#tysm for requesting

[lvve-talks]

Congratulations on 300 followers love!!! You deserve this and more, I'm so so happy for you. ❣️

What do you think of Art being readers tutor, except she's actually just faking not understanding anything because she wants to spend time with him.

"i just don't get it!" you huff for the fourth time while mulling over the same problem for an hour. of course, the answer is 47%, and the equation is pretty straightforward, but he doesn't have to know that you know that.

you're great at statistics. art is... average. but when you saw him sitting front row of your stat 202 lecture on the first day of classes you knew you had to have him. golden curls sitting so prettily above that sharp nose and blue eyes sparking behind those slutty glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

after class one day in the second week, you tap him on the shoulder and ask if he understood anything the teacher was talking about.

"uh, yeah, sure," he answers, turning around to lean over your desk and explain confidence intervals while you stare at his cute pink lips the whole time instead of listening.

"you're really good at explaining things," you compliment despite not having listened to a word he had said. you learn that you really like how he looks when his face gets all warm and flushed.

"really? um, thanks," he pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose bashfully and you catch yourself wondering how that nose would feel buried between your thighs.

"do you think you could tutor me on this?" you ask sweetly, twirling your pen into your hair. "i'm like... so bad at math," you explain simply, lying through your teeth.

you can see him considering the situation in his mind. pros and cons, how much he really wants to see you every week or so. the answer is clearly a lot when he answers "yeah, i could do that. i have tennis practice pretty much every day, but i'm sure we could find time," he clears his throat when he's done like it took effort to get that many words out when you're looking at him like that.

"really? perfect!" you clap your hands together, a pleased grin breaking out onto your lips. "here, give me your number. so we can.. plan where to meet and stuff," you hand your phone over to him and he seems to get impossibly redder. how cute.

for the first few meetings, you'd meet at the library. you tell him with a pout that you got a c on the first test despite nailing it and you lean in extra close when he comforts you and tells you that you can still pass the class with grades like that, but that's why he's here to help!

you memorize his features and the inflection of his voice when you're supposed to be learning the central limit theorem and always ask him questions about home and tennis and his other classes to get him off track when you get bored of that.

you sit extra close to him, your thighs and your elbows brushing as you make him draw models on your notebook to show you how they work, even if his numbers are slightly off, you can't correct him.

you always wait for him to finish his tests in class first, doodling stars in the margins after you finish so that it doesn't look suspicious. you slowly work up to telling him your real test scores so he can feel accomplished as your tutor. once, when he asks you what you got on an exam, you slip up and casually say 95.

"what?" he asks, eyes wide, clearly astonished, "that's.. awesome."

"all because of you!" you cheer, quickly wrapping him up in a hug to distract him.

eventually, you convince him to start meeting in one of your dorms. it's so much easier than going all the way to the library after all. you lay on your stomach, head practically in his lap as he sits with his back to the wall, notebook or laptop conspicuously hiding the semi he's been rocking ever since seeing you sprawled out on his sheets.

it all comes crashing down one day when you're idly scrolling on your phone as he searches through your desk for some flashcards in preparation for the final exam. what he finds instead is your very first exam from the semester, a big red 100 penned at the top.

"what's this?" he asks, his heart pounding in his chest as he holds it up for you to see. it's unmistakable. your name penciled in at the top next to stat 202, section 4. and a fat red 100. even circled for emphasis and a little great job from your professor. the test you had told him you got a c on. the test he had barely scraped by with a b.

you glance up casually, your heart stopping in your chest as you register what he's holding. your eyes flick up to his, the expression on your face making it clear to him that you weren't expecting him to find that. "i.. um..." you start, not quite sure how to explain it away this time.

"what's the square root of 196?" he asks suddenly, like he's quizzing you. you can't tell if he's angry or not, his expression stony as he looks at you, only his blue eyes giving away the hint of betrayal.

"14?" you answer correctly, knowing you can't go about fooling him anymore.

he sighs, his hand holding the test falling to his side and his head falling back to look up at the ceiling.

"i'm sorry, art," you're immediately sliding off your bed to approach him, a regretful look on your face. and you really are. you didn't want to lie to him, not really, but you just had to get to know him.

"why did you lie to me?" he asks, finally looking down at you again, the hurt clear on his face this time.

"i'm sorry," you repeat, softer this time, intertwining your fingers with those of his free hand. "i just... i wanted to talk to you. to spend time with you," you try and explain, knowing it's still not exactly justified.

"you couldn't have just talked to me like a normal person? asked me to hang out, get coffee or something?" he asks and you cringe at the accusation in his tone.

"i just.. it was the first thing i thought of. and then i liked spending time with you so much, i just had to keep up with the lie or i thought i'd lose you and..." you trail off, looking down at your feet in shame. you know you betrayed his trust, you're simply praying he'll give you another chance.

he sighs softly again, his hand gingerly coming up to you jaw to tilt your head up to look at him again. "you're not going to lose me," he insists, his eyes looking much softer now as he takes you in. "but i think maybe you should be the one tutoring me," he teases, a small smile gracing his features that makes you sag with relief.

"i'm sorry," you sigh again as he pulls you into his chest. you wrap your arms around him, breathing in his scent and thanking whatever it is out there that's clearly on your side.

"shh," he shushes you gently, placing a kiss to the top of your head. "i forgive you. this time," he adds with a chuckle that inflates your chest. a second chance is all you need. statistically, you had to be much more likely to get it right the second time.

[generalsdiary]

if you accept requests, can i request sunday with an express crew reader who has a fake halo ring on their head because they think that is pretty, they first meet him on the express and went to touch his halo ring thinking it is fake too? i know it is quite long and a bit specific so feel free to skip. And your writing is so good! your little analysis on sunday's wing ADORABLE.

(theirs is just plain sparkly rubber band😭)

hi anon! I do accept requests. and seriously don't worry, I LOVE THE IDEA, it is not at all too specific or long; actually the perfect amount for me to work with.

I would've written this yesterday when you sent the ask, but I was caught up painting (Sunday of all people lmao). also, I'm so glad you like my writing, tysm! hope you like this one, I wrote it really quickly, cos I'm still busy but this had caught my attention for sure.

Sunday x gn!reader

word count: 400~

One more check in the mirror, yes, it looks good. You nod at your reflection. The golden halo gives the illusion of realness. At least, that is what you tell yourself. It probably looks ridiculous to actual Halovians. Never mind, you smile at your sight in the mirror and head to the main car to greet guests.

Despite visiting Penacony with the crew, you failed to ever meet the infamous Sunday. And he looks even more beautiful in person, it is almost dazing.

“It is a pleasure to meet you.” you chirp, shaking his hand.

“Likewise” Sunday smiles, you can almost hear a choir singing. He looks like an angel. That halo is perfect. Should you ask him for tips? You reach out with your hand. “Your halo looks amazing, how did you make it so perfectly?” and… your fingers pass through nothing. Feeling a bit surprised, you ponder if it is a gadget with a projector? Doubtful. It takes a few moments before you notice that you stunned the poor man.

Sunday dryly chuckles, “It… it is very real, I assure you.” He takes a small step to the side, making his halo move further away from your touch.

To say you blushed would be an understatement. Hoping the Express would crash at that moment just so you wouldn’t have to deal with this situation, “Uh.. I- I am so sorry- I didn’t mean to-“ you fumble with your words trying to salvage the situation.

“I understand. I can see your… pretend one.“ He smiles. You’re internally cursing at yourself and biting the inside of your cheek, could this be any more embarrassing?

“I just think they’re pretty. Angelic, and wonderfully complimentary on a person.” There’s a proud aura around you, maybe you saved the situation.

“Ah, so you’re a flatterer. Thank you, I do agree they are pretty. Although, they are a genetic part of me.” Sunday smiles. Internal high five, you saved the conversation. Except for the fact Sunday looked at you up and down. Is he checking you out? Or judging the way your halo looks on you? Either way, you avert your gaze, swallowing hard. What a bold man.

“I wasn’t trying to flatter-“ No, you gotta be bolder; match his energy, “I know they’re genetic, as I know that your kind can even influence, some of them, how the halo ends up looking.”

There’s a knowing glint in his eyes and an ever-resting smile. “I’ll happily explain how and why… care to get a drink with me and we can sit by one of the windows?” And there’s no way in hell you say no to him.

[daddyjackfrost]

can you do some soft bucky smut where he gets to have you after a brief misunderstanding that he thinks you like steve/sam/clint/tony over him? he’s pining for you but you had no clue he liked you until maybe something happens during an avengers gala or movie night <33

hi anon!!! tysm for this request! it was so fun to write. i love pining and yearning bucky. i hope i did it justice! you can read it here

[butterflyscribbles]

Echidna warriors are inclined to let the youngsters in their tribe win small battles to encourage confidence. They are also inclined to humble those who boast too much confidence lol.

Inspired request by @/niyana-the-ambiguous-mobian

[punksrhea]

Can you make a gif of Jey ripping off his shirt please?

posted :)

[comrademango]

Please keep supporting Ahmed's family

I have made a post about Ahmed @ahmedfamily900 and his family back in November. Their campaign has made progress (from €797 to €3,397 raised of the €100,000 goal, only 3% funded), but it remained very slow, sometimes going days with minimal increase.

[verification: gaza-evacuation-funds, gazavetters (#37)]

This family is trying to raise funds for their daily needs of around 20 members and for the treatment of several members who have been injured during the current campaign of genocide by the settler state. Two of those injured are children. Another child has cleft palate which needs prompt surgical correction to prevent speech and feeding difficulties. Ahmed's twin brother had been taken by the IOF and released in September. (Details in the post linked in par. 1)

With the impending truce, Ahmed and his family may be able to return to their home in the north of Gaza, and they would have been happy to return to a even broken down structure with dilapidated rooms, but some of their acquaintances have informed them that there is not even rubble to return to. They still need our support. ETA: Ahmed is also requesting others to sponsor/make their own posts/regularly share his campaign. If you can, please do not hesitate to do so.

Please keep supporting this family. Thank you.

Tagging for reach. Respectfully requesting to boost and tag others s well so it may reach other bigger blogs/get enough exposure/etc. Please reply or reach out in other ways for tag removal. Thank you.

@murderbot @butchmagicalboi @mistress--kanzaki @boobieteriat @lonniemachin

@galactic-mermaid @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @lesbianmaxevans @imjustheretotrytohelp @maester-cressen

@neptunerings @komsomolka @thatsonehellofabird @dirhwangdaseul @guldaastan

@feralparsnip @lordzannis @communist-ojou-sama @jolyne-best-jojo @disinfobot

@oceanmonsters @captainrayzizuniverse @moonrver @thesummersucks @thewingedwolf

@oediex @karlmarxmaybe @acehimbo @error-core-animations @seasonofprophecy

@teethburied @milfstalin @shrinkthisviolet @meshugenist @trans-lunarinjection

@rhubarbspring @riotbard @spaghettioverdose @binglam @noble-kale

@xxx-sparkydemon-xxx @drunkestwizard @is-there-a-filipino-legend-yet @vilecrocodile @batricity

[gotchibam]

Vaporeon and Eevee ko-fi doodle for Samble!

[vrsmnya]

hiccup and snotlout brothers energy

i went a bit all out for this one but i love the prompt sm THEY ARE SO SIBLING CODED

shout out to @jacks-ace for the inspiration for this

(sorry y’all im super tired today ill be continuing the asks tomorrow 😭❤️)

[carriefisher]

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU dir. Gil Junger, 1999

[yangjeongin]

10K CELEBRATION: PINK JEONGIN for @linoeyes find out how to celebrate with us for a good cause here!

[buckyseternaldoll]

Hello i hope you’re having a good dayyy!

May i request something? It’s a fluff one here’s the background:

Congressman bucky x citizen reader(female) wherein at a random time and place bucky was just walking and he saw her and he got really attracted to her and he wanted to ask for her number but he’s shy and careful at the surroundings because he’s a congressman but he really wanted for them to talk and ask her out.

Thank you so much!

Hii lovely anon! I actually had a really great day today—hope yours has been just as fun! 💖 My thumb’s been aching a bit, but I was so excited to get this request (fluff is probably the genre I’ve written the least), so I’ve been glued to my little phone for… honestly, who even knows how many hours now. I might’ve strayed a little from the exact vision you had in mind, but I really hope you still enjoy it! 🥰💜 thank you for the request!

like saying yes to home

Summary: Congressman Barnes didn’t mean to fall for the girl with a flower in her hand and her heart tucked gently into quiet moments—but it happened. And when fate kept pulling you together, he decided he didn’t want to leave it to fate anymore. He just wanted you.

Disclaimer: fluff, modern au, slow-burn romance, congressman!bucky, soft courting, mutual pining, first kiss, domestic romance, respectful king behavior, emotional softness, tender confession

Word count: 6.3k

The session had gone long. Longer than necessary, if you asked Bucky.

Hours of debates, procedural motions, and dry policy chatter had left him sitting stiff in his seat, nodding politely while his mind wandered far, far from Capitol Hill. He wasn’t disinterested—he cared, deeply—but even the most urgent discussions felt suffocating when stacked back-to-back with no breath in between. He needed to move. To feel something other than recycled air and recycled arguments.

So he slipped away after the final handshake, tie loosened just a touch—though truth be told, it barely helped the tension cinched beneath his ribs. His grey suit still sat neatly on his frame, shoulders squared from habit, but his pace was far from political. No aides, no press trailing behind. No destination. Just… walking.

It was spring. Not warm, not cold—just right. The breeze was gentle, coaxing life into cherry blossoms, their petals occasionally tumbling onto the path like quiet applause. A little girl’s laugh rang out from somewhere in the nearby park, joined by the high-pitched chatter of toddlers chasing each other between benches. It was a perfect, normal day.

And for once, Bucky wasn’t trying to be anything. Not a soldier. Not a Congressman. Not a symbol. He was just a man trying to remember how to breathe.

He turned a corner near the edge of the park and that’s when he saw you.

Not in a cinematic, slow-motion haze. There were no rays of light beaming from heaven. No music swelling in his ears. Just… you.

You stepped out from a flower stall nestled against the fence, soft colors blooming in baskets all around you. And in your hand—a single purple alstroemeria, wrapped neatly with a pink ribbon, like a secret tucked into your palm.

You weren’t glowing. You weren’t trying to be noticed. But Bucky did.

You walked toward a quiet bench just a few steps from the stall. Sat with a softness that made the moment feel intentional, even though it was just part of your day. You smoothed your pale blue floral dress beneath you, your dark blue cardigan slipping off one shoulder for a second before you gently tugged it back into place.

From your bag, you pulled out a book—paperback, a little worn at the edges. And then you were gone.

Not physically. You were still there, perfectly in view. But you had disappeared into that novel completely. Your fingers toyed absently with the ribbon around your flower as your eyes scanned the page. You smiled—not wide, just that quiet, content kind of smile that felt real. Like the world around you didn’t need to be impressed to be enjoyed. Like you were simply… existing.

You mouthed something. A line from the page, maybe. Whispered it like it was meant to be savored. Then a sudden scrunch of your nose as your lips twitched into a grin—something funny, he figured. You shifted slightly on the bench, crossing your legs, cardigan bunched at the elbows, flower still gently resting across your lap.

And Bucky?

He stopped walking.

Dead in his tracks.

His first thought was ridiculous: She’s so… slow.

Not in a bad way. Not in a careless way. But slow like the kind of stillness you choose to create. You weren’t in a rush. You weren’t checking your phone. You weren’t looking around or scanning for attention. In a world that moved like it was late for everything, you were the only thing still.

It grounded him.

That quiet, deliberate joy—holding a single flower like it was enough. Whispering lines like they were spells. Looking like you had all the time in the world.

And maybe, just maybe, Bucky started wishing he had all the time in the world too—if it meant he could borrow just a moment of yours.

He didn’t realize he was smiling.

It just sort of crept onto his face—slow and uninvited, but too honest to stop. A curl of his lips, a softening of his eyes, like something inside him had unclenched without asking for permission.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not really. Not without aides, not without a plan. But somehow, standing there with cherry blossom petals drifting past his shoes and the distant giggles of children echoing from the park, Bucky felt more himself than he had in weeks.

And the reason for it… was sitting on a bench with a paperback and a flower in her lap.

He should’ve walked away. He meant to walk away. But the longer he stayed rooted there, the more impossible it felt to leave.

His fingers twitched at his side.

He’d walked into battlefields with less hesitation than this. Stepped off helicarriers and straight into chaos, boots first, heart steady. But right now? Looking at you, so gentle and serene and real?

This felt like a mission he wasn’t trained for.

He adjusted his tie back into place—not too tight, not too stiff. Just right. Like it might matter. Like you might notice. He wiped his palm down the side of his jacket, then muttered under his breath, “Alright, Barnes. Don’t tell her you’re 110 years old. Don’t bring up committee reform. Just say hello.”

He took a small breath. Took one step forward.

And then you stood up.

He froze.

You tucked the book back into your bag, held the single alstroemeria a little closer to your chest, and began walking. Not hurried. Not in a rush. Just done for the day. A quiet exit.

His heart deflated just slightly. Like watching a balloon slip from someone’s fingers.

He hadn’t even gotten a word out.

But instead of turning away, he found himself still standing there, eyes fixed on the bench you’d left behind. Like the imprint of your presence lingered in the air, stitched into the breeze.

He checked the time—old habits from war and work.

…He blinked.

He’d been there for nearly an hour.

An hour.

But it didn’t feel like that. Not at all. If someone had asked, he would’ve guessed ten, fifteen minutes—tops. But the sun had shifted. Shadows had moved. And he was still standing there like some old ghost who didn’t know where to go next.

And yet… he felt more alive than he had all week.

—

He left soon after that. Not in a hurry, but with a new kind of ache under his ribs.

He didn’t know your name. Didn’t know if you came here often. But he knew one thing:

He’d come back tomorrow.

Same time. Same place.

And this time?

He’d say hello.

—

The next day, Bucky showed up a little earlier.

He told himself he wasn’t expecting anything. That maybe yesterday had been a one-time thing. But the truth curled quietly in his chest: he’d hoped. Hoped to see you again, sitting on that bench with your book and your soft cardigan and a flower in your lap like a little secret.

But the bench was empty.

He stayed, hands in his pockets, pacing slowly in a small circle near the flower stall. He glanced up every time footsteps approached. Waited. Waited.

Fifteen minutes passed.

His heart gave a slow, sinking tug.

You miss the hint, you miss the chance, he thought to himself.

He let out a breath, nodded once to the empty bench—as if it owed him something—and turned toward the nearest coffee shop down the block. If nothing else, maybe caffeine would soothe the dull ache of disappointment wedged between his ribs.

The bell above the café door chimed softly as he stepped in, adjusting his sleeves, mind already somewhere else.

But then—

There you were.

Tucked into a quiet corner near the window, half-hidden behind a hanging pothos plant, sat you. Your back to most of the café, your body curled gently over the same book from yesterday. A new flower in your hand today—a white rose this time, pressed between your fingers like something fragile and precious. Your dress was soft pink, flowing gently past your knees, paired with a cropped beige cardigan that fell just over the curve of your waist, modest and easy, delicate like the petals you held.

Bucky stopped walking.

She’s here.

You didn’t miss your chance, you just didn’t know where to look.

He stood frozen for half a moment, then shook himself and moved toward the counter.

One black coffee. No sugar. Just enough bitterness to remind him he was still standing on solid ground.

Cup in hand, he hovered by your table, nerves suddenly tightening in his stomach like he was about to defuse a bomb with trembling fingers.

You didn’t notice him.

You were too deep inside that book, lashes fluttering slightly as your eyes darted across the page. The white rose lay beside your cup, untouched but cradled like it mattered. He didn’t want to interrupt—but also, he really, really did.

So he did the next best thing.

He cleared his throat.

You didn’t flinch.

He watched you for another breath. Your fingers slid down the spine of the book absently, and he could see it—see the story unfolding in your head. Your lips moved softly, silently repeating words like they were meant just for you.

God, you were beautiful.

So he gathered himself. Moved his hand slowly, purposefully, and gave your table a light knock—just enough so his hand entered your peripheral view.

Your eyes flicked up.

And for a moment, he forgot how to breathe again.

He smiled—gentle and genuine and a little unsure.

“Miss…? Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You blinked, startled for just a second, and then—recognition sparked. Your gaze shifted slightly, and your lips parted.

Of course you knew him.

Congressman Barnes. Everyone did.

But instead of going stiff or startled, you smiled. You closed your book without rushing, sat up just a little straighter, and reached out your hand.

“Hi,” you said, voice warm. “I thought I recognized you.”

Bucky let out a quiet breath of relief and shook your hand carefully, as if you were made of paper and kindness.

“I’m not a creep,” he blurted suddenly, cheeks flushing. “Promise. I—I just saw you yesterday. At the park. I didn’t get a chance to say anything then. And I wasn’t following you, I swear, I just—this café’s close and—uh…”

You tilted your head, amused, waiting.

He smiled sheepishly. “I just wanted to know what you were reading.”

It wasn’t what he meant to say.

He’d meant to ask if he could sit. Maybe ask your name. Maybe, maybe even your number.

But instead, he said, what book is that? Like it would explain everything. Like that was the reason he had a quiet ache in his chest and a coffee cup shaking slightly in his hand.

You glanced down at the cover, then back at him, expression softening.

“It’s The Secret Garden.” You smiled. “It’s one of my comfort books.”

He nodded, gripping the coffee tighter. “Good choice. It, uh… suits you.”

You raised a brow, playful. “Because I look like I like gardens?”

“No,” he said, smiling. “Because you made the whole place feel a little more peaceful.”

You were just about to ask if he wanted to sit when his phone buzzed.

He hesitated—just enough for you to catch the flicker in his expression. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as he pulled it from his pocket, eyes darting over the screen. Not the screen of a politician catching a news alert. No, this was something else.

A name. A code. A world hidden behind his suited, buttoned-up exterior.

He glanced at you and gave the kindest apology his eyes could hold.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, lowering the phone but not silencing it yet. “I need to take this.”

You nodded politely, already half-expecting it. People like him didn’t just get to sit at cafés and read books with strangers.

But before he stood, he asked, “Do you come here often? Or nearby?”

Your lips curled.

“Maybe,” you said, casually swirling your spoon through your drink. “If we’re tied by fate’s string or whatever it’s called, we’ll meet again. Right?”

You delivered it with a playful raise of your brow—like you knew exactly what you were doing.

Bucky stared at you for a second too long, then huffed a quiet laugh and nodded. “I like a challenge.”

He stood, lingering just a moment more before gently excusing himself.

And you could feel it—his gaze staying on you even as he walked toward the door. A pause in his step. A reluctant glance over his shoulder. A silent wish he could stay.

You took a sip of your drink and chuckled under your breath.

“Cute old man.”

—

You didn’t run into him for almost a week.

Life swept in—work, errands, missed alarms, rain. A thousand little things that kept you busy. And Bucky? He’d been swallowed by back-to-back appearances, an urgent Avengers debrief, and a mountain of paperwork that didn’t care how many times he checked the bench near the flower stall.

But today… you finally carved out time for yourself again.

The air was kind. Spring edging closer toward summer warmth. Your book was tucked under your arm, and a soft cardigan rested on your shoulders. You strolled past the familiar row of flower crates, prepared to pick out something soft—maybe lavender or a white lily—when your steps slowed.

Someone was already at the bench.

He looked different this time.

No suit. No polished shoes or pressed collars. Just black jeans, a soft grey henley layered under a black hoodie, and a ball cap shadowing his eyes. He could’ve passed for any other man in the park.

But you knew.

It was in the shape of his shoulders, the curve of his mouth as he spotted you. The way he stood with just enough stiffness—like he didn’t quite know how to be casual, but tried anyway.

And in his hands? A bouquet.

Not too big. Not store-perfect. But clearly chosen with care.

Shades of purple, soft pinks, and white blooms nestled together, each one gentle and deliberate.

He took a step forward.

“Hi, sugar,” he said, voice softer than it was in the café. It slipped out easy—gentle, warm—but it wasn’t just charm. He still didn’t know your name, and somehow, sugar felt right. Something sweet, for someone who lingered in his thoughts all week.

“Thought I might see you here. So…”

He extended the flowers toward you.

Your heart gave a soft thud, completely unprepared.

He rubbed the back of his neck, almost shy. “I know it’s kinda… outdated. But where I come from, you brought flowers when you wanted to see a girl again.”

He glanced at the bouquet, then back at you, eyes a little more vulnerable now. “You seemed like you liked ‘em, and I… wanted to do it right. Properly. Not just bump into you with coffee in hand again.”

You took the bouquet slowly, fingers brushing against his, and smiled.

He exhaled—relieved, like your smile was the answer to a question he’d been too afraid to ask aloud.

“I was hoping,” he added, “maybe this time… I could actually get to know you.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Then sit down, Congressman.”

He smiled—wide and honest—and obeyed.

—

You both sat on the bench a little too close, and a little too comfortably for two people who were supposed to be strangers. The bouquet lay gently on your lap now, its colors catching the afternoon sun, while your book sat forgotten beside you.

Conversation bloomed with surprising ease.

You talked about favorite books—his were older, yours more current, but you both shared the same appreciation for quiet characters and found family themes. He told you about some diplomatic mess he had to sit through the day before, and you told him about the time you fell into a wedding cake when you were three.

He laughed. Really laughed. The kind of laugh that crinkled his eyes and made him lean forward, one hand pressed to his chest.

But still… you never gave him your name.

And Bucky noticed.

Somewhere near the end of your second hour on the bench, as the breeze turned cooler and your coffees had long gone cold, he gave you a look. One of those quiet, searching glances full of intent.

“So,” he said, drawing the word out, “are you ever gonna tell me your name, or are we just gonna keep going with sugar and hey you forever?”

You smiled, mischievous. “Mmm… maybe next time.”

He blinked. “Next time?”

“If fate decides to push us together again,” you said with a shrug, standing up and gathering your things. “I’ll think about it.”

His brows lifted. His grin followed.

“Well aren’t you just a cheeky little menace,” he murmured, standing as well.

You laughed. “Takes one to know one.”

He shook his head, gaze fond. “Alright then. You win this round.”

“Round?”

He gave you a look, smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Darling, this feels like a best-of-seven.”

—

You hadn’t expected to see him again the next day.

You’d barely managed to shove your way out of the sandwich shop during the lunch rush, too focused on texting your order pickup code to notice anyone in front of you—until you collided with someone solid.

Hard.

Your forehead bumped directly into the broad chest of a man who didn’t budge an inch.

“Oh my god—! I am so—”

And then the scent hit you.

Cedar. Sandalwood. Clean, worn-in warmth.

Oh.

You looked up.

He was already smiling.

“Well, well,” Bucky murmured, voice low and amused. “Seems like we were destined to meet today, yeah… sugar?”

You groaned into your palms as your cheeks went hot. “I swear I wasn’t stalking you—”

“I believe you,” he chuckled. “You don’t walk like a trained agent. You walk like a woman on a sandwich mission.”

His aides started to approach, worried, but Bucky held up a hand.

“I’m alright. I know her.”

They paused. Looked at you. Looked at him. Nodded slowly. Then faded into the crowd, murmuring something about reconvening in 15.

Bucky turned back to you, that same look from yesterday softening his eyes.

“Got time to eat with a friend?”

You tilted your head. “Are we friends now?”

“Well, I brought you flowers yesterday,” he said, brushing his fingers against the back of his neck. “That feels friend-worthy. Maybe first date-worthy, but I’ll settle for friend if you need slow pacing.”

You laughed, heart thudding. “I’m starving, so yeah. You’re lucky.”

—

You ended up at a quieter café two blocks down.

Seated at a small table by the window, you pulled out your sandwich while Bucky sipped something black and bitter. His posture was relaxed now, more hoodie than Henley energy, and it suited him.

He looked at you over the rim of his cup.

“So,” he said, “am I finally worthy of knowing your name?”

You grinned, wiping your fingers gently on a napkin.

“You know what?” You leaned forward slightly. “Yeah. I think you’ve earned it.”

And then you told him. Simply, clearly.

He said it back slowly. Testing the syllables on his tongue.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “It suits you.”

You rolled your eyes lightly. “Smooth.”

“Not trying to be,” he replied. “Just honest.”

Then his smile shifted—something a little playful, a little teasing.

“But I might still call you sugar, if that’s alright. Kinda got attached.”

You snorted. “Do I get a nickname for you, then?”

“Most people call me Congressman Barnes.”

You raised an unimpressed brow.

He grinned. “But for you, I guess I’ll answer to anything—long as you keep looking at me like that.”

You sipped your drink slowly, pretending to think. “Hmm. ‘Cute old man’ has a nice ring to it.”

He feigned offense, placing a dramatic hand over his chest. “Ouch.”

You shrugged, smirking. “If the perfectly tailored suit fits…”

He laughed, the sound warm and fond. “You’re gonna be trouble, aren’t you?”

You leaned back, content. “Guess you’ll have to stick around to find out.”

He smiled at that—really smiled, like he already knew he would. His gaze drifted to the window, then back to you. Still soft. Still locked in.

“Sugar suits you,” he said again, gentler this time. “You’re sweet. Quiet kind, not flashy. Like the kind of sweetness that sticks with you for a while.”

Your breath caught, just a little.

And maybe you didn’t say anything right away—but you didn’t look away, either.

—

You finished your sandwiches slower than necessary, savoring the warmth of a quiet afternoon spent with someone who made your heart feel like a tuned violin string—softly humming but stretched just enough to vibrate with anticipation.

As you stood from the café table, Bucky hovered a little before gently offering:

“Where’re you headed?”

“My office’s two blocks up,” you smiled, tossing your cup into the bin. “Tech support floor. Nothing fancy.”

He walked with you, steps aligned, occasionally brushing shoulders when your paths narrowed.

It was a short walk, but Bucky seemed to stretch it, slowing slightly at corners, letting conversations breathe.

When you reached the front of your building, he stopped with both hands in his pockets, shoulders squared, jaw a little tighter than before.

“I, uh…” He hesitated. “Would it be alright if I saw you again sometime?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but he shook his head with a soft, crooked smile.

“No more talks about fate, sugar. Just… say yes or no.”

You tilted your head, lips curving. “So no more mystic string theory?”

“Not unless you tie it around my wrist and drag me somewhere.”

You laughed—light, warm—and nodded slowly. “Alright then. If 4:00 p.m. this Saturday’s good for you… meet me at the park.”

“The spot?” he asked, raising a brow.

“The spot,” you confirmed. “You know it.”

Then you turned, walking backward a step or two just to give him one last parting grin.

“Don’t be late, Congressman.”

And with that, you disappeared through the glass doors of your office building—leaving Bucky staring at the spot where you stood, heart racing like he’d just gotten confirmation of a classified mission.

—

He cleared his schedule that very night.

Every event. Every meeting. Every potential appearance.

That Saturday was non-negotiable.

He was on a new kind of mission now—one that came with no debriefing, no team… just hope.

—

You arrived ten minutes early, heart ticking faster than you cared to admit.

The bench was still there, dappled in sunlight and half-shadow, a light breeze playing with the edge of your pale yellow dress. Tiny daisy prints fluttered over the fabric like confetti. Your hair was tied up in a high ponytail, loose strands catching sunlight as they swayed.

And sitting there, already waiting for you, was him.

Bucky looked up from his phone—and paused.

His lips parted slightly. And then, almost as if it were instinct, he stood up slowly.

The bouquet in his hands was beautiful this time—more confident. Bolder. Daisies. Pink peonies. Sprigs of lavender. A single tulip tucked in the middle like a secret. The colors were warm and balanced, much like him.

His clothes were more casual today—fitted blue jeans, a slate grey shirt clinging gently to his frame, and a slightly darker hoodie layered over. His hair was a little shorter, clean at the nape. His stubble trimmed. Still rugged, still Bucky—but undeniably trying.

And then he saw your neckline.

The delicate sweep of your collarbones. The graceful slope of your throat. His eyes flicked down instinctively, then immediately darted away as he cleared his throat and fidgeted with the bouquet.

“Hi,” he said, softer now. “You look… stunning.”

You smiled and walked toward him. “You’re early.”

“Didn’t want to risk you saying I was late and ghosting you.”

You laughed and accepted the bouquet.

“These are beautiful,” you said, gently brushing your nose against the flowers. “You’re getting good at this.”

“Well, figured I should step it up,” he murmured. “Especially if I’m about to ask for something even better.”

You looked up, curious.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. Then hesitated.

“I’d, uh… really like to have your number. So I can actually find you without hoping the universe throws you at my chest again.”

You stared for a beat—just long enough for his nerves to kick in—before gently taking his phone.

You tapped in your number, added your name, then returned it.

“I was wondering how long you’d wait before asking.”

He huffed a laugh, thumb brushing the side of the screen like your number might disappear if he looked away.

“Was trying to be a gentleman.”

“You are.”

His eyes found yours again. A little brighter. A little steadier.

“Thanks for giving me a chance, sugar.”

You shrugged, stepping closer to the bench.

“I like giving good men reasons to come back.”

—

You both sat on the bench for a while, the bouquet resting gently beside you. The soft rustling of trees overhead filled the quiet spaces between words. It was peaceful—not the kind that begged to be filled, but the kind that let you breathe a little easier.

Bucky talked about Brooklyn in spring. About how lilacs used to grow wild in the alley behind his childhood building. You shared your own childhood memory of trying to grow sunflowers in a paper cup and sobbing when they drooped.

He laughed, hand resting near yours on the bench—not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth between you.

The conversation shifted like a slow current—books, hobbies, the comfort of routine, the quiet ache of loneliness in busy lives.

You were already smiling before you realized your question had slipped out.

“So… when are you going to ask me out?”

It hung in the air between you, fragile and unfiltered.

Your smile faltered. “I mean—sorry. That was kind of blunt. I didn’t mean to rush you or—”

Bucky blinked at you, a little stunned—but not in a bad way. His lips parted, then curled into the softest chuckle.

He looked down, shook his head slightly, and smiled at his shoes like you’d just said the most beautiful thing in the world.

“I’m not laughing at you, sugar,” he said gently, glancing back up. “I just… I was thinking about it. But I didn’t want to move too fast.”

You blinked. “Really?”

He nodded, slowly turning toward you more fully. “Yeah. I didn’t want to just… dive in without knowing if we’re on the same page. If we want the same things. You’re not someone I wanna rush through. I wanted to earn it, y’know?”

Your cheeks burned.

“I didn’t mean to pressure you—”

“I know you didn’t.”

His hand lifted—hesitating only for a moment—and then softly cupped your cheek.

It was the first time he touched you.

Warm palm, steady fingers, thumb brushing just barely under your cheekbone. You leaned into it instinctively. Gently.

His voice dropped low. “And I’m really glad you said something. That kind of honesty? That’s rare.”

You swallowed, heart rattling against your ribs.

“I just wanted to know,” you said, quieter now, “if you were thinking about it too.”

“I am,” he said, thumb still brushing your cheek, gaze warm and grounded. “Every day since the flower stall.”

You couldn’t speak. But you didn’t need to.

His hand lingered for a second longer before he pulled it away, careful and slow, as if it meant something. It did.

You sat together a little longer, talking about nothing and everything. But eventually, it was time to part again—he had calls, and you had errands—but something in you felt different.

More tethered.

You walked away with the bouquet in your hands, and your name still echoing in his low, rough voice like a song you wanted to play on repeat.

—

That night, your phone lit up.

[Unknown Number]

Are we still pretending fate doesn’t exist, or should I just accept that I’m cursed to fall for every girl holding a flower?

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

It was the white rose, huh? Dead giveaway.

Bucky:

Nah. It was the cardigan. I’m weak for buttons.

…and your voice.

And your smile.

I’m gonna stop now.

No, don’t. Keep going.

And somehow, you did.

Back and forth. Cheeky, funny, real.

By midnight, the texts had turned into a voice call—his voice raspier now, lower, relaxed.

“You sound so calm at night.”

“I feel calm when I talk to you.”

At 1:13 a.m., he asked, quietly:

“Would it be okay if I FaceTimed you? Just for a minute. I kinda wanna see you.”

You agreed, suddenly shy—fixing your hair as if it mattered, as if he wouldn’t melt at the sight of you no matter what.

When the screen lit up and his face appeared, hair messy from running his hands through it, tank top loose on his shoulders, eyes sleepy but bright—

He smiled.

“There you are, sugar.”

You talked until your eyes got heavy and your voice slowed.

And when the call ended, and you finally sank back into your pillow with your phone still warm in your hand…

You felt it.

That quiet warmth blooming beneath your skin.

Love—not sudden, not overwhelming. But soft. Real. Certain.

The kind of love that made you believe the flowers were never a coincidence.

—

It had become a reflex.

Every time his phone buzzed, his heart jumped—not in dread, but with anticipation. It wasn’t the staff, or a reminder about some policy hearing. It was you.

A photo of a flower you passed on your way to work. A sleepy voice note at midnight whispering his name with a laugh tucked into it. A blurry picture of your tea, captioned, “Looks like mud but tastes like heaven.”

Bucky was supposed to be reviewing foreign affairs memos. But instead, he was replaying your voice on loop.

It had been weeks since that afternoon at the park. Since that first late-night call turned into something of a ritual. Now it was habit. Pattern. Comfort.

You were comfort.

And he knew—really knew—that this wasn’t just infatuation. This wasn’t passing curiosity.

He wanted you.

And he was ready to show you.

—

He’d invited you to dinner.

Not a fancy dinner downtown with other senators lurking nearby. Not an awkward reservation at a restaurant that cost more than it should.

No. He wanted you in his space. His real space.

So he cleaned every inch of his apartment—polished, swept, wiped until his reflection blinked back at him from the hardwood floors. Then he called Mel and Ava. Ava showed up with color swatches. Mel picked out the arrangement of pink asters, lilac stems, and baby’s breath to scatter around the dining room. Yelena? She took one look at him, snorted, and said,

“You’re on your own, Bucky. I don’t participate in soppy love stories unless there’s fire or someone bleeds.”

Which, honestly, was her version of supportive.

The food was simple but cooked with care. Sirloin steak—medium rare. Creamy mushroom sauce with a kick, just the way you liked it, thanks to that one dinner text where you said you liked “just enough spice to make your tongue flirt back.”

And the dress.

God, the dress.

He’d found it online after losing hours to scrolling. It wasn’t revealing. That’s not what he wanted. It was you. It was soft pale purple, modest in design—long-sleeved with fluttery cuffs, a gentle flow that skimmed rather than clung. The skirt brushed the ankles, light enough to catch in a breeze. Tiny embroidered details near the collarbone hinted at spring florals. It was sweet. Comfortable. Undeniably romantic.

He’d sent it to you with a note that read:

Thought this looked like something you’d wear in a dream I might have.

And now, as he straightened the cutlery for the third time and checked his watch again for no reason, he could feel his pulse drum in his ears.

Then—a soft knock.

He inhaled, smoothed a hand through his freshly trimmed hair, and opened the door.

There you were.

Wearing the dress. Soft makeup. That same quiet glow he first noticed by the flower stall. And when you looked up at him and smiled—Bucky thought, this is it.

“This looks better on you than I even imagined,” he said, voice thick.

You chuckled, cheeks warming. “That’s high praise coming from the man who mailed me a dress box.”

“Can’t let fate do all the work,” he murmured. “Come in.”

—

Dinner was sweet.

You teased him about how perfect the steak was. He teased you back for humming when you liked the food. The conversation was easy—punctuated by glances that lingered a second too long and your fingers grazing his wrist as you reached for your drink.

And then, after you’d helped clear the dishes despite his very dramatic protests, you both found yourselves standing in the middle of his living room. Lights dimmed. Flowers still perfuming the air.

Bucky looked at you—and stopped pretending this wasn’t a turning point.

He stepped closer, slow and measured. One hand brushing your elbow to draw your attention fully. The other hesitated mid-air.

“Can I?”

You nodded, breath caught in your throat, and he held your hand.

His palm was warm. Slightly callused. His grip was soft. Careful. Like he’d memorized how to hold a fragile thing.

“I need to say something,” he murmured. “And I want to say it right.”

You stood still, gaze steady, heartbeat climbing.

“I wasn’t sure how this would go at first. Didn’t even know if I’d ever see you again. But now?” His thumb brushed lightly along your knuckles. “I don’t go a day without thinking about you. Without wanting to hear your voice. Without hoping I get to keep knowing you a little deeper than yesterday.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“I don’t wanna rush it. I won’t. But I also can’t keep pretending I don’t already know how I feel.”

He looked at you fully now—blue eyes steady and burning quiet.

“I’m falling for you. Not like a stumble. Like a choice. Every day, I’m choosing to fall. And I’m hoping… really hoping… that you’ll let me do it with you.”

Your lips parted—but you couldn’t speak yet. His words wrapped around you like silk. Warm, trembling silk.

He smiled gently.

“Don’t say anything if you’re not ready. Just… know that I mean it. Every word.”

But you were ready.

And you squeezed his hand back.

—

You didn’t mean to tear up—but it happened. Not all at once, not in a dramatic gasp, but in a slow swell behind your ribs. Like warmth had finally broken through the walls around your heart, and now it didn’t know where else to go but up.

Bucky had just confessed to falling for you—not rushed, not dramatic. Just real. Just right.

And somehow… saying yes to him felt like saying yes to home.

It was easy. Too easy.

Because he never once asked you to be different.

He never made fun of the way you dressed—never asked why you always wore soft, modest layers or teased you about your high-necked cardigans. He didn’t roll his eyes when you brought your own tea bags to cafés. He didn’t ask for selfies or chase moments for show. He didn’t ask for nudes. Never hinted at it. Never expected anything except you.

And you didn’t feel small with him.

You felt like every quiet, lovely part of you was safe.

So you whispered the only answer your heart had already been singing:

“Yes.”

You barely got it out before he wrapped his arms around you.

Not a tentative hug. Not a nervous lean-in. But a full, grounding, I choose you kind of hug.

Your cheek rested against his chest as his hands slid up your back, firm and warm, one of them gently cupping the base of your head like he needed to keep you there—to know you were real.

You melted into him. Fully. Let yourself fall into the scent of clean laundry, faint cedarwood, and home. You could feel his heartbeat against your cheek—steady, strong.

And you stayed like that. Breathing each other in. Holding, not for safety, but for the simple joy of being held.

When he slowly pulled back, his arms lingered around your waist, palm warm through the fabric of your dress. He leaned back just enough to look at you—really look at you.

His blue eyes weren’t hungry. Weren’t possessive. They were just… full.

Full of love. Full of care. Full of wonder, like he still couldn’t believe he got to have this moment with you.

And then—

His gaze dropped. To your lips.

Not fast. Not intense. Just a flicker. A gentle ache held in restraint.

His voice was soft. Honest.

“Can I kiss you?”

Your answer was barely a breath. “Yes.”

And then—his lips met yours.

Tender. Patient. Full of the kind of care that made your chest ache.

His kiss wasn’t demanding. It didn’t steal. It gave.

It tasted like warmth. Like late-night calls and quiet parks and daisy prints and a man who had waited a long time to feel something this good.

When he finally pulled away—barely, just a whisper of space—you were both smiling.

His forehead rested gently against yours. And he murmured:

“I think I’m gonna be annoyingly in love with you.”

You laughed, chest fluttering.

“Good. I was starting to worry I’d be annoyingly in love alone.”

He smiled—cheeky, flushed, and maybe just a little smug now.

“Not a chance, sugar.”

—

💖 And in that moment—cheeks flushed, lips tingling, hearts pressed gently together—you knew: this wasn’t just love.

This was softness choosing softness. This was everything you’d been quietly hoping for.

And it had a name. And arms. And the softest smile that only belonged to you. 🕊️

[silna-pdf]

Gavin referring to nines in stasis: “how do I turn him on?”

Connor: *starts to speak*

Gavin: scared “don’t answer that”

Conor confused: “why?”

request

Ok dramatized it for you he’s literally trembling shaking crying

[jkvjimin]

he noms! 🍔🍕🥙

JUNGKOOK | are you sure?! for @smoakqueenz ♡

[triona-tribblescore]

i LOVE biker angel dust so much hes so cool and pretty and badass

RIGHT?? :D <3 Husk agrees uvu

[trashyshrew]

i’m sorry the horrors have you in a chokehold! can i suggest some uncharacteristically tender face touching for lawlight?

better late than never?

[rafesangelita]

Toxic!Rafe and toxic!reader, where they’re fighting because he wants to go out to a strip bar with Topper and Kelce which reader hates (she thinks they encourage his bad behavior) after she told him no. so when reader goes on insta to look at Rafes story and sees he lied and went anyways after seeing a pic of him in the sniffers row at the bar, she gets all crazy and starts responding to the story with full paragraphs 😭 and so when he starts replying she blocks him mid argument, and he goes home and yells at her until they get all lovey dovey again 🥰 (sorry this is long)

warnings: toxic relationship (?), slight humor, cussing, lying, crying, shouting, arguing, mentions of sex, a little plot twist at the end

wc: 2.0k

“..i don’t know about that, man. y/n has a bitch fit everytime i go somewhere without her, i highly doubt she’d be okay with me going there of all places.” you stood outside your bedroom door, rolling your eyes at the sound of topper’s voice. “who cares what she says? she’s not your fuckin’ mommy, bro.” you suppressed a laugh, knowing rafe has called you ‘mommy’ a numerous amount of times. your boyfriend sighed, staying silent for a moment. “look, i’ll ask her alright? if she says no then i ain’t going.” you smiled to yourself, walking into the room with a fresh stack of t-shirts in your hands.

“here she is now, i’ll call you back.” you placed the folded laundry on top of the dresser. “tell the spawn of satan herself we say hello!” kelce shouted in the background. “aww is that dumb and dumber on the phone? hey, guys!” rafe shook his head, a laugh tumbling out of his throat. he hung up the call, getting up to wrap his arms around your waist. you leaned into him, breathing in his cologne as you pressed a kiss to his cheek. “listen, uh, topper and kelce are inviting me out tonight, ‘wanted to know if i can join them..” you arched a brow, turning around in his hold.

“and where do y’all plan on going?” rafe cleared his throat awkwardly. “well.. you know how the guys are, they always wanna go to some new place..” he trailed off, clearly stalling as much as he could. “just say it, rafe.” he swallowed nervously. “a strip club.” suddenly his hands felt tense on your skin, and he couldn’t hold your stare. “a strip club?” you repeated, pulling away from him. “that’s cute, but no.” rafe tongued the inside of his cheek, immediately taking out his phone.

[4:30 PM] to: topper, kelce: i’m in, pick me up at nine.

“what are you doing?” you eyed him as he brought the phone up to his ear, walking around to the other side of the bed. “m’telling them i can’t go, because you’re gonna be all pissed off if i do.” you scoffed, eyeing him carefully. rafe cursed under his breath, praying to god you couldn’t tell he wasn’t actually calling anyone. “hey, bro. i can’t go, it’s a hard no.” he scratched the back of his neck. “yeah, i know. maybe another time- wait, where?” rafe stopped pacing, nodding along to his own imagination. “pizza and beer? that sounds good. nine o’clock? alright i’ll see y’all then.” he shrugged as he pretended to hang up.

“alright, no strip club, but charlie’s pizza instead, is that alright?” you nodded. “that’s fine, but you better text me.” he jumped up, pulling you into a hug that ended with you two falling in bed. “i mean it rafe, i want pizza pictures and everything!” he showered you with kisses, taking his time when he got to your lips. you two stayed like that for a few minutes, making out softly before you pulled away. “you should start getting ready before i get too horny, ‘cause then i really won’t let you go anywhere.” you ran your thumb over his bottom lip, sighing when he got up. “good call.” he laughed, getting an outfit ready for tonight.

nine o’clock rolled around faster than you wanted it to, and sure enough topper and kelce were outside honking like maniacs once they pulled up. “i love you, baby, i’m gonna text you in a bit.” you smiled, watching him holler all the way down to where topper and kelce practically tackled him. “we promise to have him home no later than one, mommy dearest!” you gave kelce the middle finger, shutting the door once rafe blew you a kiss. now that you had the house to yourself you figured you’d shower and unwind, maybe finish the book you had been reading. all was well until you glanced at the time on your phone. 10:45 PM, and still no word from rafe.

you opened instagram, spotting the green circle around your boyfriend’s profile picture, indicating he had posted on his close friends. you clicked on it, your heart dropping at the video of rafe throwing money at a stripper’s ass. “front row seats, baby!” he cheered. just as you thought it couldn’t get any worse, the next story was a photo of a blonde sitting in rafe’s lap, topless and smiling from ear to ear. “this motherfucker..” you closed the app, deciding you saw enough before opening you and rafe’s text thread on imessage.

[10:55 PM] - i don’t know what’s funnier; the fact that you had a whole conversation with yourself in front of me to make it sound like you were just getting pizza and beer with your dickhead friends, or forgetting to take me off your close friends list when you want to post yourself at some sleazy ass strip club. you’re a fucking joke.

rafe had never sobered up so fast in his life, all the blood draining from his face when he read your message. “fuck!” he cursed at himself, his head resting in his hands.

[11:10 PM] my <333: baby i promise i’ll explain everything, i’m telling the guys to take me home right now.

[11:15 PM] - there’s nothing you could say that’ll ‘explain’ what the fuck you did. you sat there in my face and kissed me and reassured me when you were getting your way all along. can you even comprehend how fucked up that is? you made me look stupid in front of your friends who already don’t like me. AND THE TOPLESS PICTURE???? ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE???? if i posted a picture with my tits all in jj’s face, how would you feel? we both know he’s one phone call away if i really wanted him.

rafe’s blood was boiling after he read your message, knowing that you could leave him and have someone as desperate and lovesick as jj replace him in a heartbeat. “bro don’t sweat it, man. she’ll get over it.” topper slurred, entering figure eight again. “shut the fuck up, you don’t know the first thing about being in a relationship.” rafe shot back, clenching his fists when the message he tried to send turned green. topper didn’t respond, the rest of the ride home being dead silent.

rafe didn’t even say bye to kelce or topper when they arrived at tanneyhill, instead he rushed inside, eyes immediately falling to you resting on the couch. you were wearing your pink, fluffy robe, rollers adorning your hair while you were typing something on your ipad. “babe-” rafe shut the door, falling to his knees before you. “don’t get near me. you probably smell disgusting.” rafe’s jaw ticked, his patience already running low. “i’m so fucking sorry, y/n. i shouldn’t have lied to you, baby. i promise i’ll never do that again.” you finally looked at him, his bangs falling in his face.

“i know,” you sighed, “you don’t have to worry about me doing anything either.” you got up, attempting to walk past him before he grabbed your leg. “what are you talking about?” you knew rafe well enough to know when he was getting angry, and the way he was looking at you right now only confirmed your suspicions. “you don’t get to do what you did and think it’s all going to be fine and dandy with an apology, rafe. i’m leaving for my parents tomorrow, and don’t ask me when i’m coming back because i don’t know. i don’t think i can live with a liar.” you shoved him away, only making him grab you again, this time throwing you down on the couch.

“you don’t think you could live with a liar?” he narrowed his eyes, a bitter laugh falling from his lips. “has it ever occurred to you that i wouldn’t have to lie to you if you would just not freak the fuck out everytime i want to go out and have fun?” you couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. “you’re one to talk!” you screamed in his face, making him stand up. you followed suit, refusing to let him make you feel powerless. “you wanna act like you’re trapped here? fine! play the victim, but don’t forget everything you do to keep me from going out too.” you were pacing back and forth now, running your fingers through your hair.

“you literally slashed my friend’s tires to keep me from going to her birthday party, and all for what? because you found out other guys were going to be there?” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “i paid for the damages, y/n…” he groaned. “so?! it’s the principal! you do the most when it comes to me wanting to go somewhere, but me telling you not to go to a literal strip club is where you draw the line?? fuck you!” you started making your way upstairs, rafe right on your tail as you did so.

“fuck me?! i’m the one who takes care of you! there’s nothing in this world that you want and don’t have! i take you on regular vacations, i take you out damn near everyday, i keep you in all the newest shit, i pay for you and all your friend’s beauty appointments so that y’all could have a girl’s day twice a month, you just have no fucking clue!” he shouted, making you stop in your tracks. you looked up at him with tears in your eyes, breaking his heart in two.

“and what about everything i do for you?” you let out a shaky breath. “i’m what makes this house a home. i wear the clothes you want me to wear, i eat the food you want me to eat, i talk the way you want me to talk. i’m here when all else fails. i’m the one who holds you and comforts you when things get hard for you. i’m the one who makes sure you never feel alone, ‘makes sure you don’t go through anything alone. i do everything you say. on the days you work long and hard, i’m right here waiting for you with my legs open. on the days that you’re particularly tired, i’ll be on my knees, i’ll ride you and do all the work, and i’ll do everything happily because i love you.” rafe was crying with you by the time you finished speaking, both of you standing in the hallway.

“i get up at the ass crack of dawn and doll myself up everyday because i want to look good for you, i want to please you with everything i do. when we go to the country club, i speak of you in the highest regards, and i do it because i want everyone to know that i respect you. i do all of this, and i do it all without the commitment of having a fucking ring on my finger. if that doesn’t speak volumes for you, then i don’t know what does.” you walked inside your shared bedroom, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. he dropped to his knees once again, hugging your waist like you’d disappear if he let go. “we need each other. i need you.” he cried. you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him up off the floor.

“i love you, y/n. please, you can’t leave.” you cupped his face. “i haven’t seen my parents in almost six months, rafe. i have to..” he nodded slowly, taking your hand in his. “then we’ll go together. ‘tell them we have a special announcement.” you watched him with a confused expression as he went to grab a small box out the bottom drawer of the bedside table. “rafe!” you gasped, hands flying up to cover your mouth. “i’ve had this for a while now, i don’t know what i was waiting for, but i want to do this now.” he opened the box, the biggest diamond you’ve ever seen lighting up your eyes.

“i know we have to work on some things, but there’s no one else i’d rather do this with.” you gazed into his eyes, a small smile gracing your lips. “okay, let’s do it.”