#the decompression zone

[kingworm]

junk journaling

[pigfear]

certain special hell epilepsy sometimes comes with that not many ppl tell u abt is that the people around you can be more scared of your seizures than you are. so they get scared to leave you alone. and you cant drive anywhere to be alone yourself. so you end up trapped in their little padded panopticon.

[kiose]

She's painstakingly explaining why the stuff someone else threw away is not trash and still perfectly usable Anyway, HBD Lapis, I'll eat a yam and go fight a bear in your honor 🐻 🍠 🐻 🍠 🐻 🍠

[buckysleftbicep]

who did this to you? 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x abused!fem!reader

warnings: mentions of abuse, domestic violence (not committed by bucky!) mentions of trauma, themes of fear and recovery (please read the warnings)

summary: bucky notices the bruises before you ever say a word. as the truth unravels, he steps in—not just to protect you, he makes sure you're never hurt again.

word count: 5.3k (i went a little overboard)

author's note: i have been wanting to write this for quite a while, and i'm glad i did. enjoy my loves, your feedback and thoughts are always appreciated!

It started small.

A shift in the way you smiled—no longer bright and easy, but tight-lipped and fleeting, like you were trying to convince yourself it still came naturally. A hesitation in your laughter, once the sweetest sound in the Watchtower’s echoing corridors, now muffled, forced, or absent altogether.

The others chalked it up to stress. Missions have been tense lately. The team didn’t exactly operate in peacetime.

But Bucky…Bucky saw more.

You were the team’s secretary. The one constant in a whirlwind of chaos. Efficient, organised, always one step ahead of everyone else. You had memorised every operative’s dietary needs before the kitchen staff had.

You knew how to read between lines of mission reports, handle fallouts with the media, and you were the only person Yelena trusted to refill her coffee exactly right. Your desk, tucked near the central hub, was where people came to decompress, vent, even smile.

You made things work. You made the team work.

You were the light that steadied them all.

But lately… that light had gone out.

Bucky noticed first. He always did. Watching people wasn’t just habit—it was an instinct. A soldier’s reflex, sharpened by a lifetime of reading danger in the twitch of a hand or the flicker of a glance.

He noticed how your shoulders curled inward like you were trying to disappear into yourself, or how your arms folded across your stomach, elbows tucked in tight as if they were armour.

You flinched when anyone passed too closely behind your chair. You stopped walking through the halls with your usual spring—started hugging the walls, choosing longer routes that avoided high-traffic zones.

When Yelena clapped a hand to your shoulder in greeting, a simple, affectionate gesture—your entire body jolted like you’d been hit. Not just startled. 

Terrified.

The room had gone quiet at that moment. Even Alexei paused, a half-eaten sandwich frozen in his hand. Ava had gone still beside the mission board, her eyes narrowing slightly.

You recovered too quickly. Smiled too fast. “Sorry, nerves,” you’d said, brushing it off, grabbing the nearest file and practically sprinting from the room. But Bucky had already seen too much.

And then the bruises.

They started subtly. Shadows beneath the cuff of your blouse that could be passed off as bad sleep, maybe a knock against a desk corner.

You were clumsy sometimes—everyone knew that. A walking hurricane in heels, Yelena liked to tease. You once tripped over your own shoelaces in front of Val, and no one had let you live it down for a week.

But these weren’t accidents.

There was a splotch of purple just visible beneath your collarbone, dark and irregular. Faint, yellowing fingerprints on your wrist that looked like they were trying to fade, but kept stubbornly coming back.

A raw, angry mark that peeked out from your hairline one morning, like someone had gripped your jaw too hard—someone tall enough, big enough to loom over you, strong enough to leave a handprint in their wake.

Bucky saw that one when you bent down to pick up a report you’d dropped. Your blouse’s collar dipped slightly, just enough to reveal a line of bruising that trailed from your neck toward your shoulder like a hand had wrapped around you and squeezed.

His hand clenched into a fist on instinct.

He didn’t say anything right away. He knew better. But he watched. Quietly, intensely. Not just because he cared, but because something inside him roared with the need to protect you, something deep and territorial and dangerous.

The same thing that made him stare holes into the security cameras when you left the compound for lunch, or that made him scan every incoming message with a new, sharpened edge.

He began checking your schedule.

Not overtly. Just… looking. Noting when you left the compound. Who signed you out. When you came back, and what your face looked like afterward.

You used to return from errands with little smiles and tiny stories—“The deli guy gave me an extra pickle today,” or “Some lady on the street said I had pretty earrings.” But lately, you came back quieter. Shoulders tighter. And you always avoided his eyes.

One afternoon, he asked you if you were okay.

You smiled—again, that damn smile. So polite, so practiced. 

“Yeah. Just tired. Thanks for asking Bucky”

But being tired didn’t leave marks on someone’s throat.

And when you walked away, Bucky watched you disappear down the hallway and felt something cold curl in his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in years.

He knew pain. He’d lived it. Breathed it. Worn it like a second skin. But there was something worse about watching you endure it.

Something far more dangerous.

And whoever had hurt you?

They’d just reminded him exactly what he was willing to protect.

Still, Bucky didn’t act rashly. He waited. Watched. Gathered more than just bruises and broken glances. He needed to be sure—of what you were dealing with, of who was doing this to you, of how to approach without sending you further into yourself.

The wrong move could make you shut down entirely. He knew trauma didn’t unravel with questions—it needed patience. 

Stillness. Safety.

So he waited until the Watchtower cleared out for the evening.

The others had trickled out one by one—Yelena dragging Alexei into a sparring match he didn’t ask for, Ava and John disappearing into the training room, Val locked in her office for a late-night debrief.

The corridors fell quiet, fluorescent lights humming low overhead. Bucky lingered near your office, watching the shadows stretch along the floor, the door slightly ajar with the warm glow of your desk lamp spilling out into the hall.

You were still there. Of course you were.

You always stay late now.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping into your office once the others had gone.

You didn’t jump—but he saw the way your shoulders stiffened. How your fingers paused on the keyboard, curling slightly as if preparing for something.

Your eyes stayed locked on the screen for a moment too long, and when you did glance up, they were wide and glassy with that familiar, haunted look.

The one he recognised too well.

The one he used to see in the mirror.

“Can I talk to you?” His voice stayed quiet, gentle—like coaxing a wounded animal out of hiding. He stood just inside the door, hands in the pockets of his black jacket, posture non-threatening but steady. He wouldn’t crowd you. He wouldn’t touch you. But the one thing he wouldn’t do is walk away.

You swallowed, throat tight, and gave a small nod.

“Sure.”

But the word was fragile. Like it had been stitched together with effort.

He crossed the room slowly, pulling the door shut behind him—not all the way, just enough to give the illusion of privacy without making you feel trapped. Then he moved to the chair across from your desk and sat, leaving space between you. Letting you decide what came next.

You glanced back at your screen, like you were searching for a reason to stay distracted. Like if you just kept typing, none of this would be real. But your hands didn’t move.

He waited a beat, then spoke, low and careful. “I’ve been noticing some things.”

You didn’t answer.

“I don’t mean to scare you,” he added. “I just… I’m worried about you doll”

Your shoulders tensed again. That flinch. That tell. He saw it before you could mask it. And when your arms folded across your stomach, hiding your bruised wrist, he knew.

You were protecting yourself from more than just a conversation.

“I know something’s going on,” he said. “And I don’t need the details if you’re not ready. But I need you to know that… you don’t have to do this alone.”

Still, silence. But your eyes were starting to shine, tears gathering at the corners as you stared down at your keyboard like it held all the answers.

“You’ve been flinching at every touch,” he went on, his voice nearly breaking. “You don’t smile anymore. You avoid everyone like they’re gonna hurt you. And those bruises—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked as the word came out, sharp and desperate.

Bucky’s breath caught. But he didn’t move. “Okay,” he said immediately. “I won’t push. I swear.”

The silence that followed was thick—trembling between confession and collapse.

And then your lip quivered. You shook your head once. “I didn’t mean for anyone to notice,” you whispered, voice so soft it almost didn’t reach him. 

“I thought I could handle it.”

Bucky leaned forward, slowly, carefully. “You shouldn’t have to handle it.”

Your chin trembled. “I didn’t want to be a burden. Everyone’s got their shit. Missions. Scars. Who wants to hear about the secretary who made the mistake of falling for the wrong guy?”

His jaw clenched so tightly he thought he might crack a molar. “Who did this to you?”

You didn’t answer.

But your silence was answer enough.

His tone darkened, low and steady like steel cooled in ice. “Tell me who put their hands on you.”

You shook your head again, fast this time, panic blooming across your features. “Bucky—don’t. Please. It’ll just make it worse.”

He stood up, jaw rigid, fists clenched at his sides. The chair scraped quietly behind him, but he didn’t move toward you. Didn’t crowd. Just stood there, vibrating with barely contained rage.

But it wasn’t at you.

“I would never let anyone hurt you again,” he said, his voice rough now, fighting to stay gentle. “But you have to let me help.”

Your eyes met his cerulean irises then. And something inside you cracked.

Because he didn’t look at you with pity.

He looked at you like you mattered. Like your pain mattered. Like he saw you—really saw you—and it didn’t make him walk away.

And something about the way he said it, like a lifeline broke you.

You told him everything.

From the first time it happened, when your ex shoved you against a wall during an argument over a text message. To the second time, when he slapped you so hard your lip split open. The cycle became normal. You had started covering up bruises like second nature, lying to your friends, flinching at shadows.

Two nights ago, he’d come home drunk, angry. He dragged you by your hair into the bedroom, wrapped a hand too tight around your neck, and left purple thumbprints beneath your jaw.

You had to call in sick the next day. Told Val it was the flu. She didn’t question it.

Tears streamed silently down your cheeks, but Bucky never looked away. His face was tight with rage, his jaw clenched so hard you thought he might break a tooth. His metal hand had curled into a fist again, knuckles whitening where they met synthetic plating.

“I'm gonna kill him,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“No,” you croaked, your hand reaching to grip his wrist. “Just… just get me out of there.”

“You don’t have to ask,” he said.

He helped you out of the office, holding your arm with such care, like you might shatter if he used too much strength. He led you to his motorcycle, the matte black vehicle parked beside the Watchtower’s bay doors.

You hesitated. “I don’t—”

He handed you his helmet and said, “You’re safe with me.”

And you believed him.

The wind was sharp against your face, your arms clinging around his waist as he drove through the dusky streets toward your apartment. Your heart thundered the entire ride—not from fear of falling, but from the feeling of escape.

At your place, you let Bucky in and stood frozen in the doorway. Your keys shaking in your hands.

“Tell me what you need,” he said.

You walked numbly toward your bedroom and began pulling a small duffel from the closet. Bucky followed, surveying the apartment with quiet calculation.

The broken picture frame on the floor. The hole punched in the hallway drywall. The cracked phone screen beside your bed.

You gathered clothes, toiletries, your journal, a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. Bucky packed in silence, folding your shirts neatly, rolling your socks with care.

When you turned to get your toothbrush, your hands were trembling too badly to hold it.

“I can’t…” you whispered, finally falling apart.

Bucky was there in an instant, arms wrapping around you, pulling you into the solid warmth of his chest.

“It’s over,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re not going back there. I won’t let you.”

You sobbed into his shoulder, your body wracked with grief and relief all at once. For the first time in years, you believed it. 

You were leaving.

Bucky had decided to take you to his apartment, given how late it was—and how you didn’t want the rest of the team knowing about any of this. You couldn’t bear their questions or the way they might look at you differently if they knew the truth. What you needed right now wasn’t a spotlight—it was safety.

And Bucky, somehow, had understood that without you ever having to say a word.

Tucked away in a quiet corner of Brooklyn, it felt like a sanctuary: minimalistic but lived-in, with dark wood furniture, shelves lined with old books, framed black-and-white photos, a few of them being Steve's, and soft lighting that bathed the space in warm, golden hues.

There were blankets folded over the back of his couch, plants that looked surprisingly healthy, and a record player in the corner with a small stack of vinyls beside it. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—warm, masculine, grounding.

“Bathroom’s through there,” Bucky said gently, “and the guest room’s yours for as long as you want it.”

You nodded, wiping your face with your sleeve.

He handed you a folded pile of clothes—one of his blue Henley shirts and a pair of grey boxer briefs that would sit loosely on your frame.

“You can sleep in these,” he said. “I’ll set up fresh towels, and if you need anything—anything—you come get me.”

You changed in the bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. The bruises on your neck looked even more vibrant in the soft light. You touched them lightly, then pulled Bucky’s shirt over your head. It was warm from his hands, and it smelled like cedar and something unmistakably him.

You sank into the bed that night with clean sheets, the window cracked open just enough to let in the cool night air. Bucky’s home felt quiet in a way yours never had. Not silent from tension—but peaceful. The kind of quiet that comes with safety.

You curled into the soft mattress, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly like him, and for the first time in two years, you slept without fear.

Safe. Protected. Free.

You woke up with a gasp.

The remnants of the nightmare clung to you like cobwebs—suffocating and sticky. Flashes of fists in the dark. That voice slithering in your ear, venomous and cruel. The oppressive weight on your chest, the cold dread of being trapped with no way out.

Your heart thundered, breath tearing in and out of your lungs like you were still running, still being chased. Your skin was damp with sweat, your hands shaking uncontrollably as you pushed the covers away and bolted upright in bed.

The room swam around you—familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Dimly lit by the glow of a streetlamp outside, walls painted in shadow. The silence rang too loud.

You couldn’t stay.

Before you even registered the movement, your bare feet found the cool hardwood floor, each step down the hallway echoing softly. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.

Bucky’s door was cracked open.

He was awake. Sitting at the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, his metal hand cradling the back of his neck like it ached. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. The soft light from the city cast silver lines across the sharp angles of his face, tracing the tension in his jaw, the furrow of his brow.

Your voice trembled, more breath than sound. “I had a nightmare.”

His head snapped up immediately, eyes locking onto yours. The shift was instant—soldier to protector. In two strides, he was in front of you.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”

His hands came to your shoulders—not forceful, just present. Anchoring. His touch was warm and steady, and it sent a tremor through you that wasn’t from fear this time, but release. Like your body finally allowed itself to feel how shaken you were.

Your lip quivered. “Can I stay?”

He nodded before you even finished the question. “Always.”

You didn’t hesitate. The bed welcomed you like a long-lost memory—soft sheets, a comforting dip in the mattress, the faint scent of his soap clinging to the pillow.

You curled into the center of it, small and tentative, feeling like a ghost of yourself. Like you might disappear if the shadows swallowed you up again.

Bucky moved with care. He didn’t rush. He pulled the blanket up over your trembling frame, tucking it gently around your shoulders. Then he slid into the bed behind you, close but not suffocating, the heat of him already beginning to thaw something frozen inside you.

His arm hovered behind you for a moment. He didn’t assume. Didn’t take. Just waited.

When you shifted ever so slightly—just enough for your back to press lightly against his chest, his arm came around you. A quiet, protective barrier. His metal fingers splayed carefully against your stomach, grounding you in the here and now.

You exhaled a shaky breath, your eyes slipping shut for the first time all night. The tension in your body began to unwind, thread by thread. His scent, clean and faintly earthy filled your nose, mingling with the sound of his heartbeat against your spine and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

And then he whispered it, his voice barely brushing your ear, soft and sure and steady.

“I’ve got you.”

The words sank into your skin like warmth, like truth. No promises he couldn’t keep. No hollow reassurances. Just a vow, solid and unspoken, in the way he held you like you were something worth protecting.

You blinked slowly, a tear slipping free and soaking silently into the pillow.

For the first time in as long as you could remember, you believed it.

You were safe.

Not because the nightmares were gone—but because Bucky was here when they came.

The morning sun filtered gently through the blinds of Bucky’s apartment, casting warm strips of gold across the hardwood floors.

For the first time in over a year, you hadn’t woken up with your heart pounding in fear. No yelling, no slamming doors. Just the subtle hum of city life beyond the window, and the distant sizzle of bacon in a skillet.

You padded out of the bedroom in Bucky’s oversized shirt and boxers, clutching the sleeves around your palms. The faint scent of him lingered in the fabric—cedar-wood, leather, and something warm, like late summer.

Bucky stood by the stove, his hair damp from a quick shower, grey T-shirt clinging to the breadth of his shoulders. When he heard your footsteps, he turned slightly and gave you a soft smile.

“Hey, sweetheart” he murmured, voice low and scratchy from sleep. “Hope you’re hungry.”

You nodded, grateful, eyes stinging. It was in the little things—the way he slid a cup of coffee toward you without asking how you liked it, because he already remembered. 

Later that day, the team found out.

Yelena had noticed first. She cornered Bucky in the Watchtower’s armoury after morning briefings. “What’s going on with (y/n)?” she demanded, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “She barely said five words. She jumped when Alexei dropped his water bottle. I know bruises when I see them.”

Bucky hesitated, jaw tightening. But when Yelena added, softer this time, “I care about her too,” he gave her the truth.

Word spread in a ripple. Quiet, but powerful. By the end of the day, the team was different.

It started with your phone. You were sorting through mission reports in the comms room when it buzzed beside you, and you flinched hard enough to drop a pen because without looking, you already knew who it was. Him.

John, usually, cocky caught the look on your face and immediately picked the phone up himself.

“Give me your passcode,” he said steadily.

You hesitated. “Why?”

“Because if this asshole’s still texting you, I’m blocking him. And if he’s tracking you, we’re disabling it right now.”

You blinked at him, lip trembling. John just held your gaze, patient. Protective.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Ten minutes later, your ex was blocked. His number, email—gone. John handed the phone back like it weighed nothing, but you knew it had been a thousand-pound chain.

Bob, quiet and sweet, began programming something on the side—a digital firewall. One you didn't even ask for, but he gave it to you anyway.

“If he tries anything online, you’ll be notified. But he won’t get through. I made sure of it.”

You could’ve cried.

Ava began walking with you more often. No words. Just always there—on your way to the labs, when you stopped by the kitchen, even when you headed out to grab lunch across the street.

“I know what it’s like,” she said one day while the two of you sat on a park bench eating sandwiches. “To feel hunted.”

You looked at her, stunned. Her face was unreadable, but her hand brushed yours for a moment, just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

Then there was Alexei. Loud, boisterous, intimidating. He walked into the common area one afternoon with three grocery bags in hand and plopped them dramatically onto the table.

“You like those little orange cracker fish?” he boomed showing you the goldfish crackers he had gotten. “I bought five bags. And some juice. Juice is important.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“I don’t—”

“Shush little one,” he said, winking. “You part of us. Thunderbolts always feed Thunderbolts.”

Your laugh broke out before you could stop it. It felt foreign. Strange. 

But real.

Alexei beamed like he’d won a medal.

Slowly but surely, the team wrapped you in something new. Something stronger than fear. Stronger than pain.

When you needed to go to the mall for more clothes—things that weren’t tainted with memories—Yelena and Bob went with you.

Yelena stuck close to your side, pretending to be indifferent but always scanning the crowd. Bob carried all the bags with a goofy grin. He even helped pick out a new hoodie. It was soft and warm and maroon.

“You should feel safe in your skin,” Yelena said simply, handing you a matching beanie. “Even if you’re still growing into it.”

Back at the Watchtower, life began to feel... lighter.

You started laughing again. At Alexei's terrible jokes, at Yelena’s savage sarcasm, at Bob’s quiet mutterings when tech didn’t work. Even John, in all his arrogance, could make you smile.

There was a movie night every Friday now and Bucky always sat next to you, sometimes with a pillow between you both to give space, other times with his shoulder a solid warmth at your side. You’d found yourself leaning into him more. Not because you had to. But because it felt right.

And he never pushed. Never demanded. Just let you exist next to him. Sometimes he’d hand you a blanket without saying a word. Sometimes he’d offer half his popcorn. Sometimes, his fingers would brush yours, warm and careful, and linger just a second longer than necessary.

You slept more. Ate more. Laughed more.

One day, Ava caught you humming in the hallway, arms full of supplies. She stopped in her tracks.

“What?” you asked.

“You’re glowing,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “I—I am?”

She gave a rare, small smile. “Like someone who remembers what sunlight feels like.”

One night, after Yelena dropped you off, you returned to the apartment Bucky always insisted was open to you. You let yourself in with the spare key. It was late, and he was half-asleep on the couch with a book in his lap. He stirred when you closed the door.

“You okay sweetheart?” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” you said.

He nodded, eyes drifting shut again.

You sat beside him, curling your legs up, and rested your head against his shoulder.

He didn’t move. Didn’t ask. Just reached for the blanket draped over the armrest and pulled it gently over you both.

It was the safest you’d ever felt.

It had started out as a good night.

One of those rare moments where the city lights felt warm rather than harsh, where laughter didn’t feel like something you had to fake.

The team had dragged you out—gently, persistently, lovingly.

“C’mon,” Yelena had said, slinging her arm over your shoulder. “Burgers, milkshakes, greasy fries. We deserve it. You deserve it.”

You hesitated. It had been a while since you went to any public diner. Too many memories. Too many shadows. Too much risk of seeing him.

But tonight? You nodded. Just once. Just enough.

The diner was loud with neon buzz and the clatter of plates, the kind of classic joint with red booths and checkered floors. Bucky slid into the booth beside you while Yelena and John sat across. Bob and Ava took the seats at the edge, Alexei immediately requesting the biggest burger they had.

Jokes flew easily. John was ranting about ketchup crimes. Yelena argued that mayonnaise was the superior condiment. Bob kept trying to order fries but the waitress only seemed to hear Alexei’s booming voice.

You were laughing. Honest, soft laughter that made your chest ache.

Then the door jingled. And just like that, the warmth bled from the room. Laughter dimmed. The sizzle of the grill and clatter of dishes became distant, muffled by the sudden roar of blood in your ears.

Bucky stilled beside you.

Your ex stood in the doorway, flanked by two men you didn’t recognise—thick-necked, sneering types with clenched fists and hooded eyes. But it was him you saw. Him, with that awful smirk, like nothing had changed.

Like he still owned the air you breathed.

Bucky noticed the way your body tensed, your fingers gripping the edge of the table. “Hey—”

Your ex’s eyes landed on you, and he stepped forward, raising his voice.

“Well, look who it is. Didn’t think you’d crawl this far downtown. Guess word spreads when you’re spreading your legs for every man in New York now, huh?”

The sound of the booth creaking was the only warning before Bucky stood.

Yelena’s fork clattered onto her plate.

John was on his feet in seconds, positioning himself directly between you and your ex.

“Take that back,” Bucky growled.

Your ex only sneered, moving closer. “What, you gonna fight me in front of your new playgroup? Cute. Didn’t think the Winter Soldier was into charity cases.”

You flinched.

Bucky didn’t.

“I know what you did to her,” Bucky said, low and lethal.

Your ex chuckled, but there was unease in his posture now. “What? You mean the bruises? Bitch liked it rough. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

Yelena stood up behind John, her face carved in steel. “The next time you touch her,” she said flatly, “will be the last time you have hands.”

Your ex stepped forward as if to challenge, but John didn’t move an inch. “Try it,” he warned. “Give me a reason.”

You saw it—the twitch in your ex’s jaw, the way he coiled his fist. He swung at Bucky.

But Bucky didn’t just dodge. He caught the punch mid-air.

With his metal hand.

The crunch of bone was audible and a gasp ran through the diner.

Before anyone could react, Bucky gripped your ex by the front of his jacket, lifting him clean off the floor. The metal arm locked around his throat with frightening precision. The air stilled. Your ex's feet dangled.

“If you ever look at her again,” Bucky snarled, voice sharp and shaking with rage, “if you so much as breathe in her goddamn direction—I will rip your spine out and hang it from the Watchtower gates.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was full of restrained fury. Of violence barely held back. His eyes had darkened, steel-gray and burning.

Your ex gurgled, his hands clawing at Bucky’s grip.

“Do you understand me?”

A choked nod.

Bucky dropped him like trash.

Alexei stepped forward then, looming over the two henchmen. “You want to try luck?” he asked them casually. “I haven’t punch anything in weeks.”

The men looked at each other, then down at your ex, now coughing on the floor. They backed away.

“You’re not worth it,” one muttered, and the other practically dragged your ex toward the exit.

Your heart was thundering. Your breath short.

Bob slipped into the seat beside you. Ava stood near the door, eyes scanning the street for any lingering threat.

Bucky turned to you, jaw tight, shoulders still trembling with adrenaline. But when he looked at you, his expression softened immediately.

He crouched in front of you, hands open. “You okay?”

You nodded shakily, tears welling.

Yelena handed you a napkin. “He’s gone,” she said quietly. “He’s never coming near you again.”

John was still standing like a human shield, arms crossed.

And Bucky... Bucky cupped your cheek with his hand. It was warm, comforting, his thumb brushing away the tear that escaped.

“He doesn’t get to touch you. Not now. Not ever again.”

You leaned into him, trembling.

“I was so scared,” you whispered, barely audible.

Bucky pressed his forehead to yours. “I know, sweetheart. But it’s over. He can’t hurt you anymore. Not while I’m breathing.”

And for a moment, even in the shattered remains of what should have been a peaceful night, you were wrapped in a shield stronger than steel.

You had them.

You had him.

You were safe.

You didn’t speak on the way home.

No one made you.

Bucky drove, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing against your thigh—anchoring, grounding. The rest of the team took a second vehicle, giving you space. After what happened, you needed it.

You stared out the window, watching the neon blur into streaks of yellow and red, feeling like you were floating somewhere outside yourself. Somewhere between fear and relief.

The silence between you and Bucky wasn’t heavy—it was steady. Like the calm after a storm. Like quiet waves still curling back from the shore.

When he parked outside the compound, he turned to you slowly.

“Do you want to be alone?”

You shook your head.

He didn’t ask again. Just took your hand gently, led you through the compound, through the hallways, up the stairs. When you reached your room, he hesitated at the door.

“Can I stay?”

You nodded.

Inside, the room felt untouched by the chaos of earlier. Soft lamplight, a rumpled blanket on your bed. Familiar, safe.

You kicked your shoes off and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting in your lap. Bucky crouched in front of you again, like at the diner, his hands resting on your knees.

“You’re not weak for being scared,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Your throat tightened. You nodded.

“But he’s never going to get to you again. I won’t let him. None of us will.”

You looked at him. The way his eyes held yours, soft but strong. The way his presence wrapped around you like armor. The way his touch was always careful, like you were something breakable but worth protecting.

And then you whispered, “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

Bucky leaned forward. Pressed his forehead gently to yours.

“You don’t have to. Not right away. But you’re not alone anymore. We’ll fight it together.”

You closed your eyes.

And when he climbed into bed beside you, when his arms wrapped around you and pulled you against the steady thump of his heart, you believed him.

Not because the fear was gone.

But because for the first time in so long, you weren’t carrying it alone.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. Whispered something you didn’t catch—but it didn’t matter.

It sounded like safety.

It felt like home.

a/n: this fic is one i hold close, because i have experienced abuse/dv in my previous relationship, and i had no idea how to leave, and writing this helped, a lot. i do hope that every person that is trapped in this cycle will find their bucky—someone who makes them feel safe and loved. i am grateful i found mine. if you're a victim or know someone who is struggling, please don't be afraid to seek for help. i promise it does get better once you leave. (google dv helpline, your country's hotline should appear)

[jellycryptid]

Nona is a schmoopy

[catbolt]

sylus x reader late night swim

"Well, well... aren't you a sight for sore eyes." Sylus murmurs softly, his muscular arms hanging casually off the edge of the pool as he reclines back in the water. You feel his eyes rake over you painfully slowly, his gaze lazy and sated as he takes in all your assets framed beautifully by a little black bikini— one of the gifts he'd gotten you for your birthday a few months prior. "I was wondering when I'd finally get to see you wear that thing. I was starting to think you didn't like it."

"'Course I liked it, just didn't have the occasion for it...." You trail off, noticing the way the pool water's glowing blue reflection sends shivering, shimmering shadows across the surface of his chest. Your inadvertent glance there isn't lost on Sylus, and the corner of his mouth tweaks upward into a catlike smirk. "Join me." He raises a hand to beckon you closer.

Not needing to be told twice, you sink into the warm water, wading towards him. His hands pull you closer instantly, greedily, slotting against your hips like puzzle pieces as he teasingly tugs at the strings of your bikini bottoms. His lips find your ear, pressing a kiss to its shell as he pulls you against him. The only sound other than your soft mingled breaths is the gentle hum of the pool lights that illuminate you both from below. "This is nice, isn't it?"

"Breaking news, Sylus Qin discovers tropical vacations are nice," you tease, nipping softly at his shoulder with a playful bite. You grimace slightly as you taste chlorine on his skin, and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles at the sight.

"What if we just... stayed here forever?" He murmurs softly into your hair, one of his hands coming up to wrap protectively around your shoulders. He rests his chin on her head, looking up at a dark night sky patterned with a quilt of stars that wink down at him. He can't recall the last time he saw so many stars— certainly not in back home in the N109 Zone.

"What if indeed," you chuckle, leaning your head on his shoulder. "Maybe after thirty years of this you'd finally learn to decompress."

He ruffles your hair. "You're saying I don't know how to relax," he smirks. "Fine. Just watch me. The rest of this vacation I'll relax so hard."

"You can't 'relax hard'. That's the whole point of relaxing." You press a chaste kiss against his jaw, which elicits a pleased purr from him that rumbles deep in his chest. His deep red eyes twinkle with a mischievous mirth as he looks down at you.

"Alright then, pretty girl. Show me how to relax softly."

[rafesteddy]

+18 -> smut | Rafe sees the reader in her WAG jacket for the first time

𝓗𝓸𝓬𝓴𝓮𝔂!𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝔁 𝓦𝓐𝓖!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

*the sport is not specified. This has been added to my Bar Down AU

c/w: swearing, pet names, fingering in a moving car, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, praise, possessiveness, oral fixation, marking, male dom/soft dom, newer but established relationship, free use, ownership kink + ⚠︎ cross posted on my nhl account ⚠︎

1.3K

You’re curled up in the passenger seat, tucked into the custom jacket they handed out before the game. The zipper drawn halfway up your torso, sleeves falling long past your hands, collar popped just enough to show the delicate chain he gave you resting along your collarbone.

His name, his number, his team—stitched in bold across your back and printed down one sleeve. And since the moment you put it on, he hasn’t been able to look at you the same.

One hand grips the wheel. The other sprawls across your thigh, his thumb dragging slow circles against your skin. They won tonight. He was locked in. But the high buzzing through him now has nothing to do with the scoreboard.

Now he can decompress, replay the moments he had to brush aside to stay in the zone—the way you sat so close, cheering him on with that look that always seems meant just for him.

He noticed a few guys sneaking glances in your direction. He caught fans pointing at you, recognizing your face, your presence, the name stitched across your back. His name was on your body, but somehow it still did not feel like enough.

What you have between you is still new. But the pull of it is already powerful. Rafe’s possessiveness sits tight in his strong chest and low in his gut, curling around every breath he takes. You’ve got him. And you don’t even realize.

He shifts in his seat, jaw tight, breathing deep like he’s holding in a secret.

You glance over at him, smiling, and he chuckles—like he’s annoyed with himself for just how down-bad he already is.

“Baby,” he rasps, slick smile creeping in.

“What?” You ask, tilting your head playfully.

“You really don’t get it do you?” He squeezes your thigh making you shift closer.

Rafe presses a little harder on the gas. His eyes stay on the road, but his thoughts are already racing ahead. He’s thinking about you. About what he’s gonna do the second he gets you through his front door.

His hand slides higher on your leg, and you giggle softly, your smile spreading as you glance over at him. He groans low in his throat, the simple sound driving him insane.

He doesn’t even think, just slides his hand under your thigh and shifts you like it’s nothing. The car rocks slightly as he moves you. One leg lifted over the console, the other planted on the floor, stretching you wide.

You gasp softly, head tipping back against the window as the cool air skims between your thighs.

He doesn’t need to look directly at you. From the corner of his eye he catches everything—the lace, the curve of your thigh, the way your chest rises with each breath.

Rafe’s head falls back against the headrest, his jaw clenched tight. His fingers flex against your inner thigh, feeling just how warm and wet you are, even through the fabric. And for a moment, he almost pulls over. But he can’t… Not with the way he wants to ruin you in bed.

He starts tracing slow, teasing circles over the top of your panties, his focus already shattered. “—You’re mine,” he hums. “Like you were made for it…” You shift beneath his touch, your breath catching, and he glances at you. “Be sweet for me,” he says quietly. “Slide ’em to the side.”

Your hands tremble slightly as you reach down, dragging the wet fabric to the edge of your thigh. You leave yourself bare to him, breathing shakily, desperately waiting for his touch.

He lets out a quiet sound of approval, his fingers gliding through the slick between your thighs. Then he draws his hand back, bringing his fingers to his lips tasting you with a slow groan. “Goddamn, sweetheart,” he sighs, voice rough. He tastes you slow, groaning low. “Fuck. Sweetest thing I’ve ever had—” He’s already reaching out for more, his hand dips between your thighs, and this time he pushes his fingers in deep.

You gasp as he sinks his fingers into you—long and thick—stretching you in a way that makes your hips jerk and your head fall back with a moan.

He works you slow at first, his fingers stroking deep and steady, the pad of his thumb dragging tight little circles over your clit. Your hips buck against his hand, the sounds of your breathing rising over the quiet hum of the road. The car might as well not even be moving—he’s driving one-handed, but all his focus is on the way you’re unraveling under his touch.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your face. “Fucking soaked for me. Can’t even wait to get home.”

You whimper, biting your lip, trying to stay quiet—but there’s no point. He’s curling his fingers just right now, dragging them against that perfect spot that makes you twitch and moan like you’ve got no control left. You grip the door handle, your other hand fisting in the hem of the jacket, your breath hitching with every pass of his thumb.

“I can feel it, baby,” he breathes, voice thick. “You’re close. Gonna come for me right here, aren’t you? In the car, wearing my fuckin’ name.”

That does it. You clamp around his fingers, the pressure snapping all at once as your orgasm hits you hard. Your head falls back; lips crying out his name as your hips grind helplessly against his hand.

Rafe groans low, slowing his fingers as you shake through it, guiding you through every aftershock. “That’s it,” he whispers, dragging his hand back slow. “Good girl.”

He parks with a sharp tug of the wheel and is out of the car in a blink. The passenger door swings open—he’s there, hauling you out like you weigh nothing, spinning you so your chest hits the car, your palms braced on the cold metal—but he stops himself.

You’re both breathing hard. He presses a kiss to the side of your head instead, grounding himself.

Then he pulls you toward the elevator, hand tight in yours, thumb still wet where he tasted you. You step inside, and the doors close around you.

Rafe presses up behind you, his hands wrapping around your waist, his chest rising against your back. His lips brush your ear as he breathes deeply.

“Do you even know how hard it is not to take you right here?”

You shiver as his fingers slip under the hem of the jacket, resting on your warm skin.

“I want you so bad it’s fucking painful.”

The elevator dings. You step out first. He doesn’t say a word, just follows—watching the sway of your hips, the stretch of his name across your back like it belongs there.

And then the apartment door shuts.

He’s on you.

He hauls you into the kitchen, spinning you so your chest hits the counter, your palms braced on the cool granite.

Rafe’s right there behind you, the heat rolling off him from under his crisp white dress shirt.

Your leggings and panties are tugged down in one swift motion. The soft drag of his belt slipping loose is enough to make your knees shake. The jacket stays on, slipping just low enough that his name stretches across your back as his pants fall to the floor.

Rafe’s cock presses between your slick folds, thick and hard, teasing you as he groans at how soaked you already are. “Fuck,” he drawls, almost to himself as he looks at you. “You’ve got my name all over you, baby.” He grips your hips with both hands, pushing in slow and deep.

His thrusts are strong, angled just right; moving like he knows every part of you. One hand stays on your hip, the other shifts to your shoulder, using it to anchor himself as he drives into you.

His body is pressed tight against yours, his breath hot at your neck. His mouth finds your skin, kissing, biting, claiming you more. It is not enough that his name is stitched into your jacket. He needs it etched into your skin.

“No one else gets this. No one,” he rasps, voice ragged and low.

He holds you tighter like he’s barely holding himself back, his hands firm on your hips as your moans spill out louder, more desperate. Then he shifts—lifts your leg, pulls you flush against him, bends you just enough to hit that spot that makes your legs shake and your breath catch, like you’re breaking apart right there in his hands.

Your moans twist into broken, breathless sounds, making him rut into you even harder, his toned hips slapping against your ass with each push. The kitchen, nothing but a mess of slick sounds and cries of pleasure.

He feels you clench around him and moans again—beside himself with how good you feel. So good he just might lose it completely. You glance back over your shoulder, feeling the same heat coiling low in your belly.

Rafe’s jaw is tight; eyes, locked on where he’s buried inside you, the front of his dress shirt bitten between his teeth so he can see his cock fills you. His muscles are tense, every inch of him is focused on you.

Your orgasm takes over before you can warn him. Your body tightens and you cry out, fluttering around him. He manages one more deep thrust, holding on for just a second longer and he pulls out fast.

Rafe hikes up your jacket just enough, finishing across your lower back with a guttural groan, spilling hot against your skin. His body shudders, breath breaking, everything inside him short-circuiting at the sight of his last name on your body looking back at him and his cum in pearly ropes on your skin.

He laughs quietly, still breathless, and when you look back, smiling, he is already reaching for you. “Wearing my name like that… fuck, you make it impossible to think straight,” he says with a hoarse laugh. “You own me…”

Rafe grabs the pocket square out of his suit pocket, cleaning you up as his mouth finds the back of your neck, kissing slowly. “So good,” he breathes. “Fuck, baby. You look good in my name, huh? You know you do?”

The words leave his lips warm and sticky sweet, making you melt into him.

He pulls your panties and leggings back into place, slow and careful, then wraps his arms around you and lifts you up on the counter, finding your lips again.

new tag list

tags: @rafesthroatbaby | @ietss | @lilithblackkk | @rafesheaven | @rafecameronsfavourite | @my-name-is-baby | @urmotherlvr | @forgiveliv | @barnesboo1967 | @wtfisastiles | @k4yr14 | @taliescapes | @rafesbuzzcutseason | @sky-44 | @biascriptum | @vanessa-rafesgirl | @lolasangelz | @st8rkey | @lhhlver | @slut-4-rafey | @gri959 | @prettybabyyyy | @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account | @maybankslover | @littlelamy | @buckybarnessweetheart | @angelicameron | @lover-girlyy | @rcameronlova1 | @rafesbabygirlx | @mayanqueenxx | @bimbob1tch | @dylsdaily | @blair-bears-blog | @akobx | @countryclubwhore | @esmerai-artemis | @jkmylove97 | @wtfdudesblog | @livie4lifestarkeyblyth | @yasmin-oviedo | @queen-cs | @floredaqueen | @alexxavicry | @aerie717 | @cokewithcameron | @premiumshitt | @rafecameronlova1

[alchemistc]

Found this in my drafts and decided to finish it up, written before the Abby reveal so we're just pretending that never happened, have some outsider pov of the alt timeline where Tommy and Buck met before Buck was at the 118.

Tommy is being weird. That's the only way Hen can describe it. He's been quiet on calls, none of the usual banter and posturing she's used to; he's been quiet in the station, prone to staring at the space between his lap and the dinner table even as Chim spouts off some ironic quote that would have had him cheesing it up a few weeks previous; he's been quiet as he packs his shit and heads out for his truck. Each afternoon since he'd quietly announced his transfer to the 217, he's been quiet, and it's weird.

Hen's not entirely surprised. Tommy's nothing if not protective of his own feelings - years and years of Gerrard all hanging over their heads even though he'd admitted a few drinks deep one night that he was pretty positive his professionally scathing complaint about Gerrard was very likely what tipped the scales ("Could have been Sal's, though," he'd said with a shrug as his eyes drifted to the head on his beer.). From what she's gleaned off Chim, there's a good chance he'd been an ass in part to protect himself from feeling too bad about losing someone, too (again) - not that that's any type of excuse for the shit he'd had a hand in putting her through. An excuse for the things he's said, in the heat of the moment, in the quiet caverns of life under a shitty captain.

(Stumbled apologies, serious expressions on a face softened only by the shots he'd been buying all night, words said and unsaid between them and the gaping maw between a Chim happy to accept and move on while Hen downed her tequila and waited for the other shoe to drop.)

It's been years since then. Years and years winding between them all, a dozen captains and more than a few transfers of good firefighters away from the 118, and something good and warm and special brewing in their house with the arrival of the captain who'd made family dinners a daily occurrence.

She'd sort of expected Tommy might finally open up, when those family dinners kept going and Nash kept staying and things started to settle into something closer to friendly instead of the soldiers of war camaraderie they'd grown so used to. And maybe he has, to someone who isn't Hen - who'd taken his little efforts to change at face value and refused to put in more work than that for a colleague who'd made mostly bare minimum efforts post-Gerrard, always accepting the new status quo, refusing to make waves. She respects Tommy. Trusts him on the job, and sometimes off of it when they've had a shitty shift and need to decompress before they go home to the people in their lives who can never really understand losing someone to the heat of a fire, to blood loss and blunt force trauma. Doesn't care for him the way Chim seems to, doesn't really desire a closer relationship than the one they've maintained through the turnover of captains and the 48's they pull on occasion.

But Tommy's being weird, and Hen's pretty sure she's the only one who sees it.

She waits until she's sure Chim has a date to hit up Tommy for an after shift drink, and his eyes crinkle around the corners in suspicion because he knows just as well as she that she's putting them in an awkward position without the buffer zone of an extra coworker to fill in the blank spots of the things they don't say to each other. He'll be gone in a week. There's not a single fucking reason for her to try to get to know him better now.

"Sure thing, Wilson," he says, and when he offers to drive them both Hen makes up some excuse about needing her car in case of some Denny related emergency.

---

She expects it to take a while. Ply him with a few drinks, figure out what it is about Howie that always puts Tommy at ease so quickly when they're out like this and try to replicate it - he keeps things close to the vest but Hen has ways of weaseling things out of people once she's got them where she wants them.

Tommy sighs and picks at the label on his bottle. Thins his lips, and stares at her sideways. "I'm seeing someone," he says, in an undertone, and Hen hasn't even taken her first sip from the bottle he'd ordered for her, too, while she scrounged up one of the smaller booths. His eyes dart, like he's checking to make sure no one else is listening, that no one here recognizes him, and Hen - Hen knows that look. She just can't square that look with Mr. Toxic Heterosexuality himself.

Hen takes a sip. Forces herself not to vibrate out of her own skin because - because - because she's gotta wait this shit out. Could be he's found himself attracted to some weird goth chick, or a woman with meat on her bones, in which case he's in for a big ole smack to the head or one of the looks she reserves for when the boys get a little too caught up in their locker room talk.

He darts his gaze up. Meets hers, steady on, for the first time in...weeks, actually, now that she's thinking about it, and the guilt there in his eyes sure is something to behold.

"He's younger," Tommy says, and Hen rolls her tongue over her teeth so she doesn't do something stupid like hone in on that pronoun with either glee or full-on righteous anger.

Hen narrows her eyes instead, and is surprised that he keeps her gaze. She's expecting - unnecessary contrition, or maybe a ducked head or excuses. He chews on the inside of his lip and chuffs out a self deprecating laugh.

"I don't have a fucking clue what I'm doing and he still lives in a frat house."

Hen's mind goes somewhere inappropriate, and she has to stop herself from making a truly horrible hand gesture because he can't possibly mean -

He rolls his eyes. "I know where to stick it, Wilson, that's not the issue."

She has about half a million questions queueing - things she's not sure they're close enough to ask, things she doesn't actually want the answer to but stick there in the back of her mind anyway, things she'd never ask someone who'd been kind to her from the outset. "How'd you do it?" he asks, and Hen remembers the way he'd stood, arms crossed and face blank and something sad and vulnerable in his face while she lectured from her red and chrome pulpit. Jesus. He's known. He's known a while.

"I've never exactly been passing," she tells him, and winces at the aggression in her voice, in that statement, in the very existence of the idea. He shoots her a bitchy look that's far more familiar, in line with their normal dynamic. It has her rolling her shoulders back, has her sitting up a little more in her seat. "Is that - are you asking me how to come out?"

Tommy shrugs. Tips his head. "You're the one who wanted to get drinks."

"And if I hadn't asked?"

She knows the answer. The dumbass would have transferred out of the 118 with no one the wiser. Probably fallen off all the group chats, squared with himself for however long it took, decided one way or another who to tell from there. But he's here now, talking to Hen. Telling Hen, the person he's probably the least close to.

Hen sighs. Takes a longer drag off her beer this time while Tommy folds up a piece of the label he's ripped off. She's not gonna be his fucking gay guru. They're not anywhere approaching that close.

He could have lied, though, is the thing. Seems like he's maybe been lying for a while, if the uncharacteristic fidgeting is anything to go by. She knows him under stress, knows him when he's walking through literal fire. Figurative fire is an entirely different matter. She doesn't know that Tommy.

The words that fall out of her mouth aren't the ones she's aiming for. "You and Sal." she says, and then bites down the rest of that sentence like it'll burn them both. His eyes dart up. He shifts in his seat.

"The only reason I'm saying a word is because the answer is no," he says, and - yeah that's fair. Everyone has the right to come out of the closet in their own fucking time.

"So this kid," Hen says, moving on, and - oh. There's that look. It's a little dreamy-eyed, the way he's been getting sometimes when he's looking down at his phone and trying his hardest to keep a straight face. "What's the deal there?"

"He's new," Tommy says, and Hen can feel her brow tic up of it's own accord, because he says it with the authority of someone who isn't new. Hen has to wonder exactly how many times the perpetually single Tommy joke had been made while Tommy was less than single. God, that had to have stung, hadn't it? "He's - apparently he didn't realize he was flirting until I kissed him about it."

That's remarkably brave for a man who isn't out to a single person he and Hen are mutually acquainted with. At least as far as she knows - Chim can't keep a secret to save his damn life so at least she knows he doesn't know.

"You know you didn't have to tell me any of this."

His expression is wry. He bites his lip, curls his tongue over his teeth, shakes his head like he's clearing cobwebs. "The transfer isn't the only thing I had on the docket for major life changes."

Karen's gonna be pissed if Hen doesn't get the dirt, she tells herself as she leans forward, so she throws a teasing edge to her voice as she quirks a brow. "This life change have anything to do with your baby gay or is that just a natural progression of the coming out process?"

Tommy's posture eases, just a little. He gives her a look that she's more familiar with seeing when Chim's in the booth next to him, or they're elbow deep in shit-talk at the station.

"Happy accident, actually," he says, and Hen leans in to listen to him dish when his eyes go all soft and gooey.

___

She's known Evan Buckley a total of six hours the first time he mentions his boyfriend. There's a nervous edge to it, like he's still testing the word out, like the syllables are unfamiliar, and he glances down at the phone in his lap right after he says it, like he's double checking something. Hen wouldn't have pegged him for it, for all that she tends not to make assumptions. It's just. He's so.

Hen shoves back against the stereotypical bullshit and throws him a bone, because he looks like he's fucking desperate to share information on the fact that someone cares enough about him to let him call them his boyfriend. She lobs a layup, something relatable about 'my wife, Karen'.

"Yeah, Tommy said you were married."

Hen pauses. Wonders if she can turn her head like an owl so that she doesn't have to shift her weight to look behind her at where Buck is happily washing dishes, elbow-deep in sudsy water. There's no one else up here with them - most of the shift is working off dinner downstairs.

"We never have meals like this at home, I'm lucky if the guys I live with don't steal my last packet of ramen before I can get to it," he'd said, and she remembers Tommy grinning at the memory of this Evan he'd been seeing being inordinately impressed by the fact that Tommy could grill a steak. ("Jesus, Kinard, are you sure you're not robbing the fucking cradle?")

Hen shifts. Eyes him a little more carefully as he turns his head to meet her gaze, and - holy shit, she's actually feeling a little protective of Tommy Kinard right now. "He know you're out here sharing his business?" It's not the tone she's going for - admonishing instead of exploratory, but Buck just grins at her over his shoulder, like he's pleased Tommy has someone watching out for him. Shit. She'd been a little concerned that Tommy was in over his head, stuck up on the idea of being out out and clinging to the first boy that batted his lashes, but it feels like maybe there's more to it than that. She can't square that with what has to be at least a decade of years between them, but -

Love is love, and all that.

"We, uh. We've been talking about it."

Hen raises an eyebrow, because that's not actually a green light to air Tommy's business.

"He - well last night we talked about it again. So. I mean it's not like Facebook official or anything. But he said it was cool to talk to you. A-all of you. He's - everyone at Harbor knows me."

It hurts a bit to know that Tommy's been there less than six months and felt more comfortable being himself with a bunch of strangers, but...

It's good. That he has that. That he's not walking the world just shoving bits and pieces of himself away.

Hen watches him rinse his arms and square his shoulders and shift to face her. "How'd you two meet, anyway?" she asks, because Tommy had been so stuck on the trying to figure out how to have an honest relationship piece that she'd never gotten around to asking.

Buck's expression could be easily mistaken for a solar flare, for the way it lights up the whole loft.

[roosterforme]

Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw Part 1 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: After Bradley finally breaks things off with his girlfriend just days before the start of a deployment, he expects a few lonely months of nobody writing to him or waiting for his return. But the fateful arrival of a package from a class of fourth graders learning about aviation changes everything.

Warnings: Fluff, language, breakup angst

Length: 2200 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female teacher!Reader

Check out my masterlist for more! Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw masterlist

Bradley had his duffle bag open on his bed, tidy stacks of his uniform components, flight suits, and underwear lined up next to it. He had his checklist in front of him. He liked to be as organized as possible.

"Are you even listening to me? I thought we were going out to dinner."

He looked up from his partially packed toiletry bag into the annoyed eyes of Vanessa where she stood on the other side of the bed. He was seven months into this relationship, and sometimes he wondered why either of them still bothered. She knew his routine by now. She knew what his deployments were like, but she had absolutely no patience for any of it.

"Ness, I'm leaving in four days. I just need to focus on this for a few minutes so I know what I need to buy before Wednesday, and then we can go out and eat."

"It's already seven o'clock. I thought you'd have finished packing by now," she replied with a pout and a glare. "Every nice restaurant is going to have a long wait now, because I'm just going to go ahead and assume that you didn't make a reservation anywhere."

He took a deep breath and let it out before pressing his lips together. What he really wanted was to order something for delivery, cuddle on the couch, watch a movie and have the first round of hot, goodbye sex. But she'd never go for it now. Apparently he'd already fucked up for the night. 

"No, I didn't make a reservation," he said calmly, and she rolled her eyes and reached for her phone. "I really don't even feel like going out. I'll be gone for months, stuck in a tiny bunk or a loud mess hall. I'd like to stay in tonight where it's quiet. Just me and you."

But she wasn't listening at all. "Let me see if Woodmere has any tables left," she muttered. "If not there, then I can try The Landmark." She looked as beautiful as she always did, but he couldn't even stand the sight of her right now.

"Ness. I want to stay in."

She groaned and looked him in the eye. "Of course you do. You always want to stay in. You always want to decompress or read a book. That's not healthy, you know that, right? I shouldn't have to force you out of your comfort zone all the time."

"Fuck," he grunted, running his fingers through his hair. His job was demanding, both mentally and physically. He usually preferred quiet over loud, because his own thoughts started to buzz when she dragged him out all over the place. And now she was glaring at him again. "Are you even going to miss me?" he asked softly, afraid of the answer. "You haven't said so one time since I told you about this deployment."

She heaved a deep and annoyed sigh. "You're deployed so frequently, Bradley, it's like you're the government's bitch. And if the Navy is going to insist upon eating up taxpayer money, the least they could do is pay you more."

His skin started to crawl as she went off about his career like always, but he'd honestly had enough. He raised his voice louder and asked once again, "Are you even going to miss me?"

Vanessa scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest. "Of course I'm going to miss you. What kind of question is that? I'll be bored every weekend, waiting for you to get back, like usual. I almost never go out when you're deployed."

Bradley's heart started to pound in a way that made his palms sweat and his stomach turn. "Jesus, Vanessa. I asked if you're going to miss me. Not miss going out every weekend."

When she hesitated for a beat, he reached out to brace his hand on his headboard. "Yes, Bradley. I am going to miss you. Okay? Happy?"

"Fuck, no. I'm not happy Vanessa." And that was the bottom line right there. The absolute truth. And it didn't hurt to say it, rather he immediately felt better. He knew he would miss the sporadic emails and the phone calls and the dirty pictures and the reunion sex. The upcoming weeks would be harder without those things to look forward to, but at least he'd come home to his own place where he could do what he wanted instead of what he was told. He wouldn't have to listen to her negativity. "I think we need to break up."

Her eyes went wide with shock. "Excuse me?"

Bradley let go of the bed and ran his hand over his face. "You heard me, Ness. This isn't working. For either of us."

"Don't call me Ness," she snapped, immediately turning toward his bedroom door. "You're not my boyfriend anymore." She paused briefly, just long enough to say, "Fuck you," and then she was gone. 

He sat on the edge of his bed for a couple minutes, but it didn't take long to sort through his feelings. The immediate sense of calm that he felt had him convinced he'd done the right thing. There was no shared living space. There was no ring. There was no real commitment. Maybe he'd always known why that was the case. 

So he packed up his bag and made a shopping list, and when his stomach started to growl, he ordered dinner for himself from his favorite restaurant. He didn't cry, and he didn't worry about having to do anything he didn't want to do.

------------------------

The first few weeks of his deployment were great. He spent a lot of time in the air, and he flirted a bit with some of the women who approached him in the gym on the aircraft carrier. He jerked off while he thought about whomever he fucking wanted to. He didn't spend very much time reflecting on his relationship with Vanessa other than to acknowledge that it wasn't much of a relationship at all. In the moments where he thought maybe he missed her, he realized he just missed the idea of having someone who cared about him.

He was about a month in when he realized the attractive woman who always touched his arm in the gym was actually married, and he was not all about that. He was also maybe kind of getting tired of masturbating which was a depressing thought. He was bored, and he was lonely, and other than randomly hooking up with someone, he figured his best bet was finding a book or something to read. 

When he made his way to dinner, he heard everyone talking about the helicopter that had landed on deck less than an hour ago stacked full of containers of mail. There was a line of officers trailing down the hallway adjacent to the mess hall, everyone waiting patiently to pick up parcels from their loved ones. Since Bradley had basically nobody who would think to write to him, he made his way toward the food instead. 

His tray was piled high with everything he could get his hands on, and when he looked for somewhere to sit, he had to deftly avoid that stacked lieutenant who had a husband at home. He found a table off in the corner and devoured his dinner alone. When he stood to drop off his empty dishes and tray, some petty officers entered the cavernous room to drop off unclaimed mail. 

"Harper, Jonathan! Pauley, Vincent! Dixon, Jennifer! Sutter, Wesley! Bradshaw, Bradley!"

He was more than a little intrigued as he made his way up along with a handful of others, and then a white envelope and a small cardboard box were thrust into his hands. The envelope was addressed to him by name in familiar chicken scratch that made him smile. He shouldn't have counted Natasha out, especially when his birthday was in a few days. 

He tore into the envelope as he made his way back to his bunk. It contained a very short letter along with a coupon for buy one get one free steak dinners at her favorite restaurant with a post-it stuck to the back. 

This is your birthday present. Now when you take me out for my birthday when you get home, you only have to pay half as much. You're welcome.

He snorted as he unlocked his bunk door and tossed everything from Nat onto the small nightstand. And then he examined the box. It wasn't addressed to him. Not really. It was addressed to 'A Deployed US Naval Aviator' in tidy handwriting. Then he noticed the return address was from an elementary school in Mira Mesa, and his curiosity got the best of him.

Bradley sat on the edge of his bed and tore gently into the packaging to find the box was jam packed with items and overflowing with envelopes. He tipped the box, and everything went cascading out onto his narrow bed. There were a lot of snacks, and a pack of trail mix caught his eye, making his stomach growl.

"I just fed you," he muttered but ripped into the snack anyway, dumping half of it into his mouth in one go. He was eyeing the envelopes carefully, each one distinctly unique. Some had names written on them, and some had little doodles or pictures, but they definitely seemed to be from a class of kids who went to the school. He sifted through them until he found a slightly larger, more official looking envelope which once again said To: A Deployed US Naval Aviator.

He finished his snack, silently thanking the class of kids and their teacher, and then he opened the big envelope. He pulled out a typed up letter which was folded around a few photos that slid onto his lap. Then he started to read.

Dear United States Naval Aviator,

First of all, thank you for your service. Second, let us introduce ourselves. We are one of the fourth grade classes from Mira Mesa Elementary School, and we have been learning all about aviation for the last month or so. We have combined our science, math and social studies classes into one unit all about flying, and we have learned so much. We really wanted to share some of what we learned with you in the hopes that you might be able to help us learn even more!

Each student in the class has included a letter filled with information and some questions. If you have some free time and are inclined to do so, we would love to hear back from you. (No pressure!) There are plenty of thoughtful questions that my students would appreciate more information about. (Once again, only if you want to!) And I for one would love to give them the chance to show off what they learned to a professional. (I'm just a proud teacher!)

Thank you very much for indulging our curiosity thus far, and we hope to hear back from you. I'll include my email address just in case you have any questions or would prefer to reply that way. Otherwise you can send mail directly to the address for the school along with my name, and it will get to us. We hope we are about to dazzle you with our letters, and we wish you well on your deployment.

Sincerely,

The best fourth graders you will ever meet along with their teacher

Bradley was chuckling as he finished reading. Of course he would take the time to look at all of the notes from the kids and send back a response. It wasn't like he'd be tied up talking to Vanessa. This little project would keep him busy when he had nothing else to do, and besides, this was the kind of shit he would have thought was outlandishly cool when he was a fourth grader himself. 

He read and reread the name and accompanying email address at the bottom of the page. This teacher sounded charming, and he'd only read three paragraphs from her. He flipped the page over to double check that she hadn't written anything more, already wishing she had. Then he picked up the photos that had landed on his thigh and started to flip through them.

First he saw a group of kids outside in the bright San Diego sunlight, lined up and throwing paper airplanes. Then he flipped to one where some of the kids were sitting at their desks building more elaborate planes out of pieces of foam. There was another photo of the class on some sort of field trip, but it was the last photo in the stack that had him sitting up a little taller and taking a closer look.

"Damn."

The kids were all lined up once again, wearing a rainbow of colors, some making silly faces. But his eyes caught on their teacher. On you. Smiling back at him from the photo like you had an amusing secret. Like you wanted to share it with him.

"Fucking gorgeous."

----------------------

And, we're off. Oh, he thinks we are cute. Oh, he is about to be charmed even more. Thanks for pushing me out of my comfort zone a little bit with this one, and thank you @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 2

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@chassy21

@solacestyles

@daisyhollyxox

@wintercap89

@blog-name6996

@bcon24

@chaoticassidy

@avada-kedavra-bitch-187

@katiebby04

@marantha

@averyhotchner

@abaker74

@heli991113

@k-k0129

@noz4a2

@shanimallina87

@little-wiseone

@ccbb2222

@xoxabs88xox

@thedroneranger

@cherrycola27

@fanboyswhore9

@xomrsalliej4787xo

@desert-fern

@sylviebell

@wkndwlff

@horseslovers2016

@gennyanydots

@mattyskies

@hookslove1592

@blahehblah

@sadpetalsstuff

@local-spidey

@schoollover

@lex-winchester

@magicalmorg

@nicole01-23

@jessicab1991

@happyrebelruins

@samsgoddess

@ughthisisntright

@bellaireland1981

@sagittarius-flowerchild

@mygyn

@yuckosworld

[honnelander]

go fish! part 2

guyssss i did NOT expect this little series to blow up. y'all are amazing! i'm turning into a Sanji writing blog and am i mad about it? no lmao i received a couple of requests and i'll work on them as soon as i can. i'm really in the zone rn so i'll ride this wave as long as i can. if you want to be a part of the taglist for whenever i post new Sanji content, lmk. i hope you enjoy!

WARNINGS: none

word count: 2.8k

pairing: opla!sanji x fem!reader

summary: after being humiliated by Usopp earlier, reader stays in her room to decompress. however, she gets a visitor.

prequel part 1 part 3 part 4 masterlist

taglist: @smolracoon25 @mischiefmanaged71 @jovialcat123

Mortified. That’s how you felt. Still. 

Ever since you ‘forfeited’ from finishing your Go Fish card game with Usopp a couple of hours ago, you had taken your glass of water that Sanji had poured for you and boarded up in your shared room with Nami, refusing to come out due to “heat exhaustion”. 

Poor Luffy, ever the golden hearted captain, was immediately worried for your wellbeing as soon as he heard that but after multiple reassurances from you and getting up off of your hammock multiple times to prove you were in fact, just fine, he relented from wanting to stop by the nearest island so he could find a doctor for you. Usopp had managed to convince him as well that all you needed was some water, alone time, and that you would be fine by dinnertime. 

You rubbed your eyes as you let out a sigh, vowing to yourself that the next time you wanted some time by yourself, you should just take a bath or something, since any other excuse would cause someone on the crew (Luffy) to lose their mind at the thought of someone not feeling well. 

You readjusted yourself, sitting more upright, as you downed the last of your water, it being warm by this point since it had been poured by Sanji hours ago. 

Sanji. Ugh.  

Your heart fluttered once again at the mere thought of him, but that flutter was immediately replaced by a wave of crashing embarrassment at the thought of the afternoon’s sequence of events. What had happened earlier wasn’t even anything that groundbreaking or special, but to you? It was everything. It wasn’t common practice in your life for the object of your affections to be so kind towards you, so thoughtful, to read and anticipate your needs before you even knew they were even there. But Sanji? He was all of that and more. And you didn’t even know him for that long! You’ve all been a part of the straw-hat crew for 5 months at this point and it felt silly to admit to yourself that you had developed a crush on one of your crewmates in that short amount of time. 

And having feelings for your crewmate? Someone who you literally couldn’t get away from since you all were trapped on a ship together (not that you would ever want to be away from him or anyone else for that matter, besides Usopp, but still), it felt morally wrong. You guys were all a team. Sure, you all were off to sail around the world and chase dreams, but achieving all of that required teamwork and trust, and that was hard to do if two of those people were caught up with matters of the heart every hour of every day. 

Like, what if things didn’t work out in the end? Would you really want to put the crew’s dynamic at stake just because you thought the blonde guy was cute? No, you wouldn’t. It would be selfish so you would never dare to put yourself or Sanji in that position. No matter how much you liked him. 

So as much as it pained you, you could never tell Sanji how you feel. You would never cross that line of being a ‘professional pirate’ into something more, like a pirate wife. Or a pirate chef’s wife. 

It definitely didn’t help that freaking Usopp of all people on the crew knew about your affections for Sanji. Ugh, you groaned. He was the absolute worst person to know about it too. Why did he have to figure it out? Why did he have to be the one that had put two and two together to equal four? That your random bouts of awkwardness and shyness plus ‘heart eyes’ and blushes whenever Sanji was around equaled to you having a forbidden crush on the crew’s chef? It was embarrassing. And complicated.  

He loved to stir the pot too, so whenever he could tease you for it when you both were alone or in front of a clueless Sanji, he would. You remembered the kiss he had shared with Kayla back when the straw-hats had acquired the Going Merry, so you definitely jabbed him right back when you had had enough, since part of you felt guilty for it since Kayla was thousands of miles away and Sanji lived on this ship with you. Your situations were slightly similar but completely different.  

Also, completely different in the way that him and Kayla were basically dating at this point, albeit long distance, and had shared a kiss while you could barely sustain eye contact that lasted more than 5 seconds with Sanji. 

You were hopeless. 

“Knock, knock,” a familiar accented voice came through the closed door. “Y/n? Are you awake?” 

"Sanji?” you blurted out in complete surprise.  

Shit. You weren’t mentally prepared to see him just yet. At all. You were still replaying the interaction you both had earlier in your head, your overthinking mind going over every minute detail to figure out if Usopp’s careless teasing had given away your affections.  

Usopp, you mentally ground out. You were going to kill him. Sanji had never stopped by your room before so what on earth was he doing here now?  

Suddenly, a thought struck you like a bolt of lightning and made your stomach drop fifty miles below sea level: if Sanji had specifically stopped by your room just to gently let you down, that no, in fact he did not feel the same way about you, that he only thought of you as a member of the crew and nothing more....then yeah, you were definitely going to kill Usopp and throw him overboard. 

Before you could mentally plot out more details on Usopp's murder, the door opened and the straw-hat chef’s blonde head appeared. His eyes quickly scanned Nami’s empty hammock on the room’s left side before turning his head to the right, his blue eyes immediately finding your surprised ones, a (relieved?) smile lighting up his face at the sight of you. 

“So, I take it you’re awake?” Sanji asked in a light, teasing tone but not making an effort to move himself away from the doorway. 

“Uh, y-eah,” you stuttered out in surprise as you just stared at him dumbfounded. You still couldn’t figure out why he was here. 

Sanji continued to lock eyes with you, making your cheeks flush the longer you both stared at each other, and your palms sweat as the silence stretched on, making the tension in the air become thicker by the second. He blinked, his eyes darting to the side in confusion, raising an eyebrow as he asked, “May I come in?” 

“OH! Yes, of course- sorry,” you stuttered as you waved him inside, sitting up in your hammock and mentally face palmed yourself. Of course, Sanji was waiting on you to invite him inside. Like always, he was acting like a true gentleman. “Please, come in. Have a seat. Sorry, that was rude of me. Make yourself at home.” 

Sanji stood up to his full height and walked into your room with an easy smile and a small laugh, closing the door behind him. “Ah, don’t ever apologize y/n. You could never be rude to me,” Sanji rebuttalled and waved off your apology as he looked around and took in your very plain and basic shared room with Nami.  

Your room, or side of the room more specifically, wasn’t much to brag about considering you really didn’t have much to your name but for now, it was home to you. Your side consisted of your hammock, a wooden barrel next to it to act as a makeshift nightstand that housed your only book, a journal, and a lamp, along with an empty wooden crate to act as a makeshift seat and another to hold some of your other clothes and small travel bag. Nami’s side was similar to yours but had a touch more personality as she hung up some maps she found at various markets and drew up herself on her wall. 

You swallowed, suddenly feeling a tad self-conscious about the lack of things in your room considering your current guest was dressed, as usual, to the nines in his signature black suit and blue and white striped shirt complete with a skinny black tie. “Sorry for the sad state of my room-” 

“Sad?” Sanji stopped admiring your room and snapped his gaze to look at you. His eyebrows pulled together as another confused smile adorned his features. “Why would you say that? Your room isn’t sad, I like it. It’s a reflection of you,” his next words came out softer, “and I think that’s beautiful.” 

You could feel heat crawling up your neck at his words as you busied yourself with placing the empty glass in your hand on your barrel nightstand. There was no way Sanji was calling you beautiful, he was just commenting on your room. With Nami. On your shared room that owed any ounce of ‘personality’ to the ship’s navigator because it was obvious you literally brought nothing special to this room whatsoever.  

You stopped yourself from spiraling into ‘I don’t bring anything special to the straw-hats, I don’t know why they keep me around’ thoughts because now wasn’t the time to think about any of that. Those dark thoughts were reserved when you couldn’t sleep in the middle of the night.  

As you placed the glass on the nightstand, you asked, “So, what brings you all the way to my room? Aren’t you usually prepping for dinner around this time?” 

Sanji’s eyes followed your hand and lit up when he saw the sole book on your nightstand. “Oh, a book? I didn’t know you liked to read.” His megawatt smile lit up a couple of notches as his eyes sparkled, he looked like he had just learned one of the universe’s greatest mysteries as he took a seat near you on an empty crate. “What book is that?” 

“Oh, that?” You mentally deflated at the fact you now had to tell Sanji about your favorite book, “It’s Pride and Prejudice.”  

You weren’t ashamed of having that book specifically, you loved it and it was your favorite book of all time, you had lost count at how many times you had read it at this point, but it was the fact that you now had to share this part of yourself with the guy you fancied. Guys normally scoffed and turned their nose up at romance book and romantic things, so you were bracing for Sanji to scoff and laugh at you like all the other guys did (like even Zoro and Usopp did when they first saw you reading it) but it never came. 

Instead, Sanji’s smile remained bright. “Ah, so you’re a lover of classic romances? Pride and Prejudice? Romeo and Juliet?” 

Immediately, you smiled, finding yourself instantly comfortable suddenly whenever you got to talk about one of your favorite things. “Absolutely. I don’t think there’s a problem big enough out there that love can’t solve. Family backgrounds? Wealth and status? At the end of the day, none of that stuff matters. What matters is if two people love each other.” 

Sanji stayed quiet for a moment, looking into your eyes with a twinkle of an emotion that you couldn’t decipher. It made your heart skip a beat. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly, never breaking eye contact. “I agree.” 

You swallowed. “You like this stuff too? Have you read Pride and Prejudice?” 

Sanji blinked and that indescribable emotion he had in his eyes was gone. His smile remained, however, and became sheepish as he held up his hands, “Ah ok, you caught me. I’ve never read the full thing, but I know the main parts of the story. My favorite part that I did read though, was the first dinner with Mr. Collins and he complimented the Bennets on their ‘excellent boiled potatoes’.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, shaking your head slightly as you teased, “I should’ve known that the chef of the Going Merry’s favorite part of the book is when food is discussed!” 

The blonde cook held his hands up again with a good-natured laugh, “Ah, you got me!” His face softened as he asked, “What about you?" He nodded towards the book. "What’s your favorite part?” 

You paused for a second as you mulled the question over. “Well, I'm not sure if you know about this part since you never read the book...” 

“Try me,” he encouraged softly. 

Your face turned to the side, your eyes looking at the wooden wall to your right, unable to bring yourself to look at Sanji as you told him your favorite part of your favorite book. You took a deep breath to steady yourself and calm your nerves, your voice becoming quiet as you told him, “My favorite part is...when Mr. Darcy barges in on Elizabeth for the first time, while she’s at her friend Charlotte’s house writing a letter. He had come to practice ‘conversating’ with her since he admitted that it wasn’t something he was good at and she had told him to practice it. So, Mr. Darcy just barged in and they had one of the most painfully awkward conversations ever...and he did all that just because he loves her. He did something he hated and was bad at, and opened himself up to embarrassment just because he wanted to improve and be better for her. It’s so romantic and beautiful.” 

The air was quiet after your mini monologue and for a moment, nothing could be heard except for their quiet breathing and the occasional crash of the ocean from outside your small window. 

Part of you worried that your little rambling had bored Sanji, so when you finally looked at him, imagine your surprise when you found him leaning in towards you, hands clasped, elbows resting on his knees and his eyes watching you, completely engaged. It was like he was hanging onto your every word. 

Sanji scanned your face for a moment, the corner of his lips curling upwards as he said, “Yeah, you’re right. I’m not familiar with that part in the book,” and before you could open your mouth to bring yourself down, he continued, “but, that doesn’t mean your answer is wrong.” He leaned back and slapped his hands against his thighs, “Hell, it’s a much more insightful answer than mine!” He laughed. “I just liked how they were poking some fun at boiled potatoes.” 

You laughed with him because yes, that part in the book also made you laugh as well. But at the mention of food, you realized that you still didn’t know why Sanji was here in the first place. Wasn’t he normally prepping for dinner at this time? He had to be running behind schedule at this point. 

“Why are you here, Sanji? Isn’t it almost time for dinner?” 

“Yeah, it is actually but I heard you weren’t feeling well so I wanted to check in on you, make sure you’re feeling alright and see if you have any special requests for dinner?” 

You couldn’t help the slight smile that overtook your face, trying to hide the blush at the fact that he was kind enough to check in on you and offer to practically be your own personal chef for the evening. 

You hummed for a moment, acting like you were deep in thought before asking with a raised eyebrow, "And what would you say if I requested some boiled potatoes?”  

The smile that lit up the chef’s face was priceless. He had never looked more beautiful. “To that, I would say ‘Absolutely. If that’s what the missus wants, then that is what the missus will get.’” 

Missus. There it was again. You felt all warm inside whenever he called you that, it made you feel like he was your husband and that you were his wife. But that wasn’t the case. Sanji definitely must have called other women that before. You weren’t special to him, he was just being polite.  

You swallowed down your emotions, putting your sudden wave of sadness away for later, putting on a small smile. “Then that sounds perfect. I would like to formally request some ‘excellent boiled potatoes’ as a side for dinner, please.” 

If Sanji noticed your sudden change in mood, he didn’t show it. Instead, he grinned as he said, “Excellent choice, Madam. Boiled potatoes, coming right up.” As he stood up and made his way towards your door, Sanji did one of the most unexpected things that nearly knocked the wind out of you. With his left hand on the doorknob he said, “And don’t worry, Madam. I’ll sprinkle in a little bit of extra love in there,” he turned and winked at you, “just for you.” 

With that, Sanji left your room, gently closing the door behind him, leaving you completely dumbstruck in your room, your mouth agape and body frozen. 

Did Sanji just say he loved you? 

You shook your head, because there was no way he did, right? He said he’d ‘sprinkle in some extra love’ into your potatoes, not 'I love you". You weren’t a chef, maybe that was a euphemism for something. 

You sighed.  

Those better be some good boiled potatoes. 

[prettygirl-gabi]

Dance it Out

Pairing: Sonia Citron x Reader

Fandom: WNBA-Washington Mystics

Warnings/Triggers: Family trauma, emotional distress, panic attack, mentions of gaslighting, family estrangement, anxiety, coping mechanisms (panic cleaning), emotional breakdown, comfort, healing

Summary: what’s supposed too be a safe space is shattered by a face from the past.

A/N: this was originally supposed to be Paige x reader….

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @cowboybueckers , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @elswhore , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog , @sayurireidotcom , @zizi-bee-yapping , @latenighttalkinqwp , @fairyblossomsav

Shopping usually helped me decompress. There was something about zoning out to music in my AirPods, slipping through aisles, and picking out little things for Sonia or a new candle I didn’t need that just… helped. Maybe it was because I had control. In the store, no one looked at me like I was broken. I wasn’t someone to interrogate, judge, or try to fix.

I was just a person looking for the right oat milk and trying to remember if we had enough pasta.

When I got home, arms full of bags and already mentally organizing the fridge in my head, my phone buzzed. It was Sonia.

| Sonia 💘: got u a surprise 😊 it’s in the apt

| ps: I’m at film/practice so won’t be back for a few.

| just lmk how it goes 💋

I smiled a little, nudging the door open with my foot. “You always do this, babe,” I murmured, amused. Sonia had a soft spot for surprise flowers or little gifts. One time she left a single donut with “you’re my favorite treat” scribbled on a sticky note. The memory made me laugh a little.

But the second I stepped inside and looked up, everything inside me froze.

There, sitting on the couch like it was theirs, was her.

My aunt.

My mother’s sister.

My blood. My ghost.

The bags slipped from my hands with a dull thud.

“Y/N!” she stood up like we were long-lost friends. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s been too long.”

No.

No no no no no no no no no no—

Before I could react, she closed the distance between us and pulled me into a hug.

Her arms wrapped around me like we were family.

Like nothing had happened.

Like she hadn’t helped destroy me.

My body went rigid.

My skin crawled.

I couldn’t breathe.

“You still give the best hugs,” she murmured against my shoulder.

I shoved her away—hard. She stumbled back, shocked. “Don’t touch me.”

“Y/N, I—”

“What the hell are you doing here?” My voice didn’t even sound like mine. My heart was hammering in my chest, and I suddenly couldn’t remember how to breathe properly.

She had the nerve to step forward again, as if we were reconnecting. “I know, it’s jarring. But I talked to Sonia—she’s so sweet, by the way—and she let me in. We talked for a bit. She didn’t know, of course, but that’s okay. We can work through this. That’s what families do.”

I took a shaky step back. “Get. Out.”

“Y/N—please. We just want to help. Your mother’s side of the family thinks you’ve lost your way, and we—”

“I SAID GET OUT!”

I wasn’t yelling anymore. I was screaming. My voice cracked halfway through, and my legs threatened to give out. “I want nothing to do with any of you. Not after what happened. Not after the way you treated me. You believed someone else over me. You made me feel like I was the villain—for speaking the truth!”

Her expression twisted into something sad and patronizing. “You were young. We all made mistakes—”

“No. You made a choice,” I whispered. “You all did. And I made mine. Leave. Now.”

She flinched. But finally—finally—she nodded. “I’ll tell them you’re not ready.”

“I’ll never be ready,” I snapped. “Never again.”

When the door clicked shut behind her, the silence swallowed me whole.

My throat hurt.

My chest burned.

I couldn’t sit still.

I couldn’t even process the air in my lungs.

I looked down at my arms—where she had hugged me. I could still feel her there. Her perfume clung to my hoodie. Her touch lingered like oil on my skin.

Suddenly I was sprinting to the bathroom.

I tore my clothes off like they were infected, throwing them as far from me as I could. The water was scalding when it hit me, but I didn’t care.

I needed it.

I grabbed the loofah and the roughest soap we had—Sonia’s exfoliating bar that always made my skin sting—and I started scrubbing.

Shoulders.

Arms.

Neck.

Chest.

Harder.

Faster.

I scrubbed until my skin turned red and raw, until every inch of me felt like it was burning clean.

My breathing was ragged, and my vision blurred with tears, but I didn’t stop.

She hugged me.

She touched me.

She acted like she had a right to me.

And my body betrayed me by freezing instead of running.

By the time I finally turned off the water, I was shaking. My skin throbbed with every heartbeat. I threw on an old hoodie and sweatpants, ones that smelled like me—like home.

But it wasn’t enough.

The apartment still wasn’t clean.

She had still been here.

So I did what I always did when the world felt like it was collapsing:

I cleaned.

I tore open the vacuum closet, yanked out the Lysol, rags, sprays, gloves, everything.

I started with the door handle.

Then the couch.

Then the pillows she sat on.

Then the table she leaned against.

I sprayed.

I scrubbed.

I wiped until my hands ached and the air was thick with disinfectant.

My world had been invaded, and this was the only way I knew how to survive it.

I scrubbed like I could wipe her presence out of our apartment.

My home wasn’t mine anymore until it was clean. Until every molecule of her was gone.

I was mumbling. “Filthy. Gross. Not safe. She sat here. She was here.” I hadn’t done this in front of Sonia before. I had always hidden it, managed it. But this—this wasn’t manageable. I was shaking and whispering, over and over: “It’s dirty. She made it dirty. This is mine, mine, mine.”

I didn’t even hear the door open.

Didn’t notice Sonia walk in until her arms wrapped around my waist from behind, locking me in place, trapping my arms.

“Hey, hey—babe,” she whispered into my shoulder, her breath grounding. “I’m here. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

My body jolted at the touch, at the sound of her voice. I thrashed in her grasp. “Let go. I need to finish cleaning. I need to finish, Sonia—please—she was here—”

“No.” Her voice dropped low, steady, immovable. “I’m not letting go.”

“I said let go!” I snapped, twisting harder, trying to break free. My elbows knocked against her arms, and I tried to pull my wrists down and out of her grip.

But she didn’t budge.

“I need to clean it,” I begged, voice cracking. “She sat on our couch, Sonia—she brought everything back with her—her voice, her lies, that smile—I have to get it off—I have to—”

Sonia just tightened her hold, her arms becoming a barrier between me and the storm in my head. “You don’t have to do anything but breathe right now.”

I kept fighting.

For what felt like forever.

At least fifteen minutes. My body pushing, twisting, squirming—but Sonia held on like the world would split apart if she let go. Like I would.

“Let me go—please—” I whispered, defeated. “I need to clean—I need to fix it—it’s not mine—it’s not ours anymore—she took it—she took our home—”

“I don’t care if it takes all night,” Sonia said, her cheek resting against my back, her voice calm and fierce, “I’m not letting you go until you know you’re safe again.”

And then she saw it.

The red patches blooming across my forearms, the raw skin peeking out from the sleeves I had shoved up to clean, the faint welts on my neck where I’d scrubbed too hard.

The water had been too hot, and the soap too harsh, and my skin told the story I couldn’t.

“Baby…” her voice cracked.

She loosened one arm just enough to gently pull up my sleeve, eyes going wide with heartbreak. “Did you do this in the shower?”

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t.

I just stared at the stained rag in my hand like it might erase the memory of her being here if I wiped fast enough.

“She touched me,” I whispered finally, the words spilling out. “She hugged me. Like nothing happened. Like she didn’t ruin everything. And I froze. I couldn’t move—I couldn’t even speak—and then I couldn’t get her off me, Sonia, I couldn’t get her off.”

My voice broke and so did I.

I started to crumble.

Tears streamed down my face without warning. “She—she was here—she saw our stuff—she sat on our couch—she brought them back with her in her voice—and I—I tried to make it clean but it’s not—it’s not clean—it’s not mine anymore—”

Sonia turned me in her arms and pulled me fully into her chest, trapping my arms again—not to control, but to protect. Her chin rested against the top of my head as I sobbed.

“It is still yours,” she whispered fiercely. “It’s ours. Nothing she does gets to change that. And I’m here. I’m right here.”

I don’t know how long I cried.

I just know her arms never left me.

When I finally calmed down, my voice was hoarse. “I—I never told you, but my mom’s side… they cut me off. Not all of them. My mom, dad, my siblings—they believed me. They helped me stay no contact. But the rest of them? They made me feel like a liar. Like it was my fault. I stopped talking about it because… because it’s easier not to.”

Sonia held my hand tightly, guiding us to sit on the kitchen floor.

“You don’t have to protect me from your past,” she said softly. “I love you. All of you. Even the scarred parts.”

I looked at her, puffy-eyed. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I thought I could keep it… separated. But she showed up, and suddenly I’m fifteen again, being told to keep the peace. To not make waves. To forgive someone who didn’t even say sorry.”

“I didn’t know,” Sonia whispered. “I wouldn’t have let her in if I knew.”

“I know,” I said quickly. “You didn’t know. She’s good at seeming kind. That’s why it was so hard growing up.”

A beat passed, and then Sonia stood, tugging me up with her.

“C’mon.”

“What?”

She turned on the speaker in the living room and tapped her phone. The soft hum of a beat came through, something catchy and rhythmic.

“We’re dancing it out,” she said matter-of-factly.

“What—like Meredith and Cristina from Grey’s?”

“Exactly like that.”

Despite everything, I laughed. “You watch Grey’s Anatomy?”

“I live with you. Hell, I’ve seen enough episodes to quote Bailey.”

She pulled me into the open space, and we started to sway.

Awkwardly at first, until I gave in.

We jumped.

Spun.

Flung our arms like kids at a sleepover.

It didn’t solve everything, but for a moment, I could breathe.

Sonia pulled me close mid-spin, tilting her forehead against mine. “I believe you. I always will. I’ve got your back. Forever.”

I kissed her, soft and slow.

“I love you,” I murmured.

“I love you more,” she smiled.

“I’m serious. You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel this safe in my own skin.”

“You’re not alone anymore,” she said. “You don’t have to clean your way back to feeling okay. Not with me.”

I closed my eyes.

For once, that didn’t sound like a lie.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!💚💙

                             -prettygirl-gabi✨️💗

[gay-dorito-dust]

How do you think dante (from any dmc, it's up to you, because I like them all LoL) and white rabbit would react with a very introverted partner who has difficulty communicating?

Dante

He's social as they come, yet there does come moments where he does feel fatuiged from it all, so you were a breath of fresh air in terms of your introvertedness, as it meant that he could spend time in the house with you because where else would he rather be?

Your difficulty in communication isn't a problem to him either, seriously he's not going to hold it agaisnt you about how much you talked, or how little you talked but would always remind you that he would always be there for you as support for when you do manage to get just a few words out of your mouth.

Dante isn't picky and doesn't feel like he has the right to be picky either, you were perfect the way you are and if comminucation was a difficulty you faced, then you'll face it together and at a pace that was suited for you and by you. Dante was mainly here to make sure that you were happy and not forced to perform or be forced out of your comfort zone becuase people don't have the paitience with you, he wanted you to do whatever you felt was right.

So if you wanted to stay in, who was he to groan and moan that he never goes anywhere, if anything Dante was gratful for being able to find a way to stay inside with you, a way where he could put down the facade he's worn for ages and allow himself to decompress with you even if it was in silence. Dante needed the time to find himself again, his true self and that was a man who didn't want to loose anyone ever again and adorning an outgoing persona in hopes that people wouldn't look too closely to notice the broken man that laid beneath.

You were perfect the way you were and Dante will not have anyone tell you otherwise becuase what would they know about you if they judge the first thing they noticed? They just don't deserve to know you if that's the case because you don't have to constantly be talking to be intruging when your actions did that instead more times then not.

White rabbit

He's unbothered by it as he's more then content with speaking on the behalf of both of you, and also knowing that there was more ways to communicate with one another then with words, and Rabbit liked to pride himself in being able to read you like a book and understand where your mind was at without much effort.

He'd much prefered to stay within the company he knew then be outside with the company he doesn't know, and your company was more then enough for him, talking or not Rabbit was just content in being in the same room as you as you did your own seperate thing. Though he will express pride with you when you do muster up the ability to communicate, you were doing your best with what you got and he was always going to be there to be a form of comfort and a safe space for you.

A space where you don't have to force yourself into doing things you were clearly struggling with. For Rabbit didn't want you o think that you had to change to be appealing, everyone had their preferences in partners and you were the perfect partner for him without a shadow of a doudt. Rabbit knew if you wanted to talk then you would talk, he wasn't about to demand things from you when you have obviously expressing difficulty in doing so.

He wasn't owed anything from you and he made sure to remind you that often as humans tended to be a demanding species and refused differences and those that don't fit in society in general. Meanwhile Rabbit was paitient with you and has shown that on multiple occasions, so much to the point where you weren't feeling like you were expected to be anything other then yourself, there was no need for you to feel to perfom in order to keep your partner.

Rabbit wasn't shallow like that and will openly express his adoration for you as frequently as he can without it seeming meaningless or an obligation on his behalf, for he meant every word of it.

[lovebugism]

update: i only slightly bombed 😋 but my professor did offer to write me a letter of recommendation for grad school AND said she’d put in a word for me at one of my dream jobs if i wanted (which i unfortunately can’t take bc im moving back home after i graduate so </3)

but today didn’t completely kill me so i’ll take that as a win 🫶

about to give the last presentation of my undergrad career. wish me luck <3

[florence-pew]

Jack and Samira both decompressing/breaking down in their own way after their shift. Jack standing at the literal edge of the building wondering why he keeps coming back, Samira's adrenaline crashing to the point of tears in the bathroom. Both knowing that they've dedicated not only their work lives but also their personal lives - Jack with the police scanner, Samira not hanging out after work and forgoing relationships - because of their own personal traumas. Jack feeling most comfortable in a war zone despite it being the reason he lost his leg, Samira obsessively checking and rechecking her patients because she doesn't want them dying like her father. So many threads of connection finding their way back to the other.

[deepspacedarling]

✨ Xavier |❄️Zayne |🎨Rafayel |🐦‍⬛Sylus |🍎Caleb

Sylus cooking is more of a special occasion thing. Picture this: Sylus, soft flamenco guitars in the background. He's got a half apron on, one too many of the buttons on his shirt is undone, his sleeves are folded up to the elbow. His knife gleams in the low yellow light of the kitchen as he makes you dinner.

Sylus is more likely to just have his private chef make you exactly what you want. If you have a craving, he's ordering it. If you want to go out instead of eating in, he'll take you out to a restaurant after taking you shopping for something to wear first.

Despite his never cooking, Sylus remembers what foods you do and don't like. He'll push his strawberries onto your plate because he knows you like them. He'll tell the chef to avoid certain foods because you don't enjoy eating them. His mind is a steel trap and what makes you happy or unhappy is one thing that is never getting out.

Sylus enjoys watching you eat. It's a little creepy but he manages to pull off looking hot while he does it. Something about providing for you really does it for him. Every time you look happy while eating something either he made or he got for you, it gives him a satisfied feeling that he can't get anywhere else.

Sylus often likes to decompress after dinner with a glass of wine. In the winter, he likes doing it by the fire. In the summer, by the large windows overlooking the N109 Zone. Either way, he prefers to have you beside him while he does it. Whether you're reading, playing on your phone, watching a movie, it doesn't matter. He has a lot of lost time to make up for, just these quiet moments with you are perfect.

[k1ng-ej]

Can we have a female reader where they were again, close to each other as children, the female being a loner who initially wasn't social with Thomas at first. But she wasn't rude to him either. Her first encounter with him was literally sitting up at a tree reading a book. To then notice a group of bullies pick on him as she picked some acorns or Texas persimmons to throw it at the bullies heads. They get along with each other, and I think it would be sweet that the reader under a conversation with him suddenly goes:

"If you want a kiss from me, Tommy. Then you might as well marry me."

Like she says it so bluntly with no sign of shame, she wasn't even bold either, she was just voicing her opinions. I think that this reader wouldn't have ever thought she would get married, mainly because most guys she met had either been mean to her or just wasn't attracted to her beyond beauty. I would be satisfied if you showed like a couple of years later, where Thomas one day did manage to propose to her. And she's just baffled by it. You do you with the ending of it, if this is before the slaughterhouse closed down or after. I just want to read something sweet, maybe include the Hewitt family as well, with their reactions of Thomas having a friend, a girl at that.

Thomas Hewitt x Fem!Reader

Note: so this is not edited, just a heads up. writers block has been hitting hard so i just let the words flow with this one and tried not to worry much about perfecting it, anyway, i hope you enjoy :) Word count: 1,819

You hummed contently as you rested your back against a tree, popping open your book and getting lost in the words on the page. Most kids would hang out in the schoolyard after hours, hanging out and playing some games with each other. You stayed because you enjoyed being in the outdoors, plus it was a nice little area to relax and read your favorite book, decompressing from the stressful day.

Some ruckus beside you brought you out of your zone, you glanced over to see a couple of kids picking on another. Looking closely, you noticed the kid who was being picked on was Thomas. You'd pass by him a few times, giving him a polite smile and continuing with your day. You weren't the social type, but you were friendly to him. Often times you'd notice him being bullied by others, it made you sad to see.

You decided you would do something this time. You slipped your book into your bag before standing to your feet, dusting off your skirt. You picked up a nearby acorn.

"Hey! Leave him alone!" You shouted, chucking the acorn at one of the bullies heads. He yelped and rubbed the sore spot before turning to glare at you, to which you returned the look. The group just gave each other looks before walking away with a few grumbles.

You picked up your bag and approached Thomas, giving him a friendly smile. "Hi."

He blinked, giving you a once over, he seemed suspicious of you. You've never seen or heard him speak, you assumed he was a shy kid that didn't like to talk a lot. You felt bad for him, he didn't deserve to be picked on for his looks, he had no control over that.

After that day, you remained by Thomas' side and became best friends, you got learn a lot about him. He was selectively mute, but it was fairly easy to communicate with him once you got to know him. You two were very compatible, not much conversation had to be made between you two, you would often sit in each others presence and enjoy the company. You and Thomas had a routine of sitting together after school, you would either read to him your favorite book, or you would draw together, they were truly sweet moments that you cherished. He was a sweet boy, he was caring in his own way as well. If you didn't bring a lot of food for lunch he would share his. He would also walk you home a few times if it was late, making sure you got in your house safely.

Going into your teen years you saw Thomas less, but that was mainly due to both of you getting jobs and your schedules clashing. He was still, of course, your best friend and closest friend. You would do anything in your power to try and visit every weekend you could and even bring Thomas out to lunch.

Tonight was one of those specials nights you were treating him to dinner, you both agreed to meet at a small diner just down the street. You stood in front of your closet as you searched through your clothes, trying to find a nice outfit to wear. You felt like dressing pretty tonight, you wanted to feel good about yourself. You eventually settled on a dark blue sundress that hugged your waist and flared out on the bottom. it was simple yet cute. You twirled in front of your mirror, nodding in satisfaction to yourself before grabbing your bag and heading downstairs and out the front door.

The walk was short but enjoyable, it was one of those warm nights where a cool breeze would occasionally pass by. The stars were shining brightly in the dark sky, making it perfect for star gazing, maybe you'd ask Thomas after dinner.

The bell above the door chimed as you entered the diner, your eyes scanning the area for your friend. You spotted him seated in the corner of the diner, his gaze focused on a menu in his hands. You smiled and made your way over.

"Hey, Tommy." You greeted, sliding into the seat across from him. He set his menu down and gave you a nod, a faint smile resting on his lips.

"You know what you wanna get?" You questioned, taking the menu he was previously holding and scanning over the options. From your periphery you could see Thomas nod before reaching one hand over to point to something on the menu. It was normal for you to order for him and yourself.

You happily gave the waitress your orders and settled into a comfortable silence, which continued after the food arrived. It was nights like these where you really appreciated Thomas. He had so much personality hidden beneath the surface. He had an amazing sense of humor, often pulling harmless pranks on you and grinning when he successfully managed to scare you, he had a beautiful smile. He was also quite the gentlemen, holding doors open for you, or on rainy days he would allow you to use his coat to shield yourself, not caring that he would get drenched. You noticed that during dinner he was acting strange, he would shyly look away if you met his gaze, and you swore you could see the faintest blush spread on his face.

After dinner you asked if he would want to stargaze with you, he agreed. You led him to a small field behind the diner, laying in the grass with your hands resting behind your head, Thomas also laid down and copied your position. You pointed out shapes in the stars, even trying to make out animals. Thomas would occasionally point to shapes he noticed.

It took you a few minutes before you noticed Thomas stopped reacting to you, you wondered if he had fallen asleep. When you turned your head, you saw Thomas was gazing at you. You furrowed your brows but gave a gentle smile.

"Is something wrong?"

He didn't respond, his sky blue eyes focused on your face. You wondered why he was staring so intently, specifically at your lips. A blush crept on you cheeks, and you turned your body slightly toward him.

"If you want to kiss me, then you better marry me as well." You said simply. Your dating life wasn't always lucky, most guys didn't want you for anything other your looks. You were pretty, and they liked that, but they never wanted to really know you. They didn't care about your favorite color, favorite food, or how you liked to spend your free time. You stopped dating to protect your mental health.

Thomas suddenly sat up, and you followed. The silence was almost deafening. His gaze flickered from your eyes to your lips, silently asking for permission. You scooted closer, resting your hand on his leg. In this lighting, with the moon casting a faint blue light, Thomas looked beautiful, and you weren't against the idea of him kissing you. He leaned in, stopping a few inches from your face. You didn't know what he was waiting for. Then, he closed the distance with a soft, shy kiss. You could tell he was inexperienced by the way he didn't deepen the kiss, you decided you would take lead. You cupped his face, slightly tilting your head to the side and moving your lips against his, turning it more passionate. He followed your lead, he was needy with the way his hand tangled in your hair and gave it a gentle tug, earning a soft groan from you.

Thomas didn't forget your words from that night, he wouldn't have kissed you if he didn't intend on marrying you. You were one of the only people who showed him true kindness and didn't treat him differently because of his skin condition, and for that he loved you. He picked up more shifts at the slaughterhouse to make it easier to save up, he planned on getting you the nicest ring he could find in this small town. He also introduced you to his family, if he was going to marry someone then they should know who you are. Initially they were very shocked that Thomas had a friend, a girlfriend at that. They always thought he would spend his life alone and isolated, but they were proud of him, and they took a liking to you… well maybe not Hoyt, he would always give you a side eye when you came around. When Thomas told them he wanted to propose, they were ecstatic, Luda Mae more than anyone else.

He saved up for a couple of years and planned for the perfect proposal, he wouldn't put his plan into action until your adult years. He had a whole day planned where he invited you over to have breakfast with his family, then he took you to a nearby lake where you two spent a few hours sitting and drawing together, an activity you used to do when you were kids. After he treated you to lunch he took you to a nice little flower field. Throughout the day you had your suspicions, it was unusual for Thomas to spoil you this much, and he had been acting a little off as well. He was more fidgety than normal, and he would blush everytime you two made eye contact, it was like he was a teenager with a huge crush on you. Your suspicions were confirmed when he got down on one knee, pulling a small box from his pocket and holding it out in his hand, butterflies erupted in your stomach. You didn't expect Thomas was actually going to propose to you. Slowly, he opened it and looked at you with his big blue eyes that were filled with nothing but love and adoration. Inside the box sat a beautiful silver ring with a small diamond on it. Thomas knew you didn't like big clunky jewelry, so he took time in finding you a simple yet beautiful engagement ring. You didn't need Thomas to speak to know what he was asking you. With tears brimming your eyes and love swarming in your chest, you stuttered out a quick yes and nodded your head.

Thomas stood from his knee and you pulled him into a tight hug, eventually he pulled away and held your face in his hands, then began to pepper your face in kisses, leaving you in a giggling mess. He wiped the tears that began to fall down your cheeks, then took your hand into his, slowly slipping the ring onto your ring finger. The entire time he had a big smile on his lips, and he adored the way the ring looked on your hand, it was perfect, that ring was meant for you. He was meant for you.