#from coffee house to concert hall

[sherbertilluminated]

There are some issues and discourses that Stan Rogers returns to, or at least that's from multiple points of view. We have The Field Behind the Plow and Lies (the agricultural plight from the respective POVs of a husband and wife), The Idiot and Free in the Harbor (young men going west and the towns they leave behind) The Mary Ellen Carter and The Jeannie C (the woman boat I love is gone! What do I do?), and Bluenose and Man with Blue Dolphin (sister ships!). But the most interesting juxtaposition of songs in Stan Rogers' discography, I think, is Northwest Passage and its lesser-known counterpart Take it from Day to Day.

Northwest Passage is one of Stan's most famous songs, and deservedly so: with its rock-quaking harmonies, references to British-Canadian colonial history and meditation on the sublime purpose of Rogers' own career as a traveling musician, the work produces a sense of longing that would be epic if it weren't so futile. While Rogers is ambivalent-at-most about the colonialism inherent in his historical perspective (read: The House of Orange), his choice to focus on the psychological journeys of "the first men through this way" makes projects like the Franklin Expedition sound like exemplary iterations of a universal human journey—these explorers are Just Like You, and their longing for the Northwest Passage is the same, and so is their suffering, so the project itself doesn't sound like an act of colonial violence in Rogers' song. Even the choice to perform Northwest Passage a capella underscores (hehe) the sense of profound isolation that Rogers describes.

But Northwest Passage is a song about captains: men who recognized "the call" to leave their homes for the not-uninhabited Artic expanse and whose journeys make it into the history books. But Take it From Day to Day approaches the Northwest Passage from the opposite direction. Literally.

The song is from the perspective of a common sailor on the St. Roch, the first ship to travel the Northwest Passage west-to-east. And instead of of being overwhelmed by the natural beauty of the Artic or the symbolic resonance of the voyage, he's contemplates more prosaic themes: namely, how much he misses his lover.

It's a little silly to think, as Rogers belts out the chorus—"I'm as far North now as I want to come/but Larson's got us under his thumb/and I signed up for the whole damn run/I can't get off halfway!"—how disappointing this perspective on Artic voyages proves compared to the unfulfilled longing of Northwest Passage. Instead, the unfulfilled longing of the anonymous narrator makes Take if From Day to Day into one of Roger's most sexual songs. I beg you to listen to it, if only to count the sensual metaphors and double-entendres.

But whether you have heard Northwest Passage and love it, or you're interested in a more down-to-earth perspective on Ice, I think it's a song you might enjoy.

[plutoispurplw]

Mine

Summary: Spencer meeting your apartment for the first time because you avoided it because of the decoration

Words: 1.8K

Relationship: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Smut, fingering, fluff, creampie, praise.

A/N: Writing this because my room is the example of fangirl. Btw when I use taylor pics is more because they already have the gray filter and not because I picture Y/N to be like that.

Request are open.ᐟ

➜Masterlistᝰ.ᐟ

When you enter the BAU, you decided to act more serious and stop using a lot of colors like you usually did on your daily routine.

Your personality changed too and you stopped yourself from mentioning your likes and about being a big fan about certain things to not look childish.

That continue even after two years of being with the team and having trust in them, you still choosed to be close about your fanatic side and your love for concerts.

The only person that knew was Penelope and you two had went to concerts together and everything when you both had time.

After you started dating Spencer you had changed with him and decided to be more warm with him and open a lot more, when you two had a date you dressed up with a little more of color, clothes that actually reflected your real personality more.

Of all the things that you had been open about with him on late nights together after making love, there was one that you were scared of and it was your apartment.

Your apartment was colorful and was like the reflected of a teenage girl for most of the people who had been there in the past, past partners and situationships had told you that it was childish and that you should changed it.

You almost stayed at his apartment always, being asleep in each others arms was one of the best feeling in the world that both of you could have feel so being there was common for you.

He had asked you about seeing your apartment a couple of times through your relationship of less than a year but you always had an excuse to avoid that from happening.

For example, a month ago while the team was in a case, he had asked you if he could see your apartment.

"I was wondering if that when we're back, can I go to your apartment?"

"Sorry but one of my friend fought with his partner and now they're staying at my house while thinking about their relationship, maybe in another chance." You made your best effort to make your voice sound nonchalant and casual and not let him know about your lies.

Now, you were sat on your desk writing you reports when you amazing boyfriend brought you coffee. While you were tasting the coffee after not having too much sleep at night, you heard the voice of your boyfriend.

"I want to ask you if today I could go to your apartment, no more excuses so don't try to invent something, I had let it passed many times." He was serious when he said that statement, he had gotten tired from hearing all the excuses that fall from your lips.

In that moment you knew it was finally time to give up and let him see it. "I'm sorry for had been lying to you, in compensation I let you go tonight and I make dinner, what do you think?" Your voice was tired, you stared at his annoyed gaze waiting for his response to your proposition.

"You call me if you want me to brought your anything for the dinner." He said before going back to his desk letting you alone with your thoughts, drowing slowly in them fearing of him being the same as your previous partners

After work, you were back at your apartment cleaning everything until it was almost perfect. You had spent almost a hour choosing what to wear of your actually daily clothes.

When it was time, he was there at your door, with a small bouquet of your favorite flowers. "This are for you and your apartment."

You took them from his hands and gave him a kiss. "Before you see everything, please don't judge me." He denied with his head, and gave you another kiss on your forehead.

You let him enter and he could already notice your decorate style from the entrance hall, it had plants and a painting of a husky with her family.

"You have a dog?" Spencer asked you while seeing the painting of the dog and your family. He didn't ask you much about your family to avoid making you uncomfortable if you had any problem of trauma related to them.

"Yes, is a family dog and she is very cute, I wanted to take her with me but the job makes that impossible." You glanced at the painting again and nostalgia filled your mind, he notice that and gave you another kiss on your forehead.

Your apartment was very different from what he expected, it was the contrary of minimalist but in a good way, everything was at balance.

The living room was colorful, the couch with plants at the side that looked well taken care and a coffee table had a nice vase with flowers and candles with cute forms. The wall behind it was cover with vinyls of your favorite artists. Your television had led lights behind it to make it look cool while watching series.

The kitchen was also colorful, the electrodomestics were of pastel tones. The cabinets, drawers and the kitchen island were of a pistachio green tone.

"I know it too colorful and it looks childish but-" He didn't let you finish your nervous speech about defending your apartment.

"It's looks nice, you made a great job at decorating it, it isn’t overwhelming for me." His voice had an effect on you and you stopped, his hand went to your back and started to make relaxing circles to calm you down. "It's nice that you have vinyls and a record player, the quality is better only on the first play."

"That's why I liked them but I have more cds, they are more cheaper to collect." You went to put the flowers in the vase and when you were done he had already entered your gamer room.

That room had a setup gamer of a lilac color and had figures and a lot of things, posters of series and movies on the walls.

"This is how you spent your free time?" His tone didn't sound in mockery, it was actually curiosity.

"Yes, I like to play videogames normally when I have time, not bloody types or anything like that, more like Minecraft." You lay your head on his shoulder while he was seeing the room.

"What's Minecraft?" He was confused and he looked at you with his puppy eyes, those that had made you fall many times and still worked like the first time he had kissed you or hugged you.

For a moment you looked confused too until you remembered that your boyfriend didn't use technology if it wasn't necessary. "It's difficult to explain but it's a open world game, I show you later."

You two went back to the living room and sat on the couch and were cuddling while watching tv, it felt nice to be with him like this and forgetting about any preocupation or stress about the job, you wished it was always like this.

You move your head and gave him a innocent kiss that carried all the appreciation that you felt for him for not laughing at your apartment, he gave you another of his that had been more intense and that had let you breathless.

You felt how one of his hands travel from your thigh to under your lilac skirt, until the pad of his fingers made contact with the cotton fabric of your panties, he started to rub them feeling how you were getting wet.

You let out sighs at the feeling of him rubbing the wet fabric against your clit over and over again, slowly driving you crazy, you hid your head on the crook of his neck to avoid your neighbors from complaining about you.

"You lied to me for four months straight and you don't feel remorse, maybe I should stop and not give you relief." His voice sounded husky while he whispered against the shell of your ear, his voice making you shiver at the feeling of his breath.

He continued his teasing, your panties were soaked with your arousal and you where getting too worked up, your whole body was burning like a pile of old papers.

"Please Spencer, I want it." You whined against his ear hoping that he would take mercy on you and give you the release that you needed in that moment.

His pace was getting faster and harder with any moment, you were a mess of moans and whines, his lips against your forehead giving you kisses and whispering sweet nothings to you.

"You look beautiful like this, you wanted it too much, don't you?" His tone was half sweet and half teasing, he love to make you feel like this, to make you felt frustrated and then give you what you wanted.

He notice you were close to reaching your orgasm and stopped his fingers on his tracks, you whined and started to move your hips to tried to reach you peak alone but his hands grabbed your hips and stopped your motion.

You threw your head back in frustration until you heard the sound of the zipper of his pants, you open your eyes to see the bulge inside his boxers, you felt how you breath got faster again.

You straddled his lap and pulled his boxers down to let his member free, he helped you and entered you with one deep thrust making almost scream from the feeling of him being deep inside you.

His pace continue making you see stars and touching the sky, the living room filled with your moans and whines along with his groans of pure pleasure.

"You're too tight, so good my love, so fucking good." He said against your skin of your shoulder, his voice sounded breathless just like yours.

That's when the orgasm hit you both at the same time, you screamed his name and repeated like a mantra while he whisper praise against your collarbone while kissing it.

"I think is better if we order take out and take a break." You were trying to recover your breath and he just gave you a nod and caress your back under your cardigan and top.

He nodded and took you in his arms and carried you to your bedroom, in that instant you remember why you didn't let him. When he enter he found three plushies on your bed and doll on your desk.

When he saw that, he just lay you down on your bed and looked around. "I still don't see nothing bad, your room is nice and your entire apartment is nice too my love."

He gave you another kiss on your cheek this time making you giggle a little and pulling him for a hug.

Taglist: @bre99 @hiireadstuff @javierpenasredshirt @pleasantwitchgarden @iniyalovesall @caffine-queen @fab-notfat @khxna

[slutforsilverfoxes]

Polaroids & Promises

When your mother had first met your boyfriend, she had made two very astute observations: He was incredibly distinguished (read: much older than she’d expected) and he was definitely a heartbreaker. At the time she’d meant the latter as a testament to his devilishly good looks, but her statement had turned out to be true in a much more literal sense.

Letting out a sigh as you toed your shoes off by the front door, you settled your winter gear and house keys on their respective hooks before making your way to the kitchen. The contents of your fridge left much to be desired, a box of Chinese takeout and an unfinished bottle of wine sitting pretty on the second shelf, a sad cast of recurring characters in your post-breakup misery. Pointing at the Merlot, you declared, “I’ll be back for you soon.”

Although you wanted nothing more than to curl up with a trashy romance novel and the cheap wine, your career didn’t care how sad you were; work needed doing and therefore laundry needed washing. After shedding your work attire and scrubbing the day from your body with a hot shower, you carried the sizable buildup of clothes down the hall to the laundry room. You began sorting the delicates from your regular wash, pausing mid-squat at an unfamiliar shade of red peeking out from the bottom of the hamper. Tossing t-shirts and work pants aside, a traitorous prickle of hot tears momentarily blurred the stark white USMC before you. Releasing a ragged breath, you pulled the hoodie to your face and inhaled deeply, the fabric muffling your sob as the smell that you had come to think of as home overwhelmed your senses. Seven months of memories played in your head in the span of mere seconds, quiet nights on the couch, steaks cooked by the fire, the scraping of a sander against wood.

You missed Jethro more than words could describe. You missed his warmth, his touch, his teasing remarks. You missed visiting him at work, and sharing entire conversations with Tony consisting only of movie quotes, and nerding out with Tim over the latest Game of Thrones episode, and bonding with Ziva over a few hours at the range, and going to concerts with Abby, and trading interesting cases with Jimmy. You missed insightful talks with Ducky about life and opera and the enigma that is his friend and your lover. You missed the sight of matching keys on the hook next to yours and work boots in the hallway. You missed trading sections of the paper over morning coffee. You missed the quiet protest of the bed when he slipped in beside you well past midnight.

You missed having someone to come home to.

Swiping at your eyes, you abandoned the task at hand in lieu of moping in your bedroom, but first doubling back to enlist the company of your trusty red. You settled down on the floor at the foot of your bed and eased the cork out of the mouth of the bottle, taking a hearty swig as you pulled your wooden memory box into your lap. Running your fingers over the intricate pattern on top, you recalled the day Jethro had gifted you the handcrafted piece for all of those pictures you force me to be in, he had admitted with a begrudging smile. You took out the stack of Polaroids, spreading them out on the floor before you as you gulped down another mouthful of wine. Although the dates were printed at the bottom of each photo, you could easily track the progression of your relationship by the way Jethro’s visage grew less grumpy and more smiley over time. A teardrop splattered across the shiny surface of one of your pictures, and you were quick to wipe it off without smudging the writing on the bottom. You finished off the last dregs of red wine and with it, your crumbling resolve, and you dialed ten digits on your cellphone purely via muscle memory.

Jethro’s voice in your ear made your heart twinge, even if it was just to tell you to leave a message. Taking in a shuddering breath, you opened with a brilliant, “Hey, it’s me.” Cringing, you soldiered on. “You’re probably still at work, because that’s- that’s what you do, isn’t it? Work yourself to the bone, people who care about you be damned. Sorry,” you sighed, immediately reneging on the snarky comment. “That’s not fair of me to say. I admire you and the work you do, you know that, right? It’s just that, well, Ducky had warned me this would happen, that you have a hard time separating yourself from the job. I guess I thought I could stop it or delay it or something, but I couldn’t. And now it’s-” You paused to squint at the digital clock on your nightstand. “-a quarter after ten on a Wednesday night, and I’m wine drunk, and I miss you so much that I called just to hear your voice on a goddamn answering machine. I mean, c’mon, Jet, who still has a landline these days? Christ, this is fucking pathetic. Maybe I should get a cat or some-” The phone beeped at you, indicating that you’d reached the time limit on the machine. Dropping your head into your hands, you groaned out, “Oh my god.”

You heaved a sigh, then delicately returned your treasured memories to their keepsake box before replacing it on the desk. Deciding that the crisp winter air would do you good, you slipped into your coat and boots, locked up, and headed outside for a late night walk.

_______

“I mean, c’mon, Jet, who still has a landline these days?” Jethro chuckled softly at the incredulity in your tone, tuning back in to your message just as it got cut off. He poured himself another splash of bourbon, then downed it in one go, finger already itching to replay the rambling message for the third time in as many minutes just to bask in the sound of your voice for a few more precious moments. He heard the stairs creak and emptied out a mug of miscellaneous screws and fasteners under the assumption that Tobias was joining him to discuss their progress on the case. Instead, the voice he was so desperately craving to hear floated downstairs to him.

“You really should lock your doors. Never know what sort of unsavory character could wander in off the street.”

Turning to face you as you reached the bottom step, he rumbled out, “So that’s where my favorite hoodie’s been hiding.” There was a distinct edge to his voice as he silently took in your bleary eyes and slightly disheveled appearance.

“I took a cab,” you said softly, immediately recognizing the heat in his glare as concern at the thought of you driving in your current state. “Can I come in?”

“You’re already in,” he responded, not quite curt, but not exactly warm either. Still, he hooked his ankle around the stool beside him and pulled it out, simultaneously pouring two fingers of his signature bourbon into the awaiting mug on the workbench. You took that as an invitation to join him, closing the remainder of the space between you and accepting the amber liquid as you perched on the seat. Gathering your courage, you took a sip and offered, “I missed this gasoline with a side of tetanus.”

“I missed your unparalleled wit,” he shot back, the corner of his mouth lifting with mirth.

“Hey, so, random question,” you forced out through a laugh, “have you checked your messages yet today? Just wondering cause I-” Your words caught in your throat when Jethro suddenly framed your face with his hand, the familiar ridges of his callouses pressing against your skin as he molded his mouth to yours. He pulled back just as abruptly, eyes wide with the realization of the wounds he had reopened and muttered, “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” you whispered, entwining your fingers with his on the workbench. Not yet able to meet his gaze, you clarified, “Don’t apologize. Not for that, at least.”

“Y/N-”

“No, actually, you know what?” You finally dared to look up at him, taking in the scruff dotting his cheeks and the dark circles beneath his lower lids that no doubt mirrored your own. Hot tears brimmed at your water line as you continued with a ferocity, “You don’t get to turn those pretty blue eyes on me and kiss me and make me forget about the terrible month I’ve had without you. I’m so mad at you. So mad.” You punctuated this thought with a sharp prod to his firm chest. “I wanted you to fight for me. For us. But no! You decided the best course of action was inaction, and I had to be the bad guy. And you know what the worst fucking part about all this is?”

He bit the inside of his cheek, shaking his head before pulling you into his arms. You melted into his embrace, all of the fight draining out of you as you confessed, “I’m not really mad at you. I’m mad at myself for being so naive.”

“Oh, my love,” he breathed out, squeezing you tight until your tears subsided. “You deserve so much better.”

Pulling back so you could look into his shiny eyes, you huffed, “That’s just it, you idiot. I want you to be better.” Lifting your joined hands to your lips, you pressed kisses to his knuckles before whispering, “I need you to choose me, just like I choose you every day. I want to build a life with you, to grow old with you-”

“One of us is already old,” he cut in with a cheeky grin, forcing a laugh out of you.

“Fine,” you amended, “I want to grow older with you, grumpy.”

“I want that, too,” he confessed quietly, the intensity in his eyes stealing your breath away. “The thing is, angel, I did choose you. I just thought you would be better off without me, and that if you left you’d be angry instead of hurt.”

“You- what?” you spluttered. “I should smack you upside the head for that, you stupid, infuriating man. What kind of dumb reverse psychology is that, Jethro? I just thought you would be better off without me,” you mimicked in a deep voice. Jabbing your finger into his chest again, you repeated, “Stupid.”

Grabbing your outraged finger as leverage, he pulled you closer and pressed his lips against yours once more, hands coming up to cup your cheeks and thumbs rubbing soothingly against your skin until your righteous anger boiled down to a controlled simmer. You let out a sigh as his mouth left yours, then beckoned him forward again. “One more.” He placed a kiss on the corner of your mouth. “Another.” This time, the opposite side. “Keep ‘em coming.” He chuckled warmly before dotting gentle kisses all over your face until you graced him with a smile.

“Honey, listen,” Jethro said, growing serious as he guided you back down to sit across from him but keeping a firm grip on your hand, “I know I went about this in entirely the wrong way, and I’ll spend every day for the rest of my life making up for it.”

“Yeah, you’d better,” you grumbled playfully, squeezing his hand.

“And you know I’m not big on moon phases and star signs and all that-”

“We’ll work on it.”

Fixing you with a look and tweaking your nose affectionately, he continued, “But I’m pretty sure most people don’t get lucky enough to find two soulmates in one lifetime. Shannon would never let me hear the end of it if I let you get away again.”

“Oh, Jet,” you sighed, leaning forward to press your forehead against his. “The day I realized I was in love with you, I made your girls a promise that I would take care of you. Help me keep that promise, okay?”

“I will,” he whispered, two simple words, a solemn pledge. “Now let’s go upstairs so you can tell me what I’ve missed and call me stupid a bunch more times.”

“Deal,” you laughed, taking his hand so he could help you up. “Can I just check the answering machine real quick before we-”

“Nope,” Jethro cut you off, pulling you into his side and squeezing your hip as you ascended the stairs together. “I’m keeping that message forever. Maybe even quote it in my vows one day.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Can you do a euronymous x guitarist reader where she is in slipknot and mayhem keeps playing the same gigs and euronymous sees her playing and falls in love

Guitar and Bands

Warning : falling/being in love, kinda fluff

Info : So here its is for you @iminlovewithmycarrrr hope you like it and I hope I did Slipknot some justice since I did not listen to them. Everyone have fun reading ;)

masterlist , rory culkins - masterlist

Disclaimer : I don't want to glorify anything, it's about the actors who play a role, not the real events.

--------------------

He knew the band, he knew every single damn one of the members, knew their names, where they were born, old hell even what they all ate and drank.

He admired the band that had only existed a few years longer than they had, but was just as well known. The masks were what fascinated them all, especially the band's founder. They could have been the riders of the apocalypse.

As if this evil force had come out of the dark, putrid depths of hell. But the biggest mystery of all was the mysterious guitar player with the cat-like mask as if they had taken a werecat and put the skin off her mask and given her power like Satan himself.

She was incredible he listened to every gig on radio and TV with his band even the beginnings of the internet helped the band find some tours for the band and get tickets.

The reason why his fingers, no, his whole body, was tingling, his heart was beating faster. He wanted to finally see her under the mask and see who she really was. She was a beast on stage a figure of the devil along with the band that was different in a different way than Mayhem.

His band was dark, satanic, boundary testing, offensive and wanted to blow up. Their band, on the other hand, seemed to be doing their own thing, living a life without rules, doing what they wanted to do and not trying to build a new Satanic power.

He drove faster to the concert hall, it was his biggest concert, but only as an opening act for Slipknot. ,,If you drive like that anymore you'll kill us" Necrobutcher mekcertge behind him and held the instruments and requisitions with Hellhammer and fist.

While the blond of the band took care of the dead animals and things, he did not take part in the conversation. ,,If I don't drive like this, we'll be late... besides, I have to see the band," Euronymous nagged back and pressed the clutch to drive even faster.

They were already late anyway, the party they had because of the gig had escalated a little too much and they all had to sip a few cups of coffee and throw painkillers to get out of the house and into the car.

But they still managed to get a place in the parking lot of an endless labyrinth. Sprinting into the hall with their instruments, they pushed past the masses of people and he could just see her with the guitar in her hand and, as always, the mask on her face. ,,Get everything ready, I'll have a look around!" he called out to Hellhammer and quickly threw his guitar to him, who almost collapsed and cursed at his friend.

But it didn't matter, he was there to see them play, he almost got lost in the masses of security men and technicians, but he saw the band was on stage, all that was left was for the fog to clear. Listening to the crowds of fans, he felt his fingers itching to play with her.

The way she played the guitar with such confidence, it was something that drew him in, she drew him in. ,,Amazing" came from his lips as the band gave it their all, playing one song after another until what he hadn't thought possible happened.

She took off her mask, threw the cat mask into the crowd and seemed to have been made better by all the music gods. Gods of music.

Her playing trumped her beauty a goddess of music and the determined look in her eyes as she shuffled through the crowd and suddenly looked at him.

His heart pierced and winked at him, he knew he had lost himself, that he was itching to play guitar with her, kiss her and be with her in a wave of music.

-------------------

[rougeaerie]

Outfit Rundown: JSK, Headdress: Atelier Pierrot Blouse: Random Taobao Shop That's Gone I Can't Remember Now AAAAAA Jacket: 69th Department Jewellery and Accessories: Mill Foundry, Omnia Oddities, Bloodmilk, Fire & Bone, Atelier Crow/Lillith House, Maine & Mara, Marchen Maiden Shoes: Windsor-Smith

Went to see Tubular Bells at the State Theatre tonight and got dressed up for the occasion! I wanted to wear my Atelier Pierrot heels, but realised we'd probably be walking a lot, and decided against it. I think I made the right choice, we walked over 12k steps while in the city, including a trek from Town Hall down to Circular Quay after the concert to get pancakes and coffee.

It was a really lovely evening.

[kidstemplatte]

one step more

summary: terzo catches his daughter sneaking out of the house.

it is stated that violetta has a mother (presumably reader). more notes at the end. i hope you enjoy <3

“One step at a time, Violetta.” The drunken teenage girl thought to herself, walking down the dark hallway to your section of the abbey. The hall had never felt this long before. Sure, she complained like a bitch every time she left something in the commons after just getting comfortable in bed, having to walk through the lengthy corridor in her pajamas to retrieve it, but it was never this bad. With every step she took, it seemed as if the corridor seemed to stretch just one step more.

She inched down the hall, her jet-black hair dirty and tangled, the makeup she spent hours perfecting beginning to melt away, her platform boots in hand. Those stupid fucking boots. So cute but so damn inconvenient. She almost bust her face open twice on the walk home, drunkenly stumbling on the sidewalk before taking them off. She knew it was stupid, sneaking out to go to concerts and parties instead of studying or spending time with her family. But recently, she hadn’t been feeling like herself. She couldn’t explain it, she just felt… off. And if taking a few too many shots and jumping around to the sound of ear-splitting screams with a bunch of strangers let her forget about it for a moment, she was willing to do so.

She blinked, and she made it to the entrance. A large black door containing elaborate engravings around the frame and the name “Emeritus” carved on the top stood before her. Slowly and carefully, she turned the door knob and pushed gently. Damn it, this door was old and creaky. If anyone asked what the noise was about in the morning, she would just say she left her headphones in the commons, which was a common occurrence. She opened her phone to check the time. 1:56 am.

She tiptoed her way in, turned around, shut the door slowly until she heard the satisfying click, and let go. Setting her boots down by the door, she inhaled deeply and let out a sigh of relief.

Phew.

“How was the party, Violetta?”

And as she lifted her gaze from the floor, there sat her father, Terzo, in the large recliner by the fire, swirling a glass of wine in his hand.

Shit.

Violetta stood by the door dumbfounded , painted lips agape yet not able to produce any words.

“And the one before that?”

The silence was deafening. The only thing audible was the repetitive ticking of the grandfather clock, typically gone unnoticed during the day.

“And the one before that?” he continued.

He took an extended sip from the glass, pretending to wait for a response, knowing damn well he wasn’t going to get one.

“There was even one on a Tuesday. Who goes to the club on a Tuesday?” he remarked.

Like this man hadn’t been to the club on a Tuesday.

“I’m sorry.” was all she managed to get out, staring at a singular spot on the carpet rather than into his eyes, trying to maintain her balance.

“Sit.” He said, gesturing to the couch across from him.

Violetta dragged herself over to the couch, putting a concerning amount of thought into each step. While she sat down, Terzo placed the glass onto the coffee table as she attempted not to look at it. She’d rather stare into her father’s disappointed eyes than look at any kind of alcohol right now. Just the thought of it made her stomach churn.

“Are you drunk?” Terzo asked, leaning forward, his tone eerily indistinguishable.

“Uh…”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah.”

There was no point in trying to hide it.

“Violetta…” her father said, rubbing his face with his hands.

He then started rambling, going off on what was presumably some sort of lecture about sneaking out. But as he kept talking, he kept getting quieter, and everything else got louder. A sickly feeling in her stomach began to grow, and a dull ache in her head was becoming more and more noticeable.

“Give me one moment.” Terzo said, standing up and exiting the room.

Fuck, he was gonna tell Mom.

Violetta shut her eyes, focusing on her breathing as the fatigue grew by the second with each tick of the clock. Her body was heating up, a tingling feeling spreading throughout her body. She was so embarrassed, caught by her dad while she was shitfaced out of her mind. She wanted to go to bed and wake up and feel better, and pretend this was all a bad dream.

When she opened her eyes, she was not faced with her mother, rather than her father, kneeling in front of her, wiping off the smudged black and white paint on her face. She really was her father’s daughter.

Terzo looked down at his daughter’s face, his heart growing with each swipe of the makeup wipe, as more and more of her was revealed. It had been so long since he’d seen her. His daughter. After he was done taking off her makeup, he tossed the wipe on the table.

The walls were spinning. Her stomach was churning. Her head was pounding.

“I think I’m gonna-“

Terzo quickly grabbed a large plastic bowl he had set on the table, previously gone unnoticed, and handed it to his daughter.

Just as the discomfort reached its climax, she retched into the bowl, emptying the contents of her stomach. When she was finally done, she set the bowl on the side of the table.

Much better.

“Better?” Terzo asked, sitting beside Violetta on the couch.

“Yeah.” She said, shooting him a weary thumbs up. Her headache was fading away, her stomach settled, and her body began to cool down.

“Good.” he replied.

And just moments after she felt the relief from the physical pain, another pain started to settle in: emotional pain. She didn’t know why it happened. It just did. Her chest started to ache, her throat tightened up, and her vision started to blur with tears.

“Are you mad at me?” she squeaked timidly, voice cracking.

“No.” he replied.

“You promise?”

“I promise.” he confirmed with a brief nod.

“Being a parent is weird, even after all this time. Of course when I see you leaving the house and partying I at first want to get upset. You know, I did the same things when I was your age. Worse. I was a party animal. Maybe ‘was’ is not the proper word. But I settled down after we had you. But nobody ever talked to me about it. I was scolded before I even understood the consequences of what I was doing. So I want to ask, how are you doing?”

“I don’t know.” she replied, somewhat honestly.

The tears welling up finally escaped her eyes, uncontrollably streaming down her face as she let out soft gasps and hiccups.

“Oh, la mia stellina, do not cry… It’s okay.” He reassured her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly.

It had been so long since they had hugged like this, since they had had a moment, just the two of them together. “I’m sorry it has taken me this long to check in on you.” He said as the two pulled away from their embrace.

“No, it’s okay, I’m sorry I’ve been sneaking out.” Violetta apologized, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Maybe we are both sorry. That’s okay.” He reassured her.

“Yeah.” She sniffed.

“I mean, honestly, it’s not all because I’m feeling weird. Going out is… fun.” She admitted.

“Trust me, I know. You are a teenager. You will go out and do teenage things. I cannot stop that. You are growing up. But I also want to make sure you’re being safe. That is my greatest concern. No taking anything from strangers, no walking alone at night, you know. You know this. You are smart, Violetta. That is why this is worrying me that something else is going on.”

“I’ve just been feeling weird. Different. I don’t know if depressed is the right word-“

“You have not been thinking of hurting yourself, have you?” Terzo interrupted, his facial expression morphing into one of panic as he collected both her hands in his.

“No.” she replied.

“You promise?” He said, voice dropping into a low whisper.

“Yes.”

“You promise me?”

“Yes, Papa. I promise.” she reiterated, looking into his eyes.

Papa.

He missed that word.

“Okay.”

“I don’t know, I just don’t really feel like myself. Just different. Like I’m watching my life go by and I’m just… inside my body.” she explained.

“Violetta, you can tell me these things. I am always here for you. I want to be a part of your life. I have no idea what an ideal father looks like. But I try my hardest to be one. I miss talking to you. The longest conversations we have are when we’re arguing. I do not want it to be this way. But that is how it has become.”

A looming silence spread throughout the room, leaving nothing but the faint sound of ticking until Terzo let in a shaky breath.

“Tell me, Violetta, what can I do to change this?”

And in a newly adopted, weaker tone, Terzo muttered,

“What can I do to be a part of your life again?”

“You will always be a part of my life, Papa. Even if you aren’t always with me. You don’t have to do anything else. This is all I needed. A reminder.” She reassured him.

“I will always do more. Take the extra mile. Even just one step more. Always for you.” Terzo professed.

“Thank you, Papa. I love you.”

“I love you too, Violetta. La mia stellina.” He said, pulling her in and holding her tightly.

“Tomorrow we can go for a car ride and listen to music, like we used to? Sound good?” he asked as the two pulled away from each other.

“Only if you let me have the aux.”

“An ox? That’s an odd pet, no?”

“No, Papa, like the- the aux cord.” She explained through laughter, mimicking plugging in the cord.

“Oh. I see. Sure, you can have the aux.” Terzo laughed, waving his hand.

“Oh, and now that we’re being open with each other, can you please tell me about the time you showed up drunk to mass and started freestyle rapping?”

“The time I- how?”

“Mom told me about it.”

Per l’amor del cielo.

☪︎ ִ ࣪𖤐 𐦍 ☾𖤓

AAAAAAAAAAAAA!

this one was so fun and challenging to write but so worth it!!! i’m obsessed with their relationship. 😭

i really hope you enjoyed!!

more violetta content is coming soon!! and maybe another child as well 🤭

❤️, alice

[weewooooweew]

🤩 hello faggots 🤩

(pfp made by @pridewishes and I’m matching with @raeprise <3)

You can call me Aspen (I also go by Rhys) :}

He/They/It/Neos/She (im okay with she/her but I really don’t prefer it. Everything else idc)

‼️ Favorites ‼️

my favorite colors are blues and greens, and I do like dandelion yellow a lot

beverage of choice is any flavor Monster, or Iced Coffee, or specifically spiced Coke

favorite food changes often but I’m always down for anything from this little local Chinese place I love it

⭐️ some of my favorite music artists ⭐️

Ricky Montgomery (I went to his concert last February 💪)

Bears In Trees

Naethan Apollo

NOAHFINNCE

Mickey Darling

Mindless Self Indulgence

Cavetown

Ricky Jamaraz

The World Is A Beautiful Place And I Am No Longer Afraid To Die

Blue Foster

Aberdeen Is Dead

Tally Hall

Pierce The Veil

Surf Curse

Dayglow

💪My Favorite Shows💪

Hannibal

House

Dead Boy Detectives

Supernatural

Sherlock

Ghosts

Jujutsu Kaisen

Bungo Stray Dogs

Hazbin Hotel

Hunter x Hunter

The Promised Neverland

🦐 Favorite Books 🦐

“Brave New World” by Aldous Huxley ⭐️

“Neverwhere” by Neil Gaiman ⭐️

“The Girl Who Drank The Moon” by idk

“A Dark And Hollow Star” by Ashley Shuttleworth

“1984” by George Orwell

“The Great Gatsby” by F. Scott Fitzgerald ⭐️

“The Ocean at the End of the Lane” by Neil Gaiman ⭐️

Yeah that’s all for now losers

[cazzyf1]

Some of my favourite quotes from David Benson's 'Hunt v Lauda'

'He was nursing a toy yellow-eyed gorilla which made alarming noises and clapped a pair of cymbals attached to its hand.

"Whats with the gorilla?"

James looked tired. "It's called smiler. Alistair and Teddy gave it to me to celebrate my championship."

Teddy smiled benignly: "The gorilla was not very popular in first-class lounge I'm afraid."

"No," said James, "and they wouldn't let me blow my whistle either." He produced a police whistle and blew it.' - p7

"When we boarded the plane, he (James Hunt) insisted on joining mechanics in touring class until the lights were turned down for passengers to sleep." - p8

"Niki had always wanted to marry Mariella but she had refused to do so until he had become world champion." - p21

"The unsuspecting young actress Marlene Knaus was going to endure a trial that few women, even with a tremendously experienced and well-founded background, could have endured." - p21

"I telephoned James Hunt in Johannesburg where he is preparing for the South African Grand Prix. He told me, "I have been in daily contact with Susy and am fully informed about what is going on. I wouldn't stop her getting a divorce. I am trying to help her as much as I can so that she makes the right decisions. Obviously if she wanted to come back to me, I would help her do that." - p40

"I walked out of the dinning-room to an annexe alongside it, and sitting in the corner with a lady I didn't know was Niki Lauda; he smiled and asked a Carol and me to join him for a cup of coffee. He introduced the girl alongside him very simply, "This is my lady," She was, of course, Marlene Knaus, a very beautiful girl, with her hair in a rather severe style, brushed back, and a bun on the top of her head. We had a long chat about seat belts - both were empathetically in favour (that evening the house of commons in the UK were debating on making seatbelts in cars compulsory) - but the important thing was that I established a friendly relationship with Marlene when other people on the racing circuit cold-shouldered her, thinking she was merely some local pick-up. In fact, she and Niki were planning to get married as soon as they flew back from South Africa." - p44

"The main topic of conversation was the break-up of the long relationship between Niki Lauda and Mariella. Helen (Stewart) offered, with the best possible intentions, to get in touch with both Mariella and Niki is necessary to heal the breach. Having seen how close Niki and Marlene were in South Africa, I doubted if this were possible. As it turned out, a day after we had our discussion in Nina's home, Niki went quietly to a register office near Vienna and married Marlene." - p47

"He tried awfully hard not to hurt me." - (Susy about James) - p58

"James was standing right alongside me. Tears welling in his eyes. "It's stupid," he said, "It does not affect the performance of the car or make it any faster. Not even the Ferrari team protested and they were the ones who have the most to win..." - p62

"It was in triumph, therefore, that Hunt, six weeks before his 29th birthday, left for Britain in preparation for the John Player Grand Prix at Brands Hatch. With good humour and in high spirits, he took part in an event before the race and revealed another facet in his talents. It was at the Albert Hall at the Grand Prix Night of the Stars, a concert in aid of the Graham Hill Memorial Fund. The hall was packed with evening-suited celebrities who had paid up to £500 for a private box. Hunt was introduced by astronomer Patrick Moore who had just done a soft-shoe shuffle. Suddenly, Moore reached for a trumpet left behind on the bandstand by Chris Barber, who had done an earlier turn. "You're supposed to be good at blowing your own trumpet," he said, "so try this one." The audience dutifully laughed expecting a knockabout comedy turn. But Hunt took the trumpet, the studio band started to play and Hunt's clear, clean notes echoed through the vast auditorium. It was a memorable moment. When the audience realised that Hunt was playing for real, they roared their approval and then sat in silence as James plaved like a professional. Hunt's brother, Peter told me later: "I had a hell of a job convincing the BBC, who were recording the show, that James really was a good enough trumpet player to perform on TV. He learned to play at about 12 or 13 when he was at Wellington. He was in the school orchestra and the school band and played solo at concerts. Stuart Turner, Public Affairs Director of Ford of Britain, had a box at the Albert Hall. He turned to me after Hunt had finished his solo and said: "Now I have seen everything: James Hunt playing the trumpet at the Albert Hall we'll have Niki Lauda doing a comedy act next." - p73-4

"Niki himself, having almost killed himself in a first-lap accident there in 1974, has always campaigned against the Nurenburgring. He argued that the 1976 German Grand Prix should be switched to the Hockenheim Ring, a purpose-built circuit with outstanding safety facilities installed after the death there of Jim Clark in 1968. But Lauda was reviled by the Germans for his attempt. In practise at Nürburgring spectators displayed a huge poster of Lauda and his car. Across it was written, 'Lauda 20 kilometres per hour. Aus.' Ring bystanders are hard on anyone threatening the thrill of the race." - p80

"Sunday's race day was altogether depressing from the start. The young American driver Brett Lunger had heard the night before that his father had died unexpectedly in the United States and Brett decided to stay and go on with the race before returning home. It was to be a vital decision in the saving of Niki Lauda's life." - p81

"Jackie had a remarkable story to tell that Niki's agents had telephoned him soon after the crash and asked him to appear at a promotion for a new line of jeans which were being marketed in Niki's name. Jackie refused, saying he would only appear with Niki's permission. Niki was telephoned and they were told that he was determined to be there himself." - p86-7

"What would the situation be if Niki was fit to drive and Ferrari still wouldn't come to the track?" I asked Alastair, without hesitation he replied: "We will lend him a car so he and James can fight it out." - p89

"Then Niki arrived in his Jaguar with Marlene and Willi Dungl, his masseur/confidant, the man responsible for building Niki up physically in preparation for the race. There was a last-minute panic when it was discovered that Dungl had left his passport back at the house but he had an identity card and Niki knew that with Ferrari influence we would have no trouble getting Willi into Italy. Niki insisted on carrying out all the check-out procedures himself and we made a beautiful take off from Salzburg Airport." - p95

"At one point I was asked if I wanted to see a priest. So I said: "OK." He came in, and gave me my last rites - crossed my shoulder - and said "Goodbye My friend". I nearly had a heart attack! I wanted someone to help me live in this world, and not pass into the next." - p98

"I was watching his wife Marlene's eyes as she protectively, solicitously, studied her husband. She seemed almost proud of his scarred features." - p101

"A beautiful elegant grey/green-eyed young woman by the name of Marlene Knaus enjoyed life of a promising screen actress and model. A member of one of the most respected families in Austria she fitted easily into the jet set world of show business. She moved easily too in the rarefield world of medicine in which her grandfather was a renowned gynaecologist and in the artistic circles into which she was born as the daughter of a famous painter." - p101

"I used to smoke maybe one or two cigarettes a day, but from the time of the accident I have become a chain smoker. I know that this is not good for my health but it helps me through the crisis." Niki does not smoke and he says that this fact helped him recover from his lung injuries, but he does not reprove Marlene for smoking." - p102

"Marlene is a delightfully warm person. Her handshake is firm. Her eyes are steady and constant. They are the eyes of a woman who could inspire a man to great things, and she likes to touch the person that she is talking to. She looks at her husbands scarred face and gently strokes it." - p103

"Hunt, who had trotted through the driving rain along the length of the pits to salute the supreme courage of his world title rival Niki Lauda." - p104

"I just wish there bad been no accident, no disqualifications, no aggrevation, and Niki and I were fighting it out fair and square on the track. After what Niki has achieved, he deserves that at least. What Ferrari have done is to devalue the world championship and to cloud Niki's brave recovery. His recovery is absolutely amazing and he really is fit again." - p125

"His wife Marlene was happy with his decision. She had said earlier; "When he got into the car and drove away, I wanted to throw myself in front of it and stop him." - p140

"All Hunt knew was that he had to pass everything in sight. It took him two laps to catch and pass Alan Jones in the Surtees. Now he was fourth. Almost on the same bend he came upon Regazzoni in the Ferrari. Would the Swiss Italian let him through or hold him back? Ostentatiously Rega moved over and waved Hunt through ar a point where the Ferrari pit could clearly see his manoeuvre. As Rega passed his pit he gave them the two finger sign to show his disapproval that he had been dropped from the team for 1977." - p142

[phanfictioncatalogue]

Falling In Love (3) Masterlist

part one, part two

Advent Calendar 2021 (ao3) - Phantje

Summary: Phil lives and works in a town in the North called Lylchester. Well, 'works'. He does charitable things in the name of being nice and his (adoptive) parents. Things are fine. Yeah. Fine. Meeting Dan who has strong opinions about peculiar things shakes up Phil's life and he is falling before he can help it.

Dan lives and works somewhere, or anywhere really. By fate, or call it the British Railway train running times, he ends up in Lylchester. Before he can help himself, he has made the first real best friend he has ever had - Beatrix. And suddenly, life does not seem so difficult anymore. Dan appreciates the work he can do, even if it has him interact with the rich idiot Phil more often that he would personally choose.

All My Friends Are Falling In Love (ao3) - expiredlove

Summary: All Phil's friends are falling in love and he just can't seem to understand what exactly the feeling that they are talking about is, until he experiences it himself.

Set in 2009.

baby just take the chance to love me (ao3) - gotnobodytolove

Summary: falling in love with your best friend isn’t easy.

Carpets, Pokemon and hugs (These are a few of my favorite things) (ao3) - DownDownFangirl

Summary: "Is everything ok?" The tall guy stops. The elevator starts to close. The guy reaches for the door and it opens again. He looks into Phil's eyes and it’s strong and focused and confusing.

-

Phil works at a motel and Dan is a guest who comes and goes. There are many thoughts to think and many delicate conversations to have... And it can get confusing, especially when you live hundreds of kilometers away from each other.

Deceit and Devotion (ao3) - Thatonefunhun

Summary: Phil Lester has it all. A successful career doing what he loves, a “bestie” who's always got his back, and a can-do attitude! He’s living the life! But what goes on beyond the camera? And is everything as it seems…

Electronics and the Phil’s that break them (ao3) - Fictropes

Summary: The first time’s an accident, a proper accident— a Phil forgot how to hold his cup and now he’s watching his coffee seep into his keyboard type accident.

Golden Boy (ao3) - hygge

Summary: Phil takes a drawing class in university and needs a subject for his drawing final.

good night bear (ao3) - loveforlester

Summary: “good night bear i love you”

dan howell loves phil lester. phil lester loves dan howell. you know the story two soulmates who met on the internet. just something is different.

dan can’t sleep without watching phil’s videos. oh and phil stopped filming videos

home renovations (ao3) - possumdnp

Summary: Phil is a new homeowner with a knack for getting himself into awkward situations around cute guys. Dan is a builder who's always working on renovations around Phil's house. What could go wrong?

(An alternate meeting YouTuber Phil/builder Dan AU.)

How Far We’ve Come (ao3) - angelszn (artbabe)

Summary: Phil asks Dan to move in with him.

i will never know a sunday (how slow the moments go) (ao3) - beaniebopbaby

Summary: Phil was mesmerized. He had no idea how anyone in the room was talking. How could they not listen to this beautiful piece?

Phil continued to sit, listening, overcome by the joy of the music - a smile plastered on his face. He did not realize when the others began to leave. If anyone walked by him, he did not see. But soon, he was the only one left in the concert hall. He had no idea how long he sat there and listened.

Somewhere midway through the piece, the notes began to change. The pianist began slowing his notes, and their progressions were no longer full of joy. The song became sad, melancholy. It took Phil’s breath away. He felt cold all of a sudden, like the pianist was further away somehow isolated.

The man hunched over the piano, and Phil felt like he couldn’t breath. He looked around the room, to see if anyone else noticed this shift, when he finally realized they were alone. The notes grew slower and slower as Phil stood, drifting closer to the man playing the piano. The pianist looked as mesmerized as Phil, absorbed in his playing.

Learning Curves (ao3) - winstonlives

Summary: Dan, a youtuber, sees an old A levels teacher in a gay bar years after he left school. That same teacher is Phil Lester, the hunkiest teach Dan ever did see. He makes a plan to subtly bump into him and reintroduce himself as a successful adult. While the reintroduction doesn’t go quite as planned, the two end up in bed together, much to Dan’s delight. Phil on the other hand has some reservations about the whole thing, throwing a wrench into Dan’s lustful plans.

names of collision in the dark (ao3) - Anonymous

Summary: Of enemy kingdoms, Prince Dan and Prince Phil meet one fateful night, leading to a surprising friendship that evolves into something more. As the looming threat of a major battle grows stronger, both princes grapple with their roles and the burdens of leadership, all while their growing bond forces them to confront their own kingdoms’ expectations and the possibility of peace in the chaos.

(aka the dan and phil royal au fic they wrote for the gaming channel but taken seriously)

nine years of love (ao3) - natigail

Summary: There are a hundred ways to say I love you and a dozen of word for love. It might not even require words. Actions can speak louder than words, so every little touch, every shared glance, every joyful laugh, every tear shed and every seemingly normal moment.

It should be the most fun you’ve ever had and for two boys it had been exactly that. Nine years of love. Shared struggles and successes. They had shared ten 19th of October in each other’s company with no sight of stopping yet.

Phan Funeral Meet-Cute (ao3) - bogdaddy_owns_my_ass

Summary: Dan Howell meets a tall, mysterious man at the funeral of a dear friend of his who had died under mysterious circumstances. What Dan doesn't know is that this man is who he is destined to be with for all eternity.

Purposeful Permanence (ao3) - artbabe

Summary: Dan hates doing his laundry at the university laundromat, so he takes his dirty laundry to Phil's place.

the man of my dreams (ao3) - mel_m_a_o

Summary: He first dreamed about this man maybe two months ago. The dream wasn’t really something out of the ordinary and Dan didn’t really remember what it was about, but it stuck out to him, because he wasn’t usually someone who remembered his dreams. He often thought he just doesn’t dream at all, but that certainly changed. He keeps dreaming about the same pale, black haired man and his bright eyes that make Dan wake up in a sweat. He starts to see the face everywhere all the time until he actually does.

would it be a sin if I can't help falling in love with you?(ao3) - resurrectdead

Summary: “Hey.”

Phil reaches over the counter. Leaning one elbow on it, he puts a finger underneath Dan’s chin, gently tilts his head back up. Dan tries not to tremble. He darts his eyes up and they catch at his lips, stay there as he speaks. (He wants to taste them so bad.)

“I don’t know what kind of people you’re friends with,” he starts, “but if they aren’t nice to you, maybe you should consider switching them out for some that are.”

or: it's 1978, everything is a bad influence, catholicism makes you a bit sad sometimes and dan finds the answer to all his questions

you bewitched me (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: dan is a waiter at a restaurant that often serves a regular customer, phil. as their flirty exchanges continue and become more steamy, dan shoots his shot through a post it inviting phil to a nearby cafe.

little does phil know dan works at that cafe as well.

You Send Me (ao3) - Portia331

Summary: A reflection on relationship growth and how it feels.

[littlescaryinternetguy]

He woke up.

Every morning he woke up and kept his eyes closed for a while.

He would move his fingers ever so slightly, feeling his sheets, feeling the bedwarmth, feeling where it grew cooler at the edge. He would move his foot to feel the weight of the blankets, to feel the weight of his cat curled up down there. He would listen to the apartment he lived in alone. Sometimes his upstairs neighbor would be awake if they had to open at the diner. Sometimes the next door neighbor would be saying something to their kid. He would smell the coffee already being made by the coffee maker, and he would smell the last traces of last night’s dinner, if he actually cooked it and didn’t microwave it.

He would lie there taking it all in, wanting something he couldn’t have. He tried to be grateful for what  he did have. Usually he could be. Some days the only thing that got him out of bed was spite and the inertia of routine.

In short, he was no-one special, and that was fine. But he did want to be special. He wanted to be held, completely. Totally held. Held in such a way that he was erased from everything but the hand he was held in. He wanted to be small, very small, so small that he could disappear under someone’s curled fingers. And he wanted so to be something he could not be, he would lie there taking it all in: the voices of neighbors, the dimensions of his life and how they were too much.

Every morning he woke up and kept his eyes closed for a while and this morning he woke up and kept his eyes closed. For a while.

He moved his fingers, and the sheets were not his sheets.

They were coarser, and they tented oddly. Normally the weight of them spilling over the side of the bed kept them flat, but now they were somewhat stiff. The pillow felt scratchy on his ears, and his head was sunken into it.

The cat was not there, but that wasn’t unusual.

Last night he had cooked, braised cod with garlic, lots of garlic. The scent was a comfort to him, something his grandmother had cooked in her years living with his family. It was a smell that pervaded everything. He would have found it a bit unpleasant if he hadn’t done the cooking himself. But the smell wasn’t there this morning. Nor was the smell of coffee.

In its place: a clean smell, totally foreign to his home. Not that he let his place grow filthy by any means, but deep cleaning was a thing that only happened once a year at most. People didn’t tend to visit, so he didn’t see the point. And anyone who did, he reasoned, knows me and would understand. His house smelled human.

This morning, the room he was in smelled lived in, but clean. Cleaned. An effort had been made.

He couldn’t hear anything much at all. Not a neighbor, nor the shudder and weary sigh of the air conditioning, nor a semi on the interstate a few blocks over. He heard humming, light humming. A song he thought he might know. It sounded wrong. It sounded like it was coming over a stadium loudspeaker a mile away. Not tinny, just the size of the sound. A whisper that could fill a concert hall.

He recognized the song at last, after lying with his eyes closed for what seemed like forever. Lefty Frizell. “Saginaw, Michigan”. It made him smile as he remembered all the crazy rhymes in it.

He opened his eyes.

It wasn’t his room but he knew it wouldn’t be. The sheets were as coarse, no, coarser than he had felt them to be. He could almost poke a finger through the weave of them. The walls were covered with a riot of printed words and huge pictures. A string of lights, the size of watermelons and dark, around the top of the wall at the ceiling. A chintzy plastic chair, all molded as one piece, sat in the corner looking as if it would buckle under the weight of nothing.

My dad was a poor, hard-working Saginaw fisherman Too many times he came home with too little pay.

He swung his legs out. The floor, too, was plastic, and instead of the slight chill of his floor at home this one seemed to be perfectly room temperature.

He heard a rising noise that became a whine, then a cry, then a shriek as a tea kettle came to a boil. But again, it was from so far away, but sounded so close.

He stood up and looked around. One door. The window, as it turned out, was a sticker. It showed a nice scene of a grassy hillside. It occurred to him that he ought to be terrified, but he wasn’t. He felt that he was on the edge of something. He reached up distractedly and felt his pulse in his throat.

The doorknob was the color of the trim around the door, and did not turn.

And you can tell your dad I'm coming back a richer man I hit the biggest strike in Klondike history

He smiled. Saginaw, Michigan. Young ambitious man. Saginaw fisherman. All those rhymes that Lefty Frizell knew were a reach. He thought of him laughing as he wrote them down.

His hand was on the doorknob. The humming had stopped, he realized. It had grown quiet. His hand was on the doorknob. He tried to be grateful for what he did have. He tried not to want what he didn’t have. He couldn’t. He wanted it.

And now a thumping, not heavy but large, as if the weight of several thousand pounds were being gently placed on the ground. Over and over, in a regular rhythm, and louder and louder. His hand was on the doorknob. He thought to turn around to look at the bed but what if he turned back and his hand was on his own door?

He opened the door. She was sitting cross-legged in front of it, maybe a hundred feet away. The rest of the house had been swung away, he could see the stairs with no railings going up to a second floor. He looked back at her, looming sweetly, holding a mug the size of a cistern with both hands. She wore a fuzzy housecoat and was two hundred feet tall if she was anything. A room larger than anything he could describe stretched out behind her, filled with everyday life, of a size that dwarfed him. In front of him, on the ground, was a dimpled metal can full of something brown and clear and steaming. Tea. A life he could disappear into but not disappear. A star in a night sky that loved him.

“I didn’t know if you would ever wake up,” she said softly, but the size of her voice filled him. “But I didn’t expect to be asleep so long myself.”

[friendly-neighborhood-boricua]

Strings [2]

Summary: Sirius disappeared a long while ago. As a child, you resented him for it, though the feeling dulled over time. But when he started appearing on the front covers of popular magazines, nearly a decade after he’d left your life, the ache in your chest showed itself again. Though, it seems he hadn’t forgotten about you as you had thought.

Notes: rockstar!Sirius Black x conductor!reader. The first part was only really meant as a sort of preview for this part, so this one’s quite a bit longer than the last, but I think I like this one quite a lot! 

Sirius was in a meeting when he spotted her name. James had got a call from Lily (who was slowly reciprocating the boy’s advances much to his delight), and the Marauders soon found themselves in her office, going over the logistics of their new album. Peter and Remus were leaning over Lily’s desk, pouring over the paperwork and hastily-scribbled notes that laid there, and James tried to do the same, though he kept getting distracted every couple minutes and staring at Lily with a dreamy, far-off look in his eyes.

Lily rented two rooms in a tall building in central London to run her small music production agency: one for her office space and the other as a sort of waiting area. She had insisted they meet in the waiting area in this particular instance—her office was apparently quite the mess—so James and Sirius sat on one couch while Lily, Peter, and Remus sat on the other, a low coffee table with a small stack of magazines separating them.

As Sirius’s eyes wandered, he recognized one of the magazines—a high-society lifestyle one that his mother would have loved—and, on a whim, began to flip through it, nodding or shaking his head or humming absent-mindedly when his opinion was asked for by his bandmates. And then, on page thirty-six, there she was.

Y/N Y/LN’s debut performance with Royal Opera House Symphony on 12 July, 1984

Sirius didn’t pay any attention for the rest of the meeting. As soon as he got back to his flat (magazine from Lily’s in tow, of course), he’d called the number in the article and bought himself a ticket. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting to come out of this symphony trip, but he’d be damned if he missed the opportunity to see Y/N again

Two weeks later, Sirius had donned his best symphony attire—black slacks borrowed from James, a wrinkled white button-down, and grey Converse because he forgot to ask to borrow James’s fancy loafers as well—and took the bus to London’s Royal Opera House. He had stopped at a florist’s shop on the way, choosing a delicate bouquet of crimson roses and baby’s breath. Finally seated, Sirius checked his watch and sighed, blushing lightly—forty-seven minutes before the start of the show. 

Surprisingly enough, Sirius wasn’t the earliest; there were plenty of people closer than he to the stage, and several dozen children on what seemed to be a school trip were chattering and giggling excitedly towards the very front. He was suddenly glad for his decision to sit in the second level of balconies; if he had sat in the very front, a kid from the school trip was sure to recognize him, and Sirius wasn’t really in the mood to sign autographs or take photos. 

His knee bounced anxiously as London’s elite filed into the seats around him. He received more than a few strange looks from the men and women, all in their tailcoats and gowns, but, for the first time in his life, his mother had trained him well, and he simply sent aggressively polite smiles to anyone who dared look at him funny until finally, the lights dimmed and the orchestra began to tune. 

Sirius had chosen a seat right at the edge of the balcony, hoping for the best view possible of the musicians below, but as much as he squinted and scoped out the cluster of cellos, he couldn’t find Y/N anywhere. After a minute or so, the orchestra had finished tuning, and it seemed that the entire concert hall held its breath for the conductor to appear.

And appear she did. 

The breath Sirius didn’t realize he was holding completely left his lungs as Y/N herself graced the stage, waving to the audience with a stunning smile as she made for the podium. Her dress was made completely of black tulle and satin, broad, layered ruffles flowing around her with effortless elegance that nearly made Sirius swoon. 

It hit him like a truck. Sirius hadn’t thought much about why a principal cellist would be featured in a magazine when he first saw her name, but it was miles more reasonable for a conductor to be written about. But—Christ—she was a year younger than he, and he was only twenty-four himself. She must’ve been the youngest conductor to perform at the Royal Opera House in decades—centuries, maybe even—

Sirius’s whirlwind of thoughts fell to an abrupt silence as the orchestra began to play. Even when he was old and grey, Sirius wouldn’t be able to recall a more enjoyable night full of Russian waltzes than that one. The muted horns and lulling strings sent him into a trance. All he could do was simply watch Y/N’s movements, graceful and emotive all at once, and let himself imagine that it was just he and she, that they were waltzing in an empty ballroom in one of those period pieces on the BBC channel that James’s mother loved so much. 

Sirius was overjoyed and terribly disappointed at the same time when the concert came to an end. As soon as Y/N turned to the audience and bowed, one hand over her heart as she motioned to her orchestra with the other, he was on his feet, bouquet under his arm as he clapped furiously. The concert hall was filled with applause even as she left the stage, and after a couple seconds, she returned, bowing once again with her orchestra. This happened three more times before the audience was sated, and the lights rose once again as everyone began to file out. 

Too impatient to mope along behind the elderly symphony-goers, Sirius squeezed through the throngs of people and, after little thought, snuck through a door labeled “Staff Only”. Behind it lay exactly what he was hoping: a completely empty staircase. Sirius bounded down it, bouquet clutched tightly in his left hand as his right tracked along the railing to keep him from falling, until he reached the first floor. 

The stairwell emptied into a staff corridor that led towards the stage, tall and lit with blinding fluorescents. Sirius could hear muffled chatter from the stage, which echoed off of the cement floors and cinder block walls. Through a door a dozen feet down the hall, someone bid farewell to someone else and, with a laugh, departed. Sirius began walking towards the voices. Just as he reached the door, it swung open, and he stepped back to avoid being smacked in the face. 

If Sirius was asked to imagine the moment he saw Y/N again after nearly a decade apart, he was sure he wouldn’t have imagined what actually happened. Y/N was smiling over her shoulder as she opened the door, facing away from Sirius until she stepped fully into the hallway. And of course, she was even more beautiful up close. Her black dress hugged her torso just perfectly, the skirt dancing around her legs as if it were alive. Her hair lay perfectly in its natural form, her skin clear and soft-looking, and Sirius was met with a waft of jasmine flower that nearly sent him to his knees. But when she finally turned and met Sirius’s excited gaze, the smile that spread across her lips dipped slightly.

“Oh,” she said. Sirius couldn’t tell if she was surprised in a good way or a bad one. “Um … hello, Sirius.”

The door fell shut behind her.

“Hello,” Sirius said and nearly cringed; he sounded like a blushing schoolboy. The pair stared at each other for a long moment until Sirius finally came to his senses. 

“Here,” he said and thrusted the bouquet out at her. “For you.”

“Oh. Thank you,” she said quietly, taking the flowers in one hand and adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder with the other. “They’re … beautiful.”

Sirius’s smile broadened, and the two once again stared at each other. 

“Um … are you alright?” Y/N finally asked, brows furrowed. Sirius blinked dumbly, and then nodded. 

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m good. Great, even.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “Okay … and, um …,” she scratched the back of her neck, “why are you here?”

Suddenly, Sirius felt incredibly awkward. Here he was, standing in front of a girl—a woman, now—whom he hadn’t seen in years. It was unfair of him to expect them to resume being the best of friends as if nothing had happened. 

“Uh, I just—I just heard you were performing and thought I might as well, um, come watch,” Sirius said. “Thought maybe we could catch up or hang out … or something.” The end of the sentence turned upwards like a question, but Sirius nearly gasped in relief when Y/N smiled mildly. 

“Um, sure, we can talk for a bit,” she said and began walking down the corridor towards the ticket booths. Sirius followed at her side like a lost puppy as the two walked in slightly-more-comfortable silence, passing through a door that led into the Royal Opera House’s atrium, then exiting into the warm summer night. 

“So,” Y/N began, “how’ve you been?”

“Good, I’ve been good!” Sirius said, walking between her and the empty street with his hands behind his back, fiddling nervously. “And you? Seems you’ve been doing well for yourself.” She laughed lightly, and Sirius beamed. 

“I’m doing well,” she confirmed. “I mean, I’m resident conductor for the Royal Opera House in London. I could do a lot worse.” They both chuckled. 

“Very true, you’re doing brilliantly,” Sirius said, and Y/N smiled up at him. Fucking hell. His heart was going to leap out of his mouth at this rate.

“I mean, you’re doing alright for yourself as well,” Y/N said. “You’ve got your own band and everything.”

Sirius blushed a little, embarrassed. “I wasn’t sure if you knew.”

Y/N scoffed humorously. “Goodness, Sirius, I don’t live under a rock. I see you on the cover of every magazine when I do my shopping.”

“I know you don’t live under a rock,” he said with a little laugh. “But still, I don’t like to assume.”

She shrugged. “Fair enough.”

The pair turned right and crossed a street.

“How’d you find out we were performing tonight anyway?” Y/N asked, looking up at Sirius. Her brows furrowed lightly, and a thin crease appeared between them. 

“Saw it in a magazine,” Sirius said. “Called in that night to order my ticket. You really think I was about to miss my childhood best friend’s debut performance?”

Y/N let out a scoff that was a little less than humorous. “You mean the girl you disappeared on in Year 11.”

Sirius’s smile fell. Of course.

Sirius couldn’t remember much of the time he spent at home before he ran away to James’s. His best memories were the ones with Y/N when they were children, sneaking out of their respective houses in the night to meet on the streets of Paris and have fun or talk or simply walk together in silence. After he ran away, Sirius didn’t think about her until the first summer he spent at the Potters’, when he realized he didn’t really have a way to get back to her. His parents had paid for him to be a part of the Youth Symphony, and he had stayed at their family house to attend. But Sirius refused to ask Mr. and Mrs. Potter for anything more than they had already done for him, even if it meant never seeing Y/N again. Still, he was a sixteen-year-old boy. He mourned the loss of his best friend, but he hadn’t thought of what she would think when he seemingly fell off the face of the planet.

“I’m really sorry for—”

“It’s fine,” Y/N interrupted. “Truly. I know you wouldn’t have stopped attending without a reason.”

“You deserve to know why,” Sirius countered. 

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “I don’t deserve to know anything you don’t want to tell me, Sirius.”

He frowned. “And if I do want to tell you?”

Y/N stopped walking, and Sirius stopped too. She was looking up at him with a look that sent a wave of nostalgia through his mind. She’d often look at him like that when he showed her his bruises and cuts after a particularly rough evening with his parents. She’d tend to them in silence, using the iodine wipes, antiseptic, and colorful band aids with stars on them that she’d begun to carry around for him, before sitting in front of him and watching him with that soft look of concern. 

With a small huff, Y/N switched the bouquet to the hand furthest from Sirius and took his hand and dragged him to the street, barely looking both ways before crossing.

“Um—where’re we going?” Sirius asked, trying his best to ignore how her hand pulled him along so firmly yet gently. He hoped his palms wouldn’t get sweaty. 

“You’ll see,” she said and dragged him into a small corner shop. 

A small bronze bell tinkled to life as the odd pair entered the small shop, and a small child popped up behind the counter. 

“Welcome to the Last Stop Corner Shop! Here, you’ll find all your last minute needs! Nail polish? We’ve got some! Beer in a bottle? Absolutely! Garlic salt? Aisle two, on your left! Beer in a can? Right next to the beer in a bottle! Hotdogs?—”

“Amir, you don’t have to do that every time I stop by,” Y/N chided, pulling Sirius further into the shop. 

“Oh, Y/N! It’s good to see you! Who’s this? Is he—”

“He’s a friend of mine. Sirius,” Y/N introduced. 

“Sirius?” Amir peered up at Sirius with the widest, most curious eyes the man had ever seen. “Hey, you’re that guy from TV! My sister reeeally likes you. She said the other day that she thinks you’re—”

“Amir!” came another voice from the back room, and a girl around sixteen rushed behind the counter. “Stop telling everyone that, you little—” As soon as she noticed Sirius’s presence, the girl froze. Her dark eyes widened to the size of tea saucers, and her eyes flicked from him to the tabloid magazines with his picture on the racks behind him, then back. Once she’d confirmed it was indeed Sirius Black standing in front of her, she simply stood, arms hanging at her sizes, and gaped. 

“Er …” Sirius glanced at Y/N for help, “hi there.”

“C’mon,” Y/N said quietly, quickly pushing him into the forest of aisles and out of the girl’s view. “Sorry about that,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. 

“S’alright,” Sirius said with a chuckle. “I'm getting it a lot more and more now-a-days.”

“I can imagine,” Y/N said, maneuvering them towards the back of the shop. “Fasha’s obsessed with the Marauders. Can’t get enough, truly. It’s all she plays whenever I stop by.”

Sirius smirked. “I’ll keep that in mind if ever the boys and I need, uh, nail polish, garlic salt, hotdogs, or beer in a can or a bottle.” Y/N laughed, nudging his hip with hers. Sirius blushed. Goodness, what was she doing to him?

“Don’t tease her. She idolizes you.”

“Oh she idolizes me, does she?”

Y/N glared up at him, and he snickered. The two came to a stop in front of a section of shelves full of wine, bottles glimmering in the shop’s flickering light. “Pick your poison,” she said, motioning to the shelves. Sirius considered for a moment before taking two and holding them up towards Y/N.

“Cabernet or Muscadelle?”

Y/N’s brows furrowed in thought for just a moment before she took the Cabernet, and the two made their way back towards the counter.Thankfully, Fasha had recovered enough from her shock that she was able to check them out (eyeing Sirius in poorly-veiled awe the entire time), and in no time, Sirius was dragged outside once again. Y/N led him a block or two further down the road, then across an empty intersection diagonally and into a small park. Once she decided they were deep enough into the park, she withdrew a Swiss army knife from her purse and extended the corkscrew attachment. 

“You drink bottles of wine in the park so often that you’ve got a Swiss army knife for it?” Sirius teased as Y/N opened the bottle, and she chuckled lightly. “This is the first time I’ve used the corkscrew bit,” she admitted, passing him the bottle. Sirius took a swig. “I usually only use the nail file.”

Sirius nodded in understanding, passing the bottle back. Y/N took a sip and sighed.

“So,” she said.

“So,” Sirius parroted back. The two walked in silence, passing the bottle back and forth leisurely as he tried to decide what to say. There was so much he wanted to tell her: how much he enjoyed singing and playing the guitar, how much he loved his friends, how he regretted leaving her so abruptly. Y/N looked up at him gently, and he took a slow breath. Even if they hadn’t seen each other in years, Sirius knew her. She wouldn’t press for more information than he was comfortable with giving or sell him out to the tabloids. She would simply listen. “Um, you … you know how my parents were.” Y/N nodded. “Yeah. I really liked going back to school because I didn’t have to … deal with them there. I could just live without having to watch my every move, y’know?” Again, she nodded, but Sirius didn’t really wait for a response, taking a quick gulp of wine before he continued. “My best mate, James—he’s our guitarist, but sometimes he does drums—he was always offering for me to stay with him over school holidays so I wouldn’t have to go home. His parents are lovely—seriously, some of the best people I’ve ever met—but I never wanted to bother them, y’know? So I didn’t ever take him up on it.

“So, one Christmas, I went back to my parents’, and they were awful—what’s new?” Y/N smiled a little sadly. “I … honestly, I don’t remember much, but I ended up at James’s doorstep one night, and Mrs. Potter wouldn’t let me go back home—not that I wanted to go, of course—for the rest of winter holiday, and then summer holiday as well, and the winter one after that, and …” Sirius sighed slightly. “I haven’t gone back to my parents’ house since. And honestly, I couldn’t care less about what they’re up to now.” Sirius swallowed thickly before plastering on a smile and looking down at Y/N. “Fuck ‘em, y’know?” She barely smiled.

The odd pair continued down the path, taking turns with the wine as the both of them began to stumble slightly.

“Thank you for telling me, Sirius,” Y/N said. She was beginning to grip onto his arm to keep steady, and Sirius didn’t think the warm feeling in his chest was only from the alcohol. 

“I’m still sorry I never tried to find you again,” Sirius mumbled, but Y/N just shrugged.

“I’d rather you keep me in the dark and get away from them than stay just to see me,” she reasoned. Sirius giggled, buzzed. “What?” she whined. “‘Get away from them,’” Sirius repeated, voice high and exaggerated, before giggling again. “You say ‘them’ like they’re the scum of the earth.” “They are,” Y/N said indignantly. “Horrible people. They’re the worst. If I ever see your mother or father in person, I’d be happy to punch them in the thr—oh look, a little gazebo!” Before Sirius’s addled brain could catch up, she was already running for the little wooden structure next to a large lake. He stumbled after her, blinking very hard to get the world to stop spinning, and finally leaned against one of the wood pillars, watching as Y/N examined the benches inside with drunken interest. A giddy smile made its way onto his face without his knowing, and she turned to him with a childishly excited look. “It’s like in The Sound of Music. Y’know, when Liesl dances with that one guy in the glass pavilion while it’s raining?” Her face fell into a more thoughtful look. “Liesl actually quite annoyed me in that movie. She needed to find a hobby or something.”

Sirius laughed, setting the now only half-full wine bottle down on a bench and bowing dramatically at Y/N, hand extended.

“May I have this dance, my dear?” he asked in his worst old-timey posh accent. Y/N snorted but played along, taking his hand delicately.

“Of course, my darling,” she said in an equally ridiculous voice. Sirius grinned and stood straight once he’d moved the bouquet safely onto the bench beside the wine. He held her close to his chest with one arm and held her right arm out to the side as he led them in a very messy waltz, humming an odd mix of the waltzes she had conducted an hour or two earlier. Y/N resorted to simply standing on his feet as he moved them both, her arms curling round the back of his neck and his hands coming to rest at the small of her back. Eventually, Sirius’s voice subsided, and the two were left swaying in the center of the gazebo in silence.

“Y’know,” said Y/N into Sirius’s chest, and he dipped his head to hear her better, “I really hated you when you left.” Sirius let out a long, quiet breath, and he pressed his frowning lips to the top of her head. “I hated that I wouldn’t be able to talk to anyone about my parents. I hated that you didn’t call or write to explain what happened. I … I hated that my life would be so much more unbearable without you.” She shifted to look up at him. “I missed you terribly, Sirius.”

Sirius smoothed Y/N’s hair out of her face, his hand moving to rest at the nape of her neck. “I missed you too, lovely. I’m sorry I never called or wrote.”

“I forgive you,” Y/N whispered. 

Despite his swimming vision, Sirius could see Y/N perfectly. Even in the dark, the moon shone on her soft skin, in her slightly glossy eyes … and Sirius couldn’t bring himself to look away. He couldn’t think of anything else he wanted to look at, be it in that moment or ever again. 

“Did I ever tell you how … beautiful you are?” When he was drunk, Sirius’s mouth tended to speak without his brain’s permission, but in this instance, he didn’t quite mind. Y/N’s eyes narrowed, her full cheeks pushing upward in a beaming smile. Sirius couldn’t get enough. 

“Truly, Y/N. You’re absolutely gorgeous.”

“Oh goodness.” Y/N buried her head back into Sirius’s chest, and he laughed slightly, lightly pulling her back into his sight. 

“Just …” 

He hesitated. Was this a good idea? 

Again, his mouth spoke for him.

“Tell me if you want me to stop. Okay?”

Y/N nodded. Sirius smiled slightly, and his eyes fluttered from her glassy ones to her lips and back. Very slowly, his head dipped down, and he gently pressed his lips into hers. 

In the moment between when Sirius kissed Y/N and when Y/N kissed him back, Sirius was afraid he had made a terrible mistake. She didn’t move a muscle for one second, then two, and he was prepared to pull back when finally, her soft lips pushed gently back into his. The two stood sheltered under the gazebo for a long while, tasting the Cabernet on each other’s lips and leaving the questions for their future selves to deal with. 

What were they? Would this work with Sirius and the tabloids? Where would they go from here?

But those were all questions for tomorrow …

[sherbertilluminated]

Chappell Roan cover when

[mariacallous]

Like many non-Austrians, I first discovered Vienna’s winter ball season through German-language tabloids. The celebrity-studded Opernball (Opera Ball), the season highlight, is widely covered in the German-speaking world, where it is streamed live on TV and culled for clickbait online. Glittering details are consumed with a mix of aspiration and resentment: debutantes, tiaras, and pricey opera boxes (starting cost: $14,000)! The only sign of the 21st century is a name-drop such as Kim Kardashian, who attended in 2014.

The Opera Ball, I have since learned, is only the tip of the iceberg.

More than 400 formal balls are held in Vienna each winter carnival season. This February, I visited three. The tradition combines the public festivities of the medieval carnival with the legacy of the “Waltzing Congress” of 1814, better known as the Congress of Vienna. Held just a year before Napoleon’s final defeat at the Battle of Waterloo, the Congress—a series of diplomatic meetings between leaders of various powers opposing France—aimed to reinstate Europe’s monarchies and hash out the continent’s post-Napoleonic order.

Its more immediate effect, however, was to transform Vienna into a giant ballroom.

With representatives from Prussia, Austria, Great Britain, Russia, and France, as well as assorted royalty and nobility from across Europe gathered at the imperial Hofburg Palace, the prevailing atmosphere was that of a permanent “house party,” observed historian Dorothy McGuigan in her book The Habsburgs. The dance halls were packed, and the streets were filled with music and fireworks; to lubricate negotiations, Emperor Francis hosted evening balls and musical entertainment, including a concert featuring 100 pianos. The enduring epithet of the so-called Waltzing Congress stems from a quip by the rakish Prince Charles-Joseph de Ligne of Belgium, who proclaimed that “[t]he Congress doesn’t work; it dances.”

The Viennese ball season has been celebrated almost continually since 1814, breaking only for the two world wars and recent pandemic. In a country of only 9 million people, it draws more than 500,000 ordinary people out to waltz. Nearly every profession in Austria hosts its own celebration: A nonexhaustive season program includes the Police Ball, the Firefighters’ Ball, the Engineers’ Ball, the Doctors’ Ball, multiple farmers’ union balls, and the Lawyers’ Ball. Some of these dances, such as the Coffee Brewers’ Ball or the Hunters’ Ball, have outlived the imperial-era professions that they were created to celebrate. Others, such as the Ball of the International Atomic Energy Agency or the recently retired Life Ball—founded to raise awareness during the height of the AIDS crisis—are decidedly contemporary.

It was the improbable continuity of 19th-century traditions, however, that drew my attention. The frenzy of the waltz—still performed in the same ballrooms as in the imperial era—echoes a persistent anxiety for Europe’s over-touristed, economically uneasy, and politically pessimistic capitals: On a continent that relishes golden-era traditions yet finds itself slipping in the geopolitical world order, how do you face the future without romanticizing the past?

Viewed through this lens, the ball season refracts the flamboyant anachronisms of a region in transition. Dozens of guests and former debutantes—most balls include a debutante ceremony—described the events to me in terms of glorious contradiction. The balls, I was told, are elegant, tacky, rarified, intimidating, democratic, elite, ironic, gorgeous, decadent, tiresome, astonishing; they are both political and apolitical, accessible and inaccessible, international and decidedly Viennese.

This cacophony carried over to my own impressions. I saw tiaras and hoop skirts and a tattoo of the Sistine Chapel fresco framed in the V-line of a backless ballgown. Orphaned evening gloves and ostrich feathers drifted across the parquet floors of the Hofburg Palace; hair fixtures nested in updos like Fabergé eggs. I witnessed government ministers dance the disco and saw at least six debutantes faint.

I was told by veteran ball journalists that the publications I write for sound “serious and political,” and that a Viennese ball is neither a serious nor political event. A ball is frivolous, they said; a ball is for fun. I don’t disagree. But I also believe that a society’s attitude toward tradition shapes its expectations for the future—and how much that future should resemble the past.

Maryam Yeganehfar, the creative director of the Opera Ball, emphasized the balls’ capacity for rejuvenation and even escape. The carnival festivities were originally founded, she said, to give people “hope, life, enjoyment” in the weeks leading up to Lent, the 40-day period before the Christian celebration of Easter.

“[W]hy is enjoyment always framed as decadence?” Yeganehfar asked.

At a time when Europe’s post-COVID-19 pandemic headlines—on immigration, war, inflation, right-wing extremism, climate change, energy crises, and strained trans-Atlantic relations—often give reason for pessimism, the balls are a testament both to the temptations of nostalgia and to the resilience to party on.

The Science Ball

The first ball I attended was the Ball der Wissenschaften (Science Ball). Oliver Lehmann, who has served as the event’s director since 2014, is aware of the season’s appeal for foreigners: “For a lot of our friends and guests from the U.K. and the U.S., but also from Switzerland and Germany,” he said over a Zoom call before I arrived, “a ball sounds like a sugar fairy tale from a Walt Disney movie.”

Lehmann admitted that there is some truth to that image. But the balls might be better understood as the “Austrian version of a huge networking event,” he said. Even socialists once held balls; in the 1860s, party members at the Workers’ Ball waltzed wearing bright red ties, attracting attention from political censors.

The Science Ball, for its part, brings together representatives from Vienna’s nine public universities, its expansive network of private and vocational colleges, and numerous research institutions to celebrate—and boost—the city’s reputation as a center of innovation.

The Science Ball also has a unique, quasi-political agenda. It was first held in 2015 in part to undercut the claim of the far-right Akademikerball, or Scholars’ Ball, to “scholarship,” Lehmann said. The gathering of right-wing fraternities is organized by the nativist Freedom Party of Austria (FPÖ). In 2014, the annual protest against the Scholars’ Ball turned violent, resulting in injuries and damaged property.

Today, the Vienna government offers the Science Ball its palatial city hall free of charge, signaling its continued support for the ball’s mission and helping to lower ticket prices for attendees. Regular entry is 100 euros, or $107, while students can attend for $43. It’s a win-win arrangement: Scientists celebrate field achievements; students attend on the cheap; local government discredits nativist misinformation; and a city whose reputation for innovation is often overshadowed by its cultural-historical attractions gets to advertise its technical heft.

To Lehmann, the Science Ball’s focus on contemporary Vienna is evidence that the balls have “nothing to do with nostalgia.” When I asked if the recent rise of right-wing nativism in Austria (the nativist FPÖ came in first in Austria’s elections for the EU Parliament this month and is currently polling at more than 30 percent ahead of elections this fall) has begun to politicize the balls, he replied, “Only counterintuitively, because we’ve never sold out so fast.”

When I arrived, the Science Ball proved to be many balls in one. The dancing unfolded through a series of rooms across three floors of the city hall, each with its own band and musical style. The main ballroom, lined with chandeliers and debutante couples in tuxedos and white gloves, opened onto a grand stairwell decked out with flowers. Beyond this lay the sultry tango room, followed by a baroque cloister where a cover band played “Que Será, Será,” and a ground-floor disco crowded with younger guests. The latter venue is where I spotted Austria’s federal climate minister briefly boogying to “Stayin’ Alive.”

This year’s ball was dedicated to promoting more effective strategies for communicating the threats posed by climate change. There were leaflets floating around with a carbon-emissions logic puzzle, plus a cryptic exhibit devoted to whales that featured a fog machine. In the flagstone courtyard, an 8-by-8 meter inflated cube (about 25 feet across), reminiscent of a giant bouncy house, offered a visual representation of one metric ton of carbon emissions; the average European Union citizen emits between 7 and 8 metric tons of carbon dioxide each year.

The importance of these issues to the Austrian government’s agenda was underscored by the presence of Vienna Mayor Michael Ludwig and Leonore Gewessler, the federal minister of climate action, environment, energy, mobility, innovation and technology. On the main stairwell, the politicians posed for selfies with students, many of whom expressed interest in climate-related issues. The balls can facilitate this sort of direct constituency engagement. But Gewessler also warned against overstating the events’ political importance: “A lot has changed since the Congress of Vienna,” she said. “As it should in an open democracy.”

She is right: Things have changed. Many young women—including the president of the Vienna student union—took advantage of the gender-neutral dress code, donning smart tuxedos and white ties. The organizers “don’t give a damn” about who wears what, Lehmann said, as long it’s evening attire. A couple of biologists I spoke to with roots in India, who now work at a Viennese research outlet, appeared in a tux and emerald sari repurposed from Mumbai’s wedding season. (The fact that I, too, had worn my wedding dress became a bonding moment.)

A group of American exchange students from St. Olaf College in Minnesota had bought their outfits at a budget shop in nearby Bratislava, Slovakia, about an hour away by train. They were starstruck. “It’s amazing,” one said. Another chimed in: “But the drinks are really expensive.”

The balls’ class dynamics are the subject of much local scrutiny. Open any Austrian newspaper in January and you will find an announcement about the average cost that each guest spends per visit: $371. About a third of that is paid for entry, and the rest on attire, taxis, styling, and infamously exorbitant concessions. Local headlines decry $15.50 pints and $17 Wiener sausages. In 2022, an Austrian state governor went viral for her tone-deaf tip that constituents restrict themselves to owning three—rather than 10—ballgowns.

The considerable spending associated with the balls is also a source of revenue that working-class Viennese—taxi drivers, caterers, dance instructors, and hairdressers—depend on. Norbert Kettner, the CEO of the Vienna Tourism Board, an independently run organization that also receives funds from the city, pointed out that the hundreds of millions of euros that this year’s 540,000 guests spent on the balls filter back into the local economy. At a “styling corner” at the Science Ball, where guests can stop by for touch-ups, one freelance makeup artist estimated that she makes more than half her annual income during the ball season.

Later that evening, my taxi driver explained that he organizes his night shifts around the ball schedule, which he pulled up on his phone; there were five events that night alone. When I asked whether he’d ever attended a ball himself, he laughed: “Just outside!” That is, at the taxi stand.

It’s natural to wonder whether the 19th-century aura does more to promote or impede democratic norms, especially when far-right nostalgia—such as that channeled through the FPÖ-sponsored Scholars’ Ball—is on the rise. The object of that nostalgia is pre-globalization Europe. There is a perception that the continent’s status has declined since then: The eurozone’s respective share of the global GDP, for example, has fallen by more than a third since 1960. On the other hand, Europe remains comparatively wealthy; Austria’s per capita GDP is the 14th-highest in the world, according to International Monetary Fund estimates.

Meanwhile, as war rages on in Ukraine, Sudan, and the Middle East, the EU Agency for Asylum predicts that 2024 could bring the highest number of asylum-seekers to the bloc since 2015, when 1.3 million refugees arrived in Europe, about half of them from Syria, Afghanistan, and Iraq. Just before this year’s carnival season, the 35-year old Austrian right-wing extremist Martin Sellner presented a bone-chilling “remigration” plan for migrants, asylum-seekers, and “unassimilated citizens” at a November conference of far-right actors near Berlin. He has since been banned from entering Germany.

The balls appear to offer a welcome respite from these thorny challenges—if they don’t feed back into the well of nostalgia from which these troubling political headlines are sourced.

Around midnight at the Science Ball, a psychology master’s student from Bavaria took a break from her heels on the red-carpeted stairs. She told me that this was her second time attending the event; she and a friend visited last year as well to celebrate the conclusion of a dreaded statistics exam.

“We love it,” she said, gesturing at the glittering crowd of young people posing for pictures behind us, “but we also hate it.” In her view, ball culture is elite and exclusive, reserved for the rich—but more so at other events than at this one. All the same, she conceded, “Why not feel super special? For 40 euros, look what you get.”

The Coffee Brewers’ Ball

Hosted by the Club of Viennese Coffeehouse Owners, the Kaffeesiederball, or Coffee Brewers’ Ball, is another of the season’s most-anticipated events. It celebrates and promotes the history of Vienna’s famous coffeehouse culture, which was inducted into the UNESCO list of intangible world heritage practices in 2011. Were there a people’s choice award for balls, the Coffee Brewers’ Ball would likely win; multiple guests, none of them coffee brewers, told me that it’s the most beautiful ball of the season.

The stately Hofburg Palace, where the ball was held, took on the atmosphere of a black-tie nightclub. Attendees—whose ages spanned from 18 to 80—had traveled from Munich to celebrate a 40th birthday; from Dubai, for the glamour; from Austria’s southern Carinthia region to see the scheduled performance by the Vienna State Ballet; and from northern Austria, to see a disco cover band (called the Bad Powells). Most were from Vienna itself. They had come to see the Hofburg, whose status as the former imperial palace lends the events held there a particular lure and elegance.

The guests were there, above all, to dance: the polka, the quadrille, the polonaise, and the tricky Viennese “left waltz,” in which couples follow a double rotation, revolving on their own axes while simultaneously orbiting the room, like planets hurtling around the sun. The dancing spilled from the main ballroom into gold-trimmed apartments leading deeper and deeper into the palace; I finally reached a dead end at the storied Redouten Rooms, which ball-enthusiast Empress Maria Theresa renovated in 1748 to better accommodate waltzes and masquerades. That evening, they had been furnished with neon lights, a gin bar, and a DJ spinning techno.

The balls have long dramatized a broader European tug-of-war between democratization and aristocratic control. From the 16th to 18th centuries, the monarchy strove to regulate, then ban, public masquerades and dances in the weeks leading up to Lent. The prohibitions were issued on the grounds of mischief (murders were known to be committed from behind the anonymity of carnival masks) and the threat of popular uprising.

Meanwhile, the nobility began to host their own masquerades in private ballrooms such as the Redouten Rooms. When Emperor Joseph II opened these rooms to the nontitled public in 1772, the nobility retreated once again to exclusive spaces, where they could better monitor the guest list (and, by extension, the marriage market). The same trend followed the rise of public dance halls at the turn of the century, when every profession began to hold its own celebrations.

Today’s balls are also increasingly international and cross-cultural. “Twenty years ago,” a 40-year-old Viennese guest told me, “you wouldn’t see so many international guests.” This year, he had brought two friends from Paris. As the night wore on, I also met a fashion journalist from Switzerland, a reporter from South Korea, and a correspondent from Munich. In one of the palace’s many golden bars, a local journalist pointed a camera at two models posing in a black tuxedo and a frothy pink gown. When I asked what the photoshoot was intended to advertise, he gave a cheerful answer: “Vienna!” The staged images will run in an international travel magazine.

For European states, the continent’s golden era is readily monetizable through foreign tourism. In cities such as Barcelona and Amsterdam, the annual total of visitors outnumbers locals by more than 10 to 1, prompting some local governments to dissuade further travelers from coming. Today, tourism makes up almost 10 percent of Austria’s economy, the same share as for the eurozone as a whole, which also claims more than 60 percent of the world’s international leisure travel.

There are many reasons to be drawn to the continent; Vienna itself is frequently ranked as the world’s most livable city. Yet among locals, the pandemic, climate change, and geographic proximity to Russia’s war in Ukraine can contribute to a mood of perceived domestic decline.

One former debutante reflected on her experience with a contagious nihilism: “Europe is lost,” she said. There’s “Ukraine,” and “nobody has money. Everything is fucked, basically, so why not party?”

It is not the kind of sentiment that will make the travel magazine spread.

Despite signs of disillusionment, Kettner—the Vienna Tourism Board CEO—said that young people such as the former debutante have “rescued” the balls. The discotheques and increasingly gender-neutral dress codes are part of a concerted effort to appeal to younger generations.

It’s been successful: Debutante classes ahead of the balls, which draw from the under-30 crowd, are full at the city’s top dance schools. Post-pandemic participation across all ages has risen from 520,000 in 2019 to an estimated 540,000 in 2023. The challenge of keeping the ball season relevant is a microcosm for Europe’s overall challenge: How to protect proud cultural traditions while also making sure that they can keep up with the times.

The Opera Ball

This official state ball, the “ball of all balls”—Austria’s most beautiful, decadent, and exclusive event—arrived on the scene in the year 1935. It is a fundraiser, with revenues flowing to the Vienna State Opera, in whose building the dance is also held. In 2019, the event raised  the equivalent of more than $1.1 million for the national opera and ballet.

In recent years, the Opera Ball has also developed a side reputation for celebrity antics. This is in large part thanks to Austrian reality TV star and businessman Richard Lugner; the reveal of his date is an annual tabloid event. In 2005, Lugner was accompanied by former Spice Girl Geri Halliwell, who, headlines gleefully reported, refused to dance with him. His other previous companions have included Pamela Anderson, Kim Kardashian, and Grace Jones. This year, he took Priscilla Presley.

A livestream broadcast of the ball is popular with viewers at home. This winter, more than 1.6 million Austrians and 1 million Germans tuned in.

The Opera Ball, with its outsized media footprint, also attracts dissenters. An annual demonstration that has been held on the same day as the ball since the late 1980s has become as much a part of the tradition as the waltz itself. Organized by the Communist Youth of Austria, this year, 400 to 600 people marched to the slogan “Eat the Rich.” More specific demands included a nationalized housing policy, the reinstatement of a national inheritance tax, and wage increases to keep pace with inflation.

The group’s media relations manager, Johannes Lutz, said that the protest stands against the inequity that the Opera Ball “symbolizes” rather than the ball itself. The minimum entry price of about $426 ($38 of which is earmarked for charity) is a point of contention; basic tickets for the season’s other exclusive balls range from $107 to $208.

Yeganehfar, who has served as the creative director of the Opera Ball since 2023 and also runs a successful local event production company, conceded that the ball “has its price.” She compared it to a major sporting event: Some fans will save up to attend, but many more will watch from home. (By comparison, the average ticket price to attend an NFL football game in the United States was $377 in 2023.) It is precisely because ordinary people “save up to be in this room” that Yeganehfar said she aims to make the Opera Ball so memorable.

“This is the most beautiful event in the entire country,” she said. “We should put it on a pedestal.”

The ball unfurled throughout the entire opera house—onstage, in the wings, in the basement, and in the many gilded bars and cafes—lending a night-at-the-museum giddiness to the evening. From a lobby erupting with Pink Floyd roses, arriving parties filtered through linoleum hallways and past dressing rooms usually reserved for singers and ballerinas. The dancing took place on the stage itself, which had been extended over the orchestra pit.

To debut at the Opera Ball, one breathless young debutante told me, is to occupy the same stage where the “the greatest singers in history” have performed.

The idea that the Opera Ball is something “you should see once in your life” is a sentiment that I heard from guests again and again. A couple from Berlin—a retired secretary and the manager of a hydrogen firm—said they were in attendance because Vienna is “the city of music.” Eight middle-aged women from Kyrgyzstan had arrived in matching pastel gowns after discovering the Opera Ball on the internet. Two Austrian students—a couple studying education and social anthropology, whose gelled hair and all-black palette gave the requisite dress code a punk twist—told me that they are usually at the leftist demonstration outside. This year, they’d saved up to attend the ball itself, saying, “[o]nce at the Opera Ball, the rest of the time at the protest!”

Onstage, I was asked to participate in a disastrous waltz. A ball veteran leading me through the polka, a step I do not know, insisted that the point of the Opera Ball is to escape reality. “For one night,” he said, “you don’t think about war or poverty. You just celebrate.”

But we were thinking about these issues—he mentioned them without my prompting. Awareness of the world outside was inscribed in the price of concessions, 10 percent of whose revenues were earmarked for an Austrian charity initiative in addition to the $38 earmarked from the ticket price. I saw three young men pass around a flask of liquor, a common workaround to the exorbitantly priced drinks. Exiting the stage, I dodged waiters rushing into private opera boxes with trays of petits fours and canapés.

This is about “tradition,” guests told me. It’s about prestige. It’s about attending the same ball as celebrities. (Later, I discovered that Italian actor Franco Nero was also in attendance.) It’s about “seeing and being seen.” It is, above all, about the illicit, dreamworld feeling of being where we’re not supposed to be: backstage at the Vienna Opera House and also, possibly, in the 19th century.

In the lobby, VIPs were being interviewed on live television. The sense that I’d fallen through the looking glass became more overwhelming when I stumbled into the basement, which had been transformed into a club. On a velvet sofa adjacent to the writhing dance floor lay a tulle hoopskirt, evidence of someone’s late-night costume change.

Like a hypnotist’s signal, it was my cue to head out and catch my early morning train.

Out in the real world, Yeganehfar’s comment lingered with me the most: “Why is enjoyment always framed as decadence?”

The taxi driver who picked me up outside of the opera house was originally from Poland. Our conversation drifted to the rise of right-wing politics in his native country. “History is turning back on itself,” he concluded, a reference to the ascendence of the far-right Law and Justice party in Poland and the accompanying decline in German-Polish relations. The observation compounded my sense of being drawn through multiple timelines at once.

By the time we arrived at the hostel apartment where I was staying, it was dawn. I exited onto the sidewalk and tipped my driver everything I had. Teetering in the sunrise in a pair of borrowed heels, I wondered if ball critics’ hand-wringing over decadence speaks less to a distrust of pleasure than to a profound sense of dissonance. Europeans still enjoy a quality of life that is the envy of much of the world, yet populists have managed to create—and spread—a narrative of a continent in imminent decline.

“Let us hope the future will be better!” the taxi driver said in parting. I found myself a little too eager to agree.

[asacredthebread]

The Music Is You

•☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•

Josh Kiszka x Reader 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜, 𝙹𝚘𝚜𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚛, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛? Warnings/Themes: Dad Josh, Guitar Josh, Jake Uncle. WC; 6388

You’ve always loved singing, haven’t you, Josh? It’s more than just a passion—it's an essential part of who you are. From the early days when you were just a kid with a dream to now, as the frontman of a band that’s taken the world by storm, music has been your constant companion. Every stage you’ve graced, every note you’ve hit, they’ve all led you to this moment. But nothing could have prepared you for the most life-changing melody you’re about to hear—the first cry of your newborn daughter.

It’s early morning, and the shower has become your refuge once again. Hot water cascades over you as steam fills the small bathroom, a cloud that both soothes and envelops. You can’t help but hum a familiar tune, something that’s been stuck in your head all night. The acoustics in here are perfect, amplifying your voice, making it feel like you're in a grand concert hall rather than a humble bathroom. It’s your time to think, to reflect, and to lose yourself in the melodies that seem to come from somewhere deep within you.

But today, there’s something different in the air. The usual calm is tinged with anticipation, a nervous excitement that dances on the edge of your thoughts. Today could be the day. The day your life changes forever.

You’ve been waiting for this moment for months, ever since that night when your partner told you the news. You remember it vividly—the way her eyes sparkled, the way your heart seemed to stop before beating faster than ever. You were going to be a dad. It was as if everything else faded away, leaving only the realization that your world was about to expand in the most incredible way.

From that moment on, the idea of fatherhood has consumed you, but in the best possible way. You’ve spent countless hours reading books, watching videos, and talking to other dads, trying to prepare yourself for what’s to come. But deep down, you know that nothing can truly prepare you for the reality of it.

As you finish your shower and step out, toweling off your hair—still damp from the water—you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The brown mullet that you’ve kept for so long hangs around your shoulders, a reminder of the rebellious, carefree spirit you’ve always had. But there’s something new in your eyes, those dark brown eyes that have seen so much of the world already. There’s a depth now, a seriousness that wasn’t there before. You’re about to embark on the most important journey of your life.

And as you step out of the bathroom and into the quiet of the early morning, you can’t help but wonder: what will it be like to meet her for the first time? Will she have your eyes? Will she love music the way you do? Will you be a good dad?

These questions swirl in your mind as you walk through the house, heading toward the kitchen where your partner is already up, making coffee. She looks up as you enter, a soft smile playing on her lips. There’s a calmness about her, a quiet strength that you’ve always admired.

“Morning,” she says, her voice gentle.

“Morning,” you reply, crossing the room to press a kiss to her cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“Excited,” she admits, her hand resting on her belly. “A little nervous, but mostly excited.”

You nod, understanding exactly how she feels. It’s a strange mix of emotions, this waiting game. The due date is so close, and every moment feels like it could be the one. You’ve both packed your bags, gone over the plan a hundred times, but there’s still that sense of the unknown, the unpredictability of it all.

“I was thinking,” you say, leaning against the counter, “maybe I could sing to her today. Before she arrives. You know, give her a little preview of what she can expect.”

Your partner laughs softly, a sound that fills you with warmth. “I think she’d love that. She’s already so used to hearing your voice.”

You smile, the thought of your daughter already recognizing your voice filling you with a sense of pride and wonder. It’s something you’ve done throughout the pregnancy—singing to her, whether she’s in the womb or not. It’s your way of connecting with her, of sharing a part of yourself with the little life you’ve helped create.

Jake had taken the time to teach you a few things on the guitar - you had asked him to show you just the basic chords. It had given you something to do in order to take your mind off of the anxiety. As you grab your guitar and settle into the living room, you begin to strum a few chords, your fingers finding the familiar patterns with ease. The melody is soft, gentle, something you’ve been working on for a while now. It’s not finished—nothing ever really is when it comes to music—but it feels right. It feels like something she would like.

You close your eyes and begin to sing, letting the words flow from your heart. It’s a song about love, about hope, about the future you want for her. It’s a song that’s filled with all the things you want to tell her, all the things you want her to know.

And as you sing, you can feel her there, just beneath the surface, waiting to make her entrance into the world. It’s a moment of connection, of pure, unfiltered emotion, and you can’t help but smile.

You don’t know when she’ll arrive, but you do know one thing: when she does, you’ll be ready. Ready to hold her, to love her, to be the best dad you can be. And you’ll have music—always music—to guide you both along the way.

The months leading up to this moment have been a whirlwind, a journey unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. From the first ultrasound to the late-night cravings, every step of the way has brought you closer to this day. And through it all, music has been your anchor, the thing that’s kept you grounded when everything else seemed overwhelming.

You remember the first time you heard her heartbeat. It was at one of those early appointments, the room dimly lit as the doctor moved the wand over your partner’s belly. And then, there it was—steady, strong, a rhythm that was all her own, Danny had bragged that she got her sense of rhythm from him. You couldn’t believe it. This tiny, incredible being was growing inside her, and you were going to be her dad.

From that day on, you made it a point to sing to her as often as you could. It didn’t matter where you were—in the car, at home, or even backstage before a show—you would find a moment to connect with her through music. Sometimes it was a lullaby, soft and soothing, other times it was something more upbeat, a song filled with the energy and excitement you felt.

Your partner would often laugh, telling you that the baby was going to come out humming before she even cried. But you didn’t care. To you, it was important. It was your way of bonding with her before she even entered the world.

As the months passed, the reality of becoming a father began to sink in. There were moments of pure joy, like when you felt her kick for the first time, a tiny flutter that made your heart skip a beat. But there were also moments of doubt, of wondering if you were truly ready for this. Being a musician, your life was anything but ordinary. You traveled, performed, and lived in the spotlight. How would that fit into your new role as a dad?

You talked about it with your partner, late at night when the world was quiet, and it was just the two of you. She was your rock, always reassuring, always understanding. She reminded you that you didn’t have to have all the answers right now, that you would figure it out together.

And so, you began to prepare. You turned the spare room into a nursery, painting the walls a soft, calming color, Sam had his own ideas of ‘calming’, and it had been a mission to convince him that a nursery didn’t need to be quite so filled with random trinkets. You picked out a crib, a rocking chair, and a mobile that played a gentle melody. You found yourself imagining what it would be like to hold her in your arms, to sing her to sleep in the quiet hours of the night. You imagined the sound of her little breaths, the warmth of her tiny body nestled against yours, and the soft rise and fall of her chest as she drifted off to sleep to the sound of your voice. Every little detail felt like a step closer to meeting her, like building a bridge between the present and the future that awaited your growing family.

Your days filled with more than just anticipation. There was an endless list of things to do—doctor’s appointments, shopping for baby clothes, assembling furniture—and yet, you found time to connect with her in the only way you knew how: through song. Sometimes, your partner would sit beside you as you played your guitar, the two of you imagining the kind of life you wanted to create for your daughter. Other times, you would find yourself alone, the house quiet, as you strummed a lullaby or hummed a melody you had just created. These moments became sacred, a way to express all the love and hopes you held for the life inside her.

There was something magical about these months, something that felt both fleeting and eternal at the same time. You knew that this period of waiting wouldn’t last forever, that soon your lives would change in ways you could hardly comprehend. But there was also a part of you that wanted to capture every moment, to hold onto the feelings and the experiences that came with this journey, Jake, of course, had helped with this - taking pictures of everything that he could.

And as much as you focused on the future, you couldn’t help but reflect on your past. Your childhood, your family, the experiences that shaped you into who you are today—all of these memories seemed to surface as you prepared to welcome your daughter into the world. You found yourself wondering what kind of father you would be, what lessons you would teach her, and how you would guide her through the challenges of life. The thought of it filled you with both excitement and trepidation.

Your partner often noticed your moments of quiet reflection. She would reach out to you, her hand finding yours, and the two of you would sit in comfortable silence, sharing the weight of the unspoken thoughts between you. She understood your worries, your hopes, and your dreams because she shared them too. You weren’t alone in this journey; you had each other, and that was all you needed to face whatever lay ahead.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky with shades of pink and orange, you found yourself in the nursery, strumming your guitar. The room was bathed in the soft, golden light of the setting sun, and as you looked around, you felt a deep sense of peace. The nursery was almost ready—just a few final touches remained—and soon, it would be filled with the sounds of your daughter’s laughter and cries.

You began to play a melody, something new that had been forming in your mind over the past few days. It was a simple tune, gentle and soothing, but it carried with it all the emotions you had been feeling—the love, the hope, the anticipation. As you played, you imagined your daughter hearing this melody for the first time, and the thought brought a smile to your face.

Your partner entered the room, her presence as calming as the music you played. She leaned against the doorframe, watching you with a soft expression on her face. “That’s beautiful,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

You looked up at her, your fingers still moving over the strings. “I was thinking... maybe this could be her song. Something just for her.”

She crossed the room and sat down beside you, her hand resting on her belly. “I think she would love that. You’ve been singing to her all this time, and I know she already knows your voice. It’s like you’re giving her a gift before she’s even here.”

You nodded, the weight of her words sinking in. It felt right, this connection you were building with your daughter before she even arrived. It was as if you were laying the foundation for a relationship that would last a lifetime.

As the evening turned into night, the two of you sat in the nursery, playing and singing, your voices blending together in harmony. It was a moment of pure, unfiltered joy, a moment that you knew you would carry with you for the rest of your life.

And as you sang, you could feel her there, just beneath the surface, waiting to meet you. It was only a matter of time now, and you couldn’t wait to hold her in your arms, to sing to her in person, to begin this new chapter of your life.

The day finally arrived when everything changed. It began like any other day, with you and your partner going about your usual routine. But there was a feeling in the air, an electric charge that hinted something extraordinary was about to happen. It was as if the world itself knew that today was the day you would meet your daughter.

It started with a contraction, just a small one, but enough to make your partner pause and place her hand on her belly. You were in the middle of making breakfast, flipping pancakes on the stove, when she looked up at you with wide eyes.

“I think it’s happening,” she said, her voice tinged with both excitement and nerves.

You froze, the spatula in your hand hovering over the pan. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, her breath coming a little quicker now. “Yeah, I think so.”

You dropped the spatula and rushed to her side, your heart pounding in your chest. This was it—the moment you had been waiting for, the moment that would change your life forever.

The next few hours were a blur of activity. You called the doctor, grabbed the hospital bags you had packed weeks ago, and helped your partner into the car. The drive to the hospital felt surreal, the streets whizzing by in a blur as your mind raced with thoughts of what was to come. Your partner remained calm, her hand gripping yours tightly as she breathed through the contractions. Her strength amazed you, her resolve steady even as the pain intensified.

When you arrived at the hospital, everything moved quickly. Nurses ushered you into a room, and soon your partner was settled into a bed, surrounded by medical staff. The room buzzed with activity, monitors beeping and people moving in and out, but all you could focus on was her—the woman who was about to bring your daughter into the world.

The hours that followed were a test of endurance, both for you and your partner. She labored with determination, her face etched with concentration as she worked through each contraction. You were by her side the entire time, holding her hand, whispering words of encouragement, and doing everything you could to support her. You felt helpless in many ways, knowing that there was only so much you could do, but you were determined to be there for her in any way you could.

As the hours stretched on, the intensity of the labor increased. Your partner’s grip on your hand tightened, her breaths coming in short, labored gasps. You could see the exhaustion in her eyes, but there was also a fierce determination, a strength that took your breath away. She was incredible, and you couldn’t have been prouder to be by her side.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, the doctor announced that it was time to push. You felt a surge of adrenaline, your heart racing as you realized that you were moments away from meeting your daughter. You held your partner’s hand tightly, your voice trembling with emotion as you encouraged her to keep going.

And then, with one final, powerful push, she was here. Your daughter entered the world with a strong, healthy cry, her tiny body covered in a sheen of new life. The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment, the world pausing to take in this miraculous event.

The doctor placed your daughter on your partner’s chest, and the two of you looked down at her in awe. She was perfect—tiny fingers, tiny toes, a head full of dark hair that matched yours. Her eyes were squeezed shut as she wailed, her little lungs filling with the air of this world for the first time.

You couldn’t speak. The sight of her, the sound of her cries, it was all too much. Tears filled your eyes as you reached out to touch her, your hand trembling as you brushed your fingers against her soft, warm skin. This was your daughter. The little life you had been singing to for months was finally here, and she was more beautiful than you could have ever imagined.

Your partner looked up at you, her eyes filled with tears of joy and exhaustion. “We did it,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

You nodded, unable to find the words. All you could do was lean down and press a kiss to her forehead, your heart overflowing with love for both of them. You had never felt anything like this before—a love so powerful, so all-encompassing, that it took your breath away.

As you stood there, your daughter in your arms for the first time, you knew that everything had changed. Your life, your priorities, your very being—all of it had shifted to make room for this tiny, perfect human. She was the center of your world now, and you would do anything to protect her, to love her, to give her the best life possible.

The first time you held your daughter, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of you. Everything else—the hospital room, the doctors and nurses, even your partner—seemed to fade into the background as you focused on the little bundle in your arms. She was so small, so fragile, and yet so incredibly real. Her cries had quieted now, replaced by soft, contented coos as she nestled against your chest.

You looked down at her, taking in every detail—the tiny fingers curled into delicate fists, the flutter of her eyelids as she slowly opened them for the first time, revealing deep, dark brown eyes that mirrored your own. It was like looking into a part of yourself, a connection that went beyond anything you had ever felt before. This little person was a part of you, a living, breathing piece of your heart outside of your body.

You were overwhelmed with emotion—joy, love, awe, and a little bit of fear. What if you weren’t good enough? What if you made mistakes? But as you held her, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her chest against yours, those fears melted away. You didn’t have to be perfect; you just had to be there. To love her with everything you had. And that, you realized, was something you were more than ready to do.

“She’s beautiful,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you looked up at your partner. She was watching you, her eyes filled with tears and a smile on her lips that mirrored the love you felt in your own heart.

“She really is,” she agreed, her hand resting on your arm as she leaned in to look at your daughter. “She’s perfect.”

You nodded, unable to tear your eyes away from the tiny miracle in your arms. You had spent months imagining what this moment would be like, but nothing could have prepared you for the reality of it. This was your daughter, your child, and the depth of your love for her was something you hadn’t fully understood until this very moment.

You could feel the music inside you, a melody that had been building over the past nine months now bursting forth, uncontainable. You wanted to sing to her, to let her know that she was safe, that she was loved. So you began to hum, a soft, soothing tune that you had been working on just for her.

Your partner smiled as she listened, recognizing the melody. “Her song,” she said softly, her voice filled with warmth.

You nodded, continuing to hum as you rocked your daughter gently. The sound seemed to calm her, her tiny fists unclenching as she settled more comfortably against your chest. Her eyes fluttered closed, her breathing evening out as she began to drift off to sleep.

The room around you was quiet, the only sounds the soft beeping of monitors and the gentle murmur of nurses in the hallway. But in that moment, it felt like the whole world had gone silent, as if it were holding its breath, allowing you this precious, private moment with your new family.

You sang to her, the words coming naturally now, flowing from your heart as if they had always been there, just waiting for this moment. The song was simple, a lullaby filled with promises of love, protection, and hope for the future. You wanted her to know that no matter what, you would always be there for her, that she would never have to face the world alone.

As you sang, you felt a shift within yourself. The man you were before—the musician, the performer, the dreamer—was still there, but he had been transformed by this new role, this new identity as a father. It was as if everything you had ever done, every note you had ever sung, had been leading you to this moment, to this connection with your daughter.

Your partner leaned her head against your shoulder, her eyes closed as she listened to you sing. The three of you were wrapped in a cocoon of love, a bond that was stronger than anything you had ever known. It was in this moment that you realized just how much your life had changed, how much your heart had expanded to make room for this little girl.

You could see the future stretching out before you, a future filled with laughter, tears, challenges, and triumphs. There would be late nights and early mornings, scraped knees and school plays, first steps and first words. There would be moments of joy so intense they would take your breath away, and moments of fear and doubt that would make you question everything. But through it all, there would be love—unconditional, unwavering love that would guide you through whatever came your way.

You imagined teaching her about music, sharing with her the thing that had always been such a huge part of your life. Would she inherit your love for it? Would she sing along with you, or would she find her own passion, something that lit up her world the way music had always lit up yours?

Perhaps she would follow Jake, in his unwavering passion for strings, or Sam with his concoction of talents, managing to pick up any instrument he laid a finger on. Or maybe she would follow in Danny’s footsteps, living to be the heart of the band, the heartbeat that kept the music flowing. Whatever path she chose, you knew you would be there to support her, to encourage her, to cheer her on every step of the way.

As you looked down at your sleeping daughter, you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. You were grateful for this moment, for the chance to be her father, for the incredible journey that lay ahead. You knew it wouldn’t always be easy, but you also knew that it would be worth it—every single moment of it.

You pressed a gentle kiss to your daughter’s forehead, your heart swelling with love for her. She stirred slightly, her tiny hand reaching out to grasp your finger. The connection was instant, a bond that felt as though it had always existed, waiting for this moment to be realized.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the quiet room. “I love you so much.”

Your partner squeezed your arm, her own tears spilling over as she watched the two of you together. “We’re going to be okay,” she said softly, her voice filled with certainty. “We’re going to figure this out, together.”

You nodded, knowing she was right. You didn’t have all the answers, and there would be times when you would stumble, when you would doubt yourself. But you had each other, and you had your daughter. That was enough. That was everything.

As you sat there, holding your daughter and feeling the weight of her tiny body in your arms, you knew that this was just the beginning. The beginning of a new chapter, a new life, filled with love, laughter, and endless possibilities.

And as you continued to hum her lullaby, the gentle melody filling the room, you made a silent promise to yourself and to her: you would be the best father you could be. You would love her with everything you had, and you would make sure she always knew just how much she was cherished.

This was your new song, the melody of your life as a father. And it was the most beautiful, most meaningful song you had ever sung.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of new experiences and emotions, each one more intense and transformative than the last. The sleepless nights, the endless diaper changes, the quiet moments spent just staring at your daughter as she slept—all of it felt like a dream, one you never wanted to wake from.

You and your partner navigated this new world together, learning as you went, supporting each other through the highs and lows. There were moments of pure joy, like the first time your daughter smiled at you, a tiny, toothless grin that melted your heart. And there were moments of exhaustion, when the reality of caring for a newborn left you both feeling overwhelmed and uncertain.

But through it all, the bond between you and your daughter grew stronger every day. She became the center of your universe, her needs and her happiness more important than anything else. You found yourself changing in ways you hadn’t expected, becoming more patient, more focused, more aware of the world around you. You wanted to be the best father you could be, to give her the best life possible.

You often found yourself thinking about the future, imagining the kind of person your daughter would become. Would she be quiet and introspective, or outgoing and adventurous? Would she share your love for music, or would she find her own passion, something that would light up her world the way music had always lit up yours?

One day, as you were sitting in the nursery, watching your daughter sleep, you began to think about the kind of father you wanted to be. You knew that you couldn’t control everything, that there would be challenges and obstacles along the way. But there were certain things you could promise her, certain values you could instill in her from the very beginning.

You wanted her to know that she was loved, unconditionally, no matter what. You wanted her to feel safe and secure, knowing that you would always be there to protect her, to guide her through the ups and downs of life. You wanted her to be kind, to treat others with respect and compassion, and to always stand up for what she believed in.

And most of all, you wanted her to be happy. You wanted her to find joy in the little things, to chase after her dreams with all the passion and determination she could muster. You wanted her to know that she could be anything she wanted to be, that the world was hers to explore and conquer.

As you watched her sleep, you began to sing softly, a new melody forming in your mind. It was a song for the future, a song filled with hope and love and all the dreams you had for her. The words came easily, flowing from your heart as you imagined the life she would lead, the person she would become.

You sang about the beauty of the world, the wonders that awaited her, the love that would always surround her. You sang about the strength she would find within herself, the courage to face whatever challenges came her way. You sang about the joy of living, of laughing, of loving with all her heart.

And as you sang, you made a promise to your daughter, a promise that you would always be there for her, no matter what. You would be her rock, her guide, her biggest cheerleader. You would love her with everything you had, and you would make sure she always knew just how much she was cherished.

This new song, this lullaby for her future, was more than just a melody—it was a vow. Each note carried with it a promise, each word a hope for the life she would lead. You sang softly, careful not to wake her, but with every ounce of love you had, you poured your heart into the music.

As you finished the song, your daughter stirred slightly, her tiny hand curling around your finger. It was such a small gesture, but it filled you with a profound sense of connection and purpose. This little life you held in your arms was yours to nurture, to guide, and to love. The responsibility felt immense, but also incredibly fulfilling.

Your partner, who had been watching from the doorway, stepped quietly into the room and sat beside you. She rested her head on your shoulder, her presence warm and comforting. The two of you sat there in silence for a few moments, simply basking in the beauty of the life you had created together.

“She’s so lucky to have you,” your partner whispered, her voice soft and full of emotion.

You shook your head slightly, still staring down at your daughter. “No,” you murmured. “I’m the lucky one. She’s everything I never knew I needed.”

Your partner smiled, her eyes misty as she watched the love between you and your daughter. “We’re going to do this together,” she said, squeezing your hand. “We’re going to make sure she has the best life possible.”

You nodded, your heart swelling with gratitude for the family you had. “Together,” you agreed. “Always together.”

The weeks turned into months, and slowly, the chaos of new parenthood began to find its rhythm. Each day brought new challenges, but also new joys. The first time your daughter laughed, it was like music to your ears, a melody you knew you’d never forget. The way she looked at you with those big, dark eyes, so full of trust and love, made every sleepless night worth it.

As she grew, you found yourself cherishing the quiet moments even more—the early morning feedings when the rest of the world was still asleep, the peaceful walks through the park as you introduced her to the beauty of nature, the nights when you would cradle her in your arms and sing her to sleep with the lullabies you had created just for her.

Music became an even more integral part of your lives. You would play your guitar while she babbled along, her little voice trying to mimic the sounds you made. Sometimes, your partner would join in, the three of you creating a harmony that was uniquely yours. Those were the moments when you felt most connected, most complete—when the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving just your little family and the music that bound you together.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the nursery, you found yourself sitting in the sun-room, with Jake, and your daughter. She was older now, her curiosity about the world around her growing with each passing day. Her tiny fingers reached out to pluck at the strings of his guitar, a look of pure delight on her face as she discovered the magic of making sound.

You watched her, a smile playing on your lips as she explored this new world of music. There was a part of you that hoped she would share your love for it, that she would find the same joy in creating melodies that you did. But more than that, you wanted her to discover her own passions, to find the things that made her heart sing, whatever they might be.

You had never seen him smile quite so big in your life.

As he played a simple tune, your daughter’s laughter filled the room, the sound so pure and full of life that it brought tears to your eyes. This was what it was all about—the little moments, the simple joys that made every challenge, every hardship, worth it.

Your partner walked into the room, drawn by the sound of your music and your daughter’s laughter. She leaned against the doorway, watching the three of you with a look of pure love and contentment on her face.

“You two make quite the duo,” she said, her voice filled with warmth.

He looked up at her, his smile widening. “She’s a natural,” he replied, while your heart was swelling with pride as your daughter continued to strum the strings, her face alight with wonder.

Your partner crossed the room and sat beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as she kissed your temple. The four of you sat there, basking in the warmth of the setting sun, the music, and the love that filled the room.

As the years passed, your daughter grew and changed, becoming her own person with her own thoughts, dreams, and aspirations. But the bond you had formed in those early days remained strong. You were there for her first words, her first steps, her first day of school. And through it all, you continued to sing to her, to play music for her, to remind her that no matter how much the world changed, the love you had for her would always be constant.

There were challenges, of course—times when you doubted yourself, when you worried that you weren’t doing enough, that you weren’t getting it right. But every time those doubts crept in, you would look at your daughter—at the way she smiled, the way she laughed, the way she looked at you with so much trust and love—and you would know that you were doing just fine.

Music remained a constant in your lives, a thread that wove through the fabric of your family, connecting you in ways that words couldn’t. Whether it was singing her to sleep at night, playing guitar together on lazy Sunday afternoons, or dancing around the living room to her favorite songs, music was the language of your love.

And as your daughter grew into a young woman, you watched with pride as she began to find her own voice—both literally and figuratively. She discovered her own passions, her own dreams, and you were there to support her every step of the way, just as you had promised all those years ago.

One day, as you sat together in the living room, your daughter now a teenager with a guitar of her own, she began to play a familiar melody. It was the lullaby you had written for her before she was born, the one you had sung to her countless times over the years. But this time, she played it differently—adding her own flourishes, her own interpretation, making it her own.

You listened, your heart swelling with pride and love as you realized that she had taken something you had given her and made it into something uniquely hers. It was a moment of pure, unfiltered joy, a culmination of all the love, all the music, all the years you had shared.

As the last note faded away, your daughter looked up at you, a smile on her lips, her dark brown eyes—so much like yours—shining with pride.

“Dad,” she said softly, “thank you for always being there. For teaching me, for loving me, for believing in me. I wouldn’t be who I am today without you.”

You felt a lump form in your throat, your eyes misting with tears as you looked at the incredible young woman your daughter had become.

“I’m the one who’s grateful,” you replied, your voice thick with emotion. “You’ve given me more joy, more love, than I ever could have imagined. I’m so proud of you.”

She smiled, a soft, knowing smile that spoke volumes. And in that moment, you knew that you had fulfilled the promise you made to her on the day she was born—the promise to love her, to guide her, to always be there for her.

As the two of you sat there, guitars in hand, the sun setting outside the window, you began to play together—a new melody, one that was just beginning to take shape. It was the song of your lives, a song that would continue to grow and change, just as you had. And as you played, you knew that no matter what the future held, you would always have each other, always have the music, always have the love that had brought you to this moment.

And that, you realized, was the most beautiful song of all.

[the-lincyclopedia]

Winter holiday fics by lincyclopedia

Thanks for the tags, @cricketnationrise and @doggernaut! When you tagged me, I wasn't sure if I had any winter holiday fics. I have 12, across four fandoms. In my defense, I have over 200 fics total, so I lose track of what I've written sometimes. (Also, looking back through my AO3 account, it's like, man, I used to write. Unfortunately I've been too depressed to do much of that for a while now.) Anyway. Here's what I've got, organized by fandom:

Check Please

Deck the Halls with Balls of Holly

Ransom misunderstood the lyrics to "Deck the Halls," and he and Holster wind up making some interesting Christmas decorations for the Haus.

This is a super short one-shot featuring platonic Ransom & Holster friendship from Bitty's POV. (It's part of my series of fics based on misheard song lyrics.) The relevant holiday is Christmas.

Palentine's Day Karaoke

This fic is inspired by @softfloralbro's story "Shitty Knight's Palentine's Day Spectacular" and is basically a karaoke playlist wrapped in narration. The basic idea is that SMH has a karaoke party on Valentine's Day, and everyone serenades their friends. Set in February of Year 2.

This fic is full of SMH friendship, music, and not much else. The relevant holiday is Valentine's Day.

In Your Warmth I Forget How Cold It Can Be

In a world where the graduation kiss never happened, it's winter break of Bitty's senior year, and Bitty and Jack are both out and single. The plan is for Bitty to spend New Year's Eve with Jack at Jack's condo, but that plan goes awry when Bitty and Jack return from the airport to find a homophobic slur painted on Jack's parking space. TW for homophobia.

Basically, this is canon-divergent Zimbits getting together. The relevant holiday is New Year's Eve.

too long i've been afraid (of losing love i guess i've lost)

Dex gets disowned after coming out as gay. SMH is there for him.

Basically, angst, hurt/comfort, and platonic Frogs content, plus some platonic Dex & Bitty. The relevant holiday is Christmas.

Five Times Lukas Was Homesick Plus One Time He Didn’t Have to Be

It can be hard to go to school in another country where everyone speaks a different language and no one celebrates your holidays. Luckily, Lukas has friends to help when he’s homesick.

Okay, this is a 5+1 and only one of the scenes is actually about a winter holiday, but I like that scene, so I'm including this fic on the list. The relevant holiday is St. Lucia Day.

When Lucia Day Dawns

For Lukas's senior project as a music major, he has to plan/lead a public music performance. He decides to form a choir to sing Swedish Lucia/Advent/Christmas songs on St. Lucia Day (December 13). This is the Friday before finals and everything is stressful—until the concert starts and suddenly it’s perfect.

This is another Lukas-centric fic about being Swedish. The relevant holiday is St. Lucia Day.

Carry On

Right Now

A one-shot set during Christmas break of Simon and Agatha's fifth year at Watford. Even though they're not ultimately meant to be, they made sense as a couple once.

This is very jossed by Any Way the Wind Blows, but I still kind of like it. It's pre-canon Simon/Agatha. The relevant holiday is Christmas.

Stranded

After leaving Baz's house and dropping Penny off in London, Simon and Agatha get stranded in a ditch in the middle of a snowstorm. Ex awkwardness ensues.

Unlike "Right Now," this fic features Simon and Agatha as exes. The relevant holiday is Christmas.

Sounds Like a Date

Baz is a barista stuck working on Christmas Eve. Simon is a handsome customer.

This is a coffee shop AU featuring a Snowbaz meet-cute. The relevant holiday is Christmas.

Yuri on Ice

Ice Quality

One of Yuuri's college friends invites him to spend Christmas with her family, and Celestino approves as long as Yuuri promises to skate while he's there. Trouble is, the town's indoor rink is closed for renovations. A one-shot set during Yuuri's time in college in Detroit.

This is a pre-canon platonic Yuri & OFC fic. The relevant holiday is Christmas.

Happy New Year, Otabek!

Yuri and Otabek have been best friends for four years, and Yuri's had a crush on Otabek for a while, but he never expected Otabek to like him back. Until, that is, Otabek gets drunk at the Grand Prix Final banquet and says some things Yuri doesn't expect. It's going to be a very interesting New Year's celebration in Almaty . . .

This is a post-canon Yuri Plisetsky/Otabek, and it's the only multi-chapter fic on this list (though it's still pretty short). The relevant holiday is New Year's Eve.

Sherlock

Over the Table and through the Giggles

John has insisted on hosting a Christmas party. Again. Everyone but Sherlock is drinking, and John is telling stories about Sherlock, and suddenly Sherlock decides to kiss John. Plotless fluff.

This is a canon-divergent Johnlock getting-together scene based more heavily than you might guess on my sober-but-sleep-deprived friends and me being ridiculous in high school. The relevant holiday is Christmas.

I'm guessing a lot of people have been tagged, especially from the Check Please fandom, but I'm going to try to pull in some Queen's Thief folks. I tag @worldsentwined, @newtsoftheworldunite, @hoeratius, @eponymiad, and anyone else who wants to play!

[milfgyuu]

Love of My Life Pairing: Lee Jihoon (Woozi) x Fem!Reader Series: SVT x Harry’s House Tags: 4.4k, Angst, Rekindled Romance Summary: “Maybe you don't know what's lost 'til you find it. It's not what I wanted, to leave you behind. Don't know where you'll land when you fly, but, baby, you were the love of my life.”

Roaring crowds, cheering, chanting, bright lights, crowded walkways, blacked out car windows, sleeping in tour buses, screaming fans, signings, recordings, performances, television shows, interviews, concerts. It was loud, bright, busy, thrilling. It was the feeling of adrenaline coursing through his veins hearing people sing along to his songs, calling out his name - and then it at some point, for at least a brief period, it all stops. 

Abandoning his suitcases by the front door, Jihoon shuffles into his home, slippers scuffling along the brilliantly shining floors, lights automatically coming to life as he enters the open space. It’s silent, empty. Such a stark contrast to the life he’s been living non-stop for the past few years and now all he wants is a break. 

A moment to breathe. 

With the end of his latest tour, Jihoon had decided to take a few months off - go home, re-evaluate things, find inspiration where he’d been burnt out and lacking. 

Looking around his barely lived-in space, he huffs inwardly. There is not a speck of life within these walls. A place to eat, sleep, store some of his things but there was nothing more to the white walls and black furniture. There were no stories, no echoes of love and laughter ringing throughout the halls. Not a single thing to re-ignite his drive nor passion. 

It seems very ‘woe is me’ for a famous musician to complain. He had wealth, respect, notoriety, and he was loved by people all over the world but there was a hole in Jihoon’s heart that he could never seem to fill and that had been abundantly clear when he’d begun shuffling through some un-opened mail his housekeeper hadn’t attended to. 

Leaning against the kitchen counter, he flips through a few things before a cream colored envelope slips from his hand and hits the floor loudly. He bends down to pick it up and notices a familiar scrawl on the front. He blinks and sets everything else back down, staring at the writing in shock. 

Carefully opening the seal, he slips a small note and heavy piece of cardstock from the envelope and stares down at it for so long his mouth runs dry and his legs nearly give out on the way over to the couch where he drops down, mindless of his own movements. 

The note simply reads, “I thought you should know” signed by his old friend Jeonghan but it’s what is written upon the cardstock that truly stops his heart.

It shouldn’t be a shock given he’s just broken into his thirties and many of his friends were engaged, married, or starting families but he wasn’t ready to see your name on the invitation in his hands. Your name, intimate and ever familiar, elegantly scrawled in gold letters just above the date, time, and address of your wedding to someone that isn’t him. 

And he thought that perhaps, after sitting on it for a few days, he could be happy for you. He could be supportive and congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials, send his well wishes but he can’t get rid of the lump in his throat nor the ache in his chest because day and night he sits awake in his empty, lifeless house and he thinks about you. 

Jihoon remembers the first time he saw you, sitting across the bar with your friends, twirling the straw in your neglected drink as they all chattered around you. He just so happened to be playing a small gig that night and the moment he’d locked eyes with you as he played his guitar, he knew you were something special. 

Just a couple of kids running on store-bought coffee and ambition, the two of you navigated the murky waters of early adulthood at each other's side. There were tough times. Times you both hardly made enough to cover the rent. Times you were both so exhausted those few hours of quality time turned into the two of you passing out on the couch in each other's arms. 

But it wasn’t always like that. The good had outweighed the bad tenfold. You laughed until you cried, sang until your lungs gave out, spent quiet afternoons letting Jihoon teach you to play his guitar and long nights tangled in each other’s warm, loving embrace. Those were the times you knew that no matter how hard things got, you would always love Lee Jihoon.

Eventually, things got easier. 

You found yourself steadily climbing in your career and Jihoon had been getting more attention for his music. He’d been playing local gigs, and sometimes traveled to play at larger venues and festivals. You were thrilled for him and supported his work, traveling along with him whenever possible, attending every gig you could while trying to balance your own work life. 

Then, he was handed a business card for a record label and that’s where things begin to change. 

It always starts out as this big, shining opportunity and then the grueling work and the sacrifice come into play. He begins traveling more, coming home later, holing himself in the studio for days on end to meet deadlines, missing date nights, empty beds, empty hearts…empty conversations and then the first tour is announced and you can’t go.

Jihoon remembers the fight so vividly, a whirlwind of hurt and anger. Words spoken without truth, laced with malice and lethal consequences. That was the beginning of the end. 

He stares down at the invitation he can’t seem to throw away and grits his teeth, those same feeling bubbling up and out of his control. He hopelessly grapples with the news, spending his evenings in a drunken stupor, his manager and only trusted friend coming in to drag him into bed each night. Sleeping all day to avoid his own reality and then doing it all over again. 

In the three weeks leading up to your wedding day, Jihoon has come to one irrevocable conclusion that leaves him gasping awake in the middle of the night, desperately crying out your name and then, he’s on a plane the next morning.

His family and all his old friends are so excited to see him again that he briefly forgets why he’s back home in the first place but the moment Jeonghan lays eyes on him, that sad knowing smile reminds Jihoon that it’s all real. You’re getting married tomorrow and he has to tell you. 

It’s incredibly selfish and he hates himself for it but he finds you outside of your café - the one you bought and re-built from the ground up. He stares at you from afar, watching you tidy up the shopfront and hang your beautifully decorated sign on the door that explains the joyous reason your shop would be closed for the next two days. 

The way the sunlight touches your skin and the breeze blows the little ties of your apron make his throat close up uncomfortably. You’re so close and if he just took a step forward, called out your name, he could tell you what he’d needed to say so desperately but he can’t. 

He can’t do this to you. 

You’re glowing, radiant…happy. 

His return would do you no good now and what good would it truly do him? You’d have every right to spit in his face and he’d deserve it, the way he gave up on you, selfishly chose himself and his career over you. He takes a step back aiming to leave undetected but it’s too late because as soon as he turns away… 

“Jihoon?”

Your eyes meet from across the empty street and the small clay pot in your hands slips through your fingers and goes crashing to the ground. Jihoon nearly bolts out in front of a car in his haste to cross the street and then he’s kneeling in front of you cursing and apologizing, picking up the pieces like he should have done so many years ago. 

He doesn’t hear you call his name over and over until your hand falls upon his shoulder and he looks up in astonishment. He hadn’t stopped for one moment to think about what it would feel like to see you again. To look into your face and realize he’s forgotten how to read you when he used to know your pages even better than his own. It’s a stark reminder that he shouldn’t be here and yet…

Jihoon stands, dusting his hands off on his pants and he clears his throat but can’t think of anything to say other than, “Hello.” Genius mind of a song writer. 

“What are you doing back in town?” 

Your words are short and to the point but the quiver in your voice betrays you and splinters Jihoon’s nerves even further. “I just uh…” his hands wring together as he lies, “I’m done touring and I just wanted to come back home to visit.”

There is a pause and suddenly all the background noise fills your ears and you open the door of the café, silently inviting him inside. He passes you carefully and you follow him a moment later, spinning to ensure your closed sign is hanging properly. 

With a respectable distance between your bodies, you still, crossing your arms over your chest protectively. “Just a weekend off then? I’m sure you’re busy trying to fit everything in.” 

For some reason it still stings - these brief little visits that last a day or two before he’s back on the road. You hadn’t missed the long lonely days that had always followed. 

“Uh, no, actually.”

His words surprise you and your posture borders on being noticeably rigid as he continues. 

“I’m done touring.” The words don’t make any sense to you and seem to mix and cross in your brain, making them sound like nonsense. There isn’t any way he could possibly mean it.

“What do you mean you’re…done? As in finished with this tour? Right?”

Jihoon shakes his head slowly, eyes downcast because he isn’t ready for your reaction. His label had a fit but Jihoon was the one pulling in the money, he was the one making the decisions and he was done. He’d continue to make music as he always had but no more would there be months on the road, spending a few days in each city across the map. 

“This was my last tour,” he nods, finally looking up to gauge your response. He’s not sure what he was expecting or hoping for but your face is devoid of emotion…at least that’s what someone might think if they didn’t know you as well as Jihoon did. “I’m not retiring or anything…I just feel like I’ve put the work in and now it’s time to…I don’t know…live my life?”

Your nails bite into your arms but you’re numb, unable to release the tension in your fingertips until Jihoon reaches his hands out as if to stop you from hurting yourself and your hands drop to your sides, arms hanging limply. You force a smile to your lips that makes Jihoon uneasy. 

“I’m glad to hear you’re taking time for yourself, Ji-” your breath catches on his old nickname and his own does as well but you brush past it, “-Jihoon. Your fans will be sad but I’m sure they’ll get over it when you put out the next hit song or two.”

He smiles and nods his head toward the floor bashfully and it’s quiet for a few minutes. He picks his head up to say something and you speak at the same time causing a fumble and awkward shuffling to decide who should speak first but he takes the lead. 

“You uh,” his hand slips up the the back of his neck anxiously, “You look really great,” he compliments and then quickly turns the attention to the space around you, “And the shop…it’s amazing…exactly like what you were day dreaming about back in the day.”

A small smile unfolds and you bite at your lip. “Thank you,” your eyes flit around the quiet space, “Sometimes I look around and I still can’t believe I did it after all this time.”

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

When your eyes reach Jihoon’s face once more, it’s incredibly nostalgic and a swirl of emotion gathers in the pit of your stomach uncomfortably. “A lot has happened since you left.”

“I know.” He smiles sadly and you tuck your hand behind your thigh with the burning sensation of guilt and shame for feeling compelled to hide it in the first place. Jihoon takes a tentative step forward and reaches around you, tucking a single finger beneath your palm, pulling your hand out of hiding. Your engagement ring shines brilliantly and Jihoon’s eyes meet your own.

“It’s beautiful,” he says softly, thumb lingering on your ringer finger for only a moment. “I’m sorry I’ve missed so many milestones. Wait, don-”

You pull your hand from his and wipe errant tears from your face in embarrassment. Seeing Jihoon so suddenly, the day before your wedding it’s like….a cosmic ‘fuck you’ of epic proportions because as much as you’d like to say your closet isn’t full of skeletons and unresolved emotional bullshit, you can’t and the proof is staring you dead in the face. Looking at you the same way he did all those years ago and you feel lower than ever. 

The tears fall faster and Jihoon flounders. He shouldn’t have said anything, he shouldn’t have come inside, he shouldn’t have even come back home in the first place and this is why. He is your ruin and there is no escaping the feeling of guilt and desolation in his chest for the overwhelming amount of hurt he continues to push you through. 

“I’m…I’m so sorry for showing up like this,” he apologizes gently and you’re nodding, wiping your face like a small pitiful child. Your eyelids burn and lashes hold on for dear life as you hastily rub your eyes, attempting to laugh things off. 

“It’s ok! It’s fine!” you lie, rounding the counter to grab a napkin, “Just a little jittery is all. There is so much to do between now and tomorrow that I’m just…I’m in a little over my head.”

“Hey-”

Jihoon attempts your name but he can’t manage it and you’re waving him off as if you’re totally fine though your reflection says otherwise. “Jihoon, really, I’m okay and it’s nothing to worry about. Let me just go clean myself up and maybe we can…catch up?”

Jihoon presses his lips together tightly, like some semblance of a smile and nods his head but there is a moment when you’re just standing there, staring at one another, waiting. 

When neither of you speak, you look at the floor and force an amicable smile, excusing yourself to the restroom. Only then do you allow yourself to sink to the ground, knees tucked tightly to your chest, back against the wooden door. You hope it’s far enough away that he doesn’t hear you sobbing into your hands, sniffling and carrying on. 

You hate the fact that in that moment, before you walked away, you wished that he might say something. You don’t even know what you had hoped to hear nor what difference it would make because the reality was that Jihoon is a part of your past and you have a future. 

You’re getting married in the next twenty-four hours. 

You’re settling down and making a life for yourself with someone you love, someone who is good to you. Who treats you right and is a constant support at your side. Someone you were so sure you wanted to spend the rest of your life with for the past two years up until now.

So, why are you suddenly on the bathroom floor wondering if you’re making the wrong decision?

You’re not sure how much time has passed but by the time you drag yourself up and over the sink, fix your face, and walk back out into the empty dining room, he’s gone. 

You stare at the space he’d occupied moments ago and tried to convince yourself he hadn’t been there at all but the crisp white envelope on the counter argues otherwise. Taking it between careful hands, you consider not opening it at all. All you have to do is walk around the counter and throw it in the trash and you can put this behind you. 

Like a fool you tuck it away in your bag instead. You’ll throw it in a box and keep it in the highest corner in the back of your closet and maybe one day, when this encounter is nothing but a distant memory, you’ll have the courage to read the contents. 

You wouldn’t have gotten the chance to open it anyway with the reality of the tasks ahead of you between now and tomorrow afternoon. Last minute catering details, a meeting with the coordinator, a hiccup with the linens. It feels as if the moment you crash into your pillow you’re sitting right back up, hitting the button on your alarm. 

It’s surreal to be standing in front of the full length mirror in your bridal suite, the finished product staring back at you like an entirely different woman with silken hair, perfectly set face and painted lips. Your gorgeous white dress elegantly shaping your figure, lace bodice striking and breath taking to behold. Something is missing though and it takes a few minutes to realize you’ve left your earrings in your bag. 

With the rest of your bridal party in the middle of photos, you’re alone in your suite and cross the small, crowded room to retrieve your missing jewelry but instead, your fingers recognize the crisp envelope you forgot to hide away and you pull it out slowly, staring down at your name in Jihoon’s ever familiar scrawl. 

You can’t force yourself to put it back and your hands move before your mind can catch up and then the seal is broken and you’re slipping the letter from between it’s protective encasement. Falling into the plush armchair, you carefully unfold the thin paper, smoothing it’s delicate creases. Four words in and your hands shake.

Jihoon is accustomed to private flights and being escorted to his gates by body guards and staff around him at all times but right now, he only wants to be alone. It’s quiet in the west wing of the airport and the seating is all but empty with there still being another hour before his flight leaves. He pops in his headphones and shuffles his playlist, tipping his head back against the seat as he closes his eyes. 

He tries to think about anything other than you. How beautiful you probably look right now with your dress and your bouquet, walking down the aisle to someone he doesn’t even know. Jihoon hopes he makes you happy. That he loves you fiercely on your good days and bad days. That you will always come first in his eyes and never feel lonely for even a moment in time. 

That your husband will love you just as much as Jihoon himself will always love you.

Steadily the seating around him begins to fill up as he gets closer to departure time. He can see the plane and staff are beginning to gather near the gate to check passengers in but he sits and waits until the majority of people have formed a line before finally getting up and joining the queue. He keeps his cap low, mask on and eyes downcast but most everyone is too busy to notice him anyway. 

The line shuffles along and he patiently moves with it. Glancing out the towering glass windows, he get’s distracted by a frantic reflection. The ghost of someone moving quickly down toward the terminal, cloak or dress of some sort billowing out behind their figure and then the sound of loud clacking of heels against tile hit his ears just before…

“Jihoon!”

The shout causes heads to turn this way and that but his eyes laser focus in on the sound and he staggers a single step forward, “My god…”

He’s got to be imagining it - the vision of you in your wedding gown running as quickly as you can toward the gate, calling his name with tears streaking down your face. The crowd of people stop moving as the staff get distracted and he hears chattering and whispering, people wondering what’s happening and others recognizing his name excitedly. 

Jihoon takes another few steps forward, dropping his bag and calling out your name to make sure it’s really you and you’re really there, and then he’s rushing to meet you halfway. You slam into his chest wrapping your arms around his body so tightly you’d be hurting him had he even the sense to feel such a sensation. He spins his hat around and haphazardly tucks his mask into his back pocket.

His arms automatically come around you, wild eyed in disbelief and then he’s pulling you back to peer into your tearful eyes, cupping your cheeks because the need to touch and feel is so overwhelming it stands to devour him whole. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“How could you write me that letter and then leave again?” you sniffle angrily, wiping carefully beneath your eyes to rid the blurry mess from your sight. 

Jihoon stutters, unsure of what to say other than the truth.

“I’m a selfish man,” his fingers are so warm on your face, pads just a little rough from his guitar playing, “I shouldn’t have come back just to turn your life upside down again but I couldn’t help myself. I needed you to know that not a day’s gone by that I haven’t thought about you.”

One of his hands tentatively drop to your waist, keeping you close and your conversation low knowing you have an audience. “You will always be the love of my life and I want nothing more for you to be happy, even if that’s not with me.”

You collapse against him, one hand ringing the back of his shirt and the other in his hair. He holds onto you with all his might, heart shattering in his chest for being the reason you're crying for the millionth time. Over you shoulder in the distance he sees Jeonghan in his suit, leaning against a wall as he watches on. He twirls his car keys around his finger and nods once which explains how you got here but he still doesn’t understand why. 

“I called the wedding off.”

Your words shock him and his body shakes with the force of the implications. Surely you can’t mean to tell him that you’ve run out on your own wedding because of…him?

Jihoon shakes his head, cheek brushing against yours as he whispers your name, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I don’t want you to throw away your happiness away on me, please-”

“Jihoon,” you lift your head, eyes glistening as a smile spreads over your lips, “You are my happiness. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you until now and I’ll still love you when we meet again in the next life. I can’t go into a marriage with someone I can’t give my whole heart to. I don’t deserve that and neither does he.”

He can’t help but smile in the moment even though his happiness is another man’s terrible misfortune. “I can’t believe you’re here right now.”

You huff out a small watery laugh, “What? In the middle of the airport in a wedding gown? Can’t say it’s something I had imagined either.”

Jihoon laughs in return and presses you closer by the small of your back, “In my arms,” he gently corrects you, “I never thought I’d get the chance to hold you again.”

As you somewhat expected, there are phones and cameras hidden in the crowd and you sigh bemusedly, “I can already see the headlines now, ‘Famous musician, Lee Jihoon, kisses runaway bride in the middle of hometown airport’.”

“Does he now?”

The joyful grin on his face is so beautiful it takes a moment to answer. “Yeah, he does.”

Forgetting about the world around you, it’s startling when a man’s voice comes over the speaker from the staff podium near the gate check-in and says, “You may now kiss the bride, sir!”

Laughing and cheering fill the terminal and Jihoon blushes before pulling out some of that stage persona and confidence. He pivots and dips you back, eliciting a joyful sound out of the small crowd and then he’s planting the longest overdue kiss upon your lips, grinning into it knowing he’s the luckiest man in the universe in this very moment. 

You blink your eyes open as he steadies you back on your feet and hide your face in his shoulder as those around you applaud. Jihoon waves and bows at the crowd politely and takes your hand walking away from the gate to your surprise. You giggle behind your hand, still high off endorphins. “What do we do now?”

Jihoon nods at Jeonghan across the way who winks in return and pushes off the wall silently and walks off ahead of you to pull the car around. “Now, we should probably get you out of that dress and into something more comfortable.”

“Jihoon,” you tease as if you’re scandalized and not thrilled about whatever lies ahead.

He pulls you onto the escalator, sharing a step so he can pull you hard against him with a mischievous smile. “Then, I’m taking you somewhere, wherever you want to go.”

You push forward and kiss him again, already missing his lips on yours. “Take me somewhere pretty enough to write a song about.”

He thinks about the little island he visited for a few days last year when he needed a weekend to hideaway, recharge, refocus. He couldn’t imagine a better place to restart, to spend days on end doing nothing but tracing your outline, relearn everything inside and out. 

No one can ever know all that the future holds but he does know that whatever it may offer kindly or throw at you without warning, he would be at your side through it all.

The sunlight that spills upon your faces as you walk outside warms you from the inside out and it’s like a new beginning washing over the two of you. Jihoon looks over and you know this is the way things were always supposed to be when he smiles and parts his lips.

“I think I know a place.” 

Thanks for reading! 💗

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