#plussize reader

Simon 'Ghost' Riley

With Simon, it's always a surprise what position you'll end up in. The only certainty you have is that it's definitely not what you'd expect, and sometimes you wish that for once he'd just lay you down and get busy. But alas, he'll have you kneeling with your face in the pillows, or bent over the back of the couch. Maybe he'll have you hanging off the edge of the bed so all the blood flows to your already overheating brain. You're clinging onto whatever you can get a hold on, mostly in pleasure, and sometimes in fear of falling when he has you up on his shoulders and leaned against the wall. Well, he doesn't exactly hear your complaining over your moans and whimpers, he argues, and he wouldn't dream of dropping you.

Johnny 'Soap' Mactavish

As with Price, this has little to do with your pleasure: it's all for his own benefit. Please, lass, he loves your cunt, and she loves him, doesn't she? Come on, let him have a taste. He could give two shits about where you are or how convenient it is— if he wants to lick your pussy, he's going to. He's down on his knees while you're desperately clinging onto the kitchen counter, or the shower wall, or the shelves of your pantry. Hell, you'd have to hope and pray a sales associate won't come by your changing room in fear of them hearing all of his moans. Oh, and you quickly find out you cannot wear a skirt around him, because it won't come down from your hips if he has any say in it.

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

He's devastatingly methodical. He knows your body better than you do at this point, and he's not afraid to use this to his advantage. He can work you just right, but the worst part is that he will refuse to. Unless you kindly ask him for it, that is. Tsk, pretty girl, use your words. Let him know where you need him, what you need him to do. He's hovering close enough that you can feel his breath on your neglected clit, your cunt clenching around nothing in desperate search for friction of any kind, but he won't do anything until you tell him in excruciating detail what you want. And be aware, any time you stop talking, he's pulling away in a second.

König

Oh, König... Sweet, wet-rag-of-a-man loser that he is, will completely lose his mind any time you allow him near your pussy. He can practically feel his brain melting while he's drowning himself in your slick, and he looks like it too. His eyes have rolled back, face flushed and his eyebrows scrunched in pure, unadulterated pleasure. His body has turned to complete mush, his cock leaking against the sheets and hands clawing onto any part of your body he can reach (which, with his arms, is basically everywhere). Unintelligible mumbles made into your cunt, teetering the edge between praise and begging. He is a little inexperienced, Schatz, so you'll have to show him how you like it. Shove his face between your folds and ride his nose, and you'll have him moaning like a bitch in heat. When he finally comes back up for air you can tell you're not the only one that reached heaven just now.

Philip Graves

I'm going to speak my truth here, he does not strike me as the kind of man to give you oral all that much. I am SORRY, but it's true. He usually prefers to get you nice and ready for him with his fingers, or by having you ride his thigh, or simply from the absolute filth he spews into your ear while dry-humping. However, on the odd occasion that Phil does get down and dirty, he aims to make it special. It's strangely sentimental, actually. It'd be outside on a picnic blanket after his homecoming, or in your shared bed after your anniversary dinner. Anything that reminds him how much he loves you, and how much you mean to him, and he's going to show you with his tongue. There's reverence in every suck, praise in every lick and prayer in every word he murmers into your core. You're his goddess and he's just here to worship you, baby.

Alejandro Vargas

For Ale, it'd be a form of gratuity much in the same way it is for Graves, though the difference is that he'll use that as an excuse even for the most menial things. His belly nice and full after your homecooked dinner, grin on his face and asking when his dessert is being served. You've been so good to him, amor, welcoming him home with a smile and a kiss and a plate waiting for him, now let him thank you properly. You fixed the button on his shirt that had fallen off? Well, put it on and lay yourself down, time to lap at your cunt in thanks. It's gotten to a point where you're convinced he just decided his goal in life is to pull as many orgasms from you as possible. Not that you're complaining, of course.

Rodolfo 'Rudy' Parras

Eating you out is, in many ways, a means to an end for Rudy. He wants to make sure you're properly prepped and ready to take his cock, so it's almost instinctual for him to bury his face between your soft thighs for a while before inching himself into you. It's part of the routine, the way he thought sex was supposed to go. It's not until you explain to him that it can actually be the main event, and that you'd thoroughly enjoy it if he maybe put in a little more effort, that it dawns on him just how much he can actually do down there and how much time he's wasted not doing it. Now, tesoro, you may have shot yourself in the foot with that one, because he now can keep you pinned down for hours, just suckling away at your clit and fucking you on his tongue, dumb grin on his face after your fifth orgasm renders you basically comatose.

Valeria Garza

The street light flickers above you and your breath fogs, bass loud from inside. Every person in that club knew who Dimitri was, what he was leading you to, but you're nothing. Only another Friday night to them.

You hadn't even had to try, show up at his club for a few nights. Make conversation with the bartender, loud enough for Dimitri to hear. Play the lonely woman recently moved to New York. No family, no one to miss you. Not attractive, but good enough to kill in Val's words. Make it easy to get his kick. He'd get off on watching your fear, listening to you scream, plead, while your life drains away.

"She'll do for tonight." You'd heard him whisper to the bartender. He gives a quick nod, sliding two expensive-looking drinks across the bar. Dimitri slips white powder into one of the glasses; it wouldn't affect you, but you'd pretend.

You act so grateful when he talks to you, flatter him, fawn when he offers you a job, a better life. You push down your disgust, the urge to shoot him right there. Dimitri doesn't flinch when you ask about his business, his life. Doesn't suspect or doesn't care. What did it matter? To him, you're dead already.

You concentrate on the chill, arching your back away from the wretched heat of his body. His grip tightens on your thigh and your stomach rolls. His other hand wraps around your neck, forcing your chin up with his thumb, nails leaving bloody crescents in your skin. He fails to notice them heal, too far gone now. How does it feel? That I'm the last voice you'll ever hear? His grip loosens a fraction to let you breathe. You play the part, begging him to let you go while he whispers what you want to know.

You hear it first, the movement in the air, catch a gleam of red and black. Dimitri’s surprised cry as metal ricochets off the side of his head. Flying back into the dark beyond the low, still flickering streetlight. He crumples to the ground unconscious, ripping open your jacket as he falls. A second later, you hear approaching footsteps scraping over the damp concrete.

Shit. You straighten down your clothes, air filling your strained lungs. Your back stings from the jagged bricks, the force he'd held you there. You push yourself to stand, bracing a hand back on the wall.

“Ma'am, are you okay?" 

That voice, it makes dread bubble up in your throat. Memories of a time you'd run from for so long, threatening to surface again. You'd checked with Val, there are no active missions in the area, what the hell is he doing here?

You should run, you want to. You'd been so careful. Followed Vals' request to avoid her new avengers, stay hidden. 

Now as he steps towards you, you're frozen, palms sweating, cheeks burning like a teenager. He still towers over you, muscles formed from battles before he even took the serum. But that hopeful light behind his eyes has gone now, replaced by something more cynical, tired.

You will away the sadness creeping in at the edges when there's nothing, no recognition at all in them for you.

He moves himself between you and Dimitri. A protective gesture meant to calm a frightened stranger. His eyes flit to you, assessing for wounds, to your chest where your heart's racing, but it's not from fear…

“Why did you do that?” You snap and pull up your jacket, hiding the healing bruises from him. 

He bristles, not expecting your reaction, “Save you from getting murdered? I don't know? You're welcome?” 

“He wasn't hurting me.”  

“Looked like it to me.” He considers you, keeping his distance. Grip tightening on his shield, unsure if you're a weirdo that wants to get strangled to death.

You sigh, “I was on a job.” 

“A job?” his eyebrows scrunch up, and you have to fight back the smile at his confusion and curiosity. If they furrow any more...

“You know? Job, mission, op, vocation, career opportunity-”

“Shit, stop, I get it. I meant who do you work for?"   

God, his tone gets your back up. You hear that disbelief again, that someone who looked like you could be useful. Could work for anyone important.

“Fuck..." you both turn to Dimitri. He's groggily pulling himself up, but he loses his footing and cradles the side of his head with a groan.

"…you set me up.” Dimitri snarls and scrabbles for his gun, his hands shaking as he aims it at John. 

You don't think, grab the gun strapped to your ankle and fire. All before John's even aimed his shield. The shot echoes off the walls, spray from the head wound peppering drops of blood over your jacket. You flinch back, unable to meet John's wide eyes. Instead, you watch Dimitri fall, blood flowing crimson in the light, an ironic halo.

Part instinct, part training, that part Hydra left behind you can't escape. 

"Don't look so shocked, John. He's a sex trafficker. Liked strangling girls, his men, killed to order, overdosed dozens.” You keep your expression neutral, unfazed. But there's a slight tremble to your voice, undermining the need to justify yourself. 

You don't want him to see what you've become. Notice the way your hands shake as you slip your gun back in place, but John's gaze never leaves you. 

You grab under Dimitri's arms, lifting his dead weight with ease and drag his body towards the shadows. Your shoes slip on the wet ground and John moves to grab Dimitri's legs. You don't need his help, don't register it as you let Dimitri drop behind a dumpster out of sight. 

John's muttering under his breath, too quiet for a normal person to hear, but not you, "What the hell are you doing? Helping this crazy woman move a body?"

Crazy. That hurts coming from him, but you can't blame him. And it's far from the worst anyone has said about you. 

John wipes down his hands, “I know you?”

“I know you.” You reply and it's his turn to get defensive then, he squares his shoulders and narrows his eyes at you.

“You know me or you think you know me?” he sneers, assuming you mean his mistakes, the ugly part of his life that's laid bare. The John Walker everyone sees online, on tv. 

“We went to the same school, but I don't expect you to remember me.”

You can practically see the cogs turning in his head, trying to remember you, but you were always forgettable.

“We did? I think I'd remember you.” His eyes drift over you, and you pull your jacket tighter, yeah, John, I know, because I'm so fat, so ugly…

“It has been twenty-three years.” You say and he stands straighter, rolling his back. A sharp breeze lifts his hair, the light catching the strands. How is he still so handsome? How are you still the same?

He mumbles, rubs his beard,“No, it hasn't.”  

“You're the same age as me, it's been twenty-three years.” 

“Great, now I feel old.”  And his smile is almost a grimace, the crinkles around his eyes deeper than you remember. 

“Yeah, me too.” The words whisper out, your lips lifting into a smile before you can stop it, but then you remember. What you are, what you look like. He'd never want to know you.

Not then and especially now. 

Lemar though, he was the only person kind to you back in school. What if you never see John again? You needed to say something.

“I'm sorry about Lemar, he was a good person,” you start before you lose your nerve, “we sat together in class sometimes. He was kind and funny as hell.”  

John's head tilts, softer at the mention of his friend and you hope he believes you. Lemar the only light in a sea of dark memories.

“Yeah, he was-” his voice drifts off and he gives you a slow smile, like it's been a while since anyone's talked about Lemar. Since anyone simply remembered, and his sadness catches you off guard, it's so visceral.

But you don't know him anymore, didn't really know him then. Only idolised him, longed for him, the idea of him. So you do what you always do to protect yourself: close off, push away. You take out your phone, texting Val for clean up, backing away from him.

“If you see me again, don't try to save me. I'm stronger than you.” You say it lightly, teasing, but he scoffs, “Yeah, you laugh, pretty boy, just because I look like this? Don't underestimate me.”

“That's not what I-”

You hold your hand up, cutting him off and start walking, steps heavy in the silence. You hear the amused, “pretty boy huh?” under his breath, but you don't look back; you're already heading to your apartment.

The door slams as you storm inside, cursing when the wall cracks, again. You should be able to control your strength by now, not lose it every time you're upset. So useless, so fucking ridiculous.

That part of your life should be buried, forgotten by now.

You're not even a distant memory to him. To anyone.

Half the school had a crush on John Walker. Why would he remember you? He was probably prom king while you were in a cell.

You peel off your clothes, shoving them into a bag for Val's staff to burn. Let the shower run as hot as you can stand, scrubbing until your skin burns red and angry. Until you can't feel the weight of him, the sweat, the smell of his breath, the evil that felt like it blistered your soul.

Your mind goes on autopilot, you dry off, brush your hair, pull on old, loose pyjamas. You don't bother uncovering the mirror. The marble floor cold on your feet as you head into the small kitchen, modern and clean but bare. There are a few drawings, notebooks, files...the photo of you with your parents the only personal item. The only possession you'd take with you if you needed to leave. 

When Val realised how incompetent you were and took the apartment away from you. She made sure you never let yourself settle, know you're only here on the condition you don't fail her.

That you're useful.

Clicking on the kettle, you grab leftovers out of the fridge. You don’t need to eat now, but you still get hungry, still crave the small comfort, the routine.

You can't stop thinking about how many women had been before you. How murder happened so often in that club, it had become normal.

One of their boss's quirks, a hobby.

And that other, darker thought that always whispers after a mission or a close call: maybe this time death would have taken. If John hadn't found you, maybe Dimitri would have broken your neck, just the right way. 

You'd finally be rid of the hate that simmers all the time. The hollow ache of loneliness, the resignation that it will always be this way. That no one would know, or even care. 

Porcelain shatters, shards cut into your hand. Hot coffee scalds your wrist and blood trickles out from the cut. Your skin heals over but the drawn blood still flows. You follow the droplets over your wrist, down your forearm, dripping onto the floor.

The autumn air cools your cheeks, burning from anger, from hurt. Chill where tears have run, too weak to stop them. Even here, you can't escape. You're tucked behind the stadium seats, a dark alcove usually ignored by everyone but you. 

Not today though, the universe has a crueller sense of humour than usual.

Not content with insults, shoving you into lockers, tripping you in the halls. Today they'd caught you out by the field.

Mud still clings to your clothes, your lower back still aches where Marcus pushed you down, holding you there with his foot. Brent shoving your face into the mud, snarling in your ear while cruel laughter echoes behind him, "Fucking pig, you love it down there, don't you?!" but you hardly hear it over the fear that crushes at your chest, the burn of dirty water in your lungs.

And the worst feeling? The shame that you didn't fight back, that you couldn't. You're terrified, can't lift yourself off the ground, even as the cold earth makes you shiver. 

Not until you're sure they're gone, that they aren't coming back.

Now you'd have to listen to the perfect couple and their friends, the same ones that forced you to hide in here. You can't leave without them noticing you, can't face the laughter when they see the state you're in. So you stick in your headphones, write in your journal, kidding yourself that you don't care. That your stomach twisting is hunger, not jealousy, not longing.

To have what they had, for everything to be as easy as it was for them. To have someone to care for you, hell, just to see you. As anything but ugly, stupid, fat...fair game. But that wasn't your life, you weren't destined to be seen, not like that...not like anything but what you are.

You drop to your knees, wiping up your spilt blood and coffee. Stop, that fucking school leads to Hydra and you couldn't fall down that rabbit hole…

“Fucks sake y/n, what happened?” Val answers on the first ring, shrill and impatient.

“John Walker happened, thought I needed saving. Dimitri knew, I had to kill him.” Your voice sounds hollow, Val doesn't notice, never does.

Had to kill him? You don't tell her the real reason, that if Dimitri had pointed that gun at you, he'd still be alive, you'd have brought him in.

Val chuckles, “Saving? That's the one thing you don't need. Did he recognise you?”

“No.” 

She hums in approval, “Good. The whole point of you is to blend in. Guess you did me a favour, his men will be scrambling around like rats.”

“What about the women he's holding there? They're still trapped-”

“I've got a team on that.” She interjects, dismissive, and you hear the tell in her voice. The change in pitch when she's lying.

“But his men, they'll kill them.” 

You can't leave those people, the hell Dimitri had been keeping them in...what if they decided to start over now he's gone? 

Val sighs, “I said. I have a team on that.”

Bullshit

“Val, I can-”

“No. I've got another job for you, even you can't mess this up,” you hear her false nails tap on the phone, “sent you the details, have fun.”

Fuck you Val. You ignore her message and pull the chest from under your bed, lifting out your old Shield tactical gear. It's been sewn up, ripped, and blown up so many times. The Shield badge faded on the shoulder. You're pretty sure it isn't bulletproof anymore, yet you can't bring yourself to throw it away. The only thread to the part of your life you were useful, when you almost meant something.

The abandoned factory sits unnoticed on the outskirts of Brooklyn. Part of an old manufacturing district left to be demolished. You make your way around the side of the building and up the broken steel stairway. Keeping out of view of the cameras, darkness providing some cover.

Just breathe and go to work

You pause and take a shallow breath, brace yourself for what you have to do. The powers you have to fall back on. The part of you that still feels brutal and unnatural. The stench of chemicals, sex and blood hits you all at once as you pry open the window.  

The last time you were here Dimitri had about thirty men inside, all killers and drug dealers. You double-check the explosives in your bag, all rigged to set to a twenty-minute timer. You check the silencer on your gun, your knives. Go over the building layout, all the manned points in your head. 

You tell yourself it's the only way to make sure no one takes over Dimitri's operation. If you don't do this, those women will be murdered without thought. 

Get it done, get out, don't stop.

They've used the top floor for storage, leaving it unguarded. You make your way down to the first floor, the echoing sound of voices getting louder with each step.

Distribution fills the ground floor and houses the safe, with all the drugs stored ready for shipment. Most of Dmitri's men would be gathered there.

The hardest part would be making it down to the basement without getting caught. Two guards are positioned on the door at all times and one inside with the prisoners. If they heard you above them, there's a chance they'd kill everyone before you even made it into the room.

You move along the service corridor towards the labs, the heart of their operation. Four armed guards stand between you and the door. They're loud, worried, distracted, arguing in a southern Spanish dialect.

You only have one chance, you make too much noise now, and everything will be chaos.

You wait for the pacing guard to make his way over to you and step out behind him. Your forearm against his neck, your other hand over his mouth. You pull back hard, cut off his air. His eyes bulge and then close, his body goes slack.

Your vision narrows to the three targets, you fire off three shots, each one hitting the back of the head, severing the brainstem.

They're dead before they hit the ground.

You step over them and enter the code, Dimitri too confident to think he ever needed to change it. 

The heavy door hisses open and you stay close to the wall, taking in the room. Seventeen men, no other exits. No one looks up, all concentrating on mixing, making the poison that kills so many.

You focus, let the training take over...then you move. Your enhanced speed giving them no chance to scream, to even register what's happening. You're methodical, move with a skill that belies your appearance.

One, two, three...six, seven...change clip...eight, nine...

Their deaths are almost instant, you make sure of it. The accuracy drilled into you by months of Hydra training, by SHIELD. Ten men are down before the eleventh raises his head. A split second of fear flashes over brown eyes, then they're empty, blood red.

You don't stop. Twelve lets out a scream, cut off. Thirteen lifts his gun, your knife slicing through his wrist before he can aim.

Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen...

Seventeen tries to run, he's watched everyone else die, but there's nowhere for him to go. You remember his face from Val's files. A drug dealer who used high school kids to transport drugs. Arrested for sexual assault and murder the police couldn't prove.

Now he's crying, begging, shuffling back from where he's fallen. You simply place your foot on his chest, hold the silencer barrel to his forehead and pull.

Reload your gun, wipe your knife, chest heaving from exhaustion. Taking only a second before lifting out the first explosives from your backpack. You move quickly, setting charges where the building is weakest. They should set off a chain reaction, bringing down the building cleanly. The heat of the fire, the weight of the top floor, the rubble destroying everything inside and containing anything toxic. 

As you're about to leave, a large plastic tub catches your attention. It's filled with documents and passports and you start to sift through them. 

Your breath caught. How many of these girls had passed through here? How many were dead? You shove as many as you can into your pack. If they can be traced, it might give their families some peace. It wouldn't bring them much comfort, but at least they'd know. Something you couldn't give your own parents.

“Who the fuck are you?” You go still at the voice and curse you let your focus slip, didn't hear him approach. Stupid. 

“Erm, Cleaner?” you smirk and raise your hands, slowly turning to face him. 

“Cleaner, huh?" his eyes drift to the blood on the floor behind you and he doesn't hesitate. He shoots you in the side, a slight inhale the only recognition of impact. 

He watches your lack of reaction with terrified awe and you slip your knife from your back pocket, aiming for his jugular, quick and quiet. He moves at the last second, the knife slicing through instead of digging in. It's not clean, the knife clatters and he drops, writhing on the floor, holding desperately to his neck. His blood a steady flow, coating his hands and chest.  

You fire once into his skull, ending his misery. 

Then you run.

The door slides open as you reach for it, you step back and raise your gun at the scruffy guy, long hair, headphones blaring rock music, stumbling over his feet carrying a box that's too heavy for him. 

Your heart's pounding and for a split second you stare at each other, your silent plea don't scream ignored as he backs away.

"Oh, fu-" he drops the box as he falls, you reach for it but the contents spill out, clanging over the concrete floor.

The room goes quiet, production stops, the air stills with that tense silence between shock and action. 

Fuck, you couldn't fight them all at once. You feel the fog of panic, your gun shakes in your hand, but then you breathe. You twist your cuffs and Stark's modified widow bites activate. You'd increased the range, the charge to send out a pulse, though you can only use it once. The cuff sparks, sends you skidding back, the current threading back through your arm.

It works, hits the room like a wave. 

But twenty-four bodies all hitting the floor at the same time?

Too much noise.

The timer beeps once as you activate it, counting down the twenty minutes. You run again. Down the worn stone steps to the basement and step out of the shadowed passageway in front of the two guards.

You fire off a bullet to both their skulls before they even know you're there. Plant your shoulder against the door and push, using all your weight, all the force you have in you.

“Ed is that you? What's going on up there, man? No one's answering-”

The metal groans, finally gives way, the lock sparking open. The last guard staggers back, his eyes go wide and he grabs the nearest woman, his forearm around her throat. Gun pressing into her temple, but his hands are shaking. Sweat trickles down his forehead; he's terrified.

Good.

“Don't come closer, back the fuck up, or I swear-”

Your finger closes on the trigger before he finishes. Clean in and out, he drops and they all start screaming, huddling into a corner.

You lower your gun, take a step forward. They try to move back, pleading with you. Their frightened voices overlap in Polish, Spanish, Russian…none of them seemed to speak any english.

“It's okay…I want to help you." You pull down your mask and raise your hands, they calm a little, seeing your face, but they can't understand what you're saying, “I won't hurt you…”

“You'll be safe, I'll get you out of here, I promise.” You gesture towards the door, holding one woman's gaze, "please.”

A flicker of hope passes over her eyes and she nods. Once she follows, they all do. You lead them out into the dull light of the passageway. The orange light highlights their bruised skin, their dark eyes. So thin, vacant beneath the fear, completely used.

And it softens the sickness in your gut, the guilt for killing Dimitri's men. 

They deserved to die, all of them.

You take the quickest path to the side exit, avoiding most of the bodies. The roar of engines fills the quiet, tires over gravel…two medic vehicles and one military suv. You peek through the doors, relieved when Bucky Barnes jumps out of one, followed by the rest of his team.  

The moment you step out, the thunderbolts run towards you, shooting. You duck back inside, windows smashing, spraying glass over you. The women copy you, crouching down. Bullets skim past your head and hit the wall opposite, the sound deafening. Then they stop, the silence ringing in your ears.

You take your chance in the lull, yelling as loud as you can, “Fucks sake! Stop shooting! I'm on your side!”

There's a second of silence, but they don't start shooting again. You step out, slowly this time, your hands raised and meet the thunderbolts' confused stares.

Bucky speaks first, “Who the hell are you?”

"It's okay, you can come out now. They're just idiots."  You call back, but they still don't understand you.

The woman who trusted you first, her dark hair matted, neck bruised, moves forward. Faint needle marks cover her wrist as she reaches out to you.

As gently as you can you take her hand, guiding her clear of the building. Yelena runs over and guides the rest out with you. They all stand together crying and your heart aches for them.

They'd be free, but the things they went through, they'd never be free of that fear.

You turn to Bucky, “She actually sent a team? I thought she was bullshitting me.” 

Bucky points from you to the building, “Val said he had fifty men in there, how did you-”

“Forty-nine and about twenty million in cocaine-" you heard it before you felt it. That slow rumble, building a split second before the explosion booms, "not anymore, I guess.” 

The thunderbolts all hit the ground, but you know you're clear. You watch the orange flash of flame before the smoke covers it, the building caving in on itself, showering you all in dust.

“Could’ve warned us…”  John grumbles his timbre like velvet, with a hint of amusement as he hauls himself up off the ground. You'd never seen him up close in the suit before, shoulders even broader, his hair messed up and dusty from the blast. He runs a hand through it and you feel that pull again, that desperate ache for something you can't have.

“You work for Valentina?” Yelena asks, calculating as she looks you over. Not suspicious, but wary. 

John cuts in before you can answer, "Hang on, wait, it's you again?”

“No, it's not.”  

“You're hurt.” John gestures to the bullet wound in your side. It's soaked through now, blood starting to run down your suit. 

Another bullet hole to stitch later.

“I'm fine, looks worse than it is.” You shrug and wave him off. You just needed to get the bullet out and the tissue would heal.

“That's a lot of blood…” John moves toward you, his instinct to help, already taking out a mini field kit from his suit, but you can't let him. 

Turning away from him, you walk over to Bucky and hold out your pack full of the documents and passports you'd found.

“Can you help them?” He hesitates a second, then he looks inside, sifting through.

“Shit, there's so many in here…” 

A quiet sob startles you, you watch as medical staff begin leading the women to the vehicles, checking them over. Your side throbs the burning pain getting worse, but you ignore it, pressing hard with your palm and look back to Bucky.

“I couldn't take the risk Val wasn't lying. Give them the chance to start over, get rid of evidence.” 

Bucky nods in understanding, and John steps beside him with a smirk, “So you do know what you're doing?”

“Told you not to underestimate me.” You smirk right back.

“Actually, I didn't; you just assumed that-"

Sharp pain cuts off his voice, shoots up your side, you feel the bullet digging in more with each movement. It wasn't fatal but you had to get it out. You place pressure on it again with your hand, failing to hide the pained gasp from John and Bucky.

Shame that serum didn't burn away your pain receptors too.  

“Hey, you sure you're-”

Okay, time to go. You step away, ignoring him, again, and you catch his irritated groan, “will you ever let me finish a damn sentence?”

The laugh bursts from your throat, quiet but real at the spark of concern mixed in with pure annoyance that you'd had the audacity. You have to resist the urge to shout back a no, you can't stay, you have to leave before they ask questions you can't answer.

They turn to John instead, surrounding him, their hurried questions all fired at him as you slip away. 

Who is she? 

What the hell? She works for Val?

Bucky's curious, you know her? the last voice you hear.

Every Tuesday afternoon was the same. Third period, English Lit. His friends hated it, hated having to read out their writing. But John, he secretly looked forward to this class, to your turn. The only time he ever heard your voice, you're writing better than most of the books he'd ever read. 

You're always nervous, afraid of your own presence, trying to shrink away from yourself. He can practically feel the dread pouring off you when the teacher calls your name. 

There are a few groans, his other classmates bored or fake yawning as you fumble with your notebook. But he pays attention. Making notes as you're talking, catching the hitch in your voice. The way you forget yourself for a moment, and he can't look away.

You're always first out of the door, disappearing before he can talk to you. This Tuesday he moves quicker, “Y/n right? You wrote this?”

John holds up his notes, walking backwards in front of you, eager to ask how the hell you came up with writing like this. 

“I did? I guess? Why?”

But you're looking anywhere but him, looking for the joke…and it dawns on him you think he's making fun of you. He frowns, watching as you lower your head and turn to walk away.

You don't get far.

You walk straight into a freshman, he stumbles and his pile of books clatter across the floor. There's a beat of silence, then you're immediately apologising, helping the freshman to his feet. 

John runs over, kneeling beside you to help pick up the scattered books. He catches the blush on your cheeks, the scent of strawberries from your hair, the way it falls over your face. The way you keep apologising, the little surprised squeak when you realise he's next to you. Then you're walking, no, running away from him...

He hands the freshman the last of his books and smiles after you, a group of girls giggling as you run by them.

 And the thoughts in his mind before can stop it; you're cute, mystery girl 

The next few days he finds himself thinking about you. Thoughts that catch him off guard, confuse him. He loved Liv, but still his thoughts wander to you. What your smile would look like, why he never saw you talk to anyone.

Why you're always alone, always sad, and worse, scared. That split second he'd met your eyes, he saw it. It wasn't just nerves, it was like you were waiting for him to push you or say something. To hurt you.

The more he noticed, the more it dawned on him where the beautiful words you wrote came from. Small things at first. Girls would take your stuff, push you around, guys would call you names.

How had he not noticed before?

He'd been so caught up with Liv, practice and studying. His dad constantly on his back. John always trying to impress him and failing. His rhetoric always, ‘There are no losers in this house, you fail, you're not my son. Remember that.’ 

But he couldn't ignore it, couldn't settle it in his gut. No one deserved to be treated that way. 

That's what he told himself. Every time he'd wait for them to leave, grab your stuff and place them by your locker after class. Every time he'd wait to make sure you found them.

When he'd catch the small smile as you looked around, the disbelief that someone had done a kind thing for you.

Not that he was growing way too fond of you, how crazy it was. This girl he’d spoken one sentence to, who had literally run away from him. 

He didn't want to freak you out again, but he wanted you to know you had someone on your side. 

Even if you didn't know it was him.

/PART TWO

▪ MASTERLIST ▪

/no idea if this is any good, started writing this in august and its been sitting in the queue since early nov, but I keep shoving it back, so if its rubbish you can suffer with me lol, not in a good place lately, so thanks for reading if you got this far 🫶 I'll shut up now.

▪ Insp for John in high school, 🥵*⁀➷

& these two 😜*⁀➷

Warnings: insecurity, self-comparison, kissing. Only she/her pronouns are used, so trans girls and anyone who uses these pronouns, this is for you.

A/N: I read @tenpintsof-sundrop 's post about how SO many Spencer writers love the "girlfriend wearing their boyfriend's clothes" trope, and honestly as they should, but as a mid-size girl, it's not that realistic. So I took it upon myself to write a short blurb where Spencer wears one of your sweaters. Enjoy 😙

Autumn was undoubtedly your favourite season: the crisp air biting at your skin, the crunch of browned leaves on the pavement, the feeling of a freshly-made mug of tea warming your hands, and of course, wearing sweaters. Sweater weather, is what you called it.

What made it better was the fact you enjoyed experiencing all of this with your lovely boyfriend, Spencer. You could only describe it as luck that you both shared a deep love for autumn, and Halloween naturally. You and Spencer enjoyed taking walks in the afternoon dusk of October, watching obscure foreign films that only he could translate while you were wrapped up in a blanket, and baking cinnamon goods when sleep was long forgotten on the nights he was off work.

Nothing could disrupt your joy during this time - well, except maybe one thing. Both avid sweater collectors, they were all you wore during the colder months. And as usual boyfriend-girlfriend relationships go, you often thought about borrowing a sweater or two from his wardrobe. He had a red striped one which you adored, a memory of his younger self when you had met each other at a flea market and both grabbed the same vintage book. His brown argyle one was definitely your favourite though. And you would ask him to wear it if it wasn’t for one thing.

You wore a larger size than Spencer. It was always blaringly obvious to you how different your bodily proportions were. Although the taller one, your boyfriend wore trousers that you could hardly fit a thigh through and his shirts would only reach past your neck, or at least you assumed - you had never attempted to try.

It shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. There were plenty of girls who were taller or chubbier than their romantic counterpart, but it still stung. There was nothing you wanted more during colder evenings than to steal one of his sweaters and bury yourself beneath the warm wool, enveloping yourself in his smell. So you opted for cuddling up as close to him as possible, letting him wrap his arms around you - it was as good as it could get.

However, one day during November, when you were alone at your shared apartment, a very wonderful thing occurred.

The kitchen had just been cleaned after another one of your baking fiascos. Amongst many things, you knocked the bag of flour while putting the tray of odd-looking cookies in the oven, and thus made a mess of the entire floor and counter. It took a while to clean up and it was not rewarding to open the oven door to deformed, sad-looking cookies. Whatever, you thought. It clearly wasn’t your day.

You found a place in your favourite armchair, your current read in your hands. It was the ideal way to pass the time since Spencer had texted you about his mountainous pile of reports he had to finish getting through. He could surely read faster than everyone else, but it didn’t mean they would be finished in a short period of time.

As you delved deeper and deeper into the story, you were startled when you heard the front door click open. You glanced at the clock up on the wall. Almost midnight, poor boy.

“Angel?”

“I’m in the living room!” you called out.

The shuffle of shoes and a gentle thump echoed through the corridor as Spencer took off his converse and dropped his messenger bag. The sound of soft footsteps neared you until the tall man rounded the corner and appeared in all his nerdy glory.

“Hey, finally home,” he sighed.

But you didn’t listen to what he was saying because you were too focused on something else: resting on his lanky frame was your sweater. One of your warmer ones. It was obviously a little too big on him, the material slipping off his right shoulder to reveal his white button-up underneath. The dark green sleeves were always a tad too long for your arms, and you’d assume they wouldn’t even reach Spencer’s wrists, but there they were covering his knuckles, only his fingertips poking out.

“Is everything alright? You seem distracted.” Spencer’s voice pierced your bubble of awe.

“Is that my sweater?”

He looked down and pulled on the hem of the sweater, a faint blush tainting his cheeks. “Uh yeah, it seems to be so. Does it bother you?”

Bother you was the last thing the image of your boyfriend in your clothing would do.

You cleared your throat as you tried to gather your thoughts into an intelligible sentence.

“N-Not at all! You just never asked me to wear anything of mine before … did you not have any sweaters left?”

“Oh no, I did! I um- well yesterday you wore it and left it on my desk chair, and it looked so warm and it … smelt of you.” His voice went up an octave at this last part. “And I thought I could wear it. Is that okay? Did I do something wrong?”

Wrong wasn’t the word you would use. Cute, adorable, heart-warming were adjectives that fit to describe the situation.

“Far from that, Spence. You look … you look adorable,” you said warmly.

He smiled in embarrassment and lifted his hand to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He truly was the spitting image of domesticity in this moment.

“C’mere.” You urged him to walk towards you, tucking your legs underneath your body. He shuffled closer while he picked at the stray ends of wool fraying at the sleeves.

Once he was close enough, you held his face in your hands and left a tender kiss on his plump, pink lips. He whined quietly at the sudden action, but let you do as you pleased - he couldn’t really say no, he was putty in your grasp.

After stopping the sweet kiss, your eyes traced over his outfit again - God, he was such a darling.

“Please wear my clothes more often, you look cute in them,” you said while looking into his hazel eyes.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he grinned.

Now, a year later, you were still going strong. Billy had been working on his family issues. It was your senior year, and you only had a few classes with Billy. Your short one-hour classes with him kept you going through the day. You had a few people teasing you in your other classes where Billy wasn't present. For the sake of the people teasing you, you decided not to tell Billy. If you told him, you knew he would go off on them.

It wasn't like you to hold anything back from him. Billy had secrets himself, so he immediately knew you were hiding something. "Sweetheart, something bothering you?" He was sitting next to you in science class. He held your hand, something he often did to ground you when you got lost in the swirling thoughts in your mind. He scoots his chair closer to you, his thigh touching your own large thigh. The image of your leg being larger than his made your heart drop in your chest. "It's nothing, Billy. Just a little worried about a test." you squeezed his hand and beamed at him. Billy knew you better than anyone. He places a hand on your knee.

"You know, you're a really bad liar." He smirks, his strong arms rotating your chair so you were facing him. The embarrassment of being caught in a lie made your face flush a little bit. You'd known Billy for a year, but his intense gaze was enough to make you squirm.

"I don't want you to get mad, okay? You have to promise me you won't explode." Billy knew you were insecure sometimes, and he tried every second of every day to make you feel like the gorgeous woman you truly were.

He also knew how upset you got when he couldn't control his anger. That's why he worked on it for months. He didn't lash out nearly as much. In his mind, he perceived you as an angel. You saved him from a bad place, saved him from himself. Without such a strong woman helping him take care of his anger issues, he'd be dead right now. Billy wasn't the best with words, so he showed his gratitude in many other ways. Mainly in the bedroom.

"I promise." he was lying, of course. He'd protect you at all costs. You were his girl. If that meant beating up some assholes in your honor, so be it. He knew you could handle yourself, but it never hurts to have some extra help, right?

"There's just some guys teasing me. I know you said that I should teach them a lesson, but have you seen me? I can barely give a class presentation!" he rolls his eyes and chuckles. "What, why are you laughing?" you didn't find the situation very funny at all.

"You're just so oblivious. Are you listening to yourself at all? I've seen you with people daily. What happened?" Billy knew you better than you knew yourself sometimes. "I don't know. Can we just drop it?" you knew what some people thought of you, and it hadn't affected you in the slightest. Until Billy was brought up.

"No, you know what? We're going to talk about this after school, okay? I want to make sure I don't have to hurt someone." Billy assumed this was about some asshole calling you something. He was thoroughly confused about why it affected you now.

He admired your strength, you knew your worth and it was his favorite part about you. Billy truly loved everything about you, including your confidence. Your body was just a bonus. He adored every part of your body, and he wasn't shy about showing you either. In any public setting, he'd always have a hand on you. Mostly because he loved the feeling of your soft plush skin in his hand, but also because it gave him a chance to let everyone else know you were his.

After school, you walked to Billy's car. It was cute how his eyes lit up as soon as you were in his field of vision. He finished his cigarette and pulled you closer, his large hands wrapping around your waist. Billy loved PDA, he was all for it. He pressed a kiss to your lips, the soft gesture made you practically melt in his grasp. "You ready to talk, sweetheart?" his voice was gentle as he leaned against his car.

"We're still at school. Can we go home?" Home was usually your house. Billy didn't like being around his parents, specifically his father, so your house was a spot for him to be himself. Your parents worked, so you had the whole house to yourself most of the time, which gave Billy plenty of time to have fun with you…

"Uh uh, we're talking right here so I can take care of the asshole who did this to you."

It truly hurt him to see you so broken. Even though he had only said it a few times, he loved you more than anything. He loved how strong you were, you were his rock when he was going through hard times. Billy didn't give a damn what you looked like. He loved your plush thighs pressed against him when he cuddled you, your soft stomach being a perfect spot for him to lay on while worshipping your stunning body.

"It was your friends, they said: she doesn't deserve Billy, she's a worthless pig next to him. He doesn't love her anyway." you were paraphrasing, but Billy still got the memo. You felt his hands detach from your waist. He was beyond furious.

"Give me names, baby. I'll take care of them. Y/n, I swear they are idiots. I don't want you to listen to a single thing they said, okay? You are gorgeous. I don't care about your weight. It doesn't matter." Billy tried to keep his composure. The anger boiling up inside him made it hard for him to think clearly sometimes.

Normally, you'd take care of this issue yourself. You'd slam their locker closed on their fingers, flip them off, etc. Billy understood that even the strongest people can feel weak sometimes. You'd helped him several times.

Like that time when he came to your after a fight with his father, he cried on your shoulder for an hour, unable to form the words "I love you". You held him for what seemed like hours, attempting to cover up the bruises forming from his father hitting him. You weren't expecting anything in return, and it made Billy feel like he had found the one. He always admired the fact that you were so kind to him when you didn't have to be. He never told you he had loved you that night, but when he showed up the next day with flowers and snacks…you got the message.

So, you gave him the names and before you could say anything else, he was walking back into the school, his fists balled up.

Billy wasn't the type of person to say "No, you're not fat, you're beautiful." because you were a bigger woman, and he absolutely adored you in every way. He'd rather adore you than try and sugarcoat it. He knew it was backhanded to say that phrase, because you were beautiful no matter what the number on the scale said. In fact, he threw away your scale ages ago, not that you used it much anyway. Billy was good at making you feel loved. It was like he knew exactly how to make you feel comfortable in your own skin.

The doors to the school burst open as Billy stormed out, his mullet hair slightly touseled from the assumed conflict. You knew better than to intervene when he got into his protective mood. It did feel good to get some kind of revenge, and Billy was more than eager to get revenge for you.

He stopped at your side, his fingers wrapping around the belt loops of your jeans. "It's been taken care of, sweetheart. Has anyone told you how good you look in these jeans?" He pulled your hips closer to his, your stomach pressed against his. "Listen to me, doll. I love you more than anything or anyone else in this damn town. Who cares what anyone else thinks of you or me? They're jealous that we're made for each other. You're so fucking perfect. Nobody in this town deserves you. Hell, I don't deserve you, sweetheart."

No matter what your conversation was about, you always knew one thing: Billy would never lie to you.

You could feel tears begging to spill over as Billy held your body close to his. You could feel the heat coming from his body. "I love your body, your thick thighs, your stomach.." he sighs. "I think about you all day- dream about being between those pretty thighs of yours." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his cologne filling the air around you made you lean against him.

"The best part about you isn't your body. It's your smile, your personality. It makes my day. Don't listen to what anyone in this town says about you. They're assholes from a town full of losers. Once I save up some money, we'll leave Hawkins. I'll get a good job and we'll be out of this shithole. You are amazing, baby. Don't you ever forget it." He held the side of your face in his hand, his eyes scanning you for any sadness.

"Don't forget it or I'll have to remind you again." He slapped your ass and smirked when you let out a laugh. "What do you think, should we go home so I can show you what you deserve?" his hand pressed into your back in an attempt to pull you impossibly closer, giving him the perfect view of your boobs from his point of view.

"You know how I feel about this shirt, doll. Are you teasing me on purpose?" he whispered in your ear. You'd be lying if you said you didn't feel butterflies. Billy was very charming when he wanted to be. "Let's go home." you couldn't deny you wanted him.