old coins deep in the dirt and giving advice to new adventurers who didn’t know any better.

The orcs had told him about a round robed person who wondered around talking to everyone and anyone like danger wasn’t a thing and he never thought much of it until he actually met you.

When he first laid eyes on you he knew it was fate, it did not matter that you were trying to coax Marcille to eat his cooked walking mushroom dish, he knew it right then and there.

It must have been the way the low warm dungeon light caressed your face or how you greeted everyone that passed, he’s embarrassed to say that his eyes lingered but they did, they’ve been lingering for far too long now.

And now hear he is trying to get closer to you without making your uncomfortable (or without setting Chilchuck or Itzusumi on him for the two of them really seem to care about you a lot).

He likes you too much to flat out say how he feels, to say that you make him blush like he was young again, make him daydream like he has all the time in the world to do so. Your joy and wonder is intoxicating and you’re rather pretty to look at too.

It makes his face go red as he dishes up the last of the food from his wok.

---

You’re still bugging Chilchuck when the first plate is passed over to from Marcille, slight confusion gracing your face as you look at her.

“Where’s your plate Marcille?” you ask as Itzusumi turns her childish gaze onto you, your plate filled with all sorts of meat and veggies catching her cat eyes.

You playfully push her away as she paws at you, turning her around with one hand so she facing Senshi (who from even from far away is clearly red in the face).

He steadily plates up more food but you soon realise that you have the first plate.

“Senshi told me it’s your plate.” Marcille says, a knowing look on her face.

“Oh!” heat blooms on your face like spring flowers.

Looking back at Senshi you see him looking away from you before quickly being distracted by ravenous Laios and Itzusumi.

He gave you the first plate… Oh, you might melt right then and there.

[soft-for-them]

I normally just delete comments like this but they do come up every now and then but truly I'm fed up of them.

I primarily write for plus size readers. Fat readers. Chubby readers.

All fics not specially labelled plus size reader are plus size reader friendly. I normally get comments like above from cishet people or who I assume are cishet because I have gotten comments similar to this but asking for a female reader instead of a male reader on a male reader fic. It's really pissing me off.

I'm not going to magically make a 'thin reader' fic or a 'normal size reader' fic (all comments I've gotten and since deleted), I'm certainly not going to change my queer fics to become straight nor am I going to write a part two where the reader isn't plus size any more.

You've read and enjoyed my fic, one that is most certainly for a fat reader and maybe even for a queer reader, if you're not plus size or LGBTQ then like it and move on. Don't comment this shit.

Stuff like this makes me so annoyed, like as a fat queer trans person can't I write fics that represent my body type, my gender, my sexuality without people demanding me to write fics catered to someone who has every other fic representing their body type or sexuality or gender.

Please just stop and think when you comment.

[soft-for-them]

I don't know a thing about love - Daryl Dixon x plus size non-binary reader

Summary: A Daryl x plus size non-binary reader based off the song 'I don't know a thing about love' by the White Buffalo.

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works.

A/N: This is both a non-binary reader and a plus size reader, so cis people this isn't for you. The reader has been left vague because this is a short fic and not all plus size non-binary people are afab (really, it's real problem with authors, non-binary people aren't women!) This is coming from your very own non-binary/queer op. 👍

Everyone knows that you and Daryl Dixon are partners but everyone also knows that your relationship, or lack thereof, is complicated.

It’s clear you love each other, Rick or Carl could tell you (with various amounts of excitement) about the first time the two of you met, how Daryl’s eye widened, how you smiled like you had be given the sun and moon.

From the very start of joining Rick’s group you had it hard. Having to explain to people that you’re non-binary and not a man or woman was hard, both for yourself because you were coming out again to complete strangers and for them for most of the group aren’t queer.

Carl got it straight away, he happily used your preferred pronouns and asked you many questions most of which weren’t about being trans but where about random this like comic books and how your survived.

Rick, Carol, Glenn and Maggie learnt quickly too whilst the rest took their time getting used to someone so different to their heteronormative life.

Maybe it was because living people are hard to come by, maybe it’s because most of the bigots of the group had met their grizzly end but somehow you feel safer with Rick’s little rag tag group of survivors then the people you house shared with before the apocalypse arose.

Then there’s Daryl.

Now don’t get me wrong, the first few weeks of you joining Rick’s crew he didn’t talk to you, he just stared at you. He was raised by bigoted people and he was trying to be better, before the end of times even began he was trying to be better. He wasn’t racist or homophobic like his dad or brother nor did he go out his way to antagonise anyone (for he isn’t Merle after all) but still he was learning.

He was drawn to you, it made him panic just a bit but he has long realised that he isn’t so straight, that he identifies with both Bisexual, Pansexual and Queer, that he didn’t need a label for one he loves you and two who fucking cares.

But still it took a long time to come to terms with, thankfully you were there with him to help.

He remembers one day when you still were new and everyone was still stuck in the prison out the blue he asked about your jacket, an oversized black denim jacket sparsely covered in handmade patches.

You told him about the small amount of patches that you had; a non-binary flag on the breast pocket, an anti-Nazi patch on your arm, two ridged band patches that really should have been ironed on instead of sew on dotted around, tin badges decorating the collar like a jewelled necklace.

Over the years the jacket has evolved like he has, both have become more outward and full of love.

Daryl still cracks a smile at the back patch adorning your jacket made out of an old t-shirt of Carl’s that depicted a superhero dog.

You and Daryl talk, sleep close, sneak kisses when people aren’t looking, go hunting together, laugh at each other’s silly jokes. You’re out going and talkative whilst he stands back quiet and stoic his eyes always filled with love for you. You share clothes like it’s nothing, he loves holding you close at night the feeling of your plush body against his better than any bed or pillow, he knows you in and out, as do you for him.

But somehow still the two of you have never breached the subject of how much you love each other, you’ve neither had the conversation trying to figure out what to call one another.

Well not until today.

Sitting idly on the front porch of a nice enough house in Alexandria you work away under the watchful eye of your lover.

It was no surprise that you and Daryl were put together in the same home, neither is it a surprise that you both sit so close as the sky starts to turn orange, the sun slowly setting and the moon rising into the sky.

Knees touching, you carefully try to stick on a new patch onto your jacket next to one of many pride flags you’ve acclimated over the years.

Daryl leans over watching you quietly sew wonky stitches, his face almost pressed to the side of your round cheek.

“You know what Daryl?” you whisper, eyes flickering up to look up at him.

He just hums out a yes.

“When I first met you I didn’t know anything about love, I don’t think I fully know a thing about love now but with you I- I well-“ you face goes warm, your fingers stop sewing as he looks up at you with sparkling eyes, “-I think I’m learning because of you.”

He just stares at you for a moment, shock and what you assume is love morphing his face into a sweet smile.

That moment disappears as he leans down and kisses you, his chapped lips gentle on yours, your hands dropping your handiwork on your lap to hold his face in place.

You pull away first but still hold onto him with pin pricked hands, eye still connected staring like a fool at him, happiness flooding through your bodies.

“For years I was told I’d never find love because of who I am-“ you begin again still in a whisper, the thoughts of the long dead people who said such cruel things being pushed away by the many memories of your and Daryl.

You push a piece of his long brown hair back from his face, you smile growing big and proud.

“- but I had been looking for love below and above despite all the dead roaming around and then there you were.”

He lets out a small chuckle, one that isn’t filled with malice like old lovers did but one filled with a joy you’ve only seen for yourself.

“Do you?” he asks covering your wondering hands with his, “Because I do, I love you.”

“So many eyes in the world are searching for love and somehow I find you, of course I love you Daryl.”

The two of you laugh together as you kiss again, the set of wings you were stitching onto your jacket fully discarded as the kiss deepens.

[soft-for-them]

Palm readings and tulips - Roman Godfrey x plus size reader

Summary: You and Roman are close, best friends even. You think he doesn't love you despite everything pointing to him loving you.

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works.

A/N: Before writing this I hadn't watched Hemlock Grove since I was like fourteen so at this point in time I've only re-watched the first few episodes so the characters are probably way ooc. Not proof read.

-

Since turning eighteen, aka a legal adult, you’ve realised that you still don’t have the power to do much at all. You’re still learning to drive despite knowing that you won’t be able to afford the cost of a car on your own. You’re working part time and you’re still somehow waking up every morning to go to school which seems to never end.

Then there’s Roman.

Best friends since your family moved to Hemlock Grove when you were twelve, the promise of a job at the steel mill shattered as soon as you arrived leaving you to play outside alone whilst your parent(s) worked over jobs. Roman's always been generous with his disposable wealth when it comes to you because of your family situation.

Roman Godfrey with his fancy little red car always filled with fuel, his house always open to you when you don’t feel safe at home, his disregard for the price of anything, him choosing to always pay for your shopping the rare time he stalks around a shop with you when he’s not busy bedding other people. With a flick of a wrist he can get anything he wants no fake ID or drop of his prestigious name needed, though he does the latter one regardless, Roman Godfrey has the world at his feet.

Maybe that’s why you’re forever thinking up reasons why he’s still friends with you.

As you bang you head on your dull green locker, no one around the hallways to stop you doing so for most if not all the students have been killed in gruesome bloody ways only leaving the younger students and the less than savoury upper-classmen left. To think, if you didn’t have someone like Roman following you around like a shadow then you’d probably be mauled to death and left in a ditch somewhere.

What a lovely thought indeed.

Raising your head you look down the hall, only small clumps of people mulling around, a larger group of tall teens clad in baggy clothes huddled around some lockers probably looking at something indecent catching you attention.

“I am an adult for crying out loud.” you mutter to yourself as you check you book bag filled with heavy textbooks and your large novelty pencil case, “I should be out of this fucking town.”

Then a loud obnoxious laugh, one that sounds more like some exclaiming ‘HA!’ rather than a proper laugh echoes down the hallway reminding you that nothing good ever comes from such fake sound.

So with a reluctant sigh you mosey over to the group of boys, not caring that you look half dead in your oversized baseball jersey and baggy mom jeans, your bag clutched in your hands ready to use it as a weapon if need be.

“Alright fuckers what you looking at now?” you holler as you squish in between two towering boys who smell like B.O and dress like nul metal band rejects.

The best outcome is that they’re all ogling at a magazine of scantily clad women or huddled around a small screen of a phone looking at social media but no, sitting against a locker looking horrified is none other than Shelley Godfrey.

Her long faux hair droops over her entire face as she tries to look as small as possible, her long grey cardigan pooling on the dirtied checked floor of the hallway, her arms holding onto her speaking tablet with an inhuman clutch.

Your face turns stern, tired eyes showing how pissed off you are, the very small amount of power you have in this supernatural town bubbling up.

Most all the boys huddled around you both are way taller, a couple of the shorter ones plus size like you, so really you are outnumbered in every way including size. However, somehow the remaining gaggle of teenage boys who roam the school have an odd resect for you. Much like how Roman, when he’s not fucking someone or completely gone like he was never alive, they follow you around school like lost puppies finding you entertaining, your straightforward and sarcastic wit making you ‘one of the boys’.

That and you’re one of the very few teens who Roman hasn’t bedded, some of your classmates almost seeing you like a challenge for surely soon enough Roman will fuck you too. You’ve overheard them talk about you like this many times, too many for your liking and you have mixed feeling about how they see you. On one hand some people see this pretty young woman who must be next on Roman’s conquest whilst others see you as just ‘the fat girl’ and nothing else.

For once in your life you’d like to be seen as more than a piece of meat but you digress, you’d much rather have the respect of these teenagers than have their ogling eyes look you up and down like your either their next fuck or next bullying target.

 “What? Her wig was falling off, it’s funny (y/n).” one smiles thinking that you’re going to happily chuckle alone with them.

Honestly you feel too much like a mother goose sometimes, these greasy teenagers your rebellious goslings who think you’d laugh along with them at such cruelty.

“Oh! FUNNY LIKE BREAKING YOUR DICK!” you shout at the top of your lungs, everyone is a five mile radius knowing it’s you shouting out your secret knowledge.

No one other than you and the gaggle of lanky teens surrounding you know who you’re exactly talking about however everyone else will have a fun time trying to guess who ‘broke’ their dick and hopefully the humiliation will hammer it into their head not to mess with Shelley Godfrey again.

“Come on (y/n)!” one scoffs whilst another gives you a “not cool bro.” to no avail.

“Where’s your brother?” you ask in you softest voice as you crouch down to Shelley’s height ignoring the scattering boys who try to do damage control now that everyone, which isn’t a lot compared to the beginning of the year, has heard what you shouted.

Speak of the devil Roman appears out of nowhere crouching down beside you as you talk softly to Shelley.

“Where the fuck have you been rich boy?” you scoff as you turn your head to look at your childhood befriend.

“How did you know Tyler broke his dick?” Roman retorts back with a handsome smile.

You ignore him, instead you help Shelley up.

“I’m not a blushing virgin Rom-“ you smile up to Shelley silently nodding asking is she’s ok which gets you a smile back before looking back to Roman, “- me and his brother was in the middle of some things when that idiot fell in the shower screaming bloody murder ‘My dick’s broken, my dick’s broken!’.”

You were having fun too, it’s not that often that a hot guy genuinely takes an interest in you let alone a hot college type who can take your wondering mind off Roman Godfrey, but then his idiot younger brother had slipped whilst belting out pop tunes in the shower making everyone in the house hold privy to the fact he hurt his member.

It was quite easy sneaking out whilst his family crowded around the bathroom, though your thoughts where quickly back of Roman.

As of late all you’ve been thinking about is Roman, that and escaping Pennsylvania but mostly of Roman’s stupidly handsome face.

Him looking at you now with eyes so filled with emotion, most of which you can’t decipher makes you almost blush and fumble. However before you can blurt out your feelings for the guy who used to follow you around town whilst you caught bugs or explored the library instead of going home you offer your arm to Shelley stating you’re going to take her to her class.

Shelley takes your arm with a small smile, a faint glow of blue like a firefly radiating from under her fringe. Roman follows closely behind you protectively, his heart filling up with an emotion he hasn’t properly felt in his life.

Love.

Roman Godfrey, the most powerful person in school, the man who is your shadow, in love with you.

“He’s not happy with you (y/n).” Peter says between puffs of his cigarette the two of you sat at the front of his static home.

He offers the cigarette to you but you refuse it.

“He’s never happy with me lately.” you say not believing a word that comes from your lips, you don’t think Roman has ever be properly angry or disappointed in you, not really.

“You know that’s a lie.” Peter says nudging your arm as you stare off into the distance to the house upon the hill.

“Peter, don’t contradict yourself.” you hit his arm back.

Ever since Peter Rumancek moved here you’ve been spending more and more time with him, well not as much as Roman has but you’ve been spending more time with the shaggy haired man then at home.

“What I mean is that he's annoyed at you.” as Peter talks you lean you head down on his shoulder, the late afternoon slowly fading into sunset, the air around going cold.

“How so?” you ask looking up at him.

“Something about a brother and you helping his sister.”

“Ah, that.”

Sighing, nuzzling your face into Peter’s bicep you try to figure out how to explain to him the situation that you hadn’t even realised was a situation until now.

So you explain it to him. In as little words as possible you recount the story of having a one night stand with a classmate’s older brother and the ensuing hilarity that you used as leverage to help Shelley.

“He really likes you.” Peter says bringing his hand up to pat your head as you slump down more into his arm like it was a pillow on your bed.

“Of course he does Peter, we’ve been friends since we were twelve.”

You don’t want to really explain anything more to Peter because you know exactly what he’s trying to get out of you.

Surely someone like Roman can’t like you back, right?

And from that conversation sometime later the next week you find yourself sat awkwardly on a throw covered blue sofa, a decorative pillow on your lap and Peter by your side fully relaxed.

Destiny has been kind to you the half an hour you’ve been here, she’s offered you tea, told you embarrassing stories about Peter and genuinely been hospitable and nice however as she breaches the subject of why you’re here you start to feel nervous.

It was Peter’s idea, he had been the one to bring up Destiny’s palm readings and curtsey of Peter you’re getting the palm reading for free. You’re not some naive little girl any more so you can take whatever Destiny gives you. Unlike the bigots of the town who think Destiny is scamming people out of their money because she is Romani you’re hopeful that she can give you a good reading and get Peter off you back to boot for he has been trying to tell you that Roman like likes you all week.

But still you’re nervous and jittery.

Destiny asks for your hands which you reluctantly hold out.

“I know you’re probably really good at this-“ you begin as she cradles your hands, your palm upward facing, Destiny leaning over to look at them, “-but I don’t need you tell me if I’m going to have kids or if I’m going to rich.”

Your eyes flicker between her and Peter.

“That’s no entirely how this works.” Destiny grins as Peter touches your arms to try to calm you down, “Anyway from what Peter has told me we may only need to look at your heart line.”

“Heart line?”

“Love.”

“Oh! Yeah, love…” your face scrunches up in worry, “Sorry, I’m not saying you’re a fake or anything but I, well, I already know who I love already, I just haven’t done anything about it so I don’t need a reading for that.”

She smiles, the dimpled lines either side of her mouth appearing as she does, her eye sparkling with curiosity.

“Peter you should have brought her over sooner.” she says eyes trained on you, “Shall we begin then?”

You nod a quick yes.

She begins tracing your palms, her fingers light but slow as she figures out both your past and your future form just the curved line of your hands.

“This hand-” Destiny begins cradling your non dominant hand, “- this one show your past.”

Her manicured finger traces a long line slightly jagged and curved.

“You’ve been through a lot.” she states, not trying to get anything out of you but allowing you to speak if you want to, “I assume it’s to do with your family.”

Two hours later Peter's leading you out of Destiny’s flat, a promise to visit again as a friend promised to her, tear soaked tissues stuffed up your sleeves and Peter holding your hand as he leads you onto the street now bathed in yellowing streetlamp light.

“That was a lot.” you try to upbeat but all that comes from you lips is a solemn exhale, “Promise you won’t tell anyone about all that?”

He bumps his shoulder into yours, his hand squeezing yours in a silent ‘yes’.

“Not even the bit about twelve year old you falling in love with Roman?”

“Shut up.” you laugh as you knock your shoulder into his back playfully, “Now walk me home.”

The next day after Destiny’s palm reading you’re overthinking too much so much so you get a headache that can only be cured by taking a long mid-morning nap.

Thankfully it’s the weekend and you don’t have work but unthankfully as you groggily wake up from your impromptu nap you hear the tell tell signs of one Roman Godfrey lowering himself down on top of your crowded double bed, his nicely dressed frame clashing with the teddy bears and old granny floral sheets of the bed.

“You climb through my window or something?” you ask as you drag yourself up into a sitting position, ignoring the fact your face comes dangerously close to Roman’s.

“No one’s here (y/n) so I used the key underneath the front door mat.”

“Liar-” you joke as your rearrange your twisted t-shirt on your plush body, “-the key is under the pot Rom, you know, the one with the dead tulips.”

You both maybe siting side by side, you under the covers and him fully clothed, but you can see his growing smile on his smug face from the side of his face, mischief soon to come.

“What, stop smiling like that and spit it out.”

His smile grows into a clown like grin as he lets out a deep chuckle. He bends down to the side to pick something off the floor. On hand latches onto your leg anchoring him down as he bends down hanging his other arm off the bed, warmth rising in your face at the rather forward action.

He rises bringing, what at first you think is a wad of paper, up but as you look closer you see the paper is combined with translucent pink plastic in a cone shape holding flowers in place.

Flowers.

Not just any flowers but blood red tulips, much more vivid and alive than the ones that used to live by your front door. And they’re not some supermarket type flowers either, there’s no barcode stuck to the plastic or creasing on the paper from where they’ve been sitting in a pot with other bouquets of flowers. No, they’re big, new and most certainly handmade, so perfectly arranged that they must have cost too much, well too much for you anyway.

For Roman it probably was nothing at all, his wallet still filled with too much money.

You must be frozen in place for Roman, one hand still on your leg, passes over the bouquet of tulips.

“Who you got these for?” you ask.

“I don’t like seeing you sad.” he says leaning closer so your noses almost touch.

“I’m not sad.” you try to smile, your eyes flickering between the blood petals and his sharp mesmerising eyes.

“I saw you yesterday with Peter, you were crying.”

Despite there being a thin blanket separating your bare legs from his hands you can feel him stroke patterns near your knee.

“Then why didn’t you come over then? You know I’ll always have you.”

Your words come out wrong for you were trying to say that he’s always welcome in your home though you guess the growing bubbling feeling of love has impaired your mind just a bit.

As your eyes look at the flowers you miss the hungry, almost monstrous look flash in Roman’s eyes, his pupils going large. It takes all his strength not to grab you and kiss you all over making you his.

He won’t even tell you either that last night another classmate died, that he was trying to investigate it.

“I’m taking you out.” he demands.

“Ok.” you say feeling that you can't decline, the thought of it being a date pushed out your mind for Roman always seems to be spending money on you, “Let me get dressed first Rom.”

[soft-for-them]

Apologies - Once upon a time in Hollywood & plus size reader

Summary: You and Rick, like most siblings do, aren't talking because of an argument. The only thing getting you both to apologise to each other is a group of cult members trying to kill you. (Platonic, reader is Rick's step sister who he's helped raise, so no shipping.)

Trigger warning: Descriptions of fighting and injury, this fic is mainly based in the scene in the film were the Manson family try to kill Cliff, Francesca and Rick, so yeah, there's blood.

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works.

A/N: I like the idea of writing more fics with the sister reader, idk I think it would be sweet.

The ever constant headache for you both had started around fifteen years ago, you being around five years old whist your older step brother was in his prime staring in Hollywood films and bedding super models like it was a causal Tuesday night.

Around that time your mother had remarried Rick Dalton’s father and them both wanting to get away from it all (aka you) had dropped you off at a random film set were extras roamed around in fake blood and plastic disembodied limbs littered the ground like gravel.

Your ‘parents’ didn’t care that they had dropped you off on the day were a massacre scene was being shoot. Thinking back to that blurry memory you think they hadn’t even realised it was a high budget horror flick Rick was staring in, all they thought about at that time was ditching the hyperactive child on the rich enough son who probably could hire a baby sitter unlike they could.

Whilst Rick spent most of the day dazzling the camera crew and his female co-lead you had spent most of the day in the makeup trailer been cooed over by the hair and makeup ladies whilst stuffing your face with cheese puffs and apple juice.

At one point Cliff Booth had hobbled in, cigarette hanging from his bloody lips and his leg aching from the dangerous stunt he had just performed, his blue eyes going wide as a little curly haired child cheered as he entered the makeup trailer.

“Why is there a child in here?” he had asked whilst taking the cigarette from his lips with one hand whilst trying to rub off the fake blood dribbling from his face with the other.

The makeup ladies had to quickly wipe his face off with soaked cotton balls and wet wipes because he was just making the red mess even worse all whilst a bright eyed you began babbling to him like you knew him forever.

“I’m five!” you had happily declared as one of the women whispered the situation to Cliff.

“That you are little lady.”

So for the next hour instead of fucking off smoking half a pack and challenging cocky actors to fights Cliff Booth spent his time entertaining you. He had no clue what to do with a child but he knew at that moment he had to protect you, he’d always did with Rick and call it an itch but he had a feeling that you were going to stick around.

Now fifteen years later, you complain to Cliff as you dry brush a fake sword’s blade with a rust brown paint, pots of paints and film props surrounding you at your little prop master’s table ready to topple over.

Over the many years you’ve been in and out of your brother’s life, mostly due to your parent’s inability to look after you correctly, you’ve grown to loath the big screen and all the entitled people that comes with it, instead falling in love with the small screen and indie films.

Many days you’ve spent watching Star Trek or Colombo on the telly with Rick pointing out which sets and props look to be made of Styrofoam and flimsy plastic.

Now at the age of twenty you have solid work as a prop maker for television. You love the job and you love the people.

Right at this moment you’re trying to make foam swords look real whilst Cliff tries to talk you around to apologising to your brother all because you called him an idiot for looking down on Spaghetti Westerns because they were ‘beneath him’.

“I’m not saying sorry Cliff.” You grumble as you dip your paint brush in a rusty looking solution made from many brown paints and diluting alcohol, “I didn’t spend most of my childhood stuck on his sofa watching B movies only for his failing ass to talk shit about them!”

Cliff hovers around you cluttered desk, the trailer you work in being cramped and filled to the brim with handmade props, no cigarette in sight for he has developed the habit of not smoking when you’re around (that and the trailer filled with props are so flammable that it would combust into flames at out flick of a lighter.)

“AND THEN, WHAT CLIFF!?!” your voice crescendos as you pad away any blotting paint on the prop sword, “He goes and does all those Spaghetti Westerns anyway getting the lead in that Nebraska Jim flick and what, a wife too! He’s funnelling money in the bin like it’s nothing and he still has the gall to talk shit about my line of work and what pictures I decide to create props for.”

You stand up you shin hitting leg of the table you work at making you swear up a storm.

Cliff only watches in slight amusement.

“I’ve worked on Star Trek you know, I’m friends with Leonard Nimoy, I’ve been inside DeForest Kelley house multiple times, I’ve been personally invited and gone to countless parties hosted by Grace Kelly and her husband all because I was nice to her that one time on the set of that musical film-“

“-I thought you didn’t like the Hollywood type.” Cliff asks in such brotherly way trying to get a rise out of you.

What, he might be fed up with your ongoing feud with Rick but he still sees you as his own little sister and he does find it fun teasing you.

“Yeah, well most of them I don’t but she is pretty and nice and she’s my friend- for fuck’s sake Rick is just jealous!”

“Well, that he might be squirt but I think-“ Cliff begins to guide you out the trailer away from the fumes of alcohol and oil paints, “- he might be more jealous that his little sister is being taken away by all these big wig actors.”

Hair a mess, paint covering your dungarees and magnifying glasses propped on top of your head like you some kind of mad scientist, a flow of extras on their break all in medieval garbs walking around, you turn around to Cliff with an anger on your face that melts into a profound sadness.

“He didn’t even invite me to his wedding, I haven’t even met his wife, for crying out loud Cliff I don’t want another absent father, I’ve already got plenty of those.”

Cliff was itching to get out a cigarette out of pocket but once he hears your outburst, once he sees your eyes welling up with tears and your round body slump somewhat he bounds over and engulfs you in a big hug that only fathers and father figurers know how to do.

“Come home and talk with Rick. I’ll be there and you can meet Francesca.”

You look up at Cliff as you both begin swaying in the hug.

“Can Brandy come to?”

“Of course kiddo-“ he says tightening his grip on you, “-to be honest I think she likes you the best.”

You let out a loud booming laugh that says ‘Ha! I knew it.’ one that gets Cliff laughing too.

I didn’t go quite as planned.

At first when you showed up Rick tried to act like nothing had happened, he did his normal smooching. He offered you a drink and smiled that movie star smile at you all whilst not introducing you to his wife who stood in the background slightly confused at the odd ordeal.

You waved off his offer of a drink and went straight to the fridge plucking out a can of beer.

“You want one Francesca?” you had asked, she replied with a baffled ‘no’ before you plonked yourself down on the sofa making yourself right at home.

You truly wonder what Francesca Capucci thought at that very moment seeing a round young woman with a smile like Mama Cass and a the grace of Etta James all rolled up in pain stained dungarees and Dr. Martens boots.

One thing lead to another, you and Francesca became fast friends whilst Rick and Cliff went off for drinks, and now you're lounging on Rick’s sofa with Brandy’s head on your lap and Cliff offering you a LSD laced cigarette which he’s been smoking.

“Shit, things must be bad if you’re smoking near me?” you grumble as you pat Brandy’s head with a lazy hand, “Nothing was resolved so let’s get shit faced, because that always goes well.”

“At least you met Francesca.” Cliff mutters as his face turns all smiley as the drugs take effect.

“Hum, yeah, she’s real pretty ain’t she…” you ponder out loud as the front door gets kicked in.

You jump up slightly, Brandy not too bothered by the two greasy haired people clad in black who stand there trying to look menacing.

“Ahhhh, can I help you?” Cliff asks.

Another one appears all in black too, her face a pale sickly white, a knife in her hand.

And to think your day couldn’t get any worse because oh boy, it does.

One moment you’re complaining to Cliff about your idiot brother with Brandy on your lap trying to cheer you up, the next thing you know you have a gun aimed at your face by the ‘horsey’ guy and Francesca only in her underwear being forced out into the living room by the redhead.

Thank fuck Cliff is both level headed and slightly crazy at the same time because one moment he’s laughing like a clown and the next Brandy is attacking the fuckers which gives you a bit of time to move out the way of the gun.

It’s when this so called Tex starts hitting Brandy do you snap out you little panicked trace (having a gun aimed at you does that to a person) do you leap over the sofa and begin punching him square in the face, your body holding him down so he can’t kick his way out of it, Brandy still mauling his arm like it was a tug rope.

By the time Cliff has thrown the can at the face of the pale woman, knocking her straight down and breaking her little white nose, you’re fully on top of Tex trying to knock him out.

Now, you were never the best puncher, when you were fourteen you punched a bully who was teasing you about your weight only to breaking your thumb in the process, by my gosh is the adrenaline kicking in has you trying to knock out Tex.

The frightened screams of Francesca in the background spurs you on, the fear of the nice (and very attractive) woman getting hurt making you see red.

Maybe you’ll unpack your childlike crush on the starlet along with the ongoing feud with your brother later on when you’re not trying to wrestle a grown man (said grown man who’s now getting his balls bit by Brandy.)

(Brandy will defiantly get all the treats and cuddles later on.)

“CLIFF! DO SOMETHING YOU DUMB BITCH!” you scream as Tex punches at you, some hits missing but most slamming right into your soft sides.

Doing something Cliff clicks his fingers and Brandy is off mauling Samara. At the same time Tex pushes you off him and charges at Cliff like an angry bull, one eye already going black from you repeated punches.

It’s all a fucking shambles all culminating in you climbing through a smashed window to see your dear brother Rick using his fucking flamethrower to burn the pale bitch like he was finishing crème brulee with a blow torch.

How fun.

“Rick! Be careful!” you try to scream but it only comes out as a pain filled garbled, “Rick.”

Your last call of ‘Rick’ sounds more like a sob than a word, your soft body in so much pain. Your face is stained with splatters of blood and trails of big fat tears which when Rick sees he scrambles to take off his flamethrower (safely of course) to run over to you and engulf you in the biggest of hugs.

Your cries of your brother’s name as you break down and cling onto him cause the older man to start crying ugly tears, ones that are louder that your own sobs.

“I’m sorry Rick.” you sniffle out.

“I’m sorry too-“ he lays a kiss on your hair and starts rocking you side to side in the tight hug like he used to do when you were little and had a nightmare, “I’ve been ignoring you and I didn’t tell you about Francesca.”

“I’m sorry too for ignoring you as well.”

“I’m sorry for being so mean-“

For the next ten minutes the two of you prattle off many apologises, too many really, so much so that when the red and blue flashing lights of emergency services clouds your blurry vision and paramedics try to pry you away from Rick you’re both still apologising.

[soft-for-them]

The cliché of being stuck in a lift with your crush - Spock x plus size reader

Summary: You get stuck in a lift with Spock. Based off prompts 8, 10 and 28 on this list. (Gender neutral because Spock is queer to me.)

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works.

A/N: Not proof read at all, also I changed the wording of the prompts a bit to match the way Spock speaks even though I feel that this is out of character. I haven't written for Spock in a while...

It is getting late, not that giant expanse of space indicated it. The sky is always an inky black filled with glittering stars and rotating planets. From you data pad you can gather it’s around nine in evening aka time to be relaxing maybe even sleeping however the universe has other plans for you.

You’re a red shirt, specifically working as an engineer, though you mostly work more on the smaller parts of the ship like the replicators and communication devices rather than the engines or any part of the ship that Scotty loves. Really you’re a jack of all trades, a plumber and an electrician rolled into one but with the added benefit that you work in space rather than on earth.

It’s a rewarding job and really you truly love it but because of it, that and the fact that you have many non red shirt friends on the Enterprise, you’re often the person called to fix silly little accidents that could have been avoided if people weren’t so clumsy.

If you had a penny for the amount of times you’ve turned a computer on and off or tightened a lose screw for an oblivious friend who thinks they’re about to blow up the ship you’d have enough money to retire early.

Dressed in a long bright pink bed shirt and a pair of boxers that poke out from under the t-shirt hem you slog over to the nearest turbo lift to go back to your room and sleep. Your mismatched socks dampen the sounds of your shoeless feet and you clutch a small tool box to your chest, the allen keys and magnetic screw drivers rattling around inside it.

A friend of yours had broken a light whilst flinging a chair at a ‘spider’, the creature not actually there. When you had gotten there they were in tears thinking that someone was going to shout at them for breaking the main light, their room mate panicking for they had walked into the messed up room and the scared human.

The light wasn’t broken. Sure the plastic covering the strip light had cracked but it hadn’t broke, instead the chair your friend had chucked across the room had slammed the light switch off making them think they broke the light.

For half an hour you’ve been comforting your dear friend, cleaning their room to the best of your ability whilst a nurse looked them over. The diagnosis was that they needed sleep and food so you had got them some food, tucked them into bed and promise to come replace the cracked plastic in the morning.

Now you step into a turbo lift wanting some food and sleep as well.

Your eyes go blurry as you step in and call out you destination, the lull of sleep beckoning you to your soft bed. You don’t notice a figure walk in behind you, their walk hurried. With tired eyes you look down to see a pair of shiny regulation shoes stood close but not too close.

Immediately you straighten up.

His voice calls out his own destination which makes you lift your head up, your round face going flush.

Here you are, t-shirt slipping down on shoulder showing more of soft skin than professional, your chubby legs covered in stubble and goose bumps and your face a frown.

Fuck, you’re not ever wearing shoes.

“Sir.” you greet clutching your tools closer to your chest your eyes wondering up to him.

“Lieutenant (y/n).”

Your face somehow gets even hotter.

For one thing you’re a Lieutenant junior grade not a Lieutenant, that and somehow Mr. Spock knows your first name which you never thought he knew! If this was an old earth cartoon you’d turn lobster red and faint at his feet at him calling your name.

“Busy night.” you say with an awkward smile lifting your tool box up a bit prove your point.

“Yes.” he states firmly, his eye still trained on you as the turbo lift moves, “I have been in many meetings today.”

You’ve never really liked small talk but somehow small talk with Spock isn’t awkward. You have the tiniest crush on the Vulcan for a while and here you are enjoying small talk and long pauses with him.

Your eyes tired and droopy linger on his long sharp features that you dream of only to notice he looks tired too. Not a tired as you but sleepy enough that it shows on his handsome face. His blue make up around his eyes is slightly smudge and the dim lift lights cast a yellow glow onto the out of place black hairs that stick up from his normally neat and tidy hairstyle.

Cold fingers itch to smooth down his stray hairs so much so that you don’t flinch as the turbo lift stalls to a stop, the door not opening despite being at the right floor.

Blinking you snap out of your trance not realising that Spock was staring at you too, neither do you realise the splotches of green blush creep up his pointed ears.

“Damn it! The door’s jammed.” you mutter as you poke at the interface screen doing your normal engineering thing trying to get it open.

You tap many buttons on the screen to no avail.

“We will be here for a while?” Spock asks stepping a bit closer to you.

“Looks like it.” you say prolonging the word ‘looks’ as you crouch down opening a side panel that no one except you and your workmates know about, a cluster of rainbow wires sticking out, “I might be able to override the door system though-“

You look up to the stoic Spock, his full attention on you and totally no on how your thighs press together as you fully lower yourself onto your knees.

“- probably can get it open but I’ll have to get some proper tools to fix it.” Either that or you’ll have to call someone else to fix it, though you don’t tell Spock that.

“That seems a logical plan Lieutenant.”

And there it is! For a split second you see his pretty eyes flicker down your body like he's done many times before.

You see your little crush on Spock is quiet new but you’ve known how he's looked at you for quite some time. At first you though he was judging you, you’re plus size so unfortunately you get the odd disproving look often, but then you’ve recently realised that his ears go green when his eyes catch on the curves of your body.

Or maybe you’re imagining things. Either way you like the idea of such handsome man looking at you like that.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me Mr. Spock-“ you boldly state as you fiddle about with some wires, “- you think I don’t notice but I’m a very perceptive person.”

“You do?”

Raising up, tool box left on the ground, you smile.

“I’m not sure what you think of me Mr. Spock but I know I like you, if that makes you uncomfortable then I know you’ll tell me.”

He steps closer into your personal space.

“The door is not open.” he muses, “I assume it will take a while?”

“Oh!” his eyes flicker down to your lips, “We should get comfy then?”

“Certainly Lieutenant.”

[soft-for-them]

Green first aid kit - Billy Hargrove x plus size reader

Summary: Back at school you find Billy worse for wear.

Trigger warning: This part does mention Billy's abuse and him having an injury from a fight, the fight isn't described or shown though.

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works.

Part one - Part two - Part three

Come Monday morning Billy Hargrove wasn’t at first period History sitting near you passing notes, neither was he hanging around before class waiting for you with a big grin, nor was he slipping in after the teacher had left so he can talk to you, he was nowhere to be found at all.

Deep down you wished for him to be hiding near your locker in between the small nook where a fire extinguisher and fire alarm sits, him dressed in his denim jacket, his hair fluffy and curled. He would come up with a reason why he wasn’t there, something along the lines of hating your history teacher with all his heart or sleeping in late and missing most of the lesson. But no, when you rushed over to your locker he wasn’t there, he wasn’t anywhere.

He wasn’t in for the whole day, you knew for sure for you overheard a cheerleader bitching about it like she was entitled to flirt with Billy, like he was expected to come to school every day to flirt with only her.

To think you wore a nice peach sun dress to school just so maybe he’d see you and call you princess again.

So the next day you’re uncharacteristically angsty, every second your eyes flicking to the clock above the chalk board then to the nearest door wondering if he’d walk in all smirks and no apologies. Normally you love second period English Literature but you're too fidgety to listen in to your teacher talk about Shakespeare and sonnets, the Tuesday morning classes dragging on too long.

You are leaned into the small desks more than normal, the wood of the table pressing into your stomach more, your mind stuck on Billy fucking Hargrove’s face and not on the bold writing on the board that states you have homework due in next week.

Truly you would be lying to yourself if you said last night you didn’t have a dream of Billy, that the dream felt so real that you worried somehow it was and that something terrible had happened whilst you were sleeping. It’s stupid and frankly untrue having such a vivid dream about waking up at the bottom of a swimming pool only to be saved by Billy, the sky a dark purple, the grass coloured like burnt ash and Billy looking like the living dead could never be true.

Well you hope it never does.

If you were one of those zodiac sign, gem stone collector, ‘what time where you born?’ women then maybe you could deduce a meaning from the dream but really you’re too tired and too on edge to think up one.

Maybe you’ll ask a stoner friend about the dream’s meaning, minus mentioning Billy, then maybe you can get some answers about it.

Lunch time comes along and you feel too sick to eat any cafeteria food, so with a brief ‘goodbye’ to your small group of friends paired with a weak excuse to ditch gossip time you hurry out the double doors of the cafeteria, down the many hallways and out the nearest exit only your purse in your pockets.

Technically it’s still summer but the impending autumn winds are slowly coming in, a warm gust of air jostling your baggy jeans, bits of white thread from the rips at your knees and on the inside of your thigh blowing upwards, the sleeves to your t-shirt whipping around your chubby upper arms. Really your outfit today is the bare minimum, you’re trying to look like you’re not having a bad day, a stark opposite to yesterday’s dressed up outfit. The thigh hole in your ancient jeans are from years chub rub and the holes in the knees from before you hit puberty, younger you having to buy bigger sized jeans from the adult section thus tripping over the bottoms of them every five minutes for you were a middle schooler who hadn’t had a growth spurt yet.

The joys of being plus size am I right…

For a moment you wonder if you can sneak out and find the nearest shop to get a snack, you’re used to walking long walks in short amount of time, most days you do that because you don’t own a car. You could really go for some overly sugary candy from a gas station or a pre-packaged baguette (which you’d only eat half of, the rest of it getting crammed into your locker for later on), anything other than the grey school lunch burgers with watery ketchup or stale vending machine crisps that coast too much.

Like always there’s a decision to be made; walk to the nearest shop most certainly being late for maths after lunch or just take a breather outside on an empty stomach, not being late for the next class.

Whilst some would call you a goody two shoes for always being in all your classes, the overwhelming feeling of dread, that feeling of hunger mixed with the sickness that comes with not wanting to walk back into the school building until you feel better takes over you. Everyone gets it one way or another, the people who are too worried about attendance tend to stay in the classrooms until they explode and break down while others frequently skive off school opting to smoking weed and kiss girls to chill out. You’re of sound mind and sound idea that calming down before heading back inside is the best course of action, maybe even touching some grass will get you mind off Billy Hargrove and maybe quell the gargling nervousness in your stomach.

But then again you need to eat, that and you fucking hate maths.

So it’s decided that you’re going to the shops, the walk and food will make you feel better in no time!

Scuffed shoes pick up gravel as you walk across to the car park, a hand digging into a pocket to make sure your purse is securely in place. You’re in no rush however you do dodge around the many parked cars in a certain way to make sure no teachers see you sneaking away, not that they’d really care all that much but there’s always that one teacher who likes to snitch on students.

You walk pass familiar cars of classmates, narrowly avoiding eye contact with a band kid you know inside his car trying to make moves on his girlfriend. You clamber up and onto the grass nearing an exit to the school, hands in your pockets and eyes looking out for moving cars.

The sun shines on the exit like a place maker in a video game, so you speed up your steps to get out as fast as you can not wanting to explain to any faculty why you’re sneaking out but then you see it.

Parked underneath some over grown trees, shielded by chunky pickup trucks and station wagons borrowed from parents is a car so familiar that it makes you stop mid step. The grey 79 Camaro sits dormant and shaded, from where you stand you can see the driver’s sun visor flipped down and the car is completely turned off, the engine not revving or spluttering.

Now the right thing to do is just to carry on your walk not going over there to see if it’s actually Billy’s 79 Camaro and not somehow another Camaro some jock copying Billy has bought to seem cool but you’ve been worrying about the ‘king’ of the school for the last two days so you shift your step and head over to the low down car.

*Tap* *Tap* Tap*

You lean over somewhat, the bumper of the car pressing into your legs as you tap the wind shield of the car, a very asleep Billy Hargrove in the front seat. His denim jacket covers his face from beams of sunlight that cut through the trees through the front window, his hands balanced on his toned stomached, fingers knitted together.

You shimmy around to the driver’s side squishing in between his Camaro and the truck next to it tapping on the side window.

“Billy.” you call quietly not wanting to blow your cover to anyone else sitting in their car. You look around before banging the window some more, your knuckles hurting just a bit as you knock on the thick glass.

“Billy!” whisper shouting isn’t doing it, “BILLY!”

Your voice turns stern but almost needy, the fear in your head that someone might catch you and drag you away ever present as you bend down slightly so you’re at eye level with the sleeping man. Your body presses against the other car, your face turning sour as you stop knocking.

Stepping out from the cars, still close but no longer trying to wake up Billy, you debate whether or not you should leave a note or something like him.

You frown at the idea, firstly because you only have a purse on you but also because what would you write to him if you did have a piece of paper and a pen?

“Hey, you missed history – (y/n).” no, he never promised that he would be there, you just assumed he would be.

“Sleepy head see you at the pool. – (y/n).” no, no, no. You don’t want to seem weird, you don’t want him to think that you’re planning on going back to the pool on the weekend just for him. Anyway you have work this weekend so it’s not like you could go either way.

Maybe you could just leave you home phone…. Fucking hell no, that’s the worst idea you’ve had yet.

Really when you saw Billy’s car you didn’t go other there to flirt, really you’re just worried. Whilst your interactions with the Cali man have been all positive as of late you’ve heard things, you’ve seen the things his so called ‘friends’ do, you’ve seen his dad around town and you keep clear of him.

The family members you live with have told you about Neil Hargrove and well you do not like the sound of him one bit.

You hover around still wondering what to do before spinning around and walking away from the car, your plan to get food foiled, the frown on your face now permanent for you know you’ve wasted enough time banging on the car window that you can’t go to the shop without missing maths.

“Fuck!” you mutter, your eyes going back to the Camaro.

Now sat up, jacket off his face, his eye wide and staring right back at you, Billy Hargrove looks out of place, no thoughts in his head, not like the normal smirking flirt you’ve come to know. You raise a hand to give him a little wave which snaps him out of his momentary mind blank. He lifts a hand up back which prompts you to walk back over.

“Roll the widow down.” you say with a little hand gesture once you get to the car.

He does so.

There staring up at you with the eyes of a scared child, his baby blues so watery and wide that they look like the sad sea, his left eyelid a deep purple bruise.

His left eye must have been swollen shut at one point for his eyelid is still a bit droopy.

“Billy…”

You don’t intend your voice to be so wobbly when you say his name, your own (e/c) eyes watering up but your voice wavers and your eyes fill with salty water.

“I’m fine princess.” he barely gets out, “Just lost a fight Sunday night, that’s all.”

Fuck. You don’t want him calling you princess when he’s so sad. You selfishly want him calling you princess when his eyes are filled with mischief or even lust, not when he’s about to burst into tears.

He must think you’re pitying him for he looks away his forehead hitting the top of the steering wheel.

“Billy-“ his eyes flicker to yours, his curly blonde hair half covering the side of his face, “- I was going to walk to the shops but-“

You try to think of how to say your next words without sounding like you’re demanding a free lift from the obviously dejected man in front of you.

“-Do you want to come with me? I, well, we can share some food.”

He nods his head ‘yes’.

You don’t have a lot of money, that is clear, but today you have enough loose coins and crunched up dollar notes to pay for the things you need.

You enter the small out the way shop, the bell above the door stuck and not ringing. The shop used to be a petrol station before the chain company that owned it went bankrupt, now it’s just a shop with the worst painted parking lines you’ve ever seen.

The man behind the till tilts his head up from his newspaper, his puffy eyes staring you down as you shuffle past a rack of crisps into an aisle filled with cupboard food. The metal shelves that tower above you are packed with every kind of dry food you’d ever need. Your eyes flicker from boxed yellow pastas to dusty lidded jars of red unnamed sauces. You move along, wallet tightly in your hands as you walk down the aisle to the very back of the shop where the wall to ceiling freezers and fridges sit. For a moment you look in the freezer a frozen mac n’ cheese catching your eyes.

Whilst the family you live with do cook the odd meal for you most of the time they’re out the house so you have to cook for yourself and well, the fridge-freezer at home is very much empty at the moment. There is probably some stuff in the cupboards but normally you don’t bother with that food for the last time you ate some cupboard food (some half stale frosted flakes) you were yelled at.

It would be nice to have a warm meal tonight, even if it’s a microwave meal, but you have to go back to school and having a frozen ready meal in your bag does not sound like a good idea.  You cringe at the thought of the flimsy plastic getting pierced by a rouge pencil and spilling throughout your bag.

Ew, no thank you!

Instead you walk over to the fridges filled with soft drinks.

Up close you can tell the fridges aren’t actually on, the little orange filament lights off and the drinks bone dry. It doesn’t bother you that much, you’re only planning on getting some drinks and not a whole meal of probably gone off food. Anyway, from working at shop yourself you’ve seen much worse things, you just glad that there isn’t any fuzzy mould on the bottle caps.

Quickly you open the sliding door and take out a boxed grape juice and a bottled flavoured water, the inked words ‘summer fruits’ smudged. You would love to have a milkshake right about now but you stay away from the milks on the bottom shelf, you face scrunching up in disgust.

You walk around the shop some more, not caring for any of the junk being sold. You do however find yourself at the sweets section. The little shelf is filled to the brim with colourful candy and plastic junk toys, everything from chocolate bars to lollypops shaped like diamond rings.

A small packet of hard boiled sweets catches your eyes, the red and white striped plastic bag reminiscent of the paper bags at fun fairs or cinema pick n’ mixes, the little clear window showing individually wrapped sweets in every colour known to man.

A yellowed price sticker sloppily placed over the logo says it’s only a dollar fifty so you pick the bag up to buy. You shove the bag between your fingers and the drinks, you other hand free with your wallet lodged between your arm and chest.

Slowly but surely, your eyes flickering all around to see if you’ve missed anything you might want as you arrive to the front counter.

The front counter is high up, a thick plastic pane with hand prints and unknown splashes of stuff shielding the man and the shelf filled with cigarettes from grabby hands and angry eyes of disgruntled customers. There’s a big enough a hole in the plastic that the man, a forty something year old with red irritated eyes and a bold spot a monk would be jealous of, can look at you with judging eyes whilst scanning your items.

“You better not want any alcohol Miss.” says the man. Despite his less than stellar looks he sounds more sad and fed up than judgemental or creepy, he probably get too many teenagers with fake ID’s coming in along with out of towners with visible guns on their hip.

“No alcohol just these-“ you say with an awkward smile, “-oh, but um is that for sale?”

Your eyes catch onto a flash of green hung sat snug in between a giant jug of vodka and a line of off brand cold remedies.

It’s a small first aid kit.

You point to it hoping that your finger isn’t pointing to the vodka.

“The first aid kit, yeah, it is.”

“How much?”

The man says the price making you visibly frown. The price isn’t much considering it’s a first aid kit but you’re not sure you have the right amount for it.

“I’ll take it.” you say as you place your items down and begin taking out handfuls of coins.

You know you are a dollar short as you recount your crumpled dollar bills. You look up to see that the man has already bagged your stuff including the first aid kit.

“I might have to put something back.” you sheepishly say.

“Nah, have it.” He passes you the bag, “If you’re needing a first aid kit then you’re needing it, you know? I don’t want anyone bleeding out because you were a dollar short and didn’t have it.”

“Thank you.” you’re really at a loss for words but you get you thanks out.

“I don’t own this place anyway, I only work here.” he says with the smirk of a man who often nicks a pack of smokes off the back shelf without the shop owner knowing.

You talk some more before walking out the shop, the pack of sweets already in hand, your fingers digging into the bag to find a sweet that isn’t strawberry flavoured. As soon as you pull out a bright green sweet you look up to see a pair of red rimmed steely blue eyes staring right at you.

Billy, eyes wide like a deer in the middle of a road watches intently as you walk over to his 79 Camaro (which is parked somewhat awkwardly in the wobbly lines of the parking space.) The car is parked close to the shop, right at the front of it in fact and ever since you were in the shop his gaze has been locked on the front door for the shop windows are covered in posters and adverts blocking any view of you inside he could have had.

For ten minutes Billy has been frozen still waiting for you to reappear so he can finally let out a long breath. He looks like he hasn’t blinked in the short time you were inside, his baby blues watery, the welling of tears threatening to spill once more.

“Want one?” you ask as you slide into the passenger seat, the bag of sweets shoved on the centre console closer to Billy.

Billy does not say anything, he just breathes like he just run a mile his chest heaving as large amounts of air enter his lungs.

“Billy?” you ponder, your voice small and quiet, “Billy.”

His eyes snap onto yours. For a moment you see something, a glimmer of fear maybe, in his eyes before his face droops.

“Hey, hey, hey-“ you begin, your body leaning over the centre console, hands grasping onto his arms as lightly as you can, “- you’re ok, I’m not going to hurt you.”

He looks like a wounded animal.

“Billy-“ you go to say something, something that probably wouldn’t help in the long run but something so he can hear you over his very present running mind.

Before you can though his right hand shoots up and grabs your forearm, his digits digging into your soft skin.

He doesn’t know if he wants your hands off him or if he’s forcing you not to move. Billy thinks for a long time his fingers flexing and relaxing but not letting go of your arm before said hand grabs at your own hand, his longer thicker fingers intertwining with yours in a death grip.

With you other hand, which you quickly take off his arm, you rifle through your plastic bag and pull out the two drinks along with the little first aid box.

“Here, take ‘um.” With your fingers aching from clutching three things at once Billy eventually takes the drinks and the first aid kit, his eye focusing on the first aid kit especially, “I have no clue what’s in the kit but I thought you could keep it in the car if you got in another fight…”

“…How do you know it was a fight?”

“Bruises that big don’t come from bumping into corners or falling down stairs.” you should know, you’ve bumped into many table corners and tripped down the stairs too many times to count and you’ve never gotten an injury that big and angry.

The car goes silent for a while the only sounds of you trying to quietly crunch the sweets and Billy unzipping the first aid kit to look inside it. There’s the normal inside; plasters that are an odd pale peach colour, gauze and safety pins, a couple individually wrapped antiseptic wipes, old yellowing instructions printed on thin paper and a small gel compress to help with swelling and aches.

“Thank you.” Billy whispers, his hands now clutching at the green first aid kit rather than your hand.

His eyes are trained down on the cross adoring the kit, the two drinks on his lap long forgotten.

“I-I know that home life ain’t that good-“ you start, not knowing exactly where you’re going with the conversation, “- but I’m here for you.“

“You don’t know what’s going on princess, you can’t help.” Billy says now looking at you.

“But I know about your dad, that’s how you got that isn’t it?” you vaguely point to his bruised eyes.

His eyes flicker away from yours giving you the answer you didn’t want but already knew.

“I don’t know much Billy-“ you duck down to catch his eyes, a small smile forming on your pretty face, “- but I do know that I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire because men like him wouldn’t even say thank after saving them, they’d just carry on like normal hurting and breaking everything in their way.”

Billy would have smirked at your words but his eyes have gone too wide in shock.

“Why don’t we skip maths hey?” you ask grabbing his hand in a warm but tight grip.

“Sure princess.” He finally replies with a small smile.

.

.

.

A/N: If you want a part four please send in an ask rather than commenting for another part, this is just because asks are an easier way for me to track requests. Comments are still welcomed and requests are open!

[soft-for-them]

Bracelet names and drying washing - Gilbert Blythe x plus size reader

Summary: You were just washing clothes until your soul mark appears (Soulmate AU, can be seen as any version of Gilbert.)

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works.

A/N: I've written that the reader doesn't go to church, so interpret it as you will because too much historical fan fiction makes the reader automatically Christian and white thus excluding POCs and non Christians and I'm not here for that. Also not proofread.

Clothes of many colours hang on the washing line as morning comes and goes.

The sun is bright and it’s surprisingly warm with only a small amount of chilly wind jostling the damp clothes on the line. For an hour now you’ve been washing clothes, at the moment a particularly gruelling mud stain on a rich blue skirt snatching your attention away from the nice warm day. Normally you would soak such stain but you’re being paid to get rid of it quickly so you scrub and scrub and scrub at it.

Your sleeves are rolled up to your chubby upper arms, your own skirt wet with dirtied water as you sit awkwardly on a foot stall, a bucket of yellowing water in front of you.

On a day like today you’d normally be outside reading a book on your little hill maybe even going on a nice walk but you need the money for repairs to your home and really you need the distraction from you little crush so you carry on attacking the dried mud on the skirt like it’s the only thing to do on this nice day.

You’re up to your elbows in murky water so you don’t see the black smudge forming around your wrist, even when you do see the smidgen of black you just rub at it thinking that it’s a bit of mud not noticing that the mark has become jet black and permanent.

“How do you get so much mud on a skirt!” you mutter to yourself as you lift the skirt from the water bucket, the long royal blue skirt belonging to one of the daughters of the local shop owner, the martial too nice for such simple garment and the waist line too tiny for someone as round as you.

It must be a skirt someone would wear to a wedding or church but you don’t go to church so you have no clue how someone could get so much mud on it, especially when it’s so sunny. It’s almost always sunny for crying out loud, you get having grass stains but mud!

You dunk the skirt back in the bucket and pull it back up.

“Ah! YES!” you cheer, the mud stain now finally gone.

You go to stand and a hang the skirt on the washing line strung between two sturdy trees but your eyes trains down to your wrist, the so called mud that you had wiped off still lingering there.

Dark and bold like black ink, your try to wipe away the mark around your wrist only for the swirl of black to solidify on your skin, a name now clear on your (s/c) skin.

Gilbert Blythe.

Like a bracelet around your wrist, the capital ‘G’ starting on the side of your wrist below your thumb, the cursive writing whimsical but clear.

You drop the skirt.

Splashes of dirty water jumps out the bucket onto the dull brown of your dress the water soaking through your shift to your soft body.

Frozen is shock your mind starts to wonder as a small gust of cold wind attacks the drying washing.

For years now you’ve loved Gilbert Blythe, ever since your family moved here when you were twelve. You’ve always been an odd one out in the community being that you don’t look like the average person who lives around here. Most people around here are thin, white and middle aged with an ever growing family, most of which are avid church goers who are very old fashioned in there ways.

Gilbert has always been kind to you but he had fallen in love with another, thus your heart breaking and you solemnly moving on. Still you stayed kind to all, to him especially and now you’re an adult you thought your love for him had dissipated but then Anne of Green Gables took a scholarship and moved away.

Somehow that love young you had for him sprouted back up and for the last year you’ve been trying not to be a bumbling blushing idiot in front of Gilbert.

Your thoughts of his handsome face and the utter shock of your soul mark bearing his name appearing today of all days is suddenly interrupted by another gust of wind, a wind so strong that a petticoat rips form the washing line carrying it down the hill from where you stand.

“Fuck!”

You hope no one is around to hear and see you for you bolt after the petticoat, your mouth running with curse words of varying vulgarity.  

Out of breath with legs beginning to ache you almost fall flat on your face, the grass of the small hill near the trees and stream were you were washing suddenly changing into a thin dirt road. You momentum subsides, your chest heaving up and down as your whole body aches from the sudden running and from all the scrubbing you've been doing.

There standing on the other side of the road (well it’s more just a line of dead grass but it’s used as a road none the less) stands a man, a man you know all too well.

Gilbert walks over to you with equal parts concern and amusement, a damp petticoat in one hand his other hand, more specifically, his other wrist bare, his shirt sleeve rolled up to his elbow.

His white shirt is crumple, his blazer long forgotten, his shoes covered is grass and dirt from running, his eyes sparkling with wonder and hope.

On his wrist in ink black writing, your handwriting to be exact, the name (Y/n) (L/n) big and bold lays like a bracelet.

[soft-for-them]

Burrito - Jason Todd x plus size ftm reader

Summary: Jason comes back from work to find his boyfriend curled up on the sofa a bit dysphoric.

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works.

A/N: Gif is just a random one, imagine any Jason you want. Sorry this is so short, my own dysphoria was hitting and I didn't want to write about it too much.

Jason barges through the front door of his shared flat, the sound of the TV playing the music charts filling the hallway/living room, the big light turned off with only the microwave and TV glowing light into the room.

Roy, his good friend and room mate, stands near the microwave his eyes focused on the spinning burrito that cooks, his hand hovering near the door handle to quickly pull it open a second before it dings.

His eyes stay on the food as he greets Jason.

“Hello.” Jason greets, a pause in his step as he looks around for you his boyfriend, “Where’s (y/n)?”

“Sofa.” Roy states as his eyes shoot over the long corner sofa, the microwave dinging making him swear and grab the burrito off the spinning plate, “Ow, fuck, fuck.”

Jason almost lets out a chuckle as his best friend juggles a steaming burrito in his hands but he is beat to it by the melodic sound of his lover's laughing.

“Roy you better not drop my burrito!” you half yell from you place on the sofa, you voice grumbly and sounding deeper than normal, the lingering gruffness from the fact you were happily asleep before Roy elbowed you and asked if you wanted something to eat.

Taking up the larger portion of the corner sofa, clad in the comfiest pyjamas, a stolen wonder woman hoodie of Jason’s and a pile of heavy fluffy blankets that cover all but your head, here’s to say you’re you very own burrito.

Jason rounds the sofa and see you. He smiles at the first, the sight of his hoodie on you, the hood up and covering your head making your hair messy makes him feel warm inside but then his face goes stern and worried.

Without a word he walks over to you and bends down to place a kiss on the the little bit of exposed forehead not covered by hoodie fabric or slightly sweaty hair. His kiss lingers as a hand emerges from under the many layers and blankets and cradles his face.

“How my favourite hero?” you grumble, sleepy eyes looking up to his as he peppers your face with more welcomed kisses.

“I’m *kiss* doing *kiss* great.” he says as he lowers down to kiss you more.

“Oh, I meant Batman.” you cheekily smile causing your boyfriend to stop his kisses and pout like a naughty child, “Don’t be like that Jay, you know Wonder Woman is the best.”

“Humm, correct answer.” he kisses you once more before standing back up straight.

Jason pause and looks at you for a moment, something seeming off about you. Normally you’d hit back with a reply like ‘but Batman is the second best’ either that or you’d pull him down to kiss more but you don’t.

“You feeling alright?” he asks.

“Just a bit off.”

Off.

That only means one thing, you’re feeling so dysphoric that you just want to be swallowed up by the ground until you feel better.

The blankets around you are a protective shield from prying eyes, even if it’s just him and Roy there to see you, and even then his or Roy’s eyes aren’t prying at all. Normally you’d be outside on your day off seeing friends, going to cafes, having fun but now you’re just zooning out as another pop song plays on the telly.

“Do you want to talk about it or do you just want a hug?” Jason asks as Roy places a plated burrito on the coffee table followed by him flopping down in an armchair watching the charts.

“Cuddle.” you answer.

Despite still wear parts of his hero costume, sans the bulky stuff like his helmet, armour or boots, Jason plonks himself on top on you, his wide body sliding down the side of you and the sofa. You unravel your cocoon of blankets so he can wrap his strong arms around your soft middle, his chin resting on top of your head.

You fling your layers of blankets over him, engulfing him into the blanket burrito.

You’ll be ok, with Jason there you know you will, but just for now you’ll stay wrapped up warm inside where you feel safe and unseen.

[soft-for-them]

Godmothers - Rika x plus size reader

Summary: Both Rika and you are Poppy's godmothers and Rika is developing a small crush on you.

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works.

A/N: Rika is a butch lesbian, that's how I'm writing her. I've not specified if she's mtf, trans masc or nonbinary so go wild with your headcanons.

“Come on kiddo-“ you say tiredly as you stand at the entrance of the Elite Four, a small blue kid’s backpack slung around your shoulder and a book bag in your hand, “- Poppy come on! Your dinner will be cold at this rate.”

Poppy, your god-daughter and little terror, takes her time saying goodbye to the Elite Four members, her cheery little face bringing out a small smile on your face. First she high fives Hassle, followed by hugging the legs of Larry (who, despite looking put off, actually pats her head back) and finally she bounds up to Rika, her other godmother, and begging to be picked up to be hugged which Rika does.

You look up to your Dragonite, who unlike other Dragonites towers above you, the bandana around his neck actually a giant picnic blanket. You pat the orange dragon on his leg, reassuring him that it’s almost home time.

“Poppy-“ you begin before the bright face of your god-daughter pops up in front of you, startling you and your dear Pokémon, a muttered expletive falling out your mouth.

“-I’m ready (y/n)!” she cheers, her small hand wrapping around two of your fingers, ready to hop on Dragonite to fly back home to Montenevera.

“Have you got everything?” you automatically ask.

“Yes!” she cheers.

“You sure?”

“One hundred percent positive.” she beams.

“Ok, we have to go home quick, Greavard and Klefki are watching the soup on the stove-“

“-SOUP!” she cheers as you lift her up onto Dragonite, her small little arms hugging the dragon ‘hello’.

“Yes, soup and some cheese on toast.”

Before you hop on to Dragonite you look back to see Rika standing there. Larry and Hassel have already gone back in and like usual Geeta is nowhere to be found.

You give a small wave to Rika.

For a moment you think you see a flush of red take over Rika’s face but you put it up to being outside in the cold weather with the sleeves of her shirt rolled up.

You jump onto Dragonite and wave some more to Rika, Poppy following suit with both of her small hand franticly waving back to her other godmother. You hold on to Poppy so she does not fall and command Dragonite to take you both home.

Dinner has long been eaten, the whole of your little house shrouded in the dying light of day, the frost on the windows melting for it’s so warm inside. You quickly get dressed in a baggy t-shirt with a flaking print of the Pokecentre logo on it along with a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms. You help Poppy into the thick and warm nightdress the colour of steel, her blue hair already sticking up from taking off her bonnet.

“Ok, time to brush teeth.” you say as you brush her cowlicks down with a licked thumb, her little rosy face contorting into a look of disgust.

“Stop! I don’t want you germs!” she squeals as she runs out your grasp up to the cupboard under the bathroom sink that houses a little green step stool underneath.

You stand back up with a smile on your face. You never thought that you’d ever become a mother figure to someone, let alone did you ever think your best friend would leave her daughter in your care but you’ve been raising Poppy for two years now and you really can’t see a life without her.

“(Y/n)!” she calls. You look over to her to see she’s dragged the stool over to the sink herself and is now standing on top of it, a blue light up toothbrush in hand ready for you to put some toothpaste on it for Poppy still cannot squeeze the toothpaste tube without it exploding.

“Yes, yes, coming.” you jog over and grab you own brush, squeezing pea size blobs of bubble gum flavoured toothpaste on each of your brushes, “Remember, circular motions.”

Standing in front of the same mirror the two of you brush your teeth, Poppy focusing all her might into bushing circular on each tooth.

Surrounded by all Poppy’s pokémon you tuck her in, the thick duvet right up to her chin as she nods away almost asleep.

“(Y/n).” she mutters as Copperajah lays their trunk on the bed for her to grab, Bronzong and Magnezone humming quietly, Corviknight being chased by Tinkaton. You call out Tinkaton who stops chasing Corviknight and huffs over to Poppy’s double bed, both steel type pokémon cuddling into either side of the little girl.

“Can you tell me a story?” Poppy asks as you sit on the side of the plush bed, your hand patting Copperajah’s trunk.

“Sure, what do you want me to read?”

“No reading, from head.” she mutters as she sinks down in the covers, her eyes fighting to stay open.

“I don’t have any good stories.” you mutter whilst trying to think up a child friendly story to tell her.

You could just recite a children’s fairy tale to her from the top of your head but you quickly scrap that idea for you know she’ll catch on to it pretty quickly and tell you to read something else. Maybe you could make up a story, mash two Aesop stories together and hope she doesn’t realise that you have no clue what you’re on about.

“Um…” you pause, “…do you know about Giratina?”

Crossing you fingers she doesn’t know the legend of the Giratina.

“No-“ she yawns a big over the top yawn, “-tell me!”

So you do and before you can even get to the parts where Dialga and Palkia appear she is fast asleep.

You hitch up the little girl cuddling into your back, her arms wrapped around your neck like a padlock, a thick blanket covering her from the night’s cold wind.

Your pokémon Dragonite, Klefki and Greavard are out their pokeballs for they were tucked up in bed with you before Poppy woke up crying. They crowd around you making sure that Poppy doesn’t burst out crying again. Klefki, ever the sweetheart bobs up and down near Poppy’s face making little clinking noises that makes the small child giggle between sniffs whilst Greavard lights the small walk from where Dragonite landed to the elite four.

Not caring that it’s too late at night to be doing this, you buzz the doorbell of the elite four followed by knocking on the door with your spare hand.

You wait there for over ten minutes consoling the devastated Poppy whilst trying to lock pick the door with Klefki only for a side door to open, well an emergency exit opens, and a tired looking Rika to pokes her head out.

Before she can even begin reprimanding whoever has woken her up (for she certainly was not asleep at her desk, no she was not) she sees you lot and pauses.

Poppy clings to your raggedy t-shirt, her little fists clenching so hard that the t-shirt rides up showing the soft curved but goose bumped skin of your belly, a knitted blanket hanging down like a cape, only Poppy’s hands and head poking out from underneath.

“Do you have her teddy bear?” you yell out as Poppy clutches at you more.

Rika blinks, her eyes blurry from just waking up (oh, and the lack of glasses).

“What?” she says as she leans out the exit, trying to keep the door open with her foot so it doesn’t close on her.

“Teddiursa-“ you hike Poppy back up before walking over to Rika, “-her teddy Teddiursa, the one that used to be a keyring.”

Rika moves her eyes off your round pretty face towards her god-daughter only to be met with little sniffles and watery eyes.

“Ok, ok, I’ll go and find it.” she turns to look at you once more, pausing too long for it not to be weird, “One moment.”

The exit door slams shut as you stand there, your slippers getting a bit soggy and Poppy still sniffling on your back.

“Hey Pops, it’s ok. Rika knows where Teddy is.” you coo to the small child who grips onto you harder.

“But *sniff* what if-if she can’t *sniff*-“

You tilt you head back to see big fat tears begin to reform in her wide eyes, her small hands covered by long sleeves rubbing at her face.

“Hey, hey,hey-“ you say as you meticulously bring the little girl around so she’s now clinging to your front and not your back, “-you’re ok Poppy, Rika is just coming back right now.”

And like you have predictive powers Rika, still sans tie but now with her glasses on, rushes out the exit door with a certain Teddy in hand.

“Poppy look what Rika found!” you smile and point to the bear as Rika stops close to you.

Poppy turns a teary face to Rika, her eyes going wide like dinner plates, her hands grabbing thin air for the bear. The stuffed Teddiursa is small and raggedy, a safety eye missing and the hole where it once was sewn up by you, the fuzzy fur matted and old, despite all this it’s Poppy’s favourite toy.

Poppy cuddles the small bear with all her strength, your arms wrapping around her tightly so she doesn’t fall backwards from the forceful hug.

You mouth a ‘thank you’ to Rika as Poppy begins to nod off asleep in your arms.

Rika watches you carefully hold her daughter- wait, god-daughter – tightly. You and your pokémon hop onto Dragonite and fly away.

Her face is flushed red and the exit to the elite for is firmly closed.

“Geeta!” Rika looks at her ex-girlfriend with wide eyes, “I can’t have these feelings.”

Geeta rigidly pats Rika on the back trying to comfort the elite four member resumes banging her head on the desk.

“You can have whatever feelings you like… as long as it doesn’t mess with you work.”

A distorted kind of ‘ahhhh’ sound escapes Rika.

This big crush of hers is going to get her fired.

[soft-for-them]

Breakfast and tea - Annie Edison x reader

Summary: Annie cooks you breakfast and you cook her tea.

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works.

A/N: This is a female reader fic for the anon wanted it but also Annie always gives me deep in the closet lesbian vibes. Anyway, I haven't watched Community in like a year so sorry if it's a bit out of character...

You wake up to a blaring alarm that sounds like an old Nokia ringtone distorted and put to full volume, your body jolting right up to the sun already shining bright and the small bedroom’s blinds already open.

Getting up, pyjamas crinkled and ridden up, your side of the bed (the left side to be exact) a complete mess compared to your wife’s side of the bed.

Her side is neatly made, the duvet flat and without a wrinkle, the pillows precisely aligned with the decorative pillows you'd throw off the bed the night before piled up accordingly, your teddy bears (the ones you told her had to live on the bed for that’s where they’ve always lived) propped up nicely, their little legs tucked under the covers.

“Morni’ fellas.” you murmur to the bears, two of which have little graduation hats on their heads, one of them scruffy and stained with paintball paint, the Greendale community college logo on the graduation cap looking a bit odd compared to you plain fluffy brown bear with shiny black eyes and the logo of the university you went to on the robes.

“Moring (Y/n)!” you mimic the voices of the bears, the ascent you put on silly and ever changing but it always makes yourself laugh. You smile as you wipe the sleepy out your eyes, your feet taking you out the bedroom towards the kitchen of the small flat.

The sweet smell of slightly burnt waffles still linger in the air. You know right away your wife must have used the dodgy waffle machine you bought second hand the first year of university, for the thing always burns the edges of the waffles if you don’t know the exact time to open it and well, you wife hardly uses the machine so when she does she often ends up with half burnt waffles.

You get to the small kitchen, feet hitting the cold floor tiles, the kitchen shiny clean. The waffle machine has been scraped and cleaned from any char and placed back in the cupboard, the counter tops all smelling of surface cleaner and the dishes drying on the drying rack.

Humming as you shuffle around you see a neon yellow sticky note neatly stuck on the microwave door, which is ajar, neat and familiar handwriting making you walk over to the appliance.

In Annie’s handwriting so clear and with a small heart at end the sticky note says:

‘Breakfast is in here, don’t microwave the tray again – Annie <3’

Your smile widens as you take the note, folding up neatly and shoving it into your pyjama bottoms pocket.

You open up the microwave door to see a petite plastic square tray with a plate filled with waffles on it along with the smallest jug of syrup on the side. Annie must have burnt the waffles bad for yes, the waffles are shaped sweetly like hearts but are very small. If you were to go to the pedal bin near the fridge right now you would see the cut off burnt bits of waffle purposely hidden buy trash.

“Huh, sweet.” you mumble as you take the tray from under the plate and take out the syrup and microwave the waffles.

You carry on your day, little note on you throughout your work shift, the waffles filling you up until you get home.

Annie feels like a sweaty unorganised mess as she tries to jiggle the key out the front door lock as she tries to get inside. He hair is sticking out in all directions, the neat to dress code bun on her head drooping down, the many black bobby pins in her hair failing to keep the strands out her eyes. Her FBI uniform, well the nice once clean and pressed suit sticks to her skin for she was running about all day doing FBI stuff such as running to the printer, looking at pictures of a murdered woman, running back to the printer, having a ‘pepe silvia’ moment followed by running back to the printer but not to print but to photocopy.

Really all she want to do is get cleaned and to hug her wife.

“Honey-“ she opens the door but is unable to wiggle the keys out the door, the lanyard attached to the set of keys hitting the door as she tries, “-I’m. Home!”

She finally gets the key out of the door with a finale yank, her polished shoes crossing the boundary of her home.

Right away Annie smells food cooking, her favourite food.

She wipes her shoes on the welcome mat before taking them off and placing them on the shoe rack near the door followed by picking up your own shoes that you had kicked off when returning from work earlier on, the trainers flung into a corner and not on the shoe rack.

At least your coat is on the coat stand.

“Hello my love!” you smile as you lean a bit backwards, still stirring the soup on the stove top, so you can get a good look at your wife, “How was work?”

Annie stands there at the door frame to the kitchen looking tired, she doesn’t need to say anything to answer it.

“Come here.” you say, urging her over with a ‘come hither’ hand movement. She bounds over in few steps, her body banging into the side of yours, her arms wrapping around your middle, your own free arm coiling around her shoulders.

“I made your favourite meal along with some warm soup-“ she looks up to you with wide eyes as you carry on talking, hugging her and stirring the food, “- I would say something like ‘soup warms the heart’ but really the veggies where about to go bad and I panicked and cooked soup.”

“Soup can be froze.” She replies as she snuggles in your side.

“Very true.” you click off the hob and carefully move the pan to the side, your body now turning around to fully envelop you wife in a hug.

You kiss her forehead and hug her some more, for a moment you two stand quietly.

“Thanks for the breakfast... I didn’t microwave the plastic tray this time.”

She looks up to you, “Good, do you know what it’s like cleaning plastic out of a microwave.”

“I assume very unfulfilling because we had to get a new one anyway.”

You burst out in laughter as Annie playfully pushes your arm.

“I’ve warmed up the water so go have a shower, I’ll set the table and try not to break any more appliances.”

Annie pecks a kiss on your lips, “I love you.”

“Love too!” you shout as she disappears into the bathroom.

A/N: Tea as in meal tea not the drink, I'm British ok and I'm not changing the title for it lines up nicely, ok.

[soft-for-them]

As warm as a dead man can be - The Captain x male reader

Summary: A small look into the life of you and the Captain.

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works.

A/N: One of my favourite gay Ben Willbond characters, which there's a lot of...

It took a few decades to get over your own death, to come to terms with the fact that you’re forever stuck in the same house where you died, giant bleeding gash in your abdomen and outfit never changing.

Though through all it he’s been there.

At first he’d check in on you, minding not to stand too close, his posture stiff but his eyes shaped like hearts. He would watch on as you entertained Kitty, the young woman becoming a sister to you, his heart swelling with pure love he hadn’t felt since Havers, his hands itching to be held.

Then the check ins evolved into him sitting next to you whilst you stared off into space, the early nineties being the hardest for you because the sudden realisation that you’d never age another year age had dawned upon you. He’d sit close, sometime he’d tell a story to quell your nerves, other times he’d allow you to talk about the seventies and the hippy movement, about passed lovers, how for just a moment you felt a part of something bigger. However, one day when the skies cried out heavy thunderous rain, the other ghosts hidden away and quiet, you had flung your arms around him in the tightest hug.

Those hugs became frequent when eyes weren’t watching, your fingers always touching him when you walked passed and you'd always aligning the lapels of his uniform just to be close.

The Captain likes that you’re a very touchy person. Maybe it’s because he can't touch anything else with his hands, that the only thing that he can feel are the cold dead skin of the other ghosts.

The Captain loves to watch you dance with Kitty, the young woman always begging you to teach her disco dance moves, either that or she’s dragging you about the house like a hyper little child pointing at everything like she’s never seen it before. Just imagine the sight, you dressed in your flared jeans, cowboy boots and white shirt (not minding the blood stains) being twirled around by Kitty, your eyes catching the Captain’s with every spin, a giant smile on your face.

You’d get the courage to steal kisses from him years later. The first time it happened it must have been two thousand and four in late afternoon, you both were sitting outside watching the clouds in silence when all the sudden you leaned over, peck him on the cheek followed by fleeing.

The Captain had sat in the same place red faced for a half hour before Fanny came around disturbing the peace.

That very same day the Captain had the courage to ask for another kiss, for he was too shy to do it himself, which you did. Then you did it again. And again, and- well you get the picture.

His hands are as warm as a dead man could be, his fingers intertwined with yours as you relax in a quiet corner of the house. His jacket if off, though he can’t go far without it for it is a part of what he died in. Your hands are warm and so connected to his that they refuse to let go.

Pat would have described your hands like a stubborn knot that could only be untied by the best of knot tiers.

Your face leans on the Captain shoulder, his cheek pressed in the short crop of your hair, the seventies style jostled by the occasional kiss.

The radio plays in the background, radio four playing for it’s the best compromise between your music tastes, the long talking of the presenters lulling in the background almost like the two of you have left Button house and are sat in a nice café or park.

“It’s a nice day today.” you say as your eyes trail to the small window overlooking the large back garden, the radio mixed with the birds songs calming you down from morning filled with disorganised chaos and too many dead bodies.

“It is indeed.” he replies as you nestle into his shoulder some more.

“My Captain how I wish to stay like this forever.” you whisper as you take you other hand and cup his face, your fingers moving across his jaw.

The Captain happily hums almost like a purr, a thing he only really does around you, his body sinking closer to yours.

“Let’s stay here until the sun sets and everyone lays down to sleep.” you carry on.

“I would stay here forever if it was here with you.” Captain whispers, his voice so quiet that you almost miss it.

You smile and snuggle closer, the sun yet to set.

[soft-for-them]

The lost god - Týr x plus size reader

Summary: Týr has heard of a lost god, a god who is no longer in her homeland, a god who he needs to meet.

A/N: I wrote this quick which is odd for me for I'm bad at actually dedicating time to writing asgfdsrfg.

Týr had heard stories of the lost gods, deities for some reason or another who left their own pantheon of gods never to return, to either live out the rest of their life peacefully without the blood and destruction the gods otherwise brought or to become a stronger deities themselves, to rule and protect without the other jealous gods trying to steal their thunder.

He had heard a rumour, one spread by the white men who traverse the seas looking for distant lands to colonise that there was once one of these lost gods captured and bound on one of their ships, that she was kept as a good luck charm, a good omen so they did not die at sea. Týr did not want the vile stories to be true, for every story the white men gave him the more he realise that this so called god was not all powerful like Odin or Ra but only a daughter of a demi-god, a nymph with a powerful ancestor, a human who wanted to be mortal but was stuck with un-human powers that she could not control.

Maybe that why he tracks alone this beach, sand all over him, warm sea water soaking him through his trousers and his stomach growling like a wolf. He wants to find this god, this woman who escaped to find meaning in her life, he needs to know if she is real.

Truly Týr would never think that she’d end up somewhere in South America, let alone mingling with the Aztecs becoming a secondary god to them. He had met the Aztec people, the Aztec gods, all of them had told him tales of a woman living in the sea down south, her face familiar yet foreign.

The tale told by the working people, if true (for the gods were vague when talking about the new god, their resentment towards her evident by the jealously riddled on their faces), was one that captivated him, compelled him to find her.

The story goes that decades ago a fisherman found a woman, naked and hurt, floating in the shallow waters, her hair so overgrown that fish nestled in her locks and starfish clung to her (s/c) skin. The man had feared her to be dead but as soon as he got near her eyes snapped towards him making him almost fall out his small wooden boat. The story goes that the man ran away but came back with food to feed her. He picked the debris off of her skin, shoed away the fishes and crustaceans in her hair, that every day he came back to her with food, that every day she moved more and more, that she healed, until one day he came back to find her splashing around in the shallow waters like a jubilant child.

It has been said that offering food to her at the little alters dotted around the small seaside town brought good luck to the fisherman, it made sure that they got home with big catches, that the stormy sea would not take their lives.

Týr had spoken to an old woman nearing a hundred and in broken Nahuatl, he had asked about this lost god only for the old woman to laugh and call her (Y/n) of the sea. She also called her a ‘little girl’ too much like her own granddaughters, that this ‘so called god’ who could bring such luck to everyone was merely shy around new people. The old woman was wise, she knew what kind of person Týr is, for no man has ever stood that tall without having god blood in them. She pointed Týr in the direction of (y/n) of the sea, told him to bring her an offering whilst also demanding him to pass on a message to her from herself and the family.

So as her traverses down the beach and climbs over rock pools, his large hand holding onto a pot filled with food, the offering still warm and fresh, he looks on. He’s already looked all over for this (y/n), he does not want to give up hope but even as a god himself he can’t seem to find her.

“We’ll have no wars around here buddy.” a voice calls out real close making the Norse god of war spin around.

There standing close, wearing only a long white dress reminiscent to the type of dress you’d see statues of Greek gods wearing, the holes in the pure white dress patched up with colourful woven patches of fabric the same fabric that most Aztecs make their own clothes from, the dress clinging to her full plush body, the fabric draping off her shoulder. Her hair is down and natural, the locks long and without damage, her (s/c) skin covering in scars tiny and big.

From where Týr stands, his lean figure towering above her, he can see more that a normal man would of this beautiful woman looking up to him with fiery eyes.

“Pardon-“ Týr clutches at his pot as the shorter woman steps forward.

“-you’re a war god, there is no war here, not when I’m around.”

She places a hand covered by beaded shell bracelets wrapping around her fingers, palms and writs on top of the pot, pushing it down so it does not block her face from view of the Norse god. Her eyes so filled with emotion gaze upon him, her hands smaller and softer than his ready to grab him by the lapel of his shirt, drag him into the sea and let the waves snuff out his life.

“Týr. Why are you here?” she demands, stepping ever closer.

“I have come to find (Y/n), a god of the sea and of luck.” Týr, shocked that someone so pretty but so mortal looking, someone with a familiar by foreign face, knows his name, knows of him.

“What on Gaia’s earth do you want with me?” you say with trepidation.

“You’re (y/n)!”

He smiles, a relief washing over him.

“Yes-“ you scowl, “-what of it?”

“I have so much to ask you.”

“I’m not here too cause war.” Týr says as he looks out to the calm sea.

He then looks down at you, yourself sitting ever so close to him on a flat faced rock just so you can sit at his height, himself crossed legged in the sand. You casually eat the food offering he had prepared, your fingers and wrists now bare from all the jewellery so you can pick at the food with your fingers with getting your treasures dirty.

“You need to understand something Norseman-“ you begin, hand covering you mouth as you swallow your food, “-my mother was a water Nymph, a daughter of Poseidon, my father a powerful man from a kingdom called (place). Where I was raised there was this Spartan, a god of war. He brought so much death, though most all the gods did deserve it-“

You look to Týr who looks at you with such concentration in his glowing eyes.

“- however, I could not bare seeing the death of my so called homeland, even if I agreed with the death of some of those bastards.” you place the pot down on the rock beside you near your many bracelets, “People here see me as a god and whilst I have my gripes with all this God stuff, I help bring peace, so you must understand that you being here spooked me.”

“But you know of me?” he begins.

“When your long boat hit my waters I was told, the sea is my friend you see, she tells me things and ever since then I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”

“How though?” he asks with such curiosity that you think he was a cat.

“I have my ways Týr as do you.”

You lean down and take up all your jewellery, placing each and every bracelet back on your wrists, wrapping them around you fingers like they’re decorative rings, the wooden beads and tiny sea shells clinking together like small wind chimes.

Týr’s eye focus on the bracelets, his fascination with craftsmanship of the beads and the cords that hold them together silencing him. You look to him to see his focus, so you move your hands closer to him so he can get a better look.

“Most all of them are from the local children-“ you begin ask Týr’s own hands touch a talisman hanging from one bracelet, “- I never ask for ‘offerings’ but the towns people give them anyway and I cannot stand to take food from their mouths if they’re starving.”

You move your hands closer into Týr’s, his long fingers touching every single bead adorned on your form.

“This on here-“ you point at a knotted bracelet on your left wrist with the tails long and frayed, the beads jiggling around the loop, “-is the first one I got. This little boy wanted to give me his food for his father’s safe return for he had gone missing but I said ‘no, I cannot take this’ and I urged him to eat the food himself. About a week later his father had returned from sea a bit sunburned and famished but alive. The next thing I know the little boy finds me and gives me this, he made it himself as a ‘thank you’.”

The bracelet is clearly made by a child. There are many random knots in the string from where he tied the thing incorrectly and it’s way too big for you own wrists but you cherish it, you cherish all the little gift you get given.

“I washed up here about a hundred or so years ago, I live here, I even married here-“ you pause for a moment, you gaze shifting to the memory of the lone fisherman who saved you and the feelings you had for him, how you married that man, how you watched him die, “-I don’t need any strangers coming in and messing everything up. I protect this place, I protect it from selfish gods.”

“You’re worried that you people will die.” you look up at Týr with watery eyes but with a soft smile.

He still studies the beads, his fingers hitting your skin every now and then making a little shiver shoot up your arm, but now his eyes peer up to you.

“People die all the time, I just want my family to be happy.” you pull your hands away, Týr’s own hands still hovering in the air like he wasn’t done studying your hands, “I suppose you talked to my family Týr?”

“Yes.” his eyes glow as he looks at you, a look you can’t quite pin point pooling in those bright eyes.

“I suppose abuela used you as a messenger, huh?” you face brighten up at the thought of the old woman (though you’re older than her by hundreds of year), she treats you like a granddaughter. In your head you can imagine her sternly making Týr repeat her request over to her just so he gets the wording right.

You stand, pushing yourself off the rock, making sure your white dress does not ride up too much to show the chubbiness of your thighs. You pick up the pot Týr gave you, a very Greek looking cooking pot you now notice, the food still in there ready to eat any other time.

Týr goes to speak but you beat him.

“Wait- let me guess. She has invited me to dinner tonight with the whole family and I must come or she’ll send out all her sons to find me.”

“More or less, yes.”

You begin walking away but you stop and wait for Týr. He’s become shy for he hesitates before getting up and following you.

“I’ve got time until I need to go but until then I’ll show you some cool god stuff.”

[soft-for-them]

So close but so still - Steve Harrington x plus size reader

Summary: You and Steve lie down in your basement all too close, the two of you thinking about confessing.

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works.

A/n: I'm using this gif for his face is so cute!!! Anyway, not proof read.

There’s perks to having the basement to yourself. For one thing the place is as big as a small flat, the underground home of yours with a giant living room/bedroom, a tiny bathroom and a microwave oven. It’s all you need really. No one disturbs you and you only got upstairs to the giant four room house upstairs when you need to use the washing machine or when you leave the house, even then both the washing machine and nearest exit is at the back of the house in a little nook near one of the back doors.

If it was up to you, then you wouldn’t be living with some distant relatives but you’re in the last year of school and your part time job doesn’t pay nearly enough to move out.

So the basement it is.

That’s where you are right now. Sprawled out on your sofa bed in bed mode, a number of quilts and old sofa cushions pushed away so you can rest your head on your favourite pillow, Steve Harrington.

With your forehead smushed into his shoulder, your body not fully wrapped around his because you don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable, for you’re only friends and you’ve seen the eyes he still gives Nancy, you sleepily listen to your half broken record player play a Stevie Nicks record, the volume stuck on quiet so the music is more background noise than anything.

You’re lying on your side, legs tucked in, bed socked feet the only warm bit of your body, whilst Steve lays on his back looking up to all the old posters on the ceiling.

Steve smiles at the thought of a younger you trying to put up the posters, he can imagine it right now. A short twelve year old you, for that’s when you moved to Hawkins, with pigtails and dungarees trying not to fall off a stack of books whilst trying to tape the posters over the bed. He can see the corner of a Jefferson Airplane poster is unstuck, a dusty spider web in between the paper and the ceiling, the rafters of the basement roof also decorated with stickers and posters.

He likes being down here, not just because he can see the evolution of your music taste through the posters plastered around, or hear the soft lull of the record player for you don’t own a TV, or bask in the almost apartment like feel of the basement that makes him want to live with in your very own flat.

No, Steve just likes being near you.

Sure there was a time that he liked Nancy but those days are gone, now he’s trying to set up Robin with her. Of course you’re oblivious to his feelings for you, your life has been filled with monsters and horrors so bad that everyone is always on guard, you have no time to stop and look to see the deep love he has for you.

He loves your smile, he loves how the corner of your eyes crinkle when you laugh hard, god he loves making you laugh for the melody that escapes your lips every time makes his cheeks flush and his mind go just a bit fuzzy.

You don’t know it but he has your picture in his wallet. It was from when you were fourteen and the both of you had terrible acne. You had persuaded him to go in a photo booth to take some funny photos and you had to perch on his lap to fit in the tiny booth. His heart flutters with equal parts nostalgia and deep love when he sees the small passport sized photograph his wallet, his head on top of yours, your smile bright and bold whilst pre-pubescent him looks at you like you gave him the moon.

Dustin saw the photo once and teased him about it, jokily calling him weird for having a picture of two pretty girls his age in his possession only to realise that one of the ‘pretty girls’ was in fact Steve before puberty hit him over the head with good looks.

Fuck, right now Steve wishes that you’d curl up closer to him, arms around his torso pressing your soft plush body against his side, lips dangerously near his neck and chest against his. It’s a thing of dreams him in your bed but he wishes for more, he wants you to know how he feels but he fears that you’re too oblivious, that if he tried to tell you he loves you, that somehow he’s loved you since you were both twelve and that the love he’s had for you has never gone away but has grown with you both then maybe you just think he’s building up to friend zoning you.

You told him about boys who’ve done that to you before, told you that they love you but in a platonic way and he wonders if you’d think the same if Steve told you he loves you.

Steve looks down at you, the dodgy record player now stopped because the album is over, your face focused on staring at the blue fabric of his shirt, eye glazed over in thought.

“What you thinking of?” he whispers, his body moving to be closer to you.

“…I-I think…” you begin only to zone out, not finishing your sentence.

Steve wants to say something playful back, something like ‘we all think (y/n)’ but he refrains from doing so. This isn’t the normally sparky you who speaks her mind, the you who walks down the street in go-go boots and corduroy skirts that cling to the curves of your body, the you who defeated monsters with your bare fists. You lie there in an oversized jersey and long pyjama bottoms, hair tied out the way and eyebrows knitting together thinking so hard that you might go in overdrive.

“I think, I like- fuck!” you look up to Steve to find his face is close, so close his nose brushes yours when you exhale.

He wants you to carry on, he want to defend you from whoever is making you so quiet and devoid of emotion. He’s never seen you so quiet. The house is empty and normally you’d be up and dancing around, grabbing his hands and pulling him in as ‘edge of seventeen’ plays.

But here you both are, so close but so still.

With no thoughts in his own mind Steve leans in and captures you lips in a kiss.

His lips are soft, his nose bumping into yours as your eyes go wide for just a moment. The kiss is short and sweet, leaving you both flushed messes. When he pulls away your noses still touch, his eye sparkling with hope.

“…ah-“ you eye flicker to his lips then to his eyes followed by you saying one word, “-again.”

He must be in heaven as he leans in once more this time your lips moving with his and you eye firmly closed. Your hand goes up to cradle his jaw as the kiss deepens, your legs tangle with his and his hand sneaks around to your lower back.

When you both pull away for air you finally snuggle you face in to his neck, your arms wrapping around him into a full body hug.

“I like you Steve.” You whisper, your words vibrating on his neck making him turn redder.

“You mean-“

“-like like you Steve, thought be honest a few moments ago I thought if I told you that you were going to reject me…”

He was right with what he thought.

“Well-“ Steve pulls you away to look back into your eyes, “-I like like you too.”

“Since when?”

“Since forever.”

You laugh a laugh of relief, one of happiness, “Took your time Steve. I was so worried that you’d reject me that I’ve preparing for our friendship to end.” you confess.

“I would never stop being friends with you.”

“I’m glad.”

You both smile and laugh before leaning in again to kiss.

[soft-for-them]

Just a notion - Lemon x reader

Summary: Playing Abba songs in a pub you reminisce and wait for you love to come home. Gender neutral reader.

Based off Just a Notion by Abba.

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works.

A/N: I love this request, like I'm now listening to Abba non stop, but it is a bit short. Idk, I hope everyone likes.

You frown as your play a chipper song on the baby grand piano, a singer ageing but still filled with the small happiness she once had when she was famous in the seventies sings with a little jig in her step, the drummer slowly hitting the symbols and snares whilst singing backing vocals. The smooth keys vintage that are made from ivory clink, the musical instrument older than anyone in the small pub in which you’ve been paid to play in.

The old blonde sings her last note, the bop of her permed hair bouncing as she blows kisses at the audience of mostly the elderly and people who live close by the small pub that sits in between business buildings and outlet shops both new and bland in design.

Normally you love performing at this pub, it’s an easy gig in between auditioning for orchestras and recording radio jiggles in cramped recording studios for this month's rent.

However, tonight you’re just not feeling it.

The blonde, Sandra she’s called, you’ve played for her before that and she used to babysit your best friends when they were little thus babysitting you for you were always over at theirs watching Thomas the tank engine or the football depending on the time of day.

Sandra turns around to you and the drummer and politely asks for the next song.

The drummer, an owner of the local Indian take away who has a knack for playing the drums and a love for classic rock, enthusiastically nods his head. All you do is raise a thumb up whilst turning the ghost white printer paper music sheet over to the next song with the other hand.

“Now! This is a new song by my favourite group!” Sandra says in the mic.

She does not introduce the song instead she waits for you to begin a happy little tune. The first piano notes, jolly and upbeat, are played, the brass instruments that would normally play are instead played by you on the piano, the instrument’s notes woven in the fabric of the piano melody.

“Just a notion, that's all, just a funny feeling deep inside, that you're out there waiting-“

You breathe in a deep breath. Trying to stop yourself from sighing or huffing out in annoyance is very hard at the moment, the words of the song somehow mirroring the situation you’re in. You see you’ve been waiting for you love to come back home and for most of the time he’s been gone you’ve been moping around like a depressed teenager grounded and banned from seeing their girlfriend.

“-You're not sure I'm alone and you wonder if I'm occupied-“ she carries on singing.

You blindly play as your eyes wonder from the sheet music up to the framed West Ham united shirt hanging on the wall, the frame gathering dust (for it’s hard to lean over a piano to clean it).

“Maybe I can try and clean it on my break?” you think as the chorus starts, the fluffy gathering of dust bugging you to no end.

Maybe you’ll get a drink as well, Bob the pub owner always lets you have free drinks when you perform though in moderation for he doesn’t want a repeat of that time you and the twins drank so much that by the end of the night you were performing ‘Come on Eileen’ with the other drunks whilst Tangerine was topless chanting football chants celebrating West Ham’s win. That night years ago you were giving your free drinks to the twins, which amounted to over a dozen pint glasses and a few shots, all three of you were kicked out with the older patrons laughing at you and reminiscing about their teenage-hoods.

(Though the twins have had many code names over the years you’ve never called them it, you’re one of the friends in the small group of people who know their proper names, that and you don’t really call them the twins like everyone else does, though they basically are twins.)

That night you walked arm in arm with the two men; Tangerine like your brother with his footie scarf wrapped around your neck and his voice still belting out gaggled songs of old. Lemon on the other hand, just a bit tipsy on fruity punch, intertwined his hands with yours, his demine jacket wrapped around your shoulders like a cape. You and Lemon must have been at least nineteen back then, Tangerine a bit older. Back then Lemon didn’t have bleached hair, it was a lot longer and pitch black, his body round but not yet strong for technically he was still a teenager and not an adult contract killer yet.

You finally sigh, but not a sigh of disappointment but one of puppy love.

Even after all the years of being with Lemon you still warm up at the old memories of your teenage years, the times before work got in the way, when you could stay up till the morning drunk or high off your ass, when you were safe or maybe just obvious to the dangers around.

As the next verse begins, your fingers not yet tired from all the playing, you gaze up and away from the framed shirt and towards the swarms of tipsy folk swinging to the cheery songs of Abba.

“Just a notion but somehow I know I'm not wrong, there's somethin' happening that I just can't explain-“

You look past curls of permed white hair freshly blow dried by the older ladies who go to the same hairdressers every week and by the classic marron and navy West Ham shirts of all the blokes drinking beers who pretend not to like Abba despite singing to all the songs.

Looking towards the back you see more curls, though not of the greying Elnett kind, no it’s a head of very familiar brunette curls.

Leaning back a bit you look harder, if you weren’t playing then you’d shout out his name or just shout ‘porn stach’ at the top your lungs.

Then it happens.

You fingers falter for just a second, your pointer finger accidentality hitting two keys at once as you see him.

The love of your life.

Balancing a tray of drinks, three drinks to be exact (two pints of larger and a tall glass of apple juice to be pin point precise), the exact order that you three have now your adults not teenagers getting pissed up on apple sours and WKD.

“-There is no mistaking-“ Sandra sings like she’s reading your mind, “- Just a notion that you’ll be walkin’ up to me in while and you’ll smile and say hello-“

Finally Lemon sits down, his eyes wide filled with love look straight up to you.

Almost again you falter but you play it off as a jazzy little flare to the song rather than a mistake, not that anyone cares.

With eyes dark and soft focused on you Lemon smiles so big that it’s all you see. He waves you a little 'hello' too, Tangerine also lifting his glass up in a cheers as he smirks at you and his brother.

“-and we’ll be dancin’ through the night knowin’ everything from there on must be right-“

You give out the biggest smile back, you even blow a kiss, your heart aflutter knowing your love is back and safe.

[soft-for-them]

The feeling of anger and the letter that caused it - Pride and Prejudice x plus size reader

Summary: You've known Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley since your were a little girl, so it's only normal for them to offer you a ride home when they spot you sad and angry at the side of the road in such cold conditions. (Can be seen as any version of Pride and Prejudice.)

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works.

A/N: I hoping people like this like I love this for I have a whole idea for a series where you the reader get to pick who you end up with.

“I despise that filth.” You don’t even use the word 'man' as you start to boil over into a bubbling fury of fire and flames. Your hands are clutched to your side as you walk without a chaperone down a lovely path were the trees haven’t been effect by the sudden cold of the afternoon yet just so you can rant and mumble to you hearts content without your mother hearing.

Wearing a long black warm coat, one you’d normally wear in winter but the dreary weather calls for it, a very fashionable coat to suits the regency times without making you look bulky and wide, you stomp down the pathway leaving imprints of your worn shoes onto the frosted over dirt. The high collar of your coat tickles your rounder face, the warmth it gives no match for the fiery anger that sets you face aflame with warmth.

“How dare he ever contact me with such familiarity, after all he’s done!” you roar on with a hint of sadness cracking in your voice.

The bonnet you wear on top of your head, a quiet plain but big one with a nice yellow lace ribbon holding it on your head, narrows your view to the side so you do not see a carriage riding down a road off onto the path you stand on. The path, really an old dirt road farmers use to traverse between fields, is long and winding however you could see every inch of it if you just turn your head a little to the side and see the many little roads and intersections that connect onto it.

“If I were a man then I’d challenge him to a dual.”

You’re standing well to the side of the road, brambles and old man's beard catching onto your coat along with tiny drops of last night’s rain. Any carriage can get by just fine though you’re so blinded in fury that you do not notice as a carriage pulled by two fair horses traverses by.

The reticule clutched in your left hand swings side to side as you finally see the carriage now just a bit off in the distance, you eyebrows knitting together in slight confusion as you walk on only to see that it has stopped.

You steps are slows as you ascend upon the carriage, the horses huffing out cold foggy air as they patiently wait to trot on.

As you walk up to the side you see that the ruffled thick curtains, often seen in all carriages for privacy and to block out any unwanted sunlight, are open and two faces look out at you.

One face, all happy and puppy like, leans in more his eyes wide with worry despite still having a smile on his handsome face, whilst the other man sits stoic with a look of disdain on his face (though still handsome none the less.)

Of course you know of these men, how could you not, you grew up around them even if you’re not partially good friends with them.

“Mr Bingley, Mr Darcy.” You greet in the most polite way you can.

“Miss (L/n), I beg your pardon, but may I ask why you’re out walking alone on such chilly day?” Mr Bingley asks with the most concerned voice you’ve ever heard from him, gosh, you think you see his bottom lip tremble as he asks you it.

“Just heading home.” you half lie.

Yes, you’ll ultimately have to go home but right now you’re out walking venting out your anger and sadness, it’s better to do that then to brood at home until you explode into an angry fit of hatful, but untrue, words that would hurt the feelings of you dear family.

“Why don’t we give you a lift? It is unwise to leave such kind friend out here alone.”

For a moment you contemplate arguing back to Mr Bingley, make up a proper lie to deter the ball of sunshine from insisting. But you look up into his big round eyes and reconsider, really you do.

“Mr Bingley, that is very kind but…“ you talk before you figure out a good lie to tell him.

“It's unlady like to be out alone.” Mr Darcy pipes up making you turn your head to the shadowy man.

“I think it’s more unlady like to be seen unchaperoned in the carriage of two unmarried men, Mr Darcy.”

Mr Darcy like he always is just looks at you with his long boring gaze, no more words said, only the small door to the ornate carriage opened by his hand. You let out a ghastly ‘gah’ sound mumbling ‘fine!’ to the two men before hauling yourself up into the carriage.

Mr Bingley, ever the gentleman moves over so you can sit next to him for Mr Darcy seems to be frozen in place, his eyes still lingering on you.

With all your might your try to sit closest to the window so not to bump knees or squish thighs with Mr Bingley but after the carriage starts moving again your legs start to ache from being so tensed up that your legs knock with Bingley’s. The awkwardness inside the small quarter is visible like a thick fog in the air as you smooth down your dress over your round tummy. You try to sit up as straight as you can whilst the sharp stare of Mr Darcy still stares on at you.

It takes a good fifteen minutes for a conversation to start.

“I thank you both for this ride.” You say hoping it will clear the air and thankfully it gets Mr Bingley yapping.

“No ‘thank you’ needed dear friend-“ there it is again, him calling you his friend, “- I wouldn’t wish anyone to be walking out when it’s so cold out, let alone you Miss (y/n).”

“Well-“ your cheeks warm once more but not with anger, Mr Bingley always knows how to fluster you with his kindness even though you believe he does not realise he’s doing it, “- It is rather nippy out today.”

Before Bingley can speak up once more Mr Darcy speaks up.

“What were you doing out?” for a moment it sounds like Mr Darcy cares for you, his voice wavering just a bit to sound more kind.

“I-well-I-“

Your stutter of a response gets both men looking at you with concern on their faces.

They’re a few years older than you but your mother was always friends with Mr Bingley’s mother so you’ve always known the man, thus also knowing Mr Darcy. With knowing them, with befriending Mr Darcy’s younger sister, you’ve still never really been proper friends with them, not really. But from knowing them, knowing Darcy mostly, you’ve been rolled up in scandal and sadness.

You see when you were younger, more gullible, more effected by bullies who talked about your round body like it was a bad thing, a dashing young man by the name of George Wickham came into your life only to break your heart. Years later he came back but he wasn’t interested in you, no, he was interested in the younger Georgiana Darcy. It still makes you sick to think that you so young fell for him, that you hid away and told no one of the fleeting love only for Georgiana Darcy, a friend and honorary younger sister to you, to get hurt.

Now you sit among Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley angry at the man you haven’t thought about for so long, well until today.

With wobbly hands you dig into your reticule to pull out a letter. You look at Bingley, his face sweet and kind, before shoving the letter into Darcy’s hands.

“I got this. I got it just after luncheon, I have been walking off my disdain ever since.”

Darcy’s gaze on you breaks as he uncrumples the letter which was scrunched up and shoved into you reticule like it was kindle ready for the fire. The paper is flimsy and plain, the seal most gone only leaving a red stain on the folded paper.

Darcy open it and begins to read it to himself.

“To my (Y/n),

I hope that this letter is not too informal for I know we have not spoken in a while.

I regret it, how I lead you on for so long making you think I was to propose, for you were always such a good young girl who followed the men in uniform around so merrily, I never realised the love you had for me. I suppose this letter has come to a surprise, though I had to write it for I do wonder what kind of woman you have become.

I am currently in town and wish to see you again, you and you darling family that is.

If it isn’t too rude I wish to invite you to some afternoon tea, see the address below to send confirmation, which I hope you do.

Your dearest,

George Wickham.”

Mr Darcy’s eyes fill with a rage like no other, the flame only calmed somewhat when they flick up to see your face, to connect with your eyes on the verge of tears.

“I hope Georgiana is safe-” you say weakly, “-I have not seen her in a while.”

When Mr Darcy moved into Pemberley your family had moved into a smaller manor of only five rooms just outside Lambton for your father has long passed and many of your siblings, young and old, have been married off, the money problems rising and the network of close friends also moving with it.

“She is safe (Y/n).” Fitzwilliam Darcy says handing back the letter.

“Good, good good.” your eyes travel from Darcy’s to Bingley’s, his head cocked slightly to the side in a confused look.

“Wickham is back in town.” is all you say to the bright man, his hand goes to yours in which holds the letter but he does not take it from your hand, he rather engulfs your hand with a pleasant warmth, an act to show comfort.

You know this last week has been hard for both men; Mr Bingley having fallen for the eldest Bennet daughter to only find out that she’s been married to her childhood sweetheart for the last year (though the two of them have become fine friends none the less) and Darcy having been snubbed by another Bennet daughter.

Wickham is just the icing on the cake.

The carriage pulls up to your home surrounded by farmers’ fields and small ankle deep rivers.

“Thank you both for the ride home.” you place your free hand, reticule hanging from your wrist by its dainty strap, onto Mr Bingley hand given in to tight squeeze.

“My, (Y/n) must you feel upset again then call for me instead of freezing outside.” Charles Bingley says with a vigour you’ve only seen of love-struck men.

“I will, I will.”

You rise and step out of the carriage not before nodding to Darcy and saying another full ‘goodbye’ to Bingley.

The carriage does not move until you’re safely inside and waving from the front window to the two men.

[soft-for-them]

Acid stained tables and a cute man in a green coat- Edward Nashton x plus size reader

Summary: You're just a history teacher standing in because one of the science teachers is absent, you weren't ready for there to be a substitute teacher, let alone a cute one. (Substitute teacher AU).

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works.

A/N: Edward as a forensic accountant, meh, that's a bit boring. Him as a substitute science teacher on the over hand fits the crazy man much better.

The day is drab and dreary like always, the sky still dark grey from the night before when the rain fell hard and the poor sod who tried to rob a jewellery store near your flat and got caught by the Gotham Bat.

Really such things like that are normal in Gotham city that and the banging of bodies and crashing of car bumpers, really the city sounds don’t bother you any more.

Anyway, you were already awake marking essay papers, so you got to witness the cops fall into the rubbish bins trying to catch the jewellery thieves only for the Batman do their jobs. Looking back at it the incident was pretty entertaining.

Multiple of your neighbours, both in the same block of flats and in the opposite cluster of houses had been leaning out their windows watching the Batman tie up the perps whilst the coppers brushed rubbish and slimy goop off their blue uniforms.

It had only gotten unbearably loud when more cops pulled up with their flashing lights and loud sirens to back up the rest of their goons, the back up trying to arrest the Batman.

Only then did you give up marking your student’s essays on the Native Americans and the white colonists who took over their land along with the younger student's homework sheets on the American presidents when the man dresses in all black punched an officer and seemly flew away like a literal bat. 

Mondays always seem to be drab and dreary, the lack sleep not helping you at all.

Even with the bright yet tired heads of your students flooding into the small down town middle school with stories of their weekend adventures along with tins filled with cut birthday cake to share with their friends paired with dramatic re-tellings of whatever else the Batman had done that weekend, you still feel drained.

The bell has already gone, the loud piercing ring making you groan in annoyance.

Some children still stuff their backpacks with text books and hidden snacks, the ringing from the bell still in your ears. Many teachers look out their classroom doors waiting for any stragglers; a thing you’re doing right this moment.

Class three is one of the classrooms on the main hallway of the school a couple doors down from the large set of double doors that lead to the grey playground and the chain linked fence entrance outside. There are many lines of red lockers small and tall your eagle eyes watching out for any trouble that might arise whether that be from the odd late student rushing to get to their class or a faculty member you dislike.

Most teachers on a Monday morning are pretty lenient when it comes to tardiness so you don’t mind a couple of students being a few minutes late however you aren’t actually looking out for a student.

All the students in class three, the students of the sixth grade science class, are seated and registered, they aren’t that bothered that History teacher like yourself is teaching their early morning science class.

Many of the kids are turned around in their seats chatting to one another as you lean on chipped white door frame of the small classroom, your cream blouse tucked in to your long green pencil skirt, the stripy tights a tad bit gimmicky but they keep your legs warm. Your outfit doesn’t match with the acid stained wooden desks with names and smiley faces carved into them or the periodic table posters hung up on the dull blue walls too angular and shiny to match your more colourful history class room decorated with student’s assignments and informative posters with cartoons on them.

Your eyes flicker from the double doors at the front, then to the big cadged clock hanging over said double doors, then back to the doors that still stay firmly shut.

It’s been five minutes already and the hallway is already quiet and deserted, only litter left on the scratched old floors.

Thankfully you don’t have your own class until after lunch but you’re still worried for the lack of science teacher in the class room – you have no clue about sixth grade chemistry let alone where the right text books are stored but being that the school is underfunded and understaffed you might have to stay put in the gas smelling classroom just to keep an eye on the children so they don’t burn the place down with the Bunsen burners and little wooden sticks that are used to light them.

Maybe you’ll put some YouTube on if worse comes to worse.

“Whoever is turning the gas taps on knock it off.”

You don’t even turn around to see the culprit but right away a hush of mutters come from the back of the room followed by the scrambling sounds of the finicky plastic gas taps being switched off.

For a moment you turn around as the student’s still whisper shout at one another.

“It wasn’t me Miss (L/n)!” a mop of red hair you don’t know the name of splutters out. Who you’re assuming is his friend clamping her hand over his mouth before he can rat out the culprit.

The sound of the big double doors to the front of the school sound open which makes you hurry back to your perch at the doorway.

You look down the hall with hope that it’s the old crone of a woman who normally teaches in class three but it is just a hurried parent with their children.

Turning back into the room you close the door.

“Ok, who wants to watch some YouTube?”

The classroom erupts with hyper screams as you slide down into a big worn out spiny chair at the teacher’s desk besides the interactive whiteboard.

You’ve spend the whole morning showing random ‘educational’ videos to middles schoolers and letting them doddle on the whiteboards littered around the room. No fires have been started and the closet filled with acids and alkalis has yet to be opened.

Now its lunch time and you’re worrying. Another science class in classroom three starts after lunch but that clashes with you first history class of the day. You had brought it up to multiple staff members but they had just grumbled at you useless words, one had pointed out that it would be a miracle to get a substitute teacher so far into the day and one other patted you on the back saying ‘good luck’ for the coming classes.

It would have been easy if you classroom was opposite or next to class three but your small history class is hidden away on the other side of the school in between an RE classroom and a storage room.

Currently you sit in the same tall backed spiny chair in class three, the door firmly shut, your boxed lunch of left over take away and a bottle of water left to collect dust.

Your mind is a blaze with ideas of how to sort this out. One idea is to split up the next science class and place the small groups of the children in different science lessons with work sheets and textbooks. Another idea is to gather your small class and cram them into class three and try to teach two subjects at once. None of them seem good enough ideas to work.

“Ahhh!” you groan as you hit you head on the scuffed wooden desk.

You arms squidge to your round face as you fold your hands under your forehead creating a bony pillow for your head, your eyes focus on the swirling wood grain of the desk. You own desk isn’t real wood like this one, it’s laminated and peeling off, the low down desk always kneading into your stomach for it is bolted down too close to the pale walls of your room.

“…Hello?”

Fuck! You leap up from you position, the chair spinning out of hand as you turn to see a man standing at the doorway in a long green parka coat his large transparent framed glasses slightly fogging up.

“Hello.” you instinctively rub your forehead hoping there isn’t an indent or a bump forming, “Do you need anything?”

The man, who in your hazy vision, reminds you of a hamster. His blonde hair, dusty and mousey is fluffed up and slightly damp from the lingering rain, his face round with a little notch in his chin.

He stands awkwardly with his over the shoulder bag in his hands, his eye trailing up and down the curves of your body.

My god this isn’t Mrs Smith the normal science teacher of class three but whoever this cute man is you hope he stays around a bit.

“I was told to come here, I’m the sub.” he says with his eyes lingering on the exposed flesh where the collar of your blouse is too loose and your neck is unprotected.

“I was told they couldn’t get one this late in the school day.”

“I was free.”

Well he was manically planning the death of the mayor but he isn’t going to say that in front of you, the prettiest woman he’s seen in a while.

“Ok. Well, that a relief. I have my own class in like ten minutes.” you stand and gather your bag and marked papers, only bothering to pack you lunch away into your bag, “I should be going Mr-?”

“Nashton, Edward I mean.”

“Miss (L/n), history.”

Your body briefly touches his as you walk out the door down the hallway back to your classroom. You look back at Edward, he’s looking back at you.

“If you need me I’ll be in room twenty four.”

A smile rises on his face, one that makes you smile like a middle schooler with a crush.