Discover Top Posts Tagged with #plussizereader

Title: Sundress and dates

Trope: Plus Size Reader x Mattheo curvy / mid size / chubby / plus size is just easier to list off

Word Count: 1,193

A/N: Hey hi hello! Long time no see, I was posting drafts lately as a lot of things happened and are happening in my life, I apologize for the lack of content, i'm slowly coming back, I will be posting my celebration soon, for now enjoy this one shot 💛 love you lots, bug.

NOT PROOF READ.

You weren’t going to wear the sundress.

It had sat folded at the bottom of your trunk since September, a last-minute pack with the quiet, foolish hope that maybe Hogwarts would get a stretch of summer sun before term ended. And now that it had—now that the heat had soaked through the stone bones of the castle—you finally pulled it out.

You stood in front of the mirror longer than you wanted to admit, tugging at the hem, smoothing it over your hips, checking the way it moved when you turned. It was soft, with thin straps and a cinched waist—one of those easy, weightless dresses made for bare legs and lazy days. The kind of thing you always liked on other girls, but never quite knew how to feel in, yourself.

The uniform was unbearable in this heat, and you only had one class that afternoon. Hours to yourself. No one to explain anything to.

Between the Pages and the Badge 3

Previous // Next

introduction

When plus-size bookseller Emilly Hart agrees to one drink with friends, her ordinary night in L.A. spirals into danger-and an unexpected rescue by stoic LAPD officer Tim Bradford. As their worlds collide, Emilly learns that sometimes the bravest chapter starts with letting someone in.

The bar was more crowded than last time. The lights flickered in warm, golden tones, and the music pulsed in the background like a soft heartbeat. Almost everyone was already at the table in the corner—Lucy was telling a story with a wide smile, Nyla was studying the menu intently, Celina had already ordered a drink with a blue paper umbrella, and John and Aaron were joking about something I didn’t understand.

And standing beside them was Tim.

For a second it felt like someone squeezed all the air around me. He looked… ordinary. A gray shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled. No badge. No handcuffs at his belt. Just him—tall, steady, with that inexplicable something that makes it hard to look away.

Alice nudged my shoulder, like she was saying: go, breathe, live. Smiles, greetings, chairs scraping the floor, someone shifting glasses to make space for me—right next to Tim. Coincidence. Or not.

“Hi,” he said. A simple word. But his voice… always sounded like something more. “Hey,” I managed. “Looks like we’re running into each other again.” “Seems that way,” he answered gently.

Nyla raised a brow. “It’s only the second time and I can already feel the energy.”

Lucy snorted. “Alright, before we start picking out wedding dates, I propose a game.”

“Oh no,” Tim muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Comfort book!” Celina announced, as if it would fix everything in the world. “Everyone names a book, movie, whatever, that makes them feel like the world isn’t on fire. One sentence why. We go in order.”

John started with some war film because “truth always wins in the end.” Aaron named a poet I didn’t know, but he said it so softly and warmly that everyone fell quiet for a moment. Lucy, of course, threw in a rom-com. Nyla—a true-crime documentary (which everyone greeted with solemn nods of understanding). Celina confessed to an animated movie with a talking llama. Laughter rolled over us like a wave.

“Angela?” Alice asked.

“Jane Eyre. Because Jane didn’t let herself be broken,” she answered without the slightest hint of a joke.

Then it was his turn.

“Bradford,” Lucy prodded him. “Your turn.”

Tim looked at the tabletop for a moment, like he was considering every possible escape route. “I don’t have one,” he said at last. Not uncertain—just honest. “I haven’t found anything yet that… brings me peace.”

Silence hung between us.

I don’t know why, but before I could think, the words slipped out of my mouth:

“A comfort story isn’t the one that promises it’ll be okay…” Everyone looked at me. But I was only looking at him. “…it’s the one that shows you can keep going. Step by step. Breathing.”

His gaze stayed on me longer than I should have let it. Like he was really listening. Like he… understood me.

“Sounds like something I could read,” he answered quietly.

At some point the game dissolved into conversation and laughter, and someone suggested pool. Tim looked up.

“You play?” he asked.

“Not very well,” I admitted, tucking my hands into my sleeves.

“Good.” A slight smile. “I don’t play much either.”

Maybe I was the only one pretending to believe that. But I took it with gratitude.

The pool table gleamed green. Angela and Aaron lined up against each other. Lucy and John cheered from the side.

When I leaned in to take a shot, my hand trembled.

“May I?” Tim asked, before stepping closer.

I nodded.

His hands settled over mine—sure, but with room for my breath. He didn’t press. He didn’t intrude. He just was.

I felt his warmth through the thin fabric. I knew I should step away. I didn’t want to.

“Watch the ball,” he said softly. “Breathe. Slow.”

Strike. Flash. The ball… in the pocket.

Angela’s eyes went wide. “Oooo, the magic begins.”

Tim stepped back, leaving a hollow where he’d been and thicker air behind him.

“See?” he murmured. “You did that.”

I didn’t know if he was telling the truth.

After a few rounds I stepped out to the patio for air. The night was warm, smelling of asphalt and the lemon on my wrist. In the distance came Lucy and Celina’s laughter.

“You okay?” His voice was like a gentle bass line from a song you feel more than hear.

I looked at him. He held a plastic cup of water.

“I brought this… in case you needed a break,” he explained.

I took the cup, my fingers brushing his. A tremor. Again.

“Thanks,” I whispered.

I leaned on the cool railing. The city winked in neon, as if trying to tell us something.

For a while he didn’t say anything. But his silence was… good. The kind that doesn’t weigh on you. The kind that makes space.

“Sometimes the hardest thing is to make room to breathe,” he said at last. “And yet here it is,” I answered, watching the streetlights. “All it took was stepping outside for a minute.”

Tim nodded, like he was bookmarking something important.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said calmly, without any smirking subtext. Just the truth.

My heart… skipped something.

I opened my mouth to answer—but didn’t get the chance. The patio door swung open.

“Hey! You two!” Angela leaned out. “Second round’s starting! If Bradford doesn’t come back, Lucy’s going to start on her conspiracy theory again about how pool was invented by someone from SWAT.”

Tim laughed under his breath. He laughed. A small miracle.

“Shall we?” he asked.

I looked once more at the city. At the cup in my hands. At him.

“Yes,” I said. “Let’s go.”

We went back inside—back to the laughter, the lights, the pool table, and the people who were apparently starting to become something like… a team.

And somewhere deep inside me a quiet hunch stirred that this was only the beginning.

The bar began to empty out. The music softened, a waitress gathered the empty glasses, and one of the last flickering lamps burned above our table. The light had something soft in it—something that made you speak quieter, sit closer.

Lucy sprawled on the couch, telling some story about a cat escaping from the precinct. Angela and Celina were laughing to tears. Aaron and John were analyzing the pool score like it was a key FBI operation.

And I… was sitting next to Tim.

Not too close. But close enough to feel the warmth coming off him. Close enough to notice every smallest movement of his hand.

“Tired?” he asked quietly, his voice wrapping around me like a warm blanket.

“A little.” I smiled faintly. “But in a good way.”

He nodded, like he knew exactly what I meant.

“Do you go out like this often?” he asked, not looking at me yet, just turning his glass in his hand.

“Is it that obvious?” I laughed softly.

“Maybe everyone here just knows you like the quiet,” he answered, lifting his eyes to me.

There was a kind of attentiveness in them that made my heart work harder—but didn’t hurt.

“True,” I admitted. “But it’s probably good to step out of the hideout sometimes.”

“Especially if the hideout smells like paper and coffee,” he added, half a joke.

My lips parted in surprise.

“You remembered?” “I like… remembering,” he said after a beat, and something in his voice made my breath catch for a second.

Lucy suddenly clapped her hands.

“Hey, crew!” she said, standing and wobbling a finger in our direction. “I’ve got an idea! Everyone has to say one thing they like most about the person on their left!”

I froze. On my left sat Tim. And on his—me.

“Lucy, this is the worst idea,” Tim murmured, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “The best,” she corrected. “We start with… Brad-fooooord!”

Perfect.

Everyone was watching. Tim straightened, like someone had just told him to give a report.

He looked at me—and the whole world went quiet. Really. I didn’t hear the music. I didn’t hear the other tables. Just his breath. And my own.

“I appreciate…” he began slowly, choosing words like someone who doesn’t throw them around lightly, “…that you don’t try to be someone else just to fit in.”

My eyes widened in surprise. My inhale stalled on my lips.

“And that—” he added more softly “—you look at people like you really see them.”

It wasn’t a throwaway compliment. It landed exactly where I’m usually invisible.

“Okay, okay!” Lucy cried theatrically. “Rom-com level unlocked! Now Emilly!”

My heart tried to break free. But first I had to breathe.

I glanced at his hand on the table—strong, steady. At his gaze—warm, under all that caution. At his presence—which didn’t try to overtake me, just… be there.

“I like—” I began quietly “—that you don’t say much…” His brow twitched with amusement. “…but what you do say actually matters.”

I knew he understood.

Angela smacked her lips meaningfully. “Well I guess we don’t have to say anything,” she muttered to Lucy. “It’s all clear.”

Tim shook his head with a small smile, like he was trying to wave off all that commentary—but his eyes came back to me. And stayed.

In that look was thanks. And a promise. And something else, too fresh to name.

“Shall we?” Alice asked after a moment, hooking her arm through mine. “It’s late, and you’ve got work tomorrow.”

I nodded and started gathering my things. The crew said their goodbyes—hugs, jokes, promises of “next time I’m winning.”

Tim stepped closer.

“Thanks for tonight,” he said. “It was… good.”

“Good,” I repeated, “is a good word.”

Silence stretched between us. But not the awkward kind—the kind you want to keep.

“So… see you,” I added.

“See you, Emilly,” he said, saying my name like he was savoring it.

As we walked out, Alice snorted softly.

“There’s chemistry, no doubt.” “Don’t start,” I groaned.

“I’m not starting.” She smiled like someone who can see the future. “It’s starting itself.”

We stepped out into the street, where the cool wind finally brought relief and the lights of nighttime Los Angeles blurred into gold and rose.

And for the first time in a long time, the days ahead didn’t feel empty.

In fact—I felt like they were just starting to fill up.

The warmth of the evening was still in the air when I got out of the car and closed the door to my apartment behind me. The AC purred softly, greeting me with familiar relief. I kicked off my shoes where they fell and leaned my back against the door.

It was past one in the morning.

My heart had never worked so hard from… a simple night out with friends.

I pushed off the door and walked to the kitchen. I filled the kettle, even though I wasn’t planning on tea. I needed something to do with my hands. Echoes of the past few hours were everywhere—his gaze, his voice, Lucy’s laughter still somewhere in the background, punctuated by Angela’s commentary.

I turned on only the small lamp on the windowsill so the room wouldn’t be completely dark. The light reflected in the glass, blending the inside with the remains of the night outside.

I lifted the blind a little.

The street was almost empty. A few scattered lights, the distant hush of a car, the slow breathing of Los Angeles sleeping in its own noise.

I touched the pane with my fingertips. The chill of the glass met my hot skin, like two worlds trying to find common ground.

I closed my eyes.

I could still see him looking at me at the table. How he listened—really listened—when I talked about stories that save your breath. How he said he was glad I was there—so simply, so honestly that I ran out of something to say.

I bit my lip gently.

I shouldn’t be feeling this so much. Not after one almost-meeting and one evening. Not for a man I only know from brief conversations and smiles you could count on one hand.

But feelings don’t follow rules. They never have.

At some point I must’ve made tea without realizing it. The mug steamed in both my hands—an anchor meant to keep me in place.

I sat on my couch. The same couch that, every day, held my exhaustion and doubts. Now it held something that was at once lighter and heavier.

I took a sip—hot, citrusy, familiar.

And then a thought cut through the night like a lighthouse beam:

Is he thinking about me too? Did he go home and forget? Was this evening just one of many for him—or did he feel that something that still wouldn’t let me go?

I closed my eyes and tipped my head against the cushion.

I wanted to keep this moment. This… delicate sprouting of something new. Uncertain. But real.

“I don’t know who you are,” I whispered into the quiet, like that other night by the window, “but because of you I want to breathe again.”

My phone blinked softly on the table. A new message.

My heart stopped for a second before it sped up again. I reached for the phone, adrenaline skittering up my spine.

Is it him?

I hovered a finger over the screen.

Maybe I shouldn’t believe in coincidences yet— but maybe sometimes it’s exactly coincidences that lead us to the most important places.

The apartment went still, like it was waiting too.

I took a breath. I tapped.

The screen lit the half-dark. For a split second, hope. Stupid. Naive.

“Maybe it’s him.”

But when I saw the name… something inside me froze.

Michael.

Four letters that once sounded like the future. Now like a fist closing around my heart.

The message was short:

“Em, can we talk?”

Just that. And yet… it contained everything.

The memories I’d tried to bury. Words that hurt so much I still have scars under my ribs. Silence that always fell on me like a sentence.

I sat up straighter, like that could stop the rush of thoughts. Like changing my posture could change the past.

My breathing quickened. The skin on my arms tightened automatically—instinct, not “longing.” The body remembers before the mind can say anything.

For a moment I stared at the screen without unlocking the phone. As if an unread message had less power.

My head whispered: “Don’t answer.” My heart added: “Don’t let them convince you that you have to.”

For a second—just one—the question I hate surfaced:

“What if he really wants to talk?” “What if he changed?”

But I remembered. Clearly. Every time he apologized only to take another piece of my self-worth away.

I set the phone back on the table. And yet my eyes kept drifting to the screen like a magnet.

The taste of bitterness filled my mouth, though I’d just drunk something sweet. That bitterness was what he always left behind.

I pulled my knees in, drew the mug closer—like a shield to protect me from something I no longer wanted in my life.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Just like Tim said at the table.

Breathe. Slowly.

And then I remembered something important:

The evening, the laughter, hands guiding mine over the green felt. His steady voice. His… care. Without expectations.

Not cutting remarks. Not judgments. Not a silence that punished.

I let the air out of my lungs.

I reached for the phone again. Not to reply. Just to block the chat. One motion.

Tap. Silence.

For a moment it felt strange—like taking off a too-tight ring that supposedly belonged to me but only cut into my skin.

“Not anymore,” I said softly to myself. “You don’t have access to me.”

I stood up, setting the mug down.

In the hallway mirror I saw my face—tired, a little, but calmer than it had been a minute ago.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt that I was the one deciding. Not him. Not the past.

Me.

I glanced once more at the windowpane—at the city shining like it was waiting for the next step.

Maybe I’ll take it tomorrow. Slowly. Breathing.

And maybe… I won’t take it alone.

Morning came too soon. Light pushed through the crack in the curtains, sharp, like it wanted to wake me from thoughts that didn’t want to end. Yesterday’s tea still sat on the table—cold, with a lemon film on the bottom. The phone lay face down. I didn’t want to look at it. I didn’t want to go back to that message. To those four words that could lift the weight of all my memories.

I brewed fresh tea and let the silence fill the space. It wasn’t pleasant. But it was honest.

By the time I reached the bookstore, the city was only just waking up. The sun glinted in café windows, and the wind carried the smell of fresh rolls from the bakery on the corner. Inside, I was greeted by the familiar door creak, the cool breath of the AC, and that scent—paper, dust, and something that always felt like a beginning.

I took my place behind the counter. The day moved slowly. A few customers, a few ordinary conversations. No surprises. Until the bell over the door chimed again—muffled, like it wasn’t sure it should.

I looked up.

An older man stood in the doorway. Elegant, in a gray coat even though it was warm outside. His hair was gray, lightly dusted with the ash of time, and his gaze held something familiar—a kind of gentleness I remembered from years ago.

I knew that face. Not at once, but after a second, the memory returned like a photo pulled from the bottom of a drawer.

“Mr. Lewis…?” I asked uncertainly.

He smiled gently. “Emilly Hart. I didn’t think it possible you’d recognize me after all these years.”

I froze, bracing my hands on the counter. I hadn’t seen him in… four? Maybe five years. Claire’s father. Claire—my friend from back then. Before everything fell apart. Before Michael. Before the quiet messages and hollow calls.

“This is a nice surprise,” I managed finally, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “How are you?”

“I’m trying,” he said, with the same smile that always had a trace of melancholy. “Actually, I came for something for Claire. It’s her birthday next week.”

Her name hit me softly but squarely. It didn’t hurt—not like it used to—but it stirred something long extinguished.

“That’s lovely that you remembered,” I said after a moment. “Anything specific?”

“She once said she always liked when you chose books for her,” he replied, and a knot formed in my throat. “So I thought maybe… you’d do it one more time.”

I stood there for a moment, not knowing what to say. Memories returned in a rush: long afternoons in cafés, our talks about the future, laughter that felt immortal back then. And then—the chill. The silence. Her message that sounded like a verdict: “I can’t choose between you.” And that choice—never landed on me.

“How is Claire?” I asked quietly.

“Good.” He nodded. “She works at a law firm. Has a little boy. She’s happy. But you know…” He trailed off. “Some people, even if they’ve left, still stay in our stories. I think you were one of those for her.”

I felt a sting behind my eyes. “I don’t know if she’d want that.”

“Maybe not then. But now?” He smiled faintly. “You know, Emilly, over the years you learn one thing—time doesn’t fix everything, but it gives you the chance to see differently.”

I turned to the shelves to hide my emotions. My fingers reached for a book on their own. I didn’t deliberate. I just knew. Dickens’s Great Expectations—her favorite author, my safe choice.

I handed him the book. “I think she knows it. But maybe this time she’ll read it differently.”

Mr. Lewis accepted it with gratitude, paid, and tucked it into a canvas tote. He was about to leave when he paused at the door.

“You know, Emilly…” he said, turning back with a small smile. “Sometimes we meet people a second time not to go back, but to truly say goodbye to what never had an ending.”

“Maybe you’re right,” I whispered.

He nodded and left. The door closed softly behind him, and the bell above it chimed like the last note of a forgotten melody.

I stood for a while, gripping the counter, until the air returned to my lungs.

I didn’t feel pain. Or regret. Just something like relief.

Like someone had taken out a bookmark from my life that I hadn’t needed in a long time.

I sat on the stool with my tea, which had already gone cold. Outside, Los Angeles throbbed with life, and for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel the need to escape into the past.

That day, when I closed the bookstore, the sun set slower. The light was gentle, warm. Like someone had finally turned down the volume in my head.

Before I left, I thought:

Not every meeting is meant to say “come back.” Some are meant to say “go on.”

I switched off the light.

#tim bradford x reader #tim bradoford x plus size reader #tim bradford x oc #tim bradoford x chubby reader #tim bradford #chubbyreader #plussizereader #Plus-size!reader

For You, I’ll Risk It All

𝗛𝗶𝘀 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗯𝗶𝗱𝗱𝗲𝗻 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗶𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗻𝗼 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲

Relationship: DBF! Hank Voight x Plus Size! Olinsky! Reader

Summary: He is corrupted and vicious, nothing but a dirty cop. At least that’s what you’ve been told by your mother. You hated him and you weren’t afraid to show it at the slightest, but that all changed when he protected you from going to jail when you were 18.

Coming back from New York after five years, you decided to live for yourself for once.

You didn’t expect it would start by falling for Hank Voight.

You know your dad’s best friend.

Warning: NSFW. Explicit Sexual Content. Angst. Age Gap(Reader is 23. Hank is 50). Daddy issues. Daddy Kink. Secret Relationship. Secret Romance. Fluff, Soft, And Protective Hank. Sexual Tension. Teasing. Secret touches. A lot of sneaking around. Mention of infidelity(not on reader nor Hank). Lots of kinks and sex. Hank is a sex god. And More.

Part One: High School Crush

Part Two: Forbidden Fruit Taste The Sweetest

Part Three: That’s My Good Girl

Part Four: I Don’t Want To Lose You

Part Five: You Belong To Me

Part Six: I Love You Endlessly

#for you i’ll risk it all #hank voight x y/n #hank voight x reader #hank voight x you #sargent hank voight #hank voight smut #hank voight imagines #hank voight #chubby reader #plus size reader #chubbyreader #plussizereader #x chubby reader #x plus size reader

Supernova Chronicles #2: Games

Part One: Star Girl

warnings: 18+, minors DNI, explicit sexual content, unprotected p in v sex, intense physical scenes, fingering (f receiving), dominance, dirty talk, use of pet names (star), explicit detail, explicit language. Word Count: 7,650

౨ৎ.....................................................౨ৎ...................................................౨ৎ

You didn’t take your eyes off Sam as he paced through your home, his movements calculated and deliberate. This was not the man you met at the bar last night. The playful, charming stranger who had captured your attention so easily was gone, replaced by someone entirely different. Someone you didn’t recognize. Then again, who’s to say that the Sam at the bar was the real him?

His presence now felt more like an intrusion, a forceful shift from the intimacy of the night before. The way he moved, with a purpose that you hadn’t seen before, sent a chill through you. Here, in the light of day, he looked like another soldier under your father’s command, following orders with the same rigid precision. The ease with which he had slipped into this role made you question everything you thought you knew about him, which was nothing.

#black literature #mcu #samwilson #dads best friend #smut #samwilsonsmut #x reader #black tumblr #alternate universe #sam wilson #black reader #plussizereader #marvel

Should I write fanfic?

Holy shirtball! I finally have my own computer! I have wanted to write little stories for all sorts of people and our comfort characters. Now that i have the means, would anyone be interested? Send me your inspiration and i’ll get these stories going. Remember, I am LGBTQIA friendly and I encourage stories featuring BIPOC and disabled Y/N.

#fanfic #marvel #starwars #reader pov #plussizereader #disabled reader #lgbtq

Grave Robbing - Chapter One

Warnings: None for this particular chapter. Perhaps brief mentions of having a gun in ones face?

Summary: Reader gets in over her head when taking a midnight drive for ice cream.

Pairing: Sam | Plus Sized Reader

Word Count: 2,741

Chapter: 1/??

#plussizereader #Sam x Reader #spn fic #supernaturalfic #supernatural fiction

Nothing To Wear

Requested by @lilacprincessofrecovery

Request:can i haev a request of tony stark x plus size reader where he takes her to the mall to get a fancy new outfit but cant find anything she can wear? please and thank you hun

Pairings: Tony x reader

Description: Tony takes the reader shopping, but it does not go as planned

You scowled over at the pile of clothes in the corner of your room. You needed something special to wear to the awards ceremony tomorrow night, but your own meager collection wasnt cutting it.

Tony was being awarded for his donation of laptops and other school supplies to children in third world countries. He, along with many other famous charitable people would be gathered together under one roof, dressed to the nines, networking and discussing ways to further advances in social change. If there was a time to look good, this was it.

But more than that, every time you and Tony were out you felt like you had to impress people. It was bad enough you were fat, you couldn't be fat and dress horribly too. You hated thinking that way. Your self confidence is what drew Tony to you, after all...

But being in the public eye did weird things to your brain.

You were resigned to start looking online when there was a knock at your door.

"Hey there gorgeous." Said a familiar voice. You smiled over at your boyfriend as he sauntered into the room. He was wearing his usual jeans and black t-shirt combo.

"What happened here?" He said, pointing to the clothes strewn about.

"Just cleaning!" You covered, pulling him close. Your noses touched, and your lips were about to met, but he couldn't quite let go of it.

"Your room is put together perfectly. Why are your clothes the only thing thrown around?"

You avoided his concerned gaze and pulled away.

"I'm finishing up."

Tony crossed his arms. "I know when you're lying. What's going on?"

You didnt want to tell him why you couldn't wear one of the perfectly good dresses already hanging in your closet, so you just pouted and stood still.

"Babe, don't give me that face." He strode forward, hands stroking your sides. "What is going on?"

"I need something to wear for the awards..."

Tony's concerned expression instantly lightened

"A dress? That's it?"

You scoffed. "It has to be an amazing dress!"

Tony kissed your lips, and you happily gave in.

"Sweetheart, there are two things I'm good at. Spending and making money. This falls into one of those categories. Let's go shopping."

You smiled, awestruck by how sweet Tony was. "Are you sure? I can buy myself a dress."

Tony waved you off. "Nonsense. I want to buy you a dress. It's more fun for when I get to rip it off you..." His lips wandered to your neck and began sucking. You could feel yourself clench with pleasure as he ran his tongue over your pulse point. "Ok, ok...you can buy me a dress."

That afternoon you began wandering from store to store. The adventure started off fun and hopeful. Tony would put a hand around your waist as you searched through racks and racks of clothes, hoping the perfect dress would magically spring into your hand. After almost two hours, however, it became clear nothing was working. Most of the stores didnt even have your size. When they did, everything was either too basic or the pattern was horrible. Nothing looked good on you. It was like all the clothes actually made for larger women were made to look like garbage.

With every new store, your frown hardened. With ever new ill-fitting garment, your spirits nosedived.

"Who is this made for?" Tony said, holding up a skirt that had wronged you. "This color is terrible anyway..." he scoffed at one of the dresses. He was being a wonderful, supportive boyfriend, but it didn't help to lift your sour mood.

"We haven't tried there." Tony said, pointing to a Loft.

"And we wont find anything..." you spat, suddenly changing directions to sit on one of the mall benches. "Face it, Tony. Nothing is working. I'm too big and unwanted for half these stores. I'll just wear one of my old dresses." You put your head in your hands, utterly defeated.

Tony sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He hated seeing you upset, especially when it was related to your body. He thought you were gorgeous and sexy...and the fact that the stores you shopped at didn't made his blood boil.

"(Y/N)...you are not unwanted. And I will get you an amazing dress." Tony kneeled before you. "I promise."

You shrugged, defeated. "Can we just go home?"

Your rejection stung, but he knew you were just upset.

The two of you spent the rest of the day curled up watching movies. He rubbed your back and kissed your temple lovingly, almost making you forget the mall and the dress entirely.

When you woke up the next day, Tony was gone. He probably had a meeting to get to.

Tonight was the awards, and you'd be wearing the same dress you wore to the statue commemmoration when they'd unveiled an Avengers statue in central park. The tabloids would love that.

You made breakfast and watched a few hours of TV. Tony wasn't answering your texts, and with each passing hour you got more and more worried. At 3 o'clock you finally buckled down and called him, but it went straight to voicemail.

Finally, at 5, when you were about to get ready for the event, in walked your boyfriend holding a large box.

"Tony! Where have you been?" You marched up to him, concerned girlfriend mode activated.

"I had to run an errand. This is for you." He set the box down on the coffee table, and you eyed him warily before walking over to open it.

You took the lid off and removed the tissue paper. There, folded in the box, was a gorgeous gold and white dress. It was long, with no sleeves and complicated embroidery on the front.

You lifted it up and held the soft material in your hands. It looked to be your size.

""Christian Siriano owed someone a favor, who owed me a favor. I told you I'd get you an amazing dress."

Your eyes welled up with tears. Your amazing, wonderful boyfriend had gotten you a perfect dress.

You dropped the dress back into the box and ran up to Tony, hugging him tight. "You are the best boyfriend ever." You loosened your grip to look him in the eyes. "I love you so much."

He smiled, tipping your chin up. "I love you more."

You kissed him, hands running up his chest. His went to your waist, squeezing the soft flesh there.

Who cared what the tabloids said when this man right here thought you were everything?

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SUNDRESS Mattheo x Plus Size user

You weren’t going to wear the sundress. It had sat folded at the bottom of your trunk since September, a last-minute pack with the quiet, foolish hope that maybe Hogwarts would get a stretch of summer sun before term ended. And now that it had—now that the heat had soaked through the stone bones of the castle—you finally pulled it out.

The uniform was unbearable in this heat, and you only had one class that afternoon. Hours to yourself. No one to explain anything to.

But still—still—you felt nerves crawling up your skin as you stepped into the courtyard.

The sun was brutal, hanging high and golden. Most students had scattered to shaded corners or flopped on picnic blankets charmed to stay cool. You made your way across the cobblestones, aiming for the far exit that led toward the greenhouses. The little willow grove just past them—that was your spot.

You were almost there when you heard them.

You turned before you meant to.

They were all sitting there. Theodore Not, Lorenzo Berkshire, and Mattheo Riddle. Perched on the stone ledge under the arched walkway, cigarettes burning lazily between their fingers. Postures draped and smug like they owned the whole bloody castle.

Which, socially speaking, they kind of did.

Theo had sunglasses on, the kind that looked absurdly expensive and out of place at a school like this, he leaned back like he was on holiday. Lorenzo’s blouse was unbuttoned just enough to hint at his collarbones, a gold chain glinting faintly as he laughed at something only half-funny. And Mattheo—Mattheo looked like trouble.

His dark curls were still damp from a post-practice shower, a few slick strands clinging to his forehead. His white dress shirt was undone at the top, his tie usually loose, was missing entirely, he stood there, cigarette in hand, rings on his fingers, looking more like trouble and bad decisions than ever.

You’d never really gotten along with them. Theo was tolerable on a good day. Lorenzo was smug. And Mattheo? Mattheo had made a sport out of getting under your skin. Always smirking. Always saying just enough to make your heart skip before turning it into a joke. You were fairly certain he enjoyed annoying you more than he enjoyed Quidditch.

"You owe us five galleons," Theo said to Mattheo.

“The fuck for?” Mattheo replied.

“For saying you’d go the whole week without staring at her,” Lorenzo deadpanned.

“I don’t stare” Mattheo started to object, laughing — just as you walked into view.

And it happened all over again.

Mattheo froze. Your dress caught the light as you walked, flowing with the movement of your hips. His gaze snagged like a hook, eyes softening, lips parting, cigarette forgotten halfway to his mouth. He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until Theo and Lorenzo burst out laughing.

“So... you were saying?” Theo grinned.

“Not staring. Definitely not,” Lorenzo chimed in.

Mattheo flipped them both off and stubbed out his cigarette.

He followed after you.

“Oi,” he called, footsteps quickening behind you. “Where are you going ? Got a date or something?” He said trying to hide his feelings in his tone.