#plus-size!reader

ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ ᴠᴏʟ. ᴠ. october 5th, 2025. phone sex. creampie. plus-sized reader. body worship. clark kent!superman/curvy!gf!reader.

Main Masterlist. Kinktober Lineup.

ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: ᴡᴀɪᴛɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴜᴘᴇʀᴍᴀɴ - ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛʀʏ 0:01 ❍─────── 4:26 ↻ ⊲ Ⅱ ⊳ ↺

One thing Superman and Clark Kent have in common (besides the obvious)? They make you feel like you're the only person in the world. Like nothing else matters except for you. The whole world melting away as focus zeroes in on a single point.

“Clark, you don’t have to—" Your cheeks are flushed, rosy from his compliments. The attention overwhelms you. He ebbs between his Superman voice and Clark's, and you're a gooey, melting thing as you smile against the receiver, cheek pressing against the glass to feel the warmth bleeding in. You pretend it's him.

He pretends he doesn't know what he's doing for you. To you. You try to imagine his Fortress of Solitude, which isn't very solitary these days with his cousin partying and crashing there. It's the alien equivalent of couch surfing. His voice is melodious. “I don’t have to do… what, exactly? Tell the most beautiful woman in Metropolis that I think about her every second we’re apart? That I crave her in the way I crave sunlight, and yet she is all I need to sustain me?”

Breathless, you murmur. “You flirt like a writer.”

“Journalism involves a great deal of that, yes.” He's bad at sarcasm, Clark. He's too charming, too animated to be deadpan. It's one of the many things you love about him.

You pause, listening to him breathe. “I wish you were here.”

“I do, too, but—"

“Kara is going through a rough patch. I get it.”

He chuckles. “Once she settles down, I’ll fly back home. Back to you.”

“It’s a shame it’s not now.”

“And why is that?”

You hum contemplatively. “Don’t think the candles will burn much longer. Mood lighting.”

“Mood lighting?”

“For our six-month anniversary.”

Clark sputters, “I’m so sorry, honey!”

You giggle mischievously. “I’m kidding. It’s next week. But I figured candles and my new lingerie would be a nice teaser.”

“Teaser?” He all but groans.

“I’ve been teasing myself, too. Waiting for Superman to come home.”

“And what will you do when I get there?” It’s an invitation, a desire. A taste.

A tease.

You suddenly feel so bashful, even if you've learned each other's bodies inside and out, inch by inch. “I’ll let you undress me, to start. Maybe let you tease every inch of me. I … like the way you kiss my… my chest.”

“You do have incredible breasts,” he breathes.

You bite your lip. “You’re so big, and I don’t feel so bad next to you, like there’s not too much of me.”

“For the last time, honey, there’s not enough of you. You’re far too hard on yourself. All you are, you’re everything. Every curve, every dimple. Every little sound.” He grins, and you hear his smile. “Are you touching yourself, pretty girl?”

You nod, moaning softly.

“Good,” he says. “Give yourself some love before I get there to finish the job. I’ll be sure to fuck the insecurities out of you.”

The way he swears always gets you going, like the dirty words hardly fit in his mouth. You shiver as he talks you through an orgasm, painting an image of your body, all curves and soft lines, as art. And when you cum, so soft and sweet, he all but groans, “Wish I was there.”

“So get here,” you say.

“Soon,” he promises.

Soon is two hours later. You're sleepy, clad in a matching pajama set and curled up in your bed, watching reruns of some reality show on TLC. You already turned in your pages for the Planet's entertainment column, but you're already buzzing with your next story. You'll probably catch a movie for your next date night and write a film review. Clark likes to tell his parents about the movies he likes, just to give his mom more things to talk about during their calls.

You hear the faint whoosh as Clark lands through the fire escape. He climbs in beside you, planting gentle kisses all over your cheek, peppering your neck and jaw.

You laugh. "Clark, that tickles!"

He grins. "I know."

You poke one of his dimples, beaming back at him. "How was your flight?"

"Some turbulence. Better check with the pilot," he replies.

You roll your eyes. "I missed you."

He leans in, giving you a long, slow kiss. When he traces your bottom lip with his tongue, you moan softly, giving him the access he's desperate for. He flips you onto your back, tracing the curves of your sides until he reaches the hem of your tank top. When he pulls it over your head, you blush.

"Could we turn off the lamp?" you ask hesitantly.

He frowns. "Why?"

"I'm kinda bloated. Big dinner—"

His frown deepens. "You're perfect," he says fiercely. "If you want it off, we can turn it off, but I like seeing you. Every part. Every curve." His hand traces your belly, the slope up to your breasts. He rolls one nipple between his finger and thumb, and you whimper, hips rolling.

"On," you moan. "On."

He yanks your shorts and panties down at your assent. Then he steps back, following your body with his eyes, like he's painting it with the blue of his eyes. He spreads your full thighs, pressing his mouth to a couple of creases, the dimples. You feel the heat of his breath across your clit, and before you can beg, he places his full lips to your cunt and sucks. His tongue follows every fold until you're writhing, thighs clenched around his head. His massive hands grip your ass, holding you tightly against his lips until you're a mess, dripping down his face, so close you can feel your belly tightening, a coil forming, an explosion waiting.

"Perfect," he says against your pussy. "So beautiful. Like staring at the sun."

You come hard against him, and he kisses your cunt through it, guiding you through the waves of pleasure. When he finally pulls back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, his pupils are blown.

He stands back, removing his suit, the costume, all lightning-quick. When his cock springs free, long and thick and beautiful like the rest of him, a statue carved to perfection. His muscles, effortless, make your mouth water. As he pumps his fist across his length, your eyes widen. A hundred times over, you've felt him in you, filling you completely. He insists that your body was designed to fit him, to accommodate his size, to complement every part of him. Softness to his hardness. Edges to arcs.

You draw him back over you, and he spreads your thighs, easing inside of you, stretching you open. He takes his time pushing in, rolling his hips inside of your wetness, going progressively deeper until finally, finally, he bottoms out. Sheathed to the brim, stuffing you. A broken moan slides out of your mouth, and you're shaking, desperate for more, for him to move.

"Gorgeous," he says. Over and over. "I love you so much, beautiful girl."

You crash into each other like the sea and the shore, his eyes never leaving yours. He worships you, every inch, gliding in and out of you, at the perfect pace. The rhythm carries you to the edge faster than you can process it, and you explode in a shower of stars and sparks. You cum so hard you're overwhelmed by it, and he chases your high, lips ghosting over yours. He spills inside of you with a guttural moan, his pearly seed dripping between your legs when he finally pulls out. The two of you lie there for a moment, just holding each other, and when he looks at you, you feel so seen, so adored that it makes your eyes burn with tears.

"Hey," he whispers, his gentle fingers drifting over your cheekbone. "I've got you."

"Superman or not," you whisper, "you're my hero."

"That's where you're wrong, honey," he breathes, "you saved me."

used a pic from how to murder your wife, but the other girls are plus size!

Titus can't stand to be away from you for too long, even when duty calls. Across the gala, your attention is currently being taken up by some Governor, and you look less than impressed.

Before long, he excuses himself from his own conversation, and starts moving in large strides.

"Oh, Mr. Danforth-" The Governor begins, but he's cut off by Titus wrapping an arm around your waist, and pulling you in for a deep kiss.

He's never had a problem with PDA, but it reaches a whole other level when he's impatient or jealous. His tongue traces the seam of your mouth, and you find yourself sighing into his touch.

After an inappropriately long time, Titus finally pulls back, leaning his forehead against yours. He doesn't even glance at the Governor, but his next words are directed at him. "If you'll excuse us-"

FEATURING ᯓ★ Yandere! Yuji Itadori x Pop Idol! Reader

SYNOPSIS ᯓ★ Someone would have to be deranged and selfish to kidnap a popular and talented Pop Idol just so they can have them all to themselves…

CONTENT ᯓ★ 18+ (MDNI) aged up characters, plus-size! + fem!reader, manipulation, body shaming, suggestive killing, naive reader, petnames (pretty star, my love, baby), Stockholm syndrome, suggestive nsfw

Wc ᯓ★ 3.0k

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6 HOURS BEFORE…

"Yuji, my brother,"

Todo sighed as he stood beside him, watching the way Yuji’s body practically vibrated with eagerness. "Relax. You’re acting like a man who just discovered his type for the first time."

Yuji couldn’t give a damn about what Todo was saying, hell, he barely registered his words. His mind was occupied with a singular thought—you.

The venue was buzzing with energy, the air thick with excitement as fans eagerly waited in line for a chance to meet you.

Yuji still remembers when he first laid eyes on you. Months ago Todo had convinced him to go and discover more concerts and upcoming artists with him and that's when he saw you on stage. Your voice was captivating, your smile radiant and most of all, your thick sexy curves that jiggled nonstop for him, it was love and obsession at first sight. From that moment on, Yuji knew you belonged to him. He memorized every lyric of your songs, watched every interview, and analyzed every movement you made. It wasn’t just admiration—it was fate.

And today, he was finally going to be close to you.

The line was shrinking. Soon, only one fan remained between him and you. Yuji’s heart pounded as he watched you giggle sweetly, signing autographs and posing for pictures. His cheeks became flushed the moment his eyes were glued on your plush massive breasts, the cleavage making an appearance each time you changed into different poses. You looked even more beautiful up close, almost unreal.

When you finally waved goodbye to one of your fans, your gaze lifted, and for the first time, your eyes met his.

"Hiya there!" your bubbly tone slipped out of your mouth as you greeted him, his figure towering over you caused you to have to look up at him. Your warm smile that never left your face was making his stomach twist in something far deeper than admiration. His breath hitched. "Would you like a photo or an—"

Your words were cut abruptly as Yuji moved swiftly, arms wrapping and scooping you up from under your legs in one smooth motion. A gasp left your lips as he lifted you effortlessly into a bridal carry.

The room fell into stunned silence.

A deep crimson shade was growing on your cheeks, heart racing in shock and confusion. You barely had time to register his strength, his warmth, before his golden eyes locked onto yours. No one, let alone a fan, had ever gone and picked you up like this. You genuinely thought it was impossible with the way your body was. It was as if time had stopped, allowing you to take in a proper view of this fan of yours.

He had to be at least in his early twenties, especially with such a lean and strong muscular build he had as his white compression shirt tightly hugged his muscles and abs. His spiky pink candy floss hair looked so soft, wishing that you could just run your fingers through it for hours on end. And God, those golden eyes of his that were still locked onto yours. There was something intense in them, something that made your pulse quicken for an entirely different reason.

"A photo will do just fine," Yuji started smoothly, a small smirk tugging at his lips. Then, without looking away from you, he called over his friend. "C’mon, Todo."

Todo, who was just as shocked as everyone else, let out a chuckle before pulling out his phone. "You sure know how to make an impression, Yuji."

Yuji? So that was his name? So strong yet so gentle when it came to holding you like you weighed nothing.

The fans behind him erupted in protests, their voices a mix of outrage and jealousy. And your security immediately tensed, ready to intervene.

But before they could, you, still flustered, raised a hand in reassurance. "N-No, It’s okay," you managed to stammer, your eyes scanning over to your security before looking up at him. "Let him take the photo."

The security hesitated before backing off slightly, though they still watched warily. Yuji’s grip on you was firm but gentle, as if he were cradling something precious. His thumb subtly traced small circles against your chubby arm, his smile never faltering. The camera clicked, capturing a moment he would cherish for until the day he dies.

As Todo handed back his phone, Yuji finally, though reluctantly, set your feet back down on the ground delicately as if you were a princess. Your legs wobbled slightly, and his hands lingered on your waist longer than necessary.

When you finally regained your balance, You looked up at him, your mind still in a clouded daze. "That was…unexpected," you admitted, a sheepish giggle escaping your lips as you rubbed the back of your neck.

Gosh, that giggle of yours. If he could, he would listen to it for hours on end and never get tired of it. And the way you was looking up at him was making him think of all sorts of things that was slowly making him grow hard. But he quickly shook those thoughts out of his mind.

Yuji tilted his head as he looked down at you, his expression soft yet unreadable. "Just wanted to hold you, even if just for a second, pretty star.” He murmured, voice low enough for only you to hear.

Something about the way his low and husky tone said that nickname, ‘pretty star’, sent shivers down your spine. He was attractive and bold, sure, but he was just another fan who you knew that you were never going to see again.

If only you knew.

The security gently urged him forward, signalling that his time was up. Yuji gave the security guards a foul look before finally stepping away, but not before taking one last lingering look at you, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

"See you soon," he whispered, and then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd along with his friend. But even as the next fan stepped up, you couldn’t shake the feeling that his eyes were still on you.

PRESENT

Your hands trembled as you pressed your back against the cold wooden wall after quickly locking the door. Chest rising and falling erratically. Your breaths came in quick, panicked gasps, tears blurring your vision as you struggled to make sense of your surroundings.

This wasn’t your dressing room trailer.

It was a dimly lit bedroom, the walls an unfamiliar shade of deep brown, the only window boarded shut. The faint scent of pine and damp earth filled the air. The room was quiet. Too quiet.

A choked sob escaped your throat as you stared down at your shaking hands. Your body was still weak, your head pounding from whatever had knocked you out. But the dried blood you had seen on his face, on his hands was still vivid in your memory.

Yuji.

Your mind reeled back to the last thing you could remember. After the meet-and-greet you was escorted back to your dressing room trailer by one of the security guards you knew well. You had been alone, about to change, when you heard commotion outside. When you opened the door, the sight had frozen you in place.

Yuji, fists coated in crimson, towering over your security guard, whose face was barely recognizable from the brutal beating. Just looking at the security guard’s disfigured face made you think that he couldn’t have been alive after that brutal beating. Yuji’s chest had risen and fallen with exhilaration, golden eyes wild with something terrifyingly possessive.

Still, you wasn’t sure if you passed out or if he made you pass out in time so you didn’t react in a way to alert others.

A frantic knocking at the door jolted you from your panicked thoughts.

"Baby? You awake, right?" Yuji’s voice was gentle, but there was an underlying tension to it.

"Let me in, please," he coaxed, voice softer this time. "I know you’re scared, but I swear, I would never hurt you."

Your fingers gripped the hem of your dress tightly as you fought to steady your voice. "W-Where am I?"

Yuji was silent for a moment before he sighed. "Somewhere safe. Somewhere no one can take you from me."

Your stomach twisted.

"Somewhere safe? B-But you…kidnapped me," you whispered, more to yourself than to him. The weight of the realization hit you like a truck, and suddenly, your vision swam with panic again.

The knocking became more insistent. "No, no, no. Don’t think of it like that, sweetheart," Yuji said, his voice taking on a desperate edge. "I saved you."

A sob bubbled up in your throat. "Saved me?"

Yuji let out a shaky breath. "That security guy? He…he was talkin’ shit about you." His voice darkened, filled with venom. "Said disgusting things too. Said he was gettin’ fuckin’ tired of you. That he was sick of protectin’ some ‘spoiled and fatty little pop star who prances around for attention.’"

Your heart clenched. "What?" You didnt realise it but it was as if your body moved on its own. Pushing yourself off the wall and taking baby steps towards the door until you were stood in front of it.

Yuji pressed on, sensing the hesitance in your voice. "I couldn’t let that slide, baby. I had to teach him a lesson. He didn’t deserve to be near you, let alone protect you."

Your mind swirled with confusion. Your security guard had been nothing but professional… right? He had been kind, hadn’t he?

What if Yuji was telling the truth?

What if everyone thought the same way that your security guard did? A fat, good-for-nothing pop star who had nothing good going for you.

Tears welled up in your eyes. "I… I don’t know…"

"It’s alright, baby," Yuji whispered, his tone shifting to something soothing. He could hear how broken you were and just wished he could be there to wrap his arms around you. "I know it’s a lot to take in. But I'm here now, and I'll always protect you. I love you."

Did he just say… love?

But the real question was, were you even capable of loving someone?

You and love in the same sentence just didn’t work out. You didn’t know how to love, let alone someone who was clearly an obsessed fan of yours. You had never been in a relationship and your mind was only ever occupied on making your fans happy by making music.

Your breath caught in your throat. "You… love me?"

Yuji chuckled softly. "Of course, silly. I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you. Every song you sing, every smile you give on stage, every sexy outfit you wear. It’s all for me, right?"

You could feel your cheeks heat up the second he listed all the little things that you did. “But I… I sing for everyone…"

There was a very long pause.

Then, a deep exhale escaped out of Yuji but there was something different in it this time. Less patience. More… restraint.

"You’re so cute when you’re confused," he murmured. Then, more insistently, "But, baby, please open the door. I don’t like being away from you."

Your fingers twitched against the lock.

Yuji had done something horrible. You knew that. And yet, his words wrapped around you like a lullaby, laced with something toxic.

He had protected you.

Hadn’t he?

You hiccuped a sob. "I… I don’t know what to do, Yuji…"

The handle jiggled slightly, and you could hear him exhale shakily. "Shh, that’s okay, baby. Just open the door. Let me hold you. I’ll make all the confusion go away."

Your body was betraying you. The loneliness, the fear, the disorientation. It made you crave comfort.

Comfort that you rarely got and needed most when you would receive disgusting comments from both people in the music industry and trolls online. But each time you expressed it to your management team, the same people you saw as a family — your feelings would get brushed off by them, and you were just told to put on a brave face.

A slow, creeping sense of dread coiled around your gut as you reached for the lock with trembling fingers.

And as the door slowly creaked open, Yuji’s warm golden eyes locked onto yours, his lips curling into a victorious, gentle smile.

"There you go, my pretty star," he murmured, stepping inside.

The door clicked shut behind Yuji, the sound final, trapping you in with him. He stood there, towering over you, golden eyes taking in your fragile form. You felt so small compared to him and deep down he loved that. Oh to see how your form would look like beneath him when he’s pounding into you only got him hard.

Yuji’s gaze softened. His hand reached out slowly, fingertips brushing your cheek, and despite yourself, you leaned into the warmth.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?” His voice was low, soothing. “Tired of everythin’.”

You blinked up at him, confused. “What do you…?”

His thumb ghosted over your cheekbone, his touch unbearably tender. “The constant pressure. The expectations. And people always saying the most vilest things to you…”

Yuji had been watching you, studying you for so long—long enough to know what really got to you.

It wasn’t the packed schedules.

It wasn’t the flashing lights or the screaming fans.

The ones who whispered behind your back. The ones who left cruel comments online, dissecting every little thing about you. About your size, your weight and your image…

You have an amazing voice, a voice that you thought people would get distracted by. But no, people still had to find a way to bring you down and come for your body.

And Yuji knew that.

“I see how much it hurts you, my love,” he continued, his voice thick, lingering with possessive. “How much you pretend it doesn’t.”

You swallowed hard. “I…”

“They don’t deserve you,” he murmured, cupping your face fully now. His hands were big, warm, holding you like you were something delicate. “All they do is take. They want you to be perfect for them, but yet they’re the same ones putting you down and making fun of your looks.”

Your bottom lip trembled as fresh tears slipped down your cheeks. “I just… I don’t know anymore…”

Yuji exhaled softly, his thumbs catching your tears before they could fall further. “Thought so.”

His thumb glided over to your plump bottom lip, a shiver running down your spine as he traced over it. “Just stay here… with me.”

Your body shuddered at the way he said it.

Stay.

Yuji’s finger curled under your chin, tilting your chin up as he continued the same tracing motion on your bottom lip his eyes flickering down to your lips. “Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Your head felt light and dizzy. Maybe it was from crying. Perhaps it was from everything crashing down at once.

Or maybe it was him.

And when he leaned in closer to your face, your lips parted slightly, instinctively.

“Y-Yuji, I–.”

In a swift motion, his lips were on yours in the most delicate way possible, like he was trying his best not to break you more than he already done.

Soft. Warm. Possessive.

Yuji kissed you like he was claiming you, like he was sealing your fate. His hands cradled your face, holding you still as he deepened the kiss, sighing into your mouth as if he had been waiting forever for this.

You should have pulled away. But instead, you melted.

A grin from Yuji crept up and was pressed against your lips as he could see now that you were accepting your new reality. But the way how you never pulled away only excited him more.

His beefy hands that were once on your face travelled down to your waist and then underneath your dress to cup your thick ass cheeks.

Goosebumps erupted from your skin as you felt the strong hold on your rear end, causing a gasp to flee from your lips. But Yuji only took this opportunity to quickly slide his moist tongue inside so he could prevent you from protesting.

Your small hand gripped onto his shirt, trying to steady yourself as your mind was spinning constantly. Each time he squeezed your plush ass cheeks, he earned a muffled gasp and groan from you and he was loving every second of it.

When he finally parted ways with your lips, his forehead was pressed against yours again, his breath uneven. A single saliva strand connected from your agape lips to his until it snapped on its own.

His calloused hands never left your ass, gripping ever so tightly, causing you to yelp out softly.

“There,” he whispered, smiling. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

Your lips tingled, your heart hammering.

His hands slithered up to your waist, gripping you there ever so firmly before pulling you closer. The way your body felt was so soft and jiggly, your cleavage staring up at him and those gleaming eyes of yours.

His nails were beginning to dig into your chubby waist, earning a groan from you. “Fuck, you’re so fucking beautiful and you or those dickheads dont even realise it.”

His head was leaning in close again but this time towards your neck, his hot breath fanning over your neck before planting soft kisses. Your breathing became hitched. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks as his lips trailed up your neck and then to your ear.

“You want me to show you, huh?” A boner was approaching and soon enough it was being pressed against your chubby belly, making him curse softly to himself.

“Show you just how damn sexy and beautiful you are, that I can take real good care of you and make you feel so good about yourself?”

His golden eyes that were clouded with infatuation and lust was boring into yours. With the way your cheeks were completely flushed, your half-lidded eyes never leaving his and the way how you didn’t bother to fix your breasts that were spilling out your cleavage. He already knew what your answer was.

You were just too ashamed and embarrassed to say it. But thats all Yuji needed.

And it wouldn’t be long until his muscly arms wrapped under your thick legs, swooping you in his arms to carry you over to his bed.

“Cmere.”

PREVIOUS ★ MASTERLIST ★ NEXT

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.”

Gif's not mine!!

Word count:3112

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x plus-size!reader (OC).

Warnings: Mentions of bullying, mentions of violence, no use of Y/N

Summary: After years of being unwanted, Delilah found herself a home and family.

A/N: Hi! I hope you will like this chapter! It's written in the first person point of view for a reason! Tell me if you want me to translate the rest of my chapters for you! This wasn't proofread, but I'll try to do it later! K. X

_________

 "At the end of this story, it dawned on me that I had been the villain all along."

It took me a long time to realize that we were fighting the wrong enemy, because the real problem all along was me. Inconspicuous, innocent Delilah Rogers. Sister of the famous Captain America, Steve Rogers. I was just his shadow. We weren't even real family, because I was adopted when I was ten and he was fourteen. We weren't related by blood, but we were everything to each other.

I grew up in a small orphanage near Brooklyn. No one knew from where a small bundle with a baby, perhaps a month old, had suddenly appeared on the doorstep of the shelter on a rainy night. The only information was my name written on a small, soggy piece of paper - Delilah. No last name, no address. Just a name and a mysterious bracelet on my little wrist, which under no circumstances was allowed to be removed, as stated in a short warning on the back. “She'll find out in time, and for now, let no one touch what does not belong to them” - and nothing else. Nothing. I was nothing. An unwanted foundling with a piece of metal on my wrist. The children didn't like me, they mocked the fact that I had appeared out of nowhere. Yes, the world of children is just as cruel as that of adults. Especially if you're a girl with quite a lot of baggage. And I'm not just talking about experiences.

The Rogers family entered the orphanage on October 19, 1932, with their fourteen-year-old son. I didn't know yet that this would be the day that would change everything. I was sitting in the living room helping the younger children with their homework. Mainly Martha, who had trouble learning to read. I never had any problems with that and always wanted to be able to read, so as soon as I learned to put letters together into words, I escaped into the world of books. Then I could forget about the unpleasant reality. I would just hide in the farthest corner of the building and read until someone found me and told me to go to bed. I was a quiet child and people liked me for that; I could fade into the background and pretend I didn't exist. I didn't cause any trouble. It was just me and my love for peace and reading. And it was this love that I tried to pass on to others, and I saw that some people had a problem with that, so I helped them.

Back to the visit; I remember that when they entered the room, everyone held their breath. It was always a stressful moment in the life of every orphanage resident. There was heavy tension and uncertainty; “Will they choose me?” “Will I get a new home?” the children asked themselves. Even I, although I had long since lost hope that anyone would choose me. After all, who would want a foundling obsessed with books, who panics slightly at the sight of strangers and fears rejection? And I forgot to mention the strange bracelet that made me do strange things to the world around me (yes, I took it off once. I regret it. The look on my guardian's face when she saw the cracked wall was not very pleasant), whose color started to change between gold and dark burgundy after that little incident. Not only was I a foundling, but I also gained the reputation of being a crazy girl with a bracelet. With that reputation, I could only hope that maybe when I grew up, they wouldn't let me live on the streets. Maybe. The chances were slim, though.

So I just sat there and flipped through the pages of Andersen's fairy tales, which I already knew by heart. The book was so worn out that Sydney, my caregiver, let me take it with me. Suddenly, I heard my name being called, so I got up and went over to her. She was the one who brought the Rogers family.

“This is Delilah, the one I told you about,” she introduced me. I nodded politely but didn't say anything. I wasn't a very outgoing person.

“Hello, Delilah, my name is Sarah Rogers, and this is my husband, Joseph, and my son, Steve,” she said, pointing to the people being introduced to me. The short blond man waved at me.

Mrs. Rogers was a tall blonde, looking maybe thirty-five years old, with delicate features and bright blue eyes. She was dressed in an elegant suit and black pumps. Her husband was even taller, a dark blonde with dark eyes. He wore a suit that gave him an air of authority, even though he seemed to be only in his late thirties. They both looked like elegant, well-off people, but they seemed nice. Steve took after his mother in beauty and delicacy. He looked sickly, terribly thin and miserly, which was emphasized by his gray suit. But he had a good, kind face. He looked like someone who would never hurt anyone. I could like him.

“Sydney has told me a lot about you. I think that from what she's told us, you'll be the perfect daughter for us. She mentioned how you care for others and your love of books,” Sarah began. “Steve can't tear himself away from reading either, only James can distract him from it. I think you'll like each other. Of course, if you want a new home. We won't force you to come with us. But we want to give you a different life.”

“You don't have to give us an answer right away,” Joseph added. “If you want, we can come see you at the end of this week.” 

I thought about it for a moment. In fact, they were the only ones who had expressed a desire to adopt me, while the rest of the people simply ignored me, choosing the “better” children. Healthy ones, with less mysterious pasts. Without a strange bracelet that changes colors. It gave me great hope that maybe there was still a chance for me. However, I was afraid that after a while they would see how confused I was and would no longer want me. And they would give me back, like my previous family. 

I was five years old at the time, and I was even quieter than I am now. I hardly spoke at all. I was adopted by a young newlywed couple who couldn't have children. I stayed with them for two months. Then things started to get complicated. They noticed that I wasn't talking. They tried to force me to talk, asking me questions, and I was terrified because I didn't know what to say to them. I was afraid of strangers. Especially those who yelled at me. And they did that a lot. It was quite stressful, but they didn't seem to notice.

 They were more interested in my bracelet than in playing with me and taking care of me. After all, I was just a child. A strange, quiet child, but still a child. One day, I had my first outburst. They tried again to get me to answer another meaningless question. It wasn't that I didn't talk at all. I just didn't want to talk to them. And they couldn't understand that, so they decided it was the bracelet's fault. And they tried to force it off me. Which wasn't a good idea, as they found out in a not very pleasant way. 

I just wanted them to love me. To take care of me. And all I got was hundreds of questions, forced conversations. Zero empathy or compassion. I was tired of their questions, irritated and sad, and it all built up and exploded. All I remember from that incident is that the room suddenly became stuffy, and there were strange flashes all around, like an electrical discharge, but the strangest thing was the color of my bracelet, which changed from gold to dark burgundy. I had no idea what it could mean. It was usually gold or light blue. Rachel, my adoptive mother, tried to approach me, but she was prevented from doing so by a stream of energy that suddenly shot out of me. I didn't want to hurt her, I just didn't want her to come near me. I was scared. It was the first time something like this had happened to me. And the worst part was that I didn't know what else I was capable of.

The climax of the whole incident came when Andrew tried to rip the bracelet off my wrist. He probably thought it was her fault. He hoped that if he took it off, all the chaos would suddenly disappear. But he was wrong. It only got worse. As it turned out, the bracelet held all the power within it — he ripped it off, unleashing everything that was inside me. My whole secret, hidden even from myself, came out. I was a monster, with powers I had no idea about, who hurt people. I hurt Andy. When he pulled the jewelry off me, a sudden burst of strange energy sent him flying into the wall. He hit his head and lost consciousness. Rachel screamed and ran to her husband. I couldn't utter a word. In a daze, I watched as the ambulance took him away, and then all I remember is the road to the orphanage.

They gave me away. Like a dog to a shelter. Unwanted, unloved. With remorse that nothing could stop. For the next five years, I built thick walls around myself that no one could break down. I locked myself behind a facade built of books and shyness so that I wouldn't have to meet new people, so that I wouldn't get attached. Getting attached to someone ended badly for me. And I never wanted to feel that way again. I didn't tell anyone why they gave me away. They would have thought I was even crazier. I locked many things inside myself. And I allowed myself to think that they didn't exist at all. And that's very bad. Because all that fear was still there. Only locked away. The fear that someone would leave me again. I think that's what I was most afraid of. Trusting someone enough to open my heart to them, only for them to rip it out later. That's why I was afraid to accept the Rogers' offer. 

I agreed to let them come on Friday for an answer. Until then, I hadn't stopped thinking about the pros and cons. I was my own worst enemy. On the one hand, I wanted a family more than anything else in the world. I missed love, I craved it. My dream was to have a home, a loving family, and siblings. And here, I had it within my reach. The Rogerses may not have been very rich, but you could see that they loved each other. And they loved Steve. And I hoped they would love me too. On the other hand, there was fear. Fear that they would give me back because they would see that there was a problem with me. A big one that even I couldn't deal with. Let alone someone else. And that it would overwhelm them. The thought of returning to the orphanage for the second time kept me awake until Friday night. I was torn by doubts and nightmares. I kept dreaming about an explosion of purple, furious power. Only this time, the victim was an innocent family who wanted to take me away from here. I woke up screaming and, drenched in sweat, and that's how began  probably my last day at the orphanage. 

Despite the terrible vision I had that night, the decision was clear - I wanted to be part of their family. I wanted to belong somewhere, and this was my only chance for a new life. A happy life. 

And when I looked at Sarah's smile and Steve's laughing eyes, I knew it was the right decision. 

They signed all the papers that same day, and the next day they were ready to take me away. I packed all my few belongings, which weren't many, and made my bed. Then I left the room where I had spent ten whole years.  I said goodbye to the children I liked. I gave my copy of The Little Prince to Marta because I knew she would take care of it. I said goodbye to Sydney and left the orphanage building with a small suitcase in my hand and great hope in my heart. 

The journey didn't take long. We arrived at a small terraced house in Brooklyn. It was clear that they were wealthier than the rest of the residents because the front of the house was repainted and well-kept. The apartment wasn't big, but it was cozy. Straight from the garden, you entered a small vestibule with a shoe cabinet and coat hangers. Next was the living room, which led to the kitchen. Downstairs was the bathroom and the Rogers' bedroom. Or should I call them my parents? I had no idea. Upstairs were probably our rooms, because I had been promised that I would have my own. 

“Leave your suitcases downstairs for now, dear,” Sarah said to me. “We'll have dinner, and Steve will help you carry them upstairs.”

While making dinner, setting the table, and eating together, I noticed that they were a very close-knit family. They loved each other. They treated each other with respect, but they also had a lot of distance between them. Mrs. Rogers liked to joke with her husband, and Steve had a sharp tongue, even though he didn't look like it.  They talked to each other, laughed, and generally had a nice atmosphere. 

“We were going to tell you this when we first met, but there wasn't an opportunity. You can call us by our first names. If you want to, of course,” Joseph said to me as we took the dishes back to the kitchen. “It's probably too early for mom and dad,” he smiled, putting his hand on my shoulder.

I responded with a slight lift of my lips, too tired for more. It had been too much excitement for one day, and I still had to unpack.

“You can go to your room. Steve will show you the way.” My new mom announced when she saw me yawn again.

The blond boy eagerly took one of my bags (the lighter one) and marched upstairs, muttering something about how happy Bucky would be to finally meet me. I had no idea who this Bucky was. Or James.

My room wasn't huge, but it had one thing that immediately stole my heart - a huge windowsill. I knew I would spend every free evening there reading. The room was painted light blue. In the middle stood a white metal bed, next to it small cabinets with lamps. Opposite was a large brown wardrobe and a smaller chest of drawers. In the corner was a light-colored desk. I liked it. It was nice to have something of my own. After so many years of belonging to no one.

“We can start unpacking,” said the blond boy when we had carried all the things in.

“We?” I asked. 

“Well, I'm not going to leave you to do it alone,” he protested.

I ignored his words and we got to work. We put my clothes in the wardrobe and talked about everything we could: school, friends, interests. The blond guy told me that because of his appearance and his illnesses, everyone teased him, but he didn't let them get to him and often got beaten up for it, but Bucky always saved him. He talked a lot about him, and I felt like I already knew him. He also mentioned that he liked to read. He, not Barnes.

"I barely managed to get him to read The Hobbit. Blockhead won't pick up a book unless you force him to. 

Admittedly, Steve only reads history books, but it's better than nothing. I mostly like fantasy.

He also added that he would very much like to do some good in this world.

“I'm sure you will. All I can do is make it fall apart.”

He gave me a confused look. “Why?”

“Maybe I'll tell you someday,” I smiled.

We finished unpacking the suitcases and the boy left me alone. I quickly changed into my pajamas and jumped into bed. I fell asleep quite quickly, considering the amount of excitement I had experienced today. I was just curious to see what the next few days would bring.

A week had passed since I arrived at my new home. I hadn't gone to school yet because I had to be enrolled first, but Joseph and Sarah decided that I needed to get used to my new surroundings for now. I was doing very well. My new parents were very caring towards me. Which was very much needed after what I had already been through. They took me shopping to buy me new clothes because, according to them, the ones I brought with me were only good for burning. They also bought me some books and decorations for my room. I protested that it was too much and that I didn't deserve so many things, but they wouldn't listen.  

I also got along very well with Steve. We had similar personalities, we were both sharp-tongued, had an ironic sense of humor, and were stubborn as mules. Of course, I had to hear a comment about how Bucky would be devastated that someone was as annoying as Steve. I hadn't met this guy yet, but from Steve's stories, he seemed to be a very selfless, but also the most conceited person he had ever met. He would give his life for you, but at the same time he would praise how good he looked while doing it. He was confident, but also kind. He always saved the blond guy; he couldn't stand to see the bigger kids bullying him.  

“You know, he's my best friend,” the blue-eyed boy said one day when Barnes saved his skin yet again. “No matter what happens, he always saves me. He's the kind of person who always looks out for others, no matter what.”

“I wish I had someone like that,” I smiled sadly.

My new brother looked into my eyes with concern and took my hand.

-Sukuna doesn't give a fuck that you're fat. He's the King of Curses and you think something like body weight is going to matter at all to him? Absolutely not.

-Gets personally offended when you back down from him. You think he can't pick you up? Carry you? Mark your ass with his hands until you’re struggling to sit for days on end?

-Won’t tolerate when you talk down to yourself. You think you can say those unkind things about yourself? Think again. That's Sukuna's property you’re talking about, and no-one is allowed to remark poorly on what is his.

-He'll force you to sit on his face and eat you out until you're begging to come, only to stop before starting to build you up all over again. If you're not careful this will go on for hours until you finally realize what he wants.

-You apologize. To him. To yourself. You aren't sure, you just know you need to cum and you need to say you’re sorry for slighting him with what you said about yourself.

-Then he'll slide you down his torso, with an ease that makes you gasp and always makes him smirk, and force you to orgasm until you can't think, can't breathe.

-As he latches his cruel mouth onto your tits. His hands roam your whole body, messaging and soothing.

-Until you're so wrung out on pleasure that you're sobbing and shaking in his arms.

-He'll draw you a bath, as hot as you like, and soak with you, rubbing your hurts away and eking another orgasm or four from you, if you let him.

-You always sleep like the dead after, and Sukuna wastes his time watching you. A fond smile on his face that he would never allow anyone to see. He rarely even admits to himself that he feels any different for you than anyone else.

&&&&&

-Gojo loves that you're thick, plus sized, fat, squishy. He bounces around you, giddy as a schoolgirl, cracking jokes and telling stories to make you smile and laugh. The way your body moves in those moments is mesmerizing to him.

-Someone makes one comment, not even a comment really, you'd gotten your ass kicked on a mission with them and they made a sort of huffing, groaning noise while picking you up.

-Gojo knew you'd heard it. More importantly he had heard it. He'd plucked you out of their arms so fast it was dizzying.

-Gojo spent extra time training with you. He made sure to teach you everything he could and train you to better master your Cursed Energy and Techniques.

-He had resolved then that no one else was allowed to touch you. Only him, with greedy and grabbing fingers. You'd wake up in the morning, sated, and bruised from head to toe with Gojo-sized handprints.

-He just loved to take your flesh and press and twist until you were moaning and screaming and begging him for more.

-He was addicted to that - your attachment to him. Your trust, your submission, your adoration. There was no creature, no person, more perfect for him than you.