#What sharp teeth queue have!

[purplereina11]

You go to your cousins wedding in Spain, and you catch the eye of the Alexia Putellas, she unintentionally becomes your plus one

Wordcount: 12.6k

You're standing in the queue at Heathrow, passport in hand, half-asleep and already regretting the jeans you chose. It’s too early to be alive, and your little brother has been humming the same four bars of a song for the past ten minutes. Loudly off-key.

Your mum's elbow nudges you in the ribs. Not hard, but enough to knock you out of your daze.

“This’ll do you good,” she says in that gently smug way she does when she’s convinced she’s right about something. “A bit of sunshine. A bit of space.”

You sigh and don’t reply, you know exactly what she’s getting at. She doesn't mention her name, your ex, but the meaning is clear. A change of scenery, to get you out of your 'mood.' As if Catalonian air can magic away the sting of being ghosted by someone you thought you were building something with.

You blink down at your boarding pass. Terminal 5. Gate B42. Barcelona.

“She wasn’t right for you anyway,” your mum continues, adjusting her sunglasses on top of her head. “Always seemed a bit… slippery, that one. Eyes like a fox.”

“Mum,” you say, through gritted teeth.

“What? I’m just saying. Bit of flirt, wasn’t she?”

“She literally met you twice.”

“Exactly.”

Your dad, mercifully, steps in before the conversation spirals into a psychoanalysis of your entire romantic history.

“Let’s not start the holiday with an inquisition, yeah?” he says, dragging your youngest brother out from behind a pillar where he’s been attempting to lick the marble for reasons unknown.

You glance around at your family two younger brothers already wrestling each other, your dad with travel pillow marks on his face, your mum clutching everyone's passports like the Queen of Organisation and you, heart slightly bruised, clothes slightly rumpled, off to a Spanish wedding that promises at least one full-blown breakdown yours or your cousin’s fiancé, you’re not sure yet.

Carmen is a professional footballer, espresso snob, and absolute beast at board games has been around for years. From the moment your cousin Ben introduced her at that bonfire party, you liked her. She’s sharp, a bit sarcastic, and surprisingly sweet when no one’s looking. You’ve had your fair share of deep chats with her during family holidays, usually while Ben’s off being loud somewhere nearby with your brothers and his own.

You’d even go as far as to call her a friend now one of the good ones. The kind of person who sends you memes at 2am and somehow remembers your favourite wine. You’ve never watched her play football, though. You always promised you would, and she always shrugged and said she understood you didn't get the appeal.

Apparently, several of Carmen’s teammates are flying in for the wedding. Some big names, your brothers are already buzzing about maybe meeting actual professional athletes. You couldn’t care less.

Well. That’s what you tell yourself, but somewhere in the back of your mind, curiosity stirs you've seen the players they've been showing your mum they hope go because they have questions they want to ask.

As the plane begins boarding, your mum gives your arm a little squeeze. “You’re going to have fun, love. You’ll see.”

You nod, but you’re not so sure. You’re jetting off to a country where you can only ask where the library is, to watch someone else marry a woman of his dreams after a lengthy relationship while yours just fell apart.

Still, the thought of warm air, Carmen’s familiar face, and a weekend away from everything you know? That has a certain appeal.

Maybe you’ll flirt badly with a local waitress. Maybe you’ll dance with a stranger. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll learn to say something more useful in Spanish than 'Dónde está la biblioteca?'

You file onto the plane with your family, shuffle into your seat, and try not to think too hard, your ear phones go in and you edit some posts and reels for your instagram account.

☀️

You’re sat by the pool, legs crossed, laptop in front of you more for show than function. You told yourself you’d catch up on a few things before the garden party tonight, maybe answer some emails, but the screen’s been idle for ages. The cursor just blinks, smugly, while your brain drifts off somewhere warmer than home but not quite relaxed either.

Your jumper lies in a crumpled heap behind you, abandoned the second you stepped into the sun. It’s still got the faint scent of Heathrow on it, rain, recycled air, something sterile. At 4:30 this morning, it had felt like a good decision, now, sitting under a Mediterranean sky in a soft cotton co-ord bralette the same pale grey-blue as your joggers and jumper you feel more put together than you intended.

The pool in front of you glitters in the heat, somewhere beyond the villa walls, a lawn mower hums faintly. Inside, you can hear your mum trying to figure out the coffee machine, and the boys are already arguing over who’s getting top bunk in the guest house.

Then a shadow falls across your laptop.

You look up.

“Hola, guapa.” Carmen smiles down at you, barefoot, sun kissed, effortlessly relaxed. She’s wearing a loose white shirt tied at the waist and denim shorts that somehow make her look like a travel ad. Her hair is up in a knot and there’s a soft flush to her cheeks, sun or excitement, you’re not sure which.

You return the smile and reach up as she leans down for a hug, the kind that lingers just a second longer than polite. Familiar, warm. She's always hugged like she means it.

“Hey,” you say, settling back again. “You ready?”

She sits on the edge of the lounger next to you, dragging a towel across her lap like she might actually get in the water but never does, “I’m nervous,” she admits, shielding her eyes from the sun. “But I just want it to happen already, you know? Then also... I want everything to slow down. Like, I want to bottle this part.”

You nod, understanding more than you expected to. “Yeah. You’ve waited ages for this.”

“Nineteen months,” she says, pulling a face. “Ben’s been counting like he’s on parole.”

You laugh softly. “It’ll all be perfect. You two are kind of annoyingly great together.”

Carmen tilts her head. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” you say honestly. “You’re weird in exactly the same ways. It works.”

She lets out a breath and smiles again, this time softer. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

You mean it, too. Whatever’s been clinging to you since the breakup, the weird quietness you carry around like a second skin, it feels lighter here. Carmen has always been easy to talk to, the kind of person who doesn’t need you to be funny or impressive. She just gets it and you like her for that.

“There’s a garden thing tonight,” she says, standing and brushing invisible specks of dust off her knees. “Family and friends. Chill drinks, some food. Nothing fancy, but come down, yeah? Everyone’s arriving.”

You blink up at her, briefly thrown. “What, like... everyone everyone?”

“Not all at once,” she grins. “But enough. My parents, your gran, Ben’s work mates, some of my teammates and friends... it’ll be good vibes. You might even enjoy yourself.”

You groan lightly and flop back onto the lounger. “I’ll come if I can wear something that doesn’t involve a bra.”

“Totally allowed,” she calls over her shoulder, already walking away. “It’s Spain. No one cares.”

You watch her disappear through the French doors and then glance back at your screen. You close the laptop.

You lean back, eyes closed, face to the sky, the breeze carries the scent of jasmine and the sound of familiar voices starting to gather, you just hoped you had an outfit you liked yourself in for tonight

☀️

The villa’s garden is bathed in early evening light, all golden edges and long shadows. Lanterns sway gently between olive trees, and fairy lights snake along the trellises like fireflies caught in ivy. The air is warm, sweet with something citrusy, and the music is low just enough to make people sway slightly as they talk.

You’re holding a glass of white wine and trying not to wobble in your heels on the uneven stone path. The dress you threw on soft blue with little embroidered daisies moves just enough when you walk to make you feel like you made the right choice. You’ve even got mascara on, minimal effort, but effort was made.

You spot Carmen deep in conversation near the buffet, her hands moving animatedly. Ben’s nearby, already slightly tipsy and laughing with his best mate. There’s an easy glow to everything, like this moment might belong in someone’s memory forever.

You wander a little, sipping your wine, exchanging polite hellos with people you half-recognise from photos. Some of them are Carmen's family, some are her friends. Some are very clearly footballers, you’re not sure which is more intimidating the ones who look like they bench-press you for breakfast, or the ones who are stunning in a terrifying, should be model kind of way.

Then someone taps your arm. “Hey! There you are.”

You turn and grin immediately. “Patri!”

Patri Guijarro pulls you into a hug, warm and soft. She’s in a flowy dress and trainers, and somehow still looks like she could outrun everyone here. You’d met her on the English hen do a couple of months ago, after a lot of prosecco and an aggressively chaotic karaoke session. She was surprisingly funny, soft-spoken, and spent half the night teasing Carmen lovingly in Spanish you didn’t understand.

“You look good,” she says, in accented but clear English.

“You too,” you reply. “I almost didn’t recognise you without a disco ball behind your head.”

She laughs. “That club was scary.”

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m still recovering emotionally.”

You drift into easy conversation, she asks about your flight, your family, your job and you ask about training, the wedding prep you knew she'd been heavily involved in, how Carmen’s been holding up. It’s the kind of chat that soothes your nervous system, friendly, just what you needed.

Your eyes wander absently across the garden, and pause and there she is. Leaning against the low stone wall, just beyond the lanterns talking to someone, holding a drink, dressed in something simple and sleeveless. Her hair’s tied up in a lazy knot, and there’s a single gold chain around her neck catching the last of the light.

She looks over, it’s not dramatic, it’s not slow motion, no string quartet starts playing but she meets your eyes like really meets them and you smile. Purely instinctively, the polite kind polished, low-stakes, casual.

She doesn’t smile back exactly but she doesn’t look away either.

There’s a beat too long that passes and you start to wonder if you’re supposed to say something. Raise your glass? Nod? Then she looks away, quickly, like someone just called her name.

You blink, flustered. Not visibly, but enough that your chest flickers like someone lit a match inside it. You glance at Patri, who’s still talking, oblivious. You nod along, try to focus, but your eyes drift back to the stone wall.

Alexia is still there, only now she’s half-turned, back toward you, someone’s laughing beside her. She’s not looking your way, but something about her shoulders, the slight stiffness, makes you wonder. Did she actually blush or was it just the heat and your imagination.

☀️

You're sat at a long wooden table under the vines, plates scattered with half-eaten tapas patatas bravas, olives, jamón, little toasted things you can’t pronounce but keep eating anyway. Your youngest brother is trying to stack anchovy tins, your dad’s telling a story you’ve already heard twice today, and the wine is just beginning to buzz behind your eyes in that soft, slow way that makes everything feel slightly tilted and golden.

You’re halfway through a garlic prawn when someone crouches beside you, lightly pressing a hand to your arm.

It’s Carmen. “Hey,” she says, voice just for you, eyes dancing a little. “Alexia just asked me about you.”

You pause mid-chew, swallow and sip your wine. “Who’s Alexia?” you ask casually, glancing at her over the rim of your glass.

Carmen’s eyebrows lift like she’s caught you in a lie. “You don’t know who Alexia is?”

You shake your head. “I don’t follow women’s football. I barely watch your team.”

She snorts. “You’re the only person at this wedding who doesn’t know her name. That’s kind of amazing.”

You raise an eyebrow, half amused. “Is that a good thing?”

“It might be,” she says, smirking.

Then she tilts her head, just slightly, and gestures subtle, practiced. Her fingers barely move, but your eyes follow the motion across the garden and there she is. Gold chain, sleeveless dress, that same loose knot in her hair. She’s standing by the drinks table now, laughing softly at something someone said, a glass of red wine in hand. The twilight’s catching on her collarbones, her expression is relaxed but not careless like someone used to being watched but never quite performing.

“That’s Alexia,” Carmen murmurs. You try not to stare, so you look back at Carmen instead, Carmen grins. “She noticed you before.”

You make a noncommittal sound and jab your fork at a tomato, trying not to overthink whatever it is you're feeling.

“She asked if you spoke Spanish,” Carmen adds, watching you closely now. “Said you looked pretty in that dress”

You scoff, “Clearly this dress is doing more for me than I realised.”

Carmen nudges your knee with hers. “Don’t act cool. She never asks about people. Ever.”

You glance across the garden again.

Alexia’s not looking she’s talking to a group, but her body’s turned slightly in your direction like she’s ready to glance at any second. “She doesn’t speak great English,” Carmen adds.

“Perfect,” you say. “Neither do I when I’ve had wine.”

Carmen laughs and squeezes your shoulder before standing. “You’re going to talk to her later.”

“I’m really not.”

“You are,” she says over her shoulder. “She’s already asked your name.”

You blink down at your wine glass, then glance back at Alexia, who, as if summoned, briefly lifts her eyes again and catches yours.

Just for a second and this time, you’re sure, she blushes or maybe it’s the wine. You've had too much wine yourself to be sure you decide.

☀️

You’re walking past the lower terrace with a family friend, Sarah, one of your aunt's old uni mates, who’s halfway through telling you about her latest yoga retreat in Lisbon when you hear your name float across the garden.

“Hey!” Carmen’s voice, light but deliberate.

You turn instinctively. She’s seated at a low table with a small group, mostly women tall, tanned, athletic, all with that relaxed energy that makes you suddenly aware of how you're walking. Her arm lifts, hand up in a beckoning wave, fingers curled in a ‘come here’ gesture that gives you no real choice.

“Sorry,” you murmur to Sarah. “The bride beckons”

Carmen’s already smiling as you approach, her eyes a little too pleased with themselves. “Sit,” she says, standing just long enough to take your hand and pull you gently down next to her, casual, in that way she gets when she’s playing matchmaker. However this time instead of you watching amused, you were the target. You’re suddenly very aware of how close you are to every woman around the small table.

Carmen doesn’t give you time to panic. “Patri, you remember Y/N from my hen do right.”

You smile, already knowing exactly where this is going. You glance at Patri, who’s mid-laugh, holding a beer with her elbow resting on the back of her chair. "Yeah, we caught up before"

You catch Carmen looking at someone over your shoulder, her eyes flicking but before you can glance around, she clears her throat.

“Oh,” she says, like it just occurred to her. “Have you met Alexia?”

You turn and there she is, right next to you. You hadn't realised, somehow she’d been quiet, watching or maybe just letting the noise happen around her. Her gaze meets yours with that same unreadable softness from earlier. Up close, her features are sharper than you expected. Her hand rests casually on the stem of her wine glass, and there's a faint glow to her skin from the last of the sun.

You blink, caught slightly off guard, “I haven’t,” you manage. “Hi.”

She gives the tiniest nod, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Hola.”

It’s a little awkward but not bad. Just aware of the slight language delay. The kind that makes you both overthink what comes next.

Carmen leans into you like a mischievous translator. “She understands more than she speaks,” she says. “Just don’t talk too fast.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” you reply, smiling, still half-facing Alexia.

Carmen leans in again, lowering her voice just enough to make it clear it’s for you alone. “So…” she begins, a teasing lilt already blooming in her tone. “Where’s your plus one? Don’t tell me you left Lily behind in rainy England.”

You blink, it’s not the question that catches you off guard, it’s the fact she doesn’t already know. You shift slightly, wine glass pausing just below your lips. “We, uh…” You glance at Alexia beside you instinctively, as if the answer might be written somewhere on her arm. “We’re not… seeing each other anymore.”

Carmen pulls a face, not a shocked one more like a satisfied shrug. “Oh.” Then, casually, “I never liked her.”

You let out a quiet laugh, caught somewhere between exasperation and relief. “Jesus, Carm. Bit late with that opinion.”

“I didn’t want to start something.” She shrugs again, unapologetic. “But she always made you smaller, like you were waiting to be approved or something.”

You glance down, tracing a condensation ring on the table with your thumb. It’s not untrue, you just didn’t realise how visible it had been “I'm honestly surprised you didn’t hear already,” you say. “Thought the family gossip network had international coverage by now.”

Carmen smirks, tilting her head. “I’ve been in wedding tunnel vision. No one tells the bride anything useful.”

There’s a pause not awkward, but still. You feel it settle in your chest a little, the quiet that comes after a name you’re not saying anymore. You catch Alexia shifting slightly beside you, as if she’s listening without meaning to.

“She wasn’t coming anyway,” you add, more to fill the silence than to explain yourself. “She made that clear before I even booked flights.”

Carmen’s smile softens. “Well, her loss.”

You glance up at her, smiling faintly picking at a piece of manchego when Patri leans forward, elbows resting on the table, and fixes you with a look that’s gentle but completely unreadable.

“So,” she says, a little softer than before. “What happened?”

You don’t pretend not to understand. You could, you could laugh it off or wave your hand like it’s all ancient history, but the way she says it makes it easier to answer. You exhale slowly, watching the wine in your glass catch the light, “She just…” You pause, tongue pressing against the inside of your cheek. “Didn’t really see me. I think she liked the idea of me, the version she imagined but not the actual human.”

Patri nods slowly. She doesn’t interrupt.

“She had this… plan,” you continue. “Everything scheduled, future-proofed. Perfect on paper and I wasn’t always… I don’t know. On script enough for her.”

You glance up, and Alexia is listening now openly, seeing Alexia watching you with that quiet focus sends a flicker of heat up your neck.

“I kept giving in to keep the peace,” you add. “And then one day I realised I didn’t even like the version of me she wanted and had create for herself.”

Patri doesn’t say anything for a beat, “That’s brave.”

You shrug. “Felt more like falling off a ledge than bravery.”

“Still,” she says, “you didn’t stay small.”

You smile faintly. “No. Just single.”

That gets a laugh, even Alexia lets out a breath of amusement soft, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to. She leans forward then, just slightly, not enough to take over the conversation, but enough to join it.

“How long… ago?” she asks, the rhythm of her words careful, eyes flicking toward Carmen for reassurance.

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “Couple of weeks? Not long about 6 weeks.”

Alexia nods slowly, like she’s translating your answer into something she can sit with. “Still… hurts.”

It’s not a question, it’s not even sympathy, just understanding. “Less than it used to,” you say honestly. “Still catches me sometimes, though.”

You’re just about to deflect the conversation change the subject, maybe make a joke when Carmen, never one to leave a moment alone, leans in with a shake of her head and a glass of wine raised in something far from a toast.

“She got what she wanted,” she says sharply. “The exposure. The followers. She’s riding that little clothing brand sponsor now like she got it on her own.”

The words land with a certain heat, not cruel, but cutting in their clarity. You blink, a little stunned. It’s one thing to think it to yourself, it’s another thing to hear it spoken aloud and learn others think it to.

There’s a short silence. Someone across from you, you think her names Mariona makes a low 'ooof' sound under her breath. Patri raises her eyebrows, even Alexia looks slightly caught off guard, like she’s trying to make sense of the bluntness.

“Wait,” one of the girls says a defender, you think, from Carmen’s club. “You’re an influencer right?”

Carmen doesn’t wait for you to answer. She turns, hand sweeping theatrically toward you like she’s introducing royalty. “She’s the influencer,” she says. “She’s modest. Very chic, very understated, but yeah she’s pretty well known back home. Go on" She turns back to you with a grin that dares you not to answer. “Tell them. Come on. How many followers?”

You laugh, looking down into your wine like it might offer an escape route. “Carmen…”

“May as well just say Alexia’s going to Google you later anyway.”

You look up slowly, cheeks warm, eyes catching on Alexia’s moving from you being caught in the cross fires, “Okay, fine,” you say, tone dry. “One point eight.”

“Million,” Carmen adds like she’s your manager. “On Instagram.”

There’s a collective little ripple around the table not dramatic, just a hum of impressed whistles, nods, raised brows. “Holy shit,” someone says. “What do you even do?”

You shrug, brushing it off. “Bit of fashion, bit of travel, some brand campaigns.”

“And the ex,” Carmen adds, never missing a beat, “was tagging along the whole time. Always conveniently in the background when the cameras were on.”

“Carmen,” you say gently.

She holds up her hands, mock-surrender. “Fine, I’ll stop, but I’m allowed to be mad. You were always too nice to say it, but she used you.”

You take a breath and let it sit, but you don't need to defend it, not anymore. “Well,” you murmur, lifting your glass again, “at least she looked good doing it. My lighting’s fantastic.”

That earns a wave of laughter, even Alexia laughs soft, behind her hand, but clearly amused.

She tilts her head slightly toward you. “I… follow now?” she says, a little uncertain, gesturing toward her phone.

You laugh, more genuinely this time. “If you like mirror selfies and badly subtitled skincare reels… sure.”

She smirks. “I like… mirrors.”

You make eye contact with her, trying not to snort into your wine.

Patri leans closer to Carmen and mutters something in Spanish you don’t catch, and they both giggle.

☀️

Later, when the sun has dipped low enough to leave the table in shadow, people start peeling away.

Carmen’s been pulled into a conversation about tomorrow’s seating chart. Patri's wandered off, still laughing with two teammates, a bottle of beer dangling from one hand. Music still playing low, something Spanish and slow, pulsing softly from a speaker tucked beneath a fig tree.

You and Alexia are still here, the last two on the table, like it was all orchestrated to leave you alone.

You’re both leaning back in your chairs, glasses half-full, watching the remaining flickers of gold light play across the garden. There’s a warmth to the air that isn’t quite heat anymore.

She shifts beside you, turns her head. “You… okay?” she asks.

You glance at her, surprised. “Yeah. Are you?”

She smiles faintly. “Sí. I mean…” She squints a little, searching for the words. “Not… ‘okay’ bad. I mean… you seem…” She gestures vaguely in the air, then gives up. “It’s hard. English is hard.”

You smile, letting your chin rest in your hand. “You’re doing fine. Better than my Spanish.”

“Your Spanish is… cute.”

You raise a brow. “Cute?”

Alexia shrugs, one shoulder up, smirking. “Like… baby goat. What’s the word—”

“Goat?”

“Sí,” she says with a laugh. “Little legs. Trying.”

You let out a helpless laugh, nearly choking on your wine. “Okay, rude.”

She leans toward you, not close enough to touch, but enough to let you see the glint in her eyes. “But funny. I like funny.”

There’s something bold in that, not flirtation, exactly, but honest and simple. You smile, slower this time. “Well… I like your necklace.”

Alexia glances down, fingers brushing the fine gold resting at her collarbone. “This? It’s nothing.”

“It’s nice,” you say. “Looks good on you.”

She tilts her head slightly, a question in her eyes. “You look… good. In your dress.”

You feel the blush rising before you can stop it. “Gracias,” you manage, awkwardly.

She smiles like she knows exactly how flustered you are and is being generous enough not to tease you about it. At the table, the tapas dishes are mostly empty now, half-melted ice cubes floating in the bottom of sangria glasses.

She’s still sitting across from you now, elbow on the table, chin propped in her hand, between you sits a shared plate of olives, a waitress had brought over.

You pick one up, chew slowly, then realise too late you’ve got the pit in your mouth and nowhere to put it. Your eyes dart toward the plate, then around the table, napkin? bowl? Earth to swallow you?

Alexia watches, blinking once. Then she gestures to her own empty glass. Taps the rim, tips it toward you slightly a signal.

You glance down at your wine glass, still with a finger of rosé clinging to the curve.

“Go on,” she says, and though the words are few, they land with an almost smug kind of confidence.

You delicately drop the pit into a glass. “I feel incredibly classy right now.”

She grins. “Very. Elegant.”

You laugh softly, covering your mouth. “You speak more English than you pretend to.”

She shrugs. “Only when… I want.”

You lift your brows, “So you don’t want to most of the time?”

She considers, eyes narrowing like she’s pretending to think. Then, very dryly “People talk too much sometimes.”

You let out a laugh. “Fair enough.”

She leans back slightly in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. Her fingers toy with the edge of the tablecloth as if she’s thinking of something but doesn’t know how to ask. “I… didn’t know who you were,” she says finally.

You smirk. “Same.”

“No football?”

“I knew you were someone,” you admit, “because of how people looked at you, but no, I didn’t know who you were.”

That makes her laugh soft, low, honest. “I like that.”

You glance sideways, picking at a grape. “Must be a relief, not being recognised.”

“Yes,” she says, then pauses, eyes flicking upward. “No. I don’t know. Is both.”

You nod. “Being seen’s not the same as being known.”

She points at you. “That. Yes. That one.” Alexia leans forward, elbow back on the table, “I try English,” she says. “Now. You laugh - not allowed.”

“I would never.” She raises a single brow. “…unless it’s really bad,” you add.

She gives you a look. “Okay. First try.”

You fold your arms dramatically. “I’m ready.”

She takes a breath, clearly building up to something. “You… have…” she squints, “very… calm face.”

That wasn’t what you were expecting. You blink. “Calm?” She nods, smiling a little, like she knows it didn’t land perfectly but still meant it. You tilt your head. “That might be the nicest weird compliment I’ve ever had.”

She nods again, more confident now. “Yes. Like… soft eyes. Not loud.”

You feel it then not the words, but the shape behind them and for a second, the language barrier stops mattering. You smile slowly, not breaking eye contact. “Thanks. You have nice eyes too.”

Alexia looks down, just briefly, brushes her hair behind her ear, the breeze picks up a little, curling along your bare shoulders. You shiver without meaning to, and before you can react, she picks up the light jacket from her lap and offers it over.

You hesitate, she gives you a look that says take it. You do and neither of you says anything else for a long time.

Alexia’s resting her elbows on the table again, chin in hand, watching you like you’re a puzzle she hasn’t quite decided whether to solve or just sit with.

“Be honest. Have you understood any of what I’ve said tonight?”

Alexia tilts her head. “Mmm… maybe thirty percent.”

You laugh. “That’s generous.”

She nods, serious. “Sí. I like your voice. Even when I don’t understand.”

That catches you, not dramatically, but enough that it lands somewhere a little too close to the centre of you. “Oh,” you say, unsure what to do with that. “Thanks. I like yours too. It’s very… Barcelona.”

She grins. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. A little rolled, a little confident. Sounds like you’re always saying something clever. Even if it’s not.”

Alexia laughs, pushing her hair behind her ear once again something you notice she does when she's obviously nervous. “I like when you talk with hands.”

You raise your brows. “I don’t—”

She mimics you instantly, hands fluttering up mid-sentence in mock frustration.

“Oh my God,” you groan, laughing. “I do that.”

“Like little bird,” she says, smirking.

“I’m gonna stop talking.”

“No, no,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “Please. Keep talking. I learn… you.”

You meet her eyes and there's a pause. It’s not flirtation, not yet. Just interest, bare, warm curiosity. You can feel it pressing gently between you like a question no one wants to phrase too directly.

So you give her something softer.

“Okay,” you say. “Lesson one.”

Alexia perks up, mimicking a classroom face. Hands folded neatly. “Sí, profesora.”

You resist the urge to laugh. “British slang. Ready?”

She nods.

“If someone’s being annoying, you call them a muppet.”

“Muppet?” she repeats, frowning. “Like the frog?”

“Exactly or the pig. All of them.”

She repeats it once more, slower. “Muppet.” Then points to herself, straight-faced. “Me?”

You grin. “Definitely not. You’re more of a menace.”

Alexia tilts her head. “That is good?”

You shrug, sipping your wine. “That depends”

She watches you for a second longer, eyes soft, almost amused. Then she leans back, stretching slightly, like she’s trying to shake something off. “Spanish slang tomorrow,” she says. “We trade.”

“Deal,” you reply, smiling. “But no football words.”

“No football,” she promises, then adds with a smirk “Maybe one. Small one.”

You roll your eyes. “Menace.”

She grins, the moment lingers light, uncertain, like something half-shaped and in the distance, someone calls your name, maybe your mum, maybe a cousin and just like that, the bubble breaks.

Alexia glances toward the sound, then back to you. “I go,” she says softly.

You nod, standing too. “Me too.”

For a moment, you both stand there facing each other, not quite sure how to part like the rhythm between you hasn't figured out its next beat yet.

So you just smile, “Good night, Alexia.”

“Buenas noches… muppet.”

You burst out laughing as she walks off, shaking your head, the warmth of it still buzzing in your chest.

☀️

The morning passes in a quiet, familiar rhythm your mother knocking softly on your bedroom door, your brothers bickering half-heartedly over hair gel and shirt buttons down the hallway. It’s all oddly soothing, being wrapped up in their noise again, since leaving the family home and moving out.

You sit cross legged on the floor with your mum, taking turns with the mirror propped up on a chair. She smooths a bit of colour onto her cheeks while you clip your hair up soft, elegant, a few loose strands left to frame your face.

Your dress is lilac, something easy and light. Strappy, with a flowing skirt and an open back that catches the breeze when you move. It’s not showy, but it feels like you.

Your dad sees you last. He blinks a bit too quickly and just says, “That’s a lovely colour, you look lovely sweetheart” like he’s trying not to ruin his own makeup with tears like mum was.

By the time you're all outside, the garden’s been transformed. White chairs lined in rows under the olive trees. Carmen’s teammates and friends milling about in tailored suits and dresses in soft summer tones, music trickling low through the speakers.

When the ceremony starts, it hits you harder than you expect watching Carmen come down the aisle, radiant and unshakable, Ben trying not to cry before she even reaches him. It’s the vows that really undo you. The way they speak to each other without flinching. No smoothing over, no shrinking, just love, in its purest form.

You feel the sting in your throat before you can stop it, blinking quickly as you dab beneath your lashes with a napkin someone hands you.

Afterwards, you’re handed a small cone of white and lilac petals. Everyone spills out toward the stone path that winds around the ceremony space, confetti station, Carmen called it. You take your place just near the front, adjusting your heels, trying not to get emotional all over again.

That’s when you feel it, just the lightest brush not a bump, not an accident a gentle nudge seemingly intentional. You glance sideways and she’s there. Alexia, standing beside you, calm and casual like she’s been there all morning.

Her dress is a kind of deep, metallic bronze sleeveless, backless, clinging like it was poured onto her. It catches the sunlight in all the right ways, like light wants to follow her. Her hair’s tucked up, makeup soft, but it’s the ink that draws your eyes.

Tattoos curl over her back in quiet lines and shapes, bold in some places, delicate in others. You catch a big cat, a few words you can’t translate, something that might be a heart. You have to look away before you stare too long.

She glances down at your cone of petals. then at your dress, “Same colour,” she murmurs.

You blink, startled slightly by the sound of her voice so close. You nod. “Lilac. Like fate.”

Alexia smiles. “Or good eyes.”

You look ahead, where the newlyweds are posing for photos, waiting for the cue. Everyone around you is laughing, distracted. You hum, adjusting your grip on your cone. “I like your dress”

She replies, “You… look happy today.”

That surprises you, you glance at her. “Do I?”

She nods. “Less heavy. Good colour for you, also.”

“Thanks.” You smile. “You’re still a menace.”

Alexia grins. “Cállate. Muppet”

You smile letting a breath out for a laugh lowering your head as you hear the photographer call out something in Spanish people raise their cones, laughter bubbling.

You lift yours too, side by side with her, ready to toss lilac into the air, her arm brushes yours, and neither of you move away. Just before the petals fly, Alexia glances sideways at you quiet, deliberate. “After confetti,” she murmurs, “maybe… drink?”

You smile, still watching the sky “Sure.”

The petals drift and fall like soft rain, laughter bubbling around you as Carmen and Ben duck under a storm of colour. You toss your handful a second too late, distracted her shoulder still pressed lightly against yours.

The applause begins to fade, the moment moving on, but Alexia doesn’t.

You glance to find her still beside you, hands now empty, her gold chain catching the sun.

“Drink” she says again, this time softer. No question mark, not quite, just an offering.

You nod before you think too hard about it. “Yes. Please.”

She takes a step back, lets you fall into step beside her without asking. You follow the curve of the garden path together, away from the crowd, past tables laid out with summer flowers and delicate wine glasses, toward the little outdoor bar tucked beside a stone wall draped in ivy.

The bartender smiles when Alexia steps forward. She orders in Spanish, clear and easy. You catch the word vermouth, and something that sounds like con hielo.

You blink at her. “Vermouth?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “My drink. Not sweet.”

You glance at the bar menu, half to avoid her eyes, half to stall. “Can I just get a rose wine?” you ask the bartender, more sheepishly than you mean to.

Alexia leans in a little. “Safe choice.”

“I usually get lemonade in it but I feel that would be bad here” you speak looking back in the direction you came you spot your mother watching and give her a look as Alexia is speaking Spanish to the bartender.

When you catch her saying, "Limonada" at the end, you turn your head back

“I ask, for you.” you give a look that she just smiles at, she picks a little umbrellas made for a cocktail off the bar and tucks into your hair making herself giggle as your drinks arrive. You both take them, then turn together like you’re following the same unspoken route. Not too far from the bar, just over to the low stone wall nearby, warm from the sun and shaded by a broad fig tree.

You sit side by side, not touching not speaking for a beat, both clearly both over thinking what to say, you take the little umbrella from your hair to inspect it, when Alexia gives you that look again that half-smirk, half-scheme expression that means she’s about to say something just to get a reaction.

“What?” you ask, wary but already smiling.

She shrugs, far too casually. “You.”

You blink. “What about me?”

“You’re such a muppet,” she says, sipping her vermouth.

You groan. “Seriously? You’re still on that?”

She nods. “It’s my best English word. Very strong. Very accurate.”

You laugh, helpless. “I should never have taught you anything.”

Alexia tilts her head thoughtfully. “Maybe. But now, I teach you.”

“Oh God.”

“No, no,” she insists, turning toward you, that gleam in her eye back again. “Is fair. You learn Spanish now.”

You set down your glass tucking your little umbrella in the glass. “Alright then. Impress me.”

She points to herself. “Yo.”

You nod. “I.”

Then she points to you. “Tú.”

“You.”

She smiles. “Very good. Now repeat.”

You go along with it. “Yo. Tú.”

She leans in a little, eyes glittering. Then she says it slower this time, like she wants to make sure it lands properly. “Tú eres muy guapa.”

You frown, trying to copy it. “Too eh-res... muy gwa-pa?”

She grins. “Perfect.”

“What does that mean?”

Alexia takes a sip of her drink, suddenly looking far too pleased with herself. “Not telling you.”

You blink. “What? Why?”

She shrugs. “Is more fun this way.”

You narrow your eyes at her. “Is it rude?”

“No.” Her voice is soft now, careful. “Is nice.” She’s watching you not just amused, but something quieter behind her gaze. Her dress catches the light, the curve of her tattoos like stories she’s letting you almost read.

“Is it a compliment?” you ask.

Alexia just raises her brows and repeats it again slower this time, “Tú eres muy guapa.”

You feel the words settle in your chest, even if you don’t understand them yet. There’s weight to them, a softness. “I’ll Google it,” you say eventually.

She smiles. “Not now.”

“No?”

“Later. When I’m not there.”

You study her, trying to read her without the help of a translation, but all you get is that familiar flutter, like something in you recognises that she's maybe flirting. You sip your wine again, trying not to smile too hard. “So what do I say back?”

Alexia taps her lip, pretending to think, then she leans closer, just enough to make you hold your breath. “Gracias,” she murmurs, voice low. “That’s all.”

You repeat it softly. “Gracias.”

She nods, eyes still on yours. “De nada.”

You sit there a moment longer in the quiet hum of the evening, in this small stretch of shade, it still feels like only you two are in existence.

Like maybe you don’t need the translation. You shift slightly on the stone ledge, setting your empty glass down with a quiet clink. You glance over at her.

You’re about to speak about it when she speaks.

“I teach you another.”

You look over, eyebrow raised. “Another mystery sentence?”

She smiles. “Sí.”

You huff a laugh. “Alright then. Go on.”

She shifts to face you a little more and says it slowly a gentle rhythm to the way it rolls off her tongue.

“Me gustas.”

You try it. “Me goo-stas?”

She shakes her head slightly, leans in, says it again, “Gus—like ‘goose,’ but softer. Me gustas.”

You mimic her. “Me gustas.” Alexia smiles, but doesn’t translate it.

“You not going to tell me?” you ask, already anticipating the answer.

“No,” she says, smug. “I like your face when you guess.”

You look at her, her knees almost brushing yours now, her drink nearly forgotten between you. “Is it nice?” you ask.

She shrugs, though her smile doesn’t fade. “Depends who says it.”

“And if you say it?”

Her gaze lingers on you, unreadable for a breath, “Still not telling you.”

You scoff. “You’re insufferable.”

She just raises her glass slightly, as if to toast your frustration, but before either of you can speak again, a shout rings out across the garden.

“Oye!” It’s Patri, grinning wide, already pointing toward a table on the lawn. “Beer pong!”

Carmen lifts two red cups in your direction like it’s a formal declaration. You can’t help the smile that creeps over your face.

Alexia stands, brushing invisible dust from her dress. “You ready?”

“Are you?” you counter, arching a brow. “I hope you’re not expecting to win.”

“I always win.”

“You’re going to be a nightmare, aren’t you?”

Alexia grins as she steps ahead, already starting to walk back toward the music, before she gets too far, she glances back over her shoulder catches your eye again, and with a faint smirk, repeats it under her breath, “Me gustas.”

You're not sure what it means, but you hope she says it again.

Someone’s set up a beer pong table near the garden wall, red cups already half-filled, teams forming in chaotic pairs. You’re pulled into the mix before you can think to resist Carmen shoves a drink in your hand, Patri’s already laughing like she knows something you don’t as you're put on her team, Alexia put on Carmens, and the crowd’s loud and loose with post-wedding energy.

Somehow, it happens every time it’s your turn to shoot, Alexia ends up opposite you, of course she does. She’s watching you with narrowed eyes and a smirk like she’s trying to intimidate you but you’re just having fun watching her lose.

She’s not... great, in fact, she’s bad and extremely not taking it well.

“This ball is too light,” she mutters after your third perfect shot lands, another cup sliding away from her side for her to drink.

You just raise your brows. “You’re joking, right?”

“No. It’s not... regulation.”

“It’s a garden table at a wedding, Alexia. Nothing is regulation.”

She glares down at the table like it’s personally offended her. Then looks up, grumpy, sulking and downs her drink. “The table’s not level either.”

You laugh. “Keep going. I want to hear the full list of excuses.”

“The cups are too close.”

“Uh huh.”

“My side is windy.”

“There is no wind.”

She doesn’t answer, just squints at you over the rim of another drink like she’s plotting your downfall.

Then it’s your turn again as it appears the rest who were playing preferred to watch you beat Alexia spectacularly so it became a 1vs1.

One easy flick of your wrist, plunk. Another cup gone from her side, Alexia groans, loud and dramatic, and turns away like she can’t bear to look at it.

“Come on!” you laugh. “Drink up, you haven’t even finished the last one!”

She glares down at the two cups now waiting for her. “This is unfair.”

“It’s literally the rules!”

“I hate this game.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do now.”

You laugh again, and she finally breaks a reluctant grin pulling at her mouth as she picks up both cups and clinks them together tipping one into the other before downing it like a woman defeated. Her nose scrunches at the taste. She mutters something in Spanish that definitely isn’t polite.

You raise an eyebrow. “What was that?”

She wipes her mouth, blinking. “I said you’re annoying.”

“Was it actually that?”

She nods solemnly. “More or less.”

“Say it again. Properly. Teach me.”

Alexia leans across the table a little, holding your gaze, and says it slowly, “Eres insoportable.”

You repeat it, with terrible pronunciation. “Eres insoporable.”

“Insoportable,” she corrects, smug again.

“And it definitely means annoying?”

She smiles wide. “You’ll find out.”

You hum, "I'm making a list in my phone to ask Patri to translate later"

She raises her eyes to yours and shakes her head, "Google. Later" she waves her hand way, "Wait til home"

It’s your turn again, another shot, another cup.

She doesn’t even pretend to be cool this time she just groans and drops her head back dramatically. “No. No, no, no. I want a new opponent.”

“Too late,” you grin. “You’ve started something now.”

“I didn’t start it.”

“You literally called me a muppet an hour ago.”

“That was affection.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes. This” she gestures at the table, then at your smirk, “this is war.”

You grin, cheeks aching from laughing, chest warm with more than just alcohol. Across the table, Alexia squints at you through mock outrage, and you just raise your drink to her. “To your downfall,” you toast.

She clinks her empty cup against yours with a grumble. “Muppet." and you both burst out laughing again.

You’re barely wiping spilled beer off your fingers before Alexia’s already pointing at the cups again.

“Another game.”

You raise your brows. “You’re serious?”

“I almost won.”

“You absolutely did not.”

“I was close.”

“You had four cups left.”

Alexia shrugs, drunk logic already smoothing her stubbornness into confidence. “I let you win.”

You laugh grabbing a beer bottle to fill the cups again, "Of course you did" You point at her, "I don't know much Spanish but.. Mierda"

You watch Alexia lean back laughing her hand clutching her stomach before you glance toward Carmen, Patri, and two more of Alexia’s teammates hovering near the drinks table. They’re watching you both now not subtly, either. Patri lifts her eyebrows at you in that 'hmm?' way that’s only half-mocking. Carmen has the smug smile of someone who’s decided she was right about something long before it happened.

You ignore them, Alexia's resetting the cups with a reckless, imprecise shuffle. “You in?”

You sigh dramatically. “Fine, but don’t start crying again when I win.”

“I didn’t cry.”

“You whined about the wind.”

Alexia doesn’t dignify that with a response just hands you the ball with a pointed gesture. “Ladies first,” she says.

You sink your first shot effortlessly, another groan from her, then she drinks and something shifts.

The more Alexia drinks, the better she gets. Her throws tighten, her hand steadies, and the smug grin on her face grows more confident with every cup you lose.

You squint at her after your third miss in a row, she gives you a look over the rim of your cup, you mutter under your breath as you drink your next penalty cup, "That wind really died down, huh?"

Alexia grins, she heard you, then plunk. Another one lands on your side and you sigh dramatically.

You glance over you still have an audience, like your increasingly ridiculous rivalry has become a full-on wedding sideshow as a couple more of the footballers have joined the little group, but you don’t care. You’re too focused on the way Alexia keeps watching you after each shot. Like each time she hits, she’s daring you to react. Like it’s not even about winning anymore.

You point at her, narrowing your eyes. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Yes.”

“You were terrible half an hour ago.”

She shrugs, cool as anything. “Motivation.” You stare at her, she just raises an eyebrow and says too casually “Me gustas, remember?”

You swallow, that familiar phrase again, still no translation, still no context but it lands heavier now.

You blink, then shoot and miss again Alexia grins wide and reaches for your next cup.

“You’re going to gloat forever, aren’t you?”

“Sí,” she says, laughing

☀️

The party sprawls out now as they set up the dinning room for the meal, games and music everywhere to occupy guests, people laughing too loudly, champagne corks popping mid-sentence, someone’s uncle challenging Carmen to a dance-off near the speakers.

You're pulled straight from the beer pong table by a group migrating toward a row of lawn games, you seem to have been adopted by the Spanish football first team. Patri tosses you a look like she’s ready for round three, but Alexia’s already trailing after you, stubbornly close, that competitive glint still alive in her wine-glossed eyes.

“Connect Four,” she says behind you, tapping your shoulder as you slow near the oversized version on the grass ahead.

You look back. “You sure? That’s a thinking game.”

“Exactly.”

You smirk, slotting in a red disc. “You’re really brave.”

Alexia raises her brows but doesn’t bite. She drops in a yellow one, eyes locked on the grid like she’s plotting world domination. You counter, she counters again. People are watching, not quite cheering, but hovering, definitely amused.

You lean sideways, pretending to inspect the board. “Your poker face is slipping.”

She doesn’t look up. “This is me focused.”

“Right.” Another move, then another, then click you drop the winning disc and let out a triumphant gasp. “Boom!”

Alexia steps back, blinking. “No.”

“Yes!”

She squints at the grid like it personally betrayed her. “That doesn’t count.”

You laugh. “What doesn’t count?!”

“I was distracted.”

“By what?”

She pauses, her cheeks flush, then she speaks, “Your… elbows.”

You almost choke on your drink. “My elbows?!”

“They were distracting.”

You’re laughing so hard now it’s almost embarrassing. “Just when I thought you couldn't be any more of a sore loser. This is worse.”

“I will win something tonight,” she insists, looking around like she’s about to challenge you to an arm wrestle, or chess, or a race to the drinks table.

“Nope,” you grin. “I’m on a streak.”

“I hate your streak.”

“You love it.”

“I hate it,” she repeats, but she’s smiling, her eyes lit up with the thrill of it all the game, the drinks, the way you keep meeting each other in these little pockets of the night where it feels like it’s just the two of you.

Someone calls your name, a cousin waving from the karaoke setup now forming near the terrace.

Alexia hears it too. “No,” she says immediately. “Not singing.”

“Oh, now you’re scared?”

“I fear nothing.”

“You fear losing.”

“I fear karaoke.”

You grin wide, stepping toward her like you might drag her there anyway. "I thought you feared nothing.

She steps back, holds up a finger. “If you make me sing,” she warns, “I’ll say more things in Spanish that you don’t understand.”

You pause, then lean in, just slightly. “I’m not sure that’s a threat anymore.”

Alexia blinks once then smirks and you catch sight of the Jenga tower across the lawn, tall and precarious.

You nudge Alexia’s arm. “Jenga?”

She raises her brows. “You want to lose again?”

“You lost last time.”

“Did not.”

“Did so.”

You’re already walking, Alexia follows, of course she does, brushing a hand along your arm briefly as she passes you. You pretend not to feel your whole body register it.

The tower’s almost your height, you face off like it’s a championship final. A few people hover again Carmen and Patri, drinks in hand, clearly watching from a distance, doing a poor job of pretending not to whisper about you both, but the rest of the world fades out when Alexia picks her first block.

The game begins slow, careful pulls, little smiles, narrowed eyes, utter silence between you and then it starts getting risky.

“You’re wobbling it on purpose,” Alexia mutters as you nudge a centre piece loose.

“I’m strategic,” you counter, not looking up. “Big difference.”

The stack sways slightly Alexia watches your hand like she’s studying a match replay.

When you finally slide the block free, she lets out a low whistle, “Lucky.”

“Skilled.”

“Lucky.”

Then it’s her turn, she kneels down slightly to reach one of the lower blocks her backless dress shifting as she moves, the shimmer of metallic brown catching the fairy lights strung above. Tattoos peek out like secrets across her shoulders and down her back. She glances up once, catches you watching her, and smirks. “Distracted?” she teases.

“By your elbows,” you shoot back.

She laughs, actually wobbles the tower with her shoulder, gasps, and steadies it again with the most dramatic gasp you’ve ever heard.

“See?” you say. “That was luck.”

“Cállate”

You grin and lean in closer, both of you now circling the tower like cats. “Careful,” you say as she reaches again. “Jenga’s a cruel mistress.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“So are you.”

“I’m passionate.”

“Right,” you say. “Passion’s what made you yell about the wind earlier.”

She pulls the block free clean and impressively quickly, she stands slowly, eyes bright, close to you now, close enough that your shoulders brush. Neither of you move. “You’re going to knock it over,” she says.

“I am not.”

“I can feel it.”

“You just want me to.”

“Maybe.” Your hand is on the next block, it slides, a hair’s width and sticks. You freeze Alexia leans in close to your ear, lowering her voice. “Muppet…” you giggle, the block slips from your grip the tower sways violently and crashes to the grass.

Laughter erupts around you, but you barely hear it. Alexia’s got that smug, dangerous grin again like she planned it all along.

She leans in and whispers something in Spanish slow, deliberate, impossible to understand but definitely smug.

You groan. “Not fair.”

“Very fair,” she says. “Me gusta ganar.”

“Translation?”

She shrugs innocently. “Guess.”

You narrow your eyes. “I swear if that means ‘I win’…”

Alexia’s already walking off with a victorious sway in her step, tossing a wink over her shoulder. You just shake your head, smiling helplessly.

She walks off like she’s just won the World Cup chin high, victorious strut, that smug little grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. You stand there a second, stunned by her dramatics, then you walk with pace after her. You never chase women and yet here you were literally chasing after one you didn't even know 24 hours ago.

“Hey,” you call, catching up to her just as she grabs another drink from a tray someone’s weaving through the crowd with. “Do that again.”

Alexia looks over her shoulder, amused. “Do what?”

“That” you mimic her wink, squinting one eye dramatically, “your little victory wink.”

She tries to keep a straight face, but her smirk betrays her. “You liked that?”

You’re already laughing, folding your arms. “Do it again.”

She turns fully toward you, drink in hand, eyes locked on yours then closes both eyes at the same time, you burst out laughing.

Instinctively you reach forward and touch her forearm at her side, “That’s not a wink, Alexia!"

She shrugs, fake-casual. “Yes it is.” She does it again with so much confidence.

“You’re malfunctioning.”

“Muppet.”

You nudge her arm, she bumps you back but doesn't pull back anywhere near the distance she had been, you lift your drink to her, eyes still dancing. “To your terrible wink.”

She taps hers against yours gently, her voice low, her gaze not leaving yours. “Eres muy guapa.”

There it is again that same phrase from earlier. You pause, holding her eyes. “Still not translating that one?”

She smiles, tilting her head. “Nope.”

You sip your drink. “Rude.”

Alexia leans a little closer, lowering her voice just enough for it to feel secret. “Maybe later.”

☀️

You hadn’t planned on dancing not in heels, not in this heat, not after at least three different games involving alcohol. But when the music shifted to something warmer, something with a heartbeat, Alexia found you effortlessly amongst your family, tugged your hand gently and tilted her head toward the garden dance floor.

You hadn’t said yes, but you also hadn’t said no and put up no fight whatsoever.

Now here you are her hand in yours, the lights strung above flickering golden, the music thudding faintly underfoot. She’s not a great dancer not in the traditional, spin you like a film scene way but she’s confident and playful, and that’s better.

She twirls you once, clumsily, you both laugh, “You’re going to dislocate my shoulder,” you tell her with a smile seemingly permanently fixed to your face when she was near.

Alexia just grins, you sway together in that loose way that isn’t quite a slow dance but definitely isn’t friendly distance anymore. One of her hands finds yours again not tight, not formal, just there. Holding it like she has every right to.

Your fingers slip together easily, her hair’s falling loose around her shoulders now, her dress still catching the light like copper fire. Every time she leans in close to say something in your ear, you feel the warmth of it curl down your spine.

It’s almost disappointing when you hear Carmen’s voice calling your name through the music.

You turn, laughing, she waves you over, she notices your smile fade ever so slightly, and beckons you like a mother would, you give Alexia a look and leave her on the dance floor one of her friends happily taking your place

“Oh, finally!” she says, eyes wide and dramatic. “I thought we’d have to physically separate you two with a broomstick.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re not—”

She lifts a brow. “Joined. At. The. Hip?”

“She made me dance!”

“She made you laugh. A lot.” Carmen folds her arms, mock stern. “You looked like teenagers. Very flirty teenagers.”

You try to dodge it, but you’re smiling too much to be believable. “We’re just messing about.”

“Mmm.” Carmen is not buying it.

You blink at her, suddenly curious. “Okay, serious question.”

Carmen perks up. “Finally. Go on.”

You lower your voice a little, keeping it light, casual. “What does ‘me gustas’ mean?”

Carmen stares at you. “Who said that?”

“Hypothetical question,” you say, holding up a hand. “Just tell me.”

She eyes you. “It means ‘I like you.’ Like… I like you. Not like ‘I like pizza,’ but you-you.”

Your stomach does a weird little flip, you cover it with a sip of wine. “Okay. Interesting.”

Carmen leans closer. “What else?”

You hesitate. “What about ‘eres muy guapa?’”

“Oh,” she grins. “That means… ‘you’re very pretty.’” You stop sipping Carmen squints at you. “Why are you asking these?”

“No reason.”

“Mmhm.” Her grin grows, all too knowing. “Just, you know, collecting phrases for your Spanish textbook?”

“Exactly.”

Carmen’s already backing away into the crowd, smug as anything. “Well, maybe your Spanish is better than you think, guapa.”

You glance back toward the dance floor Alexia’s dancing there, half-lit in the string lights, your breath catches as you realise the most stunning women you've ever seen thinks your pretty.

☀️

The dinning hall is now set up for the evening meal, round white-clothed tables stretch under woven lanterns, the sun setting into a gold haze over the hills. You’re sat with your parents and brothers, all of you a little sun-flushed and half full from the first two courses. Your uncle is telling a long-winded story you’ve already tuned out of twice.

You’ve got your phone hidden in your lap, screen dimmed low, lazily scrolling through your own Instagram feed mostly old holiday posts, blurry selfies, the odd sunset you’d thought looked profound at the time. You hadn’t expected to get a notification, but there it is at the top of your screen.

alexiaputellas liked your photo.

And not just any photo it’s from two years ago, she was scrolling your instagram, you blink, smile and tilt your screen slightly away from your brother clearly looking for some entertainment.

Your thumb hovers over the notification, and then instinctively you glance across the tables just casually. She’s over on the far side with Carmen’s teammates, half turned in her chair, laughing at something, her hand out as a women opposite handed her phone back over the table. She doesn’t look at you, which makes it somehow worse, or better, you can’t tell, but you were a topic of conversation amongst her friends.

You open your DMs and click on Patri’s name, you and her had shared polite messages after the hen do.

You: Tell Alexia she’s real smooth for liking a picture from two years ago

You barely have time to look up again when you hear it a burst of laughter from the table across the way, sharp and sudden. You catch sight of Patri, cackling as she shoves her phone toward Alexia. A few others are craning to see, all of them delighting in your digital callout.

Alexia's face is a picture, you can see the blush from here, you try not to smile. Fail and look back down at your plate like you didn’t just throw a spark into a very flammable situation.

Your phone buzzes again.

Patri: She’s gonna kill me but she says fue un accidente.

Patri : She also says you’re still a muppet.

You snort softly, enough for your brother to glance at you. “What’s so funny?”

You shake your head. “Just something stupid.” But your heart’s beating a little faster now, and when you risk another glance up Alexia’s watching you from across the tables.

You look back at your phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard, biting back a grin as you type.

You: Can I ask you to translate something for me?

It’s harmless, mostly, you know it'll get a reaction, you hit send, then glance up briefly, only to feel another buzz almost instantly.

Patri: Alexia said come here.

You look up properly this time, sure enough, Alexia’s watching you from across the way, her arm draped over the back of her chair she tips her chin toward you not quite a beckon, not quite a challenge and you know exactly what she’s doing.

So you stand excusing yourself and heading through the tables, a few heads turn as you approach, Alexia doesn’t say anything as you approach. Just points at you with a single finger and says, through a grin “No translation. You Google. Later. In home. In England.”

You can’t help the laugh that slips from you and without thinking or maybe very much with thinking you step in a little closer, gently grab that pointed finger, and hold it between yours. “You’re not my captain, darling,” you say, smiling up at her, “you can’t tell me what to do.”

She blinks, smiles wider, like she’s just been challenged and loves it, she leans a little closer her voice low and full of wicked amusement, “You don’t listen very good.”

You raise your brows. “I do when I want to”

“Stubborn.”

"I prefer determined"

You hear someone behind her whisper something someone else stifles a laugh but you’re not paying attention to anything now except the look she’s giving you. Finally, you release her finger with a little flick.

“Fine,” you say, stepping back. “But I’m still Googling it.”

“Later,” she says.

“At home?”

“In England,” she echoes nodding, laughing.

You walk back to your seat with your pulse dancing somewhere in your throat and the ghost of her hand still between your fingers.

You slide back into your seat, smoothing the skirt of your dress and reaching instinctively for your wine. Your cheeks are warm whether from the alcohol or Alexia’s grin, you’re not sure, probably both.

You lift your glass and take a sip, trying not to let the smile tugging at your lips give too much away, but your mum is already looking at you and not in the vague, distracted way she looks when she’s trying to figure out if the canapés had goat cheese in them. No this is the look.

She leans in gently, voice soft so only you can hear. “Is that the girl who’s been taking all your attention all day?”

You blink, then laugh quietly. “What happened to pretending not to notice things?”

“I gave up after child number three.” She nudges your arm. “So?”

You glance across the garden Alexia’s listening half-heartedly to something Patri is saying, but her eyes flick to yours over her shoulder the moment you look. She smiles just slightly and then pretends to be fully engaged in whatever story is being told.

You look back at your mum, exhale a breath through your nose, half-laughing. “She’s…” You shrug, a little helpless. “She’s nice. Funny. Annoying”

Your mum tilts her head. “Pretty.”

You nod. “Very.”

There’s a pause. You toy with your napkin, you’ve always been open with her. She was the first one you told about you liking girls. The first one you told when you first kissed a girl to.

So you don’t bother pretending now. “I think I like her,” you say, your voice a little smaller than before. “But it’s probably just the wedding. The sun. The wine. I've just got caught up in it all, it’s not like I’ll see her again, is it?”

Your mum gives you a knowing look the one she saves for when you pretend you’re being logical but your heart’s already halfway over the fence. “Stranger things have happened,” she says gently. “And you’ve always been a sucker for a complicated smile.”

You laugh. “Thanks, Mum.”

She pats your hand. “Just don’t let your head talk your heart out of something fun.”

You nod, quietly, you try to change the subject as dessert menus are being passed around, someone’s arguing about whether churros count as wedding cake, and Carmen is gracefully making her rounds in her sleek, glittering gown, hugging relatives and posing for photos.

But your mum isn’t letting this go. “Alexia,” she says again, as if you haven’t already been over this. “So she’s Spanish?”

You blink at her. “We’re in Spain, Mum.”

“I meant from here. Local.”

You nod reluctantly. “Barcelona.”

“Ah.” She smiles, too casually. “And is she…?”

You give her a look. “Yes, Mum. She’s gay.”

“Just checking.” She takes a sip of wine, but you can see her brain still turning. “So she plays for a team?”

“Yes.”

“Is she any good?”

“Mum.”

“What! I’m just trying to build a picture!”

Before you can answer, Carmen appears at your side, radiant and flushed from all the attention, crouching down slightly between the two of you. “Are we gossiping without me?” she asks, eyes darting between you and your mum with a knowing grin.

“Oh good,” your mum says brightly, turning to Carmen like she’s been waiting for backup. “You’ll know. Tell me more about this Alexia. She seems lovely.”

Your stomach sinks slightly. “Mum—”

But Carmen just lights up with mischief. “Oh, Alexia?” she says, pretending to think. “Captain of Barça. National treasure. Stubborn. Competitive. Terrible loser.”

“She’s been very sweet with my daughter,” your mum says.

Carmen glances at you. “Oh yes. Very sweet.”

You shoot her a warning glare. She ignores it.

Your mum continues, relentless. “Is she seeing anyone?”

“Mum!”

Carmen laughs, delighted now. “She’s not. But she is very picky, I'm not aware of her dating many people at all, the bigger she got the less she did it.”

Your mum leans in conspiratorially. “She liked one of her photos from two years ago.”

"How do you even know that?" You asked, your mum simply pointed to your brother beside you.

Carmen’s face lights up like Christmas. “No she didn’t.”

“She did!” your mum confirms, like this is a joint investigation. “And then this one had the nerve to act like it wasn’t a big deal.”

You hide your face in your hands.

Carmen pats your shoulder. “It is a big deal. That’s the Instagram version of writing someone’s name in a notebook and drawing hearts around it.”

Your mum nods solemnly, “Exactly.”

You peek between your fingers. “Can you both please find another hobby?”

Carmen grins and gets back to her feet, smoothing her dress. “I have to go be charming again but don’t worry, I’ll let Alexia know she’s already passed inspection.”

You groan. “Carmen”

She walks away backward, grinning, and says, “Your mum likes her. That’s basically marriage in Spain.”

You drop your head to the table, your mum just pats your back, smug as anything, “I’m good at this,” she says. “Admit it.”

You mutter into the tablecloth, “I should’ve sat at the kids�� table.”

☀️

The laughter still carries on behind you a soft chorus of music, chairs scraping, someone yelling out a slurred toast in Spanish as your family begins to slip away from the glowing lights of the wedding. The night has worn on, the heat finally giving way to a cooler breeze, and the sky overhead is scattered with stars.

Your heels click softly against the stone path as you walk alongside your parents and your middle brother, all of you drifting slowly back toward the house.

Your mum’s arm is looped around your dad’s, and she’s humming some old wedding tune under her breath. Your brother’s rubbing at his neck like he might have pulled something during the earlier, aggressive limbo game.

You’re quiet, restless in your own skin, because you’d been waiting.

You hadn’t said it out loud, not to them, not even to yourself really, but somewhere in the slow moments between dancing and dessert and that sun-drunk laughter, you’d been hoping that you might catch her one more time.

A glance, a word, a stupid half-argument about who actually won Jenga. Something, but as you all say goodnight to lingering cousins and sleepy toddlers being carried back inside, you glance around one last time, and she’s not there.

The chair she’d been sitting in earlier is empty, the space by the bar where you'd sat together after the ceremony is dark now.

You slow a little behind your parents as you near the main house, your steps soft on the old terracotta tiles, one last glance over your shoulder. Still no sign of her.

Your mum looks back at you, noticing the lag. “You alright, love?”

You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just tired and my shoes are hurting”

She gives you a look that says she doesn’t believe you as you take your heels off but she lets it go.

As you step inside, the coolness of the villa brushes over your bare shoulders. You’re holding your shoes in one hand, dress swinging lightly around your legs. You tell yourself it’s silly, you barely know her, you won’t see her again. You weren’t expecting anything, but still, you were hoping.

And when you crawl into the big unfamiliar guest bed, in the quiet hum of night, you stare up at the ceiling for a long while the sounds of celebration muffled now through thick walls.

You don’t cry, you don’t ache, but the pillow still smells like sun cream and wine and a day you weren’t ready to let go of.

☀️

It’s well past 3am, the villa is silent now, thick with the hush that only comes after a long, sun-soaked day of celebration. The kind of quiet that hums just beneath the surface, like the air’s still catching its breath.

You’re lying on top of the sheets, in your tank top and soft cotton shorts, scrolling aimlessly, light from your phone casting shadows on the wall and then tap. You freeze. Tap. Tap-tap.

You sit up slowly, the curtain flutters as you move it aside and then, with a confused squint, you push the window open.

There she is, Alexia, standing below in the garden, where moonlight pools across the grass like spilled milk, hands clenched, shoulders slightly hunched like she’s not sure if this is a good idea or a very bad one.

You lean against the sill, still a little dazed. “Can I help you?” you ask, a soft smile playing on your lips.

She tilts her head, that familiar smirk tugging at her mouth. “I wanted to say… was nice, meeting you.”

You rest your forearms on the window frame, chin tilted just slightly. “You threw rocks at my window to say that?”

“Yes.” A pause. “Romantic, no?” You bite back your grin and your brows lift Alexia shrugs below you. “Maybe not romantic or smart.”

You huff a laugh and shake your head. “What would you have done if I didn’t hear you?”

She grins, wolfish. “Climbed.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re wearing heels.”

She holds up her hand, fingers spread. “Footballer legs.”

You rest your cheek against your arm, watching her. Her hair’s pulled back now, messier than it was earlier, her dress still clinging to her but a jacket slung over her shoulders since the temperature had dropped.

There’s a pause, then you say it, soft, teasing. “You’re not very good at goodbyes, are you?”

She kicks a bit of stone with her foot. “No.”

“I was looking for you,” you admit before you can stop yourself. “Earlier.”

That catches her off guard her eyes flick up quickly, like she wasn’t expecting you to admit it. “I know,” she says.

You smile slowly. “Stalker.”

Alexia smiles back. “Romantic.”

Then she steps back one pace, eyes never leaving yours. “Okay. I go now. Let you sleep. My lift home is waiting”

You don’t say anything right away. Don’t want to break it, but as she turns slightly, you call softly, “Alexia?”

She looks back, you hesitate then grin. “I lied. I’m totally Googling what you said to me earlier.” Lying again that you didn't already know

She shakes her head, laughing silently, then calls up “You won’t find it right. Not if you spell it how I said it.”

You gasp dramatically. “You tricked me?”

Her grin widens. “Always.”

She starts walking away, then throws one last glance over her shoulder. “Sleep good, muppet girl.”

You watch until she disappears behind the trees, then you close the window softly and slide back into bed. This time, when your head hits the pillow, you’re smiling and sleep comes easy.

[dismalflo]

coffee to go!

barista!sirius black x reader ✩ 2k words

summary: being awestruck by a certain barista leads to you building up some courage and then making some mistakes.

Dinner to stay! (part 2)

cw: fluff, meet-cute, very nervous reader

an: this is very much inspired by a tiktok

The café hums with energy. A long line snakes through the space, the morning rush of to-go orders filling the air with quiet chatter and the clink of coffee cups. Some patrons, seeking refuge from the drizzle outside, nestle into plush chairs so soft you could easily drift off to sleep in them. This quiet buzz of activity is exactly the kind of background noise you need to push through the endless mountain of work you’ve been avoiding.

The flat had been too silent, your thoughts too loud. The idea of working alone again was enough to make you throw on a jacket and step out into the rain, hoping the warmth of the café would bring some focus.

When the person in front of you in the queue has finished ordering, you look up to see a smiling face. Looking at the barista - Sirius, his name tag says - you suddenly feel a bit self conscious. He's all sharp features and onyx hair that's tied back into a lazy bun with tattoos running up his arms and disappearing into his sleeves. He's pretty. Very pretty. 

“Hi,” He greets, tucking some hair that's fallen free behind his ear, “Horrible weather, isn't it?”

You nod eagerly, too eager perhaps. There’s a fleeting thought that you’d probably agree to anything he said if it came with that smile, the one that creases the corners of his eyes.

“What can I get for you?” 

“Uh, can I just get a latte please–” he nods, tapping away at the screen in front of him, “oh! And a croissant if you have any.” 

“Sure thing, doll.” looking up with another smile. “I’ll make it extra good for you.” He winks as he turns away to prepare your order.

Taking your latte and croissant from the counter, your fingers brush against his as you grab the cup. You feel a faint warmth spread across your skin. A flutter. You tuck the thought away and make your way to an empty table near the window, settling down with your laptop and notebook, determined to get some work done.

But, of course, your mind refuses to cooperate. Instead of focusing on the task at hand, you find yourself glancing over at Sirius every few minutes, your eyes stealing brief moments to watch him. He moves with ease, effortlessly coordinating between steaming milk and pulling shots of espresso, his fingers tracing the familiar motions with casual grace.

He catches your eye once. Just once. You blink, startled, and quickly avert your gaze, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks.

You try to focus on the screen, typing half-heartedly, then pausing to stare down at your laptop. The coffee shop feels smaller now, as if all the sounds—the clink of cups, the quiet conversations, the faint hum of the espresso machine—are just background noise to the nervous rhythm of your pulse. You chance another glance. This time, he’s looking back at you. 

He smiles again, a flash of white teeth, and there's that crease at the corners of his eyes again. Your breath catches, quickly turning your gaze back to your work, your heart racing as you fight to calm your thoughts.

You stare at your laptop screen again, the cursor blinking, mocking you for your lack of productivity. Every word you try to type seems to float away, lost in the haze of your thoughts. The low hum of the café and the occasional clink of cups is more soothing than it should be, making the whole place feel like a sanctuary—but also a trap. A trap that keeps pulling your attention back to Sirius, whose easy movements behind the counter are like a strange magnet drawing your focus over and over again.

There’s no way he’s single, you think, squinting at him again. With a smile like that, the tattoos, the confidence in his every move—he must have someone, right? Probably a line of people, and that’s a fact you can’t ignore. Even so, you can’t help the way your pulse quickens every time your eyes meet his.

It’s now or never. You’ve been telling yourself this for the last fifteen minutes, and each minute that passes only makes your nerves worse. What could go wrong? You’re leaving soon anyway. You’ll never have to see him again. And honestly, even if he says no, you won’t be crushed.

As the minutes stretch on, the decision weighs heavier. Your fingers tremble as you close your laptop, the screen now filled with nothing but an unsaved document. You gather your things and stand, taking a moment to breathe in the air of the café, to ground yourself before making your way to the door. But then, as if on instinct, you find your feet leading you toward the counter.

You’re not sure if it’s the last sip of your latte that gave you the courage or the sudden rush of resolve, but before you can second-guess yourself, you're standing in front of him.

Sirius looks up from behind the counter, his smile as effortless as ever. "Hey, you heading out?" he asks, and his voice is like warm honey.

You nod, your heart thumping in your chest. You can feel your palms sweating. You’re almost there. Almost.

"Yeah, I was, uh, actually wondering..." You pause, looking anywhere but at him, trying to muster the courage to push through the words tumbling around your mind. "Honestly, no hard feelings if not, but I was wondering if I could give you my number?"

The words hang in the air for a moment, almost as though you’ve spoken them too loudly, or too nervously, or perhaps just too hopefully. You glance up, just in time to see his eyes widen slightly, followed by a slow, delighted grin that makes everything in your chest tighten.

"Yeah," he says, his voice warm, and his smile spreads wider. "Yeah, of course. I’d love that."

Shocked by his agreement, you choke out a laugh and he slides over a scrap of paper and a pen. Quickly scribbling down your number, you pass them back and give him a smile. 

“Thanks for asking,” he says softly, “made my day.” 

You walk out of the café, feeling a rush of euphoria and embarrassment battling inside you. Your heart is still racing, your fingers buzzing from the contact with Sirius's hand, the warmth of his smile lingering on your skin. But as you step outside into the drizzle, your stomach drops. It’s a small thing at first—just a twinge of uncertainty. But then, as you walk farther away, the feeling intensifies. You frown, running through the events of the past few minutes in your mind.

The exchange was perfect, you think. He smiled, said he’d love to have your number... But something’s nagging at you. You can’t put your finger on it, but the feeling settles deep in your gut, like a weight pulling at your chest.

And then it hits you, sudden and sharp: What if I gave him the wrong number?

You freeze in the middle of the sidewalk, panic flooding your veins. The number. Did you give him the right one? The one you’d written down last week when you swapped it with a friend? Or did you, in a nervous blur, scrawl down the number you’ve always used for emergencies—your mum's number?

Your breath quickens, and you feel the world tilt on its axis. There's no way you could have done that. Could you?

No, you reason with yourself, I’m just overthinking this. It’ll be fine.

There’s no other choice now. You’re already turning back toward the café, your heart pounding as you retrace your steps through the drizzle. You push open the door of the café again, the warm air hitting you like a wave. The café hums with its usual bustle, but you feel like you’re standing in the eye of a storm.

Sirius is standing behind the counter, wiping down the coffee machine, his dark eyes scanning the café. He looks up when you walk back toward him, his expression a mix of curiosity and mild confusion.

“You’re… back.” he states tilting his head slightly, not unlike a cat.

“Hey,” you say, feeling like your voice has lost all its natural tone, replaced by a strange pitch of panic. “Uh, I’m so sorry to bother you, but...”

He raises an eyebrow, a little smile tugging at his lips. “What’s up?”

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. "Could I, uh... could I see the paper I gave you?" You wince at how awkward it sounds, your hands already reaching toward the counter.

His brows furrow slightly, clearly unsure what you’re getting at. "You want to see what you wrote?" he asks, voice a touch more hesitant now.

"Yeah," you say, your cheeks flaming. "I think I might have... made a mistake."

He shrugs, offering a lopsided smile. "Sure, no problem." He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out the crumpled piece of paper, sliding it toward you across the counter.

You take it with trembling hands, your heart hammering in your chest. As soon as you unfold it, your stomach drops. There, in messy, hurried handwriting, is your mum’s phone number—not the one you meant to give him.

A deep flush crawls up your neck as you look at him, unable to hide your embarrassment. You feel your face burning hot, the familiar feeling of mortification sweeping over you. You did not just do that.

Sirius blinks, his eyes flickering between you and the paper. “Uh...” he starts, but his voice trails off as a grin spreads across his face. “Okay, so... this isn’t your number?”

You shake your head quickly, cringing. “No, no! It’s, uh, it’s my mum’s. I’m so sorry, I... I wasn’t really expecting you to say yes and I panicked. I swear I wasn’t trying to give you my mum’s number!”

He chuckles softly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Well, it’s definitely a first. Never had someone accidentally give me their mum's number before."

You drop your face into your hands, unable to stop the embarrassed laugh that escapes you. “This is mortifying,” you mutter, your face so hot it might as well be on fire. “I’m so sorry. I swear I didn’t mean to—”

It’s cute,” he interrupts, still chuckling. “Don’t worry about it. I mean, if you really want, I can give your mum a call. See if she’s up for a coffee?”

You look up at him, eyes wide in disbelief, and for a moment, you can’t tell whether he’s joking or not. But then the corners of his mouth twitch, and you realize he's just teasing.

“You’re not serious,” you say, and it’s hard not to smile.

“Of course not,” he says, grinning. "But I’ll tell you what—why don’t you just give me the right number this time, and I promise I’ll use it?"

You laugh, feeling the tension melt away, and quickly pull out a pen, writing the correct number and passing it over to him with a sheepish grin. "Here, I swear this one's mine," you say, offering him a smile that feels a little more confident now.

He takes it with a wink. "I’ll hold you to that," he says, his eyes warm with amusement and something else that makes your stomach flutter again.

“Thanks for being patient,” you murmur, feeling your heart settle as the embarrassment fades into something lighter, easier.

"No problem at all," he replies, tucking your number carefully into his pocket. "It made my day, really." He looks at you one last time, his grin softening into something a little more sincere. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

[houndofllove]

Once Johnny sinks his teeth into you, he has no intention of letting go.

He's always been bold—annoying at worst and charming at best. His presence is unmistakable; in the Mess it's his laughter that rings the loudest and in the corridors it's his shoulders which take up the expanse of it. So, yeah, it was no doubt that soon enough he'd get around to playing with you.

One glimmer of his shinning, pointy teeth and the starving glint in his eyes had you falling into his bed like a lamb caught in the foxes trap.

You haven't been the first, and most certainly won't be the last.

But there's something different about him this time. You try to call it quits, try to tell him it was fun, tell him goodbye. Yet he's trailing behind you at every moment he can spare. Weeks spent knowing he's two feet behind you in the canteen queue; watching as he moves to a different squat rack, the closer one, as soon as you get to the gym.

Leaning against the wall as you walk out from a briefing.

"Yer ignorin' me."

"Just going about my day, Johnny." You're already halfway down the corridor with your folder of paperwork, a headache forming at your temples.

"Won't ye just wait a minute."

He's not too far behind you, chasing like a desperate puppy. It's not hard to realise the thrill he gets out of this: following you around, pestering just enough until you'll give in to him. That animalistic hunt that men crave like vampires do blood.

"My god," you snap, steps halting so sharply you can sense the way his shirt brushes against your back before you turn, waving the folder in the air. "Don't you have a life? Something better to do than harass-"

The sudden way he grips your arm is enough to startle you into silence, submission as he pulls you into the closet a few steps away.

"What are you doing?" You scowl, but it doesn't stop him from putting his paws on your shoulders, turning you until your back is firm against the door and his knee is inching dangerously close to the swell between your legs.

"What did ye think was gonna happen?"

Heat simmers in your cheeks, unyielding as you take on to staring at his chest. You don't want to give him the satisfaction of looking up, knowing you're beneath him, that no matter what he does you can't fight him.

Huffing, you try plant your feet firmly into the ground, angling your hips backward to try evade the way he somehow presses himself even closer to you without touching you quite yet.

"What did ye think?"

It comes out sterner but with a rasp in it which you know is full of desire; one that comes when a man is thirsty for water after days without it. He pinches your chin before you can stop or recognise it, and then he's craning your head back.

Staring back at you isn't the 141 sweetheart, nor the playful Sergeant that everyone knows, but a wolf.

The lump in your throat stops any words from escaping, lip wobbling as you struggle to come up with anything. No cunning retort, no quick escape.

"Ah know, ah know," he shushes but he's laughing all the same, the pearls between his lips on display. "Fun isn't it? Runnin' away from me, pretendin' I'm not there?"

Your exhale is sharp, the wind brushing against the top of your lip, cool. You try to shake your head but his fingers hold you still.

"Pretty lamb," he muses, "didn't think I'd let ye go, did ye?"

"Fuck you–"

"Ahhh," he sighs dreamily, leaning forward so his lips sit just a fraction away from yours. You try to shrink your lips, try to shake your head out of his grip again, move your legs so he's not overwhelmingly near. Efforts that are futile as his thigh finally slides right against your core.

He's disgustingly pleased when your eyes go wide.

"Always liked the ones that bite back best."

[kittenintheden]

Where were you, when I was new?

AO3 Version Here bonus gift art by tavplum!!

Even the masters have to start somewhere.

Rating: E Word Count: 5.6k Content: 18+, Virgin Astarion, Pre-Canon Astarion, Law Student Astarion, Young Astarion, Loss of Virginity, Oral Sex, Intercourse, Gender-Neutral Partner (3rd Person), Unnamed Partner (3rd Person)

Astarion Ancunín is twenty years old, a law student, and a virgin. At least, he is for the time being.

It’s not as if he doesn’t know he’s an exceptionally good-looking young man, not as if no one’s ever asked before. Not as if he’s completely inexperienced. He adores kissing. Flushes with pleasure when someone plays with his long, elegant ears. Participates in a little hand stuff here and there. He even received head and gave it back, once, at some party.

Really, it’s simply that he’s had other things to do – other lessons to learn, other books to study, other concerns about his future position – and no one ever seemed worth sharing himself with fully. At least, not the first time. What can he say? He has standards.

It’s neither here nor there, to be honest, because he’s deep in his notes from a recent lecture when a friend puts a hand on his shoulder and draws his attention away. He grumbles, annoyed at being yanked out of his zone.

“What, arthehole?” he says from between his teeth because he doesn’t want to drop the pair of gold-rimmed glasses that dangle from his mouth by one temple. He never did quite outgrow his oral fixation.

His friend tilts their chin toward the large double doors that offer entry to their university’s library, which is where they’re currently holed up. “Look sharp,” the friend says. “The mock trial team from Neverwinter just walked in.”

Astarion sits up and shifts his gaze to the group of unfamiliar students following behind an enthusiastic prefect who seems to be giving them the full tour of the Grand College of Baldur's Gate. They certainly look like standard Neverwinter fare – wizard-chic robes, scrutinizing stares, Northern city attitude. He leans his cheek on his hand, lazily sizing up the competition.

There’s one that stands out and he quirks his mouth up as he observes. This student is smiling brightly, slowly spinning in place to take in the shelves around them with wonder. Their clothing is simpler than the others, more street-friendly than cosmopolitan.

“Huh,” he says to himself.

“I think we can take them no problem,” his friend says. “But what do you say about running a bit of an insurance policy? Some friendly distraction, if you will.”

Astarion glances their way. “I’m listening.”

The friend points to someone toward the front of the line. “I’ll take that one. You know I’m a sucker for tieflings with blue… everything.”

He laughs. “Have at. I think…” He folds his glasses and slips them into his pocket, training his eyes on the student who stuck out to him before. “... I’ll deal with that one.”

“Good man,” says the friend, holding up a hand for him to clasp.

***

Some time later, Astarion leans casually against a support beam in the university’s canteen with his supper in hand, waiting. It isn’t long until the Neverwinter students begin to filter in and he quickly spies his target.

They’re taking in the room and the people around them, eyes soft and gentle as a cow’s. Elven, like him, he thinks. They look over their shoulder and happen to catch his eye for a scant moment. He tilts his head and they give a polite smile before stepping forward in the queue.

Astarion examines his nails closely during the several minutes it takes the group to retrieve their food and find seats. As the elf walks along the line of chairs, he makes his move.

Before they even notice his approach, he steps just in front of them and then startles as they knock into him.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” they say, mercifully righting their tray before anything spills. “I didn’t see you.”

“No, no,” Astarion says, smiling bashfully. “My fault entirely. I didn’t look to see where I was going. I’m terrible that way. Please, join me?”

He pulls out the nearest chair and gestures for them to sit. They blink at him, wide-eyed, then lean around to look for their friends, then back at him in slight confusion.

“Ah, sorry, that’s presumptuous, I shouldn’t-”

“No, it’s fine,” they say, their face brightening with another grin. “We’re supposed to be here to meet other students, anyway, so. Yeah. Yes, I’d be happy to join you.”

“Wonderful,” Astarion says, pushing the chair in under them as they take his offered seat. Behind their back, he casts a look over at his friend across the way. They waggle their eyebrows at him and go back to chatting up their blue tiefling. Astarion smirks.

He schools his features back to neutral as he takes his own seat, giving the Neverwinter student a tight smile, playing the part of the nervy introvert superbly. Right on cue, his glasses slip down his nose a bit and he adjusts them back into place.

“Do you actually need those?” his guest says, their cheek already full of food.

Astarion’s smile drops for a second before he snatches it back and gives a laugh. “What?”

They chew and swallow their bite before pointing at his face. “The spectacles. I was just wondering if they were for show or…” They pause and their eyes go even wider than usual. “I apologize, that’s really rude of me, forget I said anything.”

His surprised laugh is genuine this time. “You know what? I don’t actually need them.” To illustrate his point, he removes them, folds them, and puts them in his jacket pocket. He leans in like he’s about to tell them a secret and quietly says, “Honestly, I just think they make me look smart.”

Immediately, they burst out laughing and he joins them. The conversation flows smoothly, after that.

“What are you doing all the way down at the Gate?” Astarion asks, placing a forkful of his own food in his mouth to chew as they answer. He now knows their name, their year, that they adore snow foxes, and that they are indeed visiting from Neverwinter.

They pick off a piece of their roll, then another. “I’m here with the mock trial group. You know that one? We playact cases like you’d find in the courts. We’re here for a competition with the Gate’s team.”

“Really?” Astarion says, the picture of innocence as he leans in closer, fascinated. “Like theater? I didn’t even know we had one of those.”

“Oh, yes, it’s a lot of fun.” They’re animatedly waving their forgotten roll around as they speak. It’s cute. “We each take the side of either the prosecution or the defense and we sort of, you know, duke it out.”

Astarion giggles. “Maybe I should come watch this thing. Which side are you on?”

“Defense,” they say with a wink. “And we’ve got a killer case.”

“Is that so?” Astarion’s grin spreads wide over his face. “I’d love to hear more.”

***

It had been quite the productive evening. His companion spilled the details of nearly everything that mattered, from their witness list to the evidence they hoped to sneak in last-minute with a legal loophole. Astarion flirted up a storm, keeping them talking. And talk they did, punctuated with laughter and light touches and a general aura of friendship .

Astarion grimaces as he organizes his notes for the trial. It should begin in an hour and he’s been hiding out in the nearby lecture hall that serves as the makeshift judge’s chambers. If he’s really, truly honest with himself… he feels awful. His opponent had been sweet, friendly, and genuinely enjoyable to be around, if a little… south of brilliant. It hadn’t taken long for him to realize he actually kind of liked them. Would maybe consider flirting with them for real, even.

If only they hadn’t been so naively trusting . That was their own fault, wasn’t it?

He swallows the sour taste in his mouth.

Around then, his friend swaggers into the room with a blooming bruise on their neck and a sleepy smile. They flop down in the seat beside him.

“Good night?” Astarion asks, cocking an eyebrow at them.

“Blue everywhere,” they say as if they’re doped up. “Everywhere, Ancunín.”

Astarion chuckles and shakes his head. “But did you learn anything useful?”

His friend doesn’t answer and Astarion clears his throat to prompt them. They focus back in on him and say, “Erm, we were supposed to be learning something? I proposed running distraction.”

“Oh for the gods’ sake.” Astarion rolls his eyes. “No matter. I got all the details from my date, anyway.” He taps his notes against the desk to straighten them and slips them into his satchel.

“You mean their team captain?” his friend says.

Astarion freezes with his hand on the latch of his satchel. Turns his head slowly to gawk at his teammate. “Their. What?”

The friend shrugs. “Guess I did learn one thing, after all. My companion said you were sitting with their team captain. Thought it was a pretty bold choice.” They wink at him. “Good for you.”

“Shit,” Astarion whispers.

His friend frowns, but before they can ask, he’s up and pulling open the door that leads to their mock chambers. The Neverwinter team is already well underway on their setup. He storms down the center aisle and sure enough, there’s his dining companion, looking polished to a fine shine with their hair properly styled and robes of deep blue setting off their elven complexion.

They turn just in time to catch him glaring at them with his jaw clenched.

“Glad you could make it,” they say with a much slyer smile than they wore last night.

Astarion has never been so simultaneously angry and infuriatingly attracted to someone in his life.

***

The first trial of their three-day competition is, naturally, a complete bust for Team Baldur’s Gate. Astarion is completely off his game and operating off of a strategy that proves totally useless. The Neverwinter team absolutely trounces them.

He got played. He got played and he’s furious about it.

Worse, he’s impressed by it. Gross.

Afterward, they come up to him to offer a genuine, friendly handshake. Astarion reluctantly accepts it.

“I’d apologize,” they say. “But honestly, I let you take the lead completely. You didn’t have to listen to a single word out of my mouth.”

Astarion sniffs. “Yes, well. Congratulations. You won.” He leans into their space ever so slightly. “This time.”

They laugh and it sounds almost the same as it did the night before. “Come on, let me buy you a drink.”

“You don’t have to rub it- wait, what?” Astarion says.

They shrug. “Secret’s out now, I guess, so I don’t see any reason for us to pretend that we didn’t enjoy one another’s company.” When Astarion doesn’t immediately respond, they put a hand on their hip and smirk at him. “At least, I enjoyed yours.”

“Well, I…” Astarion huffs and looks askance, then back at them. “I don’t even know which parts of you are real , so. I can’t say.”

The elf reaches out a finger and taps him right on the center of his chest. “You’re the one who saw someone from one of the top universities in the realm and assumed I must be some foolish bumpkin who’ll spill their guts to the first pretty face that comes along because I smile too much. I’m the one who should be concerned, I think.”

“Ugh, okay, fair,” he says, tossing his head. Then he smirks back. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Come on,” they say with a laugh and a tilt of their head toward the exit. “Let’s get that drink.”

***

Hours later, Astarion stands in front of the tiny vanity in his dorm, turning his face to examine his reflection. His cheeks are flushed from a second and then a third drink, his curls looking a bit flat at the end of the day. He pulls back his lips to examine his teeth, making sure the wine didn’t stain them. Fine. He looks fine.

He huffs at his reflection. Normally, his confidence in his appearance is, one might say, inflated . Tonight, he’s feeling unusually self-conscious about it. He pokes at the moles under his eye and grimaces.

It had been a marvelous time. True to their word, his fellow captain had bought him the first cup of cheap wine. He’d pitched in for their second round, and they’d each decided on a third. After agreeing that tonight would involve absolutely no discussion of the next day’s case, they simply let the conversation take them where it would, and took them it did. 

It was… easy. Instinctive. He told them all about leaving his terribly boring hometown behind for the call of Baldur’s Gate, determined to polish himself to a high shine and enjoy everything the city life had to offer. They told him that Neverwinter was a beautiful, sparkling metropolis, but woefully lacking in people who weren’t head-and-shoulders up their own arse.

Astarion fidgets with the wooden comb and brush laid out on his vanity, smiling. Wine loosened their tongues a bit more and they’d given into the compulsion to openly flirt with one another, and it had been… good. Very good. It’s been some time since he’s felt genuinely interested in spending an evening with someone this way. If anything, he thanks his dates for the delightful makeout session and goes on his merry way.

He runs his fingers along his bottom lip, remembering being partway into that third cup and snatched up with the overwhelming desire to kiss them. The air around them felt heated and heady, their laughs going lower in pitch as the night wore on, their eyes half-lidded when they looked at him.

He’d wanted to. He’d wanted to so badly. More than he could ever remember wanting to kiss anyone. And he’d let his nerves get the better of him.

They’d bid their goodnights, he’d come back here, and now he was flopping down onto his too-hard single bed with a huff, covering his face with his hands. He sighs and drags them over his skin, looking at his wall covered in parchment, his reminders and notes to himself everywhere, a few tickets to events he wanted to remember pinned here and there.

He reaches out and taps the flyer advertising the mock trial competition, feeling a slow grin spread over his face. They’d bested him today, but tomorrow… tomorrow’s another story.

***

The look on their face when Astarion delivers his final arguments to the judges is delicious. He’s back in the game, fully and completely, using every bit of performative flair to make sure all eyes stay on him. When he wraps it up, he pays them a smug glance and they’re looking at him with lips slightly parted.

Better yet, they’re blushing .

He positively beams.

Baldur’s Gate comes out victorious, leaving the teams one-and-one. Tomorrow will decide the competition.

Tonight, they all go out together to play.

The Neverwinter team is desperately competitive and worth every bit of the name they’ve made for themselves on the university circuit, but they also love to party. The two groups find a rager of a soiree happening at the winter house of one of the Upper City students. There’s dancing, and drinking, and no small number of heated exchanges.

Astarion doesn’t waste the opportunity to rub elbows with anyone notable – he has long-term goals, after all – but most of his attention is devoted to spending as much time as possible with his new Neverwinter friend.

They share a dance or two on the trellised patio, purple and white wisteria hanging down all around them and perfuming the air. Nothing salacious… at least, not at first. That second dance ends up a bit close, with their hand on his chest and his just the tiniest bit too low on their hip for propriety.

In the twilight, they look into his face, their own expression open and affectionate, and it hits Astarion again – that overwhelming desire to kiss them. His heartbeat quickens, fluttering his pulse up along the side of his neck, and his breath catches. Heat swirls through him from the place their hand sits on his chest.

This is ridiculous. He’s never had a problem kissing anyone else before.

He’s never wanted to kiss anyone like this before, though. This thing between them… it’s chemical. Magical.

The music drifts away and they drift apart.

He does not kiss them.

***

Day three of the competition dawns and it’s the fiercest one yet. Every member of each team is out to win and they bring their very best to the table. The professors and other staff acting as the competition's judges watch the back and forth with raised eyebrows, thoroughly impressed by their students’ passion.

And no passion is so intense as the passion between the two team captains, who pace around one another like a pair of territorial wolves, seeking any weakness at all. They stand on either side of a long table, making their cases back and forth. Occasionally they address the judge, but clearly this is a battle between the two of them.

“The evidence is crystal clear,” the Neverwinter captain states, eyes narrowed. “This man is corrupt, feeding information to the highest bidder with complete disregard for any life ruined in the process. It is unconscionable, and the court must see justice through.”

Astarion slams his hands down on the table for effect and leans closer, eyes on them. “The evidence reveals he feared for his life, for the lives of his family. He performed these misdeeds under duress. The true culprit is not in this courtroom. And that…” He pauses for effect, letting the tension stretch. “... is why I move for a mistrial.”

There’s a bark of laughter behind him from his teammate and the room goes nearly to shambles under the sudden upswing in feverish whispering. Astarion grins.

Astarion stands his ground.

Astarion wins his requested mistrial .

In the end, the final judging declares Baldur’s Gate the winner of the day, but Neverwinter the overall mock trial champions – decided by a single point.

The entire mock chambers breathes a collective sigh of relief for the end of a battle well fought and new friends made. Astarion’s teammates are swarming him, slapping his back and praising his performance. He’s grinning ear to ear and looks up just in time to see the Neverwinter captain come barrelling through the crowd to catch him in a hug. He gasps and instinctively wraps his arms around them in return.

After a solid squeeze, they stand back and put their hands on his shoulders. They’re flushed with the fight, with the win. Their eyes shine a bit in the light.

“Well done,” they say, beaming. “You were incredible.”

Astarion gulps and manages to pull on a smile. “Congratulations on your win.”

“You’ll be at the party tonight?” they ask, looking between his eyes.

“Of course,” Astarion says. “I'll see you later.”

***

And he doesn’t miss it.

Astarion stands in the mock chambers again some time later, the air far less tense and much more celebratory. The teams and their judges and staff mingle amid the catered trays of sandwiches and pitchers of cheap wine. He looks around with two cups in hand, seeking out his new friend. Friend. Friend?

When he spots them, he simply can’t stop the smile pulling at his mouth. He wants so badly to be cool tonight and they make it so hard.

He takes a breath and approaches them. They turn from the person they’re currently chatting with and light up when they spot him. Their companion looks at Astarion and takes their leave with raised eyebrows, clearly aware that their conversation is now over.

Astarion clears his throat and offers a cup. They accept it.

“It’s really very bad,” Astarion says with a scoff. “But it’s something.” He takes a sip.

They continue to smile coyly at him as they bring their own cup to their mouth.

“You’re leaving tomorrow?” Astarion says, looking into his cup so he doesn’t have to see their face.

There’s a pause, and then softly, they say, “Yes. Late morning. We’re hoping to make it back to Neverwinter before the snows start on the road.”

Astarion takes another drink of his wine and sets it down before he looks back at them. “That’s unfortunate,” he says with a soft, sad laugh. “Because I’ve rather liked the time we’ve spent together.” He pauses and swallows. “I’ve rather liked you .”

They tilt their head, wine held aloft in one hand, and let their smile widen.

When they don’t respond, Astarion says, “That is, you’re very clever to be around. Fun. Fun to be around? I like to be around you because you’re just…” He looks around desperately like he’s going to find help for this. “... incredible.”

They turn and set their cup down on a nearby bench.

Astarion rambles on, “I only thought maybe you might be, I don’t know, interested in letting me show you what else I’m capable of.” High-pitched laugh. “Outside the courtroom.” Clears his throat and blinks rapidly. “If you want.”

With a giggle, they grab him by the lapels and pull him in, pressing their mouth fully to his in a kiss that makes him immediately swoon, his legs going a touch weak as he leans against them for support. The chatter around them goes muffled in his mind as they both adjust for a better fit and he feels his ears flush pink to the very tips.

When the kiss breaks, Astarion can feel his heart beating in his throat, in his fingertips, in his lips, in his… oh, that’s going to be an issue very soon.

They catch his eye and say, “You want to get out of here?”

He’s never nodded his head “yes” so quickly in his life.

***

They don’t make it anywhere close to the dorms.

Now that the seal’s been broken, Astarion simply can’t keep his hands off of them. They escape into the hall together and run a few steps down the way when he crashes into them, wrapping his arms around them from behind until he gets them to turn so he can kiss them again, both hands on either side of their head as they stumble.

They run a ways, kiss a ways, run a ways, and so on until Astarion yanks them down a side hallway behind the library, looking from door to door. When he finds one he likes, he gives their hand a tug and they use the momentum to slam against him until his back hits the door. The pair of them laugh deliriously as they kiss again, tongues testing and discovering, but then they break from his mouth to kiss toward his ear.

The moment they suck on the lobe, his cock goes fully and painfully hard, hips bucking out as he whines into the air beside them.

“No, no, not there,” he says in a breathy whisper. “Not unless you want to call it a very early evening.”

They bury their face in the side of his neck, giggling, and he scrambles his hand around behind him until he finds the doorknob and they both go tumbling inside.

Astarion collapses onto the floor with his companion on top and doesn’t even think before he kicks the door shut with one foot and reaches up to bring their face back to his for another kiss. This time, he uses a thumb to stroke along the length of their own elven ear and then groan into his mouth, grinding down hard against him.

Oh gods, this is happening.

He wants this to happen.

On impulse, he reaches down their bodies until his hand's between his companion’s legs, gently cupping them there, and they sit upright, head thrown back in the very low magical lantern light of this filing room, and rock themselves against it. He does his best to give them the friction they’re seeking.

A minute or so later, they tilt their head forward and meet his eyes, their eyes stormy and lustful. They take his hands and pull them both back to standing, backing him up until he slams up against the side of the nearest filing shelf. Fingers fumble with the buttons of his doublet and he tries to help, getting them undone enough that they can reach their hands inside and scrape their nails over his ribs through his undershirt. Astarion’s chest arches forward, goosebumps prickling over his skin as he makes contented noises through their kiss.

Then they kiss down his neck, giving him a little nip near the collarbone that makes him squeak, which he attempts to cover with a purr. They keep going until they kneel on the floor and work at the lacings of his trousers. His tongue feels so heavy in his mouth, and he’s about to say that they don’t have to do-

But then their mouth is on his freed cock and he throws his head back, swooning into the overwhelming sensation of wet heat surrounding him. He’s done this before, and it was fine, but it wasn’t like this . Maybe it’s because he’s so attracted to them? Maybe it’s because they’re doing… that thing… with their tongue…

He whines and pulls in a deep breath, trying to keep his wits about him, because he highly suspects that one-sided head is not how they want the night to end. Before he reaches a dangerous place, he puts his hand on their head and gently slows them. They pull off of him and look up with a smile, their eyes the exact mix of mischief and sexiness that caught him in the first place.

No one’s ever made him feel like this. Not once.

This one, though. They’ve wound their way around the very core of him.

Astarion gulps and says, quiet and shy, “I haven’t done this before.”

Their eyes go a little wider. “Really?” they say, sincere. “You?”

He laughs. “I mean, I’ve done what we just did, but I haven’t… done what I think we’re about to do.”

They give his cock one more long lick that makes him sway a bit before they stand back up and kiss him. He melts into it. He likes them so very, very much. It hurts that they’re leaving, but this is right. He knows it is. These past few days and nights feeling them take root in him… they’ve all been leading to this.

“Well, then, I’m honored,” they say, and they sound like they mean it. “If we’re about to do what you’re thinking.”

“Oh, yes, please,” he says, kissing them again.

They each separate and disrobe, their clothing building a haphazard pile between them. Soon enough, they swipe the old files off the nearest table and his playmate faces it, bidding him closer with a smile over their shoulder, almost exactly the same as the first one they ever paid him in the canteen only a few nights ago.

Astarion takes his cock in his hand, still spit-slick, and puts his other hand on their hip. They lean over the tabletop, palms flat on the surface, and spread their legs for him. His breath stutters, his legs go weak beneath him. He can’t quite believe he’s here.

Beneath him, they shift their weight so they can put their hand over his. He’s shaking, just a little.

“We can stop if you want to,” they say, their words reedy with need but sincere beneath it.

“No,” Astarion says. Licks his lower lip. “I want to do this with you.”

They give a light laugh. “Whenever you’re ready.”

He nods, then realizes they can’t see him. “Okay. Okay.”

His fingers move from their hip to the middle of their back and he draws the pads of his fingers down over their spine. They shiver under the touch and Astarion swallows hard. His fingers trace all the way to where their arse begins to curve. He shudders in a breath and brings two fingers to his mouth to suck, then reaches between their legs to touch them there, apply pressure, rub small circles.

They arch and hum beneath his ministrations.

Astarion holds his breath and pushes his fingers inside them, losing his footing just a bit as he feels their heat, the pulse of them around his fingers. When he has his wits back, he moves his fingers in and out, pumping slow, listening to their breath beneath him for cues on what he might be doing right or wrong. He turns his fingers a bit, mapping their body, and they give a shuddering sigh.

Their insides grow warmer to the touch. Are they supposed to do that?

“More,” they huff. “You can do more now.”

“Right,” Astarion says, withdrawing his fingers and moving in closer, his arousal pulsing with anticipation. It feels like crossing into a new world, going somewhere that will well and truly mark him an adult. And he’s ready.

His cock rests at their entrance and with one more breath he guides himself inside with his hand. There’s a brief resistance, a pleasant pressure against the head of him, and then he’s half inside. His hips instinctively give a second thrust and then he’s fully sheathed.

He gasps and curls forward into their body just as they arch into his. Astarion’s arm wraps around their waist and he holds them tight.

“Okay?” they gasp again, their legs quivering.

“You feel…” he pants, pressing his forehead to the space between their shoulder blades. “Gods, you feel so good.”

They laugh and reach a hand behind them to tangle in the hair at the side of his head. “You too. You feel good, too.”

Astarion huffs out his breath and tries to place a sloppy kiss to their back, but it’s so hard when this feeling is coursing through him and his thoughts are going haywire because everything is different, now. He’s different, now.

He draws his hips back and rolls them forward again.

They sigh with it, signaling their approval.

So he does it again. And again. And again.

Together they build a rhythm. Every once in a while, they help Astarion angle himself this way or that, teaching him how to make a partner feel, make them shudder, make them moan. He finds a spot near the front of them that makes them squirm and he files that knowledge away. They take his hand and guide him round to their front and show him what to do, how they like to be touched.

He’s a fast learner. Always has been.

Astarion pants as he attempts to commit every second of this experience to memory: being buried deep inside, feeling the shudder and movement of his partner, the way they flush and bloom, the unbearably sexy sounds that float from their throat to his ears. Most of all, he wants to remember how this feels , how much he enjoys the person he’s sharing this with. His heart thuds in his chest, his ears flush with arousal and affection, and he is so happy to be exactly here, in this moment.

The pair of them grow slick with sweat against one another in the unventilated room, their cries stifled and sultry. The minds are willing, but the bodies are young and eager. The passion building between them swells, shivering, laser-focused on the place where they meet.

Their rhythm goes chaotic and Astarion only barely holds on long enough for his partner to fall over the edge before he goes tumbling after.

For a scant moment, the world goes paler than he’s ever seen it.

Then they’re both whimpering through the other side of their peak, movements gradually slowing to stillness.

After they’ve had an awkward disentanglement and a more awkward cleanup, they look into one another’s faces, and then they’re kissing again, touching again, losing themselves again. What youth lacks in experience, it makes up in vigor.

They do it once more, face to face this time. Slower, longer. Astarion learns what it’s like to soul kiss someone while making love to them. He likes it. Very much.

Some time later, Astarion leans against the table and stares down at his doublet while he does up the buttons. Beneath his lashes, he peeks up and sees them looking at him, their mouth titled up in a sweet smile. They’re already fully dressed.

“What?” Astarion says airily. His cheeks are warm and he’s positive he’s rosy pink with a blush.

“You are so pretty,” they say. “And funny, and clever. You’ve been lovely company.”

Astarion raises his eyebrows and looks askance, unable to stop grinning. “Yes, well. You’re delightful, as well, and you certainly gave me a night to remember. Thanks, for that.”

It goes unspoken between them, the knowledge that this is the last and only night. They’re young, they’re dedicated to their studies. There won’t be time for lovesick letters and pining, nice as it might be. No. Best that they keep this memory contained in crystal, sparkling.

His opponent, his friend, his lover walks closer and puts a finger under his chin and Astarion allows them to tilt his face so he’s looking at them. Then they lean in and give him a tender kiss.

When they break away, they stay close and look him in the eye. “What you gave me was a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.”

Astarion smiles. “Nor I.”

With one last kiss, they say their goodbyes. “Goodnight, Astarion,” they say. “I do hope we meet again, one of these days.”

“Me too,” he says, watching their retreat. “Goodnight, Tav.”

[hazbinhazmeinachokehold]

Alastor + apprentice!child!reader

A/n: this is some practice to get a footing in his character. (Also slight practice on husk as well.)

Reader is kinda scary but means well overall

Not proofread

Y/n ever elusive. Alastor would randomly mention your name in conversations. References your rampages and your sweetness in the same breath. But when anyone would try to quiz him on you further he would act like he didn't know what they were talking about. He might try to claim it's for privacy but it's pretty obvious he just likes messing with hotel members.

Charlie was especially sad that she might never get to meet you. If Alastor was to be believed you seemed really sweet! (And easy to rehabilitate *cough* *cough*) Also cool! You seemed to be an absolute powerhouse. After Al mentioned you Charlie got somewhat mopey. Until he mentioned you visiting the hotel, which piqued everyone's interest.

When you finally showed up, people's interest was at an all-time high. But now it was because the fabled y/n was a child. "It's a pleasure to be meeting everyone!" You were looking at Alastor but were speaking to the whole room. "I've heard so much about all of you!"

"They've also heard much about you too, dearie." Alastor bent at the waist down to your level. "You've become quite the hot topic here!"

As if to prove his point Charlie picked you up and spun you around almost hitting Alastor in the face. He glared at her but remained calm. "Welcome, welcome! Do you want to choose a room to stay in?"

"Sorry, but I'm not planning to stay."

"I know but just for the time being." Charlie clarified. To that, you nodded. Husk snapped his head toward The Radio Demon once both you and Charlie had left.

"Did you really stoop low enough to make a deal with a child?" He was just barely containing his anger. While he didn't particularly care for those he didn't know at least somewhat personally, taking a child's soul was a place he drew a thick line.

"Why of course not!" He said sounding offended but clearly, it was to mock Husk. "They are under my guidance purely by choice!" Vaggie and Husk both said some version of 'you're a liar' in unison. Alastor simply tsked as he walked away.

Niffty seemingly appeared out of nowhere. "Was thas thay y/n?"

After the crew (excluding Husk) let out a yelp, Vaggie spoke, "Yep."

Niffty let out a villain-esque laugh, though that was just her usual laugh, "I've been meaning to talk to them since they scared off a group of bad boys~" She flashed her sharp teeth and held a knife. Angel grabbed the knife and her before she could get very far.

Back with you and Charlie Alastor materialized next to you and you waved at him.

"Hello, sir!" You saluted him as a joke.

"Hello to you too! Have you found a room?" You nodded and entered said room. Charlie looked at him, her face painted with a confused yet kind look.

"They're the one who hurt so many people? Are you kidding? They are so nice."

"You've never seen them in danger." Suddenly as if on queue an explosion was heard. You shot up from your surprisingly comfortable bed and ran downstairs. Pushing both Charlie and Alastor out of the way while also throwing a quick ‘sorry’ their way.

Once you got downstairs the bad boys that Niffty mentioned earlier were spouting something about you. Once they looked at you they pulled weapons out. You grew and your arms turned pitch black with a slight claw shape. With your new size, you were just big enough to grab them to the point of almost cracking bones. Almost.

"Leave." You said with a deep booming voice that came with the size. You threw them and they scrambled. Once they were gone you shrunk back down to your normal size. Niffty pouted and stamped her foot.

Once you turned everyone had varying looks of shock on their face except Niffty and of course, Alastor who was instead proud. "Congrats dear! Would you like some jambalaya?" You nodded.

As you were walking with him Husk grabbed your shoulder, "Um good job kid... If he ever offers you a deal, don't take it." He felt obliged to warn you. If Alastor's moral code was against recruiting kids, he probably would have pounced on the opportunity to take your soul once you were an adult.

You smiled, "I know I know. But what could I even gain out of any deal with him?" You laughed and walked back to Alastor. Huh. Well, you certainly were being tutored by Alastor.

A/n: Y/n got kinda of edgy at the end-

[1nsan1tysan1ty]

Tim AU where he’s dead as hell

Tim Drake died at age 10 while chasing Batman. Tim Drake dies to a gunshot wound to the abdomen from a bullet gone astray (that goon can honestly die with him cause that was such a bitch move).

He wakes up at home, cold and alone. He blinks, confused. He doesn’t feel dead although he’s…cold. His camera is still hanging off his neck and the high ceilings of the Drake manor offer no explanation.

“Okay,” Tim says, “okay.”

He stands up, head dizzy and body aching. His abdomen in particular hurts quite a bit and when he pulled his shirt up, there was a circular shaped scar. It was rigid and a little red on the edges.

Tim, being a ten year old, simply shrugged and went about his day. He continued school even though the people around him ignored him. He still did his work and the confused look on his teachers face was always a little weird.

And after a week break, Tim leaves the house to stalk the bats again. He finds that when he hides in the shadows (he learned from watching the bats do this) he basically disappears. Like, literally disappears! It makes snapping these pictures so much easier!

Then, the day his parents return from their dig, Tim is very startled the weirdness of his parents. They’re sniffly and just barely holding it together. They keep ignoring Tim when he tries to ask what’s wrong too!!

And suddenly, when there’s a gala held in his own name and the whispers of condolences, does he realize what’s happing.

“Okay. I’m…dead,” he nods as he stares at his sobbing mother, “dead-dead.”

Tims eyes wander to Mr. Wayne and watches as the man frowns and tries to comfort his grieving mother. It’s a bitter sight.

///cutaway segment where I yap///

Now, I’d assume that Tim is…a little numb. He accepts being dead weirdly well and just decides to live as normally as possible(he’s in denial). This time, he pretends he’s alive but he doesn’t actually interact with living beings and their world.

Okay, here’s a new thing

Because Tim is dead, he can wander Gotham with zero issues and thus, starts spying and listening in on rouges. He captures photos still(of course) and suddenly, he stumbles upon a big plan that would kill literally everyone. It’s set to happen in, let’s say, a year from when he finds out

Queue Tim finally deciding to do something that could actually help ppl. He prints the pictures he took(how? I’m not sure. He’s just built different I guess) and he starts leaving them in Batman’s, Nightwings, and Robins patrol routes.

One day, Tim just goes “fuck it” and shows up to the manor. He hides in the shadows and subconsciously allows himself to blend in with them. He’s nervous okay??

Dick is walking down the corridor, photograph in hand and Tim is just so excited! He’s also worried and stressed and dead which he totally forgot about. He scares the shit out of Dick which in turn scares the shit out of Tim and he scurries into the shadows again.

Later, Dick tells the others about the encounter

“Its eyes were glowing pure white!! With really sharp teeth and holy shit—“

“Language.”

“—and holy cow it was terrifying!!”

While Tim is a little sad that Dick(his Robin!!) called Tim, a 10(11?) year old, scary, it does spark a new idea.

Thus, Tim decides to play into the exaggerated narrative Dick had set in motion. The shadows like him and play along with his trickery. He leads the bats with glowing, blinking eyes and soft whispers.

And finally, three days before Gotham is to be exploded, Bruce figures it out and the Batfam save the day.

Happy ending! Yay!

Tim probably haunts them and because he’s been dead for so long (and as a child), he literally doesn’t know how to live anymore.

The bats have to coax him out of his cryptid, lurker like mindset and now they have 10(is he 11? 12? Maybe 15 now?) year old Tim Drake whose now permanently family.

End lol

Note:

This was VERY rushed and just an idea I had to write down

If anyone would like to expand their thoughts or ad don pls do!! Comment or reblog or whatever lol

I would highly appreciate it!!

[ddejavvu]

Rooster w a reader who helps penny at the bar on a really busy night and is a big hit with all the guys, much to Roosters dismay. One time after she is heading back from delivering drinks, a guy from a rowdy table that has been bothering her tries to shoot his shot and grabs her ass but she is having none of it and turns around to greet him with a HARD backhand to the face. Bonus points if the reader is typically super bubbly and flirty with everyone, so this behavior is unusual, and everyone just goes wild😭

Roo would definitely love to see her stick up for herself and the boys def be there to kick the guy out.

There's not even a full second between when the man's hand connects with your ass, and when your own connects with his face. There's two sharp cracks that silence all noise in the bar, and though the jukebox is still warbling, silence is thick and suffocating.

You seethe down at the man who'd recoiled from your touch, now clutching his face with his elbow leaned against the table he's sitting beside.

There's no indication of what had prompted you to slap him until you speak, teeth gritted as you somehow keep balance over your tray of drinks.

"If you ever try to grab my ass again, you won't have hands to try it a third time. Do you understand me?"

The man doesn't bother responding, but you take an empty beer bottle that he'd downed only minutes prior, flipping it upside down in your hold so that the mouth faces you, and the neck is securely in your grip.

"I am not above smashing this into your dick. Answer me. Do you understand?"

"Yes!" The man chokes out, legs squeezed tightly together and a hand over his crotch, "Yes, I understand."

You don't bother gracing him with any further attention, turning sharply away and chucking the empty bottle into a bin behind the counter. Its clatter is everyone's queue to get back to business as usual, and Bradley's already walking towards you when you turn to serve his table.

"Baby," He starts, but you plow past him, taking his hand in yours to drag him along with you.

"Not here," You spit through gritted teeth, "Meet me in the back room."

He follows your instructions to the letter when you drop his hand, quite possibly intimidated by your demeanor even though you'd have no urge to punish him with it. You set the tray down on the table that his squadron has gathered around, passing out drinks wordlessly as they stare.

"Good hit," Phoenix breaks the silence, and though irritation is still stewing just beneath the surface of your skin, you can't be upset with her.

You let your lips twist into a miniscule smirk, lifting barely on one side, "Thanks."

"Penny'll want him thrown overboard," Fanboy muses, "Can I do the honors?"

"I'll join," Jake drawls, and Bob volunteers as third.

"Alright," Your tight smirk fades into a weak smile, eyes downcast as bashfulness takes over, "Thanks, guys."

"Anytime." Payback claps you on the shoulder, thanking you for his drink, "Just stay away from my junk with that bottle, okay?"

"Don't grab my ass," You warn him through a chuckle, "I gotta go."

You take your leave with less anger boiling your insides, but you're still rightfully peeved when you meet Bradley in the supply closet.

"Baby," He tries again, and this time you let him take you by the hips, his worried eyes boring into yours, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," You insist, because the man's hand hadn't hurt as much as it had sickened you, "Just feel gross."

"I'm sorry," He hums, wrapping you in his arms and pointedly avoiding contact with your behind, in case you're more sensitive than you realize, "I'll throw him overboard if you want baby, just say the word."

"Fanboy, Hangman, and Bob are already on that," You admit, speaking into the black fabric adorning his shoulder, "I want you here."

"I'm here," He assures you with no further hesitation, letting you melt into his arms as he presses a kiss to your hairline, "I'm here, honey, you're safe with me."

[that-angry-noldo]

destiel || m || 2.5k || ao3

Being a demon comes with music.

Oh, it's music alright. His drums are blood pumping unrestrained, its rhythm unchanged in fight and fuck and sleep alike: boom, boom, boom, a rush to his head, full of oxygen and adrenaline and endorphins. Boom, a blow coming down, boom, his teeth sinking into some hooker's shoulder, boom, cold beer washing down his throat. His body is a symphony in itself, and he has never been more aware of it; it sings and it bends and it is tuned to his command to an extent that is dizzying, terrifying. His laughter: he laughs a lot, when it's appropriate and not, and it is deep, it is melodic. His smile bears a thousand shades, sharp and cruel and pristine. The ground recoils from him, an abomination walking. The earth reaches for him, with its lies about eternal rest. The Mark chants and weaves it all together, into harmony that Dean is, into fire all condensed beneath his skin. The Blade sings in his hand.

To think anyone would want to contain this. Would think this could be contained.

The thing is, Dean gets it, the years behind him all in perspective now. He gets it. The human blood and human organs and human fat and human meat and all the monsters scrambling for it. If this is what being inhuman feels like? Fuck him, Dean should have signed up long ago.

He laughs, licking the blood off his Blade. Some poor schmuck's lying at his feet, and Dean does not resist; crouches, smears his fingers through the dead guy's blood, brings it to his lips. Grins. Dammit, he gets Sammy now, too. He doesn't get the rush, not like Sammy did, but oh, if this is what it felt like, to have demon blood sing inside you? He should've fed Ruby to Sam himself.

The skies crack with thunder. Dean can't help it; if Sam's tracking the omens, let him come, if he so wishes, let him try. The truth is, being human? Not Dean's thing anymore. He looks back in time and he snares at the Dean staring from behind the mirror, sadness and guilt and pain behind his eyes, and he laughs, and says oh no, fuck you, well and truly, and he lets the skies burst with power contained beneath his skin.

Not just him. A dozen or so of them, black-eyed bastards and bitches cackling and burning in clouds of smoke, spinning in Hell's terrible dance. Crowley can attempt a bureaucracy if he wants so, can look at fire and bloodlust and thirst and anger and put it to numbers, make it into forms and offices and queues—but Hell is wild. It is uncontained. It is free.

So Dean lets himself loose. Gets drunk on beer and whiskey and music, always music, and spins in dance, and his heart drums—boom, boom, boom, and his blood sings and his body is wild, wild, wild. Untamed and uncontained.

He died, and opened his eyes, and was free ever since. And free he will remain.

~

The things that call him brother and sink their claws into him and spin him know this music better, know this music to its very core. They tug him and chase him and laugh in his ear and he gets drunk on their blood and they get a load of his, and they dance and cackle through the fields of this land, through its churches and highways and crossroads, and if some poor bastard finds himself in their way, they spin him, too. They sink their claws deep into his shoulders and yank and tug and laugh, and Dean did not hear it before but he does now—can you feel the pull of Hell? Can you hear its drums and bells and citadels?—and the bastard before them looks and says instead, can't you hear the lay of the land? Can't you feel the pull of the ground, swallowing you, promising you peace?—and they screech and scream, for no mortal hears the pull of the songs, no human gets to drink of their magic.

Dean lurks behind the things that call him brother, quiet in their chaos, only rain remaining. Rain, and boom, boom, boom of his heart, blood, blood, blood of his Mark, bleed, bleed, bleed of his Blade. The poor bastard does not move, unphased by the demons around him. His hair sticks to his forehead beneath the streaks of rain, and the things that call themself his brothers screech about murder in his eyes, steel in his sleeve, blood on his hands, strength in his gaze. It is quiet now, and Dean knows he knows these eyes, and knows they know him. His hand itches for his Blade.

The thing that is not a man looks at the odds before him with a resigned sort of calm; the thing that is not an angel looks at nothing but Dean, and oh, Dean thinks, how wild you once were, how untamed, your gaze a lightning condensed, your voice enough to make me weak in my knees. Oh, look at you now.

Aloud, he laughs, and the sky laughs with him, and the things that are not his brothers cackle. The thing that is neither man nor an angel does not resist their grip; does not resist their pull. The things that pretend to be his brother grin and drag him before Dean; the things that bare their teeth and flash him a smile want to make the bastard kneel.

The things that fear him screech at the flash of the blade. The things that hate him gather into shadows, linger out of reach.

The Blade sings in his hand, and Castiel hums with it.

"You're changed," the thing that is Castiel says, and Dean laughs. Do you hear the power, the fire, the song?

"Didn't think it would be you to find me first," he yells through the rain. "Figured it would be Sammy, you know? Not that I'm complaining, Cas. Damn, it's good to see you."

It's good to see you, he says, and thinks of blood on his tongue, and thinks of heat coiling under his Mark, and thinks to sink his Blade into Cas's gut and eat his heart out; thinks of licking his fingers clean while the light goes out of Cas's eyes.

Cas looks tired. There are bags under his eyes and stubble on his cheeks, and he sways with his entire body. Dean knows the emotion behind his eyes, decides envy looks good on him. He's still drinking Dean in. Does he see how much he's changed? Does he see the smoke coming out of his mouth, the fire licking at his skin?

"Gee, man," he says. "Eat me up, why won't you." He arches his eyebrows. "Like what you see?"

He sees the hesitation, a flash second of it, before something of the old light returns to Castiel's eyes; before he squares his shoulders, tilts his head, squints, just a bit. "Very," he says. "Hello, Dean."

Despite the bravado, Cas is afraid. Must be afraid, when Dean flexes the blade, when the shadows howl at the flick of his wrist.

Despite the fear, Castiel's grip on his own blade does not falter. But there is resignation in his eyes, some sort of fucked up peace. Dean's seen Cas face all manner of demon before—fuck it, the guy's lay siege to Hell—and of course, in Purgatory he all but ripped things apart with his bare hands; Dean knows his style, is the point, and whatever this is? This looks like Cas resigned. Cas given up.

Dean tilts his head, not moving. Cas does not run, does not plead. Dean cannot deny his disappointment; he expected a bit more of stop, baby, that's not you or please, Dean, I know you're still in there and so far there is none of it.

"Mm," Dean says, and tilts his head back. "Can't say the same about you, sweetheart."

Cas shrugs. Dean expects his expression to harden, but it does not. The Blade murmurs in his hand. Where's your grace, man? Dean wants to ask, and doesn't. Where's your power, where's your song?

He looks to the sky, to the rain pouring down. "Come on, call Sammy. That's why you're here, isn't it? To bring poor, lost, wayward Dean home." He's goading, trying to pull Cas out of his goddamn equilibrium. He itches for a fight. "Isn't that right, Cas?"

Cas sighs. "I follow none of Sam's delusions regarding you," he says. "He will know you were here sooner or later. Calling him now will be proven useless and redundant." Dean nods. Castiel holds his gaze. "I assume it is pointless to ask if you want to return."

"Damn right," Dean grins. "I like the deal I've going on. Being like this, Cas? It's liberating." He laughs again, euphoria of someone knowing, someone understanding what it feels like getting the best of him again. "Is this what you hear all the time, man? Heaven split open and ground beneath your feet?"

"I used to hear it sometimes," Castiel says. "Though my song is ringing of heaven and murmur of billion souls and chatter of million angels and radiance of myriad stars." He taps his head. "It's quiet now, most of the time. Not enough... ah. Not enough juice left."

Jesus, complete with the air quotes. Dean wants to laugh, so he does. Dean wants to sink into him, tear into his meat, eat it raw and gorge on it, so he snaps forward, curls around his angel, hold his Blade so close to his throat he can feel it screaming in his hands.

Cas tenses.

Dean waits, plays with the Blade. His Mark drums steadily as he flicks it up and down, up and down, teasing, deadly. Cas' head is on Dean's shoulder, and it would be so easy to turn this into something else.

Dean's not an idiot. Dean knows what he wants, with clarity he lacked before. Unlike the Dean-behind-the-mirrors, he's not a coward; he's got no need to hide his desire behind the madness of Purgatory or the shoulder-clasping or the pathetic I need you.

"What do you want then, Cas?" he murmurs, and hears Castiel exhale. Feels Castiel's hand slacken on his blade. Feels Castiel relax in his hold.

"Make a deal with me," Castiel says.

It's said easily, like enough thought was put into it, like Dean isn't holding Cas at knifepoint, breathing down his neck.

Dean arches his brow.

"A deal?" he asks. "You're an angel, sweetheart. There's no soul to sell."

"Not that kind of a deal, then," Castiel says.

"What's in it for me?"

"I die."

Dean's hand freezes, for just a second, before resuming the up and down, up and down. "What's in it for you?"

"You're the one to kill me."

Dean barks a laugh. "Really, Cas? Out of everything you can ask of me? It's a demon deal. I can give you the world, man."

"I'm dying, Dean," Cas sighs, irritable. "My grace is rotting within me, and when it burns out, I will, too. I'll die in some ditch of a motel, slowly, or your brethren in the shadows will tear into me as soon as you let go. I'm not asking for it to be clean, Dean. Draw it out, if that's what you do now, carve into me if you so want, but let it be you."

Dean thinks. He is thinking as he breathes in the smell of Cas's skin, sweat and rain and motel soap. Thinking as his hand digs into Cas's hip, as his lips ghost just over Cas's ear. Why couldn't he ask for a fuck? What's stopping Dean from taking it anyway?

"That sounds a lot like mercy to me, Cas," Dean finally murmurs into his ear. "And I'm not a merciful guy anymore."

Cas growls, but does not fight to free himself. Instead his hand clasps Dean's wrist, and the Mark explodes, screams, burns as he holds Dean'd hand steady, the Blade surprisingly cold and quiet as if it can scent the promise of a kill.

"Dean," Cas says. "Please."

And it's fucked up, isn't it? And Dean is angry, so fucking angry. The song is not a Song anymore, it's a cacophony of screams and cries. He gets lost for a month, he wants not to be found, and Cas finds him either way, and puts the blade in his hand. Who is he to demand that of Dean? Dean-in-the-mirror be damned, but Dean still remembers the fucking trenchcoat, stenching of river mud and rotten water, still remembers the shellshock of Purgatory. What is it, some fucked-up penance shit again? The easy way out, while all Dean gets is to be this, until the end of his days?

He fists his hand into Cas's hair and yanks it back. "See, Cas, you made your first mistake," he says, voice even, even with his lips so close to Cas's chin. He remembers he needs no permission, and drags his lips down the side of Cas's face before biting his eartip, before pressing the Blade to Cas's skin. "Next time, lie about what you want." His voice drops. "You do not get to leave. You do not get to have your R.I.P. while I'm left walking the earth. And you know what?" He grins again, meets Cas' eyes. "Walk the earth we will."

He sinks his Blade into Cas's throat.

Not deep. Enough to make Cas gasp, his lungs spasm. Enough to seek that string of gleaming something, to grin when he sees it pouring out.

He looks Cas in his wide, blue, startled eyes as the grace unwinds itself, tears from Cas's body and mind and soul, blinds the night around them. Opens his mouth, and watches Cas watch it flow right between his lips, Cas's choked, terrified gasp the only sound. It burns inside him, recoils at his essence, brands into his bones and he's still grinning, still watching Cas watch him burn. The Mark does not care whether it's demon blood or angel grace: Dean is far beyond both. Dean can swallow stars and walk away unscathed.

Dean leaves just enough of it for the cut to heal. Cas is struggling in his hold, choking on air. Dean does not let go just yet.

"Seek death by someone else's hand, sweetheart," he murmurs over Cas's lips. "This shop's closed for the day."

"Dean," Cas chokes. Begs. Please, remains unsaid, and what does he plead for? Dean's touch, Dean's blade, Dean's mercy? Something else entirely?

Dean steps back. The Mark hums on his arm, and the Blade chants in his hand. Not today, Dean thinks. Not today.

It rains like hell, and Dean can hear his Song calling, the shadows murmuring.

He doesn't join the dance again.

[the-s1lly-corner]

YO BET

Angst alphabet for Lute! Lonely, Rejection, and Zestless, please :3

L R Z w/ Lute (angst alphabet)

yyeeeaaaah first request of the mass prompt stuff to keep the queue nice and full leading up to thanksgiving!! woo yeah! the openings to a lot of these are probably going to be short mostly in part due to me writing them in advance before the actual post LMAO--- making the foundations for mass posting before actually writing the hcs prompts: lonely, rejection, zestless notes: reader is gn, post mostly focuses on lute, lute is lowkey... kinda messed up... queen of internalizing loneliness and being spiteful cws: none

LONELY

objectively she is alone- she only really interacts with you and adam on a personal level. yes she talks to her fellow angels but theyre hardly friends, more "coworkers" than anything. she tends to isolate herself in favor of completing her tasks and making sure she keeps on top of her training- after all, she IS an exterminator

but she denies that she feels lonely, shoves it down so she can focus on what needs to be done. its not until you both get together that she realizes that she cant go on like this forever. shes a master of covering up her emotions, but she shows that she wants some company by asking you to come with her for her workouts and training, its all she knows. shes made it her main personality that she doesnt know what all to do-- the consequences of fully devoting yourself to your cause and beliefs

REJECTION

she gets... cold. incredibly cold, and shes going to take it personally. shes not going to cry or sulk over you not wanting to go on a date with her. shes better than that. in fact, shes going to show that shes better off without you- she can do better. shes competitive so its only natural that that trait of hers pokes through in some way as a defense

she could be more spiteful, she could be such a huge inconvenience for you, she could do so much more than simply getting in your way whenever she can and sabotaging your opportunities lord knows adam in her ear isnt making it any easier- but shes more committed to her job and position that... youre actually mostly left alone, outside of passing sharp remarks and glares

she... does not take rejection the easiest

ZESTLESS

she... doesnt actually want to admit it when she begins to lose feelings for you. if anything shes going to do anything and everything she can to reignite that passion. shes loyal to a fault and shes devoted so much of herself to her- so why does it all feel dull now?

the sheer intensity of it is enough to make you realize that something is going on quickly, but its actually getting the answers from her thats going to be hard. its like pulling teeth. lute does not want to admit that shes falling out of love, she doesnt want to admit defeat- she cant because she knows when the words come out its *over*

she loves you but shes not in love with you anymore. she hates that being with you made her feel soft- had this been anyone else she would have already spoken her mind but youve made her... stop and consider

best case scenario you both split amicably and remain friends, if too much damage isnt done when lute finally cracks

[grimmnoir-art]

“…Bepo?”

Law blinked, almost staggering back, but managing to keep his footing in the ankle-deep water. He would recognise Bepo’s fur anywhere, no matter what. He’d spent enough time over the years lounging against it, after all. But as his eyes trailed upwards, journeying higher and higher, dread began to settle in the pit of his stomach. He knew this form. He knew the flowing waterfall of pure white hair that seemed to glide about in the air as the mountainous form turned, knew the angular cut of his snout, wrinkled with razor sharp teeth, knew that growl- (Shit, it was just one thing after another…)

-----

Some more art for you all!

I'm working on commissions, but I'm also working on personal projects in between them as warmups and cooldowns?

And this one is for that same CoraLaw fic, named Saudade, which is a phenomenal rated M, Adult Law/Cora, fix it fic, written by Alilman_writes on Ao3, that my last commission was from. Once again, gorgeously written with phenomenal character development, an interesting plot, and stunning scenes like this one above that keeps you gripped the whole time!

That said, my commissions are still open, so feel free to shoot me a message if you'd like to get something done! I have a small queue currently, but I'm more than happy to hear what you'd like to get done and add you to it.

Next post should be a commission piece, so keep an eye out for it.💕

[matthewswifeyx]

Trip <3

Summary- Y/N and Matt go on a roadtrip and they pass the time by singing songs for the journey.

Warnings- just fluff :)

Me and Matt were on a roadtrip, just us, to visit Vermont. I had never been before and Matt wanted to take me so he could revisit his childhood memories and tell me about them. Matt had booked us a lovely and cozy cabin for us to stay in. He was bouncing off the walls with excitement when it was a few days before we would be leaving. Matt had planned out what we would do to keep us busy on our trip. We were staying at the cabin for 5 days.

But right now we were loading all of our bags into the trunk of the car. I had definitely over-packed, but Matt's amount of luggage was even worse, he had 7 bags and one big suit case all for himself. Matt just claimed that he wanted to have all of the best outfit options depending on the weather that day. i just rolled my eyes. I was passing all of the bags to Matt so he could stack them neatly in the trunk so they wouldn't fall over during the drive.

"Baby, you don't need to help me. I got it." He smiled at me.

"But I want to help Matt!!" I whined.

"I know you do sweetheart, but it's cold out. Why don't you get in the car and queue some songs for the journey and put the heater on, hmm?" Matt suggested. I couldn't say no. I just nodded my head and skipped over to the passenger seat.

I was queuing some songs and I could feel the car shaking a little, I looked over my shoulder back at Matt. He was standing on one of his bags to get it to fit in the trunk.

"Are you sure you don't need any help?" I chuckled.

"Don't worry 'bout me, you just sit there and look pretty." Matt said through gritted teeth, he was getting frustrated at his organisation skills. I laughed once more at his efforts and then turned back around.

After a few more loud ruffling and shuffling, Matt closed the trunk and practically sprinted to the driver's seat. He leaned over the centre console and kissed me quickly on the cheek. I blushed almost instantly at the action. I turned to Matt and gave him a funny look, trying to compress my laughter on the tip of my tounge.

"I'm just so excited to be going on our first trip together!" Matt squealed. I was just smiling at his enthusiasm. Matt started the car and I played the queued songs. And just like that, we were on our way to Vermont.

We had flown into Boston with Chris and Nick, so the journey to Vermont would be shorter for me and Matt and it would be easier than driving from L.A.

We had been on the road for about an hour and I was growing bored. Matt was doing fine, he was occupied with the driving. I let out a loud huff and slammed my head onto the headrest. Matt looked over at me.

"What's wrong baby?" Matt asked confused.

"I'm bored." I groaned.

"Okay-" Matt paused. "Why don't we play a game?" I shook my head. "Umm, do you want to stop driving and get something to eat?" I shake my head again. "I don't know then baby!" Matt laughed at my stubbornness. "What do you want to do?" He asked.

I looked out the window to have a think. Matt tapped quietly on the steering wheel waiting for my response.

"Can we sing a song?" I nervously asked. Me and Matt hadn't really ever sung with each other before. I wanted to do it because that's what I did with my family when we went on roadtrips.

"Sure!" Matt smiled over at me. "Pick a song that I know though." He warned.

I laughed and scrolled through my phone looking for one specific song. 'Home by Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zero's'. I clicked on the song and it started playing quietly. I reached over to the volume button and turned it up drastically. I looked over at Matt. He looked back at me, he was trying to recognise the song lyrics.

"Oh my god! I love this song! Great choice baby!" He reached over and held my thigh softly.

I had felt a bit nervous to start singing but when I heard Matt humming quietly, that gave me the courage to start singing.

We had reached the end of the chorus and the next verse was approaching.

"I'll follow you into the park. Through the jungle, through the dark. Girl, I never loved one like you." Matt sang softly.

"Moats and boats and waterfalls. Alleyways and pay phone calls. I've been everywhere with you." I joined in.

"That's true, laugh until we think we'll die. Barefoot on a summer night. Never could be sweeter than with you." We sung together. We were both laughing with each other. This felt really intimate.

"And in the streets you run a-free. Like it's only you and me. Geez, you're something to see." We both were in fits of laughter and quiet giggles, so we stopped singing. Matt turned down the volume a little bit. I looked over at him and gave him a small kiss on the cheek. I saw that he turned a slight shade of pink. I just chuckled quietly at his reaction. He looked over at me and had a wide grin on his face.

"I love you Y/N. This is going to be the best trip ever." He declared. I couldn't disagree with that.

Banner credits to @bernardsbendystraws <3

Hey guys! I hope you really enjoyed this fanfic! If you have any suggestions/requests please do not hesitate to send me a quick message and i will try and get back to you asap! <3

[dxppercxdxver]

clean forgot what goes on in 'yuh oh lads'... please do remind me at length?

oh em. oh sweet emmothy.

'yuh oh lads' is Technically my sharpefic document catchall title However it ALSO refers to a bonkers story that came to me in a wave of divine inspiration set right after sharpe's sword. which is. hey what if through a combination of rifleman harris's unkillable little scamp energy and richard sharpe's general wild emotional instability the two of them wound up fucking nastystyle at villafranca.

and also harris is transgender and sharpe is mortally wounded

and they have to Reckon with that :)

Unsurprisingly, Sharpe kissed like he fought, all brute force and astonishing power. Harris could swear he tasted blood as Sharpe slammed into him, knocking his head against the stone wall, tearing at his lip with chip-sharpened teeth. His calloused hands found Harris’s queue and yanked without second thought, while Harris scrabbled for purchase on Sharpe’s uninjured shoulder. Really, it should have been shocking that a man so near death’s door a mere two weeks ago should be threatening to take Harris with him, but this was Richard Sharpe. He had done far more in his career running on far less. Perhaps Harris ought to be grateful.

heehoo this fic is so awful i love it

[jurijyuu]

Scratch an Itch Chapter 35: Heartbreak is one thing, my Ego's another

Link to AO3 for full chapter

Alastor’s POV

He didn’t need her.

Bzzzt.

Her quick comebacks to his puns, her hesitant chuckles at his cruelty. Those things didn’t matter.

Click. Click.

Obsessed. Obsessed. Obsessed! How far did he let himself fall? And for what? The imaginary scrapes of her teeth? The warm brush of her shoulders when she leaned against him? Was he really so tempted by anything she would deem to give him? Hah! Hahaha! He was the Radio Demon for Hell’s sake! To let himself want? To let himself ache so pathetically for a smidge of attention? It was all so beneath him and maybe he could give himself a pass. Nothing had ever been so fun as the pursuit of something that made his mind tingle alight. Wasn’t that why he was down here instead of up there? When all that surrounded him was mediocrity and villainy, who could fault him for pursuing his few interests.

But where he was with Ynna, the pining, pathetic, weak, disorganized. Out of control. That was no longer interesting. A waste of time he could be using to further his influence.

He didn’t need her.

Click. POP!

Static crackled in his veins, angry and denied. A mass of whispers beckoned him for revenge, retribution, blood spilt from hapless sinners. For soft eyes filled with boundless affection. Fuck!

The power that rose with his bloodlust dissipated, as his mind unhelpfully provided reason after reason for why the goat could never leave his side. And he loathed it. Out of control, indeed.

“Hey chat, so many of you have been telling me to try this place out and man, looks like we got a long ass line. Fucking lameee. Chat, is this gonna be worth it?” An obnoxiously loud voice broke him out of the pit where his mind dwelled. A male sinner with a sharp voice spoke into a lapel microphone as he watched his phone. He had no regard for the others around him who inched away from his camera, rolling their eyes at the overly loud prattle. 

It was only then that he’d noticed the change in scenery, the evidence of his distraction adding more to his exasperation. No longer was he on a quiet road, void of all those who’d been too fearful of his presence, but rather, he found himself on a bustling street corner staring at a queue for a shop. Oh? Now what could that be? A quick scan through the crowd observed the line composed of mostly, what did Rosie call them again? Influencers. Yes. That’s the word. Their little sticks and tripods held phones and cameras recording some inane and uninspired commentary on what appeared to be—Oh? His brow raised in curiosity. The line was for the cafe with the rotten beignets.

“Radio Demon recommended? Ooohh are y’all for real? Skitzle, where’d you hear that from? Oh scootpoot43 thanks for the subs! Yeah? Happy birthday, I guess.” The clueless buffoon chattered on and on.

Recommended? A snort, undignified but befitting his current mood, made its way out of him. Since when had he thought this dump deserved any recognition other than to have it burned to the ground? Not to mention that there hadn’t been time to do a proper broadcast since, well…Brows drawn, his head swayed in an effort to shake those thoughts away. Really. Just how much of his recent memory did that woman occupy? When every corner and every street held the image of them in friendlier times. Even his last broadcast had been because of her. Agitation of a self-deprecating nature soared in his chest. He had to get a hold of himself, to remind his obsessive nature that there was more to his existence than whatever the goat could bear to swallow and keep.

Flitting his attention between sinners, he discreetly tried to catch some of their babble. It became clear that the cretin who’d been so graciously spared from his claws by his goat mistook their mercy for encouragement. He mentally sighed. This was why sinners needed to be put in their place. The ones who made it down here were usually of the scheming sort. Or stupid and violent. But using his name to gain recognition? Did that poor excuse for a manager take him so lightly or was he just that desperate to earn a profit? Either way, the disrespect would not be tolerated.

A few of those screen-obsessed eyes finally noticed the Overlord in their presence and their immediate screams of desperation to scram brought the rest of the oblivious herd to panic, clearing the queue in a matter of seconds. Ah. Something bubbled in the depths of his chest that brushed aside his ire, a familiar sense of sadistic glee that energized his nerves. It was always a pleasure to see the roaches scramble. 

Right. This was who he was, a terror not to be trifled with, an absolute power within this wretched city. The mere sight of him inspired fear and awe. Long before any of this nonsense of being eaten, the obsession for her companionship, the maddening whispers plaguing his chest when she’d not even bothered to glance his way. Long before any of that, he was the Radio Demon. Power thrummed within his veins, strumming giddy sensations within his body. Innocent bloodlust, untainted by his goat. This had nothing to do with her and it made the call for retribution that much more enticing. Yes. This had absolutely nothing to do with her.

Some braver souls kept recording though unfortunately for them, only blurred and glitching pixels would be their foolish reward.

The bell above the door chimed with the clack of his shoes punctuating his arrival. His grin widened as the red-shelled face paled at his entrance. For using his name without permission, he gladly thought to set the record straight.

[nilsavatar]

DAY 18 - MIRROR SEX

Parings: Lo'ak x Fem!Metkayina

Genre/Warnings: NSFW/MDNI + 18, no use of Y/N, SMUT, ANGST, friends with benefits, hookups, enemies to lovers, revenge sex, anger sex, rough sex, mirror sex, P in V, cream pie, Lo'ak loves video games, they both have issues, both toxic. All characters are AGED-UP.

Word Count: 4,2k

Masterlist - Request a fic

One nice thing about having a human outpost near the village? Video games.

Lo’ak was compulsively pressing his thumbs and index fingers on the PlayStation controller. It was outdated and small in his hands, but the rich assortment of games to draw from was worth the effort. His fingers scanned the incessant succession of attacks, parries, and rolls he forced his PC to perform sequentially. Attack, dodge, attack, then roll, move away and heal, repeat again. His agitation and nervousness were directly proportional to the passage of time, which increasingly made him hold his breath and twist his guts in on themselves. The boss he was fighting with was really tough, he had been defeated countless times, but never, ever, did he give up. On the contrary, every time he started the boss-fight he felt more and more charged and willing, and finally, all his willpower was about to pay off. It was knocking that giant bearded knight hooded in red down this time. The tip of his tongue peeped out from his contracted lips in pure concentration, and his fingertips pressed ever more neurotically on the keys of the joystick, which he brought closer and closer to his chest as if the proximity helped to increase the force of the blows he was piercing Gael with. He squinted his eyes, thumbs aching from exertion — if he didn't get tendonitis this time, he would never get it — when a sharp sound distracted him.

Dammit, not now!

Undaunted he kept pressing X, circle, R1, dodge, now loaded shot. It was close. Very close indeed, but the trilling of the doorbell would not cease, becoming more and more insistent, in a harassing call that seemed to drill straight through his brain, until it stopped in a dazed knocking.

What the fuck, she's going to kick down the door!

He had already figured out who it was, there was only one person who knew that when he was locked there, there was no other way to get him out. He got up from the couch huffing, and threw the controller between the cushions. His revenge against Gael had gone to hell and, stifling a few expletives, went to open the door, already ready to welcome his sister through his piqued tongue. But the outburst died in the bud as soon as he saw her face flooded with tears that gushed from her lower eyelids like waterfalls. He stared at her taken aback; he had never seen his little sister so upset. Usually, it was laughter that unmolded her face, not tears.

“Tuk…”

At the sound of her name, the girl threw herself on his lean chest, clutching his shoulders, and cried. Among the sobs, he recognized one sentence, "I am ugly. Ugly and weird." “Wait,” he pulled her inside the room, escorting her in the direction of the sofa, "Let's not talk on the door, sit down.” He then walked to the kitchen, where he retrieved a large glass of water and handed it to her as he took a seat at her side. Tuk looked at him for only one excruciating instant, before setting her sad, hard, candy-gloss eyes on the glass, clenched between trembling hands, but it was enough to chill him like a gunshot with a silencer. You don't hear the shot and by the time you realize it, it's too late, the bullet has already pierced your flesh and reached your heart.

“What happened?”  She hesitated before spitting between her teeth, “Mawoë.”  Lo'ak sighed, “What did he do this time?” “He said I'm weird,” she repeated bitterly, “That my kuru (neural queue) is repulsive.” 

Big brother rested his elbows on his knees, gathering his head between his palms, raven braids covered his ice-cold irises. He took his time before replying; he didn't want to come across as too brusque or insensitive, not when his beloved little sister was shattered in front of him. It wasn’t so often that Tuk, like Neteyam, was targeted for her hybrid origins. Unlike him and Kiri, they did not have such obvious human traits. Although the avatars were produced to be virtually identical to the Na'vi, they had distinctive features inherited from the human genome. The most obvious were eyebrows, a firmer musculature, smaller eyes, a more pronounced nasal septum, and, of course, the infamous five digits on each hand and foot. Lo'ak owned most of these. But there was another, much more difficult to detect that was common to all four Sully siblings and that brought out into the open even those two for whom Eywa seemed to have had a keen eye.

The position of the queue.

The queue of an avatar starts at the base of the skull, whereas a Na'vi queue starts at the top of it. Although noticing it was not immediate, its conformation necessarily involved readjusting traditional hairstyles, which on them did not open up where they normally would. In a way, he was impressed that a child noticed, but the act of bullying was inexcusable. Not that he was surprised. The Metkayina had proved to be intolerant and closed-minded from the start, and this kid was the younger brother of one of Ao'nung's friends, one of those who had dragged him at the Three Brothers.

“We were playing when he picked up my tswin (queue, braid) and said it sucked. Everyone else started laughing at me, saying it was the aliens' tswin.” Her big yellow eyes filled with salty drips again, breaking her voice as her grip tightened on her glass. Lo'ak clenched his fists in anger and clenched his jaw. The urge to swoop out of the lab and smash someone's face becoming more impelling with every second. It was the reaction he would have for anyone, but to make Tuk Tuk cry like that was truly unforgivable. Evidently the famous Forest Boys vs. Fish Lips fistfight had not been enough; they needed a reminder.

He laid a hand on her shoulder, conciliating, and drew her close to him, letting Tuk rest his head in the crook of his neck, where she released a deep sigh, broken by the now exhausted weeping. “Everything will work out, I'll take care of it.”  A final sob gave way to a weak laugh. The little girl guessed perfectly what her brother meant, but she simply nodded, snuggling closer to him, barely rubbing her index finger and thumb on the pendant he wore around his neck, “Will you let me play?”  He puffed out a smile: his sister was back. “All right, but you should get Mom to clean you up. You're dirty with sand.” All perky the little girl rushed to the door, “Get ready to lose!”

He dropped sitting on the bed in the adjoining room, huffing in distress as he untied the band he wore on his left arm, which slid down to the floor as if it had a will of its own. He huffed a second time, stooping to the floor to pick it up, but his noisy breathing turned into a tremor the instant two tapering hands clutched at his chest, eagerly smoothing his entire torso from his pecs to the edge of his loincloth. The confusion and surprise vanished from his face at the exact moment when one of the hands seeped into the fabric, in a clear attempt to reach the manly part scarcely concealed by it.

“Tuk could be back any minute,” he chided in a gasp, blocking the hand with his palm, a gesture that only worsened the effect the girl was already having on him. The bulge between his legs was a glaring demonstration. His breathing became heavier as her delicate hands returned to caress his chest, while her lips lapped softly at the sensitive epidermis of his earlobe, where she whispered persuasively, “So? You've been playing for hours, completely ignoring me.”

From what pulpit, he would have liked to retort, but instead he replied, “You jumped on me as soon as I got here. Isn't that enough for you?” “I can never get enough of your cock,” she emphasized, wrapping his hard member with an eagerness that caused him to gasp and shudder down his spine. Only her touch could make him react like that.

You can do without me, though, can't you?

As much as Lula'ni's attentions were appreciated, if not coveted at this juncture, Lo'ak could not let go as usual. Not after Tuk's words; the pain that twisted her cute little face, and the feeling of helplessness still so vivid. They take hold of your being as if it were your own blood that drags them along the pathways that nourish the whole organism; oxygen that preserves and destroys life. For Mawoë was not only brother to that idiot who followed Ao'nung everywhere like a licker, he was also brother to the girl who was now pumping him at a slow and deadly pace, waiting for him to succumb to his own weaknesses.

Ironic, isn't it?

But after all, that was why their little game had begun. Lo'ak had seduced and deflowered her out of spite, to take some sort of revenge — he had failed with Tsireya, so why not try his luck with the sister of asshole No. 2? Lula’ni on the other hand... He couldn’t tell why she had been playing along; it was rather obvious that she was not naive enough not to see his real intentions masquerading as flirtation. It was probably because of his appearance, so unusual for a Na'vi, his outcast, alien aura. Out of curiosity and transgression. Enough to let that game go on until now and evolve into an odd friendship.

The young woman instantly sensed the disturbance and, understanding and sweet, she interrupted her warm advances, cupping his face between her fingers and forcing him to look at her. "Lo'ak, what's wrong?" His golden orbs were lost in the vast, calm waters that were her irises, but he found no peace in them, only lies and the terrible, vivid knowledge that he had wasted his time with her. How could such welcoming eyes, kissed by the kindness of a river, belong to such a cruel woman?

Beautiful on the outside, rotten on the inside.

Over the months she had only become better at making a pretty face. At least she used to show herself for what she really was and that was one of the reasons why, no matter how infuriating it was, she had always attracted him. Lula'ni felt no fear or remorse at being herself. She mocked him, at the time, for that very appearance that had driven her into his arms and impaled her on his cock. It was precisely her doggedness that made him question the motivation behind her inexplicable interest in tormenting him. To call it 'torment' was a bit much, but she loved to poke him, as if to nick him, to make him feel as small as an insect to be squashed. But Lo'ak was no insignificant bug. He was a wasp ready to sting. In fact, he never wasted any time in penetrating her soft, well-groomed skin, make it purple with its venomous forked tongue.

Oh, how it infuriated her at first; it was a sight! Fury that gradually faded into respect, into a continuous provocation aimed at teasing a reaction that had now become her drug. She liked the way he stood up to her, liked the painful stabs to her self-esteem. It brought them closer and closer. So much so that one day, hidden behind a palm tree, the sting found its way into the girl's battered heart, thanks to a sudden wet and messy kiss that later turned into a stolen virginity on the beach on a festival night. Lula'ni could make up all the lies she wanted, but he knew he was the first to take possession of that amazing body. He wasn't sure if he was the only one to have had her after that, but he was certainly the only one to have loved her in spite of himself. That was why she always came back to him.

“Don't you feel like it?” she asked offended. Lo'ak rolled his eyes. As usual, her insecurities, steeped in selfishness and narcissism, took over. She paid no attention to the little girl he had mentioned earlier. He was tempted to kick her out of his bed, out of the lab and finally out of his life, because he had reached the end of his tether. He could no longer tolerate the egocentricity of the beautiful girl in front of him. Being a secret was no longer enough for him. It was time to make a choice: come out or go their separate ways. Too many opportunities to be happy with someone else he had given up for her, it was time for her to get the two in spades.

But not tonight.

Tonight the hangdog expression seeking reassurance and those curves, hidden by the sheets, still had the effect of clouding his brain, of making his blood drain all over to fill his substantial shaft like a sponge. And why not? Make her pay for how Mawoë had mistreated Tuk. An eye for an eye.

A violent spark ignites the automatic motor that animates his primal urges. He lifted her easily by her ass and pushed her onto the bed, who giggled in satisfaction as she positioned herself between his thighs, already ready to receive him. She loved being taken like this, almost violently; it was a poignant sensation of submission that drove her mad, made her feel irresistible. As if she was able to activate those animal instincts that so many people try to put to sleep. And partly that was so, but not entirely; in this instant it was the desire to return to her at least an ounce of the suffering she had given him that moved him. All this time she had been using him; it was time to return the favor. He wasn't going to love her tonight, no, he was just going to fuck her, and then have her spit out the truth and thrown Lula’ni away if necessary.

Lo'ak hastily shrugged off the tewng with one hand as he unceremoniously sucked a couple of phalangi and stepped past the sheets, not at all surprised to find no barrier garment between his fingers and her intimacy. “I'm already wet,” she whispered sensuously in his ear as she clung to his shoulders with her hands. He said nothing to this sentence, didn't even nod, just pushed himself all the way in, not caring about her moan of pain and the nails that dug into his flesh. She liked it that way, brutal. Beneficial at the moment, it allowed him to pour all his resentment directly into her. He plugged her mouth with his palm to quiet her obscene and embarrassing cries, “They'll hear you,” he scolded breathlessly. “Who cares,” she huffed between uncontrolled yowls. He clenched his fists, imprisoning part of the mattress cover, coming almost completely out of her and then penetrating her with even more energy than before, totally shocking her.

“What's the matter with you?” she asked overflowing with lust from both her high-pitched voice and her shiny, gem-round eyes. “You don't care,” he thrusted even harder, “You don't fucking care about anything or anyone besides yourself,” he quickened his pace, ignoring her rebukes. He wanted to finish as soon as possible; he was hating every single moment when her tight, enveloping walls suffocated his manhood.  At one point he felt a searing heat take over his entire lower abdomen, giving rapid convulsions of obvious significance; he was on the edge, endurance included. It came out of her in the midst of ejaculation, soiling the young woman here and there, who grunted in dissatisfaction. She sat down with her back resting on the backrest, bringing the bedspread down to cover her nakedness as his eyes of icy fire pierced her from side to side. 

“Have you lost your mind?” she asked hostilely. “How long do we have to go on like this?” “Mind to be clearer?” she taunted him sarcastically. “I got tired of this back-and-forth, Lula. You don't want to be with me, but you won't let me live my life. When I'm finally moving on here you reappear, screwing everything up!”  “Stop yelling.” “Are you afraid someone will hear us fighting? To be heard getting fucked is neither hot nor cold to you though. In fact, you like it.” “Lo’ak.” “Leave,” he chuckled coldly. “What?” she blinked a few astonished times, squeezing herself into the sheets. “Are you deaf? Get the fuck out, I never want to see you again.” “It’s not funny.” “It’s over, Lula’ni. This...,” he pointed alternately at their chests, “...indefinite thing between us is over. I’m sick of it. Find yourself another fuck buddy.”

The Metkayina bowed her head on the blanket clutched to her chest and, in a whisper, asked, “What if I told you I didn’t want to be just bedfellows anymore?” “I wouldn’t believe it,” he spat, “To you I’ve always been just a skilled plaything between the sheets.” “N-no, that’s not—.” “Don’t add any more bullshit. I know way too well someone like me has nothing to do with someone like you. The whole clan hates me. Demon blood. Alien. That’s all they see. It would be a snub to your image, I get that. And I was okay with it at first; a friendship with benefits. After all, what else could I expect from you? Normally you wouldn’t even look at me.” “So you were with me just as a sort of payback.” I was with you 'cause I fell in love even with your malignancy, “You were with me just to comfort yourself, my feelings never mattered much to you. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice my interest in you.” “Y-yes, but—.” “But you don’t reciprocate and you took advantage of that. That’s all,” he concluded disappointedly, rising from the bed in his birthday suit. His back facing her as he looked out on the placid sea out the window, dominated by a red sunset, which gave the room that cozy warmth typical of the seaside. All around was calm and still, not a breath of wind shook the foliage of the few trees around there, as the first lights of the village were beginning to come alive. Awa’atlu for a small village on an islet was quite lively at night.

Lo’ak leaned against the window jamb with his right hand, arm outstretched to support himself, back hunched as if a cramp was bending him in two. The girl’s hand rested delicately on his deltoid, stroking it up, reaching the upper edge of his left shoulder blade, grazing its outline to his right one, and then slipping over his ribs, while her other hand smoothed his lats on the other side of his torso. Her fingers cautiously tickled his epidermis, going to place on his pectorals. Lo’ak felt himself being pulled backward, and in the process he felt her breasts adhere to his back and her lips rest on the center of his spine.

“Why are you still here?” He wanted to loosen her grip, tug her away, but he couldn’t; the dull ache he felt was too great. “Because I love you,” her mouth was so close to his skin that he shivered. “Stop fooling me.” “I’m not,” she lifted herself up on her toes and placed a kiss between his shoulders, “I love you. I’ve always loved you, but for too long I was attached to the ideal of the popular girl, to the image I had to maintain. I don’t need that anymore." He turned just enough to look over his shoulder lit by the faint blush of the dying sun; the light was so faint that it showed almost no color. “With you I'm happy, you are the only one who understands me and I want everyone to know we are made for each other.” He stared at her open-mouthed and she smiled with that sweet, sincere grimace that only with him had she allowed herself to show, moving to face him truly naked for the first time.

Lula’ni had emerged from the chrysalis, the pupa had become a butterfly.

“Can you forgive me for all the harm I have done to you, and to your family, with my stupidity? Will you start afresh with me?” The Omatikaya framed a hand at the height of their navels with a sly smile, “How do you do? I'm Lo’ak.” She laughed, with that crisp, slightly squeaky laugh that always infused him with warmth, “Lula’ni.” When their palms met, he drew her to him and then gathered her face with both hands, shaking out her silky hair, and kissed her slowly and softly, without that cupidity that used to queen their entwined tongues. Tonight, for the first time, he kissed Lula’ni as one kisses a bride, not a lover. And finally he smiled, resting his forehead on hers, as a couple of joyful tears watered his half-closed eyes, “At last you're mine.” “I’ve always been yours.”

Maybe it was from joy, maybe it was from their unclothed bodies brushing against each other, but Lo’ak felt something firm and substantial pull him toward her belly, who giggled with amusement and a hint of mischief. “Are you about to apologize for just now?” she asked, teasing his dick with a sharp fingernail from the base to the tip. Automatically his hands went to squeeze her rear, forcing her back to the center of the room, “I’m going to make you forget all the nights we were just friends.” Lula’ni arched an eyebrow, encircling his neck and caressing the hair on his nape, as she gave herself the momentum to let him take her in his arms and feel the urgency that pervaded her. “Let’s go to the bathroom,” she said defiantly.

He set her down on the shelf where the sink was embedded, stripping her of her chest cover as he greedily kissed her cleavage. The girl abandoned herself against the surface of the mirror, sighing the moment the laces of the tight loincloth unfastened with a snap, exposing her naked, hairless womanhood, moistened at his mere touch. “Come in,” she whispered in his ear, clinging to his neck; with her fingers twisted in his raven hair, she spread her thighs to make room for him. No need to have her repeat herself twice, because he penetrated her and her voice filled his hearing with guttural murmurs, cadenced by the rhythm of his lunges.

Suddenly, Lula’ni let herself slide down the shelf and his phallus capitulated inexorably out, during a stifled but overflowing ‘no’ of disapproval. With a wry grin plastered on her face, the girl turned around, leaning forward, putting her butt in plain view. The message was clear. He grabbed her by the side with one hand and with the other held his erection, which, after a couple of attempts, returned perfectly to its place. To feel so wrapped up and warm was wonderful. Lo’ak began thrusting again, and with each thrust, Lula’ni’s throat ripped with moans that were increasingly high-pitched, but also choked by the extreme proximity between vocal emissions.

This was their favorite position. And if merely having her in such a submissive pose already aroused him, the presence of the mirror, the sight of their bare bodies, their faces rouged by exertion and deformed by unbridled lust reflected back, so much went to his head that he lost what tiny shred of lucidity he preserved. Ferment that went hand in hand with the borderline absurd little games she played with her pelvic floor muscles, which widened and tightened to her liking and the cadence she wanted to give them, clamping them until they almost pushed him out and then sucked him in.  And the attempt to control his orgasm went to hell as well; it poured out with such impetus that it surprised her in a final painful plunge, which made her cry out in pleasure, coming sitting upright.

Lo’ak slumped on his back exhausted, his forearms trembling with fatigue, anchored to the edge of the granite shelf. “You looked like a crazy pali’ (direhorse),” she breathed, “Amazing!” Lula’ni’s subtle laughter broke violently into one last high moan, and the ecstasy on her expression was so sublime it went to his head. Her back collided with a sticky clatter against his chest, and her fingernails crawled over the basin in a vain attempt to hold on to something, clouded by the frenzy. But the release was still far from over; it was creaming on him as if he were an icing cake. 

For a nanosecond his sister’s face flew over his mind. Kissing his now-girlfriend, he cast a very brief glance at the door, as if he could look through it, and formulated a single thought.

Hope you’re not coming right now, Tuk. Sorry.

Special thanks to @pandoraslxnafor the prompt!

[edgelord-supreme]

The Life of an Animal

My mother was drinking today (as she normally does) and broke down in front of me. She told me she had seen a picture of our old cat, Indy (queue "Indygar" by Adrienne Lenker). While crying, she asked me if she was something wrong with her for not being over his death. It's been almost two years since he's passed on (May 23), and he is "only a cat, after all." Well, I told her no. I believe that the life of an animal is no less than the life of a human.

Our cats and dogs are not simply pets, and I can't stand anybody who thinks otherwise. Having an animal is just such a bitter way to live. Our Indy was not just a cat, he was family. He was intelligent, and as much as anybody would like to protest, that boy communicated with us. He talked to us in his own way, and we understood it. He lived a wonderful fifteen years. I loved that cat. Animals are everything humans should be. They are peaceful and loving creatures, and they work just the way they should. While our furry family members may have egregious side eyes and sharp teeth that nip and claws that scratch, they are still the most non-judgmental beings to grace the face of the Earth, and for that, we are lucky. We were lucky to have that cat, even if he was loud and sassy and fat. A well-fed cat is a happy one.

My mom will never be over his death. And that's okay. The death of Indy was equivalent to the death of a human boy, my mother's own son. He was a living, breathing, eating, sleeping being. His eyes observed and his nose smelled and his tongue tasted. His insides worked the same way that mine work, and he had vocal cords to speak and ears to hear. He had a wonderful brain. A loss of a living being, no matter how small, no matter how big, is still a loss of life; and there's a certain hole that death leaves that can never be filled.

My fish are my babies, and the mice in the house are living. The ants are annoying, but they are doing what they must to get by. The spider in the corner is just as scared of me as I may be of it, and the flies that come around in the summer are not as bad as I perceive them to be. Humans came from these things, and we refuse to respect them. Animals are not lesser than humans. Animals are our equal. Hamsters, rats, ferrets, rabbits, gerbils, guinea pigs, chinchillas, parrots. Millipedes. Worms. Tarantulas. Anything that lives, moves, breathes, eats, sees. It is important. Grieve the loss of them. Love them. Love their life.

I will forever grieve Indy, but that grief signals love. I will always love.

[claredevee]

Chapter 2 The first day

Eve woke up 38 minutes later than she meant to, and the panic hit before her feet even touched the floor. She threw off the covers, grabbed yesterday’s jeans off the chair, and tugged them on with one hand while unlocking her phone with the other. She had a whole strategy for the morning—smooth, calm, prepared. Instead, she was now scrambling through the apartment in mismatched socks and a sleep-creased T-shirt, trying to remember where she left her keys.  

The bathroom door was closed. Again. She knocked twice, sharp. “Michaela, I need in! I’m already late!”  

From behind the door came the sound of a hairdryer and then Michaela’s voice: “Two minutes!”  

“You said that ten minutes ago!” Eve pressed her forehead to the door, groaning. “Seriously, I have to be somewhere important!”  

No response.  

She heard shuffling from the kitchen and peeked around the corner. Tom, wearing pajama pants and an open flannel shirt, stood at the fridge with a mug in hand, glaring into the empty shelf like it had betrayed him.  

“We’re out of milk,” he said flatly, without looking at her. “I can’t drink my coffee without milk.”  

Davis, hunched over the table with headphones around his neck and a bowl of cereal in front of him, muttered without looking up, “Then maybe you should buy your own milk instead of stealing everyone else’s.” Tom glanced over his shoulder, offended. “It’s not stealing if no one claims it.”  

“It literally has Michaela’s name written on the cap,” Davis replied, deadpan.  

Eve ran a hand through her hair. “Guys, not today.”  

The bathroom door finally opened, and a wave of scented mist drifted out. Michaela appeared in a towel, eyeliner perfect, utterly unbothered.  

“You’re up early,” she said.  

Eve stared. “It’s not early. I’m late. First day. Big internship. You know—the thing I haven’t shut up about for two days?”  

Michaela blinked, then smiled. “Right! Good luck, you’ll be amazing.”  

Eve darted into the now-free bathroom without answering. She brushed her teeth in record time, twisted her hair into something vaguely presentable, and stared at herself in the mirror.  

This was it. Greenfire Motion. Ashfall. The biggest opportunity she’d ever had. And she was about to walk into it looking like she’d barely survived a fire drill.  

But she’d show up. She’d work hard. And no one would know how close she came to losing it over a bathroom queue and an empty milk carton.  

She grabbed her bag, keys, and ID, then shouted a goodbye to the apartment as she ran out the door, shoes half-laced and heart pounding.  

She was going to make it. Probably.  

Eve pulled into the studio lot with ten minutes to spare, her fingers clenched around the steering wheel like it might dissolve if she let go. The gates of Greenfire Motion stood ahead—sleek metal and glass, quietly intimidating. Her heart thudded as she rolled to a stop at the security checkpoint.  

The guard stepped out of the booth with the blank, tired look of someone already over their day. “Badge?”  

“I—don’t have one yet,” Eve said quickly. “I’m an intern. Starting today. I’m supposed to meet someone from production here at the gate.”  

He eyed her. “Name?”  

“Eve Calder.”  

He flipped through a printed list on a clipboard, lips pursed. “You’re not on here.”  

“I have an email,” she said, pulling out her phone and thumbing quickly to her inbox. Her hands were slightly shaking now. “It says someone from the team is supposed to meet me and—um, escort me inside.”  

The guard didn’t move. “If no one’s here to meet you, I can’t let you in. That’s policy.”  

Eve offered a tight smile that was quickly turning into a grimace. “Right. Of course. Totally fair. I’ll just… wait over here?”  

She stepped off to the side of the booth, clutching her phone like a lifeline. She re-read the email again, word for word, as if she’d somehow missed a line that said if no one shows up, here’s what to do when you’re slowly dying of embarrassment in full view of the entire security staff.  

Cars rolled past. Crew badges flashed. Everyone belonged. Everyone but her. She was just pulling up the email again when she heard it—  

“Uber girl? What are you doing here?”  

Eve turned toward the voice, and her heart sank.  

Noah.  Coffee in hand, sunglasses pushed into his hair, a familiar smirk tugging at his mouth. Of all people. 

She felt heat rush up her neck. “Oh god.” He walked over, clearly amused. “Seriously. What are you doing here?”  

“I’m an intern,” she said, voice higher than usual. “Today’s my first day.”  

Noah blinked. “You’re working here?”  

“Yes,” she said, holding up her phone like a note from a doctor. “Look. I got the offer last week. I was told someone would meet me at the gate. Clearly, that didn’t happen.”  

He leaned in and scanned the email, nodding slowly. “Yep. That checks out. Classic Greenfire. We welcome our interns by pretending they don’t exist.”  

“Glad to know it’s not personal,” she muttered.  

“Not at all. You’re being ignored equally.”  

Eve exhaled, trying to laugh off the humiliation, but she could still feel her ears burning.  

“Come on,” Noah said, gesturing for her to follow. “I’ll walk you in. Intern solidarity.”  

“You’re not an intern.”  

“No, but I’ve had my fair share of awkward gate moments. You’re not special.” He grinned. “Except, you know… a little.”  

She rolled her eyes but followed him, anyway, clutching her bag as they passed through the gates. The guard gave her a neutral glance, like now that someone vouched for her, she could stop being a potential problem.  

As they crossed the lot, Eve caught herself sneaking a glance at Noah’s badge again: Noah Reed – Assistant Director.  

Great. The first person she met on set already knew her as “Uber Girl.” And now he also knew she was the intern who couldn’t even get past security without help. Perfect.  

As Noah gave a lazy wave to someone across the lot, Eve pulled out her phone. The screen was still open to Instagram. She’d been halfway through a message to Jasmine before chaos struck:  

Update: I survived the gate. Barely. Will explain later. Just know I’ve achieved god-tier levels of public embarrassment. If this were a reality show, I’d be voted off the studio lot by now. Do NOT ask. I’m currently processing via cringe-induced amnesia.  

She was just about to hit send when Noah snatched the phone right out of her hands.  

“Hey!” she yelped, lunging for it.  

“Relax,” he said, already typing. “Just improving your algorithm.”  

Before she could stop him, he tapped something in, smirked, and handed the phone back.  

A notification flashed at the top of the screen:  

@walkietalkienoah – follow request sent.  

Eve stared in horror. “Oh my God.”  

He grinned. “You’re welcome.”  

“That’s your actual username?”  

“Why wouldn’t it be?”  

She blinked. “Because it sounds like the name of a guy who refers to himself in the third person.”  

“Exactly,” he said, smug. “It’s branding.”  

Eve groaned and locked her phone like it was contagious.  

She slipped the phone into her bag, doing her best to smother the grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. Focus. She was here to work.  

Noah led the way through the maze of soundstages and trailers, pointing things out with casual flair—where the crew got breakfast, which building held post-production, and which golf cart you absolutely did not want to steal unless you wanted Susan, the production coordinator, to end your entire future.  

They turned a corner, and Eve’s breath caught. One of the main stages loomed ahead, its massive doors propped open to reveal a glimpse of set inside—charred rubble, scaffolding, a rusted-out vehicle, and faint mist curling around the edges like the set itself was breathing. And a MASSIVE greenscreen.  

"Welcome to Ashfall," Noah said, sweeping an arm dramatically toward the chaos.  

Eve nodded slowly, awe overtaking anxiety for the first time that morning. "It’s… huge."  

"Yeah, not the biggest I’ve seen though" he said smugly.  

Noah stepped forward, waving at a cluster of people huddled around monitors and clipboards. “Morning, everyone,” he called out. Heads turned toward him, acknowledging him with casual waves and nods. Noah gestured toward Eve, a teasing grin spreading on his lips.  

“This is Uber Girl—also known by her real identity, Eve Calder. She’s joining us today as an intern, so please pretend we know what we're doing for at least an hour.” A few people chuckled warmly, giving Eve amused but welcoming smiles. Eve felt her cheeks redden slightly, but forced herself to smile back, determined to embrace the nickname she seemed stuck with now.  

Noah leaned over and whispered, still grinning. “Welcome aboard, Uber Girl.” She rolled her eyes, hiding a laugh. “Thanks. I’ll try not to disappoint.”  

A friendly voice rang out from the crew, mock-scolding Noah. “Come on, Noah. Let’s not bully the new intern on her first day.” Eve turned to see a woman smiling warmly as she walked toward them. Her dark hair was pulled back neatly; a headset tucked casually around her neck. She looked only a few years older than Eve, radiating an easy confidence.  

“Jennifer Delgado,” she introduced herself, offering a hand. “Personnel and set coordinator. Basically, that means I babysit this entire circus to keep it running.”  

“Eve Calder,” Eve replied, shaking Jennifer’s hand gratefully.  

Jennifer looped an arm casually through Eve’s, pulling her gently away from Noah. “Don’t mind Noah. He likes to pretend he’s intimidating. But between you and me, he’s mostly harmless.”  

“Thanks, Jen,” Noah called sarcastically after them.  

“Anytime!” Jennifer waved without looking back, guiding Eve deeper into the soundstage. “So, this is the main set for Ashfall . You’ll spend a lot of time here—mostly running around and pretending not to panic.”  

Eve laughed lightly, finally feeling a little of her tension ease. Jennifer led her toward a hallway lined with open makeup rooms. Crew members moved swiftly inside, working diligently to prep for the day’s shoot.  

“These are the makeup and costume lounges,” Jennifer said, leading the way. “Talent comes here early for hair and makeup. It’s usually total chaos—like hairspray-fueled battle chaos. If you see Lauren—the continuity supervisor—hovering around with that clipboard of doom, just duck and cover.”  

They pushed through another door into a wide-open area where trailers were lined up like shiny white dominoes, each one stamped with a name or a number.  

“Cast trailers,” Jennifer explained. “This is where the actors go to hide between takes. Unless someone tells you otherwise, don’t wander too close. These people get twitchy about privacy—method acting or whatever.”  

She pointed to two trailers, trailer 131 and 133, off to the side. “Those are the makeup trailers. You’ll probably start as a makeup transition assistant. Which, I know, sounds like the job version of lukewarm oatmeal. But hey, everybody starts somewhere.”  

Jennifer gave her a knowing look. “And no, before you ask—the makeup artists do not get paid to clean their stations. You do. Barely. So, prepare to learn the fine art of scrubbing fake blood out of vinyl.”  

She paused, eyeing Eve with a smirk. “But I can see it already—you’re not here to organize hairpins. You want the real action. Editing room. Writers’ room. Right next to the director while everyone argues about the meaning of a coffee cup. I get it. You’ll get there. But first—lip gloss inventory and fake sweat duty. Welcome to showbiz.”  

Eve nodded, glancing around curiously. Everything felt surreal, as if she’d walked into someone else’s dream and hadn’t yet figured out how to make it her own reality.  

As they neared one of the trailers—132, neatly stenciled beside the door—the latch clicked, and the door swung open. Eve looked up just in time to see a man stepping out.  

He moved with the kind of effortless confidence that didn’t need an audience. His dark jeans hung low and relaxed, and the sleeveless black T-shirt he wore clung just enough to his torso to show off toned arms and a lean frame. It wasn’t flashy—just honest. The kind of body that came from years of staying quietly strong. His thick, dark hair was neatly styled back, and his close-cropped beard—peppered with gray—framed his face in that way that made “older” look less like a category and more like an advantage.  

Pedro Pascal.  

He paused at the top of the steps, smiled when he saw Jennifer.  

“Jennifer,” he said, voice smooth, familiar.  

“Morning, Pedro,” she replied, perfectly casual. “Long day ahead?”  

“Always is,” he said, then turned to Eve. His eyes paused on her. “And who’s this?”  

“This is Eve,” Jennifer said. “The new intern here at Greenfire Motion Studios.”  

Pedro looked at her directly, his expression unreadable but focused. “Eve,” he repeated, slowly—like he was tasting the name on his lips, testing the sound, letting it sit there for just a second longer than necessary.  

He blinked, slightly caught off guard by himself, then cleared his throat. “Eh—well. Welcome. Hope you’ll like it here.”  

He stepped past them, heading toward set, but not without brushing just a little too close to Eve. Not intentional, maybe, but enough to feel. Enough to notice. A subtle whiff of something woodsy, clean, and warm lingered in the air between them.  

She didn’t move.  

Older. Easily late forties. Maybe even fifty. Too old for her—she was twenty-three, she knew that. She wasn’t supposed to notice things like how his shirt fit or how his voice dropped just enough to feel personal. But she had to agree with the internet, he’s the definition of a silverfox, zaddy, Dilf or whatever the heck you call men over 40 who are way too hot for their own good.  

But he enticed her. That was the word. A slow, steady gravity she wasn’t prepared for.  

Jennifer nudged her gently as they resumed walking. “You’ll get used to running into familiar faces,” she said with a knowing smirk. “Eventually. Starstruck wears off. Kind of.”  

Eve followed, still feeling the echo of her name in his voice, like he’d left it hanging in the space behind them.  

Jennifer led Eve into a packed production office buzzing with activity. Whiteboards lined every wall, crammed with color-coded schedules, cryptic notes, and reminders scribbled in haste. The air was filled with overlapping voices, a steady hum of urgency, interrupted now and then by the crackle of walkie-talkies.  

At the far end of the office, two people stood in quiet but pointed conversation. One was a woman with sharp eyes and the kind of posture that warned you not to waste her time. The other, a man with rolled-up sleeves, leaned against a cluttered desk, arms crossed, absorbing every third word like he’d already had too much caffeine and too little patience.  

Jennifer gave Eve a small, encouraging nudge. “Susan, Mark—this is Eve Calder, our new production intern.”  

Susan Brant turned first, her gaze sweeping over Eve like a scanner—efficient, clinical, and not especially warm. She glanced at her watch, then back at Eve, expression tightening.  

“You’re late.”  

Eve’s stomach dropped. “I’m—sorry, I—”  

Susan raised a hand, already done. “Interns were told to arrive by 8 a.m. On time means early.”  

“She was on time,” Jennifer said, her tone even but firm. “Security held her up. Coordination didn’t have a runner at the gate.”  

Susan exhaled sharply—not at Eve, but at the inefficiency. She spun toward the hallway. “Ryan!” she called to a passing PA. “Tell coordination interns need gate clearance. And someone to meet them. I’m not here to play crossing guard.”  

“Yes, Susan!” Ryan called back, already typing into his tablet.  

Susan turned back to Eve, her tone still clipped. “Next time, plan for something to go wrong. That’s half this job. The other half is fixing it.”  

“Yes, ma’am,” Eve said quickly. Her cheeks were hot.  

Beside her, the man stepped forward and offered a kind smile that seemed almost designed to defuse Susan’s intensity. “Don’t worry, she barks louder than she bites,” he said. “I’m Mark Liu, studio operations. And you’ve just met Susan Brant, who’s essentially the engine under the hood around here.”  

Susan didn’t deny it. She was already sorting through a folder, half-listening.  

Mark handed Eve a printed call sheet. “You’ll be with the ADs today—Ben Wallace is expecting you. They’ll throw a lot at you early but just stay sharp and you’ll find your rhythm.”  

“Thank you,” Eve said, trying to keep her voice steady.  

Mark gave her a reassuring nod. “No one expects you to know everything. They do expect you to keep up. Ask questions. Take notes. Own your mistakes and move forward.”  

Jennifer gave Eve’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, already steering her back toward the hallway. “See? You survived your first Susan encounter. Practically a rite of passage.”  

Eve let out a quiet laugh, tension easing. “Barely.”  

Jennifer grinned, nudging her forward. “Come on—let’s find Ben and get you officially started.”  

They slipped back into the hallway, Jennifer effortlessly weaving through the buzz of production life. Assistants rushed past, crew members muttered into headsets, and Eve did her best to keep up, trying to absorb names, faces, and the rhythm of it all as Jennifer pointed things out in passing.  

“That’s Casey—head grip,” Jennifer said, nodding toward a burly man in cargo pants who was mid-rant about missing extension cords. “He’s in charge of the crew that handles rigging and lighting setups. Pretends to hate everyone, but secretly brings donuts every Friday.”  

Eve smiled, eyes flicking to the man now gesturing wildly at a coil of cable.  

“And that’s Mia,” Jennifer added, motioning discreetly to a woman with a utility belt of labels, gaffer’s tape, and attitude. “She runs props. She knows where every object on set lives, and she will absolutely tell you where to shove it if you move something without asking.”  

Eve chuckled, tension easing slightly as Jennifer’s dry humor pulled her through the chaos like a guide rope.  

As Eve passed the craft services table, the steady hum of conversation sharpened into laughter—loud, easy, the kind that only came from people who'd worked long hours together and survived them.  

A small group stood gathered near the snack trays—Pedro, Kyle Soller, Milly Alcock, and a few others. Kyle, animated as ever, was mid-monologue, gesturing with a half-eaten croissant in one hand.  

“—I still can’t believe you admitted it,” Kyle was saying, grinning at Pedro. “Looking at your own fan accounts when you're feeling down? You’re like a sad little internet prince.”  

A ripple of laughter followed. Pedro grinned.  

“Hey,” he shot back, water bottle halfway to his mouth, “it was a lie detector interview. It’s not like I could’ve lied my way out of it.”  

More laughter. Pedro took a sip, then added with a smirk, “Come back to me when you have your own fan accounts, Kyle.”  

Kyle clutched his chest dramatically. “You hear that, Adam? He thinks he’s famous.”  

Adam DiMarco rolled his eyes. “He is famous. Just insufferable about it.”  

Pedro gave him a mock bow.  

As the laughter continued, Pedro glanced around—and that’s when he saw her.  

Eve. Standing across the way with Jennifer. Laughing.  

Not just a polite smile. Really laughing.  

His grip on the bottle tightened just slightly. He froze for a second—not obvious, not awkward, but enough for anyone watching closely to see the shift.  

Adam noticed. Of course he did.  

“Careful eyeing up the staff, Pedro,” he said with a teasing lilt. “Pretty sure HR’s still recovering from last month.”  

The group broke into another wave of laughter, louder this time. Pedro didn’t take the bait, but a flush rose in his neck—visible only if you were looking.  

He gave Adam a slow look and quipped, “I’m just appreciating a strong work ethic, hermano. Unlike some of you.”  

That earned a few more smirks and headshakes, and the attention moved on. But Pedro’s eyes flicked back to Eve one last time as she turned to leave.  

Jennifer finally led Eve toward a large, open area at the edge of the main set, where a tall man stood hunched over a table covered in clipboards, call sheets, and scattered stacks of paper. A headset rested around his neck, and his eyes narrowed in concentration as he glanced up. “Ben,” Jennifer called gently, guiding Eve forward. “New intern. Eve Calder.”  

Ben Wallace straightened immediately, giving Eve a quick, assessing look. Then his expression eased, and he offered a firm handshake.  

“Good to have you, Eve. First-day chaos hasn’t scared you off yet?”  

“Not yet,” Eve said with a tentative smile. “But it’s early.”  

Ben chuckled. “Fair enough.” He picked up a clipboard, scanning it as he spoke. “How much do you know about the film?”  

“Basic details,” Eve replied honestly. “It’s post-apocalyptic—something about an ecological disaster called ‘The Ashfall.’ Survivors split into factions, some hidden AI tech involved. That’s about it.”  

“Not bad,” Ben said with an approving nod. “That’s the gist. Cast?”  

“I’ve heard a few big names, but I don’t know all the characters yet.”  

Ben’s mouth tugged into a half-smile. “Quick rundown, then: Elias Creed—our morally gray hero, played by Pedro Pascal. Commander Vex, the antagonist—ruthless, brilliant, dangerous—Kyle Soller. Milly Alcock plays Anya, the survivalist. Adam DiMarco’s Kael, the tech scavenger. And Elizabeth Dulau plays Dr. Tamsin Rowe, the scientist who may or may not save the world, depending on how the final cut shakes out.”  

Eve nodded, mentally filing away every name. “Got it.”  

Ben handed her a crisp call sheet. “You’ll catch up fast. Today’s a busy one—jumping straight into key scenes. Which brings me to your first assignment. Possibly your most dangerous yet.”  

Eve held her breath, bracing herself.  

Ben passed her a slightly crumpled order sheet with various scribbles and coffee preferences. His eyes glinted with mischief. “Cast coffee run. Everyone wants something different, and they will notice if it’s wrong.”  

Eve exhaled slowly, a smile tugging at her lips. “Got it. Any survival tips?”   Ben leaned in, lowering his voice like he was sharing classified intel. “Double-check everything. And whatever you do, don’t give Kyle soy milk. Seriously. One time was enough.” 

“Soy milk. Never. Understood,” Eve said, gripping the sheet like a mission briefing.  

“You’ll be fine,” Ben said with an encouraging nod. “Welcome aboard.”  

Jennifer gave her shoulder one last squeeze. “Good luck.”  

As Eve turned toward the craft services area, order sheet in hand, she drew in a steadying breath and squared her shoulders.  

She could handle coffee. This was no biggie at all.  

Eve clutched the call sheet and cast coffee order as she hurried across the lot, scanning the area with growing anxiety.  

Coffee truck. Coffee truck. Where the hell is the coffee truck?  

She’d assumed it would be obvious—parked somewhere central, surrounded by caffeine-deprived crew. Instead, she’d wandered through a maze of set pieces, coiled cables, and identical storage trailers.  

Twice she looped back to where she started. On the third pass, a grip finally took pity on her and pointed toward the far side of the lot, behind props storage.  

By the time she reached the coffee truck—a sleek black-and-gold food truck with a chalkboard menu—her cheeks were flushed and her nerves threadbare.  

A short line had formed, mostly crew with headsets and clipboards. Eve joined them, bouncing on her toes, eyes locked on the now slightly-wrinkled order sheet:  

Pedro Pascal – Americano, extra shot, black. Hot, not scalding.  Kyle Soller – Vanilla latte, whole milk (NO SOY!), extra foam, 165 degrees.  Milly Alcock – Oat milk cappuccino, double espresso, dash of cinnamon.  Adam DiMarco – Iced caramel macchiato, extra drizzle.  Elizabeth Dulau – Earl Grey, almond milk, two sugars. 

When she reached the front, the barista—Cassie—spotted the clipboard and gave her a sympathetic grin.  

“Let me guess. Cast run?”  

Eve nodded, exhaling. “Got lost. Twice.”  

Cassie laughed as she took the sheet. “Welcome to Greenfire. You’re already ahead of the curve.”  

“I’m already late,” Eve muttered.  

Cassie winked. “Then let’s make you a hero.”  

Five minutes later, Eve headed back with a full drink tray, carefully balanced and labeled. She whispered each name like a mantra as she approached the trailers, gravel crunching underfoot.  

At trailer 132, Pedro was standing at the bottom of the steps, script folded in one hand. His posture was relaxed, but focused—hair slightly tousled, beard catching the shadow just under the canopy above him.  

He looked up as she approached.  

Their eyes met again. Calm. Measured. Like he was quietly trying to read something in her face.  

Eve stopped a few paces away and held out the coffee. “Americano. Extra shot. Black.”  

Pedro took it from her with a small nod. Then, with a faint smile playing at the edge of his mouth, he said, “Thanks… You know, I was just telling the guys—gotta appreciate a strong work ethic.”  

Eve blinked, caught off guard.  

He glanced at the tray still in her hands. “You’re making me look lazy out here.”  

It wasn’t flirtatious—not really—but something in his tone suggested he was testing the ground beneath them.  

Eve gave a dry smile, not quite sure whether to play along. “Guess someone’s gotta pick up the slack.”  

Pedro chuckled, tapping his coffee lid once. “Touché.”  

And then, just like before, he turned back toward his trailer—more composed than casual, but with the echo of amusement still lingering in his shoulders.  

Eve stood there for another second, the weight of the drink tray suddenly less noticeable than the tension in her chest.  

She wasn’t imagining it.  Whatever this was—he felt it too. 

Or maybe… he wanted her to think he did?  

Kyle, already waiting, reached out theatrically. “Please tell me you saved me from soy-based doom.”  

“Whole milk. 165 degrees,” she said, handing it over.  

“You beautiful genius,” he sighed. “You’ve already earned a special thanks in the credits.”  

Milly accepted her cappuccino with a brief “Cheers,” barely looking up. Adam grinned and said, “You just became my favorite person on set.” Elizabeth Dulau took her tea with a soft smile and a calm, “Thank you, Eve.”  

Eve nodded at each of them, still half-distracted.  

Eve turned to head back toward the main set, the empty tray tucked under one arm. But as she passed Pedro’s trailer again, something made her glance over her shoulder.  

He was still there—leaning casually near the stairs, coffee in hand.  

His gaze following her.  

He raised his paper cup to her in acknowledgment.  

Eve smiled a nervous smile and give court nod, her heart skipping in spite of herself.  

She shook her head, forcing herself to refocus as she walked back toward base camp.  

Don’t overthink it, she told herself. It’s probably nothing.  

Still, the weight of that glance lingered, trailing behind her like the end of a thought that hadn’t quite finished forming.  

After the coffee run, she barely stopped moving—bouncing between departments, wrangling extras into costume for a background scene, relaying last-minute script updates from the assistant directors, and printing revised call sheets that Susan insisted she had asked for “yesterday.” Jennifer popped in occasionally with a quick thumbs-up or subtle nod of approval, but otherwise, Eve was left to sink or swim—and she was just barely treading water.  

The lot hummed with chaos, but when a message crackled through her headset— Rolling on the first official scene —everything shifted.  

The energy around her tightened. Conversations dropped to murmurs. Crew scrambled to their marks like they’d trained for this moment all week.  

Ben appeared at her side near the edge of the main soundstage.  

“Stay close,” he said, low and serious. “It’s Creed’s opening scene. No noise, no movement. We cannot interrupt.”  

Eve nodded, clutching her headset as she followed him into the darkened wings of the stage.  

The cavernous soundstage had been transformed into a ruined border checkpoint. The walls were charred and broken, made from foam but painted and aged to look like crumbling concrete. Jagged scaffolding and rebar jutted from the debris, while the husk of an armored vehicle smoked faintly in the background. A rain rig mounted in the rafters hissed overhead, releasing a steady downpour that glittered under the lights. Across one wall, a massive green screen loomed—waiting to become a crumbling city skyline in post-production.  

Low fog machines pumped smoke across the cracked ground, hugging the set like something alive.  

Eve stood just off-camera, headset slung around her neck, barely breathing.  

This was it. Ashfall’s first take—the moment Elias Creed, Pedro’s character, would be introduced to the world.  

The camera crew locked into position. The lighting shifted slightly, warmer and more directional. Rain slicked the fake concrete. Every eye was on the director, who raised one hand silently—  

“Action!”  

From the shadows, Elias exploded into frame—sprinting, soaked, bloodied. Every movement was urgent and messy, like survival had stripped away everything but instinct. Distant sirens wailed. Gunfire echoed behind him. He vaulted a pile of debris, slipped, caught himself with a sharp grunt against a broken wall.  

A sleek, needle-shaped drone—mounted on a mechanical arm just off-frame—whirred across the set, its red tracking light sweeping the ruins.  

Elias pressed his back to the wall, chest heaving, one arm clutching his ribs. His breath fogged the air. A tremble in his hand betrayed pain or fear—or both.  

Then, movement.  

Two soldiers in full armor rounded the corner, rifles raised. They swept through the wreckage with tense, methodical precision.  

Elias reached beneath his coat, pulling out a small metallic object—not a weapon. A blinking shard of tech. The AI core. Still active.  

He looked to the drone. The soldiers. The ruins behind him.  

A choice.  

He dropped a flashbang—smoke exploded across the frame. The handheld camera jolted forward, following Elias as he burst from cover. Shouts rang out. One of the soldiers fired—a blank round popped inches from his shoulder. Elias flinched, stumbled, then crashed through a rusted gate, limping, soaked, bleeding, and gone.  

He vanished into the fog.  

“Cut!” the director shouted.  

Silence. Then scattered applause from crew behind the monitors.  

Eve realized she’d been holding her breath.  

Pedro—no, Elias —emerged slowly from behind the gate, drenched and breathless, red makeup smeared across one cheek. He didn’t smile. Didn’t break character. He simply handed the blinking AI core to a waiting crew member and murmured something too low to catch.  

Then he walked off set without looking back.  

Eve stayed frozen where she stood, watching him disappear behind a curtain of light and smoke.  

That’s how you start a story.  

No dialogue. No exposition. Just motion, choice, and consequence. A character introduced not by words, but by desperation and grit—a man who had already lost too much but wasn’t finished fighting.  

Eve wasn’t sure whether to feel intimidated or inspired.  

Maybe both.  

By the time the final scene of the day wrapped, Eve’s body ached and her shoes felt half a size too small. She’d spent most of the day in constant motion—dodging cables, hauling gear, scribbling notes, and making herself useful in whatever way didn’t get her yelled at. Her feet hurt, her hair was frizzy, and she was fairly certain she’d sweated through her shirt hours ago. But she’d made it.  

As the crew began packing up, Ben found her near the production tent, holding a folded slip of paper.  

“Hey, rookie,” he said, handing it over with a smirk. “Your unofficial badge. Fresh off the office label maker.”  

Eve took it, reading the bold, slightly crooked type:  

Eve Calder – Production Intern  

She laughed, amused and a little confused. “Thanks. I’ll guard it with my life.”  

“You’ll get the real one by the end of the week—assuming you don’t quit or get flattened by a dolly,” he said with a wink.  

“Nice to know what the bar is,” she replied, tucking the paper badge carefully into her back pocket.  

The lot was quieting now. The day had started in chaos, but the buzz had dimmed into something slower and more tired. Trailers stood in long, quiet rows under the amber wash of overhead lights. Crew members moved like ghosts, wrapping cables and muttering end-of-day plans into radios.  

Eve headed toward the parking lot, her limbs heavy, but her thoughts still spinning.  

“Eve!”  

She turned mid-step to see Noah jogging over, still in his crew jacket, his hair messier than it had been that morning.  

“Heading out?” he asked, falling into step beside her.  

“Yeah,” she said. “Trying to beat traffic while I still remember which way I parked.”  

As she spoke, the door to trailer 132 creaked open.  

Pedro stepped out of his trailer, hoodie loose over his frame, jeans slung low on his hips. His hair was still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the edges. The grime and fake blood from that morning’s shoot were gone, but he didn’t look recharged—just quieter. Tired in a way that lived behind the eyes and pulled at the corners of the mouth.  

A worn duffel bag hung from one shoulder as he made his way toward the lot.  

Up ahead, Noah was already mid-pitch.  

He slung an arm around Eve’s shoulders like it was second nature. “Hey, by the way,” he said, voice easy, “I wanted to apologize—for the ‘Uber Girl’ thing. Dumb joke. Didn’t mean to be a dick.”  

Eve shifted, slipping out from under his arm with a tight smile. “It’s fine,” she said, but her tone clipped the edge of forgiveness.  

Noah gave a small laugh, brushing past it. “Let me make it up to you. There’s a bar down the street—good drinks, no weird nicknames. Promise.”  

Eve opened her mouth—already shaping a soft, polite no—when another voice cut in.  

“Very professional, Noah.”  

Pedro.  

He was closer now, steps smooth but deliberate, his voice wrapped in dry amusement. He didn’t stop walking as he passed, eyes briefly flicking from Noah to Eve.  

“Asking out the intern before Friday?” he added. “Bold move.”  

Noah gave a half-laugh, clearly caught off guard. “Relax, man. Just a joke.”  

Pedro shrugged one shoulder. “So was mine.”  

But the look he shot Noah wasn’t really joking.  

The air went still—not hostile, just suddenly charged.  

Pedro’s gaze slid to Eve and softened, just a little. “Eve,” he said simply, giving her a small nod.  

He turned and walked away, but there was something extra in his stride now—like he was trying not to walk too fast or too smooth. Like he was aware of eyes on him and compensating just a little.  

Eve watched him go, slow heat rising in her throat  That walk wasn’t just an exit. It was a message. 

He reached his Jaguar at the edge of the lot—sleek, black, precise—and opened the door with one hand, tossed his bag into the passenger seat, and slid behind the wheel.  

He didn’t glance back. Just started the engine with a low rumble and pulled away, headlights casting long shadows across the emptying trailers.  

Noah gave a weak laugh beside her. “That was… weird, right?”  

Eve didn’t respond.  

She just stood there, paper badge still tucked in her back pocket, watching the taillights disappear into the dusk.  

The city blurred past in streaks of red taillights and amber streetlamps as Eve drove home, one hand loose on the steering wheel, brain still buzzing. Her body ached in oddly specific places—shoulders, lower back, that weird tendon behind her knee—and her hair smelled faintly of set dust and burnt coffee.  

She exhaled through her nose and cracked the window. The night air rushed in, cool and grounding. It helped. A little.  

What a day.  

The people. The pace. The chaos. The names— God , so many names.  

She mentally flipped through the faces:  Ben—kind, sharp-eyed, always moving.  Jennifer—her unexpected lifeline.  Mark—calm and warm.  Susan—terrifying, but in that weirdly energizing way.  The cast—Milly, quiet and razor-edged; Adam, all charm and grins; Elizabeth, gentle and still; Kyle, theatrical and unapologetic, like someone who’d been born for both Shakespeare and gossip.  And Pedro— 

She cut the thought off before it went anywhere.  

Instead, she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the little square of flimsy paper:  

Eve Calder – Production Intern  

She held it between two fingers, smiling faintly. It was barely more than a label maker sticker on cheap cardstock, but in her hands, it felt like a talisman. A charm. Proof that she’d made it through day one.  

At a red light, headlights glowed across the dashboard. Her phone buzzed from the cupholder. A message preview lit up the screen:  

Noah Reed: Still think you should’ve let me buy you a drink. Could’ve toasted to “Uber-Girl Goes Hollywood.” 

Eve smirked, but only slightly. He’d tried one last time before she left the lot.  

“Come on,” he’d said, half-laughing. “One drink. For a successful first day. It’s practically tradition.”  

She’d slung her bag over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “As you so kindly put it—I’m Uber-Girl. I have Uber-Girl things to do.”  

He’d laughed, clearly trying to play off his disappointment. “Ouch. Brutal.”  

“Accurate,” she replied, already halfway to her car.  

But before she could escape, he called out again. “Fine. But I’m still getting your number.”  

She’d paused. “What for?”  

He grinned. “Professional purposes. Emergency coffee runs. Dramatic texts after night shoots. You know—Hollywood stuff.”  

And somehow, he’d gotten it. She’d handed over her phone like someone else had moved her fingers for her. Like her brain had briefly disconnected just long enough for curiosity—or chaos—to win.  

Who even asks for numbers anymore? she thought now, merging onto the freeway. What is this, 2008?  

Still, she didn’t regret it.  

Not really.  

But even now, miles from set and halfway to sleep, she couldn’t shake that moment—the glance Pedro had given Noah. That dry voice, that casual phrasing that somehow wasn’t casual at all.  

He hadn’t said much. Barely a sentence. But the look he gave, the weight behind his words…  

Not your problem , she told herself firmly. Focus. Day two is tomorrow. Don’t get distracted.  

She flicked on her blinker, exited toward her apartment, and tightened her grip on the wheel.  

One day down.  Plenty more to survive. 

The moment Eve pushed open the apartment door, she barely had time to step inside before the ambush began.  

“What did you do?”  

“Any cute guys on set?”  

“Oh my God, what actors did you meet?”  

“Please tell me Michael B. Jordan was there. I could actually die.”  

Eve blinked, still holding her bag, as Michaela and Jasmine sprang into the hallway like they’d been lying in wait. Michaela had a half-dried face mask and a spoonful of Nutella in hand. Jasmine was barefoot, her phone still clutched mid-text.  

“Can I at least close the door before you interrogate me?” Eve asked, laughing.  

“Nope,” Jasmine said, grinning. “We need the tea. Now. ”  

“I can’t tell you anything about the cast,” Eve said, tossing her bag onto the nearest chair. “It’s in the contract. Very hush-hush. NDAs. Top-secret. ‘If you talk, we erase your future’ kind of vibe.”  

Jasmine groaned. “That’s so unfair.”  

Michaela gasped in mock betrayal. “Wait. That means you did meet someone!”  

Eve raised her hands innocently. “All I can legally confirm is that I handed out coffee, walked twelve thousand steps, and didn’t get crushed by a lighting rig.”  

“That’s not no, ” Jasmine pointed out, narrowing her eyes.  

“It’s not yes either,” Eve replied, ducking around them and heading for the couch. “It’s a Schrödinger’s cast situation.”  

Michaela flopped down beside her, still holding the spoon. “But, like, you can tell us if Michael B. Jordan was there, right? I mean, we’re your emotional support humans. That has to override the NDA.”  

“Nice try,” Eve said, grinning. “I’m not getting sued because you want to thirst-scroll IMDb.”  

Jasmine threw herself onto a pillow. “I hate how responsible you are.”  

“But,” Eve added, “I can tell you the crew is intense, the set is massive, and I’m probably going to wake up with muscles I didn’t know existed.”  

“And?” Michaela prompted, eyes narrowing.  

“And,” Eve said, standing, “I smell like rain machine, fog fluid, and mild panic. So I’m going to shower.”  

As she padded down the hallway, Jasmine called after her, “You’re lucky I love you, Calder! But this betrayal will not be forgotten!”  

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Eve called back, smirking.  

Michaela leaned toward Jasmine, lowering her voice like it was a national secret. “She definitely met someone famous.”  

After her shower, Eve stood in front of the mirror, towel-drying her hair and patting moisturizer into her skin with slow, aching motions. Her muscles throbbed in places she wasn’t used to—shoulders, calves, even the sides of her neck. Film sets, she was learning, weren’t glamorous behind the camera. Today had been proof.  

She pulled on soft gray sweats and her oldest Columbia hoodie—worn thin at the elbows, sleeves stretched and faded. The kind of comfort clothing that felt earned.  

She had just collapsed onto her bed, blanket pulled up to her lap, when a soft knock tapped at the door.  

“Yeah?” she called, eyes still closed.  

The door creaked open, and Jasmine peeked in, balancing two mismatched mugs. “I come bearing chamomile and zero expectations.”  

Eve cracked a tired smile. “You’re a saint.”  

Jasmine stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. “No questions. No gossip. Just tea and silence. Unless you want otherwise.”  

Eve accepted the mug, grateful for the warmth. “I might want otherwise. Eventually.”  

They sat in quiet for a few beats, the hum of the apartment a low backdrop—someone’s Spotify playing faintly down the hall, the dishwasher gurgling. Jasmine didn’t push. She just waited.  

And eventually, Eve exhaled.  

“I drove one of them,” she said quietly.  

Jasmine glanced over. “One of who?”  

“The crew. Or... at least I thought he was crew. Turned out, not so much.”  

“Wait—what do you mean?”  

“In my Uber. Before I knew I got the internship,” Eve explained. “He had a Greenfire badge, so I made small talk. Asked a few questions. Thought it was nothing.”  

Jasmine squinted. “And?”  

“He remembered me. First day, he called me ‘Uber Girl’ in front of other people. Loudly.”  

Jasmine winced sympathetically. “Oof.”  

“His name’s Noah,” Eve went on. “He’s an assistant director. Charming in that smug, knows-he’s-charming way.”  

Jasmine raised an eyebrow. “Is he hot?”  

“Unfortunately,” Eve muttered into her tea.  

Jasmine grinned. “Dangerous combination.”  

“He asked for my number after wrap,” Eve added, not quite looking up.  

“You gave it to him?” Jasmine asked, eyebrows shooting up.  

“I panicked! And I was tired. And maybe a little... curious.”  

Jasmine let out a scandalized gasp. “Eve Calder, making workplace mistakes before lunch. I love this journey for you.”  

Eve laughed softly, but then her smile dimmed. “But that’s not what stuck with me most.”  

Jasmine tilted her head. “Okay... what did?”  

Eve hesitated. “Pedro Pascal.”  

Jasmine blinked. “What about him?”  

Eve looked at her. “He’s in the cast.”  

Jasmine froze. “You’re joking.”  

“I’m not.”  

“Pedro Pascal is on your set?”  

Eve nodded slowly.  

Jasmine practically launched off the bed. “WHAT.”  

“Keep your voice down!”  

Jasmine gripped her mug like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to Earth. “That man is a total DILF.”  

Eve choked on her tea. “Jasmine!”  

“I’m sorry, but you know I’m right,” Jasmine said, utterly unrepentant. “I’d call him Daddy and say thank you.”  

“Oh my God.”  

“I mean, seriously—those eyes? That voice? That presence ? If he even looked at me sideways, I’d file for emotional bankruptcy.”  

Eve buried her face in her hands, groaning. “Why did I tell you this.”  

“Because I’m trustworthy,” Jasmine said, then added, “and you needed someone to process this with.”  

Eve peeked out from between her fingers. “It wasn’t just that I saw him. I... interacted with him. More than twice.”  

Jasmine sat back down like she was preparing for a sacred story. “I need details. All of them. Now.”  

Eve took a breath. “I brought him coffee. That was the first time. Just routine—Americano, extra shot, black. I handed it to him, and he looked at me like... like he was trying to memorize something.”  

“Your face,” Jasmine said solemnly. “He was memorizing your face.”  

“I thought maybe I imagined it. But then—after wrap—Noah found me in the lot. Being Noah. A little too flirty. And then Pedro walked out.”  

Jasmine blinked. “Just like that?”  

“Hoodie, jeans, hair still damp from a shower. Walks right up like a scene in a movie and says, ‘Very professional, Noah. Couldn’t wait until Friday?’”  

Jasmine gasped again. “He intervened ?”  

“Sort of. It sounded teasing. But it didn’t feel like just a joke.”  

“Eve.”  

Eve looked down at her tea. “He said my name, too. Twice. Like it meant something.”  

“Sweetheart, if Pedro Pascal said my name like that, I’d forget what language was. I’d forget my name. I’d legally change it to his.”  

Eve laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”  

“I’m not wrong.”  

A long pause followed.  

Then Jasmine said gently, “Do you want something to happen?”  

“I don’t know,” Eve admitted. “He’s older. Famous. And I’m just trying to do my job without screwing anything up.”  

“But you’re also human,” Jasmine said. “And you didn’t imagine it.”  

Eve sighed. “Maybe. I just know I need to be careful.”  

Jasmine gave her a small, supportive smile. “Then be careful. But don’t pretend it didn’t shake you a little. You’re allowed to feel that.”  

Eve leaned her head back against the wall. “You’re being really wise again.”  

Jasmine took a sip of tea. “Yeah. Don’t get used to it.”  

The door clicked shut.  

Eve stared at the ceiling for a long time, mug warm in her hands, heart beating faster than it should.  

This was real. All of it.  

And it was only day one.