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[hearts4hughes]

https://www.tumblr.com/hearts4hughes/785288931630530560/send-in-some-exbfrafe-and-bsfrafe-requests

Calling exbf rafe to tell him good night like the TikTok trend, you know he will eat that shit up!! He will be trying to play it off cool but blushing really and taking that as a sign she wants him back,

you’re curled up in sarah’s bed, legs tangled in a thrifted blanket that smells like lavender detergent and your childhood secrets. her room’s glowing with that late summer golden ligh—windows cracked open, cicadas humming, a forgotten candle flickering in the corner. both of you are belly laughing, the kind that makes your stomach sore and eyes watery.

you’re scrolling through tiktok, passing the phone back and forth like a shared lifeline. somewhere between a “get ready with me” and a recipe for baked feta pasta, you see it. it’s a video with two girls, similar to you and sarah, laying down and giggling while one calls their ex to say ‘goodnight’.

you freeze, thumb hovering over the screen. sarah looks up from her bag of pretzels, face already twisting into a mischievous grin. “oh! you have to do that to rafe.” a giggle leaves her lips at the mere thought of torturing her lovesick brother.

you scoff, but you’re already smiling, and chuckling at the possibility. “what? no. that’s evil.”

you and rafe had broken up two months ago, after two years of being tangled up in each other. it hadn’t been ugly, not exactly, just…inevitable in that slow, splintering way. like something sacred wearing thin at the seams. it wrecked him anyway. left him half-alive and mean about it, walking around like he didn’t bleed for you, like he wasn’t still sleeping in the hoodie you left behind. no one really talked about it, but everyone knew—rafe cameron hadn’t been the same since.

“exactly,” she says, beaming. “and besides, he’s so not over you.”

you roll your eyes, but your heart’s beating faster. you grab your phone anyway. “you’re insane,” you mutter, voice breathless with laughter.

“and you love it,” sarah sings, flopping back onto her pillows. “now shhh. put it on speaker.”

your fingers hover for half a second too long over his name before you press call. the phone ringing bounced through the walls of sarah’s bedroom. he picks up on the third ring.

“hello?” his voice catches halfway through the word. it’s low, hesitant, not quite put-together. there’s a pause, and some ruffling in the background. he’s grabbing for a shirt or maybe a recording device to document that this actually was happening.

you swallow a giggle, face already warm. “hi, rafe,” you say like sugar. “just calling to say goodnight.” he’s on the other line flushed, and trying to figure out if you’re serious or if this is a dream.

“uh…” his voice shifts, softens. you can hear the way he bites back a grin.“okay? sweet dreams, baby.”

your eyes widen. sarah clutches your arm like you’ve just won the lottery. “goodnight,” you say, voice a whisper now.

“night,” he murmurs back. then, like he can’t help it, he murmurs, “call me tomorrow?”

you hang up before you can say yes. you toss the phone onto sarah’s floral comforter like it’s radioactive, then bury your face in one of her overpriced anthropology pillows and scream loud enough to rattle the fairy lights above her bed. your face is tomato red, ears hot, skin warm to the touch. you can still hear his voice in your head, syrupy and low.

sarah’s shrieking, “baby?! oh my god, he’s still in love with you.” she barks out laughter until her body can’t hold itself upright. she falls onto the bed beside you, clutching her stomach.

on the other side of the line, rafe leans back in bed like it’s no big deal. as if his pulse isn’t sprinting and his ears aren’t burning. he tosses his phone onto the side table, arms crossed behind his head, smug little smirk tugging at his mouth.

she wants me back so bad, he thinks, biting back a grin.

but his cheeks are pink, and his heart’s thudding out a rhythm he hasn’t felt since you used to sleep in his shirts. he tries to play it off, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like he’s already moved on. but three seconds later he’s picking up the phone again just to check if you texted. just to look at your name one more time.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa

[pragretti]

💐

by johns_plant_adventures

[mikufigureoftheday]

💐Today's Miku figure is:💐

FuRyu F:Nex Magical Mirai 2021 1/7 scale ver. (2023)

[weatheredcopper]

my piece for @mcyt-couture-zine!! based on 'the flowers' series by alphonse mucha and gaultier's spring 2024 collection by simone rocha 💐✨️🌿

lineart flats + individuals :))

[artist-rat]

d&d tarot comm for @frenchy-and-the-sea 🌕

[ghosty-dsmp]

This is golden duo or allium duo coded, characters a is of course c!tommy and characters b is purpled/ranboo

More guard dog/attack dog dynamicsss......

Character A who has B wrapped around their finger and thinks they're completely in control of their precious loyal partner x Character B who is way more powerful and aware than A thinks and A only controls B because B lets them but B definitely gets off on that fact

[hearts4hughes]

DUE DILIGENCE ~ CHAPTER TWO

wallstreet!rafe x assistant!reader | no warnings

the invitation was printed on thick cardstock, embossed in gold, as if the weight of it alone should impress you. “cameron capital annual black-tie gala,” it read. located at some overpriced rooftop venue in soho. the dress code was formal, of course, with mandatory attendance for executive staff and key support. and you, apparently, are now considered key support. rafe didn’t ask you to go. he just forwarded the invite with a one word email, required.

typical.

you wear a black satin slip dress that barely passes the office appropriate threshold, but it’s evening, and you’re off the clock, and frankly, you want to see if it’ll make him twitch. your hair is up, your heels are high, your earrings catch the light when you flip your hair.

when you step outside, the car is already waiting. engine purring low, headlights casting long shadows across the sidewalk. it’s routine by now—rafe sending cars for you like it’s nothing. like your time is his to orchestrate. you never asked, and he never asked either. he just started doing it. no explanation, no conversation, just control, cloaked in convenience. you slip into the backseat and wonder, not for the first time, if his other assistants got the same treatment or if this is something he saves just for you.

you arrive late enough to avoid the worst of the small talk. the room is full of venture capital vultures and soulless financiers, their laughs too loud and teeth too white. there’s jazz in the background, champagne flutes in every hand, and the unmistakable scent of money—expensive perfume, leather, old scotch, and ambition turned sour.

he sees you before you see him. awareness pricks along your neck like static. his eyes follow your every stride across the ballroom. he drags his gaze up and down your figure, and can’t help but scoff at your outfit choice. not because he hated it—it was the complete opposite. and if he loved it, that meant every wallstreet douche in here did as well.

when you finally look, he’s across the room, in a black tuxedo that fits like it was stitched directly onto his body. no bow tie, collar open, one hand in his pocket, the other nursing a glass of something brown and neat. he looks like sin dressed to the nines. for a second—just a second—your breath gets caught in your throat. his eyes drag over you with the kind of precision that makes your spine straighten. and then, as if none of it happened, he looks away.

you talk to a junior partner for a while. he’s nice enough. says your name like he’s trying it on for size. you don’t notice how close he stands until rafe appears beside you, sudden and soundless like he was waiting to step in.

“excuse me,” he says to the junior, not bothering to smile. “i need her for something.”

the man’s face tightens. “sure. of course, mr. cameron.” not everyone had the pleasure of personally knowing rafe cameron, but everyone had the pleasure of fearing him. no one dared to contradict his commands. they simply do what they are told and steer clear of his wrath.

rafe doesn’t look at you as you follow him across the marble floor, but you see the tick in his jaw. the way his fingers flex once at his side, like he wants to do something reckless.

“you enjoying yourself?” he asks, finally, when you’re near the far end of the terrace, where no one else lingers.

you lean against the railing. “define enjoying.”

“you seemed pretty engaged.” he inhales a sharp breath, looking out into the city sky. he never cared much for these galas. there is always too many fake smiles and polite laughs; too many people all gathered together like they’re lifelong friends. the terrace was the only place he could hear his own thoughts.

“i was being polite.”

his gaze sharpens. “he was two seconds from asking for your number.” that bastard was lucky he didn’t cross that line. he would’ve went home with his two weeks notice and a black eye.

you smirk, not looking at him. the champagne glass twitches slightly in your grip, but your voice stays cool. practiced. cruel. “you’re jealous.” you say, lips curling into a faint smirk. there’s a pause—just long enough to taste. you don’t have to look to know he’s watching you. you can feel it, that shift in the air, the way heat coils behind your neck. his silence stretches like a taut string, like he’s choosing between biting his tongue or biting something else entirely. still, you keep your eyes forward, your smile sharp.

“i’m not jealous,” he says, throwing back the remnants of liquor in his glass. his fingers drag across the textured cup, memorizing the ridges instead of memorizing your beauty marks. “you see a handsome businessman, and i see a hawk circling its prey.”

you turn to him then, slowly. “well that’s just thrilling.” your eyes widen and lips press into a thin line.

he shrugs, lips pressing together as well. he puts his glass down and stands up straight. goosebumps rise on your neck and you’re not sure if it’s from the breeze or his gaze. the wind carries the sound of music from the gala. rafe closes his eyes and hums. “i like this song,” he murmurs, taking your hand in his. “let’s dance.”

his hand is warm against your waist. his palm settles along your spine like a question he hasn’t asked yet. you dance like two people who shouldn’t be dancing. not here, not now, not with this much restraint held between you like a noose. your eyes meet, and suddenly the room is too loud, too bright, too filled with the ghosts of decisions neither of you has made yet.

at one point, his head dips and rests against your shoulder. not deliberately, not dramatically—just a quiet collapse, like gravity had been begging him to give in all night and he finally stopped resisting. he exhales, slow and unguarded, and you feel warm breath fanning down your collarbone, the soft press of his temple against the curve of your body. like the weight of the world is stitched into the lining of his suit jacket and this is the first time he’s allowed himself to set it down.

you don’t move, don’t speak, you just let him be there, tethered to you in this impossibly fragile moment that neither of you will acknowledge come morning. but still, he stays. and that says something, even if neither of you are brave enough to say it out loud.

you shiver, but not from the cold. the night air barely touches you. it’s the proximity. the heat of him at your back, the way his breath ghosts the shell of your ear when he leans in to murmur something but doesn’t. it’s the tension that lives in his fingertips, the way his thumb sweeps once against your hip before he stills it like it never happened.

“cold?” he asks, pulling away from you to stare into your eyes.

“not really.”

but he shrugs off his jacket anyway. drapes it over your shoulders. it smells like him. and you hate how you keep inhaling just to catch his scent in the air. his hand lingers at the curve of your shoulder for half a second longer than necessary. your breath hitches. and just like that, the balance shifts again.

you look at him. he looks back. tension lingers in the air like humidity. he doesn’t stare at your lips or lean forward, he just takes in your appearance. it’s not long before he pulls away first—he always does.

later, you leave before him. you tell yourself it’s smart, measured, a way to keep the upper hand of not crossing that line.

he doesn’t blink as you disappear into the car he sent. he only wonders how long he can keep pretending the wolves aren’t already at the door.

taglist ~ @sweetstrawberrianne @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @wishfairies @kieeslove @jacklesluvr @futuremrscameron @rafesdaintyfawn @winterbarnesblog @starkeyszn @drphilssoulmate @xobimbobunnyxo @foolishseven @starsluvrr @luvonstyles @k4yr14 @hawkeez @sultryg0dess @restinpaece @leather-n-velvet @rafestoothbrush @katecokeed @her30910 @rafeeekam @rafesdearest @donaldsonsgirl @l0vest1les @bungurus @bambi-bvnny @strawberrymilk99

[codename-adler]

52.

Robin has imprinted on Kevin so bad and he refuses to admit the attachment is mutual—she’s so smol bestie shaped it’s impossible to resist.

this ended up being a bff special cuz we got:

Sethallison bestfriendisms

Mattseth bestfriendisms

Neilaaron bestfriendisms

Kevrobin bestfriendisms

also hi Joselito 👋 and happy belated mother’s day to Andrew Minyard! 💐 then this wouldn’t be Adler’s socmed au without Seth mi princesita. i swear Kevsethaaron is so close. Kevin’s wearing down i promise 🫶🏳️‍🌈

-> aftg socmed au masterpost

tell me if u want on/off the tag list as always xx

tag fam: @sapphoherselz <3 @minyard-05 @you-know-i-get-itt @andrewsleftarmband @millportisntreal @glendover @the-circumstances @tessasilverswan @larkspire @detectivebambam @ohmpunn @youdontknowhowtodiequietly @pink-hydrangea @allfor-thegames @jjjosten @little2nerdy @jean-yvesning @buffalo-fox @monster-with-an-attitude-problem @captain-sunshine-11 @inafieldofstarflowers @moon-over-ruined-castle @mqmneee @carbon-dated-gal @fieldsofpoppies-in-salt-air @ienvysomegays @jdreaming @mqmneee @anxiouslyandmessily @min-getoutofmy-yard @iseethestarsyouseethedarkness @clavicuss-vile @vellichor-lover @jctko @mineyardjostenrivalry @qixjone @cupofmaddy @hellonthengine @amphibianisconcerned @givemethedamnflowers @th-th-th-thats-all-folks @aftg-bs

[florealegiardini]

Ethereal Wisteria ~ yukooikawa

[ewymphoria]

Hold him tight Tim, don’t let the writers forget

[clarasdomain]

"I guess a new experience could be worth trying!"

"If we're about to make this dorm shine for today, we're going to need a lot more help!"

Still can't believe I actually made Genevieve’s Room Relaxation card. I had zero expectations, but it came out much better than I imagined!

Template by @twstinginthewind, the card can be found here :)

[2bitedust]

" It was actually $5 cuz he charged you $20 "

It's bad because what

[storybook-souls]

and oh my GOD, a round of fucking applause for britt fucking lower!!!!!!!! playing someone who's not only pretending to be someone else but the someone she's pretending to be is sort of kind of her and walking the line of making it clear without making it obvious deftly enough that the entire internet has been arguing for a week....THE ACTRESS THAT YOU ARE!

[loudlyunladylike]

The Dyke Project manifesto printed on the back of estradiol and testogel boxes

[lovegasmic]