#and tbh i associate the show and book as different things

[myglassesareinkansas]

Rewatching One of Us is Lying s2 and I’m ngl, I really really wish Maeve had been Simon Says

[randombush3]

ubi amor, ibi dolor

alexia putellas x reader

part one

words: 11455 (SORRY THERE WAS A LOT TO FIT IN)

summary: alexia and you as posh + becks part two x

content warnings: it’s gets a little sad but tbh the next part is the one you should be worried abt 🤘

notes: this one covers 2017-2019. i apologise if it’s a bit jumpy because if i covered EVERYTHING you’d be sat here reading for days. also, this part was so slow to be finished because i abandoned it for ages and only just decided i should probs get to finishing it. the next part is the last one!

It’s about three months later, and there is not a silence that can’t be filled with the sound of Alexia’s voice. You don’t know how to prove this, because you leave none to be filled, instead seeking to occupy every spare second granted by your tour schedule to call her, to text her; to talk to her. 

You spend your nights on balconies all over the continent. Your smoking habit is worsening but the excuse of getting some fresh air to do so is a perfect way to weasel yourself out of parties and clubs and late-night chats with your friends. You much prefer to spend your time finding out more about the woman you quickly become obsessed with. She often verbalises her disdain for your disregard for your lungs – something that transcends the language barrier with an overwhelming clarity – but she is glad that you are talking to her either way.

A few times, you go as far as to hop on a secretly booked flight. You never step outside the airport, leaving Barcelona very much stamped in your passport but not on your list of places you have explored, but Alexia is more than content to pursue your hooded figure as you lead her into hidden corners of the arrivals lounge she begins to associate with the racing feeling in her heart when she sees you. Kissing against walls and on hard airport seats is not what feeds most budding romances, but you don’t care. You happily fly to her whenever you have a spare five minutes, and she is more than content to make the time spent physically together worthwhile.

The tour is nearly over. Five shows in three weeks, and then you can traipse back to London to fight off the delayed hangover in the comfort of your own home with meals cooked by your parents to keep you going. One of the worst things about being on the road is the food (or lack thereof), and your athlete gi… Alexia, is unimpressed with your nutrition. You find that she does not agree with most of your lifestyle, yet she seems captivated by it; like she is discovering a different, scarier world, and she can’t close her eyes.

Alexia’s birthday is soon. 

She has enough dread for the event to have communicated it far more efficiently than usual, with most conversations needing to be doubled in length to get past the all-too-familiar grunts of unrecognition. The streets of Barcelona are filled with whispers of a women’s league, and she is unsure of the pressure that is starting to grow on her shoulders. A birthday is inconvenient, she claims, though you only laugh. 

You tell her about Virgil – she knows you love him, she knows you love most things to do with him – and his famous quote. “Labor omnia vincit,” you say, finding it ironic that you are only able to talk to her right now because you skipped out on soundcheck and a run-through with the backup dancers. “Work conquers all. It reminds me of you.” 

Her lilting Spanish laughter fades as she actually thinks about it. 

“Es verdad,” Alexia replies, and you are glad to understand. “Quiero ser la mejor del mundo así que ‘labor omnia vincit’.” 

“You’re speaking Latin with a Spanish accent.” 

“You love my accent.” 

You smile. It’s true. 

…

It hasn’t settled in Alexia’s mind that you, who calls her whenever you can because you miss her opinions and her jokes and the face that you can picture when she speaks, are the same person as the one she sees on Jenni’s phone as the team crowds round the screen to watch a viral video from your concert last night. 

“A birthday present for you, eh, Ale?” Jenni jests, clinging on to Alexia’s admission months ago about her crush on you. She doesn’t know about the reality of it all. No one does, as of yet. 

“Who puts them in these outfits?” asks Leila, mildly outraged at the bedazzled lingerie you’d been dressed in. “There’s nothing to them! They might as well go on stage naked.” 

“It’s fine. They get hot while they’re performing anyway,” Alexia dismisses, not wanting to delve into your issues with your stylist. Well. Her issues with your stylist, who seems to not care about dignity or have any faith in the world’s imagination. (That, and Alexia is not sure she likes this idea of sharing, though she is aware that nothing defines you as hers.)

“Oh, did they tell you that themselves?” She glares at Jenni, and shoulders her way out of the huddle. It’s not Jenni’s fault that her mood has been easily soured, because tomorrow is Alexia’s birthday and then, the next day, she has to get to Madrid for her national camp. The Euros later this year is going to be in the Netherlands, and her dreams for her country are currently far-fetched. It hurts, and you’re well aware of her misery.

In fact, you are so aware that you are on a flight from Oslo on the fourth of February. It’s too special a day to miss. You have once again abandoned soundcheck. 

Alexia receives a text as she slides into her mother’s old car, considering flinging the device out of the window at one of her teammates’ heads after they sang to her at training without the mercy of letting her forget that she is one year closer to the end of her career. At this rate, the career will be full of wasted potential. She is in a terrible mood about it. 

And then she looks at her phone. 

You have really tried to up your game with the Spanish of late, enlisting the help of a private tutor who Skypes you twice a week with new phrases and grammar that mildly resembles that of a dead language you carry more than a passion for. 

You: Estoy aquí!

The only thing she can think to do is slam her index finger on the call button of your contact, nail bending painfully on the glass of the screen. 

Your instructions are clear: “Airport. Now.” 

She drives. 

She drives at an embarrassingly desperate speed, because just over a week is too long a separation and her day has been awful and there is something so magnetic about your presence that she would be going against nature to do anything other than find you. Obviously, find you she does: right in the arrivals lounge, same black hoodie as always disguising your identity. It’s not any busier than usual, and you catch sight of her the minute she pushes her way to the front of the crowd of expectant faces. 

With a weary grin, you walk towards her, and she knows that this game is only temporary. There will be privacy close by, and you can speak then. 

She turns with a nod, and you follow as she takes the usual route, but suddenly there are fingers intertwined with her own and you are stopping her in front of everyone. 

“Feliz cumpleaños,” you say with a pronounced failure and a hilariously concentrated expression. Alexia giggles, and the storm cloud above her dissipates, but the kiss she wants to press to your lips will have to wait. There’s somewhere empty just around the corner, and she tugs your hand to get you to come with her – to match the same haste she has – but you don’t. “Al coche. So we can go to your casa.” 

Her eyebrows raise. 

“It’s your birthday,” you explain, stepping towards her so that the people around you see a couple instead of two women walking in a vague direction. Alexia swallows, body tingling at your proximity. Her body always tingles when you stand near her like this. “It’s your birthday, so I am here for the night. My flight is tomorrow.” 

She understands you entirely. 

She all but drags you to her car. 

Alexia does not even remember what it’s like to be miserable. She is set alight by your presence, by your lips, your hands, your soft greeting that you whisper in her ear when she pulls away to drive you to her flat. It’s a new place, and she is free from the fuss of her mother. 

You smile when she pulls you out, taking your bulging handbag in one hand and grasping yours with the other, and she kisses that smile as she presses you against the mirror in the lift. The bag hits the floor with a thud, your overnight things spilling out because of her carelessness, but you pay the rolling Dior lipstick no mind, too caught up in the way her tongue swirls in your mouth. How her hands grip your waist. 

She’s stronger than last time. She gets stronger every day: she is going to be the best footballer in the world. She is dedicated to her sport. 

Your palms travel up the back of her t-shirt, cold from the metal you’d previously had them pressed against. Alexia flinches as your fingers brush a particular spot, the skin there slightly raised. 

“¿Que pasó?” you ask, head tilted to the side as she draws back, panting. “Are you hurt?”

She examines your eyes. Deeply inquisitive. Full of something that may resemble love in the future. 

Alexia smiles – an expression that she wears mostly when she is thinking about you. You watch as she turns around, the lift jerking to a halt as if to hurry up her slow movements. As she lifts up her t-shirt, you eye the tattoos you are aware decorate her back. There are going to be more someday, she has always been clear about that. 

And, oh. 

You’re not usually so attached. Alexia, it’s apparent, is a complete exception.

She asks you if you like it. You lean forward, and kiss the four words (she must have researched the quote, because you excluded the last when you mentioned it), tongue running over the redness as if you are going to heal the irritation. She moans quietly, more surprised than anything else. 

“Do I get the credit for it?” She shakes her head, which you catch in the mirror opposite, and, before you can voice your protest, she is facing the right way again and kissing you as she leads you to her door. “You know, there’s another quote from him that I much prefer to that one. ‘Labor omnia vincit improbus’ is… Do you know the word workaholic?” Again, her head shakes. She backs you against the wall next to her door, lips attached to your neck as you keen under her touch. 

She slots her leg between yours, and you forget your next sentence. 

It’s a heated kiss. It promises tonight’s activities to you, and you cannot wait for her to unlock her door. 

Your lips run along her neck as she jams her key into the lock. You suck and bite, spurred on by the moans she bites back with a clenched jaw. You find it sexy: her determination to get you inside. And it’s her birthday, after all. She deserves it. You have another gift for her in your bag, but she is grateful for this anyway.

“Inside,” she gasps as you smooth your tongue over the newly-created hickey you just gave her, kicking her door wide open and hauling you through the gap. 

The flat is pitch black, but Alexia knows it well enough to chuck your bag towards the dining table and have you on your way to the bedroom without needing to switch any lights on. But your hands wander, and she gets distracted. She stops you in the middle of the flat, only half a second into your journey, and her life feels so full (especially when you moan like that). The room feels so full. 

The room is full. 

The room is…

“Moltes felicitats, moltes felici–” sings (and abruptly stops) a whole choir of Alexia’s friends and family, the lights switching to bathe the two of you in total mortification. 

Alba’s hand covers the eyes of her cousin’s six-year-old, whose mouth has formed a perfect circle.  

Silence washes over what looks to be a surprise birthday party. One which Alexia was assured yesterday was not going to happen. By multiple guilty attendees! 

Alexia looks helplessly between you, her mother, and the shit-eating grin on Jenni Hermoso’s face, remembering herself promptly when Eli’s eyes drop to the placement of her hands on your bum. She almost jumps away from you. 

“Fuck off,” you mutter under your breath, stewing in the terribly awkward silence as Alexia’s eyes only grow wider and wider. “Alexia.” 

She breaks from her frozen state, thawed by the husk of your voice. 

“Jo…” 

The crowd explodes, and you let the tsunami of Catalan wash over your ears. There is so much noise, and so many people, and you can only watch as Alexia tries to answer all of their questions. She shakes her head, nodding at the same time, switching between two different languages to cover the shrieks from Jenni and the absolute bollocking her mother is giving her in front of everyone about dignity and respect. You are famous, says Eli, and you do not need Alexia’s horny motives to embarass you like that. 

“She’s a celebrity,” Eli chides with a glare at her daughter, eyes softening as you continue to stare at the sea of faces blankly. You are backed against a wall with nowhere to run. “Alexia, introduce us to your girlfriend. Now.” 

“You guys don’t need to be introduced to her!” Alexia replies like a petulant child, nearly crossing her arms and stamping her foot. “You know her name, and you’ve seen her. So you should all leave, really. Mami, I told you I didn’t want a party.” 

Eli’s hands fly from her body to halt the departure of the guests as they catch on to how unwanted they are. “No, we are still going to have this party,” she insists. It’s the final decision. “So, go on. Introduce us.” It’s definitely not a question. 

You clear your throat, wanting to save Alexia somehow. “Hola,” you begin, and every face breaks out into a beaming grin. “Um. Soy Y/n. Y… soy de Inglaterra?” 

“Sí,” Eli says with a swell of encouragement that you can feel from two metres away. 

 “Alexia,” you plead. 

“Guys, this is Y/n. She doesn’t speak Spanish, and she definitely does not speak Catalan, so either you practise your English or we cut the cake Mami has made and then you–”

“I am a big fan!” Jenni squeals, accented words loud and piercing as she surges towards you, sparking the movement of the entire body of people. No one listens to the rest of Alexia’s declaration. 

… 

There is a reason you are so well-liked, Alexia determines. She can see it as you interact with her family and closest friends. You smile and you listen and you remember things about people that they would deem insignificant. And it helps that you look breath-taking while doing it all.

Sitting at her dining table, Alba on one side, her mother on the other, she watches you flit around her flat with a talent for socialising, charming every person you speak to. 

“She doesn’t know how you feel, does she?” Eli comments, noticing the hesitation in her daughter’s expression. 

“I don’t know how she feels,” is what Alexia replies, because there is no way you can ignore the emotion she pours into your conversations. It exceeds that of a simple crush or hormone-fuelled desire. “She is incredible. I am me.” 

“You are Alexia Putellas.” 

“And she at least likes the way you kiss her,” Alba chimes in, her contribution unnecessary but making Alexia blush at the memory. The fact that her entire family saw that, most of them knowing where you were heading, is something she might be tossing and turning about at night for a while yet. 

“Your father would love her.” 

“I think so too,” Alexia says, chin resting on her palm as the world melts away, your eyes briefly meeting with hers as one of the children giggles at the face you have just pulled behind their mother’s back. A pang of disappointment reverberates in her chest as she grieves momentarily over the loss of her favourite person on Earth, wishing he could have shared the traumatic experience of today. He would’ve laughed so hard at her face when the lights went on.  

“She seems lovely, really. Very polite. Is it because she’s English?” 

“She is very…”

“I suppose the Latin came from her?” Alba asks with a smirk, prodding the fresh tattoo over the thin material of Alexia’s t-shirt, grinning as her sister hisses in pain. 

“Next time, we can go somewhere quieter and talk properly. I know that you’ll be busy when tonight is over.” 

Both Alexia and Alba shudder. “Mami!” her little sister groans, suppressing her gag. 

“Sex is nothing to be ashamed of, Alba.” 

“Never say ‘sex’ in front of me again,” Alexia tells her smug mother.

“Well, never get so caught up in the moment that you don’t notice the balloons taped to your flat number.” 

Alexia bolts outside to check, and hates herself when she sees them. 

…

“Dance with me!” 

You grab Alexia’s hand, pulling her towards you. The party has lasted longer than she’s happy with, and you have seemingly forgotten about what you could be doing. You love to dance. You love music. 

The little boy who’d been your partner up until now sticks his tongue out at Alexia, and she reciprocates the gesture. She is the birthday girl, after all. 

You don’t understand a word of the music, but the beat flows through your hips as you move them against her. She runs her hands up and down your sides, your tank top now the only layer between your skin and her impatient fingers, hoodie having been stripped off the minute the party became interesting. 

“My mother likes you,” Alexia whispers into your ear as you sway in time to the rhythm. Her lips brush your ear lobe, and you shiver despite the growing heat between you. 

“This was very much a surprise,” you giggle in response, possibly answering wrong because her Spanish didn’t quite catch.

“Mhm.”

“I can’t wait for them to leave.” 

Her eyebrows furrow. “You are not having fun?” 

“I am,” you reply with a nod, a smirk slowly creeping into your content expression. She holds her breath, reminding herself of the presence of her family as you grind into her. “But I also can’t wait to fuck you.” 

Alexia shudders.

“I will tell them to go.” 

They cut the cake. 

They sing again, completing the lyrics this time. You are even taught them before-hand, pushed out to the side of the crowd, very much silently told that you currently hold no place in Alexia’s life in comparison to these people. They all love her. You aren’t there yet. 

But, she values your presence. 

Alexia doesn’t care much about the people here tonight. She sees them almost every day, and she knows they are constants. What she does care about is you. 

You, in that tank top. You, with your hair down, face fresh even though your day must have been exhausting. You, with a red mark on your collarbone that no one knows how to point out to you in English. 

Soon, everyone is gone, and you are panting underneath her. Her lips capture yours, muffling the groan that comes with the movement of her fingers inside you. Your legs wrap around her body tighter, heels digging into her back. 

Her hair falls around you; encapsulating you, surrounding you with only her. Her smell, her taste, her fingers. 

You moan as her determination to destroy you becomes apparent. She hits every spot that has been neglected for the past few months, and though it is the first time the two of you are doing this, it’s as if Alexia has studied your body for years already.

She breaks apart from you as you come, your back arching off the mattress, chest pressing against hers. She wants to see your face for the first time. If she had a camera, she would have used it. You look beautiful. 

Nothing on Earth compares to the cliff you have just been pushed off, and it is as if you are falling for eternity. 

She goes again, and again, and again. She’s an athlete. 

She ruins you, but her strong arms hold you together afterwards. 

You fall asleep, for the first time in a while, with someone by your side. Whose hands find purchase on her favourite part of you, pulling you on top of her as she whines at your own tired attempt to make her feel good. Alexia whispers that she has been given enough, that she doesn’t need it, and she thinks you fall asleep to the sound of her incomprehensible, breathy Spanish. You cling to her. 

…

The tour ends. 

You couldn’t be happier. The final show is a blessing, and the tears in your eyes are of joy. You, Gio, and Anya are going home at last. 

However, the well-decorated flat you walk into lacks everything possible, because there is no Alexia standing in the middle of the living room. She can’t be here, though you wish things were different. The season has been successful for her so far, and she is busy. 

You really miss her. One night wasn’t enough. It will never be enough, and you are starting to realise the gravity of your blushes. 

You like Alexia, and you have fallen hard and fast.

“You’re not coming back with us,” your brother says knowingly, skiing beside you down the picturesque blue run in Les Gets. You have come here every year since you were eight. April is a little later than usual, and the snow often turns to slush towards the afternoon – though one could argue that is simply a cue to move onto apres-ski – but it is pleasant to be on holiday with your family. People try to bother you, but it is easier to pretend you don’t see their waves when you have your ski goggles pulled over your eyes. 

Your brother coughs, not pleased that you are ignoring him, reducing him to ‘everyone else’. (His ego, far too preened, far too large, cannot handle the idea of that.)

In front of the two of you, your father turns with precision and great technique. You can’t relate: you’re drunk. You have been since this morning. 

“Sorry?” Your innocence is pretence and he rolls his eyes behind his Oakleys. 

“Your flight. I saw it was booked to take you somewhere else. Somewhere you’ve been going a lot.” 

“You’re not subtle.” 

“You’re not subtle,” he replies, skis dangerously close to yours. You have to swerve, sending you onto the off-piste section of the run much to your irritation. With the excuse of tackling the jumps, however, you are lucky to evade further questioning, watching as he glides off into the distance, reaching the banner and skidding to a halt to wait for you and your mother. Your mother prefers to drink more than ski. She is always holding up the rear. 

When you return to the chalet, bought by your parents a decade ago to solidify their roots in Les Gets, your brother seems to have remembered your conversation from earlier. Your parents have gone out for dinner, leaving the two of you to make something for yourselves. He is glad to have you alone. 

“You don’t like lads, do you?” And, in truth, it’s an insightful question by his standards. He cares; he just does not know how to show it. 

Pausing the construction of your sandwich for a moment, you allow him to see you for who you are. He’s your brother, after all. “Not at all,” comes your response. 

He hums. “Thought so. You’d have gone out with half of England’s football team otherwise. God knows that they don’t mind.” 

“England has a women’s team.” 

“Gross.” His lips purse as he thinks about his little sister’s love life, and he decides that he would like to know more about Barcelona. “Are you buying a villa?” 

“What?” 

“Well, you go to Barcelona a lot. Are you buying a villa with the girls? Is that what celebrities do?” 

You roll your eyes. “Mum and Dad buy villas. It isn’t just celebrities who splurge on property.” 

“You’re not answering my question.” 

“I wish you’d never become a lawyer.” 

He laughs – hearty and deep. His laugh reminds you of dark forests for some reason; tall trees that dwarf your body, but keep you safe nonetheless. “I wish you’d never gotten famous. My life would be so much quieter if half my mates weren’t trying to squeeze something or other out of my connections.” His pride is profound in his misery, and you smile, blushing. “You’re not buying a villa.” 

“Well done, genius,” you taunt, assembling your sandwich once again in hopes that the baguette will kill the buzz in your mind. You can’t really think when you’re drunk, and, recently, when there is nothing else to occupy you, your mind wanders to Alexia. What is she doing now? Does she miss you? Is she excited to see you in three days? 

It dawns upon his face with an amusing animation. “You’re seeing someone,” he accuses. 

“Maybe,” you shrug. “She’d be one lucky girl.” 

“One unlucky girl, you mean. I’d better find out who she is and tell her to run for the hills. You’re about two decades overdue for an exorcism, and it shows.” He swiftly appears behind you, despite his lumbering limbs, and flicks your ear as your teeth sink into your dinner. You squeal, pushing backwards to get him away from you. “What’s her name? Who is she? What does she do?”

“She is… classified.” 

He reaches for his phone. “I’m going to find a list of Spanish names and see which one turns you into a tomato.” 

“She’s still classified.” You prod your index finger into his shoulder.

“Hey.” You retract your finger, surprised by the tenderness of his tone. “You can tell me, you know. You’re my little sister. I really don’t give enough of a fuck to spread it.” 

With great shame, you absolutely do not need to be told twice to talk about your favourite Spanish woman on the planet at the moment. He actually has to beg you to stop. 

…

Things with Alexia are good. 

Not just in terms of your relationship, but in general, too. Walks are more enjoyable, and so are mornings, afternoons, evenings. She likes that you feel comfortable to chill in her flat while she goes to training. She likes that she comes home to you. She likes that you spend your days with a pencil between your teeth, a blank page set out in front of you. 

Now that the tour is over, it is clear what comes next. The new album will be the best ever made, you have decided, because you might finally understand the lyrics that you sing. They could resonate. 

They will resonate. 

Alexia asks you to be her girlfriend when she drops you off at the airport. Your plane is private and she can kiss you goodbye when you agree. 

You love being Alexia’s girlfriend. You repeat your new identity over and over as you fly back to London, and it is a mantra that plays on loop in your mind as you get on with life back home. 

The girls tease you mercilessly when you spill it. All three of you are on the balcony, though this time there is a joint placed between your fingers rather than a cigarette. Slightly high, more so giddy about Alexia, you confess. They’re happy for you, but Gio can’t help but text Anya later that night. 

Gio: Have you seen the new plan? 

Anya: What plan? 

Gio is sitting upright in her bed, ensuring that her panic is quiet so her new boyfriend does not wake up. Her fingers hover over the keys shamefully, but she has to tell someone and it can’t be you.

Gio: The publicity plan. 

It’s at your studio session the next day when all comes to light. Your manager/publicist appears, which is honestly quite rare. She’s not fond of the claustrophobia of the small room, nor the darkness it becomes shrouded in when you, Gio, and Anya are trying not to murder each other. 

Dave swivels around on his chair, bored with the bickering. You aren’t sure about a lyric, but they disagree, even if Anya knows you have a better point than the third member of your group. 

Your manager clears her throat. “Y/n, may I speak with you? It’s quite important.” 

“Do this lyric without me,” you grit out to Gio. 

“It’s your solo.” 

“I don’t care.” 

With that, you follow your manager into the corridor. 

They hear your protests from the studio, the shout of frustration piercing through the small gap underneath the door, overcoming the supposedly impregnable sound-proofing. 

There are tears streaming down your face upon your return. Fuck her, and fuck him. 

Anya and Gio can’t look at you. Their chins dip to their chest as they slump in place, succumbing to the predetermined guilt they discovered last night. 

“It’s not fair,” you cry to them as they refuse to turn around, throwing yourself onto the sofa with a heaving sob. “It’s not fair, it’s not fair. She’s going to hate me — she’s not going to love me anymore, and I… I love her.”

Anya’s mouth opens with a sob of her own. She had thought Alexia was a dalliance. She hadn’t realised. 

It’s fun to have someone, she knows, but it is painful to love them. 

You are clearly not enjoying yourself now. 

“You love her?” she asks, though she is sure of the answer as another gasp leaves your body with a chilling desperation. 

“Yes, I fucking love her. It was obvious.” 

“But you—”

“Because I’m not out!” 

“So what did she tell you?” 

“They want it to last a few months. Enough to draw the attention away from my aversion to men and his relationship with some blogger.” 

Anya gulps. A few months is a lot to endure, especially for the footballer whose heart you’ll be breaking. “You’ve said no, right?” she tries, paling as she grips onto the mic stand, trying in vain to remember the harmony she is supposed to sing. “You’ve told them… You’re you, of course you’ve said no!”

“Of course,” Gio adds, equally in denial. 

You can only shake your head. 

You were not given a choice. 

Telling Alexia is hard, and not just because of the tears running through your words as you try to get them out over the phone. 

In Barcelona, her head hangs in disappointment. She is never going to be good enough for you, she tells herself. The world will soon slot you by the side of another celebrity, and you will be pictured together as many times as humanly possible. No one will know that she is the one you call when you need to talk to someone, or that it is her rose that is pressed between your favourite copy of Little Women, saved from Sant Jordi. No one will be any the wiser to the girlfriend you keep in Spain, nor assume that you are visiting the country for a reason other than tourism and partying with your favourite foreign men’s football team. 

It goes like this for months. 

It sours the second- place finish in the league even more; makes the Champions League semi-final exit soul-destroying; and completely ruins her joy about winning the Copa de la Reina (worsened by a picture of you and him released the morning of the final). 

She is still your girlfriend, but she is always one step behind you. She is in the shadows of the crowd when you sell out Wembley for the first time, and is just out of frame in the picture captured backstage of you and your lover embracing. His muscles do not feel the same as Alexia’s, but he becomes a friend, you guess. He isn’t fond of the arrangement either. 

Then, when Alexia feels as though she might explode from the jealousy she harbours, she is tested once more as you go radio silent for a day. It’s unbearable. You usually text her every hour. 

She misses hearing you greet her with ‘I took a smoke break’. She misses the taste of your lips, and the heat of your breath, and the swell of emotion you cause inside of her when you show her that you really care. 

It’s a hard day. The Euros have started, and Spain has won their first two group stage matches. Vilda is terrible as usual, but it is nothing in comparison to the cavity left in her chest where you have carved out your notifications. Alexia has never wished to be distracted from football before, but today is clearly Judgement Day. 

“Is this about your girlfriend?” Jenni pesters, mocking Alexia’s frown by exaggerating it on her own face. “She’s not pinging your phone every five minutes and now you’re inconsolable.” 

“I have many things to be upset about,” Alexia replies moodily, though Vilda’s earlier berating has had no effect on her mood because it simply cannot get worse. “Our coach is shit, and we don’t get treated like England or Holland does.”

“And your girlfriend hasn’t texted you.” 

“Yes, Jenni. She hasn’t texted me.” 

She sighs. 

Jenni is repulsed by the fire in Alexia’s belly seemingly having been put out. Her grimace is noticeable as she bends down to unlace her boots, glancing around the shoddy locker room, imagining what Alexia claims a few of the other teams have. 

“Maybe she’s busy. She is, like, famous. She could be out for lunch with Shakira!” 

“No, that was last month.” 

Jenni pauses for a moment, awestruck at her friend's seriousness, before collecting herself and trying another approach. “Why don’t we do some shooting practice while you wait for her to call? That way, Spain gets more goals, and you’re…” 

She doesn’t get to finish, cut off by the alarming brrrp of Alexia’s phone. Her friend saddens at the volume, pitying Alexia for how loud she has turned her ringer up just in case she had been missing your notification all along. 

Alexia swipes her phone up from the bench, and hurries into the toilets. 

Throughout the five months you have been dating, Alexia has become increasingly more aware of your intense reactions to emotional situations. You feel when you feel. She admires you for your work ethic, as you do her, because you fly from Barcelona to London and back again, all while writing songs, humming melodies, and holding together your high-profile life. Unfortunately, your determination and tendency to give everything and more has bled into every aspect of your life. And you are a wreck when she finally gets a word out of you. 

“Tranquila, cariño,” she tries as you suck in a pathetically shallow breath. She knows exactly how many kilometres away from her you are, and she wishes she could sprint the distance. “Tranquila. What has happened?” 

“I… I fired her.” 

“Who?” 

“My manager.” Alexia’s hand balls into a fist and she quietly celebrates. Well, until you sob again. “I mean, we all fired her. But now we have no manager and Dave is concerned about the structure of our group and the album sucks and it’s shit and HE tried to kiss me yesterday, even though he’s got a girlfriend too!” 

“Búa, más slower, por favor. I’m not inglesa!” 

Life, even if you are upset right now, starts to look up. You even get to spend a month with her, practising your Spanish (mejor-ing your nivel de español), meeting her family in a more appropriate context, and even watching the first match of the 2017-2018 season. Which Alexia is adamant they will win. 

…

She proposes in November; a year after you kissed. 

It’s not a hard decision to make. Not when you have built IKEA furniture together, and spent a week in Menorca with her, her mother, and her sister. Not when her English is littered with your vocabulary and references to Virgil and the like, and your family can all shout at you in Spanish because they’ve heard her do it so many times. Not when ‘I love you’ is the easiest sentence she’s ever said. Every minute of her life that she gives you is like exchanging part of her soul for pure, complete bliss. 

You’re fucking freezing, and befuddled at the fact that Alexia has requested to take a walk in the park near your flat. Your Spanish girlfriend, the same woman who finds summer too temperate in England, has somehow turned into a snow-lover, even if there is only damp grass and a biting wind. Alexia wishes England had white Christmases, but it’s a myth, she has discovered. 

The ring sits in her coat pocket. She chose it with Alba before she left the warmer climate of Barcelona, and her sister did not ask her whether she was rushing into things. It’s not too soon; if anything, she should’ve asked a year ago. 

“Fuck me, it’s cold,” you groan as you shiver. She takes your hand, her woollen gloves itchy against your bare skin, but it warms you up. “We could be inside, in bed. There’s a new series we could start, or, I don’t know, don’t you have some football game to watch?” 

“I hate watching football with you.” 

You part your lips to respond, but she is not lying and she has said it before. Some bullshit about you supporting all the wrong teams. 

“Well, I hate it when you drag me out into the freezing cold for no reason. If you want a dog to bring on walks, just say so. We can go to Battersea before you leave tomorrow.” 

“Don’t,” she murmurs, halting you both near the inky water of the lake you have been circling for the past five minutes. It sucks that her visits are temporary, even if you are technically moved into each other’s homes (she has your keys, you have hers). With the remaining time left before her flight tomorrow at noon, she has worked up the courage to do it now. 

It’s like scoring a goal: receive the pass; dribble; gear up for it; shoot. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Her free hand reaches into her pocket. “Nada.” 

“No, you’re acting weird…” You blink a few times as if to adjust better to the dim light coming from the distant lampposts. A plop sounds from the water, and she jumps. She’s on edge.

“No.” 

“Yes. Jesus, you haven’t decided to break up with me in the middle of a park at night, have you?” Your question packs an unnerved insecurity, and she feels a little guilty about the suspense. She fiddles with the ring in her pocket, and then she takes a deep breath. “Hey,” you try tenderly. “Seriously, Ale, what’s wrong?” 

“Te lo dije. Nothing.” 

“So what’s in your pocket?”

“Nothing.” 

“Are you sure?” 

She sighs, “here,” and she grabs your hand to press it into the soft warmth inside. And there’s a piece of metal, heated by her fingers. With a chunk of rock on top of it. It feels like an engagement ring. You’re probably not getting broken up with tonight. 

“Are you proposing?” 

“Are you saying yes?” 

“Yes.” 

“Hòstia.” She frowns, and you consider pushing her into the lake. “I am going to say it now.”

“But you already—”

A quick display of her athleticism, for the muscles exist despite being buried underneath all those layers, and she is down on one knee. Her joggers will have wet patches, and she hates the squelch of the mud beneath her, but she has a perfect view of your surprise. Your tears. 

“Bueno. Your brother helped me to… write the speech,” she starts, and her rehearsal is adorable. Although, honestly, you don’t hear what she has to say because you have already made up your mind. 

You tell her yes in as many languages as you can. 

And she thanks you with breathy moans into your mouth as you guide her towards a bench, and then your flat, and finally your bed. 

When you are finished, well into the early hours of the morning she will have to leave, you climb out of bed, missing the firm grip of her toned arms the minute you’re out of it. There is a burning, overwhelming sureness inside of you that you can’t escape. You know it is soon – probably too soon for most – but there is a person out there for everyone, and yours is right in your bed. 

Your guitar, slightly dusty from the neglect because of your frequent visits to Barcelona, rumbles when you pluck it from its stand, collapsing into the armchair beside your bed with a groan, feeling the ache of your muscles that only affirm just how good a time you’ve had with your fiancée. 

You don’t play anything interesting, but the noise is enough to rouse Alexia from her heavy slumber. She lifts her head from where it has been buried within the silk pillows of your bed, and watches as your fingers pluck the nylon strings with vague allusion to one of your older songs. The weight of her ring – your engagement ring – does not seem to affect your playing: in fact, Alexia realises your hand was naked without it. You hum, fingers beginning to itch for a cigarette the minute the guitar starts to bore you, and she clears her throat. 

Her grin is self-satisfied and certain. “Me voy a casar contigo,” she says into the dark stillness of your bedroom.

“I love you,” you reply.

…

Being engaged is fun. 

Like, really fun. 

You stay in Barcelona in December, hiding from the bitter chill of England. No one questions it, and the absence of a manager grants you so much freedom. The girls pop to the city one weekend to brainstorm a song, but, other than that, you are content to forget your own identity and become Alexia’s fiancée, one of the regulars at the increasingly more popular Barça Femení games (only the team know you’re there, able to see through the caps and sunglasses). 

There are still rumours circulating about you and him, though their credibility has lessened ever since he revealed himself to have been in LA for a while. To the world, you’re sort of MIA. They catch you occasionally when you return to London for photoshoots or just to chat with your friends and family, but they get nothing more. Your Instagram posts are few and far between, and the most recent paparazzi picture is of you leaving Gio’s house to buy her a pregnancy test. 

When the test is positive, something is tweaked inside of you, and you return to Barcelona – a place that is now your home too – carrying a lead-ish guilt. 

Alexia loves her football, and Alexia is obsessed with her career. You are too, but you have done what you can, really. The BRIT nominees will be announced tomorrow, and you know that you and the girls are on that list. You have your fame, you have your money. But Alexia has neither, and she should. Especially when her male counterparts are raised high and mighty on large, golden platforms. 

You know just how ambitious she is, and that is why you lack surprise when you enter her flat to find her hunched over her iPad at the dining table, replaying the same twenty-second clip over and over until she has identified every single fault and created a plan to correct them. 

She barely registers your presence, but you don’t mind how absorbed she is in her footage. It is nice to make the ever-composed Alexia jump when you slink up behind her, pressing your lips against her neck. She dissolves herself in the fuzzy feeling you give her.

“Hola,” she says, regaining control when she spots another mistake, grasping her pen tightly as she scribbles down Spanish words you can’t be bothered to read. 

“Hola,” you reciprocate, though you are a lot more enthusiastic about it. “Tengo una pregunta.” 

“Oh no.” You wrap your arms around her shoulders, and she relaxes. Your ring reflects the light from her screen as if to remind her that you are hers, and that softens her previous sternness slightly. Another kiss to the skin behind her ear, and she is more open to talk. 

Clicking your tongue, you think of where to start. “Okay, first, I have news.”

“About Gio? Is she okay?” 

“She’s… pregnant.” The emergency you were recalled to London for was actually a pleasant surprise for her and her boyfriend. You’re unsure about how committed they are to each other, and whether a baby is a great idea, but you held your tongue when Anya shook her head at you. 

“Uf. Pobrecita, ¿no? She loves tequila.” 

“She does love tequila,” you agree with a chuckle. You extend your hand slightly and press pause on the footage. Alexia pushes back against you. Her chair scrapes against the wooden floorboards, but there is a gap between her and the table now. She motions for you to sit in her lap. 

She tilts your chin up and kisses you gently: a welcome home kiss. “¿Qué pasa, mi amor?”

“What would you do if I told you that I was pregnant tomorrow?” 

“I would ask you if you have been cheating on me with a man,” she replies instantly. You laugh, head falling forwards, resting on her shoulder. She runs her hands up your sides, fingers firm, thighs tensing underneath you. 

“But hypothetically. If it were possible,” you continue, a smirk working its way onto your lips, guilt forgotten. You may have spent your plane journey scrolling through pictures of Alexia with the various babies in your life. It was a self-indulgent act, and it has very much led you to now. 

Her eyebrows furrow with the adorable crinkle in between them, and she is seriously trying to work out if she is missing something. You go to London, you come back, you want a baby? 

But she loves you. And she is very intrigued. 

“Is it mine?” 

“Yes, it’s yours.” 

She watches the smirk on your face blossom into a smile, and she feels a matching one tug her lips upwards. “Is it going to support España or England?” The latter is pronounced in your accent, and you make a mental note to ask Jenni if she has been doing impressions of you to her teammates. 

“It can choose when it’s older,” you say, waving off her stupid football question. Since dating her, your interest in football has decreased. She has sort of put you off. You only really watch it to watch her now, or when United are playing an interesting game and your father is antsy enough to text you every minute. 

“No, it can’t.” You blink. She pulls you into her. “It chooses now. Spain or England, and Manchester United or Barcelona. There are right answers.” 

“Manches–”

“Wrong! I think I will have to make sure the baby is not brainwashed.” 

You panic for a moment. “Wait, you do know I’m not really pregnant, right?!” 

Alexia is not the most ready for children, but she is always prepared to give you everything you want. “If you want a baby, mi amor, let’s make a baby. Sin chicos.” You giggle coyly as she hoists you up – the display of strength exuding an unbearably sexy cockiness. “And after,” she says in between kisses as she stands, “we can look on the Internet for options.” 

“¡Vamos!”

…

The Barcelona women’s team congas its way back into the Home team changing room of the Joan Gamper, following a 7-0 win. Alexia kicked off the goal-laden game in the sixth minute, and she is on cloud nine. Victory is the sweetest taste in her mouth, and one where she knows you are watching is even better. 

Mapi flicks her shoulder as they dance to the music bursting from someone or other’s speaker. “You’re so happy,” she says, her grin wide and eyes shining. They dance topless, most of them, but Alexia has subtly been rushing to get dressed and find you. Barcelona is a beautiful city, and she has promised that you can take her to dinner somewhere now that your morning sickness has subsided and only started to affect you when it is supposed to. 

“We just won,” she explains over the shouts of joy from her teammates. 

María León joined from Atleti this season, but she has known Alexia longer than that, and she can tell when there is something more to football in her emotions. Though it is a well-kept secret, Alexia has two obsessions, and you are one of them. 

“Yo sé. But you have been very happy recently, in general. Except, you don’t come out for team nights or hang back to practise more after training, so it is definitely to do with Y/n.” Alexia’s absence in her teammates’ lives is actually unusual, seeing as you are very encouraging and a firm believer in the ‘work hard, play hard’ mentality. Your urging is what sends Alexia to bars and clubs with the girls, though she has neglected all of these outings ever since you showed her your positive pregnancy test (best belated birthday present ever). “So… what’s going on?” 

“You’re so nosy.” 

“I’m interested. I love her, and I want to know how she has made it so that you haven’t had a bad day for the last three months, even when we lost to Bilbao. Is it sex? Does she suffer through–”

“No!” Alexia interjects, cheeks reddening. Mapi smirks at the twenty-four-year-old, proud to have embarrassed her. She still claims that she is not a prude. Her phone buzzes on the bench – you’re asking how long she is going to take.

Mapi swipes Alexia’s clean clothes from her grip, holding them behind her back as she giggles at her friend’s exasperation. “Tell me, or go outside like that.” 

“Good thing it’s May,” Alexia shrugs, grabbing her phone and bag, knowing you won’t at all mind spending time with her in just her sports bra. She is pulled back by Mapi, who has hooked her finger into the waistband of Alexia’s shorts and yanked hard enough for them to have stretched. 

“Ale, tell me.” 

“No. You’re a gossip.” 

“I’m not a gossip.” 

“You so are.” 

“Am not.” 

“So it wasn’t you who told Leila about Patri’s crush when I made it clear that we weren’t even supposed to know?” Mapi shifts uncomfortably, letting go of the shorts. “And it definitely wasn’t you who let everyone find out about my engagement because you don’t know what an inside voice is?” 

“Hey, you never specified that you were going to be sneaky about it!” she defends, as she has done ever since the entire canteen went silent in shock and then, two seconds later, broke out into a clamour of pleas to be bridesmaids and to get Bad Bunny invited to the wedding. 

“It was implied,” Alexia shoots back with a glare. 

“Fine. Be annoying. I’ll just ask Y/n.” 

“She doesn’t want to talk to you. She’s got better things to do.” 

“Ouch,” Leila says, patting Mapi on the back as she shoves her way into the conversation. The two are partners in crime, and Alexia hates that she is now outnumbered. “But tell us. Please, Ale.” 

“We’ll even not nutmeg you for a week.” They love to try. It’s their highest priority mission.

“A month,” Alexia negotiates. 

“Yes! Just tell us.” 

“Y/n is pregnant.” Three months down the line is not necessarily when she wants to announce her personal business to the entirety of Spain, but you both know that it’s safe to tell people now.

Mapi laughs. “Ay, Alexia, you don’t have to lie to us.”

She looks at her friends blankly, having not expected this reaction. When she told her mother, the woman at least had it in her to take it seriously (albeit with quite the cautious ‘are you sure?’). “I’m not lying,” she then says, more to Leila than the giggling Mapi in front of her.

“You’re not…?” Leila tries, grappling with it. Two pairs of eyes drift down to Alexia’s crotch, squinting at the material as though some previously concealed appendage is going to jump out at them.  

Alexia clears her throat. 

“I’m sorry. How?!” 

“The normal way most lesbians–”

“She’s, like, actually pregnant? Like, de verdad, she is pregnant?” 

“Or she’s smuggling a lime under her shirt.” Her nod is small and she has the glimmer of a smile on her face despite Leila and Mapi’s gobsmacked expressions. Her phone buzzes: it’s you again. “And, if you two don’t mind, I don’t want to leave her waiting for me outside.” 

“Because she’s…” 

“Exactly.” 

When she finally escapes the changing room, she climbs into her car. With heartbreak from both you and your dad, you have sold your i8 in favour of getting Alexia a Land Rover. Most of your money is in savings. You earn loads, but it is hard to find things you want to spend it on, and a lot of it goes towards private jets to get you to and from Alexia. 

You are sitting in the passenger seat. “Jugaste bien,” you say as her hand moves up from its instinctive resting place on your thigh, settling on the growing swell of your stomach. “I’m so hungry. I could eat a horse.” 

“A horse?” 

“Or a house. Or, I don’t know, an entire cavalry. Feed me.” Her alarm — a mistranslation — causes her to almost run over the steward directing her out of the car park. “Tengo mucha hambre, Ale.” She nods with a roll of her eyes. She’s been warned about pregnant women. 

…

In the bustling excitement of Estadi Johan Cruyff, which has slowly filled with more and more fans in the time you have known the plastic seats and improving pitch, you find yourself in the midst of an unexpected turn of events. With your due date approaching and Alexia’s insistence that you are surely made of glass, you have been forced to part from your sisters (Gio and Anya) and live in Barcelona. She wants the baby to be born here. You’ve negotiated that the next one will be had in London. 

Alexia’s mother notices the deep breath you take in, well-acquainted with the horror on your face having worn that same expression twice before. ¿Estás bien?” she asks you, the steadiness of her voice comforting to the flurry inside your head. 

The whistle blows and the game kicks off. This can’t be happening now. 

It’s too early. There’s a… What are they called? Braxton-hicks? 

“Sí,” you affirm with a curt nod. The not-contraction doesn’t hurt that much, you tell yourself. You settle in the seat and focus on the match in front of you, using the rhythm of the crowd’s cheers (it can now be called a crowd!) to keep you grounded. With a reassuring smile, Eli offers you her hand. You take it and try not to crush her metacarpals. 

It’s definitely possible that you are in actual labour, considering the increasing intensity of your contractions, but you are not about to leave the match. Alexia would notice your absence. This game is important for her team – it’s the last before the Christmas break. 

At halftime, Eli quietly reassesses you, tricking you into seeing the team’s medic when guiding you to the ‘toilet’. Already briefed on the situation, the medic asks you a few questions in accented English, much like that of your newly trilingual fiancée. “Don’t tell her,” you beg quietly through a huffed sigh, gladly taking the seat offered to you. “I’ll wait until it’s finished.” 

“There is another hour left.” 

Your ears burn and another contraction shoots through you. You shake your head, fending off the pain while you do so. “He can’t be a Barcelona fan,” you insist. Eli grins at the knowledge that her first grandchild will be a boy, but you do not see it, too focused on convincing the medic to keep the child’s other mother in the dark about what is currently happening in the Barcelona medical room. “I’ll wait.” 

Eli hands you your phone per your request. You call Gio, whose daughter is only two months old. “Don’t tell me,” she starts when you fail to greet her. The sound of her voice, her accent, her tone is relieving, though you are incredibly grateful for the woman who continues to hold your hand as though you are her own daughter. “Nah, nah. Where are you? I’m gonna jump on a flight, alright? I’ll call Anya and we’ll be there soon.” 

“Don’t… rush,” you groan. 

“Babe, we are going to rush. Where are you?!” 

“A match!” You try to remember the breathing exercises you learnt for this exact moment. “Her match. Second half’s only just started. She… She doesn’t know.” 

Gio’s loud, boisterous laugh rings out, and you can tell that she is not at home. No one with a newborn baby can afford to make noise at that volume. “Fucking hell. Ever heard of sense?” You don’t respond, embarrassed that you are in too much pain to think of a comeback. “I’ve left Mia at my mum’s, so don’t you worry. Want me to bring anything from home? Cadbury’s, maybe?” 

“One of those massive bars?” 

“Yep, done deal.” She pauses. “Hey, babe, I’m gonna ring Anya now, alright? Call your mum – or your dad, if you two haven’t yet made up. I’ll see you soon. Tell Alexia her baby’s on the way!” 

Your protests are cut off by the final beep of her hanging up, and your head drops back as another contraction, your body squeezed as though some giant rubber band has just snapped back into place. Eli stands up, worried now. 

Before you can tell her that you are alright, a gush of water hits the sterile floor with an unnerving splatter. The prospect of having to care for another life suddenly becomes very real. “Tenemos que ir al hospital.” 

“No.” 

“Soy la abuela. Yo sé que hacer.” Even the medic, who has nervously stayed by your side, much more experienced with ACLs than broken waters (and stubborn pregnant women), looks intimidated by the firmness of Eli’s words. “Por favor”: she softens her blow. 

You glance around the room, slowly descending into agony and helpless against the wrath of rationality from your fiancée’s mother. “How long’s left of the match? ¿Cuántos minutos quedan?” 

The medic holds up all ten fingers. You grapple with your body, begging the baby to sit tight for a moment. “Let her finish. We can go when the whistle blows.”

Your contractions get closer together. 

Eli’s frustration leads her to ask God for the baby to not have inherited your stubbornness. She also loves you more for it; admiring your insistence to keep Alexia from missing everything. 

You don’t call your own mother. You simply type out a shaky text to the family group chat; blunt and to the point. ‘Baby. Now.’

Half of your universe storms the web, booking flights to Barcelona. Anya and Gio are almost at the airport already — a few steps ahead of your panicking parents and your brother, who has been enjoying dinner at the Savoy with his clients. Those who serve as your planets, revolving around you like you are the sun, do you a favour, letting Dave know that you probably won’t make it to the Skype call scheduled for tomorrow morning. Dave, in turn, now expanding into management, informs your newly-hired publicist (good riddance to the old one). The world has expected a pregnancy announcement ever since you failed to appear at your most recent awards show, despite winning in your category. 

It's almost an eternity later that Alexia, football boots clacking against the floor, flings open the door of the medical room. Eli calls out, warning her daughter about slipping on the sizable puddle that has spread out beneath you. 

Your fiancée is valiant in her attempt to mask her sheer panic. 

“Have you called an ambulance?” she asks her mother, stepping over your amniotic fluid and placing her hand on your shoulder. You squint, trying to open your eyes though this contraction has been the most excruciating so far. 

“We were waiting for you. She was adamant that you finished your match.” 

“No football match is more important than her!” If you understood Catalan (and weren’t in labour), you’d have teased her for being a sap. “Call an ambulance, Jesus Christ. Look at her — she needs a doctor.” Her composure revisits her fleetingly, and she turns to the medic. “Thank you for looking after her.” There is no answer because it is drowned out by her barking more orders her mother’s way. 

“No ambulance,” you declare before your mouth opens in a silent sob. “Drive me. Not an ambulance.” 

The last glimpse the Estadi Johan Cruyff gets of Alexia Putellas in 2018 is her carrying you to her mother’s car, your face buried in her team-issued jacket in case anyone is waiting outside to take pictures of the players. 

Eli drives; something she doesn’t like doing often but feels is necessary with the nervous bounce of her daughter’s legs in the backseat enough to convince her that they’d speed like the Flash if anyone else ended up behind the wheel. She knows Barcelona, can navigate it with her eyes closed, and you are at the hospital before you can begin to tell Alexia how much you think you can’t do this. 

“I really fucking can’t do this!” you cry out, situated in the delivery room. Sweat rolls down the side of your face, already dampening your hair. Alexia thinks you look beautiful, and she has been made proud of the last two hours. You’ve also helped her a lot with English swearwords. 

“You can.” 

“I can’t.” You’re told to push again. “Alexia, you are having the… next… fucking… beach ball.” Each word is punctuated by a guttural moan. 

Waves of intense pain contort your face in agony, and the midwife continues to talk you through your task as though instructing you how to park a car. “Estás haciendo muy bien, mi amor,” she tells you, ignoring the possibility that you may have rendered her left hand boneless. 

“There’s a baby coming out of my vagina,” you shout, “don’t even try to test my Spanish, you twat.” 

The midwife shoots your fiancée a pitiful look. “She’ll take it back,” she says in Catalan. 

“She’s getting quite inventive.” 

“There’s been worse.”

You can imagine the conversation taking place in the middle of you delivering her literal child. “No, I won’t! It’s breaking me in half.” You grip her hand harder. “Never. Again.” 

But, with a final, visceral (and heavily encouraged) push, the room is filled with the sound of life. Nico comes into the world screaming at the top of his lungs. All Alexia can think to say is, “definitely yours.” 

…

Life is a lot more tiring trying to juggle being a mother and a pop star. 

The press have a field day when you announce the birth of your son with a simple Instagram post, your engagement ring second only to the swaddled lump on your chest. The caption (‘ours’) sparks debate on who exactly is the other parent. Well, father. Alexia’s teammates, while waiting to finally be allowed to meet your bundle, spend a good two months teasing her mercilessly about it. Most notably, Alexia almost loses La Reina to Papi. 

2019 comes with change — a lot of it. 

You hire a new manager so that Dave can focus fully on the last album 2sday will produce. The group has been together for six years, and you have made your millions.You seek neither money nor fame, but it comes knocking on the door of your quaint apartment in Barcelona anyway, along with a record deal only for you. A solo act.

Between Nico crying, Alexia playing football, and you trying to write songs that don’t end up criminally depressing, the contract on your dining table slowly becomes forgotten about. Alexia is too stressed about the impending World Cup to grant you a moment to breathe. You spend your days in Barcelona with a baby attached to your hip, the question of his parenthood still a mystery to the public, and, ever so slowly, you begin to resent your life. 

It could be postpartum depression, but you have no time to really investigate the symptoms. 

Alexia, two weeks before she needs to leave for her national camp and then the World Cup in France, comes home to an eerily silent apartment. 

She calls out your name, wondering if you have perhaps gone to her mother’s house. The terrible sinking feeling comes with your reply. “Can we talk?” you ask. 

She finds you perched on the Egyptian cotton sheets that cover your double bed. The sheets are out of place here, greatly exceeding the original budget of the decor, and, where Alexia sees this as you adding to her life, you feel you are somewhere you don’t belong. It is fine when she is next to you, holding your hand, claiming the other half of the now six-month-old baby boy gurgling in his carseat. When she isn’t there, though, the vacant space taunts you. 

“I have no friends here,” you tell her quietly. The gravity of the mood settling over you pulls her onto the mattress, not caring if the sheen of sweat she wears as her outermost layer of clothing dirties the expensive creamy white beneath her. “I have no friends, I don’t speak the language, and I think that I have played at being a normal person for long enough. I mean, it’s great to watch you and to be there for you, but, darling, that’s not who I am. This,” you gesture to the loungewear you have on, stained with dribble, “is not who I am.” 

Alexia hears what you are saying. She understands; she remembers the nights where you’d call her, a cigarette rasping your voice, sparkles shining in the valley between your breasts. She has seen this coming. It would be impossible not to notice the dimming of such a strong love between you: still present, yet slowly fading away. 

“They want me to sign a new deal. Alone.” The suitcases lined up in the corner of the bedroom become glaringly obvious. Nico is in his carseat for a reason. “I think it would be good for me to go back to London. I need to feel like myself again, and my parents are willing to watch him. I sold my flat – I’ve bought a house in Highgate.” Tears sting your eyes as you speak, and you know where Alexia’s shoulder is without having to look, resting your head against it. “I love you. I love you so much, but I just can’t do this anymore.” 

It’s as if the ground crumbles away beneath her. Your words hang above Alexia’s neck like an axe, waiting to execute her, waiting to end everything. She can’t look at Nico, whose face crumples at his mother’s clear heartbreak. 

The world, once vibrant, lays in ruins. Her funny story from training dies on her tongue, and her question of whether you wanted to visit her mother before she left for camp disintegrates, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. 

“Do you still want to marry me?” she asks, and you hate the way her voice cracks with uncertainty. “Are you moving permanently?” 

“I haven’t called anything off. It’s still going ahead as planned.” She senses the but. “But I… I can’t think here. I can’t be here. I want – I need – to go home.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

She is going to be at the World Cup anyway. You and her will always find your way back to each other. She is going to be busy. 

She is going to be busy. 

She is going to be busy. 

“Yeah. It’s okay. Take all the time you need.” 

She is going to fall apart without you. 

[elrxiel]

What baffles me most about gw*nriel is people giving Gwyn traits that are not even close to the canon.

It's like for them Gwyn is an empty canvas they can pour themselves or their fantasies into. They paint her as a badass warrior, as the next heroine, as a saviour of Ilyiria - not to mention some of them give her traits that are canonically held by Elain such as indicators of her being a good spy or her being associated with roses. There are so many theories and fics I've seen where the idea of Gwyn is not nearly what she was portrayed by SJM. It's very interesting that nothing like this happens with Emerie but when it comes to Gwyn - a side character who's not even that relevant to the plot, at least not yet - some people seem to paint her as the most important character in the whole series and really believe that she will be the next main, even before Elain (who has so many possible ways of development or versions of a story that can be told that is based on what is actually in the books).

Seeing her as a more interesting character than Elain is a matter of personal opinion and it's not what this post is about. But if you truly see Gwyn as a better partner for Az, a better main character of the next book or overall, a better character, please at least stay true to the canon. At least use her actual personality while speaking about her.

I don't think her character is meaningless or pointless, I would actually love to see her involved in the upcoming war. I just hope that maybe her further showing up during the story will finally clarify her personality more and people will actually stop treating her as someone she clearly is not, stop giving her traits that belong to other characters just to justify their poor theories and see she is enough the way she is.

I feel like the only reason gw*nriel is a thing is because some people cannot stand the idea of a slightly different character than Feyre, Aelin or Nesta leading the next book. They cannot stand not having a warrior girl but a soft, feminine woman. So they chose Gwyn to make her the next Aelin or Feyre in their head. It's really sad tbh.

[grumfield]

Hey, I hope this isn’t too weird of a question but feel free to ignore. I noticed on your Star Wars ship chart you have obikin as your OTP but vaderwan only as “like”. Aren’t they the same characters? Why do you like one more than the other

Okay SO sorry for the late response to this I was mulling over how to articulate it.

Vaderwan as a sex/relationship dynamic is fun. For me it’s fun in the way like “grrr you’re mine slams you against the wall” dubcon is fun, but that’s really as compelling as it gets for me because I really don’t see a place in their relationship at that point where they could go beyond that until they’re force ghosts. Vaderwan dynamic to me kind of exists in a PWP-shaped vacuum. What if Tom & Jerry was about freaky sex instead. One-off erotic torture episodes.

This is because like, to kind of paraphrase an earlier response I gave, by the time Vaderwan is a thing they’ve both taken on the mantle of different identities (Ben and Vader respectively) and subsequently are no longer the people they were before. Their *past* selves that existed before the destruction of the Jedi have a very fraught history, but their current selves don’t look at each other with the same level of interpersonal history because Anakin is dead to Obi-Wan and vice versa (obviously this is just my interpretation) (I do actually view them as the same people but they don’t view themselves as the same people so they functionally aren’t)

Vaderwan as a non-actual ship or sex/romance concept is more compelling to me tbh.

The Deborah chow obi wan show does something interesting with this because it starts from a place of emotional inequality where obi-wan hasn’t gone full Ben yet and thinks he killed Anakin (thus Anakin like “still exists” even though he’s dead if that makes sense), so there’s this stilted quality where like, he’s still trying to interact with Anakin when he deals with Vader but doesn’t realize yet that he’s trying to interact with a ghost. Their fights are kind of reflective of this and then at the end after their final fight they both respectively embrace who they are. Sort of reflected in how obi wan just tells him bye and immediately leaves with no emotional reaction at all, then after that speaks about Anakin in the past tense for the first time before returning to the desert and being Ben, because Vader has just admitted to him that he needs to get with the program because Anakin is long gone and he’s chasing a memory. Vader’s thing with him has this Tom and Jerry feel to it while also this need less to capture him but more to try and make Obi-Wan see that Anakin isn’t there anymore/Anakin and Obi-Wan are not a thing anymore, they’re both dead.

Obi-Wan show is very gothic in that respect lol…vaderwan is very gothic and compelling to me as the tragic end rather than the place where they start their relationship or work it out

Truly the kings of compartmentalization! Easier to deal with all of this shit if you don’t view yourself as yourself.

Anyways favorite part obikin is the weird complicated ways that they fuck each other up and the knowledge of where it leads, and where it leads is like the catharsis for me + vaderwan is fairly straightforward and post-catharsis so it’s fun but not as insanity inducing for me! But I still enjoy it.

But this why my preferred post every event in ROTS Obikin fic is like “obi-wan is hallucinating anakin in the desert and going crazy” or other associated metaphysical stuff

ALSO to paraphrase what my friend said: Obi-Wan is very passive (in the books especially!) and doesn’t ever choose, he needs to be pursued. Anakin as Vader ultimately needs to be chosen, Obi-Wan will never be the one to chase so will never be the one to choose. And this is also very much an essence of it etc. adds to the tragedy but I wouldn’t have it any other way hehe

[ilovedthestars]

**Contains character/worldbuilding info that is slowly revealed over the course of Witch King, but no big plot spoilers**

Witch King was the first non-Murderbot book by Martha Wells that I've read, so I spent a lot of it playing "Spot the Murderbot Parallels." They're very different books in style & content but there's also lots of of fun little things that reminded me of Murderbot. (I'm curious how many of these are Wells trademarks that show up in Raksura or her other books, but I don't have any other points of comparison). I kept a running list while I was reading, and most of them ended up being related to the respective protagonists, so without further ado:

Similarities between Murderbot & Kai

Villain-coded protagonists

Set apart from “mortals”/“humans”

And also exist somewhat between two worlds/two different kinds of being

And also are somewhat unique and alone among beings like them because of their choices/circumstances

Very dangerous to go up against as an individual, but also very much in danger themselves from larger societal/political forces and spend a lot of time on the run or hiding who they are

Fewer physical limitations (don’t need to breathe as much, can heal/repair, not slowed down by injury or pain)

Have the ability to become disembodied and occupy different “hardware” (ES gunship and 2.0, Kai’s body swapping and travel between the underearth and upper earth)

Also have telepathy (the feed) allowing private/secret communication, detecting people from far away, and sharing of senses

Touch is significant to them and associated trust/intimacy (although it sort of works in different directions for the two of them)

Despite all the politics happening around them, their driving force is “keep my people safe” (Kai uses the phrase “my mortals” at one point which made me very happy, and getting his found family back together is what drives the plot)

Use pain magic / self sacrifice to protect others (Making the decision "not to be like them" even at personal cost to self, more of a vague theme than a specific thing but I think they have this in common. this could probably be its own whole post tbh)

But also very willing to murder people when necessary in self defense, pursuit of goals, or occasionally sheer anger

“If they hurt my human(s) I will murder everyone”

Bonus: other similarities with the Murderbot books

Casual brownness and queerness and polyamory!!

Switching to very matter of fact writing style for effect, often when describing violence/emotion (Wells is really good at deploying this at just the right moment and it was so cool to see it in literally the first chapter of Witch King)

Worldbuilding elements are dropped in without ever being explained for the convenience of the reader (what exactly is the feed? what exactly is a cursebreaker? who knows)

There's clearly a huge world full of culture and politics and history and we are only seeing the tip of the iceberg

Oddly specifically, there's a lot of different conflicting calendar systems (none of which are ever explained, obviously)

and finally, even more oddly specifically:

Chapter Four of Witch King 🤝 Chapter One of Network Effect Protagonist sneaks onto a boat and then beats up the people on it

[triflesandparsnips]

Ways fans go 'splah'

I keep noodling about this thing where fandom gets weird after it receives new canon. And in the middle of writing a different post, I started wondering if it comes down to... cognitive dissonance.

Because to be a Fan means you love a Show (or Movie, or Book, etc.)-- right? Maybe because you felt the Show spoke to you and your experiences in particular, and helped you, and understood you. It's important to you. You form an idea of what the Show is, and who you are in relation both to the Show and to other fans of the Show.

So... what does it mean if, as you interact with new canon, you... don't love what the Show has done?

Suddenly the status quo that you've built for yourself has been upset; now you have to deal with change. With questions. Like: If you Don't Like an element of the Show, does that mean that you're... not a Fan anymore?

Does that mean that when you thought the Show spoke to you, you misunderstood it? That you were wrong?

Does that mean you were a Fan of a Show that doesn't actually exist, and now you've identified yourself (and your social interactions, and your recent history, and your own creative efforts, and and and) with this Other Show, and you feel trapped in that association?

Listen: I absolutely agree that it can hurt to find out that you've tied yourself tightly to a Show that has changed into something you Don't Like. And when it happens... sometimes fans react in one (or more) of the following ways to help resolve the cognitive dissonance of this change... to varying levels of healthy/socially acceptable, creating a lot of the absolute weirdness we see in fandom:

1. They deal with it.

That seems kind of easy to say, but... uh. Well, I can't think of a better way of saying it. Art changes; the fan changes with the art, or they do something else. They learn to say goodbye-- or maybe they learn to ride the metaphorical mechanical bull. Fans who have successfully incorporated this reaction have often diversified their fannishness across multiple fandoms.

It's a safe way to interact with a Show but it can, perhaps, lead to less of the vibrant immersive fannish joy that can come from being really invested in a fandom -- and then downplay or not engage with the real feelings of more invested fans. (Is this one of mine? Oh, definitely. I'm working on it.)

2. They decide the Don't Like element is due to a creative choice rather than personal opinion.

By which I mean, fans who go this route decide that the reason they Don't Like an element is not because they, uh, don't like it, but rather because there is a secret reason (that they've made up) that the Don't Like element exists. With this idea in mind, it's not that there's an actual change to the Show-- it's just that the fan must either wait to see it resolve back into the familiar or, alternately, put in effort to "figure out" what the Don't Like element is "really doing".

(This is where meta about "writing bad on purpose" and such may be familiar to some.)

By deciding that the Don't Like element is an intentional artistic choice that will eventually resolve back into the familiar Show, there's no reason to fear or question what the change means for the Show or the fan's sense of self. And like-- tbh, some of the best crack meta can come from visiting that mindset for a hot minute. But living there can lead to... significantly greater hurt later, particularly as more canon drops and the likelihood of the Show resolving back to its "original" form grows ever slimmer.

3. They decide that the element they Don't Like doesn't exist.

As in, didn't happen. Or did happen, but only by removing other elements to flip it from Don't Like to the more acceptable/palatable "creative choice" vibe from option 2. The cognitive dissonance is resolved by simply removing the element that would cause the fan to stop loving the Show.

And like-- I've certainly done this. There are episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer that I've decided just didn't happen. Also the first season of Parks and Rec. And pretty much any Marvel movie that doesn't allow for the 2012 Avengers tower fanon to somehow magically exist.

I even think that fanfiction and other remediating fanworks are an important extension of this behavior-- fix-it fics are a thing, and I love them. But I think it's crucial that those of us who do this kind of canon excision don't make our choices anyone else's problem. I don't stop other fans from engaging with the things I've elected to ignore; I also don't harass the creators/actors, because jesus fucking christ why would I.

4. They decide the Show they love is not, in fact, the Show they love.

So let's say the fan acknowledges that the Show has changed. They might even acknowledge that the Show was never what they thought it was. And with those two things in mind, some fans choose option 1... but some land here, in option 4.

Because! They think the Show they're a fan of does exist-- just not... on the screen. They love a Platonic Ideal of the Show-- what it should have been. What, somewhere, it is, except that outside forces changed it from the Ideal to the Imperfect.

What kind of forces? The usual suspects: Capitalism. Racism. Heteronormativity. Hollywood bullshit. Actors/writers/creative teams leaving the Show for whatever reason. Hubris. Fallibility. Ad nauseum.

But the Ideal Show (that maybe exists only in the fan's own head... but sometimes appears to be shared and envisioned by other fans too)-- that Ideal Show isn't subject to outside forces. It's completely divorced from the context that the Imperfect Show is being created in. The fan doesn't experience cognitive dissonance because they have, as with option 3, decided something doesn't exist-- but that nonexistent thing is the Show itself. The fan instead exchanges the Imperfect Show for the Ideal Show, which does not have and will never have a Don't Like element.

And like-- sure! Entire careers have been built on the back of believing that an Ideal should exist and replace the Imperfect-- Ed Brubaker is right there. Reimaginings of source material can fall squarely into this as well, particularly when they hit the public domain. Like every other option, this is a thing fandom does that, in some of its forms, shows why fandom is super neat.

But... but the thing is, there's no such thing as art divorced from context. Even if the vision of an Ideal Show seems to be shared identically across oodles of fans, it's still subject to the personal context of every single one of those fans. Like, it goes riiiight back to why you become a Fan of the Show in the first place-- it spoke to you. It validated your experiences.

So there is no Ideal Show. There can't be. There's just the Show that we have-- or the Show that we create, in the real world (and then becomes subject again to all those pesky outside forces), to try and capture what our personal Ideal is.

Fans who go splah with the option 4 route mistake, I think, their Ideal Show for everyone's Ideal Show-- and then every criticism, every meta, every engagement with the Imperfect Show and its fans falls into piles of logical fallacies: that everyone is working from the same Ideal; that those who ignore the Ideal are doing so on purpose; that all Don't Like elements with the Show can be attributed to its failure to meet the Ideal rather than the fan's own preferences; that the Ideal is quantifiable, qualifiable, infallible and incontrovertible...

Maybe, at the end, option 4 is the one that really gets all of us. Because yeah-- I have an Ideal Show in my head. I bet you have one in yours, too. And it can be disappointing when the Ideal and the Imperfect don't align-- it can, in fact, create that cognitive dissonance I've been harping on this whole time.

But how we choose to deal with that disappointment... that's where the weirdness can come from. To both the benefit and ooooh yes, very much the detriment of a fandom that has survived long enough to start experiencing the cognitive dissonance of the Show fans imagine versus the Show fans have.

[littlefireling]

Hi!! It's your Secret Santa here! Sorry for the little delay but it's been a little busy ✨✨

Okay so, wanted to ask you a little bit more of random questions today!

- Do you have specific music related to Elucien or do you associate them with a specific genre/song (anything you have in mind really).

- What's been your favourite book lately? And Movie? Or TV Show, I mean whatever you liked recently!

Hope you'll have an amazing start of the week!

Your Secret Santa ✨🦌

Hi Secret Santa!!

It's no problem at all ^^ I hope everything is going well with you, even if you are busy <3

"Say Yes To Heaven" by Lana Del Rey, "I Know You" by Faye Webster, and "Love Story" by Indila always makes me think of them. Any peaceful, easy listening song really.

2. Tbh I like a whole bunch of random things these days lmao. I have been reading a lot of Dramione fanfics lately. I really enjoyed The Right Thing To Do by LovesBitca8. Also, I recently read and loved A Fate Inked in Blood by Danielle L. Jensen and The Failing Hours by Sara Ney (all very different reads, lmao). As for TV/movies, House of the Dragon has me in a chokehold. I don't watch many movies because my attention span is ridiculously short 😭, but I love any Studio Ghibli movies, especially Howl's Moving Castle and Spirited Away. Besides that, my recent obsessions have been Chase Atlantic, serious and/or mean MMCs (I blame Manacled), Jujutsu Kaisen (I don't actually watch much anime, but those men are stunning 😭), and "The Last of Us" (both the show and the game).

Sorry if this was all over the place; I wasn't sure how specific you wanted me to be with the things I like lol

But it is always nice to hear from you, Secret Santa ^^ I hope you have a good rest of your day <333

[nightcolorz]

I'm so sorry I don't mean to be rude or coming for you or anything but can I ask a question? Didn't you have a post about gender recently and you said the amc iwtv show was about gay MEN? So why are you tagging Louis art with female terms? Again, I'm so sorry, I just don't understand and I think I'm probably missing something. I'm trying to learn more about gender things but it's very confusing for me. Thank you for your time 💚

dont apologize anon ur not being rude! I'm not rlly sure how to explain this, I'm gonna try my best 😭 so sorry if this is only more confusing. At least the way I see it, AMC iwtv and the tvc books handle gender very differently. Tvc vampires r described as not rlly having genders bcus of there vampirism and lack of alignment with humanity and mortal concepts of the gender binary. The way Anne rice saw it was since their genitals no longer work they r no longer male or female and so since they r so disconnected from the societal expectations around gender along with this bcus of how gender roles r always changing and vampires r outside of time, they r essentially gender neutral. The amc show (at least of now) doesn't seem to be going this route, although it does play around with gender norms and stuff, the vampires do seem to be cis men essentially (obvs ppl can have there head cannons and my read doesn't invalidate any trans reads of AMC iwtv that exist). But since they do just have cis normative sex with each other, vampirism doesn't rlly change there sexualities or gender expression, and they do identify and present gender the way gay men would, I don't see the amc vamps as particularly gender less the way the tvc vamps r. I made a post about this B4 that summarizes my thoughts much better then this or the post ur referring to (which was kinda crap which is why I deleted it 😭).

But anyways, I call Louis she/her pronouns on art (specifically Kate @loelett art love u babe) bcus Kate and I rlly like this aspect of the books, and since we talk about the gender fluidity in tvc a lot we've started using she he and they pronouns interchangeably for the vamps (mostly Louis cus Louis is Kate's fav character so we talk about him the most lol). When I call Louis she/her pronouns or feminine terms it's not cuz I see him as a woman or perceive him as particularly feminine, it's more cuz I see him as genderless so using any pronouns for him is natural to me. I usually call Louis she her when I'm especially excited about him 😭 idk maybe bcus of the cultural association with she/her + feminity and softness/loveliness and affection (like the way u call a boat she/her y'know? Or a beloved car), or maybe bcus most of my close loved ones r women so using she her is natural when it comes to compliments and affectionate terms for me. Anyways I hope this makes sense or clears things up, tbh I am very surprised that ppl I'm not friends with even perceive my blog at all sometimes so I never considered how I may have been confusing ppl 😭

[braskide]

dashboard game 🌺

alias / name: muna ( moona or moonies also work! )

birthday:  september 21st

zodiac sign: virgo

height: 5'2" ?? ?? ( 160cm )

hobbies: playing videogames mostly!! i spend my time just playing anything and listening to my playlists over and over tbh!

favorite color: any shade of blue / light blue & pink!

favorite book: ughh i'm not big on reading books ( i've made it my new years resolution to read more books this year! ) but i've been really loving normal people!

last song: taker by k.i.d ( thank u leif for introducing me to k.i.d!!! ! < 3 )

last film / show: last show was one day ( 2024 ) & last movie was the worst person in the world

recent reads: normal people!

inspiration: honestly mostly from show & movies i watch — i tend to put yuna in every situation i see in terms of fiction so it kinda keeps me going! also videogames ... and reading about mutuals' muses makes me want to put her in different universes and explore her more!

story behind url: ahhhh so when i made the blog back in 2013 i remember being in my first years in high school, and i remember studying the illiad & i remember my italian literature professor taught us about breseide ( breseis in eng! ) and how her name means ' daughter of brise ' ( briseus ) so i came up with braskide, obviously with the same rule meaning ' daughter of braska ' although i understand now after years that it might have a translation issue because the -ide suffix is not used in the same way in english ahd;fjs but i grew attached to it and has been the one and only url ever since!

fun fact about me: the moon has a big meaning to me & my life. i have worn a moon necklace for 7 years now, i have a lot of moon related things in my room and up my walls, i feel a huge and deep connection to it and i feel very blessed whenever i can see it shine in the sky! i associate myself with it a lot, i'm generally a nocturne person as well!

tagged by mama ari! thank you @onegil! ♥ and i tag anyone who has read it this far and wasn't tagged yet teehee

[tactician]

yesterday i managed to hatch a shiny horsea in my copy of emerald version!!!!!! this shiny is one that means a WHOLE LOT to me for so many reasons and i am absolutely gonna start up what will hopefully be a saga of posts related to him.

the gist of it is that this little one is, first and foremost, a nod to my beloved dnd oc, reides. secondly, he is gonna be my first earnest attempt at the ribbon master challenge!

the ribbon master challenge is a really fun - yet really difficult! - challenge which consists of trying to get as many marks/ribbons on one pokemon as possible (basically, from their origin generation to the current one). there are many resources related to this challenge, my favorite one being athis' ribbon handbook. you can see a lot of people talking about this challenge on the pokemon ribbons subreddit as well as in random places online (like this post right here LMAO). there are also quite a few videos about ribbon master challenge attempts on youtube, too; again, my personal favorite one is the story of toast the scizor.

anyway, i talked about potentially attempting the challenge back when i successfully manipulated gen4's rng for a shiny of my fav mythical pokemon, manaphy - which i also named reides, as i associate manaphy with him. i eventually strayed from that idea, however, because i really, really want my first ribbon master to have the gen3 ribbons; most importantly, the hoenn contest ones. (this is 100% just a personal thing - ribbon masters that are from gen4 onwards are obviously still incredibly awesome and i still wanna try the challenge out on my beloved manaphy at some point. i just have a lot of nostalgia associated with gen3's ribbons so i want my first attempt at the challenge to include the grind for them.) that being said, i didn't want to stray from the initial concept of putting it on a pokemon that i associate with reides, so…

that's where this horsea comes into the picture!

i've associated reides with the whole horsea line for a loooong time - longer than i've associated him with manaphy, tbh! i even have a post mentioning that i hatched eggs for a shiny one - also named reides - in ultra sun. i struggled a lot with if i wanted to evolve that horsea fully or not, ultimately deciding to keep him as a baby. but i always wanted to catch another one which i'd evolve fully. i mean... look at this thang.

shiny kingdra absolutely rules, and the royal theme that it has going on is, again, very much up reides' alley. it seemed like my procrastination re: actually hunting for that second shiny horsea actually paid off, in this case, because i realized it'd be sick if my ribbon master was a shiny kingdra. that way, my other shiny horsea can remain as a unique hunt, too.

beyond my shiny requirement, i wanted the horsea to be male, like reides, and for him to have a nature that suited reides' personality. since i already have a brave manaphy, i was torn between quirky or bold for him, but i ultimately decided on bold. so... a shiny, bold, male horsea was the goal. this isn't an impossible shiny hunt by any means, but... well... <3 let's just say i wasn't in the mood to phase on tons and tons of different shiny horseas that didn't meet my somewhat-specific criteria. frankly speaking, it would sour the entire experience for me. add emerald's wacky rng to the picture and it just... wasn't fun to even think about. so i figured that i'd take yet another page from my manaphy's book and that i'd rng manipulate for my ideal horsea. furthermore, i decided that i'd try to hatch my horsea in a cool spot - hence the 'seafloor cavern' met data. (sadly, since i'm transferring him up through the generations, this data will eventually get replaced with a blanket 'hoenn region' line - but i still wanted to do it!!!)

once i had a general Plan of Action, it was time to execute it. a few weeks ago, i made a post about learning how to rng manip in gen3. in that post, i showed you guys my shiny treecko, ivy, and vaguely mentioned in the tags that having the means of shiny hunting in emerald opened up a lot of ribbon master challenges... but i didn't mention my true goal of learning the inner workings of gen3; namely, reides. LMAO. by shiny hunting for that treecko, i was able to deduce my tid and sid combo, which would aid me in my future rng-based shiny hunts in that particular game file.

i then had to play through the entirety of emerald's plot. at first, i dreaded this, since i wanted to grab my horsea asap and get right into the challenge - but it was a TON of fun! i kept practicing different rng hunts and ended up getting four more rng-based shinies in addition to my shiny starter and reides. plus it was just plain nice to re-visit gen3's storyline after all these years. once i got the super rod in mossdeep city (since horsea is a super rod-specific encounter) and my seventh badge (since i needed to be able to use dive so that i could get to the seafloor cavern), i caught a male horsea and a female horsea, popped 'em in the daycare, and - through MUCH trial and error which could, in itself, end up as a huge post - managed to hatch this perfect little horsea.

given all of the setup that went into getting reides, i knew that i wanted him to be on my very first team that beat the hall of fame. it was only fair, considering that the team pretty much existed because of him! and, while this post is focused on reides, trust & believe that i still developed a TON of fondness for the rest of my lovely storyline team! i couldn't have possibly gotten reides his first ribbon without the help of ivy the sceptile, popsicle the cradily, metal the aggron, chimney the camerupt, and miku the flygon!

next on the emerald agenda is ev training reides. i am going to be training him alongside a latios named albatross, a beldum named origin, and a bagon whose name is currently pending as i try to think of something! i've never ev trained in a gen3 game before, so... fingers crossed that it goes well and that i can keep count of the encounters without fuckin up! ;LDFSGKD;FKG i'm ev training so that i can get the effort ribbon on reides but ALSO so that we are at full power for taking on emerald's battle tower afterwards. i'm SUPER nervous about doing this, as i have never attempted the battle tower before, but i'm hoping that it'll go okay!

in addition to aaaaall of this chaos going on in emerald version, i dusted off my good ol' wii and started a replay of an INCREDIBLEEEE game called pokemon colosseum, since i'll need to send reides over there eventually to get a ribbon for clearing 100 battles in a row over on mt battle. (luckily, i still have the necessary hardware from my childhood for doing that.) mt battle is going to be seeing a lot of me, as i'll also need to grind for pokecoupons there so that i can buy special berries which will help him in becoming a contest pro back over in hoenn. colosseum's plot also gave me the chance to soft-reset for a bold-natured suicune that will probably get ev trained too, and who will likely join reides in all of his future battle tower endeavors. i named that suicune after reides' in-universe god, 'persana.'

so... yeah! the setup for this challenge alone has been A Lot but i can honestly say that i've been having so much fun with it. i feel like i'm interacting with like... every single aspect of gen3 at the moment. it's totally revitalized my love for pokemon as a whole and i'm really hoping that i can stick to it and complete the challenge in its entirety!

[centrally-unplanned]

Like some of the commenters on that post, i also have a pretty negative impression about twg bc if his association with jesse singals podcast. Less about the trans stuff (its just not a topic i have the energy to investigate, tbh) and more about that podcasts whole conceit. On principle i have never dived much into it, but my sense just from looking it over is that it is basically a glorified lolcow farm: deliberately seeking out otherwise obscure and usually psychologically unwell internet weirdos to gawk at them like circus freaks before a public audience

The david gerard piece is not itself in this vein, bc gerard is very much a public figure centrally involved in socially significant shit-flinging campaigns. But the techniques twg has on display in that post of are themselves tools of the lolcow trade, and it makes me kind of uncomfortable

Yeah I think that is fine! I have read my share of Jessie Singal/Blocked & Reported, not a big follower but I see it around, and I think some of his coverage is really good, and others are meh. (I actually helped Jessie get some very obscure sources for his book once in a happenstance moment using my earned-in-China torrenting skills lol, was a nice guy). I certainly would not describe B&R as always "lolcow" types, like it is often doing things like looking into niche-but-impactful local government fights or policy outcomes. TW for example has his biggest claim to fame leading on the B&R episode on the rigging of the air traffic controller exams by a connected union group, not at all "punching down". But while I haven't listened to them I know of what you speak, podcasts on like spatfests between Portland coffee shop owners or the like.

I would generally share your distaste of that content - it is just platforming irrelevancy, and has a sense of being invasive of the privacy we all deserve regardless of what we tweet. Still, while having no survey data or anything here I do find the few I have seen around tend to be say interviewing a victim of this or that thing, and that person deserves that right even if the stakes are petty to us. It is rarely just a "laugh at the idiot" podcast even if it includes that. Something I can only say having listening to a few episodes of course, not robust here.

Overall I am very viewpoint tolerant, particularly when people do diverse media. It would be incredibly cringe to be a 24/7 dunk show, but if you are blending true investigative journalism with the fact that, as a professional media outlet, you have to made content on a tight schedule and sometimes take cheap shots in that process, and doing that kind of work makes you view things a bit differently as you see it all as one big project or w/e, I am not myself going to be a hater for that. I will say this episode is bad and this is good, and respect the good. But nothing wrong with someone else having a different line, and I have them myself; an episode that trucked in anti-vax stuff would really piss me off while others would shrug it off as a bad day. TW's long form written journalism has been consistently interesting enough to me that I am tolerant of the level of snark in other projects, but I totally do get how one would see it as cringe. Not like any writer must be read!

(Though I do think TW was generally involved in primarily the more investigative stuff. Personally, if one wants to dunk on Jessie & Katie for their cheap shots go for it, but I do think TW shouldn't be seen as the third wheel on that just by default. God knows how hard any journalism job is to get)

[psychewritesbs]

@linkspooky​ ..... ok but like.... I, mental gymnastics and word vomiter extraordinaire, am speechless because...

yes this exactly 👇🏼.

I can’t be normal about this. I have #thoughts so much for being speechless for the sake of Jungian nerdery.

In the end, it isn’t often that you meet someone who can Jung about Jung and about Jujutsu Kaisen no less.

I swear ever since I started watching JJK, the Jungian lens through which I felt JJK is written just felt... so deep. 

HOLA!

The supernova associations:

Supernova as symbol for the pinnacle of the sense of self is one of my biggest obsessions, so the symbol jumped up at me after I figured out Yuki’s connection to Vishnu. 

If you’re up for a completely unrelated rabbit hole... honestly, the only reason I took an interest in the subject is because in doing JJK-research regarding Garuda and Vishnu, I learned that the way Garuda is depicted in some Buddhist art shows Garuda in the form of an Eagle clutching a snake. 

Now, if you’re not familiar with the story behind the Mexican coat of arms, the Aztecs had a prophecy in which they had been told to settle down wherever they saw an Eagle clutching a snake. The place where they settled became Tenochtitlán, the largest city in the pre-Columbian Americas, now known as México City, the sixth-largest metropolitan area in the world that’s 21 million too many Mexicans in one single spot. I’m Mexican so I can say this...

It’s truly too bad that many Mexicans have become corrupted by power since as a symbol, Garuda is a destroyer of sin. The irony...

All that to say... the way symbols can repeat themselves across time, culture and physical distance... it’s fascinating. Which is why I love so much that you brought up Castor and Pollux.

YES.

Yeeeeeeeeees. My heart rejoices...

🤓 Comparative mythology 🙏🏼♥️.

Thank you for sharing that reference! Come to think of it, I felt like there was something missing with the Oedipus Rex rabbit hole, and Castor and Pollux bring it all back full circle. 

And now I can’t unsee Castor and Pollux--the dynamic is everywhere. It’s crazy how when you become conscious of a symbol, you can’t unsee it.

Which brings me to...

Yuki’s animus: Yuki embodying the very qualities she projects onto Choso is so... touché. And that’s one of the things I liked about Yuki tbh, how she had this nice interplay between masculinity and femininity. And to bring it back full circle, funny how Choso was always depicted as a “softy”.

Also, because of this, I can’t unsee my own projection of animus now. I literally became conscious of it. 

That said, my favorite authors are always authors who are meticulous about authorial intent, and to me, most of the time I feel like the way Gege writes is full of intent. And then there’s times when I’m like “ok or is it just a happy accident?”

I get the sense that the way he narrates the story through panel work and dialogue has changed and has become more like himself (because “in a story like JJK where the strongest sorcerers always have the strongest sense of self...”). It also feels like he’s deliberately using symbolism in a different way now... just can’t quite put my finger on it. 

Any thoughts?

Alchemy: So I started re-reading Jung’s book on alchemy. But I tend to skip the part where he analyzes dreams for the sake of learning about his process. But I’m thinking I need to read the dream part for the sake of symbol analysis.

Oh god. The nerdery that is incoming!

Anyways, thanks for the essay in the tags! I know you probably get lots of notifs so hopefully you’ll read this!

[bandedbulbussnarfblat]

i am endlessly intrigued by raglan's line to daniel in their first meeting, about how he isn't the first to try what he's doing, that 4 others came before and are all dead or undead.

we know armand has never made a fledgling. so if one of those 4 ended up undead, it had to be from louis. in the books, louis makes exactly 2 fledglings: madeleine and merrick.

(merrick is also a mayfair witch from the black side of the family, who also has ties to the talamasca. so she would be a good character to use, if we wanted to bridge the 3 shows in the immortal universe)

i think 3 of those that came before died, probably via armand, since louis doesn't like killing these days. but the 4th is merrick, and she's the life louis took back in 2000, by making her a vampire

probably something to do with claudia. with trying to summon her ghost. that could be the groan--claudia's ghost trapped in the realm between life and death. or merrick herself, who would could have summoned ghost claudia and things went wrong and now she's taking a dirt nap

though the show will have to play it differently than the books, where merrick puts a love spell on louis and they kind of have a thing. which works there bc louis likes women romantically in the books, but he's gay on the show. (or he was gay and just super repressed in the books, according to some interpretations--which could mean the love spell thing could work, bc hand-wavy magic)

tbh that's not really something i wanna see, it feels gross. like the love spell itself was gross in the book, where louis might have had real feelings for her as well, as he doesn't really get too mad about it. but if he's gay then it's all coerced, and while the show isn't shy from exploring darker themes, i don't want my baby boy to go through that. he has suffered enough.

also i think the show could use merrick and her connection to the mayfairs as another way explore race as a theme. bc in the books there's a whole other branch of black mayfair witches that the main mayfair witches don't really associate with. (they were black, but they also had some other heritage that I can't recall without digging out the book) and that could be something worth exploring; a sort of mirror to louis back in storyville, where he sat and played cards with white men who thought they were better than him, bc he was confined by the laws and social mores of his time as a human. as opposed to merrick who didn't want anything to do with the white side of her family

(also in the books, louis owned a plantation. he owned slaves. like this is canon. and merrick is a bi-racial black woman who falls in love with him. like, outside of anne rice's imagination, that shit would not and should not happen. this isn't relevant to my point, i just wanted to rant a little about it bc it's so fucking stupid)

[vacantgodling]

🩹 for any of your ocs? and also 🎻 for any paramour oc because I'm curious about that world's music scene

hey!! thank you for asking :) — sorry this gets very long LMAO. tw for tagetes being an abusive piece of shit.

🎻 VIOLIN — does your oc play any instruments? what is their skill level (beginner/intermediate/advanced/virtuoso/etc)?

tagetes can play instruments however they refuse to—they’re one of those “i never do anything for free” and the idea of performing for someone else is SUPREMELY offensive and degrading to them personally lmao. they do often hire musicians and ask them to perform extremely complex versions of symphonies to flaunt that they can hire such talented performers, but also as a cruelty. they found a particularly difficult movement by some bigwig composer and asked for one of their harem girls who’s talented in violin to play it for them. every time she messed up she’d have to start over and she wasn’t allowed to stop until her fingers bled. yknow. cuz they’re so normal 😒

iberis can play the piano passably but he isn’t particularly musically inclined. he dabbled with the idea of learning violin because violin prowess has some research showing it’s association with mathematical proficiency and because he’s a scholar he liked the idea of that. but he never ends up having enough time; getting a doctorate and all.

narcissus has no talent for music whatsoever though she does greatly enjoy it. large orchestral performances or showings are some of her favorite kinds of balls to attend because they make her feel refined and she loves to get lost in the way music sounds. clematis gunn (the shitty father of all these assholes) spent a considerable amount of money on tutors on a number of different instruments however she’s just tone deaf, bless her.

hyacinthus was never taught any instruments, not even in his tenure of living with tagetes. hya would’ve refused regardless—he and tagetes are somewhat alike in the idea of performing for someone else is not ideal. hya, unlike tagetes though, does appreciate the arts—he’s just more fond of books and things he can do quietly on his own.

lavendula is the most musically gifted among the gunn family’s lot. she is proficient in “pretty” instruments as her mother calls them; flute, violin and harp. she doesn’t enjoy them as much as her other proficiencies but when asked she can perform rather well.

aloe has a lovely singing voice but he prefers to sing in temple choruses or praises for The Shepherd. he doesn’t usually engage with secular music.

in terms of lower class characters, music is very eclectic and more down to earth; working with what’s available and learning proficiency in that than any sort of formal training. i would say that terian is the most musically inclined of lower class characters because he can play the guitar and his voice has an amiable timber to it.

🩹 ADHESIVE BANDAGE — does your oc have any physical and/or mental disabilities?

i haven’t diagnosed many of my characters in the mental illness realm just bc it can get a bit dicey with the whole “representation” vs demonization debate and i’d rather not get into the weeds of that if i can avoid it sorry. i think the only character i have truly diagnosed for anything is jenna in the liminal space series because her being autistic is a very important part of her character. you can definitely see where some of my characters may or may not have certain dx’s but yknow. it’s more up for the reader to decide than for me to be forthcoming about.

though a good number of characters have ptsd tbh bc of the horrors.

physically disabilities wise, tcol has the most characters with disabilities just because as many of them are adventurers and fighting yknow. Creatures and the like, it can fuck ya up basically. off the top of my head:

eryn would be considered legally blind because she’s chaos touched in both eyes. it’s somewhat of a toph situation from atla where she has a sort of “sight” but not for just everyday stuff. she can essentially see the aura of chaos around things which is why/how she’s able to still be a ranger—a sight heavy class—she’s able to aim using the aura of chaos, which is something she teaches forte. it makes her shots more accurate and deadly tbh. i haven’t fully worked out how disabilities devices work in tcol yet (it’s on my tcol todo list but there’s so much worldbuilding on that thing i need to do LOL) but id imagine she has some sort of sight cane or something similar.

spoilers (but idc sorry), forte also becomes chaos touched in one eye after an Incident which leaves him partially blind in one eye and deaf in that ear on the side of the attack. he also develops a limp after this situation

karenza, from the same Incident also becomes physically disabled however i haven’t decided how quite yet lol

erebos (for this universe) has a skin condition where he is essentially albino; he was basically dead for 30 minutes due to a childhood accident and all the color drained out of him. he was able to be revived but he has a higher sensitivity to the sun and is immunocompromised for all intents and purposes. in a similar vein, helix, charissa, and altair have a similar condition but slightly Altered because of the special circumstances of their existence and the fact that they were able to be partially healed. after the fact it looks somewhat like vitiligo and the immune-issues are somewhat there in some ways i haven’t fully fleshed out how completely yet.

(spoilers idc sorry), erik loses an arm bc of a different Incident. like the whole thing unfortunately so. he does end up going to marthveil to see if he can get a prosthetic eventually.

aside from tcol i think the only other character i have that i can think of rn would be lennon from gothica bc spoilers idc but her legs get Fucked Up after the Big Incident with aurora and so she uses crutches and has a wheelchair later on in the second book.

[catholickedd]

Can you tall to me about how the breakup scene was important?

okay so it wasn’t truly a breakup. for background as you already know, betty would go to any measure at all to keep simon from harm. and to restore magic to fionna and cake’s world, simon’s idea is to put the crown back on.

you know, the thing betty spent years trying to reverse.

so he holds the crown over his head.

and GOLBetty says “fuck that” and brings him to GOLB realm.

and ohhhhh holy fuck this scene. just DESTROYS ME. it’s like ineffable divorce to me.

he sees her. and he gasps, “GOLB!”

then says softly, “betty…”

he explains to her why he must put on the crown. and she says, again, (metaphorically because she can’t speak), “fuck that.”

she transports him into the body of a child one thousand years from now. and tbh this bit was very controversial. i feel it was a very close-minded read of a very nuanced and important relationship.

but she attempts to show him how he never listened to her, and he never realized she sacrificed everything for him, through a children’s book called casper and nova.

which is, like, what the fuck, he sacrificed everything for her too!! why are they trying to say he’s so selfish when he’s willing to just go fukcing insane again to make a time god’s fanfiction characters happy.

but anyways. whatever.

once he “understands,” she takes him back to the place where she gave up an all expense paid, six-week expedition to the outback to be with him. (more information to follow in another response.)

except this time, it’s different.

she gets on the bus. says, “we made our choices. we could have made better ones. but i don’t have any regrets.”

this is not a breakup. it’s a goodbye.

no matter how much they want to be together, they can physically never be again.

“you were a wonderful experience,” betty says.

“you were…everything,” simon replies.

betty boards the bus. turns to look at simon one final time.

she’s not betty. she’s GOLB.

the destination of the bus changes to a set of glyphs that translates to “COMET,” which has been shown to be associated with reincarnation in the show.

simon wakes up again in his own body, where GOLB gently picks him up and moves as if to eat him.

he bows his head.

and says “thank you.”

but instead, she gently blows on him, like a dandelion. as he falls out into the void, we see GOLBetty turn blue and appear to pulse as if with electricity. still don’t know what that’s about.

anyways. hurt to see them love each other so much. hurt to see them mischaracterized. hurt to see them part.

but it was important.

[nalyra-dreaming]

In your last reply you mentioned how some people hate that the show used and 'twisted' some things from the books and I assume you meant people freaking out about Lestat flying with Louis and then dropping him. But, even if they don't retcon it at all next season, I feel like once we get to the romantic flying from QotD, it can still be very meaningful and beautiful. It could be a way to sort of 'fix' the past and associate flying with something positive for both of them and also show us that Louis trusts Lestat completely.

Hey nonny!

Yes, the flight was something that was … adapted, but also the kiss from the ball. The playing chess. The sharing of a coffin ;)))

There were quite a few things actually they pulled out of the books to twist them a bit for the show and I personally loved that. (But yeah I know and have seen a lot of people hating that they changed that first flight. Though tbh I do wonder if that really was first flight or actually… something else. And if that first flight was sometime else… or will still come. But that is a whole different discussion;)))

Oh and there’s lots of ways imho (as you also said) to make it beautiful later on no matter the meaning now. Especially the flying is very interesting in regards to Armand‘s abilities here, too. And I actually have no doubt they’ll be able to pull it off … with that kind of chemistry at their disposal ?! ;)))

I‘m actually hoping for more references as we go on, more little twists of what we know.