#Ed's solution to a lot of things | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aliyahwritings · 8 months ago

Text

THE CONTRACTED HEART — Rafe Cameron (01)

MASTERLIST | Basketball Player & Model!Female Reader

Summary: Rafe Cameron, a basketball star, needs a marriage to fix his image, while Model!Reader needs one for citizenship. They may be the perfect solution for each other.

Warnings: smut, descriptions of violence, jealousy, usage of drugs, talks about body image/ed, angst, and lots of bickering. Reader is confident, a people-pleaser, has a traumatic past, and is a sunshine with an attitude. Rafe is a whore, possessive, cocky, and secretive about his past.

Word Count: 4.2k

Aliyah's Notes: this is my first series on here so go easy on me (#adele) pls + some things are not going to be obx canon ... at least some of yall are warned. anyw im so excited for this cause lord knows the amount of time ive wanted to make a fake dating fic!!!!!!! anyw i hope you all will enjoy this i had so much writing the first chapter

The clatter of high heels against the marble floor echoed in perfect sync with the ticking of your watch. Every step was deliberate, poised—just like your life had to be. Perfection, it seemed, was not a choice but a requirement for survival.

You adjusted your sunglasses, your gaze skimming over the glamorous expanse of the fashion agency's lobby. People buzzed around you like bees in a hive, their worlds spinning, fueled by the weight of names, status, and flawless images. You smiled politely at the receptionist, offering a nod, though your mind was miles away.

To the outside world, your life was golden. The covers of magazines, the invitations to high-society events, the million-dollar deals with luxury brands—it was a fantasy that others could only dream of. It was your dream some time ago, too.

But today, your reality felt like walking on the edge of a tightrope, the safety net fraying below you.

Your phone vibrated in your purse, interrupting your thoughts. You fished it out, your pulse quickening when you saw the text from your lawyer. Three words that sent a chill through your carefully constructed façade.

"We need to talk."

Your heart sank. The issue of your visa had been hanging over your head like a storm cloud for months now, growing darker by the day. You’d known this was coming, but knowing and confronting it were two different beasts.

Fame didn’t shield you from the cold bureaucracy of citizenship laws, and your time was running out. One misstep, one delay, and your golden empire could crumble. In a matter of months, you could be deported, left behind by the very country that had built you up.

With a deep breath, you silenced your phone and slid it back into your purse. This wasn’t something you could dwell on right now, not in public. Your expression remained serene, even though your mind was anything but. You had a shoot in an hour, a charity gala that evening, and at some point, you had to meet with the lawyer to discuss "options"—a word that had started to feel more like a trap than a solution.

As you exited the building, the cool breeze caught your hair, the city unfolding before you like a glittering stage. New York City. You looked out at the streets, the people, the life you fought so hard to build. The car pulled up to the curb, and you climbed inside. On your way to your lawyer.

You stepped into the law office, the familiar scent of polished wood and stale coffee wrapping around you like a tight band.

"Ms. Y/L/N, good afternoon," Nicolas Ramirez, your lawyer, greeted you, standing behind his desk. His expression was composed, but you knew him well enough by now to spot the unease in his eyes.

"Hi," you softly smiled at him. Your heels clicked softly on the floor as you sat down, crossing your legs tightly, as if holding yourself together. "Let’s just get straight to it, okay? How bad is it?"

Nico sighed, adjusting his glasses. "Your visa expires in less than three months."

You felt your stomach twist, your worst fear inching closer to reality. You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. "And what about the appeals? The extensions?"

"We’ve exhausted every possible option—work visas, artist visas, even humanitarian grounds. Immigration laws are tightening, and without a permanent solution like citizenship or residency, you’ll be forced to leave the country."

"Leave?" Your voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the full weight of the nightmare you’d been living with.

Leave? Go back there?

The country you had fought so hard to escape. The country where your childhood had been marked by suffocating poverty, where your parents had already planned your marriage before you even turned 15. Where your dreams had been a distant, impossible hope until that one person changed your life forever.

You felt your throat tighten. You couldn’t go back.

Nico’s gaze softened slightly, his voice gentle but firm. "I know what this means for you. I know how difficult—"

"You don’t know," you cut him off, your voice sharper than you intended. "You… You don’t know—I can’t go back there, Nico. I just… I can’t."

He nodded, giving you a moment of silence to compose yourself, but the pressure in your chest only grew. You took a deep breath, trying to keep the panic at bay.

"So what now?" you asked, fighting to keep your voice steady. "Is this it? Am I out of options?"

"Well… There’s one option we haven’t explored yet." his tone was cautious, like he knew what he was about to say would open a new can of worms.

You furrowed your brow. "What?"

"Marriage."

The word hung in the air, thick and heavy. You blinked, unable to comprehend at first. "Marriage?" you repeated, as if saying it aloud would make the absurdity of it clear.

"It’s one of the few legal paths left," he explained, leaning forward slightly. "Marriage to a U.S. citizen could secure your green card and, eventually, permanent residency. It’s a legitimate route—many people in similar situations have done it."

You sat back in your chair, the tension in your body coiling tighter. The thought of marriage, of attaching yourself to someone you barely knew for the sake of staying in the country, made your skin crawl. You had already sacrificed so much for your freedom, for your career. And now this?

"You’re telling me the only way to stay here is to marry someone I don’t even love? Just to avoid being sent back to a country I don’t belong in anymore?"

"Not necessarily," Nicolas said, his tone measured. "It wouldn’t have to be a traditional marriage. Think of it as a business arrangement. It’s a legal partnership—nothing more. And it could save your career, your life here."

You crossed your arms tightly, your mind racing. Marriage. It was a word that had haunted you ever since your parents had tried to force you into it as a teenager. Back then, it was their way of controlling you, of keeping you bound to a life you didn’t want. Now, it felt like the universe was throwing the same chains back at you, just in a different form.

"I’ve compiled a list of potential candidates," Arjun continued, sliding a piece of paper across the desk toward you. "People who might be open to an arrangement like this. Athletes, businesspeople—individuals who might benefit from a similar deal."

You glanced at the paper but didn’t pick it up. The names blurred in front of your eyes. This wasn’t how your life was supposed to go. You’d already lost your family, fought tooth and nail to get out of your country and build something for yourself in the U.S. And now you were at risk of losing everything—again.

"I don’t know if I can do this, Nico," you said quietly, shaking your head. "I’ve already sacrificed so much. My family… I gave up everything to be here. And now you’re telling me I have to give up even more?"

"I’m not telling you that you have to do anything," he replied, his voice calm but firm. "I’m saying this is an option. One that could keep you here, legally. But the decision is yours. I’m just laying out the possibilities."

You swallowed the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in your chest.

"I can’t go back there," you whispered, more to yourself than to him. "I’ve worked too hard to get here. I can’t lose everything."

He nodded slowly. "Then maybe it’s time to consider unconventional options."

You finally picked up the paper, scanning the names but not really seeing them. Your heart was racing, your mind spinning with a thousand thoughts. Marriage. It felt like a trap, just like it had back then. But maybe—just maybe—it was the only way to keep your future intact.

"I’ll think about it," you said, standing up and smoothing the front of your dress. "But I’m not making any promises."

"Of course," he said, standing as well. "Just let me know. We’re running out of time, but I’ll support whatever decision you make."

You nodded curtly, turning toward the door. As you stepped out into the cool city air, your chest tightened with the weight of everything you stood to lose. The lights of New York City flickered ahead of you, just out of reach, as though the life you’d built here could vanish at any moment.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt truly afraid.

Your phone buzzed, dragging you out of your spiraling thoughts. You fished it out of your purse, heart skipping a beat when you saw the name: Nina. Your agent.

With a shaky exhale, you answered. “Nina, hi.”

“Hey, babe!” Nina’s voice was all cheer, a stark contrast to the storm inside you. “So, I have amazing news! Guess who just got major campaign offers coming in? You! Chanel, Loewe, and oh my God, don’t even get me started on Louis Vuitton. The year starts beautifully for you!”

You should’ve felt ecstatic, but instead, the words passed over you like an echo. All you could think of was the countdown Nico had set in motion: three months. Three months before everything you’d built here would be taken away from you.

“That’s… amazing, Nina,” you managed, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “Really amazing. Thank you so much.”

“Are you okay? You don’t sound like your sunshine-self.” Nina’s voice softened, concern creeping in. “What’s going on?”

There was a pause. Nina had been there through all your ups and downs, from your rookie days as a model to your rise in the industry. But the immigration issues, the fear of being sent back to a life you couldn’t return to—that was something neither of you could control.

“Three months?” she repeated, her voice going higher. “Oh my God—what the fuck? I thought… I thought you had more time.”

“So did I.” You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Nina, I don’t know what to do. I’ve called Nico and he tried everything—extensions, appeals—but the laws are tightening, and he said there’s only one real option left.”

There was a brief silence before she asked, “What option?”

You bit your lip. “Marriage. Nico says I could marry someone for a green card.”

“Marriage?” Nina’s voice came out in a shocked squeak. “Like a fake marriage? Babe, are you serious?”

“I don’t know!” you burst out, frustration and fear colliding. “I don’t know what to do! I can’t go back there. I can’t. My parents… My parents already wrote me off as dead, and if I go back, I’m stuck in a place I spent my entire life trying to escape.”

Her voice softened. “I know, honey, I know… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound—God, I can’t imagine how scary this is for you.”

You took a shaky breath, grateful for her understanding. Nina wasn’t just your manager—she was one of the few people who you actually close to. She was a 34 years old American-Filipina woman. You trusted her with your life.

“Okay,” Nina said, her voice more focused now. “Okay, now listen. We’ll figure this out. I know Nicolas wouldn’t suggest something like this unless it was a real option. Do you trust him?”

You sighed. “Yeah. I do. But the idea of marrying someone just to stay… it feels like another version of what my parents wanted for me. Like I’m back in that same time of my life.”

“I get it. But this isn’t like that. You’re in control this time,” Nina said. “If this is what you need to stay here, it’s not about love or being owned by someone.”

You nodded to yourself, trying to absorb her words. “Well, um, Nico gave me a list of potential candidates—people who might be willing to make an arrangement. You’ll never guess who’s on it, though.”

“Who? Shawn Mendes? Harry Styles? Tom Holland—”

“Rafe Cameron,” you said, cutting her off. “The basketball play—”

“Yeah, I know who that man is, Y/N. His reputation is a total mess right now. It’s not surprising for him to be on that list.”

“Exactly,” you muttered. “It’s a perfect business arrangement for him, too. He needs a way to look respectable again, and I need to stay in the country.”

“So, you’re actually considering this?”

You leaned against a streetlamp, staring at the city around you. “I don’t know. Maybe? It just feels wrong. Like I’m giving up a part of myself.”

“As nicely as this can be said, you are being dramatic here, babe.” Nina sighed softly. “Look, I’m not going to push you either way, okay? But I do think you need to look at it from a different angle. You’re not giving up on yourself. You’re doing what you need to do to stay here, to keep fighting for your career and your future. And Rafe—or whoever you’ll end up marrying—is not your parents. He’s not going to control you or he’ll get slapped.”

You closed your eyes, trying to let her words sink in. She was right—you were in control now. This wasn’t the same as being forced into a marriage you didn’t want. This was about survival. About keeping your life in the U.S. intact.

"Yeah… I guess you’re right," you said softly, feeling some of the tension release from your shoulders. "I just need time to think."

TWO WEEKS LATER.

The soft glow of the late afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, casting warm light across your living room. After two relentless weeks of back-to-back fashion shoots, campaign meetings, and gala appearances, you had finally found a moment of peace. You curled up on the plush sofa, sinking into its embrace as the hum of the city outside became a distant murmur. The oversized, loose pajamas you wore were a far cry from the designer gowns and couture you’d been draped in recently, but they were yours—soft, comforting, and familiar. Your hair was twisted into a lazy bun under a satin bonnet.

You exhaled a sigh of relief, finally feeling the weight of exhaustion slip from your shoulders as you closed your eyes.

Buzz. Buzz.

The sound of your phone vibrating on the coffee table pulled you from the calm. You groaned softly, reaching for it with one hand, expecting to see another notification about a meeting or event. Instead, it was a message from Nicolas.

“Any thoughts on who you're going to marry? We need to move quickly if we want to ensure everything goes through in time.”

The familiar weight of the situation you’d been trying to avoid crept back into your chest. Two weeks had passed since your lawyer had first laid out the reality of your visa situation. In those weeks, you'd thrown yourself into work, hoping the constant flurry of activity would drown out the anxiety. But now, in the quiet of your home, the decision loomed large again.

You typed back, hesitating for a moment before hitting send.

"I haven’t decided yet."

A few seconds later, the reply came through.

"We need to discuss this in person. Can you come to my office today?"

You frowned, your eyes darting around the cozy room, not quite ready to leave your home.

"How about you come here instead?" you typed. "It’s been a long week, and I’d rather talk in private."

There was a pause before the three dots appeared, and then the message followed.

"Sure. I’ll be there in about an hour."

You put your phone down and leaned back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling. This wasn’t a conversation you wanted to have, but it was necessary. Time was running out, and you knew you had to face it—whether you wanted to or not.

An hour passed in a blur, and soon enough, you heard the knock at your door. You padded across the room in your socks, your oversized pajama pants swishing softly as you walked. Opening the door, you found Nicolas standing there, looking as composed as ever in his tailored suit.

“Come in,” you said with a smile, stepping aside to let him in.

Nicolas entered, his eyes scanning the room before they landed on you. "You look... relaxed."

You gave a soft chuckle, gesturing to your pajamas. “Don’t mock the pj’s until you’ve tried them.”

He smiled slightly, but there was a hint of emergency in his expression as he took a seat in the armchair across from you. “I know you’ve had a lot on your plate lately, but we really need to make a decision.”

You nodded, sitting back down on the couch, hugging a pillow to your chest. “I know… I’ve just been avoiding it.”

“And I noticed,” he said, pulling out a folder from his briefcase. “But with the visa expiration approaching, we don’t have much time. We need to find someone—someone who understands the situation and won’t make things harder.”

You bit your lip, holding a smile, glancing at the folder in his hands. “You bought the list?”

He nodded, and handed it over, and you flipped through the names, recognizing some immediately. Athletes, businessmen, even a couple of actors/singers. And then there was Rafe Cameron, his name standing out like a bold headline.

“I’ve looked at these,” you said quietly. “I just… I don’t know who to choose. None of ‘em feel right.”

Nico leaned forward. “It's not about right or wrong. It’s about who can offer the least amount of personal complications and help you secure your residency. Rafe Cameron, for instance—he’s someone who could benefit from this arrangement as much as you. His reputation needs mending, and this could be a mutually beneficial situation.”

You stared at Rafe’s name, the memories of seeing his name in the news about how much of a womanizer he was… Could you really tie yourself to someone like him in a fake marriage?

“Alright, but I need you to help me decide,” you admitted, looking up at him.

He nodded, his expression understanding. “Of course, that’s why I’m here. Let’s break it down together and figure out who makes the most sense, not just legally but for your peace of mind.”

Nicolas opened his briefcase again, pulling out more detailed files on the potential candidates. He laid them out neatly on the coffee table, each name with a stack of information—financial records, personal histories, public perceptions. It was all very businesslike.

You leaned forward, looking at the pages in front of you. Each one represented a major decision, a shift in your life you weren’t entirely ready to accept, but you knew you didn’t have much of a choice.

“Let’s start with the most practical options,” he said, sliding the file on Rafe Cameron toward you. “I know his name has come up before. He’s wealthy, influential, and… well, let’s be honest, he could use a boost to his public image right now. It’s a good match on paper.”

You stared at Rafe’s name again, tapping the edge of the file with your finger. “Yeah, but he’s also a bit of a mess, isn’t he? I mean, the media paints him as this… whore, and his personal life is always talked about. What if that blows back on me?”

Nicolas raised a brow. “That’s something to consider, but you also have to think of the benefits. His public image might not be very clean, but he’s powerful. Marrying him would put you in a stable position, and if it’s a business arrangement, his private affairs don’t have to concern you.”

You exhaled slowly, still feeling uneasy. Rafe Cameron was trouble, and you knew it. But at the same time, trouble might be exactly what could make this work—for both of you.

“What about the others?” you asked, flipping through the files. “There has to be someone who’s… less complicated.”

“Well,” he said, tapping another file. “there’s Owen Turner. He’s a succesful tech entrepeneur, keeps a low profile. No scandals, no messy reputation. He’s reliable, but you’ll have to approach this differently. He’s more private, less likely to want his personal life on display.”

“And boring—plus, he seems like the type of white guy to want a traditional wife. Like he would expect me to cook for him every night… and he has an ugly name.”

“Owen won’t be expecting home-cooked meals, Y/N. He’s a tech guy; he probably lives on energy drinks and instant ramen,” Nico pointed out, trying to steer you back to the serious topic. “But if we position it as a legal arrangement, he could see the value in it.”

You sighed, leaning back on the chair. “Okay, maybe Owen is the safer options. But can you imagine our wedding announcement? ‘Succesful Tech Entrepeneur Married Famous Model: They Share a Love for Cats and Instant Noodle.’”

Nico shook his head, trying not to smile. “Focus, please. This is a serious matter.”

“Right, right, sorry…” you said, wavering your hand dismissively. “But, what do you think about Rafe?”

“Rafe Cameron is the most straightforward option,” he said, his tone now more measured. “He’s already in the public eye, which means there won’t be as much of a shock if you’re suddenly married. Plus, his need for good press aligns with your need for stability.”

“And personally?”

He smiled softly, a rare gesture from him. “Personally, I think you should go with the person you think you can manage.”

You nodded, appreciating his honesty. Staring at the stack of papers in front of you, Rafe Cameron’s name glaring up at you from the top of the list. Every name on the list had its pros and cons, but something about Rafe’s file felt different. Maybe it was the intensity of his media coverage, the scandals, or the way he dominated the headlines for all the wrong reasons. But as much as you hesitated, his name kept pulling you back.

“I know his reputation isn't spotless,” Nico said, sensing your hesitation, “but in this situation, a clean reputation isn’t the priority. You need someone powerful, someone with enough influence to make this arrangement stick without getting tangled up in emotional complications.”

You nodded, again.”But I don’t know if I can handle all the baggage that comes with Rafe Cameron. His public image is a trainwreck. Wouldn’t that only complicate things more?”

Nico leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtful. “Possibly. But think of it this way: his personal life is already so chaotic that a stable, respectable marriage might be exactly what he needs to repair his image. And that’s where you come in. You’d be helping each other.”

Your eyes dropped back down to his file. "Do you think he'd even agree to something like this?"

Nico chuckled softly. “If there’s one thing I know about men like Rafe Cameron, it’s that they understand deals. His reputation is hanging by a thread, and a marriage to someone like you—someone with a pristine public image—could be the ticket to restoring his credibility. It’s a win-win, really.”

You considered Nico’s words. He was right. Rafe had everything to gain from a marriage of convenience, just like you. And while his scandals were messy, they didn’t define him entirely. He was still an elite athlete, one of the best in the game, and with the right PR strategy, you could both come out looking better.

But the thought of marrying someone like him—a notorious playboy with a history of messy breakups—made your stomach churn.

“You know,” Nico continued, “if this were just about your visa, we’d be having a different conversation. But this is about your entire future. Your career, your freedom to stay here, everything you’ve built. I’m not saying it’s an easy choice, but it’s one worth considering.”

You sighed, the weight of the decision pressing down on you. "What happens if it falls apart? What if things with Rafe go wrong?"

"That’s why we’ll draft a contract," Nico reassured you. "This won’t be a traditional marriage, Y/N. You’ll both have clear boundaries, and legally, we’ll protect your interests. If things go south, you’ll be covered."

You stared at the file a little longer, then closed your eyes.Rafe Cameron. He was cocky, possessive, and reckless—everything you usually avoided. But maybe that was the key. You wouldn’t have to worry about him trying to control you or make this anything more than a business transaction.

It would be messy. It would be complicated. But it would also keep you here, in the country you’d fought so hard to call home. And maybe, just maybe, it would be the solution you both needed.

“Okay,” you said softly, your decision finally settling. “I’ll do it.”

Nico’s eyebrows shot up, a little surprised at how quickly you’d made up your mind. “You’re sure?”

“No,” you admitted with a weak smile. “But I think this is the best option. I’ll marry Rafe Cameron.”

Nico nodded, closing the folder with a satisfied smile. “Good. I’ll set up a meeting with him. We’ll get the ball rolling.”

Oh God, you were going to marry Rafe Cameron…

chapter two

2K notes · View notes

stellophiliac · 9 months ago

Text

you should make a website!

"my favorite social media site is shutting down!"

"the CEO of the site i use just committed another atrocity!"

"i want a webspace that's all my own!"

if any of these sound like you (and if you're on tumblr, i know at least one applies) you should make your own website!

why make a website?

incredibly customizable

you can put whatever you want on it

it's, well, your own! like a house you build with your own hands

things you'll need

a computer. you can maybe get away with doing this on a mobile device, but i have zero experience there

a code editor. i like VScodium, which is a de-microsoft-ed version of VScode.

a will to learn ;)

site hosting

neocities. everyone knows neocities. at this point i do feel like it's become a bit too centralized, but it's a good option nonetheless. do note that there are filetype restrictions for free users, but that shouldn't be a huge issue for most. what may be an issue, though, is that there's a content security policy that prevents sites made after jan 1st, 2024 to use outside scripts. also, you have to pay to use your own domain

nekoweb. similar to neocities, but there's no filetype restrictions or a content security policy. some differences are outlined in the FAQ (thinking about moving here... i am a traitor...) i'm not sure if domain support is free or paid.

github pages or codeberg pages. you'll need an understanding of git for this

pages.gay: run by besties.house, uses git

teacake: free hosting is currently closed, but paid hosting starts at 2 bucks a month.

leprd.space: i know next to nothing about this.

a web server. don't recommend this if you don't know computer stuff but it is an option (you'll likely have to provide your own domain though)

gripes & solutions (?)

i'm not comfortable maintaining pages in pure HTML / templating with JS sucks!

with a static site generator, you can write pages in markdown and they'll be converted into HTML and (if you'd like) be put into a template of your choosing. my personal choice is 11ty but there are tons of options!

static site generators can be a bit of a learning curve (and you will have to write some html for templating) but if you're making a lot of pages or blogging regularly it's something to consider

there are starters for 11ty online but i might make a more beginner-proofed starter and/or guide in the future? don't count on it

i don't want to write/maintain CSS

simpleCSS is a tiny CSS file you can use to make semantic HTML ("naked" HTML) look nice. it's got decent customization options too. it's not particularly fancy or opinionated, but it's a good starting point if you need something

i don't know what to put on my website!

small list of ideas:

weblog

art/writing/music gallery

movie/show/book tracker

place to store bookmarks/links

scary! i'm scared!

my askbox/messages/e-mail inbox/etc. are open to anyone who'd like to ask for help!

#neocities #nekoweb #indie web #small web #web dev #stel speaks

419 notes · View notes

themoonistalkingtou · 1 year ago

Text

Pick a pile: What will the personality of your next partner be like + songs ⁺◦

Disclaimer: These readings are not professional, I use my intuition + tarot and a translator because English is not my native language! Choose the pile that resonates with your intuition ♥︎ you can choose more than one if you like. Your partner have neutral pronouns! sorry if some paragraphs are longer than others!

Pile 1 — Pile 2

Pile 3 — Pile 4

Pile 1:

Knight of wands, 6 of swords reversed, Temperance

They like to live adventures and are impulsive. Furthermore, they like stimulation, although one must be careful as they have unresolved issues from their past which can cause difficulties. However, they are still able to remain calm and find harmonious solutions when problems arise in the relationship since they are capable of putting themselves in your place.

"With you, chaos is ordered in harmony"

Pile 2:

9 of swords, the hermit, the empress reversed

They are a very lonely and anxious person. Additionally, they are quite shy initially. Furthermore, it is difficult for them to integrate into groups as they do not easily express their feelings. Instead, they are someone quite reflective who thinks a lot before acting. Gradually, they will start to open up emotionally, though they do this with only a few people.

"Resolve with your tenderness my secrets"

Pile 3:

3 of swords reversed, the devil reversed, 8 of cups reversed

They are mature and, while they had ex-partners before, they have overcome them and are ready to commit to a relationship. Specifically, they have accepted their pain and want to move forward. Namely, they know that being in a relationship is not easy but they will do their best to make it prosper. Notably, they demonstrate a lot of security and dedication to the couple as they are not afraid of commitment for a worthy cause. Essentially, they have freed themselves from many things and do not flee from conflicts, instead, they are willing to face everything so that the relationship succeeds.

"What used to tie me down no longer stops me, my heart is yours"

Pile 4:

King of cups, king of wands, the sun

They are a very compassionate, sensitive and happy person. In addition, they dedicate a lot to the couple and can understand the feelings of others. Also, they are very fun and dynamic. Moreover, they are meticulous and spread their good mood to people around them. Likewise, they are good at giving advice to people and have a lot of leadership presence as they radiate light and warmth.

"With you, life taste like colors"

433 notes · View notes

blushweddinggowns · 2 years ago

Text

“So let me get this straight. You met a hot guy, conned him into a date with you, lied about who you were to get into his pants and still failed. Then kept going, bought a new phone and rented a fake apartment, fell in love him, continued this elaborate ruse for four months, and now you want me to figure out a way for you to get out of it?”

“...yes?”

“Oh my fucking god,” Chrissy nearly screeched into his ear, “That is what you have been doing? Have you lost your damn mind?!”

“Obviously, yes!” Eddie yelled right back, feeling fraught as hell. He was pacing back and forth, a cigarette in hand as he spoke, “I never planned on ending up here!”

“Really? Because this whole shit show seemed to need a lot of planning. Is this really what happens when I leave you unsupervised? I am never letting you out of the house again.”

Eddie was well aware he deserved the ribbing. He deserved much worse, but that didn’t change the fact that he was desperate, “Chris, I’m serious. I need help.”

“Eddie, I love you but come on. You need a plane ticket and an apology muffin basket and to move on. This guy doesn’t even know you.”

“It’s not like that,” Eddie said as he ran a frustrated hand through his hair, “It’s-okay. I’m still me with him. It’s like…I’m acting like who I would have been if I was never famous. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

“Have you tried delusional? Also, can I get a picture of this guy? How hot can one dude be to drive you-”

“I’m serious,” Eddie interupted, irritation coloring his voice, “I told him everything. The shit about my parents, Wayne, the drugs, you, everything.”

“You realize that everything would include your real name right? And again, a picture for the love of god would really help put this in perspective-”

“You know what I mean,” Eddie sighed. She still wasn’t getting it, “I’m in love with him. Like Chris, he was made for me. And if I had just stuck to tattooing instead of doing the music shit then I’m pretty sure he’d think the same of me.”

He could hear a small intake of breath on her end, her voice coming out a bit more concerned than before, “Eds, are you serious?”

“Dead. I… I think he’s the one,” No, that was another lie. Eddie took a deep breathe before admitting the truth, “He is the one. And… I don’t want to lose him. I can’t lose him.”

“Honey, it’s an infatuation. A really, really strong one, but still-”

“Chrissy. Listen to me. I want to marry him. Do you understand me now?”

If that didn’t get through to her nothing else would. Because Chrissy Cunningham had spent hours upon hours of listening to Eddie complain about the institution of marriage since fucking highschool. How it was all a farce, just some bullshit people pulled for tax reasons and patriarchal idealism. And now here he was, fucking day dreaming about the perfect happily ever after with the love of his life.

“Oh Jesus,” Chrissy groaned, the sineritcy Eddie was looking for finally creeping into her voice, “Sweetie, I’m so sorry… but I think you might have fucked yourself too big on this one.”

“Isn’t there something I can do?” Eddie pleaded into the phone, like Chrissy actually had all the power in the world to fix this, “What if I just lead a double life? Couldn’t that work?”

He had seen a movie about that once or twice. It was a thing. Or if it wasn’t then he could make it one.

But Chrissy didn’t seem too convinced, “Eddie, honey, you’re describing the plot of Hannah Montana like it can actually be a solution. Do you realize how insane that is? Do you not get how far you’ve fallen?”

from the next chapter of this fic

#steddie #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #alternate universe #famous eddie munson #damn your love damn your lies

1K notes · View notes

seat-safety-switch · 11 months ago

Text

Mini-golf is something I've spoken about many times, at great risk to my own life. In my town, you see, the mini-golf industry is represented by an extremely powerful lobby. That's why we have approximately three "courses" for every hundred people, the highest ratio in the world. Why am I against it? No golf carts means no driving.

You might think it's silly to be opposed to mini golf purely on the basis that I don't get to drive a little electric car around the property at irresponsible speeds. I'm sure you have strong opinions about things that I would consider silly, too. That makes you look like an asshole now, doesn't it?

Thing is, enjoying the great outdoors is best done with an open-air vehicle, gazing at the wonders of nature. And even if those wonders of nature have been artificially curated by the same groundskeeper who is now screaming at me for having driven across four sand traps and the country club, it still counts as calming.

Mini-golf? Too damn small. The mind rebels. Not natural, every sense screams, until you end up getting super mad and eject your putter into the parking lot on the 19th stroke on a "par 2" hole while some very patient toddlers wait behind you in line, not yet having been taught the concept of "play-thru," but perhaps also not wanting to pick a fight with a fully-grown adult who achieves apocalyptic rage levels when not operating a motor vehicle.

Now, I've worked out a sort of methadone solution here. Halfway house shit. Because I can't afford to play on the big expensive country club courses (it's sort of a Caddyshack situation, but mostly just the part where they hate me and everything I stand for) I'm stuck with mini-golf, and have to make my time at Al's Little Tee Big Fun and Ed's Big Fun Regular-Sized Balls as enjoyable as possible. That's why I brought a mini-golf-cart.

That's right. For just a few bucks on eBay, you too can avail yourself of a 1:24 scale golf cart that you can take out of your pocket and pretend to drive between the holes. Making vroom-vroom sounds is a little unrealistic for what is supposed to be a brushed-DC forklift motor, but you gotta do what makes you happy. The only downside is that this tiny plastic conveyance came from Playmobil, which almost certainly means it's going to explode in some kind of elaborate German mechanical failure soon. Like the poor guy in the parking lot last time whose GTI had a mini-golf putter get stuck in the windshield.

156 notes · View notes

steviewashere · 4 months ago

Text

Anything For You

Rating: General CW: Minor Mention of Body Dysmorphia, Seahorse Pregnancy (If You're Not Comfortable With That Sort of Thing? Not Sure If This is a Real Content Warning, But Best To Be Safe) Tags: Post-Canon, Set in the 1990s, Dialogue Heavy, Established Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Domestic Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Trans Steve Harrington, Pregnant Steve Harrington, Seahorse Dad Steve Harrington, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Comfort No Hurt, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Massages, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson's Hands, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Sappy Steve Harrington, Sappy Eddie Munson, Steve's Weird Pregnancy Cravings

🫃—————🫃 He flips over, clumsily, to try and get more comfortable. The pillow pressed into the shape of his body is not helping, not even when he fluffs it with both fists.

It had been a long conversation, trying for a baby. A lot of questions—Are you sure you’re ready for this; Are you okay for the changes your body has to go through; Will you let me love you even if you find it hard to accept that I do?—and there had been only one simple answer (with minor hesitance on his end)—Yes. Of course, yes.

And, so far, he hadn’t fussed too much about what he saw in the mirror. In the first few weeks, sure he did. How the roundness to him now wasn’t just fat building, it was a life growing within him. A life he had been eager to bring into this world, all things considered. The dysmorphia hadn’t gone away completely—it never has, probably never will. Seeing his toned muscles turn to gentle chub, the way his hips had shifted, those curves he chiseled away had come back tenfold. There were the stretch marks and the whole…thing with his now outward belly button. Sometimes, truthfully, he felt like an alien in his own body. The changes happening out of his control, sitting idle at his console, letting the changes take their course.

Nine months of sacrifice, that’s what it was.

Only a handful of months, though, out of a future of happy years. Of a child’s curiosity, interspersed with giggle fits and pillow fights, late night book readings and last minute science projects, cuddles on the couch and popcorn between the cushions, and smiles with gaps—aimed at him; oh, aimed at him.

Steve hefts himself from the mattress, shoving the pregnancy pillow to the side. His feet are throbbing, ankles swollen, everything of him heavier and clumsier than before. Hell, Eddie had told him to stay in bed, just to see if he could get the swelling to go down. But his back aching something this fierce—so horrible it’s like somebody’s standing on his spine with combat boots—he needs it to be fixed, and he only has one solution that comes to mind. Eddie’s sweet, sweet, beautiful hands.

He trudges through the hallway, past the bathroom (in which his bladder gives a phantom of a cry), towards the living room. Where, as soon as he begins to round the corner, he can see Eddie hunched over their coffee table like a gargoyle, paints and other tidbits laid out. Ah, he’s catching up on some painting, he realizes.

As soon as he can catch his breath, Steve leans against the end of the couch, hands pressed into the small of his back. “Eds?” he calls quietly, “can you help me with something?”

Immediately, Eddie is tossing his paintbrush down, scrubbing his hands on a nearby rag. It’s already been through some mishaps, if the poor stains on it have anything to say. His eyes land on Steve, big and cowed, eyebrows disappeared behind his bangs. The rest of his hair is up, loose strands framing his picture-perfect expression of worry. “What’s going on, baby? Need me to make some ginger tea?”

He shakes his head, presses his hands firmer against his spine. Steve groans at a particular sore spot. “Can you give me a massage, please?”

“‘Course, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs, “let’s get you back to”—

“The bedroom’s too stuffy,” he whines. “Maybe we can put on a movie and you can do it out here? Maybe also with a plate of cheese and crackers? With some pickle juice in a glass?”

Eddie chuckles. “I can do that,” he agrees. “Why don’t you take my spot and I’ll get all that for you? Want some ice cream, too? I got your pint of Cherry Garcia.”

“Oh god, yesss…You know how to spoil me, y’know that?”

In one swift motion, Eddie stands from his spot. He rounds the couch, stops in front of Steve, and gently guides him to the cushion. Leaning down again, he presses a quick, warm smack to Steve’s temple. “Anything for you, sweetheart. You’re doin’ all the hard work.”

He settles deep into the couch cushion, leaning himself awkwardly on the armrest. It’d be better if their sorry excuses for throw pillows actually had some give to them, but they’re stiff and starchy. Putting them in the wash is added to his ever expanding to-do list; a list he won’t ever get around to, or if he does, it’s Eddie doing all the work. Tidying the place, nitpicking about the dust nobody’s ever seen, restocking the higher shelves of their pantry because, and Steve will remember this remark from Eddie, “I don’t want you somehow giving our child a genetic concussion.” And when Steve had barked back that that doesn’t happen, he only got a terse jaw clench and a nostril flare for his combativeness.

Needless to say, Eddie takes damn good care of him. It wouldn’t be hard to convince him to grab a comfier pillow from their bed. However, that seems to be unnecessary as he comes swinging back into the living room, his arms laden with the necessities.

“Alright, here is your makeshift charcuterie board”—a large platter, it must be their turkey serving platter, is clattered onto the coffee table—“I added some of those sliced black olives and a few pieces of deli meat, just in case you needed some more savory. There’s a still frozen pint of the finest Cherry Garcia; careful, sweetheart, it’s rock solid. A glass of iced pickle juice, just so you won’t be grossed out when it goes room temperature. And…da-da-da-da-daaaa”—Eddie sings that last bit, removing something that’s stuffed in his left armpit. The something in question is Steve’s pregnancy pillow, still warm from both their shared body heat—“a sweet cushion to replace that stupidly firm one you’re trying to get comfortable on. Figured it’d be nice to put under your head while you’re leaned down for the massage.”

The pillows are swapped out. In the firm one’s place, the pregnancy one is fluffed and squished until it perfectly cushions Steve’s heavy head. He turns himself so that he can rest down into the pillow, forehead pressed gently into the give. It’s barely warm and soft, meeting him in all the places it’s needed. He sighs. Mumbles, “You’re amazing.”

“Mm, I’m perceptive,” Eddie says, “hardly anything to write home about.”

“I love you to bits and pieces.”

“Love you, too, sweetheart,” he whispers. A warm hand trails across Steve’s shoulder blades, fingers gently knuckling along the knobs of his spine. “What movie were you thinking about? Your pick.”

Steve shifts his head, peeking over his now folded arms. There’s a low haze that settles over him, fuzzy and sleepy as shapes are blindly traced over his soft t-shirt. Blearily, he eyes down their video shelf next to the set. All packed in tight, tens and tens of movies for them to pick from. “What’re you in the mood for? I won’t really be watching, probably.”

“Let’s see…” Eddie meanders towards the shelf with Steve briefly mourning the loss of touch. He then crouches down with two noticeable pops from his knees, his soft fingers trailing along the sharp corners of the video protectors. He plucks a couple from their resting spots. “I was thinkin’, for you…something like…Ghost, or maybe Jerry Maguire, or…we could do Coneheads?”

Steve scoffs. “Ed, if you turn on Coneheads, I’m making you sleep on the couch tonight.”

He hears Eddie click his tongue. Then, he nods. “Duly noted.” Coneheads gets slotted back onto the shelf—even if, really, they should be putting it into the overflowing donation box near the front door. Oh well, Steve thinks, problem for another day. Eddie peruses their shelf for another moment, pulling out a couple more videos. “How about Sleepless in Seattle? Or we could even watch”—

“Jerry Maguire. I don’t think I can watch anything with Tom Hanks in it for a long while.”

“Y’know, I should’ve considered that after we saw Forrest Gump. That really did you in.”

“I almost left the theater after Jenny…god, just thinking about it makes me wanna sob. Get over here and make me feel better.” He loosens one of his arms from its tight hold around his head, hand desperately calling out for Eddie. However, his little call is ignored as the movie is slipped through the slot of the VCR. It gently clicks in, whirring as it’s seemingly rewound. The TV’s input is switched over with another set of clicks before a mirage of color is flashing before him. If he squints, he thinks he can spot Tom Cruise’s stupid shiny smile in the mix of it.

Eddie snatches the remote from the entertainment center, standing in place at the middle of their living room, hip cocked and arm wrapped around his torso as he waits to press play. Then, finally, the movie begins with Eddie reclaiming his spot next to Steve.

Before he can comprehend the change of pace, there’s a gentle tap to his back.

“T-shirt off, baby,” Eddie whispers, “do you want me to grab the lotion real quick? Might feel nice.”

Steve sits back up reluctantly, grunting as his spine is strained. He peels the stupid shirt over his head, though, and promptly tosses it to the carpet. “You gonna get my stretchies, too?”

There’s a tickle over his hips, the tips of Eddie’s fingers tracing the shiny edges of stretch marks. “Do you want me to, sweetheart? Y’know I can do it, it’s no problem.”

“They’re on my front, too, though.”

Gently, Eddie’s palms lay over those same sides. He cups his hands, running them up and down the lower half of Steve’s baby bump. “I’ll redo your pillow and everything if you want me to, Stevie. Massage your marks with one hand, hand feed you cheese with the other…kiss you between bites…tell you how wonderful I think y’are.”

Steve sniffles, bending back down to rest his forehead on the pillow. “You’re too nice to me,” he whispers.

There’s a quick peck to the center of his back. Murmured against his skin, “Because you deserve it, sweetness. You deserve all the nice things.”

“Ugh,” he groans, reaching down to squeeze tight at Eddie’s right hand. “You’re gonna make me cry, Eddie. You know that I’m crazy hormonal right now.”

“I’m telling the truth, though and you know it.”

“Just…just get the lotion, Eds, ‘fore I completely lose it.”

The couch groans as Eddie stands up from it. His shadow looms over, but then he bends down, warmth swallowing Steve whole. Another kiss is pressed to him, his exposed right temple this time, and his hair is petted at sweetly. “I’ve gotcha, baby. Nothing else I’d rather do, only wanna take care of you.”

“Eddie…”

Before he can do something silly like reach out and swat Eddie’s hip, he hears footsteps retreating down the hallway. The bathroom door is creaked open. “I’m gettin’ it, I promise!” Eddie calls out, “but I’m also takin’ care of you, cause that matters most to me! You know that!”

“You’re a sap!” he shouts back, “and I’ll cry, so stop it!”

Quickly as he left, Eddie is back beside him. His hands rub together, dry as they are, warming them up. “Mm, what if I thought you were beautiful while you cried, huh?”

“That means you’re being a meanie, making me cry on purpose.”

“I don’t mean to, Stevie baby. I’m just being honest.”

Steve sighs as Eddie’s warm hands lay flat to the center of his back. They don’t move, merely just remain. But even then, the touch alone, it’s enough to relieve at least a little tension. Though, realistically, that tension’ll be back by the time the movie’s over. “I know you’re being honest,” he mumbles into the soft fabric of his pillow, “it’s part of the reason why I love you.”

“That and my hands, I’m sure. Y’really love my hands.” As if to punctuate that, Eddie digs his thumbs deep at the knobby edges of Steve’s spine. Slow, though. Precise and gentle.

“Oh, you have no fucking idea how much I love your hands, Eds. If I wasn’t keen on marrying you, I’d leave you for just your hands.”

Eddie gasps dramatically. “Scandalous,” he exclaims, “what would our kiddo think of that?”

“Mmm,” he hums at a particularly good release. Steve takes a deep breath before he continues, recalibrating. “They’d probably think your magic hands give the best hugs. ‘Cause I think our baby’s gonna like hugs. You’re gonna be huggin’ us all the time. No choice.”

“Oh no…my family loves my hugs, how dare they? And they don’t even give me a choice? For shame.”

“You love it, Eds. You’d give all of yourself as soon as they asked for one.”

Eddie’s hands leave him, reaching over with a quick pump from the bottle of lotion. In the air, Steve can smell it, a light trace of lavender. “That I’d do, you’re right. Y’know what I think they’d want the most from you, though?”

“Hm?”

“Your laughter,” he answers softly and reflexively, “they’d go running to you with a new joke just because they know you’d laugh at it.”

Gently, Steve turns his head so he can get his words out clearer. “Yeah? You think so?”

“I know so. You’d start giggling and then they’d start giggling and then I’d come in, both of you would be on the floor in pure hysterics! Just laughing so hard you’re crying and your faces are red and even just looking at me would make you guys snort.”

“But then you’d be out of the joke.”

“Mm, yeah, well…I don’t need to be part of every inside joke. Think since you’re doing all the hard work carrying the kid, maybe you two deserve a little private stand-up show of your own, yeah?” The lotion is cold when Eddie begins finally smearing it over Steve’s skin. His touch is just as soft as his words. Light, almost airy. Carefree in a, somehow, completely caring way. “Where does it hurt the most on your back, sweetheart?”

“Everywhere,” Steve says, “but the lower back might be a good place to start. Think the bump is carrying lower or something.”

Without more direction, Eddie’s hands are already moving down. The first grind of his knuckles into tissue and Steve’s a groaning, relieved mess. “Breathe for me, baby. Deep breaths,” Eddie coaches. He does as he’s told, earning soft praise in murmurs and whispers. Then, “We’re getting closer.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “’T’s kinda…kinda scary-exciting.”

“No more back pain, though, think about that. You’ll push and try and break my hand, but afterwards? You won’t be in constant, consistent, almost overbearing pain.”

He nods into his pillow, watching Jerry Maguire in near-blindness. Only a haze, lost in the feeling of the relief he’d been searching for all day. “No more massages,” Steve mumbles, “this feels fucking fantastic.”

“Just ask,” Eddie whispers, fingers walking up Steve’s spine. His knuckles are deep, kneading, yet still so careful. Like he’s too afraid to go too hard. Even then, Steve won’t push him. This is nice as is. “All you gotta do, baby, is ask me when you need help. Sucks that it took a whole damn pregnancy to show you that, but…hey, at least you’re finally asking when you need something.”

Steve huffs. “Well, I kinda have to when I can’t bend down to pick up a dropped sock or even tie my own stupid shoes.”

All at once, he can feel Eddie shift. Bending down to look him in the eyes. Wide-eyed and insistent before he sits back. “I like that you’re doing it, sweetheart. Okay? I want you to want my help. So…you want a massage after the baby comes? Cool, great. Consider it done. Lavender lotion and a charcuterie board and I’ll be at your side with my crazy awesome hands.” Eddie’s fingers trail again, though this time they’re connecting something. My moles, he realizes. Making constellations. At a particular spot, Eddie taps it and leans down, kissing the mark. “Even if you wanted me to make you a milkshake at fuckin’ midnight because you were having a crazy craving, then so be it. I’ll use some Cherry Garcia and everything. Just say the word.”

“And if I wanted my pickle juice right now?”

Without words, Eddie is bending forward. The scrape of the glass cup, ice clinking away at the sides, fills the room. “Sit up for me, baby.”

He does. And in one, gentle motion, a straw is brought to his lips. Steve sucks down greedily. There’s tang and acidity on the back of his tongue, something barely sweet on the tip of it. It’s the most quenching thing he’s had, the ice helps, too. Breaking away with a gasp, Steve smiles loosely over his shoulder, met with a close-lipped soft one of Eddie’s.

“Good?” Eddie checks.

“You’re a genius for the ice. It’s so cold.”

A snort. “I know you, sweetness. We’d be sipping ginger tea if that pickle juice went warm even the tiniest bit.”

Steve scoots on his cushion, pressing his right side against Eddie’s left knee—still sitting half-criss-cross on the couch, facing him. He smiles at Eddie, soft around the edges, but all his teeth. It squints his eyes. Bunches his cheeks. It’s easy on him, never forced when under the sweltering gaze of Eddie’s half-bared soul. Bursting, he says, “You’re gonna be such a great dad, y’know that?”

Eddie tilts his head, assessing. “Oh, yeah? How’d you figure that?”

“I don’t know, just…you…you think of ways to care about people without them even knowing what they need. You’re just…you’re honest, you care, you’re sweet. If I was doing this with anybody else, I think I’d be scared out of my damn mind. Just completely terrified.

“With you, though, with you I’m cautious, but excited. I’m…

“I’m safe. And I think we all need that.

“You’re gonna be a great dad. You were meant for it. Cosmically or whatever, you were meant to be right here, right now.” He slides a hand over Eddie’s left knee, squeezing with all his might. Teary-eyed, he still smiles. And with the touch, the warmth, the feelings, Eddie places his own hand down, soft palm against the warm back of Steve’s hand. Their fingers interlink. Tight and secure like puzzle pieces always meant for the other. “Even if it means guiding a straw for pickle juice into my mouth and hand feeding me white cheddar and letting me be a teary hormonal mess on our couch.”

Leaning forward, Eddie rests his forehead against Steve’s. His right hand goes to the baby bump, thumb sweeping in wide, horizontal stripes. There’s an easy, soft intake of breath as a rolling, slow kick meets his touch. “You’re gonna be perfect,” Eddie murmurs, “even when your emotions are haywire and even when you say the wrong thing at the wrong time and even when you think you aren’t. Everything about you, Steve, is perfect to me. Your laugh and your smile, the way you breathe, how you dance to any song on the radio, every mole on your back, the softness of your touches…

“Steve Harrington, you’re the perfect man. You’re gonna be a perfect dad in that beautifully imperfect way.

“Because you’re you. And I love you with everything in me and…

“Shit, I think I’m gonna be the one to cry if I sit and think about it all right now,” Eddie admits, voice wavering. His hand presses more firmly to Steve’s bump, not enough to hurt, but just enough to remind the whole world that it’s there. “I’d do anything for you, even if it means putting ice in pickle juice. Even as gross as that is, I’d do it all for you.”

Steve sniffles, burrows his forehead further into Eddie’s, as if they could possibly get any closer. “Kiss me?” he softly requests.

No words, no hang-ups, no buts—

Eddie’s lips are salty with newly shed tears. Warm. Firm, yet soft as they glide like butter on Steve’s. It’s not hungry. No, this is full. Sweet like a dessert you didn’t think you needed, but wanted anyway. Candid like a movie. Gentle in all the ways only whispered words know how to be.

It’s them.

He pulls away, not far, but just a hair of space. Quietly, “Will you help me with my stretch marks and cuddle me?” Steve asks.

“I’d dance on stars with you if you asked,” Eddie whispers, “‘course I will.”

🫃—————🫃

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #trans steve harrington #pregnant steve harrington #seahorse dad

65 notes · View notes

specialagentartemis · 2 months ago

Note

Re. your post on AI with no sources (which I'm going to reblog; but I wanted to note this outside of the tags): I work in higher ed too, in administration. As it happens, my program is having a meeting next week, required by the office for undergrad education, to talk about "what we're going to do about Grade Inflation". *SCREAMING* I've been in this job for 24 years. I've seen past attempts to deal with grade inflation! I've seen past attempts to deal with honors inflation! They haven't figured out a solution YET. But what's especially NOT a solution is pushing it down on all of the individual depts. Because all you'll get in that case is inconsistent amounts of change (if any), and all that happens then is that those depts that DO try to address the issue find their enrollments plummeting. It absolutely HAS to be an across-the-university push all at the same time, or nothing is going to work. But yeah, sure, we'll sit around a table next week and talk about how we can grade more harshly. An idea that, as things stand, is basically asking the instructors to kill their enrollments and thus kill their student evaluations, which are examined by the administration when it comes time to renew their job appointment. I do NOT know the solution to all of this. Because there's all that on the one hand, and there's the "college as commodity" issue that you mentioned on the other hand. How do we get to a point where we can get the students to focus on the learning opportunity in front of them, rather than on the distant post-graduation job market? I just don't know, because the whole mindset is so foreign to me. And I think for a lot of teachers, too (which I am not), there's this same issue of... we weren't the ones in that mindset when we were IN college, so it's very hard to understand it now. It's not hard to understand the *fear*, or the pressure. It's just hard to understand the not-caring at all. Anyway. Just wanted to say: solidarity. This is such a big problem. AI is exacerbating it, making it worse, but the problem really was already there.

oooof yeah. Good luck and I’m really sorry about that :(

as one of the reblogs of my post said: the solution to this is UBI. Unfortunately, the solution to quite a lot of things is UBI.

Because that’s the problem, right? It’s not so much that AI exists, it’s that it makes it exponentially easier to just give up and fall into the attitude that is already pervasive anyway. I’ve never had to talk about great inflation but ugh yeah. If college is a commodity, and you need a good grades, and if college is a business, you need to keep coming and paying for those good grades… you have to revamp basically the entire economy to get out of the hole that’s been dug, both by us and for us!

Like, what, we need “college does not cost thousands of dollars” AND ALSO “4-year college is not a requirement for getting a ‘respectable’ job where you can support yourself and survive comfortably” AND ALSO “community college gets respect and support” AND ALSO “professors shouldn’t be expected to teach, research, and do administrative work all at once, all the time” AND ALSO “get rid of the publish or perish model for real” AND ALSO “teaching and public outreach are institutionally valued” AND ALSO “college professors actually get taught how to teach, like get taught education theory and pedagogy” AND ALSO “not have students’ housing or scholarship depend on their grades” AND ALSO “not have a grade school culture of teaching to the test and standardized tests that instills in you for your entire childhood that grades are everything” BUT THAT WOULD MEAN “not funding grade schools/high schools based on student test scores, just actually funding them all for real” AND ALSO “hiring more teachers” BUT THAT WOULD MEAN “making teaching at a school a task that isn’t horribly thankless and burns people out real fast” BUT THAT WOULD ALSO MEAN “making school not a miserable place to be a child” WITH A SIDE OF “make sure everyone is teaching phonics again for real so from a young age, students learn how to read well and don’t struggle with reading and writing in a way that encourages them to give up and use ChatGPT” AND ALSO “generally having a culture that values learning and knowledge rather than money”… it is all SO MUCH and it will be hard to do and also expensive so nobody with the power to fix it really wants to try that hard to do so!!

and yeah, I definitely think you’re right that because all the professors and TAs are the people who liked school enough to keep doing it forever it’s just, incredibly hard to grok the students who don’t care. But the mess of a culture we’re in makes it all so hard to challenge because it feels like we need to untangle EVERYTHING to fix ANYTHING.

UBI would be a great start though.

#asks #eregyrn-falls #academia #Okay to not be so despairy: we need to chip away at each of these problems in the way we can #Teaching phonics in grade school and giving high school students recess where they get to go outside would be a good start

45 notes · View notes

yesimwriting · 2 years ago

Text

⋆｡°✩ yesimwriting's masterlist⋆｡°✩

Below the cut is a full list of all my work :) (updated 10-10-23)

*pls limit interactions if you’re a pro ED/ana acc :)*

SCREAM 1996

Final Girl

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

To be continued.

Final Girl fic-verse:

First Impressions

Sick Day

———————

Final Girl fic-verse blurbs:

Drunk Y/N

Stu saying the L word

Billy saying the L word

Little Rituals

Time of Need

Talking about Y/N

Stu’s thoughts about Y/N and POV

Gingerbread

Billy Loomis x S/O with Panic attacks

Stu waiting for Y/N and Casual Intimacy

Billy and Stu with S/O who cries a lot

Billy and Stu Scaring Guys Away

People noticing their friendship

Driving with Stu

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SCREAM VI

Ethan Landry

One of Them

Ask about Ethan

Noticing they like Y/N

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

LAST OF US

Joel Miller

First Rule

What Follows

Y/N gets hit on - Protective Joel

Purpose

Pulling Away

Pulling Away similar story

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

STAR WARS

Anakin

More Than This

Promise

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AMERICAN HORROR STORY

Tate Langdon

Modern day fic

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

DC TITANS

Jason Todd

Resurgence

Slow Nights

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ELVIS THE MOVIE

Business Practical

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

STRANGER THINGS

Steve Harrington

Movie Club

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Times Have Changed

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

DAREDEVIL

48 Hours

Chapter 1

A Red Widow

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SPIDER-MAN

This Time it’s Different

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

TASM Peter

Domestic Assertiveness

Hobbie Brown

Ask about Hobbie

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

YOU

Bloodroot in the Suburbs

Prologue

Chapter 1: The Babysitter

Chapter 2: Kill Habits, Not people

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SIX OF CROWS SERIES:

Searing Starlight

Searing Starlight Chapter 1

Searing Starlight Chapter 2

Searing Starlight Chapter 3

To be continued.

—————-

Kaz Brekker:

Blurb series: The Promise of Rain (i define a blurb series' as a series with shorter chapters where each chapter correlates but can technically be read as a stand alone)

The Promise of Rain (blurb 1).

The Promise of Rain (blurb 2).

The Promise of Rain (blurb 3)

To be continued.

—————

Falling Angels:

Falling Angels Chapter 1

Falling Angels Chapter 2

To be continued.

———

Anastasia (Prologue)

Bookworm reader

A Knife in the Back

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SHADOW AND BONE:

The Darkling:

Solace (part 1)

Solace (part 2).

———————

To Be Alone (smut).

Solutions

All the Good Dreams (might be getting a part 2)

—————

The Needs of Pain (part 1)_

The Needs of Pain (part 2, smut).

—————-

Corridor Moments

darkling x shy! reader HC

Comforting the darkling HC

Playing Vices

Darkling x anxious! Reader

Kirigan x Soft Girls/Similar personality

Crossing Lines

Darkling x Pregnant! Reader

Possessive/Breeding

Nikolai Lantsov:

Tranquility.

Handmaid reader x nikolai. childhood best friends to

lovers fic

Enemies to lovers Nikolai HC (i'm thinking of making a series based on this

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SHADOW AND BONE X SIX OF CROWS:

The Problem With Light Chapter One

To be continued.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

RED QUEEN:

Maven Calore:

Dying Starlight

509 notes · View notes

redflagshipwriter · 9 months ago

Text

Halfa Cass 11 pt 1

masterpost

They had a teensy bit of a war council about the new problem when Danny came back from work.

“On the bright side, they did send someone to take away Brick,” Danny said optimistically. He tried, anyway. He had a grim and depressing certainty that he was going to have to do something drastic and violent to solve this problem. That sucked. It sucked so hard. He looked at his knees. “But. Yeah. They probably will come after you to make me make some dumb ugly guns or whatever.”

“Okay,” Jazz said calmingly, “Every problem has solutions, Danny.”

…He scrunched up his face. He didn’t outright argue but he didn’t really see a great solution off hand.

Jazz’s big brain was clearly churning through the angles. She went quiet for a while, and then broke the silence in a thoughtful tone. “We could theoretically just kill the mob. All of them.” She looked up at the water stained ceiling and mouthed something that might be calculations. How many mob members she thought there might be? A plan to do this?

Danny blinked at her from his perch on the kitchen counter, hunched under the cupboard in a way that made him feel secure. “I thought this was going to go the other way. Like, with you telling me not to overreact.” He watched his big sister with a sort of horrified fascination.

Jazz waved that away with a hand. “I am not starting over again. I’m halfway through with my Gen Eds.” The dark smudges under her eyes looked even deeper in the shitty artificial lighting of their apartment. “The problem with that is that I only make about 1200 a month, and at that rate, we will never get you your identification.” She scowled and dug her fingers onto the tabletop as if she was going to squeeze cooperation out of it by force. “We sort of need that income source to get you into university on time. It’s important for your social development to get you back around your age mates sooner rather than later.”

He raised a hand like he had a question in class. “I thought the problem with that was going to be that murder is bad,” Danny said hesitantly. He was used to Jazz being the voice of morality. Were they doing something different now?

“The worst thing that happens to them is that they have to live near Skulker,” Jazz said waspishly. “Anyway, it’s on them for trying to make you build weapons. They’re the rude ones. They don’t get to throw off my twenty year plan.”

…Danny pinched his lips together to avoid the petty correction that they wouldn’t be living near Skulker, per se. Fair enough. The whole life or death thing did feel a bit less serious when you hung out with lots of dead people and they were just, like, people. Murder was, like, a conversation from a meat existence to a goo existence. It wasn’t nice, but it also wasn’t nice to threaten people’s sisters.

“Speaking of, I need to get to work so that I have my perfect attendance record for a good recommendation for the next job.” Jazz scrubbed at her face with the back of a hand and then dragged it down, squishing her cheek. “Do you want me to bring back breakfast?”

Yes.

“No,” Danny lied. He shimmied down off the counter and into his shoes. “I’ll walk you there. I’m sick of being inside. Maybe I’ll pick up groceries.”

Jazz snorted and rolled her eyes, but she grabbed her bag without making fun of him. He walked with her down cold, filthy sidewalks and waved goodbye on the street across from her building. Danny pretended not to worry. She did him the favor of not pointing out that he was definitely going to come back at 4:30 am to walk her home.

Danny locked the door when he got back in, but he felt kinda dumb about it.

If this mob or gang or whatever (was there a difference?) knew where he lived and wanted in, the door was not going to keep them out. Maybe he should just leave it unlocked so that they didn’t bust it open and break the lock, actually. A lock was what, 40 bucks? He didn’t want to have to replace that.

He went back and unlocked it on that basis. Then he screwed up his face to think.

…There wasn’t really a reason for them to come. He hadn’t made them mad yet. It would be different once they came back and he said he really wasn’t going to make them any weapons.

Danny locked it anyway and then set a timer for 4 in the morning. It was early for him to turn in but he grabbed the pillow off of the shelf and put it back on the sofa anyways. Hopefully he’d get to sleep like, right away.

#dp x dc #dc x dp #red halfa cass #dead silent #they finally meet this chapter!!!!

134 notes · View notes

aliyahwritings · 8 months ago

Text

THE CONTRACTED HEART — Rafe Cameron (03)

MASTERLIST | Basketball Player & Model!Female Reader

Summary: Rafe Cameron, a basketball star, needs a marriage to fix his image, while Model!Reader needs one for citizenship. They may be the perfect solution for each other.

Word Count: 8.1k words (get ready for #reallove)

Aliyah's Notes: whats that one saying? rainbows before the storm or wtv tf.

You didn’t believe in hatred.

Dislike? Sure. Irritation? Absolutely. But hatred was for people with time to waste, and in your world, every second was precious. Even now, as you posed under the bright lights of your latest Chanel photoshoot, your mind wandered to the few people you disliked.

Rude stylists, overly critical photographs, maybe a couple of models who thought being catty made them superior—but hate? No, that wasn’t your style.

You were in the middle of changing poses when your phone loudly buzzed on the nearby table. You ignored it at first, moving your chin slightly as the photographer directed you. You could answer it later.

“Gorgeous, Y/N! Hold that pose… yeah, just like that!” the photographer called out, camera clicking away.

The phone buzzed again, more insistent this time. You shifted your weight to one side, flipping your hair for the next shot. But the third buzz was enough to make you sigh.

“Alright, take five!” the photographer announced, waving his assistant over.

You stepped down from the set and grabbed your phone, frowning when you saw Rafe Cameron on the screen. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you swiped to answer.

“Finally answering my calls, sweetheart?” his voice came through, cocky and irritatingly smooth.

“Rafe, I’m working,” you replied, as you pulled your robe around yourself. “Not everyone gets paid to play with a ball.”

“Work, huh? I thought posing in front of a camera was more of a hobby.”

“You’re so funny,” you said flatly, glancing back at the crew who were resetting the lights. “What do you want?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I’m taking you out tonight.”

You snorted. “Excuse me? Did I miss the part where I agreed to go anywhere with you?”

“You didn’t,” he replied, completely unfazed. “That’s what I’m fixing right now.”

You raised an eyebrow, even though he couldn’t see it. “You don’t ‘fix’ things with me, Rafe. You ask, I decide.”

“Is that our dynamic?” Rafe’s tone dripped with amusement. “You sure? Because I remember you agreeing to marry me.”

“That’s business,” you shot back. “Don’t confuse it with me actually wanting to spend time with you.”

“Uh-huh,” he drawled, clearly not buying it. “Business or not, we’ve got a public to convince. Tonight, we’re making our debut as a couple. We wouldn’t want the media thinking you’re too good for me, would we?”

“I am too good for you,” you replied smoothly, your lips quirking up. “But go on.”

He let out a low chuckle. “Dinner at La Belle, 8 PM. Be ready. I’ll pick you up.”

You glanced at the time. Seriously? “Wait, how do you know where I live?”

“I have my sources. I’m a basketball player; I can afford to have a few eyes on my future wife.”

“Creep,” you mumbled, ignoring the flutter of annoyance in your stomach. “And what makes you think I’m free tonight?”

“Because you’re talking to me instead of saying no.”

“I haven’t said yes, either.”

“You will, though. I can hear it in your voice.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re delusional.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, a smug edge in his tone. “But I’m also persistent.”

You exhaled through your nose, staring at your reflection in the vanity mirror as the makeup artist approached with a fresh brush. The look you gave yourself was somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “Fine.”

There was a pause, and you could almost hear the smirk stretching across his lips. “See you tonight.”

Before you could respond, he hung up, leaving you scowling at the screen.

“Everything okay?” your stylist asked, glancing at your reflection with a raised brow. She has been listening in.

You plastered on a smile. “Yeah… Just… a guy, you know.”

She snorted. “Sounds like he’s already giving you headaches.”

“Don’t even get me started.”

Your thoughts swirled as you prepared to finish the photoshoot. Rafe’s voice still rang in your eyes. Dinner at La Belle? You weren’t sure why he frustrated you so much—you weren’t like this. Being optimistic and smiley was your trademark, it was who you were, but whenever Rafe was mentioned or around he made you snappy and full of attitude… and you didn’t know why.

Hours passed in a blur of flashing cameras and outfit changes, and soon enough, it was nearing 7:30. Maya, your stylist, was packing up the last of your things when she gave you a look. “You better get going if you’re gonna make that date.”

“You’re right,” you muttered, checking your phone for the first time in hours. “Oh my God! I have 30 minutes—I gotta go bye, Maya.”

“Bye, girl,” she laughed and waved. “I hope you get dicked—”

“Lalalalala,” you screamed and ran away.

You slipped into your black trench coat and hopped in the car. You texted Rafe.

You: “I might be late. I’m sorry.”

Rafe: “What happened?”

You: “Shooting went overtime.”

Rafe: “Okay.”

You: “You should’ve picked a later time.”

Rafe: “Just get here in one piece. I like my women alive.”

You rolled your eyes, like every time with him, but couldn’t help but smile at his sarcastic tone. You fished out your small makeup bag and quickly powdered your face, adding concealer, mascara, blush, eyeliner, and lipstick. Now, you were one step ahead—ready to slip into an outfit as soon as you got home.

The car pulled up to your apartment, and you rushed into your apartment, your heart raced. You threw open your closet, eyeing the racks of beautiful dresses, each one tempting.

You finally chose an elegant, sleek black dress that hugged your curves flawlessly, the smooth fabric flowing over your body with a low, scooped neckline. The rich black material shimmered under the light, emphasizing your figure with every movement. In a rush, you worked mousse through your hair, then applied a smoky eye that intensified your gaze, blending shades of charcoal and bronze. The look was bold, and perfectly matched the confidence you were determined to exude tonight.

Your phone buzzed.

Rafe: “You taking too long. I’m coming up.”

A series of sharp knocks echoed through your apartment, almost making you drop your phone. You whipped your head towards the door, quickly adjusting the strap of your dress as you glanced at the clock. 8:20—fuck!

“Give me a minute!” you shouted, frantically slipping on your heels. Your heart raced as you grabbed your earrings, juggling them in your hand while heading towards the door.

When you swung it open, Rafe stood on the other side, leaning casually against the doorframe, wearing that smirk that could only belong to him. His eyes immediately swept over your figure, starting at your legs, up to your waist, your exposed breasts, and finally your face. His gaze lingered, and though he didn’t say anything, the heat in his stare would’ve given you chills down your spine.

You didn’t notice. You were too busy hesitating on what to do with your hair.

“I am not ready yet,” you groaned, stepping aside to let him in. “I got home late, and I haven’t even had time to—ugh. I knew shooting was taking some time but I didn’t think it’d be this much. I’m sorry for making you wait. I swear I’m not usually like this—I hate being late.” You didn’t pause for a breath, just rambled on as you tossed the earrings on the coffee table and made a beeline for your room.

Rafe closed the door behind him, but his attention was fixed on you. He watched as you moved, the dress hugging your ass perfectly, accentuating your hurried movements. The sight of you—flustered, elegant, and completely unaware of his gaze—only deepened the smirk on his face.

“Nice place,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His gaze followed you down the hallway, where your bedroom was slightly ajar.

Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped through the threshold and followed you inside, finding you in your room—which was the perfect picture of chaos. Clothes were draped over the bed, shoes tossed in random covers, and a vanity table cluttered with makeup. It was the kind of organized mess that only you could make sense of.

Rafe leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed, watching as you rifled through your vanity drawer for something. His eyes swept over the pastel-colored blankets and the flowery décor, stark contrasts to the girl who had been all sass and attitude with him up until now.

But he liked that. It turned him on, for some reason.

“I didn’t take you for the ‘pink floral everything’ type,” he teased, raising an eyebrow.

You shot him a glance through the mirror, briefly pausing from rummaging through your drawer. “And I didn’t take you for the ‘nosy guest who barges into rooms uninvited’ type,” you quipped, raising an eyebrow back at him. Your fingers grazed over a tube of lipstick, which you quickly uncapped and re-applied.

Rafe’s smirk only widened. “What can I say? I’m a man full of surprises.”

“Yeah, well, try surprising me by sitting quietly on my bed like a normal person,” you shot back, giving your lips one final press together before throwing the lipstick into the pile of clutter on your vanity.

Rafe made a show of glancing around your room. “I think ‘normal’ left the building when I saw this,” he said, gesturing to the soft pink pillows and floral patterns that clashed with the image you projected. “Didn’t peg you for the type to have a room that looks like a rom-com set.”

You turned, finally facing him fully, one hand on your hip. “Oh, look, a creep overanalyzing a girl’s bedroom.”

Rafe chuckled. “Just making an observation. It’s cute. A little... princessy for someone who tries to pretend she’s all tough, but hey, I can roll with it.”

You tried to fight the smile threatening to creep up. “First of all, I am tough. Secondly, I like pink, sue me.”

“I’m not complaining,” he said with a wink, his voice dropping a little lower. “You look good in pink.”

You scoffed and turned back to the mirror, fiddling with your dress. “You’re insane.”

Rafe just grinned, watching you trying so hard to look occupied, clearly flustered. “Probably, but I think you like that,” he said, his tone teasing. He stepped closer, now standing right behind you. His presence was warm, and his gaze never left your reflection.

You met his eyes in the mirror, your hands faltering with your hair as his intense gaze locked onto yours. The air between you thickened just a little, but you weren’t about to give in to his charm. “I don’t like anything that involves you, Cameron,” you said, but the words lacked the bite you intended.

He leaned down slightly, his voice dropping to a soft murmur. “I don’t believe you.”

The heat of his breath on your neck made your skin tingle, and for a brief second, you forgot what you were supposed to be doing. But then you snapped out of it, stepping away to grab your perfume from the vanity. “Well, believe this: we’re leaving in five minutes, and I still need to finish getting ready,” you said, your voice firm, though your cheeks betrayed you with a faint flush.

Rafe raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll let you finish...”

As you spritzed the perfume, you caught him eyeing you again, his gaze lingering on your tits. You couldn’t help but shake your head, a small laugh escaping your lips. “Eyes up here, Rafe.”

He shrugged, shameless as ever. “Can’t blame a guy for appreciating the view.” He paused for a beat, then added, “Besides, in five minutes, you’ll be mine for the night.”

You threw him a look that was half-amused, half-exasperated. “Creepy... This is just for show, remember?”

Rafe nodded, and as you finally slipped on your coat, he followed you toward the door, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. “Ready, sweetheart?”

You rolled your eyes again, but this time, there was no hiding the smile. “Yup! Ready, Cameron.”

Rafe’s hand wrapped around your wrist just as you reached for the door, his touch firm but gentle enough to send a flicker of electricity up your arm. You turned, brow furrowed.

“What now?” you sighed, trying to sound annoyed.

He took a step closer, his eyes locked onto yours. “You know what? I think we should practice.”

You blinked, trying to read his expression. “Practice?”

His gaze dipped to your lips for a split second before meeting your eyes again. “Yeah, practice… For when we’re in public,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, almost daring you to look away. “When we’re kissing… we wouldn’t want our kisses to look unconvincing, mmh?”

A laugh bubbled out of you, partly from surprise and partly to keep yourself from being completely thrown off by the heat in his stare. “You’re kidding.”

He raised an eyebrow, inching closer, the space between you shrinking until the scent of his cologne mixed with the tension already thick in the air. “Am I?” His voice was smooth, dripping with amusement, but beneath it, there was something else. Something far more dangerous.

Your breath hitched as you took a step back, your body colliding with the door. “You’re serious...”

Rafe’s smirk widened, but this time it was laced with something primal. “Yeah,” he murmured, leaning in until his lips were just a whisper away from yours. “You look so fucking good tonight, sweetheart.”

Your pulse raced, and for a split second, you considered pushing him away, but your body betrayed you. You stayed there, frozen in the moment, trapped by the intensity in his gaze, the closeness of his body.

Before you could even form a reply, he closed the distance, his lips pressing against yours in a slow, deliberate kiss. It wasn’t the playful, teasing peck you were expecting—it was deep, his hand sliding to the curve of your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss was full of fire and heat, a simmering tension that had been building between the two of you since the moment you met.

Your mind went blank, the world outside disappearing as your lips moved against his, as though you had been kissing him forever. His fingers tightened on your waist, and a low moan escaped from the back of your throat, sending a wave of warmth through your entire body.

When you finally broke apart, your chest was heaving, and you could still feel the ghost of his lips on yours. You stared at him, wide-eyed, struggling to catch your breath. Rafe’s blue eyes were dark, his smile gone, replaced by a hungry look that made your stomach twist in knots.

“That was...” you trailed off, trying to find the right word. But nothing seemed to fit.

Rafe’s thumb brushed over your lower lip, wiping away some of your smeared lipstick. “For practice,” he said, his voice rougher than before. “You know… just in case.”

Your heart pounded in your ears, but your brain finally caught up. “Uh-huh,” you mumbled, still feeling the warmth of his thumb on your lip. “Just practice.”

You tried to step away, but his hand was still on your waist, holding you there, his thumb brushing the delicate skin of your hip as if testing the boundaries between you.

“You, uh…” Your voice wavered, and you blinked, trying to find something—anything—to cut through the tension. “You’ve also got lipstick all over you.”

Rafe’s lips twitched into a grin, though his eyes remained locked on yours, full of heat. “I do?”

You nodded, taking a breath to calm your racing pulse. “Here, let me…” Without thinking, you reached up and brushed your thumb across his lips, wiping away the smear of color.

It should’ve been innocent. It should’ve been nothing.

But the moment your thumb touched his lips, Rafe’s eyes darkened even more. He caught your wrist, his fingers wrapping around it gently but firmly, his gaze never leaving yours. The warmth of his skin seeped into you, and the atmosphere between you both thickened, the tension pulling tighter.

You swallowed hard, suddenly hyper aware of how close you were, how your bodies seemed to gravitate towards each other without you even realizing it. The way he was looking at you—like he wanted to devour you—it made you feel dizzy.

His voice was a low rasp when he finally spoke. “You’re killing me here.”

Your breath hitched at the huskiness in his tone, your stomach twisting with nerves and something else entirely. You tried to laugh it off, to shake the moment. “It’s just lipstick, Rafe.”

His thumb brushed over your pulse, the simplest touch sending sparks down your spine. “It’s not the lipstick,” he murmured, his eyes flicking back to your lips.

You bit the inside of your cheek, desperate to break the tension before you did something you’d regret. “You’re all cleaned up now, Romeo. We should go,” you said, your voice shaky but determined.

Rafe’s hand lingered a moment longer on your wrist, his gaze searching yours, as if considering whether or not to push further. But then he dropped your hand, stepping back with a slow, devilish grin. “Yeah,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “We should.”

You turned toward the door, your heart still racing as you tried to pull yourself together. But even as you reached for the handle, you felt his presence right behind you, his breath ghosting over the back of your neck, sending a shiver through your body.

“I like the dress, by the way,” his tone lighter now but still tinged with the lingering tension.

You glanced back at him. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

Rafe chuckled, his eyes glinting as he opened the door for you. You stepped out into the hallway, your head still spinning from the kiss, from the way he looked at you, from everything.

He followed closely behind, his presence lingering in the space around like shadows. The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, and you stepped inside.

“That’s a nice place you’ve got, by the way,” he remarked, his tone casual.

You glanced at him sideways, unwilling to give him more than a passing look. “Thanks, but I’m sure you say that to all the girls you visit uninvited.”

He smiled. “Only the ones I’m marrying.”

“Look at me swooning,” you rolled your eyes as the elevator began its descent, the silence between you settling into something almost comfortable.

The elevator doors opened, and you stepped out quickly, determined to put some space between you and him. But even as you reached the front entrance of your building, Rafe was right behind you, his hand lightly brushing against your back as he guided you toward the black car waiting at the curb.

“Such a gentleman,” you whispered sarcastically.

“I try,” he shot back, opening the car door for you. His eyes gleamed with amusement as he added, “Besides, it’s part of my job as your husband to be a gentleman towards you, right?”

You slid into the car, crossing your legs as you settled into the plush leather seat. “We’re not married yet, you do know that, right?”

“But we will be, so what’s the difference?” he said, slipping into the seat next to you. His arm stretched out along the back of the seat, brushing against your shoulder.

“Well, there’s a big difference actually…” you whispered more to yourself, smoothing down your dress as you glanced out the window, trying to ignore the way his proximity made your pulse quicken.

As the car pulled away from the curb, silence filled the space between you. You weren’t sure if it was the lingering effects of the kiss or the fact that Rafe was sitting so close, but the air felt heavy, charged with something unspoken.

“So, we’re going to La Belle, huh?” you asked, breaking the quiet.

“Yeah, you ever been there before?”

You turned to face him, raising an eyebrow. “The five-star restaurant in New York City where all the celebs go to get photographed? Of course, I’ve been there.”

Rafe grinned. “Perfect spot for our big debut, don’t you think?”

“You did your big one, bravo!” you nodded with a smile.

The car pulled to a stop outside of the restaurant, and you felt your heart skip a beat at the sight of the flashing lights. Paparazzi filled the sidewalk, their cameras already trained on the car. You took a steadying breath, feeling Rafe’s eyes on you.

“Ready?” he asked, his tone a mix of amusement and something else—concern, maybe.

You let a truthful smile spread across your lips as you met his gaze. “Fuck yeah!”

He laughed, and for a moment, you felt his hand tighten around yours, a subtle gesture of reassurance. The car door opened, and before you could second-guess anything, you felt yourself being gently tugged out into the swirl of flashing cameras, Rafe’s hand warm and steady around yours.

“Rafe! Y/N! Over here!”

“Look this way!”

“Is she your new girlfriend?”

Questions flew around, shouted from all the angles as you made your way toward the entrance. You kept your chin up, smile fixed, the years of modeling training kicking in to keep your expression calm and collected. Meanwhile, Rafe had his arm draped around your waist, his casual confidence almost comforting.

Inside the restaurant, the lighting was dim, intimate—a stark contrast to the chaos outside. The maître led you to a private table in the back corner, and as you slid into your seat, the reality of the situation settled back in.

“I felt like I almost died out there,” you said with a laugh as you glanced at the menu.

“I thought that was fun,” he said, picking up his own menu. “them thinking you’re my girlfriend when you’re about to become my wi—”

Before he could even finish his sentence, a familiar broke through his voice. “Oh, what a surprise, Y/N.”

You froze, looking up to see none other than Alina Ivanov, her polished smile almost too bright as she approached your table. Dressed in a sleek, form-fitting red dress and with her hair swept back in a low chignon, she looked like she belonged here. And, as always, her appearance felt like a subtle reminder of the rivalry she’d always tried to stir between you.

“Alina,” you said, keeping your voice polite but cool. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Rafe’s gaze flickered between you two, sensing the tension immediately. “Friend of yours?”

Alina flashed him a charming smile before turning back to you, her expression a picture of innocence. “We’re worked together a few times,” she said, not missing a beat. “I was just so surprised to see you here. It’s not every day you bring a date to places like this… or just bring dates, period.”

You kept your smile polite, though your jaw was tight. “Unlike you, am I right?”

Her eyes lingered on you for a moment too long before shifting back to Rafe. “And who might you be?”

“Rafe Cameron,” he said, his tone smooth but his gaze sharp.

“I was joking. I know who you are, silly,” Alina said, chuckling softly. “My brothers are huge fans of yours. Always telling me how you’re the one to watch on the court.”

He offered a polite nod. “Glad to hear it.”

There was a beat of silence before Alina leaned in, her eyes glinting as she looked back at you. “So, Y/N, how’s everything going with… your work?” Her tone was light, casual, but the question felt like a dig.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. “Busy as ever.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” she replied, her smile widening. “Things have been so competitive lately. But I’m sure you’re managing.” She tilted her head, her expression turning almost pitying. “Just let me know if you need any tips on balancing everything. We know what happened the last time that you were too stressed.”

For the first time in a long while, she left you speechless. Words hung on your lips, but nothing came out. A slight tremor shook your body as memories flooded back. Alina mentioning that moment…it was like a punch to the gut. You’d convinced yourself everyone had forgotten, buried it in the past. But of course, she hadn’t. How could she? It was the most humiliating, traumatizing experience of your career.

Rafe noticed the shift immediately. He always looked forward to your sharp retorts, the way you never missed a beat with your quick-witted comebacks. But now? He saw something different—a rawness, a vulnerability he hadn’t seen in you before. His chest tightened, a protective instinct flaring up, urging him to shield you from the wound Alina had reopened. He didn’t know what she meant, didn’t need to know. Your face told him everything.

Before Alina could twist the knife any deeper, Rafe stepped in, his voice low but steady, the edge unmistakable.

"Seems like she’s been doing just fine on her own," he cut in, his gaze hardening. "Haven't you seen her work lately?"

His tone was firm, no hint of the usual lightness. He didn’t look at you—he didn’t need to—but you could feel the solidarity in his words, a silent reassurance that said, I’ve got you.

Alina’s smile faltered, but she quickly recovered, brushing off his words with a delicate laugh. “Yeah, of course! I mean, I’d be hard-pressed to miss it with her face practically everywhere.” She turned to you, her gaze sharpening just a fraction. “Lucky for you, the timing’s been in your favor, huh?”

You clenched your teeth, trying to stop the trembles in your body. “Luck had nothing to do with it.”

Her smile stretched a little too wide as she inclined her head. “Oh, I totally get it, babe. Well, enjoy your night, you two.” She cast a lingering, almost possessive look at Rafe, her gaze dragging over him as though he were something she intended to claim. “And, Rafe, it was lovely meeting you. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other soon.”

Without missing a beat, Rafe’s gaze stayed anchored on you as he replied, “Doubt it.”

Alina’s expression faltered, again, before she flashed a final smile and melted back into the crowd, her perfume leaving a sickly-sweet trace in her wake. The silence that followed felt dense, almost stifling, and you could still feel the sting of her words hanging in the air like smoke. You exhaled, trying to let go of the tension that had coiled in your shoulders.

Rafe’s gaze shifted, catching yours with an intensity that softened as he studied your face. “She’s... really friendly, isn’t she?” he said with a dry chuckle.

You let out a scoff, unable to resist. “That’s one way to put it.”

Rafe smirked, his eyebrows lifting. “She always this nice?”

“Only when there’s an audience.”

Rafe’s expression shifted, his humor fading into something more thoughtful. He leaned forward, just close enough that you could catch the faint scent of his cologne, and his eyes softened as they searched yours. “If she ever gives you trouble, you let me know. I’ve got no problem shutting her up.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected note of protectiveness in his voice. The way he looked at you was something new, something unfamiliar—and it stirred something you hadn’t anticipated. “Thanks, Cameron, but I can handle the Russian princess.”

“I know you can,” he replied, his voice low, every word rich with unspoken promise. “But you’ve got a husband now to help you with these… things”

His words hung in the air, sparking a warmth in your chest that surprised you. This side of him—serious, protective, and entirely focused on you—was so different from the cocky charm he usually wore like armor. For a moment, the world around you faded, leaving just the two of you and the quiet charge humming between your gazes.

A server approached, breaking the lingering silence as they took your orders. Once they left, quiet settled between you and Rafe again, pressing down as the sounds of clinking silverware and murmured conversations filled the space around you. For a moment, you let yourself tune into the chatter of the other tables, realizing how strange it was to be here with someone you hardly knew. Sure, you knew what the media had to say about Rafe Cameron—most people did.

You thought back to what you actually knew about him. He was 25, a talented star on an NBA team, with a cocky smile. The media painted him as the consummate playboy, a regular at exclusive clubs, and someone who, judging by the number of girls he was photographed kissing, had perfected the art of fleeting connections. And yes, the tabloids had mentioned his dreamy abs.

It was a curious thought: this man across from you was, somehow, your future husband. Yet, aside from the stories, the rumors, and those dark blue eyes that sparked whenever he looked your way, what else did you know about him? You felt a pang of embarrassment.

Maybe it was because of the arrangement, maybe it was the fleeting glances across magazine covers and sports sites, but all you truly knew about Rafe Cameron could barely fill a sentence.

Finally, you couldn’t help it, you leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table as you studied him. He looked too comfortable, too at ease, like he belonged here. He was the perfect enigma: superstar athlete and notorious heartbreaker, with eyes that seemed to hold every secret and none at all.

“So, um, Rafe, what do you know about me?”

He stilled, his easygoing expression faltering for a second. You’d caught him off guard. “What do I know about you?” his fingers wrapped around the glass, as he searched for your face. “I mean, I know what people say. What I’ve seen.”

You tilted your head, waiting. “Which is?”

“That you’re the golden girl, flawless. Beautiful and nice, sure, but… it’s more than that,” his eyes traced your face, almost tender, and you felt a shiver run down your spine. “People can’t help but be in awe of you.”

A quiet breath escaped you, surprised by the way his words lingered, settling like an unexpected weight in your chest. Awe of you—it wasn’t something anyone had ever said to your face, and it sounded both charming and absurd coming from him. But something about the way he said it made you pause. You couldn’t tell if he was mocking you or if, perhaps, he actually meant it.

“So, I’m a tabloid fantasy, then?” you teased softly, trying to keep the edge of doubt in your voice.

He chuckled, but his gaze remained steady, as if searching for something hidden beneath your smile. “No, you’re more than that,” he murmured. “You’re the woman everyone wants to know, but it seems like nobody really does. Even some of my teammates can’t stop talking about you… some of them are practically in love with you. They think you’re beautiful and—”

“And would you agree?” you prompted, you didn’t why you asked. You didn’t care what he thought of you.

He hesitated, his eyes tracing over your features in a way that felt too intimate for someone you’d barely spent any time with. “You're not bad, but if you toned down the attitude and that smart mouth of yours, I might just find you beautiful.” You laughed and playfully flipped him off, earning a chuckle from him. But then his expression shifted, and he grew serious again. “But you’re nice, that’s what I wanted to say. Like, actually nice. Not the superficial stuff everyone says to stay in the good graces of the media… probably like that Alina girl who definitely pretends to be nice.”

You scoffed, but your heart betrayed you, thudding a little faster under his gaze. “Nice? You think I’m nice?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. His eyes moved slowly over your face, as if trying to peek back a layer, to see the person beneath the perfect photos and poised interviews. “You… you’ve got more edge than what people think, but still nice, you know.”

His confidence was intoxicating, an irresistible blend of cockiness and charm that made it nearly impossible to ignore the urge to close the distance between you and kiss him senseless. Tonight, he looked ridiculously good—his light yellow dress shirt with a crisp white collar, sleeves rolled up to his forearms in a way that only made you rub your thighs together. The way his black trousers hugged his figure and the subtle shine of his shine only added to the magnetic pull drawing you towards him.

A quiet stretched between you, heavy with unspoken tension, his words lingering in the air. He leaned back just enough, his guarded expression softened by the way his gaze stayed on you. “But what about you?” he asked, voice low and smooth. “What do you know about me, baby?”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, watching him with newfound curiosity. “Honestly? Not much,” you admitted. “I know you’re 25, a famous basketball star,” you narrowed your eyes, watching the way his intense gaze never wavered from you. “You’re cocky—maybe a bit too cocky sometimes—and you love pushing people’s buttons. Especially mine. You probably like it, though, huh? Seeing how we'll react.”

He let out a low chuckle. “Go on…”

“And you’re a bit of a party animal. From all the photos out there, it seems like you’ve got a new girl on your arm every week. But despite that, you’re fiercely dedicated to your sport—and you’re damn good at it. The media practically worships every move you make on the court. That’s all I have on you.”

He raised an eyebrow, a glint of intrigue in his eyes as he leaned in, again. “And what’s your conclusion?” he asked, voice lower, as if this moment was just for the two of you.

“Not much,” you replied with a slight shrug. “I don’t know anything about you, Rafe—only the version everyone else sees.”

He breathed out slowly, his expression softening as he thought about your words. “So, we’re both just media fantasies,” he said, voice a quiet murmur. His fingers brushed against yours, the contact so subtle yet electric, igniting warmth that raced up your arm and made your heart pound a little faster.

“Maybe we are…” you replied softly, glancing down at his hand resting near yours on the table, close enough to close the gap between you. “But I guess if we’re planning on getting married and all, we should probably learn a bit more about each other, don’t you think?”

“Right.” His gaze softened, and a playful gleam flickered in his eyes. “So, what do you want to know?”

You tilted your head, unable to keep the teasing edge from your voice. “Honestly? If it were up to me, I’d probably prefer not to know a thing about you.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Can’t believe no one ever warned me about that smart mouth of yours. Haven’t seen a single headline on it.”

A smirk spread across your lips. “I’m saving it for my husband,” you replied sweetly, watching his expression shift, a spark of something in his eyes that you couldn’t quite place.

“Future husband,” he corrected with a soft smile, as if savoring the words.

“Future husband, that’s right,” you nodded. “So… I guess since we’re supposed to be newly dating, we should start with the basics, right? You know, things like your favorite color, your favorite movie…”

"That makes sense. So, my favorite color’s green, but not just any green—I’m talking deep green, like the kind you see in plants," he rambled. "And I guess my favorite movie’s probably ‘The Wolf of Wall Street’—"

"Oh, my God! Liking that movie is such a douchey choice," you teased, and he laughed along.

"Alright, then—what's your favorite movie, Miss Judgey McJudgerson?"

"I'm not judging—" he shot you a look and you sighed, nodding in surrender. "Alright, fine, maybe I judged a little. But can you blame me? Anyway," you continued, a spark of excitement in your tone, "a movie I can watch on repeat? ‘Crazy, Stupid, Love’. And don't even think about making fun of it, because it’s honestly a masterpiece."

He tilted his head, feigning offense. "Oh, so ‘The Wolf of Wall Street’ isn’t a masterpiece? Is that what you're saying?"

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms as you leaned back. "Look, I’m not saying that. I’m just saying all the jerks are obsessed with that movie."

His smirk grew, eyes glinting with challenge. "The jerks, huh?" His brows raised, his gaze holding yours. "So, I’m a jerk?"

You shrugged with a mischievous smile. "If the shoe fits."

“So,” he said, “you’re telling me my taste in movies is a red flag?”

You smirked, meeting his gaze. “I mean, ‘The Wolf of Wall Street’ is practically a requirement for men with commitment issues. It’s the kind of movie someone watches to feel cool, you know?”

“Ouch.” He raised his glass, looking amused. “So what does ‘Crazy, Stupid, Love’ say about you? That you’re a sucker for impossible relationships and grand romantic gestures?”

You feigned sigh, taking the glass of wine in your hands. “Maybe. Or maybe it just says I have taste,” you glanced at him over the rim of your glass, a smile teasing at the corners of your mouth.

“Alright, alright. Enough on how shitty my taste in movies is,” he moved his hands dismissively. “Let’s focus on whether the ‘golden girl’ is a hopeless romantic. Are you?”

“Depends on who’s asking.”

“Your husband’s asking.”

You held yourself back from correcting him, and just scoffed. “I wouldn’t go that far. I just have a soft spot for movies with good storytelling, good humor, and good looking white boys.”

“You know, I might actually have a soft side for sappy movies too,” he shot back, his smile widening.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Right, and I’m the fucking queen of England.”

“What? Why? I could like them, you know.”

“Rafe, I bet you’d hate anything with a happy ending—”

“Holy shit! Rafe! My fucking dude on a date?”

The moment shattered as a voice cut through the air, loud and incredulous. Both of you turned your heads to see a tall blond guy wavering through tables with a grin as wide as the room itself.

“Topper,” Rafe muttered with a sigh and a look that bordered on agony.

“Rafe, my guy!” Topper laughed, eyes flickering between the two of you in delight. “I cannot believe my eyes. You—on a date? And with her?” He gestured to you, his excitement barely contained. “No offense, beautiful, but I thought Rafe’s only serious relationship was with basketball. You’re like a mythical creature right now.”

You fought back a laugh as Rafe shot Topper a glare, but the faint blush creeping up his neck betrayed him.

“Top,” he sighed, “aren’t you supposed to be somewhere? Literally anywhere else?”

“Oh, hell no. This is a one-in-a-million chance. Besides, I have to see this through. Rafe Cameron actually out with a woman he didn’t meet at a club? Man, this is incredible.”

Rafe pressed his fingers to his temples, visibly restraining himself from shoving his teammate out. “I swear, I’m this close to throwing you out of here.”

“Oh, come on, man,” Topper said, clapping him on the shoulder with a hearty laugh. “Don’t be like that! I mean, I thought you were incapable of going on a real date, and here you are, actually acting all gentlemanly.” He glanced at you with a grin. “So, what’s it like dating Rafe? Has he tried any of his classic lines yet?”

You shrugged with a grin of your own. “If by classic lines, you mean being generally annoying? Then yes.”

Rafe raised his eyebrow, feigning offense. “Annoying? Really?”

“Am I wrong?” You met his gaze head-on, smirking. “Every time you speak, you’re trying to get under my skin—”

“Because I want to see what that smart mouth of yours will say back to me.”

Topper laughed, completely entertained, while you just shook your head, trying not to laugh. “So, I was right. You love riling people up just to see their reactions.”

He shook his head, eyes glinting. “Not people, sweetheart. Just you.”

Your cheeks warmed despite yourself, caught off guard by his focus. You quickly recovered, scoffing, “Oh, and that’s my cue to swoon, right?”

Rafe leaned back, his smirk victorious. “Whatever works.”

Topper threw his head back, laughing, as if he’d just won the best seat at the theater. “Oh, this is good. You guys… yeah, I’m getting popcorn next time.”

Rafe gave his friend one last pointed look, his eyes practically daring his friend to stick around. “I’m serious, Top. I’m here on an actual date, so if you want to keep your teeth intact, I’d suggest moving along.”

Topper raised his hands in mock surrender, still grinning ear-to-ear. “Alrighty. But I’ve gotta say, I never thought I’d see the day you’d settle down—especially with someone who can actually keep you in line,” he gave you a wink. “Good luck, beautiful. You’ll need it with this one.”

With a final smile and a nod to you, Topper sauntered away, glancing back with an amused shake of his head as he left.

Rafe turned back to you, letting out an exasperated breath as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry about him. Subtlety isn’t exactly his strong suit.”

You grinned. “Seems like he knows you pretty well, though. I’m actually surprised he didn’t say more.”

“Top’s just not used to seeing me on a date, that’s all. He’s right, though… this isn’t my usual scene,” his eyes traced over your face, lingering on the way you smiled. “But I’m getting married, so I gotta get used to it.”

The server returned with your orders, interrupting the moment. Rafe took a bite of his food and you did the same, each of you eating in a silence as the tension between you grew stronger. Finally, he spoke.

“So, back to this hopeless romantic thing you swear you’re not,” he began, his voice light but his gaze steady. “You say you’re not, but you can’t stop watching ‘Crazy, Stupid, Love’. Are you telling me you don’t want some big, dramatic love story? A guy standing in the rain, begging for a second chance?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to play it off, though his question struck a nerve. “I mean… who wouldn’t want that? But not everyone’s looking for a grand gesture. Some of us just want someone real.”

A flicker of something flashed in his eyes. “Real, huh? So you’re looking for real?”

“Of course. That’s all anyone really wants, right?” You felt vulnerable, caught off guard by his interest in something deeper. “But real is hard to come by… especially when you’re both in the spotlight.”

Rafe’s smirk faded, and for a moment, he looked down, almost as if he were weighing your words. When he looked back up, his expression was softer, thoughtful in a way that felt almost too intimate for a first date. “Maybe that’s something we have in common then.”

Surprised, you blinked, watching as he traced the rim of his glass absently. You hadn’t expected him to say that. The Rafe you knew from headlines and public appearances was never the reflective type. And yet, here he was, letting down his guard, even if just a tiny bit.

“So, the basketball star has a soft side?” you teased, unable to resist breaking the tension. “Who would’ve guessed?”

His lips curved into a grin, smoldering. “Don’t go spreading that around. Gotta keep some mystery.”

You both continued eating in a comfortable rhythm, making light conversation about inconsequential things—places you’d been, places you still wanted to see. Each laugh that slipped out came a little easier, every smile more relaxed as you both unwound.

As the last plates were cleared and Rafe paid, you glanced over his shoulder and noticed a familiar face in the back of the restaurant. Alina Ivanov, was seated at a nearby table, staring at you both with a smirk that sent a chill down your spine. Instinctively, you looked away, pulse spiking with a mixture of irritation and unease. It felt as though you were being watched through a magnifying glass, judged, evaluated, and silently torn apart.

Rafe’s gaze followed yours, and his hand found the small of your back as he leaned in. “Don’t mind her. Let’s get out of here,” he said quietly, his voice a reassuring warmth in the sudden chill. He guided you to the door, ignoring Alina’s gaze as he led you out into the cool night air.

Outside, the city hummed around you, and Rafe’s hand lingered at your back, grounding you. The air was a welcome relief, a quiet reprieve from the intensity of the restaurant. When you reached his car, he opened the door for you, his gaze lingering on you with an unreadable intensity before he rounded the car to the driver’s side. It was a small gesture, yet oddly grounding, as if he knew exactly when to offer support without crowding you.

(The chauffeur left and let them the car.)

The car ride was a soft blur of city lights, fading into a serene silence. You leaned against the window, feeling the cool glass against your skin as you stared at the passing streets, bright with shop lights and late-night wanderers. But your mind wandered far from New York.

You thought of home—your home country, the land you hadn’t seen in far too long. Your heart ached for the family you had left behind, a pain that had quietly settled within you. You hadn’t been the perfect daughter, nor the obedient child they had wanted, but you missed them, missed your siblings. You wondered what they’d think if they saw you now—would they be proud? Or would they find this new life of yours too far from the one you left behind?

Lost in thought, you barely noticed the car slowing to a stop until Rafe’s voice broke the silence. “We’re here.”

Startled, you lifted your head, blinking as you recognized the familiar building. The faint neon sign from the bodega down the street cast a soft glow, painting the pavement in shades of blue and pink. You glanced at Rafe, his face softened in the gentle light, a calm patience in his expression as he looked at you.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said quietly, feeling a strange reluctance to leave the moment behind.

His gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes. “Anytime.” The two syllables held an unspoken promise, a rare gentleness that seemed almost out of place for him. He paused, watching you as if he wanted to say something more, but he merely gave a slight nod, lips curling in a faint smile.

You reached for the door, but his voice made you pause. “Hey.”

You turned, finding his face close, the space between you shrinking as his fingers brushed lightly against your cheek, catching you by surprise. His touch was soft, his thumb grazing over your cheekbone with an unexpected tenderness. His hand lingered, and he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek—a feather-light touch that sent warmth spiraling through you.

The kiss lasted just a moment, yet it was enough to make your heart race, to make you painfully aware of every point of contact. His breath fanned across your skin, and you could feel the faint scratch of stubble against your cheek. When he pulled back, his eyes met yours, the usual cockiness tempered with something softer, something far more real.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, a small smile ghosting his lips.

You smiled, trying to keep your composure. “Goodnight, Cameron,” you managed, feeling the warmth still lingering on your cheek, the phantom sensation of his fingers brushing against your skin.

As you stepped out of the car, you looked back once more to see him watching you, that familiar smirk playing on his lips but softened by something else, something deeper you couldn’t place. You gave a small wave, trying not to overthink the moment as he pulled away, leaving you standing in the quiet night, the warmth of his kiss still lingering on your skin.

chapter four

1K notes · View notes

nerdygeekypastrychef · 4 months ago

Text

February 22nd 1989

for the @steddiebingo kissing booth prompt: oh. OH.

Read on AO3 for full tags

a/n: tbh I can't believe that no one else has written an eddie POV for this totally real historical event. Youngins need an education. So after you read my silly little fic (please) head over to youtube and watch the video and imagine for yourself Eddie watching live. (Canon? Don't know her, never heard of her)

This prompt had a lot of versions but this was the one that demanded to be written once my (stupid, aging) body let me sit down to write.

Post Vecna-pocalypse, they needed time. Time to heal, time to bond. Time to be together. Steve’s house was the logical solution, since it was the only one big enough to fit everyone. The only one with multiple bathrooms and bedrooms, spaces to retreat when they needed time alone versus the time they spent together. And no parents.

The adults of the group, Jonathan, Nancy, Steve, Eddie, and Robin, hurting but needing all the same things that the kids needed, they gutted the house. They removed everything that Steve’s mom had decorated with before she and his dad left Hawkins years before. His parent’s master suite became the sleepover room. All furniture removed and the floor covered in mattresses, pillows, blankets, essentially a giant nest. His father’s home office was turned into a TV room, giant couch and recliners and the biggest tv that they could find.

Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan made the decision to wait on college, take a gap year or two and to stay in Hawkins with the kids until they graduated. Safety in numbers. Steve and Eddie had never planned on anything else, jokingly taking over the mantles of ‘mom and dad’ seamlessly as the kids flourished in their teens.

Sunday February 22nd, 1989 found everyone in the tv room Eddie in the center, control over the remote and the bucket of popcorn. The tv clicked over to CBS as the droning voice of the voice over person announced the 31st annual grammy awards.

“I thought awards were stupid and meaningless. Popularity contests.” Steve commented from the doorway, trying to figure out how he could steal one of the seats next to Eddie without anyone giving him shit for jostling everyone.

“Yeah, I mean, they totally are; it’s all bullshit. I stand by that. But the Grammys added a Heavy Metal category AND Metallica is gonna win and it’s history so we’re all watching. It’s like the Beatles on Ed Sullivan in 1964.” Eddie announced, shoving Dustin away from the seat to his immediate right, and gesturing at Steve to come sit close.

“I dunno about comparing this to the Beatles on Ed Sullivan but we take your point. The Show already started, we don’t need another lecture.” The commercials are annoying and cheesy, but Billy Crystal is funny and the performances are really good. When Metallica is announced and one starts to play with the explosions and sounds of gunshots, Eddie stops breathing.

The kids are completely silent for the first time ever.

During the first guitar solo, Steve can’t stop himself from leaning over and whispering that the guitarist is kinda hot. Eddie doesn’t reply beyond placing a hand on Steve’s thigh and squeezing.

Even though the song is long, Steve finds himself enraptured. There’s something about the song that pulls him in. When it ends abruptly, and Billy Crystal is back on screen telling jokes and announcing Lita Ford and Alice Cooper, Steve finds himself pulled to the edge of his seat on the couch. Eddie’s excitement is infecting the whole group. He can’t help but glance over at Robin when Lita Ford appears on screen; Robin has a type and that woman is it. He laughs at the way her mouth hangs open at the sight of her.

Metallica

AcDc

Iggy Pop

Jethro Tull

Jane’s Addiction

It’s an odd grouping that’s nominated, that’s for sure. Sort of like the academy didn’t understand what heavy metal was and just threw a bunch of names together because they were popular.

Alice Cooper pulls a rubber snake from inside his jacket and hands it to Lita Ford before he finds the envelope. He opens the envelope and announces the winner. Steve thinks that even when his house was empty it had never been so silent.

“JETHRO TULL????!!!” the words echo through every room in the house, indeed right out the windows and into the neighbor’s houses. Birds settling on nearby roofs are disturbed and take off in flight. Some very conservative rich people were about to learn about one of the more interesting bands of the 1970’s and 80’s.

The kids scatter. No one wants to deal with what is sure to be an epic Eddie meltdown. Steve just turns so that the ear with the most hearing damage is facing Eddie’s handsome, but red with anger face.

“Jethro. Tull.” Eddie says again, blinking at the now dark tv screen. One of the smarter kids obviously turned it off as they ran for safety.

“The first ever heavy metal grammy was awarded to Jethro Tull by Lita Ford and Alice Cooper.” Steve nods but stays silent; Eddie doesn’t need anyone else in this conversation, he’s doing just fine on his own.

“Well, a flute is made of metal. Maybe that’s what they were thinking when they gave it to Jethro Tull.” Steve has to bite down hard on his tongue to keep his face neutral as Eddie’s deep brown eyes suddenly focus on his face. Steve blinks but betrays no emotion.

“Steve. Stevie. Steve.” Steve squints at Eddie’s face.

“You know, like how glam is just metal with lipstick? People get them confused.”

Eddie’s mouth drops open and Steve carefully doesn’t laugh.

“Steve Harrington I am not in the mood for a boner right now, I’m gonna need you to stop talking intelligibly about music for a second and let me be ridiculous about this.”

Steve shook his head and blinked at Eddie for a moment trying to pull some thoughts into his head. He watched as Eddie fully realized what he said and his adorable face turned pink and then red with embarrassment.

“You get boners about me?” Steve asked and then looked down at his hands. That was not what he’d planned to ask. He looked back up to see if Eddie was going to answer and saw Eddie hesitantly nod yes.

“Oh. OH. Me too!” Steve practically yelled and Eddie’s head tilted to the side in confusion.

“You… get boners about yourself?” Eddie asked and Steve’s enthusiasm calmed down so that he could explain himself.

“No, about you! I’ve wanted you forever. It’s been so hard to have you so close all the time but not, like, close enough.” Eddie snickered at the word ‘hard’ and Steve smiled back at him.

“Wait! If I want you and you want me then what the fuck are we doing talking in the tv room?” Eddie asked as he shoved himself up off the couch and all the way into Steve’s personal space. Steve brushed their lips together then asked, “What about the Grammys? Aren’t you still mad, or whatever?”

“Fuck the Grammys, Steve Harrington wants me.”

#k writes #steddie #feelings realization #getting together #based around true historical events #steddiebingo #steddiebingokissingbooth

30 notes · View notes

tofics · 1 year ago

Text

Out Of This World

Chapter 1

Masterlist

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x fem!Reader x Dean Winchester

Summary: You and the Mikaelsons are fighting a powerful witch that's trying to take over New Orleans. The only solution: banishment to another universe. However, the spell goes... wrong, and it's not the witch that ends up in another universe, but you. - At the same time, over a thousand miles away in a bunker in Lebanon, Kansas, an alarm goes off: a rift has opened up. The Winchesters and their angel partners in crime decide to investigate. What will they find when they get to New Orleans?

Word count: 4949 words

Warnings: cursing, violence, murder, mention of blood, allusions of panic attacks.

You skidded around the corner, barely missing a stack of cardboard boxes by an inch. You jumped around it, almost flying past the pile. Your blood was rushing in your ears, your heart almost jumping out of your chest, pumping the adrenaline through your body. Behind you, you heard the evil snicker of your persecutor, hard on your heels. Before you knew it, you reached a wall that cut off your path abruptly. A dead end. You were cornered.

Slowly, you turned around. There she was, a sneer cutting across her face. Despite the few feet between you, you could see the glint in her dark eyes. Again, the witch laughed triumphantly.

"Really? An evil laugh for an evil witch? How terribly cliché," you pressed out between two wheezes. There was a sharp stitch on your right side. Running had never been your thing anyway. You leaned down and rested your hands on your knees while trying to catch your breath. Once this is over, you really have to get into better shape, you told yourself.

The witch was still sneering at you, taking her sweet time to make a move on you. You could imagine that she was enjoying this thoroughly. What started as a challenge for power, trying to dethrone Niklaus and his siblings as rulers of the French Quarter, had resulted in a bloody, messy, magical war. For months, she had been threatening the Mikaelsons and everyone that stood by them. Where threats didn't work, death followed. Quite a few of the Mikaelson's closest followers and allies had lost their lives to the woman in front of you, and yet, you were sure to rank high on her win list: as Elijah's girlfriend, she'd probably enjoy your death a lot more than any of her previous kills. This particular death would strike them hard. Shake them to the core. Possibly - hopefully - destabilize them to a point where they'd fall apart from within and she could easily pluck them apart, one by one, until all of the siblings where gone.

"Not even a true Mikaelson, and yet you're just as snarky as the rest of them. What an obnoxious trait. So full of yourself, all of you. It's a disease. But, not to worry. I'll have that cured in no time," the witch quipped back at you, with so much sweetness in her voice that it made you gag.

"Who's full of herself now?" you muttered to yourself. The sorceress in front of you tsk-ed at you and got into casting stance. She reached into her cloak and brought a fistful of something to her mouth before blowing into her closed fist. Black dust spewed out from between her fingers and hung in the air in front of her like black glitter. You straightened at the sight of her palms turning towards you, the first few words of a spell that was sure to bring you death (and a painful one at that) slowly meandering out from between her lips like a snake, inching itself towards its victim relentlessly.

Okay, feel free to intervene any second now, you thought, trying not to glance around for the rescue that you knew was coming. This plan had been weeks in the making and you weren't about to foil it by giving anything away by accident. Soft dark clouds, looking like droplets of black ink in water were forming around you, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Your eyes began to water as the dark vapor drifted closer and started to engulf you. It stung in your nose, giving off a terrible sulfur stench. You tried your best not to inhale it, but soon you were completely enveloped in the black mist. The first breath burned a straight trail down into your lungs and set them on fire. You began to cough, grasping at your throat, slowly choking on the dark magic the witch was blanketing you with.

Your lungs felt like they were on fire, both from the growing lack of oxygen and the vapor that was eating itself into you. Your legs started to give out underneath you and you fell to your knees as you gasped for air.

Any... second... now... you thought, every word feeling heavy in your brain, as if every word weighed a ton. Just as your vision started to flicker and blur, you registered movement out of the corner of your eye. Something whisked past you from behind you at top speed. You heard an "oomph", followed by the sound of a body being smacked to the ground. Almost instantaneously, the black vapor that surrounded you fizzled away and fresh air finally streamed into your lungs.

You wheezed and sputtered, now on your hands and knees as snot dripped out of your mouth and mixed with your tears and spit on the ground. You were relieved to finally be breathing oxygen again, your lungs however still felt like they were on fire and your throat was about as dry as sand paper.

While you were catching your breath, a lot of action was happening in front of you. Klaus had tackled the witch to the ground and Elijah had shackled her, rendering her immobilized. He grabbed her by her collar and dragged her up against the left wall of the alley. Meanwhile, Freya came out from behind the boxes you had almost run into, hands up and feverishly mumbling, casting the incantation that was supposed to free you all of the witch's evil.

You felt a hand on your back first, and then you were lifted to your feet. Hayley was on your left and Jackson was to your right; both of them had an arm slipped through yours to hold you steady. They shot you concerned looks as you were still struggling for breath. You weakly smiled back as a gesture of I'm okay, don't worry about me.

Freya continued casting in front of you. Her voice grew louder and stronger with each word. Despite clearly being outnumbered, the evil sorceress laughed, seemingly amused by Freya's casting.

"Silence." Elijah's eyes were dark with fury as he ordered the witch to quiet, but her laugh just turned shrill before Klaus struck her across the face. Her laugh briefly sputtered as she sunk down, forced to her knees by the force of the blow. Blood dripped from her split lip and smeared across her teeth. It turned her sneer into a bloody grimace.

"You're making a grave mistake, Niklaus Mikaelson."

Now it was Niklaus' turn to laugh.

"I doubt it, Athea." He bend down on one knee in front of her. "On the contrary, actually. You know, I've got my fair share of enemies in this town. But even they have agreed that we must rid this beautiful city of this plague." Niklaus grabbed Athea by the jaw and locked it in place so she was eye to eye with him. "Now, since we cannot seem to kill you - a very annoying obstacle, I must say - we had to find a different way to get rid of you, didn't we."

Freya started to stumble, the weight of the casting taking its toll on her. Immediately, Elijah was by her side and put a hand on her shoulder. It steadied her in more than just one way. She was reaching the pinnacle of the incantation and needed her brothers' power to cast the final piece of it.

"Klaus? Less talking, more killing?!" Hayley called out from next to you. Klaus smiled in return and got back on his feet to join his brother at Freya's side.

"Right you are, little wolf. I so wish we could drag this out, but alas, time is of the essence. Farewell, Athea. You will not plague this world ever again." Klaus put his hand on Freya's open shoulder with a content smile on his face.

Freya started on the last few sentences of the spell. The air in the alley started to flicker like heat over pavement on a hot day. The hair on the back of your neck started to stand up as you felt a buzzing sensation all around you, as if someone had charged the air with electricity.

Then, Freya spoke the final words. For a moment, everything in your vision seemed to sharpen. It was eerily quiet.

Then, a massive beam of light erupted from all around you, turning the world into nothing but a bright white.

Over a thousand miles away from New Orleans, in a bunker in Lebanon, Kansas, an alarm went off. The buzzing sound vibrated through the entire place, accompanied by the red flashes of warning lights.

"Oh, what now," Dean Winchester growled. He had just begun to sort through his equipment that he'd need for the next few hours: a whole day of working on the cars in the garage of the bunker. Throw in some beers and some rock music, and you had Dean's favorite kind of day off. They'd just come back from a hunt the day before and he had been looking forward to fixing what needed fixing and mending what needed mending. He went into auto-mode when working on a car; it took his mind off things and allowed him to relax.

Dean put the wrench down that he was holding and wiped his hands on the cloth stuck in his waistline. He sighed. "Can't get one damn day of peace around here," he mumbled to himself and left the garage to head to the war room.

When he arrived, he found his brother Sam and both the angels Castiel and Jack already gathered around the map table. As he approached it, he could make out a blinking light at the south of the United States.

"What is it?" Dean peered at the speckle of light blinking feverishly on the map. Sam answered him. "It's... a rift." He looked around at the men gathered the table before he scratched his neck. "I guess the update does work. This is the first one to pop up since we tweaked the settings. At least the first one to be registered."

"Where is it?" Jack, the younger of the angels chimed in. He leaned forward to get a better look at the map. "From what I can tell... New Orleans." Sam replied after checking a few parameters. There were a few seconds of silence between the men before Dean cleared his throat. "Alright." He rubbed a hand over his face as if trying to wipe the exhaustion away that was written all over it, but to no avail. He looked exhausted and worn down. "Guess we have no choice but to check it out. Cas, get your things, we're leaving in thirty. Sam, you stay here with Jack and keep an eye on the table, 'case few more of these turn up. We'll call you if we need back up." Sam nodded and sat down to check through the table's settings while Jack slowly sunk into the chair next to him. There was a hint of disappointment in the young angel's eyes, but he didn't disagree with Dean. He knew that the older Winchester didn't fully trust him and that he had to keep his head down to earn that trust back.

Castiel and Dean left the war room in direction of their respective rooms to gather their belongings for the trip. Once they were out of earshot, Castiel leaned over to Dean. "What do you think this means?" Dean shook his head in response. "I've got no idea, but it can't be good."

The explosion of light faded just as quickly as it had started. Your eyes took a moment to adjust. Black spots danced in your field of vision and there was a penetrating ringing sound in your ears. You moaned and held your head as you stumbled around while your body tried to recover. Slowly, the ringing faded away to a barely noticeable hum and your vision cleared up too.

Once you could clearly see, you stood up straight. Your brain took a moment to register what your subconscious had picked up on within nano-seconds: something was wrong. Where just a moment ago Elijah, Freya and Klaus had stood, there was no one. Hayley and Jackson were gone from your side as well. Even the witch wasn't there. Athea's disappearance was somewhat comforting - after all, that had been the goal all along - but your stomach churned at the sight of the empty spots where your family and friends should have been.

Did the spell transport all of them? you wondered while temporarily frozen in place. It was like your body had to catch up to what your brain was processing. A slow sensation of panic crept up your spine and filled your limbs with an unpleasant tingling sensation. This hadn't been part of the plan. They weren't all supposed to disappear. Just Athea. "Okay, breathe," you told yourself and forced yourself to follow your own order. You took a few deep breaths and unclenched the fists that your hands had formed into, stretching out your fingers a couple of times before you quickly shook your shoulders loose. You can figure this out.

For a lack of a better option, you head towards the entrance of the alley. Perhaps they got thrown back by the power of the spell, you mused. After all, you'd been further away from Athea and the siblings. That didn't explain Hayley and Jackson's disappearance, but you figured you had to start somewhere.

Your legs were still a bit wobbly, presumably from both the near-death experience of choking on magical vapor as well as being light-bombed. You took it slow, taking your time with each step until you were sure that you wouldn't keel over. The extra time it cost you to reach the entry of the alleyway gave you plenty opportunity to inspect your surroundings for any clues about where your people might have disappeared to. You looked around for any signs of foul play while the never-ending feeling that something, something just wasn't right nagged at you. Something was off.

That's when it hit you.

Your stomach lurched as you reached the entrance of the alley where you'd carried out your big plan and you realized what exactly was wrong. There had been spray paint on the wall behind where Klaus had tackled Athea to the floor. Nothing groundbreaking, just a tag someone had quickly sprayed on the bricks. Now, however, the wall was bare. It was still the same old brick wall, covered in specks of dirt here and there, but there was no spray paint on it. The stack of boxes that you'd almost knocked over was also missing. It should have been to your left, but it wasn't. In fact, there wasn't a single card-box in sight. The alleyway wasn't exactly 'clean', but it wasn't nearly as packed with litter and trash as it had been just a few moments ago.

"No... no, no, no, no." Your whisper grew more panicked with each syllable. The faint humming sound in your ears picked back up as your blood began to rush through your body again. Panic rose in your chest and tightened its grip until you felt like you couldn't breathe, oxygen be damned.

The spell had worked. They had successfully sent someone to an alternate universe, just like they had planned. It just wasn't Athea who'd been transported from one universe to another.

It was you.

Elijah experienced the finale of their plan take place on various levels. He heard Freya cast the last piece of the incantation. He felt it, too, the energy that flowed through his and his brothers arm into Freya, their conduct for the spell. Once his sister spoke the final words he felt a massive tug on his lifeforce, taking a piece so big that if he wasn't immortal, he was sure he wouldn't have survived it. They had known that the spell they had found was ancient, dark magic. The scripture had made vague points about how costly it was, but they had been sure that with his and Klaus' energy combined, they'd be able to supply Freya with all the mana that was required for the incantation to work. Still, the final piece of the cut into him with a kind of force that he'd never experienced before. It forced him to his knees and weakened his senses all at once.

Elijah didn't know if his vision blurred or if it was the air around him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Klaus go down as well. Almost the same second the energy was sucked out of him, he felt it in the air around him, charged and ready to explode at the slightest spark. He moaned, unable to move. His hand was stuck to his sister's shoulder through her magic. It felt like it had fused to Freya and they were now linked together for eternity, hand to shoulder and shoulder to hand. The energy around him grew denser and pressed on him, it trickled over his skin and left sizzling trails.

Elijah's muscles spasmed under the electric force and he groaned. A buzzing sound had built in the back of his head and was now stretching toward his frontal lobe, where it pressed against the bone of his skull from the inside. He thought his head might explode until suddenly, everything became very still, like the quiet before a storm. It lasted for about a nano-second until the energy that had condensed around him blew up and drenched the world in light until all he could see was white.

When he came to, Elijah was on the ground. Pieces of pebble were piercing through his skin where it had become exposed from his suit shifting. The buzzing sound had given away to a ringing in his ears and the growing pressure on his skull was gone. Instead it was replaced by a booming hammering sensation that sent rhythmic thrills of pain through his head. He groaned and shifted his weight so he could sit up. His eyes were still sensitive to the light and he had to partially shield them so that he could see anything, despite the light in the alley having returned to normal.

He first saw Freya. She was down on her hands and knees, shaking and panting. Next to her was Niklaus, who seemed to be recovering from the same ordeal as Elijah; the spell had knocked him out flat as well.

Elijah's gaze drifted forward. He felt the area under his eyes trickle as anger shot through him. There, hunched against the wall, lay Athea. She seemed to have been knocked back into the bricks by the force of the spell as blood was running down from the back of her head. Elijah smelled it, but it wasn't the reason for his vamp face to come to the surface. It was his anger, mixed with frustration. Clearly, the spell had worked. They'd paid the price for sure. He couldn't be killed, but he felt like he was just about as close to dying as he could be as an immortal.

So why was she still here? What had gone wrong?

He rose to his feet, fueled by anger, frustration and worry. Athea may temporarily be blacked out, but she would soon come to and he knew what she'd do then. He staggered over to the witch and grabbed her by the hair to pull her close. He was tempted to rip into her throat right then and there, to watch her lifeforce spill out of her and form a puddle beneath her useless body. But he knew it was no use. The Mikaelsons had learned soon enough that Athea had set herself up good and made sure that she couldn't be killed. Not for long, anyway. She always came back.

Elijah snarled and pushed her head back, appalled by the woman in front of him. She'd caused him and his family so much pain over the last few months and he wanted to see her pay for it. This spell had been their last hope. He had no idea what he was going to do now. How he was going to protect his family, or Hayley. How he was going to protect you.

"What... what happened?" Freya coughed behind him and crawled over to them.

"It didn't work! That's what happened!" Klaus shouted, his voice full of fury. His brother had always had a temper, but this time, Elijah felt it was justified.

"It did work, Klaus. You felt it. The spell worked. I don't understand why she's still here." Freya crawled closer to inspect Athea's unconscious body.

"Clearly, it bloody didn't! This was all for nothing!" Klaus' rage was boiling and he took it out on the wall in front of him. His fist left a cracked imprint on the bricks.

"Niklaus," Elijah warned. Niklaus' anger may have been justified, but there was no time for antics. They had to come up with a plan and they had to do it now.

"Elijah?" Hayley's voice was tinged with fear. He began to turn around to console her. "It's alright, Hayley, we'll find a w-" He abruptly stopped when he spotted the gap between Hayley and Jackson. Both of them were still standing as if they'd just been holding you up a second ago, each of them with a raised arm that had been looped through yours. Elijah got up and walked over to them as if in trance.

"Where's Y/N?" he asked. Neither Hayley nor Jackson answered him. They had no answer. Elijah rolled his sleeves up as if getting ready for battle. It was a subconscious move, a displacement activity. He felt the gnawing feeling of panic set in in his stomach.

"Hayley. Where's Y/N?" he repeated in a calm, quiet demeanor. His auto-pilot was taking over. Hayley looked at him and he saw the shock and fear in her eyes. "She... Elijah, she disappeared..." she whispered as tears welled in her eyes.

Elijah stumbled back as if her words had struck him in the face.

"No... no..." Freya was coming up behind him and stared at the spot between the two wolfs where you had been standing just a few moments ago. "But... that's impossible! It's not possible! The spell was customized to Athea, not Y/N!"

"Freya." Although Elijah said her name like a statement, the unspoken question hung in the air. His sister turned to look at him. Fear and confusion were battling for dominance on her face. "Elijah, I don't know what happened. It's not possible. None of the words I said even remotely referred to Y/N. I have no idea how..." She trailed off. Then laughter came from behind them.

"You fools! I told you you were making a grave mistake! Ha ha ha!" Athea cackled as they turned around to her. Blood was still running from her mouth and her face appeared sunken in, with dark circles forming under her eyes. She continued to laugh while she occasionally sputtered and coughed up more blood.

Klaus was the first to react. He whooshed over to her side and grabbed her by the scalp. "What did you do, you useless bitch?" he snarled at her, but Athea just kept on laughing.

"Did you really think I was going to walk into your trap like that?" Athea sneered at Klaus as a red line trickled from her mouth. Again she coughed and spat out more blood.

"No... how...?" Freya's eyes widened in shock as she registered the meaning behind Athea's words. She'd known all along what they had been up to and had somehow... what? Manipulated the spell? "A spell of this character can't be manipulated! She doesn't have the power! I needed you two to even try to pull it off and even then we weren't sure it was gonna work. There's no way she could have altered it on her own." Freya was thinking out loud while she paced around.

"Then how did she do it? Did she have help?" Jackson's rusty voice cut in. He looked around as if he anticipated a line of enemies to come out of hiding at any second and attack them.

"I don't think so. A circle to back her up would have needed to be massive and they'd have needed to be physically attached to her, like Klaus and Elijah touched me. No, she..." Again, Freya trailed off and hesitated for a moment, then she quickly walked over to Athea.

Their enemy witch looked worse by the second. Her skin had taken on a greyish tone and the circles under her eyes had turned a dark purple. Her face, however, still had a stoic, defiant expression all over it. Freya knelt in front of her and grabbed the sorceress by the shoulder. "How did you do it? How did you hijack the spell? That's the only way you could've done it!" she shouted and shook the woman in front of her. The commotion caused Athea to cough again and blood splattered across her chest. She gave Freya a crimson red smile. "Wouldn't you like to know, Freya Mikaelson."

Klaus wrapped a hand around Athea's throat and squeezed slightly. "Tell us what you did, or I'll rip your head off right here and now." His fingers pressed into her throat with more force now, visibly obstructing the witch's airflow. She gasped for air but still... smiled. "Don't waste your strength on me, Niklaus. My time has come anyway." She gasped and coughed again before she continued. "I knew what you had planned and I knew I didn't have enough power to stop the spell. I knew my time in this world was coming to an end, but I wasn't going to go without a fight." She wheezed and the air in her lungs rattled and blubbered. "What did you do!" Klaus shook her by the throat as his voice echoed through the alleyway.

"I hijacked the spell," Athea replied hoarsely and gave another of her bloody smiles. There was a sense of triumph in voice. "But how?" Freya implored. She had no idea how a spell of this character could be manipulated, let alone hijacked. Unless... Athea cackled. "A good witch never reveal's all her secrets. Isn't that what the mortals say?" Klaus tightened his grip on Athea's throat and pushed her up the wall. Her entire weight was now on Klaus' grip around her neck; her feet dangled a few inches above the ground. "There's nothing good about you, you old crone," he growled. "Enough chitchat. Tell us what you did, or I'll rip you apart limb by limb, no matter how many times it takes until you sing." The witch didn't reply. She gasped for air, but her hands didn't claw at Klaus' hand like any other person might've done. Below them, Freya knelt down and inspected the ground. She soon found what she was looking for and rubbed a pinch of the black powder between her fingers.

"Klaus." The hybrid didn't relent his grip on Athea's throat, so Freya started again. "Klaus, it's no use. She's dying anyway." "Whatever do you mean?" Elijah approached the three of them from behind. Hayley and Jackson followed on his heel. "Just what I said. She's dying." His sister held out her hand to him and showed him the black stains. "When I was still with Daliah, she once told me about the myth about the fruit of the tree of life. Supposedly you could use its dried remnants to redirect any spell or curse thrown at you with ease, but no one had found a fruit in centuries. It was presumed to have gone extinct." Freya gestured over to Athea as she continued. "I have no idea how she got one... but this is what she must have used to redirect the spell to Y/N."

"Okay, great, that's one question answered. But why is she dying? I thought she couldn't die?" Hayley defensively crossed her arms in front of her chest. "She can't, not in a traditional way. But this spell is so old and so powerful, it overwrites any other spell. It becomes the default setting. Any power that she invested into enchantments to secure her life must have been redirected into our incantation, to uphold her end of the bargain, so to say. She traded Y/N for herself. Even if she only hijacked the spell and didn't try to counter it, it must have cost massive amounts of mana." The Mikaelson witch paused and briefly looked down. "So much, in fact, that all of her previous enchantments weren't enough. So she's paying with her life."

"Aren't you a clever little witch. It's a pity Dahlia lost control over you. We could have benefited from a clever one like y-" Athea was abruptly cut off when Elijah zoomed over to her and ripped off her head. It fell to the ground with a soft thump and rolled a couple of times before coming to a halt a few feet away from its previous body.

"Freya," Elijah said as he got his handkerchief out and cleaned a few bloody stains from his hand. "Tell me you know how to bring Y/N back, now that you've discovered the reason for this... mishap." The threat in his voice wasn't meant for his sister. He'd stared at the bodiless head on the ground as he had spoken.

"That's just it, brother. I have no idea."

A/N: It's here! I'm so excited! 🥳 This was so much fun to write and I can't wait to get started on the next chapter. This one got kind of long, but I felt that that was necessary to set the whole story up properly. The next chapter(s) might not be as long 😅 Depending on how much time I can find in the next days it should be up by next week.

Continue reading here: Chapter 2

Feedback is greatly appreciated! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist ☺️

Taglist:

@vicmc624 @foreverrandomwritings

201 notes · View notes