#like i’m not saying he’s NOT posh by any measure

[brakingpoint]

Actively disagree re the fenland farming family being low - East Anglian farming is very wealthy, I don't know a farmer whose kids weren't at private schools, and Wisbech is a shit hole but the surrounding villages are nice and have a huge Cambridge bleed too. Wisbech Grammar School is more permissive than most private schools, and have disproportionate sports rep (Ali Price from the same era) because they let them go off and do whatever sport because their exam results are never great enough to be the draw. George is posh, he's just Norfolk posh - his whole family is posh, and always has been.

oh no i do entirely agree with you re: east anglian farming families, without doxxing myself too heavily my old school is on a similar level to wisbech grammar both geographically and on the local poshness scale haha so i’m very familiar with the kinds of people that are drawn to schools like that compared to the local state schools. it still stands that norfolk posh (and especially that west norfolk/fenland cusp posh) is not quite the same as the conventional home counties old money landed gentry RP tea and crumpets posh that most people from outside the UK (or, for that matter, from the upper upper reaches of the british class system) think of when they imagine a “posh” british person. which is where this whole discussion originally started re: george’s accent relative to the other british drivers on the grid (not his ACTUAL overall poshness) & my original observation was that i found it funny how people from outside the UK perceive him as extremely posh bc of his conscious vocabulary choices when his actual accent is actually nothing special on the linguistic poshness scale

[gay-dorito-dust]

Felix Catton x reader where he invites reader to Saltburn and he confesses his love to her. Super fluffy 🫶🏻😩

This was long as shit! But I hope you like it! 🦦

You honestly thought Felix was taking the piss upon extending you an invitation to spend the summer at Saltburn. You even waited for Farleigh to come out of nowhere to make his usual passive aggressive commentary in regard to your seemingly gullible nature, but nothing.

No Farleigh.

None of Felix’s little posse of posh cunts were nearby to poorly conceal their laugher behind their hands.

It was just you and Felix sat upon a stone bench somewhere, to which you must’ve looking like an right idiot, with your mouth opening and closing like an goldfish in disbelief at what you were hearing. ‘So what do you say?’ Felix asked after a prolonged period of awkward silence, looking as though a little on the verge of imploding at any given moment.

You blinked once, twice, then a third time for good measure before clearing your throat. ‘Yeah, sure…I’d love to but why me-‘ your sentence was cut off when Felix let out a relieved sigh as his mouth stretched into a smile, revealing his pearly whites, also as though he was…happy that you had accepted his invite; A reaction that naturally caused you to become curious as to figure out the reason why.

‘Oh thank fuck, you almost had me second guessing that you weren’t going to come.’ He said, looking at you with eyes that seemed to be reading your entire being, reading your each and every breath with such attention; so much that you swore it was as akin to that of a creator admiring his first creation. You -much like everyone else at Oxford- were very familiar with the stories that came with the supposed friends Felix had taken to Saltburn; they go to Saltburn, things seemingly get weird and the friendship is tarnished, then by summer’s end Felix next speaks with them again.

Used and discarded within the same breath.

You soon came to the conclusion that you didn’t want to be the next discarded toy on Felix’s long list of broken things. It would’ve been better had Felix kept his distance and stayed with his little posse, but he didn’t and now you were riddled with the endless possibilities that laid ahead of you. ‘Would’ve been a real shame if I did.’ You said, hyper aware of the fact that Felix was still staring intently at you. ‘But I’m glad you didn’t.’ He says softly, taking one last puff of his cigarette before its dying embers dwindled down to the bud, tossing it aside carelessly once it’s use has been served.

‘So am I.’ You replied, looking away from him and elsewhere as you pondered to yourself what you had gotten yourself into and what terrors would await for you at Saltburn.

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

Your first couple of days at Saltburn were okay to say the least.

Well that was mostly because Felix insisted that you’d spend the most of it together. So no matter where it was that you went through the manor, Felix was never far behind, looking over you like a protective shadow.

The pool? a shirtless Felix was sat poolside with a cigarette handing loosely from his lips, reflective shades concealing his dark eyes that you could feel shamelessly drinking you in as you dipped a toe.

The living room? Felix was there with a selection of movies and snacks that he retrieved from the kitchen along with comfy blankets.

The library? Felix was there reading a book that went over the treatment of women in Greek myths.

Bathroom? Felix was also there because upon giving you a grand tour of the intimidating building, he had informed you that you were to share a bathroom, instead of having you journey to the other side of the house to occupy another one.

You even remembered one time where you were deeply engaged in a topic with the likes of Farleigh and Venetia about Felix’s recent attitude towards you, with you being in denial and Farleigh and Venetia trying to make you see reason; When Felix came into the room as though looking for something, and upon seeing the three of you together, his jaw began to clench. It wasn’t until that very moment did you begin to take note of how Felix’s reluctance in having to share you with anyone else, and how it was staring to look something similar to a stubborn child who refused to share what he thought rightfully belonged to him.

‘Told you.’ Farleigh said with a winning smirk after Felix left the room in a huff. ‘He doesn’t want to share you with the rest of us, he only wants you for himself…and in more ways than one.’ He adds on, obviously knowing something that you didn’t.

‘What do you mean by that Farleigh?’ You had tried to ask but all he did was shrug nonchalantly and cryptically said, ‘you’ll see soon enough.’

You guessed you understood where Felix was coming from, I mean you did come here because of him, so naturally you were meant to be spending most of your time with him. However with what Farleigh had said earlier, you couldn’t help but theorise that there was a much deeper reasoning for Felix to have invited you to Saltburn; A theory that would later be put to the test when you were getting ready to go to bed, pulling back the covers just enough for you to slip in with ease, when a knocking at your door caught your ear.

‘Y/n. You in there? I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something recently and it couldn’t wait any longer.’ It was Felix. Your brows furrowed at this, what could he possibly want to talk about in the middle of the night?

As to not keep him waiting any longe then he might’ve been before knocking on your door. You quickly made your way to the door -though not before making sure you looked presentable- and opened it to see Felix stood in your doorway in his sleepwear, which consisted of a short sleeve shirt and a pair of blueish gray boxers, as his dark hair looked ruffled as though he had just been vigorously running his hands through it just minutes prior.

Either way he still looked extraordinarily appealing to the eye. However that was just how Felix looked to near enough everyone; extraordinarily delectable.

‘What conversation could possibly be so hard for you to not wait until tomorrow to have?’ You asked, brows raised, wanting nothing more than to put an end to all the mental gymnastics you’ve put yourself through within the past couple days; It got exhaustive after a while and his childish antics of giving you the cold shoulder didn’t make matters any better.

‘Look, I know I’ve been a bit of a dick to you recently.’ Felix began.

‘A bit?’ You echoed, slightly annoyed. ‘Felix you wouldn’t even look at me when I went to the pool, which if I remember correctly,’ you placed a finger on your chin, faking a face of deep thought before clicking your fingers and leaning in towards him, ‘you invited me to earlier that same day.’ You concluded dryly. ‘So how about you explain that before whatever you wanted to talk about, just so I’m given more of a clear picture as to where we stand.’

‘Fuck. I fucked up.’ Felix sighed under his breath as he ran his hand down his face, his dark eyes peering down the elongated hallway in hopes that no one -Farleigh- would come out and see what was all the commotion about, before they returned to look into yours and decided to just skip the words he was planning on telling you and just get straight to the point; long winded speeches of love was never his thing when he could just be straightforward about it. After all he was Felix fucking Catton, but it seemed that just being in your presence was enough to leave him a little speechless.

‘I like you.’ He began but immeditly felt that like wasn’t the right word to use when putting into words of what you did to him. ‘No, that don’t sound right because at the end of the day y/n, I fucking love you.’ Felix corrects himself and you immeditly felt the anything that you wanted to say to him exit your brain, as his sudden declaration took its place as the only thing that you could clearly focus on. ‘I brought you to Saltburn in hopes that one day I would stop being such a pussy and tell you how I truly felt.’ Felix then looked saddened as he continued. ‘Yet it seems that the only thing I’ve managed to accomplish is pushing you away because I thought that you wouldn’t want me like that, and would try to drive that home by spending time with Farleigh and Venetia.’ By the time Felix had finished pouring his heart out to you, everything leading up to this very moment started making a lot more sense, even Farleigh’s cryptic response made sense.

This entire time Felix was planning on confessing and Farleigh knew, which meant Venetia must’ve knew and therefore his parents considering how upon meeting them, they seemingly knew everything about you in incredible detail. You knew Felix was a bit of a blabber mouth under certain circumstances, but you didn’t ever think that he would ever rant to his parents about you in the slightest and in a positive light too. Though it did feel a little odd at first when Elspeth complimented your eyes but now you knew why and you couldn’t help but be flattered; Felix is a handsome and beautiful man that to be viewed within the same perspective was a new feeling entirely.

‘Really?’ You asked, biting the inside of your cheek, praying this wasn’t an extremely realistic dream.

‘Really.’ Felix replied without hesitation, beaming as he brazenly took a step towards you.

‘You’re not fucking with me?’ You asked again, still somehow not finding any of this remotely real, now bitting down on your bottom lip this time.

Felix stepped even closer to you now that you could feel his body heat, his hand gently holding you by the chin as his thumb gingerly pried your bottom lip from your teeth before then moving his head so that it was resting against your own, forcing you to focus on the dark pair of eyes that looked right back at you in a way that one would a masterpiece. ‘I’m not fucking with you.’ He spoke in a low but soft tone of voice. ‘I think you’re the most beautiful and the most amazing person I have ever met. You’re genuine, you’re kind but most importantly, you’re real and I both envy and adore you for that.’ Felix finishes and you couldn’t help but groan with impatience.

‘You could’ve conveyed all that if you would’ve kissed me.’ You whined, hands finding their home within his hair, raking and slightly tugging at the tresses, making him laugh. ‘As you wish.’ He utters cheekily as he then descends his lips upon yours in a passionate kiss that conveyed everything that had been said and more.

[randombush3]

audentes fortuna iuvat

alexia putellas x reader

part one, part two

words: 9541

summary: alexia and you as posh + becks III

content warnings: there’s some (a lot of) cheating + postpartum depression. it’s more frustrating than sad though x

notes: this covers 2019-22(ish). It was SUPPOSED to be the last part. It’s not anymore. I’m gonna do a fourth to deal w the mess I have created in a more self-indulgent amount of words than the 3k i had planned. That will probably have smut in it 😛

“Y/n left me.” 

The limousine you are in is completely black, save for the white lines being measured out right next to you. 

“What?” says Jenni. 

“She left me,” Alexia says once more. The hotel room is a non-committal beige. They lie in the same bed, the older of the two welcoming her lost teammate wordlessly and without judgement. Tomorrow, they will return to Barcelona, losers yet another time. “She moved back to london. She took Nico.” 

“She can’t just take Nico, can she?” 

“Y/n, how’s Nico?” Your stomach turns, but whether that is provoked by the thought of the baby boy you left crying in your father’s arms or by the white powder outlining the rim of the woman’s nostrils, you don’t know. 

Your son’s creasing eyes, red face, and grabbing hands appear in front of you. He screams as you walk away. He doesn’t understand why he has not smelt Alexia in weeks, and he misses the comfort of home. 

Everyone waits for your answer. No one comments on the bags under your eyes. “He's fine,” you say with a smile. “He loves it here.”

“I think she is depressed,” Alexia tells Jenni, comforted by the arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close and tightly and reminding her that she is not as alone as you have made her feel. “She told me that she couldn’t be in Barcelona anymore, but she said that without giving me a chance to come with her. Her bags were packed before the conversation started — she might as well have called me from the plane.” 

“Are you angry at her?” 

“Yes.” 

Alexia thinks about it. 

“No.”

“No,” you say when they point at your very own line. The drug holds a place of both familiarity and hatred in your heart. The fine, white powder reminds you of greatness – of being the most successful girl group in the UK – but, also, of hospital visits. It’s not a past addiction, but it could have been. You light a cigarette instead, though it will make the vehicle reek. “I can't. I have a son.” 

“You’re not a saint.” They boo. “You’re allowed to have fun. I saw you the other day, and you had no qualms with any drugs then.” 

“No, I'm not a saint,” you reply. You regret that night — however little you remember. “But I am a mother.” 

“Is it that thing? Postpartum?” Jenni asks. “The baby blues are really shitty, I've heard, but they’re not supposed to cripple you. Maybe the relationship has other issues.” 

“I'm not angry at her, Jenni,” Alexia repeats. “I miss Nico. He looks like her. He has started to look a lot more like her now.”

“He would definitely suit those sparkly bralettes.” Jenni giggles at the thought. 

With an understandable lack of good humour, Alexia ponders something more realistic. “He would suit a Barcelona kit.” 

“He would be made for it. You are his mother.” 

“I'm not angry at her,” Alexia says for the third time, just to make herself believe it. Just to carve those words into her bones and tell herself that it isn’t anger, what she’s feeling. “I don't want to be angry at her. I think I'm going to see if I can move to arsenal.” 

“Don’t you dare.” 

“Well, I'm not angry at her.” 

“Alexia.” Jenni cups her cheek tenderly. “Ale.” She knows she shouldn’t. She’s not angry at you, and so there is no punishment needed. Not that… Not that kissing Jenni would ever be utilised as a weapon to get back at you. Or that she’d actually kiss her. 

“Daddy, I can't get him tonight. No, I don't want to stay over. Daddy, I…” You hate the baby. You hate yourself. You hate that Spain hasn’t done well, and that your fiancée is disappointed that nothing is how it was supposed to be. Alexia is probably lying awake in bed, missing her son, and missing you. You expect one of her teammates to call you soon, and tell her that she needs you. You’re her person. “I'm going to get some sleep and I'll pick him up tomorrow. Probably around lunchtime, okay?” 

“Alexia, bésame.” 

…

You had passively bought your house. It’s how property sale works when you’re a celebrity. People are always willing to do things for you if you know the price, and it never hurts to use your name to add a new flashy level to whatever stupid business they are running. It’s a mutual exploitation, to some extent. 

Highgate is beautiful. The house is beautiful. 

The reception room, with its high, decorated ceilings, is your favourite place to numbly take in the twisted jigsaw of your life when Nico has cried himself to sleep. The nursery is on the first floor. He is near enough for safety, but at a distance that allows you to regret all the mistakes you have made.

You watch him roll over onto his stomach, eyes trained on the baby monitor though your fingers graze the ivory keys of your new piano, attempting to compose something worthwhile. At this rate, your solo career is going to fail just like your relationship seems to be doing. 

Yesterday, while Alexia seemingly disappeared from the face of the Earth, you came out. It was an off-hand comment during the Graham Norton Show. A quick ‘my fiancée named him. She’s from Barcelona’ was all it took. You hope Alexia, wherever she may be, has heard about it. Jenni would have told her. You trust Jenni to be somewhat on your side because she always has been. 

The doorbell rings just as you sniffle, wiping away the tear that slips down your cheek. “Don’t be pathetic,” you mutter to yourself. “You didn’t pay five million pounds to sit here and cry. You chose to come back home.” 

Being in England – colder, drearier, lonelier England – has made you realise that your decision was not the right one. Or maybe it was. It has proven that you are as terrible a mother as you convinced yourself you were back in Barcelona, and it has also shoved the cavity Alexia leaves in your life when you refuse her entry right down your throat in the form of a constant lump and a dull stabbing in your chest whenever you think about anything past whether Nico has had anything to eat. You can’t even feed him properly, despite it being supposedly in your nature. You buy formula from the nearest Waitrose. 

The doorbell rings again. 

The insistence is not uncommon seeing as you are, at the minute, the English press’s number one target. You open the CCTV app on your phone so that you can decide whether or not to ignore the potential stalker, and your heart rate spikes when you see the hooded figure standing on the porch. Back to the door, it is not possible to determine the threat. A well-buried maternal instinct kicks in for once, and you ensure that Nico is still peacefully out cold before getting up to answer the door with the poker from the Victorian fireplace firmly in your grip. Just in case. 

You are a mother, in whatever capacity you have decided that role looks like, and so you undo the three latches on the door with brave, protective fingers. The baby monitor’s volume has increased, and the fuzz of white noise is audible if Nico were to make a sound. The vague repulsion at the idea of it all is only an aftertaste in your silent prayer for the hooded figure to not want to kill you. Some sick part of your brain imagines Nico dead, as well. It tortures you. 

The poker in your other hand, for the most fleeting of moments, is almost plunged into your chest. The imaginary, self-inflicted wound makes you think of the blood and how the baby upstairs would wail until someone found him. The grimace of annoyance on your lips is nothing new, but you have no more time to torment yourself because the doorbell is pressed again, rather impatiently. 

You open the door and the hooded figure is right in front of you. “He’s asleep,” you say, the Spanish foreign on your tongue. 

Alexia shrugs, and her hood falls down, revealing the brunette tendrils that hang from her slowly sinking bun. “I came for you,” she replies, so earnestly that it is as if nothing ever happened: past pain forgotten and replaced by sprouting memories of soft kisses and mornings where leaving was too hard to do. Some of them, you think, are not real. They don’t seem to be. Your blank stare is unsettling. You almost don’t believe her. “Can we talk?” she tries, and you notice the team-issued duffle on the tiled floor she is standing on. Then, from the pocket of her hoodie, she extracts a pastry box. The plastic window is filled with circles of different colours, and she holds out the macaroons to you as if to bribe her way into a home in which she is unsure she belongs to.

Stepping aside, leaning the poker against the wall by the door, you scratch at the bare skin of your neck. Alexia, while sweeping an arm down to collect her bag, fixes her gaze onto the ring you are wearing, and the diamond glistens with hope that this can all be fixed. “Would you like to come inside?” 

She swallows the whine of anguish that tears her heart open at the idea that this might never be her house to live in, too, and she follows you dutifully as you lead her through hallways far more luxurious than the flat in Barcelona could ever be. This is what you left her for – the person you are, no longer in worn clothing with messy hair, is quite the opposite of the woman with her back to her moments before she had to focus on football. The necklace draped on your sharpened collarbones is new, and she does not dare believe what she has been hearing is true. Yes, there are pictures, but she trusts you. She will always trust you. 

“Have a seat,” you say, gesturing to the wooden dining table. It is clean enough for her to determine that it is unused. Alexia places the macaroons in front of her, and aches at how you sit at the opposite end. 

“I…”

“I thought you were going to give me all the time that I needed.” It is a statement of distance, as if your location is not enough. 

Alexia, eyes widening at how unwelcome she suddenly feels, needs only to remind herself of the impending date of the wedding. It is beginning to loom uncomfortably, with the excitement of getting married drained out like a low tide on a deserted beach. “We have two weeks. If it isn’t going to happen, then you should tell me now. We have to give everyone notice so that they can cancel their flights.” Your silence spurs her on. “You will need to contact the wedding planner, because you refused to let me have a hand in any of it so I don’t even have their number. I’m sorry that you won’t be able to wear your dress. Vivienne Westwood is a big thing for you, I know. I’m sorry that it’s inconvenient.” 

“But Alexia,” you whisper, “I don’t not want to get married.” 

Her eyebrows furrow, head tilted slightly to the left. “I know. That is why I am saying this.” 

Your voice grows louder. “No, no. Sorry, that wasn’t the easiest thing to understand.” Across the dining table, your love that has faltered, that has hesitated and been reconsidered and been stamped down over the past month, extends towards her: its final destination, always and forever. Alexia feels it grab her by the throat, wrenching the words from her before she can even formulate a thought in response, and her body is so drawn to you, in such a powerful fashion, that she pushes her chair out from the table with a grating scrape and is stepping towards you with a finality that makes her wonder if she’ll ever leave your side. 

As she approaches, the idea that she is here becomes a little too real. You have played with the fantasy of it, of course, but the tenderness in her usually fierce eyes does not match the anger you had expected, and, in the most feeble fashion, you have never felt more apologetic in your life. 

“I’m so sorry,” you begin to say. Tears stream down your face with freed anguish, and the words are so simple yet they bear the weight of your entire soul. “I’m so sorry, darling. I made a mistake, and I have been met with the most crushing of realisations: I can’t do this without you, Alexia.” I still want to marry you, Alexia. 

The room seems to close in on your despair, attempting to bottle it, almost, and keep you trapped underneath a haze of emotions you don’t quite know how to sort through. “I… I’m beginning to hate him.” The confession hangs heavy over Alexia’s bowed head as she stands frozen in place, stuck in her journey towards you but unable to arrive. “I’m acutely aware of how cruel it is,” you continue, this next admission being what agonises you the most. It floods the room with guilt, and your voice trembles with self-condemnation that reigns harsher than any other voice in your head. 

“It’s ridiculous. I’m evil and I’m wrong, and I just feel like it is inherently in my nature to be like this, as though some fault has been built into me with warning signs we evidently ignored.” You struggle to breathe. “I wish I could take back the day we decided to have him,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper, lips doused in tears, skin searing with shame when Alexia cups your cheek with a strong, calloused hand. “He should not have to be stuck with me as a mother.” 

Your chest heaves, and you are finished. You have never verbalised it before now, and it is impossible to decide whether it has helped remove the lead lining of your heart where it has been bolstered against your will. Her other hand steadily rises to your face, but then, with only a second of hesitation, she is pulling you upwards and enveloping you in her embrace. You feel a little bit closer to her. “Mi amor,” Alexia murmurs, tone cracked with sorrow and regret. “Lo siento mucho. Desearía haber sabido, desearía haber estado allí para ti.” 

Gently, she tilts your face upwards to meet her gaze. “You are not evil and no estás equivocada. Estoy aquí ahora, y no te dejaré enfrentar esto sola nunca más.” You collapse into her. “I’m here, cariño, and I am not going anywhere.”

The sentiment is wonderful, and Alexia makes good on her word. 

When Nico begins to cry, the sound piercing through your choked sobs, Alexia realises she has missed all of her life with you. Being separated and being apart due to work, she now knows, are two excruciatingly different things. The whiny wails from upstairs visibly jar you, though you pull away from Alexia to attend to him. “I will do it,” she declares, though her firmness is not mean. “Sit down. Eat the macaroons – they’re… ‘to die for’?” You nod with instinctive encouragement. “Sí. They’re to die for. Try. Jenni says that the pink ones are the best.” 

“Jenni picked them out?” you ask with a briefly regained humour, eyebrows raising. “Had to get your friend to choose your apology gift?” In truth, neither of you know what Alexia would be apologising for, but Nico’s crying grows more incessant and Alexia is climbing the carpeted staircase before the topic can be discussed. 

Alexia reaches her son with tears brimming in her eyes. The failure of Spain at the World Cup is amplified by the idea that she has disappointed him, though he does not yet possess the tools to pledge his allegiance to her country. In fact, Nico has been sleeping in Manchester United attire (your father has been his primary carer of late, and he does not charge you money, so the price is obviously Alexia’s sanity). She is more than glad to smell his nappy, and delighted about the opportunity to change him into something less hideous. 

“Mama loves you so much,” she tells him as she manoeuvres his chubby legs into a plain, inoffensive onesie. “I promise, petit. I am going to help her, okay? And we are going to get through this together.” Alexia forgets about the taste of Jenni’s lips and the heat between them. “Mama just doesn’t see the direction she is going in. It is like her eyes are covered, and she is telling herself that she is walking down the wrong path, but this is not true. You are the most special thing in the world to us. You are the sunrise, the sunset, and the hours of the day.” 

She pauses to stand him up on his tiny feet, hands hoisted underneath his armpits. He is heavier than when she last held him, but she is stronger than before, too. Women’s football is growing, along with her muscles. Nico babbles out a vague reply, but Alexia hears what he is trying to say. “I agree. We’ll be alright.” And, with all her heart, it rings true. 

…

The following day, she calls the doctor for you, script written out on a piece of paper in front of her, translated perfectly so that her concern does not waver the information she needs to tell the receptionist. The clinic is famous and discreet, and they are quick to prescribe you antidepressants before the week draws to a close. You won’t be able to drink at your wedding, and everyone might think you are pregnant again, but Alexia reassures you that it will be worth it. 

Wrapped up in your own bubble, the three of you enjoy London in a way that isn’t possible in Barcelona. 

Here, Alexia has no commitment to football. There are no training sessions she must rush off to, there are no teammates to pry, and no one else to interfere with your private little routine. You quite like it, and she does too. It is only temporary, before you fly out to Menorca and hand Nico off to Eli in order to enjoy your respective bachelorette parties and then, in exactly seven days, your wedding itself. 

“You’re still smoking,” Alexia says disapprovingly, the sleep in her voice enough to make you feel a pang of guilt. It’s late at night when Nico has finally been soothed from his aching gums, and she has been able to climb back into bed expecting to find you asleep already. “Why are you awake?” 

“I’m still smoking,” you tell her. She sighs at the way you parrot her words, but presses an affectionate kiss to the junction of your neck and shoulders despite the lingering smell of cigarettes. “If I can’t drink, I’m going to smoke. This is Hollywood.” 

“This is Highgate.” Her accent curls around the name with something a little too foreign for her to ever consider this place home. “Why are you awake?” she repeats. 

You look down at the open notebook in your lap, the pages either blank or full of crossed-out lyrics. “He was so loud, but I can’t seem to write anything either so, really, it has been quite redundant.”

“I had to get a glass full of ice and hold it to my fingers so that I could help him. I could have lost some very important assets, but it seemed to do the trick.” He’s teething. You’re telling yourself that the antidepressants are little pills of miracle, and have kicked in already. “Feel.” She presses two freezing fingers to your cheek, and you gasp, flinching away from her. 

“There’s a teething ring downstairs, you know,” you tell her. She shrugs. Maybe it isn’t clean. “Don’t give yourself frostbite. I happen to quite like your fingers.” 

Alexia’s smirk is beyond suggestive, and her lips hit your neck once more with an entirely different heat to them. “Yeah?” You push her head away. “I bet it would feel good. Nice and cold.” 

“You’re delirious.” 

She continues to kiss you. “I don’t know what that means,” she mumbles into your neck, until her lips reach your face and she is near climbing into your lap – notebook long pushed onto the floor. “Dímelo en español.” 

“No lo sé.” 

“Ah. Una palabra inteligente.” 

“Claro.” 

She laughs into the kiss she presses against your lips. She never has never felt like this with anyone else. Never this relaxed, or loved, or safe. “Me vas a matar con tu inteligencia y voy a sentirme estúpida para siempre.” 

“I love you,” you state softly. “I love every part of you.” Alexia, in that moment, decides to never do what she did with Jenni again, and to never break your heart by informing you of her betrayal. 

…

You’re married. 

You’re married to Alexia, a woman who bears the beauty of a goddess and the strength and will of someone who could capture the sun and tame the fire that rages on its surface. 

You admire her as she sleeps so peacefully beside you, tanned skin warmed by the sunlight streaming in through the large windows of the hotel room. Later, you will get on the ferry, go back to Barcelona, and then fly to Capri for three days alone before Alexia’s preseason starts. Aside from a few meetings with Dave, you theoretically aren’t swamped with anything. You’ll be joining her in her city with Nico with a bit more permanence than last time. 

Alexia buries her face in the covers, crawling into your open arms the minute the sunlight rouses her. “Everything is sore,” she groans, her bare skin slightly sticking to yours, the sweat from last night not yet gone. 

“What happened to ‘mi vida, one more time won’t hurt’?” you tease, impersonating her heavy accent over your English with enough drama to get her to elicit another grumble. This time, it’s something about being bullied. “Darling, we have to get up. We’re having breakfast with our parents, and apparently Nico has been upset that we got a night to ourselves.” 

“Pobrecito,” she replies with a newfound level of English sarcasm. She spent the wedding reception avoiding the dance floor, engaged in a long conversation with your father. The topics spanned over most areas of life, and briefly touched upon how you are doing now. Alexia, with much pleasure, confirmed the improvement, however miniscule it has been. She is very proud of you, and he is too. “I only want one thing for breakfast.” 

Her hands begin to roam, the band of her wedding ring hitting your pubic bone. “Mi vida, one more time won’t hurt,” she mocks you from before but in her sexier, Spanish husk, sucking at your collarbone, straddling your waist.

You replace your near moan with a thoughtful hum. “I really want pancakes. Do you think they’ll make me some?”

Downstairs, where it is brighter and impossible to conceal the hickeys on both of your necks, you greet your parents, brother, Anya, and Gio. Alexia’s mother, her sister, and Jenni are sitting at the table, too. Your baby is pretending he isn’t teething, and grinning like an angel. 

“How’s married life?” Anya asks as you take a seat opposite her, Alexia to your right. The table has a gradient of bilingualism, but Gio discovered that she picks up Spanish quite easily considering she can already speak one romance language. “We’ve already found, like, four articles talking about it.” 

“How?” you ask, but you are not offended. 

Gio shrugs. “Drones, I guess. Nothing bad, though. Some speculation about the other bride – if the article does mention that. Most talk is on the dress.” It was a bloody good dress. “And I suspect that there’ll be a juicy little question about who was your Maid of Honour.” 

“Don’t be salty,” you tell her. The MOH issue was sorted out years ago – perhaps 2015 – when you binged Friends together despite having watched it thousands of times before. Anya has been yours, Gio will be hers, and you will be Gio’s. And they say trios never work. 

“I left Mia with her dad for this.” 

“You shouldn’t have had a baby with a man-slag,” Anya says with a snort, enjoying her second mimosa and Gio’s grimace at the idea of her daughter having to put up with her father’s revolving door of one-night-stands. “You’re one to make terrible decisions. At least our girl over here’s married someone who looks at her like she’s hung the moon.” 

Alexia turns to you with a smile, as if on cue, with Nico in her lap. You glance at his rounded cheeks and shining eyes, looking back up at your friends as though to check they are still there. Alexia leans forwards so that she can whisper in your ear. “Te amo. Nico, también. Mi familia es perfecta.” 

…

Returning to Barcelona comes with one negotiated condition on your part. You buy a bigger apartment, where there is space for an office and extra bedrooms. Alexia says her teammates will be taking the piss out of her grand new place the minute she sees it, but she is more than content to contribute to the finances with her new-and-improved salary for this season. “It’s weird to think that I’m from Mollet,” murmurs Alexia, standing in the middle of the large lounge area, surrounded by boxes. Most are from your old flat, but a few have been flown in from London. Alexia wanted you to have your Grammy with you. “This place is so fancy.” 

“It’s half of what the men’s team get,” you remind her, holding Nico with care as he gnaws away on a frozen carrot. His saliva drips onto you, but the antidepressants are working, and the therapy has been effective enough for you to start taking childcare in turns. (You had tried to previously, but Alexia wanted you to focus on yourself, knowing that things will change for all of you once the season started.) “Hey.” You place your hand on her shoulder. She tickles Nico’s chin. “We deserve this. You deserve this. Why don’t you host one of your team’s dinners? I’ll take Nico round to your mum’s – God knows she’d love to shove some food down my throat, too.” 

She shakes her head, strands of brown unstraightened due to the stress of the move and falling out of her bun with a determination to defy her hair bobble. “They would kill me if I did it without you. They’re all far too grateful that you invited Taylor Swift to our wedding.” 

“She’s a friend.” If you hadn’t been distracted by various other happenings that night, you’d have clocked that Alexia’s side of the guests were completely up to their ears in celebrities they’d never expected to meet. “Okay, so do you want me to stay here?” 

“I always want you to stay here,” she answers. 

“Not what I meant.” 

“I won’t take it back.” 

Nico babbles an incoherent yet cutely Spanish-y noise, though his words are getting closer to being said at the old age of eight months. Then, suddenly, something in him clicks. “Mama,” he squeals, his little fist scrunching up the fabric of your t-shirt. “Mamama.”

“Nicolau!” Alexia replies with just as much enthusiasm, cupping his cheeks. She kisses his nose, and then his forehead, and then his chubby knees and socked feet. “Nicolau, sí, la mama et té a las mans! Bon noi, el meu bon i intel·ligent noi.” 

“Does that count?” 

��Mama,” Nico repeats, tugging your earlobe. “Mama. Mama.” It is easy to forget about the (lessening) resentment you harbour when he speaks. Alexia gets him to say it as many times as she can before he goes back to his carrot, but, even then, the two of you stay in that spot, marvelling at your creation. 

Slowly, she turns around in a circle, absorbing the plain walls and towers of boxes. “This is going to be good. Life is going to be good,” you declare with such a firmness that it has to be true. “Darling, let’s get to unpacking and then we can think about a date for this dinner party.” 

“We are going to plan the party?” She raises her eyebrows at you. “Is this party going to start at five o’clock?” 

“Not all of us shit yellow and red.” (In a national sense – you’d have haemorrhoids for United any day of the week.)

Alexia takes Nico off you, in a show of cultural dominance. You’re actually outnumbered, considering he isn’t a British Citizen, and though he shares no DNA with your wife, he has inherited the same ability to narrow his eyes just enough to serve absolute cunt whenever he so pleases. If you weren’t feeling so ganged up on, you’d be a little impressed. “Nico y yo vamos a hacer croquetas de jamón. Adiós.” 

“Darling, the kitchen isn’t–” But you cut yourself off, deciding that she can discover that on her own, along with the criminally empty fridge. You don’t hide your smugness at all when she finds you in your almost-finished bedroom, wearing a look of utter disappointment and mumbling out a heartbroken request for a food delivery as soon as possible. 

…

November marks three years of being together and, also, four weeks of having Alexia’s ‘DNA’ – a pomeranian called Nala, whose Instagram account is run by her favourite parent after you called it silly and told your wife you’d much rather attend to your own seventeen million followers. 

Towards the end of the month, after a well-spent morning and then a family outing to Barcelona Zoo, Alexia meets Jenni Hermoso in a restaurant in what Jenni calls ‘your new rich-people neighbourhood’ in her text to Alexia.

Alexia, really and truly, is happy to have her best friend back in Barcelona. She missed her last year, when Jenni had returned to Atleti, and that separation maybe made what happened the night Spain was knocked out of the World Cup just that bit more understandable. “You’re a Culer, no matter how hard you try to fight it,” Alexia had said when she had climbed back into her own bed, not wanting to fall asleep in Jenni’s arms. “It was terrible to not have Y/n or you.” 

You and Jenni: Alexia’s people. 

“How’s your wife?” Jenni asks with a grin, two glasses of wine into a pleasant evening at an expensive restaurant. “You’ve left her with Nico, so something must be working.” 

In truth, you have been determined to get better. There were articles released not long after the photos of your wedding were circulated, and those speculated a lot about how you are finding motherhood. The baby pictured, captured by long-range lenses and invasive drones, was the world’s first glimpse at what Nico Putellas L/n looks like, and reminded many of them that you had a child to care for when in London, yet were frequently spotted at nightclubs and parties. You rise to most challenges, however, and find it a lot easier to adapt to weekly therapy sessions and pills every morning when you have a wrongful image to disprove. 

“It’s as if it never happened,” Alexia says, both with pride and surprise. “She now seeks to spend time with him. She takes him with her to the recording studio – the album’s coming along well.” It’s your first on your own. Nico plays with one mixing desk, while Dave (flown in from London with the promise that the Barcelona sun will do wonders for his wife’s misery) plays with another. “And… Jenni, we’ve been talking. The clinic that we used for Nico asked us if we wanted to reserve sperm when we first had him, and now they have called asking if now is a good time. I think… I think that she is really considering it. She told me yesterday that her therapist wants me to sit in on the next session, so we can go over how we can make this time different.” 

Jenni frowns, which is not what the woman opposite her had expected at all. “Why are you two having more children? You’re only twenty-five, Ale. Isn’t this going to affect your career?” 

“The men do it all the time.” She’s done a spot of research. They are younger than her when their girlfriends start getting pregnant, and they continue to play with the added admiration that they are fathers as well. 

“Yes, but they have the benefit of getting paid millions. They don’t have to fight with their federation for pitches or pay, and they can focus on football without their career sparking controversy for even existing.” 

“Then my children will grow up with a mother who fights for change.” 

“Or they grow up with a pop star who only wants things she cannot have and a footballer who can’t spend any time with them because she is too busy speaking at various conventions so that the next league match isn’t cancelled.”

“Jenni, do you think your opinion would be different if Y/n was a man?” 

This elicits laughter from the other woman, who rolls her eyes in a way that can only be described as condescending. “Alexia, you’re forgetting that I’m a lesbian too, which is a magnificent feat.” Jenni references the kiss they shared, and what happened after that. “But, no. I don’t. I want you to be the greatest footballer in the world, and you want that too. What are you going to do when Y/n tells you she wants to move back to England? Are you going to give up your future here for her?” 

The waiter interrupts briefly, collecting their empty plates and carting them off with a mission to retrieve the bill after a sharply declined offer for the dessert menu. “You don’t even know if that will happen,” Alexia scoffs, though she is a little sad that her exciting news hasn’t been well-received. “I was going to say that I’d think about the name Jennifer if it ends up being a girl, but now I’m leaning more towards María…”

She is kicked under the table, and she has to hold in her cry of pain because this restaurant is one of your favourite places to eat. “Mapi cannot have this victory over me. She’d be insufferable. Ale, you simply aren’t allowed to do that.” There’s another kick, but it is more playful this time. 

Alexia laughs, smiling and thankful that the tension has diffused. “I’m only joking. Y/n has a list scribbled in the back of her lyric book. She’ll probably be called Elena.” That is much more acceptable to Jenni’s ears, and she files that information away for next year, when she’ll tell Mapi that Alexia doesn’t like her name.

…

It works. Alexia and you are lucky. The doctor tells Alexia that, if she were a man, the two of you would have to be extremely careful. Your wife marvels at your ability to destroy your body and stay fertile, but she supposes that you are not the kind of woman to be a lesbian. Sometimes, she wakes up in a cold sweat, believing that you have changed your mind and left her. 

The New Year is a fresh start. Alexia decides to fix the (not so) hidden cracks in your relationship. She confides in her newly-acquired therapist. She may have made a mistake once; the secret is sandwiched between her worries about your susceptibility to depression and how Nico is a decided food critic. 

Though the therapist, a lovely bilingual woman named Sofía, raises her eyebrows, she does not pry. She slides a paper calling card over to Alexia. The paper squeaks along the coffee table between the two comfortable armchairs of the office. “I specialise in couples. Seeing as your wife is already a client of mine, I think you should consider a joint session.” Alexia is new to the idea of mental health. Before, she had been too focused on football to care about it. Even when her father died, any professional she spoke to was only hearing how her mind worked because she knew it was what was best for her performance. “And, Alexia.” She looks up at the therapist with a small, nervous smile. “Congratulations on the pregnancy. I am sure Nico will make a wonderful older brother.” 

Morning sickness drags you out of your shared bed most days. 

Alexia asks you about couples’ therapy when you have finished your dry-heaving one morning. 

“I mean,” you begin before pausing, gulping down the sour taste in your mouth and hoping nothing else is trying to hit the toilet water until tomorrow. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t apologise.” She is dressed in her training kit, but she slings her jumper over your shoulders as soon as you shiver. “Do you think it’s a good idea?” 

“It would do no harm.” As long as Sofía does not bring up Alexia’s confession, your statement will ring true. “You book the appointment. It’ll be easier to work around your schedule that way.” 

“When are you flying back to London?” Her question is not filled with hatred for the city, but with resignation to the fact that your job involves you being stretched between here and there. 

“Not until next month. I thought that I could take Nico to an away game with my dad if I got a flight for Saturday. The rest of the week would be interviews and photoshoots.” 

“How’s the album doing?” 

So far, your songs are only written when Alexia has paid you enough attention to swirl your thoughts and blur your vision. It is in these moments that the lingering, sinking weight inside of you dissipates. “Dave remains hopeful. It won’t fail, but I need it to be better than what we currently have.” 

Shamelessly, Alexia is aware of her effect on your songs. She smirks; “Alba has been begging to babysit, you know.” With no care for your current state, Alexia’s eyes rake up and down your body. You grow embarrassed by how you are slumped over the toilet, and how she is standing above you as though she runs your world. “You look beautiful, mi amor,” she murmurs as you bashfully duck your head between your bent arms. 

“You’re a flirt.” It feels too late for her to still be in the flat. “And you’re going to miss training if you don’t get a move on. There are eggs in the fridge, and Nico definitely liked the omelette you made him a few days ago. He’ll be waking up soon.”

A small sigh escapes the midfielder’s lips, but the prospect of the things she loves most in the world appearing in her life consecutively is enough to convince her to pad her way out the bathroom, swanning into the corridor with a little grin on her face as she sings out ‘bon dia’ to an impressively multilingual toddler and heads into the kitchen with the domestic intention of getting breakfast started. She leaves an omelette out for you, which you attack shortly after Alexia and Nico disappear into their daily routine. She drops him off at preschool, and you pick him up a few hours later, taking him first for lunch with Alba, and then to the studio. 

You come home to a showered Alexia who is memorising her most recent match. She lets Nico slide into her lap without hesitation, but she stays focused on the football even when he tugs on the strands of hair falling out of ponytail. You marvel at the idea of having enough room in your heart for so much love. You decide that you are not like Alexia, though it is not necessarily a terrible thing. A further observation from watching your wife settle her son with a calm, muttered Catalan telling-off, coaxing him into loving football as though he does not already, is that you are so very content with your life at the moment. 

But 2020 kind of sucks. 

For the entire world. 

You’re cut off from your home in any other manner than a digital one, and being stuck in a luxurious penthouse in Barcelona isn’t the worst fate, but it really isn’t ideal. 

Elena, however, has the benefit of coming into the world with ever (physically) present parents, who could recite the java script for Zoom given that they spend hours on therapy calls. Elena, bright and smiley and the picture of her mother, spends the first few months of her life in a happy, happy family, protected by an entire football team and a fierce older brother. (And a yappy Pomerianian called Nala.) 

“Y/n doesn’t like the name María,” Jenni tells Mapi when Alexia sends the first picture of your new addition to the Barcelona group chat. 

“The next baby is going to be a Jennifer,” Mapi says, to both the forward and the unimpressed midfielder walking a few paces in front of such a silly conversation. “For that, I can only feel sorry for her.” 

…

The routine changes the following year. 

It starts with an abrupt but expected conversation. One that Alexia has been dreading. 

Your album – the first one that is just you – was released two months ago, and it has done too well. Selfishly, Alexia had hoped it would fail. You have enough money, and she is earning more and more each season. Success, unfortunately, means that this little life can no longer exist. Or can it? 

“I have to do it,” you whisper to her, tears in your eyes though the smell of sex still lingers. The quietness of a child-free apartment allows for you to hear her gulp. “It’ll be different this time, darling, but I can’t be here anymore. I can’t fly out to London every few days. I can’t leave you with a five-month-old and a toddler when you are training every day and playing matches every weekend. It’s not fair on anyone.” 

Alexia kisses your bare shoulder, hands slipping round your waist as she pulls your sweaty body into her. Her chest presses against your back, but she is only behind you in this bed. She does not agree with you. She does not support it. But, like she always does, she bites her tongue. “If that’s what you want,” she replies, and part of you dies with the thought that she does not really care. “I love you. I want what’s best for you. For us.” And she tells Jenni all about it when she goes to see her a week later – the flimsy excuse of meeting a childhood friend for dinner enough to wrap a cloth around your eyes and leave you at home with a screaming toddler and a baby whose only flaw is that she grows distraught the moment she is put down. 

In the dimly lit living room, the tension hangs thick in the air. You lock eyes. “Why can't you just move with us? Everyone will want you, darling, and life would be easier,” you plead, a month down the line. The house in Highgate has been readied for your more permanent return. 

Alexia takes a deep breath, her gaze unwavering. “Why can't you get it into your head that I'm not leaving Spain or Barcelona? This is my home.”

“What about the children? School? Life? My career? Does it mean nothing to you?”

Her eyes soften. Your heart breaks, and the piece of you that has already died somehow dies again. “I'm thinking of the children. All the time, I think of them. About the reputation of my name – their name. Putellas, the greatest in the world, or Putellas, the one with potential wasted at West Ham?”

“You're being selfish, Lex,” you snap. “This is an opportunity for all of us, not just me. Think about their future!”

“Their future is here, in the culture they know, the languages they speak. I won't strip them of their identity for the sake of a 'better' life. And my career? I've worked too hard to build what I have here. I won't throw it away.” I don’t want to throw it away. Underscored by Don’t leave me again. 

The room echoes with the weight of her voice. “Their identity comes from both of us.” It’s too final for either of your liking. Elena begins to cry in her cot. “I want to try it. I want you to be open to trying it.” 

She gestures to the suitcases by the door. “Trying it and doing it are two different things. You’re taking them from me!” 

“You’re probably going to love life without them anyway!” you shout. You feel like the crying baby, except the tears rolling down your cheeks carry much more suffering than hers. “You’ll – what? You’ll go out with your friends, and you’ll be able to go to the gym whenever you want. No arguing, no crying, no toddler to entertain, no nappies to change. You never wanted children. I forced it upon you. I regret it, and I’m sorry. We’ll go.”

“Don’t go.” 

I don’t want you to go.

“I have to.” 

You turn your back to her as you fly through the corridor, prepared to console Elena in a taxi. Alexia slips her ring off her finger, and clutches it in her palm instead. Desperately, she searches for a solution. There is nothing within her reach, not even you. 

… 

She is an island amongst a sea of happy people. She is going to be the greatest footballer in the world. It kills her to realise that she can now focus on football. 

Nico starts nursery, attending the same school you once did. He adjusts to life in London seamlessly, and Elena does not seem to care either way. He learns more English every day, and his other mother calls him nightly to read to him. 

With childcare more than sorted, you are free to be interviewed, pictured, and invited to events. You rake in the publicity, especially after laying so slow over the course of the lockdown in Spain. 

“Alexia.” Jenni’s hands knead her tight shoulders, partly teasing her. Alexia wears a frown, eyebrows knitting together with an emotion she’s not sure she can name. “Ale, it’s the same game as always. Nothing has changed.” 

“I know,” she murmurs. “I don’t understand why I feel like this.” She has continued to speak to Sofía, though your joint sessions have now come to a halt while you spend your time doubling as a singer and model. The therapist, try as she might, cannot evaluate the situation effectively enough. Eli and Alba have both tried to help, hoping that weekly dinners and the constant reminder about the invention of aeroplanes would ease the turmoil of Alexia’s mind. It does not. “I am so alone, Jenni.”

Nala is too small to fill the emptiness of the flat. Screens don’t allow for her to kiss you, or play with Nico. She is scared she will miss Elena’s first words. 

“You don’t have to be.” 

It only takes a month for Alexia to break, and it sort of works. 

In Jenni’s bed, it works. Hips keening, soft pants falling from her mouth. 

Quiet moans that stay locked in Jenni’s apartment. 

Each time Alexia leaves, though Jenni repeatedly requests that she stays, she walks out as half a woman. She blinks back her tears and she checks her phone. When she calls you – not a video call – you are never any the wiser to the scratches down her back. 

Alexia remains an island, but the sand beaches are tainted with the arrival of someone else. 

In this way, she is functional. 

She can do sex. She can deal with borderline romance. She can fill the space that you are tearing open with every passing minute spent in that god-awful country you insist on calling home. She can fix it a little bit with Jenni. 

She tells herself that it does not mean anything more than a bandage means to a wound. Who wears the bandage once the gash has healed? 

Where does she put the used bandage? 

Why is she focused on bandages?! She’s having an affair. It’s not an affair! (It is.) Alexia doesn’t… quite… wanttoadmititjustyet.

…

The buzz of your phone is the final push that gets you to conclude the current interview you are trapped in. Before checking what the notification is, you glance at the time. You have half an hour before you need to pick up Nico, and your parents said they would drop Elena home once they returned from London Zoo. 

Alexia: Jenni has had a really good idea 

It’s an intriguing text amongst the more practical ones that oil the mechanics of managing the distance. Tonight, Barcelona play their last match of the season. After this, she’ll be flying out to London. You have missed her. The last time you saw her in person was after Barcelona embarrassed Chelsea in Gothenburg. Elated and filled with pride, it was incredibly nice to have the biggest room in the hotel to yourselves. Her medal was almost as beautiful as her. 

You: Go on…

Alexia: Just draw a heart on Nico’s hand from me porfa. You’ll see. 

You slide into the driver’s seat of your newest self-indulgent car; a Porsche. Momentarily distracted by a camera flash, your turn onto the main road is a little risky, but you manage to make it to the school in time to collect your son. 

“Was he good?” you ask his teacher as she hands you Nico’s book bag. You take in the sight of him: hair messy, school uniform stained though they require the little ones to wear aprons for most of the day. “It’s a little different here. I’m hoping that he’s enjoying himself.” 

“Our new assistant is from Spain,” says the teacher with a small, tired smile, batting her long eyelashes at you. “We had to pry him off her.” 

You let out a laugh. “He misses his mum.” 

“He’s extremely intelligent. He knew to speak Spanish to her and English to us.” Though your grasp of Spanish is near-fluent after such reluctance from your wife to try English, you know that the two-year-old has a talent for juggling the three languages he is growing up around. You’re proud of him. “You shouldn’t worry about him. And, speaking of, we have a parents’ coffee morning just around the corner. It’s always great for the parents to get along – it helps the school feel even more like a family. Will it just be you attending?” Nico’s teacher is around your age, and you can smell her rose perfume that mingles with the soft hint of ready-mixed paint. She has deep, brown eyes, and she is definitely flirting with you. 

“Next week, right? I’ll have to check with my wife.” 

It’s then that a toddler-sized hand grips your fingers and tugs. “Mama, me voy,” he groans; something akin to Alexia’s impatience. It reminds you of when you used to go shopping and she’d herd you out with the threat of getting in the car and driving away. “Venga.” 

“One sec, sweetheart.” There are countless ways in which you miss Alexia. “My wife and I would love to come.” 

Her smile does not falter on her lips, but there is a greyish disappointment that dulls the warmth of her irises. You smile as you turn your back and lead Nico to the car. You are so excited for Alexia to complete the broken puzzle. 

You melt when she kisses the heart drawn onto her hand when celebrating her goal. Nico copies her, lips pursing and sloppily mimicking the action on a similar heart. “For you, sweetheart,” you tell him as he settles back into your side, careful not to jostle Elena who has fallen asleep on your chest (the therapist did wonders for you). 

“It was for you,” Jenni tells Alexia after the match. Her goal is now serving as the move Alexia feared she’d make. They have changed and been massaged and done the media the are required to do (women’s football is growing): they are free to roam Barcelona if they so wish. 

Her flight is tomorrow evening – “I have a flight tomorrow evening.” 

“Come over tonight.” It isn’t a question, yet it is not quite a command. Mapi passes the two of them, eyes narrowing at the way Jenni has wrapped her hand around Alexia’s wrist. The defender is aware that something is going on, though it breaks her heart to imagine Alexia ever doing that to you. Not knowing they are being watched, Alexia steps in; cups Jenni’s face, brushes her cheekbone with a stroke of her thumb Mapi knows is meant for her wife. Mapi’s stomach lurches. She feels sick. 

“I need to…” It’s not a ‘no’. “Jenni.” She hates that it is not a ‘no’. 

“Ale.” There’s a beat. Mapi blinks twice, shakes her head, and backs away. “I’ll miss you, you know?” 

… 

Jenni doesn’t seem to mind when, the next day, blurry pictures of you on a family outing make rounds through the tabloids she usually doesn’t read. The fact that, up until now, no one has known that your wife is Alexia Putellas has no effect on her. She was stupid for thinking the last six months meant something. Winning together, losing together. Sleeping together. 

In this deal, Alexia has fucked over both women who love her. Except, you don’t know. She hasn’t told you, though Jenni had hoped for it secretly – hoped Alexia chose her – and it is obvious. Obvious to Jenni, who is well acquainted with the blonde hair in the wings of your concert at the O2. Obvious to Jenni, who refuses to think of herself as the other woman. 

She consults Mapi. 

Mapi, who she has come to shamefully realise already knows. 

“I can’t believe the two of you.” The defender is clear in her distaste and disappointment and, honestly, her disgust. “But I am not going to be the one to break that poor girl’s heart.” 

“I’m not asking you to.” 

What is she asking? What does she want from this utterly useless conversation? 

“Mapi.” Jenni closes her eyes, but she sees two faces instead of darkness. Nico. Elena. She’s Elena’s godmother. You decided that – convinced Alexia to choose her best friend over her younger sister, told your wife that there’d be another for Alba to corrupt. “Mapi, I love her. I don’t know what to do.” 

“She loves her wife.” The next sentence proceeds to brutally remind Jenni who that isn’t. “Tell her you’re done. Find someone else. Anyone but her.” 

That is Jenni’s resolve, because she knows that Mapi is right. 

… 

June, July, and August pass with bliss. 

Everyone says that you are a beautiful couple with beautiful children. Alexia beams with pride as she flaunts her practised English, and gladly claims ownership of Nico when he wins a prize on speech day. Every child in Reception is awarded something but that doesn’t stop her from boasting.

She explores the country with the children while you shack up in the recording studio, and brings hugs and kisses (and Red Bull) every evening after dinner. The visits are what reminds you of the sun Alexia brings, especially as the warmth follows her from Barcelona and London is blessed with golden days. Dog days. 

“This isn’t permanent.” Alexia looks up from her phone, comfortable in your bed. The house in Highgate has flecks of Spain woven into the decor now, and you like it that way. 

You climb into the bed beside her, and her arm lifts so that you can snuggle into her chiselled stomach (wow, she has been working hard this season). “What’s Jenni saying?” you ask, following your statement and hoping you’ll get her attention. She presses her phone screen into the duvet before you can translate the message – it is too long of a paragraph for you to handle. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you that this isn’t permanent.” 

Alexia, over the past few months, has been the most affectionate, loving, amazing person with the same smile and giggle you married. You thought she had disappeared and was replaced with stern, career-focused Alexia Putellas, jugadora del fútbol. You were wrong. 

“I’m thinking January is when we’ll come back. Nico’s English will survive.” Your parents are going travelling. They’ve never been on the Orient Express before. “I want to be with you.” 

It is a good thing Jenni has just broken up with her. 

“I love you,” you continue. “So much.” 

Alexia hums. Her heart breaks, and she does not know for whom. “¿En serio?” She is happy, she thinks. Certainly, she is glad that the four of you will be reunited. 

 You are. 

January 2022 ruins things for Jenni Hermoso. She calls Pachuca back. 

[missiletoe]

another quick fill for the yuri shipping olympics (i love kittyuri)

Word Count: 800 Prompt: "I eat a live frog one time and now it's all I'm known for!"

"Wait, why did you eat a live frog?"

"It wasn't on purpose!"

"How did you accidentally eat a live frog?"

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

Kitty’s still scrubbing the words PORTLAND FROG EATER off her locker when the bell rings.

“As much as I like graffiti, I don’t think it’s allowed on school premises.” 

She turns to find Yuri leaning against the wall, arms folded across her chest. Of course her socks match her skirt which matches her tie. Of course she doesn’t have a single hair out of place. Of course there’s a cute little teddy bear clip pinning a strand of hair behind her ear.

Everything goes right for KISS Arcane Academy’s top student. Kitty wishes she could say the same.

“I’m not creating graffiti, I’m cleaning it. The school should be thanking me.” She throws the damp sponge against the locker and lets the wet SMACK! of it against the floor do the talking.

“Portland… frog eater?” Yuri reads.

“I eat a live frog one time and now it’s all I’m known for!” Emotions cycle across Yuri’s face like an old film reel–first shock, then curiosity before finally landing on amusement. It’s not a good look on her. (Well, it is. Everything is a good look on her but Kitty’s not thrilled that it comes at her expense.)

“Wait, why did you eat a live frog?”

“It wasn’t on purpose!”

“How did you accidentally eat a live frog?”

“It wasn’t just any frog!” Kitty protests. “It was Minho’s frog but somehow everyone seems to forget that tiny little detail when they’re telling the story!”

Yuri snickers and does a poor job of covering it up with her palm.

“Okay, why’d you swallow Minho’s frog then?” Kitty sighs and throws down the bundle of paper towels in her hand in defeat. Not like they were doing much for her anyways.

“Q and I were in his dorm for our weekly Friday movie marathon. Minho, his unfortunate and insufferable roommate–god, I don’t know how Q puts up with him. Q is a literal saint and Minho is like if the devil had a child and then left the child at an orphanage but instead of an orphanage it was a school dedicated to raising–”

“Kitty. Frog. Focus.”

“Right, sorry. So Q and I were in his dorm and Minho had just found a frog outside and he was intent on taking it in as a little pet or something. I think he saw some TikTok about pet care being good for your skin or something. Anyways, he had it in some little posh cage and he was showing it off like it’d just solved World Hunger or something and then we got a knock on the door. It was Professor Lee with ResLife doing random room inspections.”

“And we’re not allowed to have animals in the dorms so.” Kitty sighs and mimes something going down the line of her throat. Yuri mock-gasps in response.

“You didn’t.”

“Hey. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“Kitty Song Covey, you’ve got to be the weirdest girl I know,” Yuri laughs, shaking her head. Kitty’s torn on whether to take it as a compliment or an insult but her stomach makes the decision for her when it feels like a cage of butterflies has been released into it.

“Thanks, I try,” she replies, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

“Hey,” Yuri says, slipping her arm through Kitty’s in one fluid motion. Kitty blinks and tries to place when she got close enough to do that. “I’m heading out to a cafe to grab a drink before I go home. You wanna join me?”

The prettiest girl in school is asking her to hang out and Kitty just spent the last ten minutes telling her about the time she swallowed a frog.

“Your… friends are going to a cafe?” she clarifies.

Yuri laughs like she’s said the funniest thing in the world and leans in close to pinch her cheek.

“No, silly, it’s just me!”

The prettiest girl in school wants to get a drink with her. Just the two of them. Holy shit–is this a date? 

She’s gone quiet long enough for Yuri to start tapping her foot and Kitty decides to throw caution to the wind. She can figure out the semantics later, for now she just needs to get out of here and to that cafe before Yuri comes to her senses and ditches her on the side of the road. Probably in a pond near some frogs.

“Yeah. I’d love to go out with you.”

“Great! Let’s go then!” 

Yuri unhooks her arm to lead the way and Kitty has to fight to suppress the urge to chase the touch. It’s a battle that she just barely wins.

She only turns around when they’re at the exit.

“Sorry, though, I don’t think there are any frogs on the menu.” “ONE TIME! It was one time!”

[freddie-mercury-rising]

Day 22: Killer Queen from Sheer Heart Attack

Okay, I’m not lying when I say this has been my anthem far before I was a self-proclaimed “Queen Fan”. I swear, I used to rock out to this song: sassy, tongue-in-cheek, and (before I even knew what it was) queer! 

This song is quintessential Queen, but moreover, quintessential *Freddie Mercury*. I think this is the moment when Freddie really lets that part of himself shine through. And I think there’s no way I can look at this song without noticing the queer undertones, but in such a genius way, Freddie can pull it off in 1974!

This iconic song starts with snapping, and that one sound will always conjure this song… in a way that makes you think it was always there, always in the zeitgeist of the early 70s. That’s the beauty of a particularly good song: it feels as though it is simultaneously the most innovative new thing in existence and also that it has always existed and could have never *not* existed. 

Killer Queen, says Freddie, is about a “high class call girl” and he wanted to show that classy people can be whores too. I think any interviewer asking Freddie what his songs were about were going to get whatever came to the top of his head at that moment. I don’t think he was a Bono type who sat around poring over the minutiae of his lyrics and dwelling over their impact. That’s not to say that Freddie didn’t put his heart and soul and emotions into his lyrics. But in this case, I think this song is fun and—while it may very well be about a “high class call girl” or a critique on class itself—we should all create our own unique interpretations of what it means. Interestingly enough, Freddie wrote the lyrics to this song before the melody, which was the opposite of how he normally worked.

For me, it’s about a bad-ass person (I don’t think the word queen, nor the use of the pronoun ‘she’ necessarily indicates this is a woman…) who does what they want and is both posh and trashy in equal measure, both sweet and polite and also dynamite. I happen to think this Killer Queen could be Freddie himself. Fancy clothing, perfumes, champagne, “guaranteed to blow your mind…” Well, again, we shouldn’t think too much about it. I think we all have a Killer Queen in us, anyway.

As for the music—well, on the surface, this is a catchy little single that climbed to the charts (all the way to #2 in the UK and #12 in the US) and got Queen their first stint on Top of the Pops. Interestingly, Brian May was ill during the recording of this song, so the other band members assembled the song while leaving gaps for Brian to fill in later. 

This song is hugely important for the legacy of Queen. It differentiated Queen from the other progressive rock bands of the time and launched them into a new sector, putting Freddie Mercury’s rock-theatre antics on center stage. It was a new sound, like nothing the general public had heard before. And I can only imagine that Freddie was like nothing they’d ever seen either. 

This song is very much a pop-rock song. It’s smoother than the big heavy numbers that dominated rock and roll at the time. Of course, we still have the multi-tracking harmonies in full swing, and the panning of the music from left to right, and—even though he wasn’t there for all the recording—some really wonderful and imaginative sounds from Brian’s guitar. He used his wah pedal in this song, which creates a lovely glide. 

Freddie’s voice is perfect in this because he can change it to fit the tone of the music and tell the story through the sound. The very first lines are so intriguing: “She keeps her Moet et Chandon in a pretty cabinet.” Wow, how many rock songs start like that? It’s soooo Freddie, and it captivates you entirely. “Let them eat cake, she says, just like Marie Antoinette…” Sooz Kempner, from the Queenpod podcast says “this song has a grubby decadence.” 

The little “bell” sound is so iconic after “she never kept the same address”. I will always do my fingers like Freddie did in the video. Always. And, I always have a little cheeky smile when Freddie says “if you’re that way inclliiiined.” He adds so many cute, quirky, tongue-in-cheek additions, and the backing vocals pump it up. 

I could go on and on and on about the lyrics, because they’re fucking amazing. But I do have to comment on the music. Even though I am not super knowledgeable about all the terminology of why this song just *hits*, I know it does. One thing I do notice is how Freddie’s voice goes into falsetto then back during one single line. Caviar and cigarettes– (goes into falsetto) well versed in etiquette (then he glides back to a deeper note) extraordinarily nice. Okay that was my novice interpretation of that, but I happen to know it’s beautifully and seamlessly done.

“Queen were very good at making complicated things sound simple and simple things sound complicated.” - Derek Shulman (from the band Gentle Giants)

It’s a perfect song and it will always be in my top five. Yes, I said it! My one critique is that I won’t ever be able to listen to Killer Queen for the first time ever again. 

[a-mag-a-day]

MAG 22 (my beloved!) - still dying my hair

I was immediately "Oh, Martin sounds so nice! The voice fits so well!"

We now know again, where in the timeline we're at! 12th of March 2016! Which was, btw, a Saturday, lol! Yeah yeah, I know, it's a different universe, maybe they started their calendars a day off XD And I don't think, there is any way to tell, how many statements per month or something Jon got through. I really don't think that there was like a pile and every 10th statement is a real one. Sometimes he may have gotten through 2 a week and then 3 weeks nothing. I don't think there is any pattern or regularity to it. Not at this point at least. I can get behind that for S4 maybe…

"and you can vouch for the soundness of my mind, can’t you?" [beat] "That is beside the point." - Jon, you fucking asshole xD

"I like spiders." - Of course you do^^

"with a faint cracking sound, like stepping on an eggshell" - vs. a quote from MAG 6 "The closest I could come would be to say it sounded like… an egg being dropped onto a stone floor"

"I’m not exactly the smallest guy in the world, I know" - and I wanna concentrate on the "I know", he sounds so self-aware of this body type there but so dismissive at the same time. Like enough people already have pointed it out to him and he so fed up about it by now… God, I can imagine! I would very much like to use this bullet point to remind people that there is no one-single-absolute way to be fat and if you don't like someone's style then pls just block the user and move on.

"I swear the edges seemed to move. It was like a… like a, like an undulation, like, like they were being shifted by something." - Shifted by wriggling worms?

"I was heading home when I got to thinking, and I was worried I hadn’t really done enough investigation for you" - This is so painful. To think that Martin probably heard what Jon said about him in MAG 14 (like Jon won't want anyone get chopped up but he didn't care enough for Martin if it were to happened to him… And "useless ass") and then Martin also probably felt bad for declining to research anything on the Laura Popham, MAG 15, case… He's probably just going through the motions of wanting to prove himself (thanks Martin's mother!) and he really wanted to prove himself to Jon there (and he probably also didn't want to get fired) with the Vittery case and paid a very high price for that.

"I just wanted to take a picture of the thing. To prove to you that it happened – you’re always so quick to dismiss these statements and I wanted proof for you." - Awwww…

"That thing jumped literally 6 feet through the air at my face." - I know a lot of people use this when wanting to find out how tall Martin is, but I don't think that word can be taken so seriously. We don't know anything about by what measurements he goes. Does he mean the literal diagonal leap? But we don't now how far he was from the worm? Does he just mean the horizontal distance that lay between him and the worm? Or does he mean the vertical, like how high the worm had do jump to reach his face. Would you, when describing the vertical, just say your height as in top of your head or would you cut down a few centimeters to your face? Would you use the lowest point of your face then, so your chin, or the middle, like your nose, or…?

What is it with canned peaches and podcasts?

"I… like my job. Most of the time." - I already said that I had a boss like Jon for about 6 years and I feel this statement right there very much… I like my job. I just don't like having a target painted on my back for every shit my boss could possibly throw at me.

Jon is still so hard to read for me at this point. He obviously does care here but he remains so composed, he doesn't drop his facade of poshness, not even for a moment. But given his history with Mr. Spider, he feel probably a lot of that guilt bubbling up.

So my thought to this episode in general was: Finally shit's going doooooown!!!

This was the episode that did it for me. After that I couldn't stop thinking about TMA and really genuinely wanted to know what happens next. I really like Prentiss, I also really liked MAG 6, so it's no wonder that the next episode that was about the worms got me hooked. I guess you could say, they were… hookworms!!! (Also Martin, Martin is best! I was on Martin's side from the start. Always have been.)

Stuff is happening in the archives now!

[phoebe-delia]

"I'm pretty fond of you when you're not around."

Thank you so much to @bubble-gumhead for this prompt, and for helping me get a little inspiration back! Enjoy.

The thing about Draco Malfoy is that he's not a very nice person.

Harry'd known this when they'd first started dating; his scathing retorts, now no longer malicious and more of a bone-dry wit, were harmless, even funny.

But with someone like Draco, you'd think there'd be a softer side, one that only Harry got to see. You'd think that when they were alone together, in the quiet of their bedroom, he'd be sweet, romantic. He'd give Harry his private smile, the one where his mouth curls up the corners and his eyes go a little hazy and it makes Harry's heart skip a beat.

But no, not quite.

When the two of them attended posh social events--Harry being dragged there either by Draco or his official obligations--and were temporarily separated, guests would gush about their clear affection for each other.

'Oh, he's so devoted to you, Harry,' their voices saccharine, practically dripping with it. 'He just speaks so highly of you, so very smitten. You must be so happy together.'

It made Harry want to laugh; he wasn't sure if he should dismiss the theory that Draco had some clone of himself made for the sole purpose of attending these events and putting on a show of blissful, perfect domesticity while his real self scowled and sniped at Harry.

Truthfully, he wouldn't put it past him.

Finally, after yet another night of hearing about how 'clearly besotted he is with you Harry, you're so lucky,' he'd had enough.

"Do you even like me?" Harry blurted that night once they'd stepped inside their flat.

Draco scowled, a comforting, familiar sight. "What in Merlin's name are you talking about?"

"Well, I-" Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "People are always telling me how highly you speak of me, how much it's clear how you feel about me and, well, I never hear any of that from you."

Draco blinked. "Are you not happy in our relationship, or something? Am I not enough for you?"

"Merlin, no! That's not it at all, I guess I'm just...I'm confused!" Harry sighed. "I don't know...how you feel about me, I guess."

Draco looked at him flatly. "Harry, you absolute idiot, of course I like you! Why do you think I'd be here if I didn't?"

Harry just shrugged. Draco rolled his eyes.

"Honestly. Of course I tell people those things! It's a protective measure, so they take us and our relationship seriously."

"Then why don't you say it to me? Why don't I get to know how you feel?"

Draco's face went soft, all of a sudden, his scowl dropping. "I thought you did. Don't you? I tell you how I feel, all the time."

Harry thought about this. The way Draco brings home treacle tart and leaves it in the refrigerator for Harry. The way he silently, wordlessly draws a bath for him when it's clear Harry's had a long day. The way he factors in twice-monthly dinners with Ron and Hermione and Sunday dinner at the Burrow, despite his discomfort. The way he gets up before Harry every day to get the Prophet and throw away every article with his name in the headline or his picture in the columns.

"You do, I guess," Harry said quietly. "Just never...hear you say it, around me."

Draco smirked. "I'm pretty fond of you when you're not around."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Are you?"

At Draco's challenge-filled look, Harry pulled him in quickly, wrapping him in his arms.

"Well, I know one thing you're pretty fond of--and being around me is pretty much essential."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Shut up, Potter." And, leaning in, he did just that.

[fanmoose12]

w that headcanon that hanji comes from wealth what if she knew more table manners and etiquette than levi? or even better i love watching dramas imagine someone recognized hanji at a party from the corps or something? because hanji is so messy and she is using those fancy clothes etc because she really needs that money for her experiments you know. and well, levi may have tried his best learning manners and to keep clean to survive but it’s still not enough for high society. and hanji spending time next to him makes hanji’s old acquaintances talk shit and levi gets mad or something and tells her he wouldn’t bother and go with mike and the others. but then hanji pulls him to dance and they make shit jokes and teaches him how to dance? to make him more comfortable because they’re friends first and the nobles weren’t even honest and wanted the money wwww

oh??? hange being a supportive bro who doesn't let others talk shit to levi?? protecting him from the others and then taking levi aside to say "hey! don't you even dare take what these bastards said seriously! you're so much better than them in every way possible!"

but also..... what if 👉👈 someone recognizes hange - maybe, it's like an ex or a school rival, idk, and so hange starts pleading with levi to "please, please, help me piss that son of a bitch off". and what is the best way to piss off a posh noble? right! mingle with an underground thug and make it absolutely clear to everyone who talks with them that levi is better than all of them combined and also so, so skillful in bed. and hange doesn't do half-measures, she uses a lot of horrible euphemisms, saying shit like "levi is humanity's strongest, so of course his skills with a blade are superior.... he can wield any sort with deadly precision, and when he uses his own blade.... oh, i'm dying the sweetest death possible". all nobles are very, very uncomfortable. hange and levi have the time of their lifes. they also go dancing because that's "what couples do". it's extremely over the top as well, they stand unnecessarily close to each other, hange dips levi down.... hange's euphemisms were making people avert their eyes in shame, but their dancing makes every guest wish that the two abnormals will straight up leave. all of the gathered are orderly, prude people, they won't have this unfold right in front of their eyes! it was scandalous enough that hange was disowned from her rich and respected family after joining survey corps, but now she's also involved with a thug, and they're very clearly unashamed to show everyone how sensual their relationship is? absolutely outrageous!

after dancing hange and levi escape to the hallway and maybe they, you know, do a little kissy kissy, just so.... to show these nobles one last time. hange uses "friends can kiss sometimes levi! if it's for an important cause! and what can be more important that annoying rich snobs?" card. levi can't find a single argument that will make hange's statement any less true....

yeah, by the end of the evening hange has completely forgotten about the guy that bothered them in the beginning

[thewatsonbeekeepers]

hello! just saw your reblog about ASiB. i am a little bit confused on why sherlock can't deduce irene? what's wrong on that? and why john thought that the sad violin music is for irene? tho sherlock is not thinking about her right? this is one of the things i can't understand. im sorry to bother ;(

Hello!

First of all - there’s no need to be sorry! You’re not bothering me - there is nothing I love more than chatting Sherlock meta!!

My hot take on why Sherlock can’t deduce Irene - I assume this has been said before by somebody else, but here goes regardless:

The first thing that is noticeable about Irene is the choice to cast Lara Pulver. Lots of people have gone into this - I’m personally a big Lara Pulver fan, but they were definitely at a stage where they could have got a bigger name if they wanted to. Instead, they chose an actor with wavy black hair and cheekbones that could murder you as well as an accent as posh as his. She’s a brilliant performer, but she also looks eerily like Ben when he plays Sherlock. They also accentuate this with tied up hair, Sherlock coat, riding crop introduction etc. Lots of people have talked about how this introduction of Irene as a lesbian is meant to mirror Sherlock’s gayness - but let’s bring in an even more metaphorical reading.

Irene is representative of sexual desire whenever she appears in the mind palace; this only happens in TSoT, TAB and a mention in TLD and TFP if you believe in EMP. TAB arguably makes this the most explicit in the ‘glass house’ conversation. However, what if she is representative of sexual desire as early on as this?

I don’t believe that Sherlock figures out his feelings for John until TSoT - we’re dealing here with a man who has seriously repressed his own feelings (because of the character’s history! The show is very meta in picking a character who has traversed the last 100+ years of queer oppression). So when he comes face to face with Irene, a naked mirror of himself representing sexual desire - he can’t comprehend her.

Now of course what’s interesting is that from a plot perspective, there are things we know about her. Not just her measurements, although that too! She has an expensive ring (diamond?) on the fourth finger of her right hand - this is normally what committed queer people do instead of the left hand, and we know that Irene is in a committed lesbian relationship with Kate so that seems like an obvious deduction left for the audience to spot. Her earrings match the ring exactly in stone and shape, which might hint to us that she wears her heart on her sleeve a lot more than she might let on (as we’ll see at the end of the episode) - she can’t keep personal and work lives separate. It’s not that on a surface level Irene is non-deducible - it’s that she is on a metaphorical level. Sherlock genuinely doesn’t know what to do.

There’s a well known meta here about how the hiker bit is a metaphorical representation of John’s sexual problems with Sarah, which I personally think is a fantastic reading - let’s look at exactly what comes before that. It is Irene who asks exactly what happened with the hiker (read: between John and Sarah) - so it’s Sherlock’s desire which prompts his need to know. But look at what happens when Irene gets too close to John - Sherlock blurts out a garbled response that can only be described as... well, similar to John’s own “backfire”, right? Without trying to read too much innuendo into this moment, there’s an almost sexual prematureness in what Sherlock says, a kind of panic to get the words out and at the same time to stop Irene (his libido) and John from getting any closer. This scene screams to me of Sherlock coming face to face with his own desires and homophobia (internalised over 100+ years!!) at the same time.

In terms of the violin song, one thing that’s worth noting is that that doesn’t come from ACD canon - Holmes composes a violin piece for Gabriela in TPLoSH, and ASiB draws a lot on the Gabriela section of that film. (Seriously worth a watch!) TPLoSH was, until recently, the only queer adaptation of the stories, and in it Holmes’s emotional vulnerabilites come from his sexuality, in particular his drug abuse. That’s why I love this quote from Ben C so much:

She’s here to showcase emotional vulnerabilities, just like the drugs - and the drugs are seriously associated with queerness the further on we go in the show (HLV, TAB).

However, even on a surface level as @dinner--starving pointed out in the post you reference, Sherlock can’t be playing the violin sadly because Irene is alive, because there’s no way he didn’t already know! Unless Irene had a twin sister (and it’s never twins!) there’s no way that Sherlock misrecognised her body - he lied to keep her safe.

Irene’s theme is important because it first appears after the scene at Battersea where the possibility that John is in love with Sherlock is broached - and then continues to be used at key johnlocky moments, such as TEH and the deduction in TSoT where Sherlock finally figures out his feelings. Better analyses of these than I have done can be found here: X X

So yes! I’m sorry this is such a long response and I hope it makes sense! Thanks so much for dropping by to ask - I had great fun digging through ASiB for this :)

[trashmenofmarvel]

Branded - Chapter 54

Pairing: Demon!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: The Ancient One explains some truths.

(This is a fan AU of Falling’s Just Another Way to Fly by araniaart​ . Please check out this incredible series for all of your demon Bucky needs.)

AO3

She didn’t look how you remembered her.

Instead of flowing robes and a bald head, she was wearing a khaki uniform that said Magical Pest Removal on the lapel, and what looked like a cheap, bob-cut blond wig on her head.

Despite the bad disguise, you would recognize the Ancient One anywhere.

“Your mother told me I could find you out here,” the sorcerer said, her accent the same posh one you remember, making her mundane outfit seem even more bizarre. “She also said she was unhappy that you tried to burn the termites in your closet.”

Your closet? Termites?

A burnt circle…

You knew exactly what this was.

“You mean the demon portal I opened?”

The Ancient One opened her mouth, stared at you a moment, and then closed it. You wondered if anyone had left the ancient sorcerer speechless before.

“Yeah, I know what I did,” you continued on in a rush. “I mean, I don’t remember it, but I know I opened a portal and you and the other sorcerers are here to investigate it, and—“

She raised a hand, and you fell immediately silent.

“Have we met before?”

The question hit you like déjà vu, and why wouldn’t it, when it was so similar to the conversation on the Sanctum rooftop?

“Yes,” you began slowly. It was still bizarre to hear your voice as a child. You’d forgotten what it sounded like. Or what it was like to be without your horns and tail. Every time you tried to move your non-existent tail, you experienced a slight feeling of unsteadiness. “Or… I’ve met you before. This is the first time you’ve met me. I think.”

“Ah,” she said, as if that had made any sort of sense. “I see.”

“Really?”

Her lips spread into a reserved but warm smile.

“No. But in these types of situations, it tends to be wiser to pretend you know more than you truly do.”

She gestured to the swing set.

“May we sit?”

“Uh, sure.”

Even without her robes, her gestures were as measured and graceful as you remembered. She sat on the swing Bucky had used in what seemed like a lifetime ago, but truly hadn’t happened yet. It hurt your head to think about as you sat on your own swing. Even that felt real beneath you. Was this truly a memory?

“Thank you.” She smoothed out the wrinkles on her cargo pants. “These bones aren’t as young as they used to be. And your bones are younger than you expected.”

You gaped up at her. For someone who said she didn’t know very much, she knew an awful lot.

“Then, you know I don’t belong here? That I’m in the wrong place? Am I trapped? Is this a memory or-or am I stuck in another time-loop?”

Your lip trembled as your eyes burned. You’d forgotten how quick you were to cry as a kid. This was more embarrassing than being trapped in a time-loop, that was for sure.

If she was surprised at the mention of time-loops, the Ancient One didn’t show it. Instead, her eyes were warm but pitying.

“You are so young, yet you’ve been through much. And you will endure more before the end, I fear. That is the path of all those who wield the name.”

“Name?” You rubbed your forehead, the headache worsening there. “What name?”

“The Ancient One.”

You dropped your hand and looked up at her. Stared, really. Why was she making even less sense than the first time around?

“It is a title that only one sorcerer can hold. They reign above the Sorcerer Supreme, and it is they who bear the greatest burden of our order.” She lowered her gaze, meeting you unflinchingly. “I sense that you will hold that title when I am gone.”

“I… what?” You shook your head. “No, I don’t—no. That’s not why I’m here. I—“

“Then why are you here?” Her expression hadn’t changed at all, and it was terrifyingly piercing. “What were you doing just before you subverted the laws of time to arrive here, in your past?”

Your mouth hung open. How could you possibly explain the ritual, the experimental demon bond, Bucky—

Bucky.

“You-you have to help someone,” you blurted out, nearly falling from your swing in your panic. “A demon. Or, he was a man, but HYDRA changed him, turned him into—You have to help Bucky Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes.”

The name on your tongue sent a curl of pain through your ribcage.  Was Bucky all right? Was he still where you left him, writhing on that table?

How had everything gone so wrong?

You looked down at your shoes. Faded pink things that were long worn by dirt and wear. Little white unicorns prancing along the sides. You’d forgotten how much you loved them, but not even they could distract you as despair coiled in your chest.

“He came through the portal I created.” You closed your eyes, the words burdened far more than they should coming from a ten year old. “If it’s only the day after, he should be in Boston still. You’ll catch him, lure him into a trap, and—Please, please help him.”

“I will help him, because it has already happened.” Her expression was fond, if a little exasperated. “And did no one tell you that no one should know too much about their own future?”

You looked away, your cheeks heating easily, as they always did when you were a kid.

“Yeah. You did, actually.”

“Well, I do give very good advice.”

The humor in her words wasn’t enough to remove the pit from your stomach.

“About... about what I was doing before. Before I arrived here. I was…” You curled your small fists as you stared resolutely at the leaf-strewn ground. “I… I don’t know how to explain it without telling you everything, but you did tell me something. The last time we spoke, or, I guess for you we haven’t spoken yet.”

You shook your head. Time stuff was so confusing.

“Yes?”

“You said… You told me that I would have to make a choice.” You closed your eyes. “That when the obvious choice is wrong, I would have to make a different one. And to trust myself, because I would make the right choice, even when others didn’t believe me. That was… the gist of it anyway.”

“I see,” she said in that cryptic way of hers. “And did you? Make the right choice?”

“I don’t know.”

You opened your eyes again, hoping against hope you would be back at the Sanctum, like this was all a bad dream. Instead, you were still in your backyard, somehow talking to the most powerful sorcerer alive. Or, who had been alive in 1995, anyway.

“All I know is, I want to get back home. To my time, so I can make sure…”

“You care for him, don’t you?”

Her eyes were warm again when you met them. There was no judgement there, no surprise, just a quiet kind of understanding you couldn’t begin to fathom.

“Yes,” you said, your voice small. “I do. I need to get back to him.”

“There are many reasons you need to return to your present consciousness,” she said, as if that somehow made sense. “One of which is that you will soon need to take up the mantle you were meant to bear.”

She rose to her feet and you quickly followed suit,

“Listen. I don’t know why you think I’m the one who—“

“It is not what I think. You simply are. Your aptitude toward creating cross-dimensional rifts is a good indicator that you are no simple child. Nor will you become a mere sorcerer. You haven’t found your relic yet, have you?”

As was so often the case, the Ancient One’s line of thinking threw you into confused stuttering. How had she known? That no matter how many relics Wong showed you, none of them were activated by your presence?

“I… I don’t… No, I haven’t.”

She slightly bent down, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret.

“When you return, go to my office. You’ll find what you need.”

You’d barely digested the words when she pulled back, an amused glint in her eye that quickly faded.

“Before I help encourage you to return to your time, I fear there is something I must explain.”

The gravity in her words were heavy, and you shifted uncomfortably. You almost preferred a cryptic message the last time she sent you on your way, but you had a feeling you wouldn’t be spared now.

“The mantle of the Ancient One is a heavy burden to bear. If I tell the others of my order what I have discovered, if I tell them what you are… your childhood will be forfeit. All you will know is this life, and it will be many years before you’re even allowed outside the walls of our sanctums.”

Her expression lightened, but the aged lines of her face were still deep with the weight of her words.

“I sense you have not lived a life like that, which can only mean I did not tell them of your budding powers. But leaving you here, as you are, unguarded and unprotected would be negligent.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but she pressed on before you could.

“If your powers continue to manifest, it will be only a matter of time until you attract those who would wish to use your power for their own. So until such a time as you can sufficiently fend for yourself, your power will be locked away. And a guardian will look after you.”

A guardian? Did she mean…

The Ancient One finally smiled.

“I believe you know him already, though I have yet to meet him. I look forward to it, very soon.”

The Ancient One had known about Bucky looking after you all along. Surely she would someday know about the bond as well. And yet… she had still trusted him, anyway.

Tears blurred your vision again as you gave a shaky smile. Knowing that Bucky would be safe, that he would have someone to help him heal and learn how to be a person again, was more of a relief than you could say. You owed her more than you’d ever realized. And if the Ancient One insisted this was the path you were meant to take, then you could let go of your fears and trust her too.

She clasped her hands together, startling you.

“Now, it’s time to send you home. And to lock away those powers until you’re ready to use them.”

You expected her to do what she did last time, place her thumb on your forehead and jolt you back to the present, but instead she drew concentric, fiery circles in the air between you.

Panic crawled up your throat.

“Wait!” you cried. “Will we meet again?”

Her small smile, much like herself, held an edge of delight and mysterious.

“Perhaps. Time will tell, won’t it?”

The concentric circles folded together, creating a sort of echoing tunnel that went deeper and deeper, until you were falling through it, panicked and alone and in the dark.

You hit the ground and jolted upright, gasping in panicked breathes as your hands clung to something soft.

Plush covers. On a bed. You were back in your room in the sanctum, still wearing the silver ornate robes. You shoved up the right sleeve and stared at the thick bandage wrapped around your shoulder.

So, it had been real. You were back, and the ritual…

Oh, God. Bucky.

Next Chapter

[melanielocke]

A surprise baby - part 2

After spending the night with Augustus Pounceby and being humiliated when he proposes to someone else, Eugenia Lightwood finds herself pregnant outside of wedlock. She doesn’t want to lose her child, but doesn’t know how to keep her situation hidden anymore, nor does she have any intention of marrying Augustus, or any man at that. Instead, she’s fallen in love with Kamala Joshi.

CW: Pregnancy

AO3

Part 1

Taglist: @foxglove-airmid @justanormaldemon @styxdrawings @ipromiseiwillwrite @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1

‘I hope you don’t like Charles too much,’ Kamala said. ‘As Alastair and I are having our weekly Charles Fairchild is an ass meeting and you’ve been invited to join.’

Eugenia would have considered Charles a friend once, but that was a long time ago. She’d thought once, that he was a more mature and sensible than his younger brother and had hoped he could talk some sense into the Merry Thieves. They certainly didn’t listen to her, and were the most reckless fools she’d ever encountered in her life.

But that was before Charles had abandoned Kamala in such a terrible way though. Who left their fiancée when they were sick? Kamala, it turned out, was glad to have dodged that bullet in the end. Eugenia guessed she felt the same way about Augustus now. She knew Kamala preferred women, and Eugenia began to suspect that she might not have a preference at all, and was in love with Kamala now.

It had been a few weeks since telling her parents and Thomas about her pregnancy. It had been decided Eugenia would have to travel for some time, but she wasn’t yet sure where and with who. With everything going on, Thomas preferred to stay in London with his friends.

‘Would it be possible to add Augustus Pounceby?’ Eugenia asked. ‘I mean, make it a weekly Charles Fairchild and Augustus Pounceby are both an ass meeting.’

‘Augustus Pounceby ís an ass,’ Alastair agreed. ‘He and I went to school together. He was the worst.’

Eugenia knew that at some point during his school years, Alastair had been awful as well. But since befriending him recently, he’d explained some of it and Eugenia could sympathize. The image of schoolboy Thomas trailing behind him was hilarious, especially now that she knew Thomas was deeply in love with Alastair. But it was also because Thomas had always noticed something was not right with Alastair, that he was hurting. Her little brother had always been awfully sensitive to other people’s moods, Eugenia couldn’t keep a thing from him. From Thomas’ stories, Alastair had grown and changed a lot since their school days, and Eugenia was glad for it because now she had two amazing friends she could hate on Augustus with.

She didn’t think anyone had ever treated Augustus badly, he simply believed he was better than everyone else and therefore deserved more. Even when Eugenia had been close to him, he’d always acted very entitled.

‘He is awful,’ Kamala agreed. ‘And racist. I agree we can hate on Augustus as well as Charles here. Who wants to share their feelings first?’

The afternoon was fun, and Eugenia felt welcomed into the group. Alastair and Kamala had been friends for a little longer, although that had taken a lot of effort on Kamala’s part. The problem was, a man and a woman spending time together was suspicious, and therefore there always had to be a third party present. At first that had been Grace, but she mostly seemed bored, and now her engagement with Charles was broken and Grace was gone… somewhere. Kamala was still looking into the whole thing as she had not given up on Grace, but Eugenia had no clue what had happened. Kamala and Alastair were glad to have Eugenia’s company, because even if the Bridgestocks did not approve of Alastair, at least they could be sure no one was ruining their daughter.

Alastair at some point decided to make fun of Charles’ posh accent, and Eugenia had to admit his imitation was on point.

‘I am thinking of traveling to India,’ Kamala said. ‘My parents… I know they love me, but they took me away from everything I know and pretend I was born here. I remember so little from India, I barely speak the language anymore. But I had a past there. And I’ve been trying to replicate the food my mom used to cook for me, but I never quite got it right.’

Eugenia had no idea what it was like, to be so disconnected from her culture and her homeland. Alastair knew a bit better. He still had his mother, but he hadn’t been in Persia for a long time and was estranged from his family. Eugenia suspected it was part of why Kamala and Alastair were so taken with each other, they both knew what it was like to live in England as someone who wasn’t white and who was disconnected from their homeland.

‘I’ll help you if you want to make another attempt at replicating your mother’s cooking,’ Alastair offered.

In the end when it was nearing dinner time, the three of them did go into the kitchen. Alastair apparently had learnt how to cook from their cook, Risa and mostly knew how to cook Persian food. Kamala knew a little about cooking, but mostly tried to go by smells she remembered from her childhood and vegetables she remembered had been in there.

Eugenia decided it was best for everyone involved if she sat back and watched. Tommy was the cook in the family. And her mother, of course, who had been a servant once. Eugenia, on the other hand, had been forbidden from entering the kitchen at home, and only helped with cutting up the vegetables here and there. Even she couldn’t mess that up, and if she ended up cutting herself, healing runes could be applied.

Bridget, the institute’s cook, was not too happy about them using the kitchen as a pastime, and released some very unsavory Irish curse words about the mess they were sure to make. Eugenia recognized the words, her mother was Irish too and she’d learnt the language, even if she had always struggled with learning languages. She responded in Irish, explaining what they were doing here as best as she could. For good measure she promised she would clean up.

‘I didn’t realize you spoke Irish,’ Kamala said.

‘I’m not great at languages, but I learnt Irish and Spanish from a young age,’ Eugenia said. ‘My mother is Irish and my father loves speaking Spanish at home. Tommy is better at languages though, he also speaks Welsh and Persian.’

Alastair stared at her, his eyes wide. ‘Thomas speaks Persian?’

‘He’s been studying Persian with Lucie,’ Eugenia said. ‘Lucie wanted to learn because she thought she should be able to speak her parabatai’s mother tongue. Thomas helped her because he’s so good with languages.’

Eugenia suspected his feelings for Alastair also played a role in his determination to learn the language. It was sweet, to learn someone’s language for them.

‘Charles never cared much about my language,’ Alastair said. ‘Nor what I said when I spoke it. I understand not everyone could learn, it’s not easy for an English speaker. But Thomas, he really speaks it?’

Eugenia imagined that had to be hurtful. She would love to learn Kamala’s language for her, even if she would never get any good at it. Still, it was the effort that counted, right? At least she hoped so.

‘He does read Persian poetry, so I imagine he grasps it. Don’t pin me down on it though, I don’t know how good he is. But he excels at languages and has been studying for several years now. He also helped James with learning for Cordelia. I was under the impression he speaks it quite well, doesn’t he?’

Alastair snorted. ‘I think he understand enough, but honestly his accent is embarrassing.’

Soon enough, the kitchen began to smell delicious. Kamala admitted what she’d made wasn’t quite what she remembered from home, but it was a better attempt than the last. Eugenia had had all sorts of cravings lately, not to mention a sensitivity to smells. She could barely stomach meat anymore, but she craved sweets at the most opportune moments.

Kamala and Alastair had made a vegetable dish with some rice and lots of spices, and the smell had to be the most amazing thing she’d smelt in a while. English food tended to be rather bland, favoring the flavor of meat and gravy which Eugenia currently couldn’t stomach. This was much better, and once they could eat, she made sure everything was finished even if Kamala and Alastair had cooked way too much for three.

‘Do they not feed you at home?’ Alastair asked when she finished her third plate. ‘Is it because Thomas eats everything? He must have gotten so ridiculously tall somehow.’

Eugenia snorted. Thomas was like a bottomless pit when it came to food, she suspected he was always hungry.

‘This is very good food,’ Eugenia said. ‘And I was very hungry.’ She contemplated what to say next for moment. Telling people about a pregnancy was a huge risk, but Alastair and Kamala were her friends. Apart from her parents and Thomas, they were the people she trusted more than anything. ‘I’m also eating for two people.’

Alright, at the moment she was eating for three people, but she blamed that on pregnancy cravings.

Alastair stared at her in confusion, Kamala in shock, her hand over her mouth.

‘You’re having a baby?’ Kamala whispered.

‘You can’t tell anyone,’ Eugenia said. ‘My parents and Tommy know, and now you, but beyond that no one can know. We’re still figuring out what to do. But as my closest friends, I thought you should know too. I don’t think I’d be able to hide it for much longer anyway.’

‘You could come to India with me,’ Kamala said. ‘I can hardly travel as a woman alone, and Alastair cannot leave his mother while she is about to give birth. We could return when you are about to give birth, make sure no one sees you until the baby is born, and the pretend we found the baby and don’t know whose it is except that they’re shadowhunters.’

Eugenia had to admit that plan was sound. She didn’t know anyone in India, no one who could spread the word she’d gotten pregnant out of wedlock. She could pretend she had a husband somewhere, but was traveling with her dear friend Kamala who wanted to reconnect with her home country.

‘Will your parents approve?’ Eugenia asked.

Kamala waved with her hand. ‘Oh, probably not. They do not approve of people calling me Kamala rather than Ariadne, or me spending time with Alastair, who they think is very improper company.’

Alastair shrugged. ‘They aren’t wrong.’

‘But I’m done seeking their approval,’ Kamala added. ‘I’m thinking of moving out. When I agreed to marry Charles, I had no one to fall back on, no support, only the very conditional love of my parents. But now that’s changed. Living as a woman alone would be unproper. But if you were to join me, dear Eugenia…. No one would question a thing.’

Would Kamala feel for her, as Eugenia did for her? She knew Kamala had recently broken things off with Anna, perhaps it was too soon. Eugenia loved her cousin, of course, but found it hard to accept that she treated her lovers as Augustus had treated Eugenia.

‘Would you help me care for the baby?��� Eugenia asked.

She knew reputation wise it was probably best to let someone adopt her child, but she didn’t want to. Eugenia did want to be a mother, and she didn’t want to wait around for another man who was only going to treat her badly.

‘Of course!’ Kamala exclaimed. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a mother, but after Charles I thought it wouldn’t happen. And I’ve had plenty of practice with little Alexander, I know how to take care of a child. And of course, Alastair will have plenty of experience soon enough.’

‘I’ll help you wherever I can,’ Alastair said. ‘And after several months of shopping for baby things with Cordelia, I know the best stores. Do you have any ideas for baby names?’

Eugenia had to admit she hadn’t thought about that yet. ‘If it’s a girl, her middle name will be Barbara,’ she said. ‘Beyond that, I have no clue. But we have at least four more months to figure it out.’

Alastair looked amused. ‘That is sweet. I am sorry about your sister.’

‘She would have loved the baby, I’m sure of it,’ Eugenia said.

‘Cordelia and I have been arguing about baby names ever since she found out mâmân was expecting.’

‘What did you come up with?’ Eugenia asked.

‘Rostam if it’s a boy. Shadi if it’s a girl. We both agreed the baby should have a Persian name, and with Father gone he won’t be able to object.’

‘Those are both lovely names,’ Kamala said.

‘I’m sorry about your father,’ Eugenia added. She didn’t think she’d offered him condolences yet. The funeral was days away now.

‘Don’t be,’ Alastair said. ‘He was… not a good father.’

She remembered Elias’ outburst at Cordelia’s wedding, how Alastair and James had dragged him off. Uncle Will and uncle Gabriel had attempted to distract people, but how much did that do, when everyone still left Sona and Alastair with him? She regretted not befriending Alastair sooner. She hadn’t known him all that well, honestly, not until he’d come to the sanctuary that day when Thomas had been arrested and she found out he’d been keeping her brother safe in secret.

‘Would you like to come take tea with me this week?’ Eugenia asked. ‘Both of you.’

Alastair hesitated. ‘With your parents? And your brother?’

Eugenia waved her hand impatiently. ‘Oh they’ll adore you. And they already know about those rumors, they’re not upset about stupid things you did when you were fifteen.’

Alastair didn’t say anything, and Eugenia wondered if he believed her. ‘I’m serious. My parents are very kind and forgiving. And they’re grateful you kept Tommy safe.’

‘I’m not sure it would be good for me to be around Thomas,’ Alastair said.

‘Because you still have feelings for him?’ Kamala asked.

‘Unfortunately, yes,’ Alastair said. ‘It is my curse, apparently, to always want what I can’t have.’

Eugenia rolled her eyes. ‘Always so dramatic, Alastair. Just ask my brother to go out for dinner with you. Tommy is old enough to choose for himself what he wants.’

[anika-ann]

The Winter Tale (S.R.)

(Of Snowflakes, Hard Fallings and Soft Landings)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x fem!reader    Word Count: 3900

Summary:

Scoring a date with Steve Rogers is not easy. One’s gotta be patient.

Fall might blend into winter before you get to go out with him, but know one thing; Steve Rogers makes things worth your while.

Warnings: swearing and tooth-rotting fluff (no really, it’s strong with this one, and it’s me saying that, so...)

A/N: Sequel to The Fall Tale, works as a standalone too I guess

The Fall Tale (previous one-shot)

💙❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️🤍❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️💙

Fall was reluctantly letting winter take over, as it usually happened towards the end of November, and you were still painfully single. Technically at least, because you yet had Steve Rogers to take you out on your first date.

How was that possible? Glad you asked. It was because fate was a bitch, to put it eloquently. Steve had got your number with almost a scout’s-honour promise to call you soon, and then he didn’t. He lied. Like a liar.

To be fair, after three days of you being mad at the embodiment of truth and justice for all, Steve Rogers did call you, awfully apologetic and sounding truly regretful and either he was that good of a liar who even hired foreigners to be his alibi, or he really was on a market somewhere in Eastern Europe, catching his breath in a middle of a mission.

Being angry with him got considerably harder after that, especially since two days later, you read about a major showdown in his supposed current location and saw a brief footage of him protecting innocent civilians.

Because Steve damn Rogers just had to get more perfect.

The thing was, right after that mission, there was another one, this time lasting twelve full days. You were incredibly pissed at the circumstances – and maybe a little bit angry with Steve too – but mostly mad at the circumstances that didn’t want you to get romantically involved any time soon.

Sure, you could have just told Steve off, bid him goodbye and find someone else, but you couldn’t.

Because Steve tried his best to stay in contact whenever time and safety measures allowed it, texting, calling and on one precious occasion, even facetiming. And once he relaxed a bit – which seemed to be always happening rather soon into the communication, allegedly because you made him feel like a normal guy – Steve could be an entirely nice guy and you couldn’t make yourself let go.

Steve Rogers was kind, charming, witty, which was a cocktail you would never say no to, but on top of that, he was panties-dropping gorgeous. So even if the chances were that eventually, after the date actually happened, you might only end up like friends due to the immense distance between your league and his, you would feel like an idiot if you didn’t try to make it work, hence waiting for him to have a damn day off.

And you didn’t regret it; the date was totally worth the wait.

Yes, the weather sucked, so your clothes was perfectly damp just like your hair just from walking from your door to the cab due to the wildly swirling snowflakes, but Steve held the car door open for you, standing right there in the cold just to be a gentleman for you. He also reluctantly took your hand once inside the cab and even dropped a shy kiss on its back, his demeanour and bright blues reminding you exactly why you had been patient.

The restaurant was nice but not too fancy, which didn’t prevent Steve from opening doors for you, pulling out your chair, letting you order first and generally doing swoon-worthy things that made you feel both touched and aroused. The less posh environment didn’t make either of you feel bad for laughing and being entirely unsubtle, as the conversation varied from light to serious, laughter blending into chuckles and need to touch each other’s warmth for comfort. There was teasing, there was touching, there were unexpectedly dropped lines that made your heart flutter and there was inevitable falling deeper into the pit labelled ‘adoring Steve Rogers.’

“You really are going for the whole shebang tonight, aren’t you?” you teased him lightly when he helped you put on your coat and informed you that he made a reservation to a cinema.

The blush that crept up his neck caused you to feel even giddier than before. The wine you had both ordered might have not affected his brain as he had told you, but it had definitely coloured his cheeks rosy – and yet, now they grew even hotter.

“I mean, we don’t have to-- I don’t-“

You took his hand and squeezed, which shut him up effectively, his expression puzzled and hesitant.

“I would love to spent more time with you, Steve,” you assured him and he smiled sweetly as the cold air from outside caressed your face.

Your breath caught in your chest at the sight you were offered. Yes, New York never lasted long as a winter wonderland, but right now? Now it seemed almost magical as the freshly fallen snow proudly displayed its silvery white.

“Is the reservation paid?” you blurted out, your head snapping to Steve’s only to see disapproval on his face.

“I don’t want you to worry about that-“

“Not an answer.”

“… it’s not,” Steve replied, frowning a bit. “I wasn’t sure how long we would need for the dinner or if you’d even like to go. So… you don’t? Want to go?”

You wondered how Steve did not see the child-lie enthusiasm radiating off you with how perceptive he appeared to be so far. He missed it altogether, apparently, because he sounded disappointed.

It dawned to you that he didn’t get many chances to just go and see a movie and you instantly felt bad for rejecting something he kept his hoped up for.

You couldn’t have Steve sad, even if he was barely showing it. Not to mention that he had been treating you almost like a princess, you sure as hell wouldn’t treat him like you were the evil queen.

“Well, if you really do want to go, we can…”

He only shrugged his broad shoulders, charming a small smile for you.

“It’s up to you. I can cancel the reservation if you have something else in mind. Whatever to keep that beautiful smile on your face,” he offered and your stomach actually flipped as butterflies filled it for the hundredth time that day.

That was your thought exactly about him, but nope, of course he beat you to it and on top dropping a line like that, he was the embodiment of perfection when delivering it.

Steve looked so hot and adorable at the same time that you had to fight yourself not to jump to his arms and kiss him senseless. Pink plush lips, slightly red cheeks, gorgeous blue with a drop of green of his eyes twinkling and he wore such a kind expression that it made your heart simultaneously weep and race.

He kept complimenting you so effortlessly and was so considerate the whole evening too and you weren’t sure how much more you could take before you forgone all self-control and pinned him to the nearest wall; or casually confessed your undying love for him.

“Steven, you are a dangerous man. You should wear a damn warning,” you grumbled insetad, smiling so widely your mouth might actually tear.

He pursed his lips a bit, head tilted to side a fraction, looking like a confused kicked puppy.

Jesus, Steve, stop it or I’ll have to kiss you and I want you to kiss me, so please, be considerate of my lack of self-restraint.

“What did I do?”

“You’re being annoyingly perfect-“ oh now he was frowning hard, “-not like annoying annoying, but—you know. Just… I have a hard time believing this is actually happening. I really like you, Steve Rogers.”

The lines of his forehead smoothened out at your admission, his expression softening as did his gaze.

He helped you put on your gloves, fingers skimming over the first bare and then clothed skin tenderly, small sad smile playing in the corner of his lips.

His eyes met yours, the twinkle in his eyes you which already learned to love dimming. “Well, I did sort of make you wait for almost a month. Not so perfect. No warning needed.”

You had to physically fight yourself so you wouldn’t snort unattractively at the remark; yeah, the said waiting did nothing to protect your heart now. Sadly, your brain-to-mouth wasn’t fully functioning, still letting out more than it was appropriate for a first date.

“Steve, even with that, you’re making it very hard not to fall for you.”

Well, shit. The first admission had been playful. This one sounded pretty clingy. Now he was about to run off and think you a crazy girl-

But Steve didn’t. His face lit up with gratitude and affection and then a smirk found its way to his lips.

“That’s good to know. But I happen to recall a particular moment when you have already fallen-“

A surprised exasperated laughter erupted from your throat, and you actually had to gasp to gather both air and your wits. That little sh-

You yanked your hands free from his, raising your index finger towards his face.

“You know what, forget it, I’m taking it back!” you exclaimed, taking a pointed step back as Steve chuckled. “You are not perfect, you are a jerk and I think I should go home-“

“No, no wait-“ He reached out for you, but you took another step away, squinting at him playfully.

“I wanted to walk with you in the park, taking in the romantic sight of clean New York snow, but you know what? I don’t think I wanna anymore-“

Steve made a lunge for you and grabbed your hands, raising it to his face to drop kisses on your gloves- well, damn, now you regretted that he had so kindly put them on you.

“No, wait, doll, let’s walk. Unless you’re going to be cold-“

“There are some thermal microfibres in those tights or whatever, I won’t be,” you grumbled and he beamed as you unwittingly showed him that you weren’t really mad even despite his little-shit display earlier.

You said won’t be not wouldn’t have been and Steve appeared to be entirely content with you yielding so easily.

Well, damn it, it was really hard to keep up with Steve’s wits and humour; you loved it.

“Very well then. May I offer you a walk in the park, ma’am?” he said, holding out his elbow in invitation – the one farther from the road, of course, gentleman – and you chuckled, unable to help yourself.

“It was my idea, you know. Also, depends – are you going to be a jerk?”

“You wound me, miss,” he clutched at his chest theatrically, but definitely tugged you a bit closer when you slipped your arm through the loop of his own just in case you were about to change your mind when another of his jokes inevitably arrived.

“Sure I am.”

You barely made few steps without a word, when his gaze fixed on your face for long enough for you to get nervous.

“…what is it?”

He smiled, gently tugging at your joined arms, and looked you dead in the eye. “I really like you too.”

Oh. Oh. Okay. Where did all the oxygen go? And when did your heart started pounding so loudly in your chest?

“And for the record, I find it impossible not to fall for you.”

You lowered your gaze under the intensity of his, watching your feet walking in tandem as your cheeks burned and your head spun.

“A friggin’ warning,” you muttered under your breath darkly, drawing a breathy chuckle from Steve, followed by his ‘I mean it.’

Truth was, a warning wouldn’t have helped, probably. Because Steve Rogers was impossible not to fall for; but he was definitely worth it.

💙❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️🤍❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️💙

You weren’t sure what possessed you; must have been the wine, lowering your inhibitions.

Once again, you couldn’t contain your child-like behaviour.

One moment, you were walking in the park, dim street lights causing the snow glow brighter, fluffy and pure, as not many people were here to disturb the peace. Even the city fell almost silent in the first snow’s honour, as if grateful for the good two inches it was given.

The next moment, you freed yourself of Steve’s warm hold and hurried from the path to gather enough of the wet delight to make a snowball – and hit the pole nearby streetlamp with a surprising precision.

You turned to Steve with a grin, finding him mirroring your expression and clapping, a sound muffle by his own thin gloves.

“Very good aim. I’m impressed,” he assured you and you curtsey for him like the child you were and went to try again.

Before you could finish making a perfect ammunition, three balls hit the very same pole in quick succession, causing you to gasp and swiftly turn to Steve – who winked at you with a shit-eating grin on his face.

It was a justified display of smugness, because he stood almost ten feet behind you, the distance from which he hit the pole actually impressive.

Wow.

“Show-off,” you called out silently, drawing a shrug from him. You went to try your aim again to settle the unofficial score and whined when you missed. “Okay, you win, Rogers.”

Steve, on the other hand, continued his strike and hit three more; you noticed him bending for more snow, making a quick and very dumb decision as an idea popped up in your mind.

As he was busy showing off his skills, you got your own two bullets ready and shot-- one of them did hit your target, which just happened to be Steve’s chest.

His mouth formed a theatrical ‘o’ and you couldn’t but double over in laughter despite missing with your next attempt.

“You didn’t!” he gasped, clearly genuinely shocked that you in fact had hit him with a snowball. “Now you’ll get it!”

In hindsight, you should have known that it was like waving a red cloth in front of a bull; you should have realized that Steve would take it as a challenge to a snowball fight.

And it was very obvious from the start that you stood no chance, even if he was blatantly holding back as you tried and failed to hide behind a bench, behind a tree and anything in your reach, your and his laughter carrying through the park as if you were damn children, both of you. You hadn’t felt so alive in years.

Steve however stepped up his game upon you hitting a point of him so high that some of the snow clearly got behind the collar of his coat. The hiss he let out and the flames in his eyes when they met yours after your perfect hit made you run away with all you got, your heart thumping in your ribcage frantically as you knew all too well that there was no escaping a supersoldier.

You tried and failed to speed up as you heard him closing in; perhaps it would be much easier to catch your breath to run faster if you weren’t laughing at the expression of pure shock that had been on Steve’s face when the snow tickled the sensitive skin of his neck.

A yelp escaped you as he grabbed you a tackled you to the ground, spinning you to he would take the brunt of the impact and only then he rolled you over – trapping you against the cold wet ground, making you squirm at the biting sensation on your own neck.

“No! No, Steeeeve,” you whined miserably, but your cheeks were hurting from the laughter and he was a solid mass on top of you to keep you warm, so you didn’t have any reason to complain. You in fact enjoyed the feeling and the intimacy of it a little too much, considering that this was still only your first date.

How? You felt like you knew him for months now; it was like having an unfairly handsome best friend you not-so-secretly had a crush on.

“You brought this upon yourself,” Steve exclaimed, grinning down at you and for the first time, it dawned to you that not only his torso way lying on you and that his hands were caging your head as he tried not to crush you with his weight, but also his gorgeous face with his tempting lips were in dangerous proximity to yours.

Dangerous to him – if he wasn’t careful, he might get kissed very soon.

You stared up at him, lost in the beautiful colour of his eyes and you were only mildly ashamed to find your gaze wandering down to his red lips.

“I—I suppose,” you whispered as your laughter died down, your breathing still heavy and only growing heavier with each second spent mesmerized by Steve’s face so close to yours.

“You suppose right,” he whispered back, voice slightly hoarser than a moment ago, his gaze roaming your face with intensity that had your heart stumbling in your chest. “This is a nice trip down the memory lane.”

“I-uhm… I remember it being the other way around.”

A smile grazed his mouth, still so damn tempting and you really found yourself barely noticing the snow melting into your clothes when—him.

“You complaining?”

You smiled right back when he lowered his head a fraction, so so painfully close you would barely have to move to finally taste his lips.

“Well, the snow is cold, but-- you know how it is… I had worse things happen to me than having a handsome fella land on me.”

Steve chuckled, the vibrations of his chest sending liquid fire through your veins, especially when his eyes seemed to brighten despite the dilatation of his pupils.

“You remember that, huh?”

“You kidding?” you mused quietly, wondering if Steve decided to torture you; if he wasn’t about to kiss you in the next thirty seconds, you might actually combust. His gaze was now more on your mouth than anywhere else and if you were honest, you might have been trembling with anticipation a bit. “That was the line, Steve. I thought you were so smooth.”

An inch. One damn inch, if not less of a distance remained between his lips and yours, practically touching, his radiating warmth and begging for yours to lick at their sweetness.  

And yet, Steve still spoke, words you could almost taste: “What do you think now?”

“I think that I’d really like you to kiss me.”

This time, his lips brushed yours, a soundless ‘kay’ tickling deliciously, your eyelids fluttering shut.

Your hands automatically gripped the lapels of his coat, using them as leverage when he withdrew, giving you space to breathe and process what happened. Too bad you didn’t want to, you needed more right in that moment; you tugged at the fabric, chasing after his lips and lifting your head without even opening your eyes.

You could feel his smile as he kissed you again, lingering this time, a tender dance of lips, parted a fraction to breathe in each other’s air. Your head was spinning, your tummy tingly and you truly felt like you could fly, not even ashamed if Steve was grinning at your eagerness – he seemed pretty board on with continuing to kiss you too.

So you smiled back, happy to let him take the lead as long as he stayed-

A discontent hum rambled in your throat when Steve retreated again, even if he caressed your icy-cold nose with his, dropping a kiss there too to warm it up.

You met his eyes, heavy lidded, misted with emotion and you found yourself smiling wider.

“Can’t have you catch a cold, doll,” he rasped and before you realized what was happening, before you could as much as frown in confusion, a silent yelp left your throat as Steve rolled you over again, one arm secured around your waist, keeping you on top of him.

You might not be lying on the snow anymore, but your wet back was exposed to the cold night air now, which wasn’t much any better.

But you were too busy to care, because Steve lost one glove, cupping your cheek for a better angle and he sank his lips into yours again, causing you to see and feel the stars.

💙❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️🤍❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️💙

If Steve walked you all the back to your apartment and you invited him in to dry off, only for him to end up spending the night, well, no one needed to know – even if you kept each other warm with nothing but tea and cuddling under the covers.

Whether things got a little more spicy than sweet in the morning… that was only for the two of you to know.

Either way, you decided that while the fall, early or late, had its serious downsides… you were willing to put up with it, because it had brought someone as amazing as Steve into your life.

Which got even more handy when you ended up catching cold from your snowy adventures.

💙❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️BONUS❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️💙

Blissfully wrapped in each other, not you nor Steve (which was more of a wonder) noticed two pairs of eyes focused on you and your shenanigans in the snow. Neither of you heard Bucky sigh under his breath either as he lowered the night-vision binoculars.

“Thank God, I thought for a minute that the punk wasn’t going to go for it,” he muttered under his breath, handing the device to his field partner.

Sam took one glance through the binoculars before rising his hand for a high five, which Bucky instantly complied with.

“With the way they eye-fucked in the restaurant, I would have to rip him a new one if he didn’t,” Sam stated.

“You’d have to get in the line behind me,” Bucky retorted, but grinned, truly happy for his friend.

“More like get ready for being ripped a new one,” a voice behind them opposed, causing both soldiers to nearly jump out their skin in surprise – and literally jump to their feet in fright, ready to face their enemy.

Their enemy seemed harmless to an untrained eye: the one and only Black Widow, watching them with her arms crossed on her chest and a raised eyebrow.

“We knew you were there,” Sam blurted out instinctively, earning an eyeroll from the redhead.

“Sure you did,” she scoffed and nodded in the direction of the pair still rolling over in snow in the distance. “Now that you know that Rogers still got some game, you going to stop stalking him or do I have to keep an eye on you?”

“Please. You were just curious as we were, otherwise you wouldn’t be here,” Bucky smirked and Natasha shrugged with one shoulder dismissively.

“Maybe. Maybe I just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t crash their date to ‘help’,” she said, taking care to make air quotes with the last word. “Now let’s get out of here. If you really want to help, you can start looking up some chicken soup recipes to cure her inevitable sniffles.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky replied dutifully with only an edge of irony, while trying hard to remember the recipe for the soup Mrs. Rogers or his ma used to cook back in the day when the always sickly Steve Rogers refused to take normal (disgusting) medicine.

The thought of Steve not being on the receiving end of that treatment and instead being the caretaker had his lips curl up in a smile.

💙❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️🤍❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️💙

S.R. masterlist

💙❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️🤍❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️💙

Thank you for reading!

I don’t often write sequels to one-shots when asked, but inspiration struck this time (I went to a wedding and caught very mushy feelings). I hope you enjoyed. Don’t sent me your dentist bills, you’ve been warned.

[adarlingwrites]

Taste

Summary: The blue bard is sickeningly sweet for Astarion's preferences, but he'll never forget her taste.

Author’s Notes: Taste is a collection of retellings of Astarion's scenes with the player character from the Baldur's Gate 3 early access, but with a little more embellishments. Plus, it has glimpses of my tiefling's backstory.

I had horrible, horrible artist's and writer's block and I needed to get this out of my system to get the creative juices flowing again. Please excuse any typos or lack of quality.

Larian give us the bard class pls I am begging of you

I - Blueberry Wine

The time for rest has come.

Bedrolls are strewn on the campgrounds, and most of its inhabitants are already asleep. Nothing can be heard save for the crackle of fire, the chirp of birds in the woods, and soft snoring.

If it wasn’t for their common goal of removing those damned illithid tadpoles from their heads before they undergo ceremorphosis, the members of this party wouldn’t even spend five minutes within each others’ presence. Now, they’re sleeping in one place. It takes some measure of trust for that.

The dreams of the tiefling in their ragtag group aren’t sweet tonight, to say the least.

Brows furrowed as another nightmare wormed into her psyche, the tiefling tosses and turns in her bedroll, a thin film of sweat giving her forehead a slight sheen in the firelight. Eyes shooting open, she choked back a gasp, lest she wake up her companions in the camp. The crackle of the campfire and the smell of burning wood gave her some semblance of comfort, at least, reminding her of distant memories.

A warm hearth, a kind face, the smell of freshly baked blueberry pie; simple comforts from her youth that she missed terribly.

The comfort that accompanied the nostalgia was enough to make her drift back to sleep. Woefully, it didn’t stop the nightmares from coming back, now centered around the tiefling’s early years.

Small, bare feet pitter-pattered on the wet pavement, frantic gasps escaped her dry mouth. Choking back a sob, more people went after her, shouting, hurling words that scraped her heart.

“Stop! Thief!”

“Devil!”

“Slay the demon!”

Lungs burning from exertion, the little tiefling whelp coughs, rasps for air, and slides under a cart. In the dark, she can see a narrow alleyway, which she scurries into. The men run past her hiding spot, cursing and muttering amongst themselves. Relief floods through her as their torchlights grew dim.

Safe, at last.

Her trembling arms had been holding on to precious cargo; a stale loaf of bread, wrapped in linen. It’s not a delectable morsel of steak, or rich bone marrow, but it’s better than the rocks she grinded with her sharp teeth for breakfast.

As she takes it out of the cloth, a stone drops in her stomach and horror twists on her young face. The tiefling isn’t holding a loaf of bread, but a severed head of a drow. A scream threatened to escape her throat and pierce the night air, but the tiefling maiden could only gasp as she felt a presence behind her.

Wine red eyes still heavy with sleep met with alert, ruby ones. She isn’t dreaming any longer.

In the dim firelight, she sees him. Astarion.

Truth be told, she doesn’t quite know what to feel about the posh elf. Astarion’s handsome face and fair curls are easy on the eyes, but it only reminded her of how hellish she looks in comparison due to her infernal ancestry. His sharp, calculating eyes puts her at unease, even when his gaze isn’t directed towards her. He has a way of making people feel beneath him, like vulnerable prey. Serenity is not exempt from that, despite her efforts to be pleasant to him. Not to mention, Astarion’s attitude and mannerisms reminded her of the uppity nobles she had the displeasure of encountering in her colorful past.

In short, he’s a handsome fellow with a revolting attitude, at least to Serenity’s standards. Lust and indignation battles with each other in the tiefling’s psyche.

It doesn’t help at all that the elf is fond of calling her pet names, such as “sweetheart” or “dear”. No one calls her such sweet things with genuine intent, not after she saw the drow’s head on a pike, and to hear them from his condescending mouth stirs something dark in her heart.

It especially inflames her whenever he calls her “darling”.

She wanted to pounce on him. However, she wasn’t sure what she wanted after that.

Tear his pretty face asunder with her nails and watch his handsome features contort in agony, perhaps? Or watch him writhe underneath her in a more… carnal manner as she takes out all of her frustration by mashing her ravenous mouth against his lovely lips?

Maybe both?

“Oh, Serenity. You have no need for that sort of… decadence,” she thinks to herself.

Alas, her body says otherwise.

“Shit,” he says upon meeting eyes with her, distracting the tiefling from her thoughts. Serenity didn’t expect such a vulgar word to come out of his pretty mouth, and she didn’t expect the gleaming fangs inside of it either.

How could she not see it the first few times?

The dead boar they found on the road, the fact that she had never seen him consume any food, and the wolfish way he eyes her neck when he thought she wasn’t looking should’ve given it away.

Astarion is a vampire. Worse, he's a vampire who’s intending to sink his teeth in Serenity’s neck.

Whatever terrible things she secretly wanted to do to him, she had no chance of enacting them in this situation. Hells, if anything, Astarion is the one with the capacity to do terrible things to her. The tiefling will be at his mercy, if she doesn’t act fast. So, why isn’t her body doing anything to move?

Heart racing, she needed to say something, at least.

“Stop,” Serenity warns him, voice low, baring her own sharp teeth. The tiefling had considered smashing her precious lute over his head as a last resort. Before the bard can lash out, he pulls back, alarmed.

“No no, it’s not what it looks like, I swear!” Astarion hastily blurts, panic evident in his voice. “ I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed- well, blood.”

The elf’s admission confirms it; Astarion is a vampire, a creature enslaved to sanguine hunger.

At that moment, an expression that Serenity hasn’t seen on the elf before twists his features: guilt. The vampire knew he’s betraying her trust, and it shows.

“How long since you killed someone? Days? Hours?” Serenity asks, on guard now, but still sitting on her bedroll.

Eyes widening, Astarion’s tone becomes defensive. “I’ve never killed anyone!” he exclaims. Then, his expression turns grim. “Well, not for food. I feed on animals. Boars, deer, kobolds! Whatever I can get.”

The lass feels slightly reassured that she’s not dealing with a blood-sucking serial killer, but the possibility of him lying puts her on edge again.

“But it’s not enough,” the pale elf speaks again. Serenity half expected him to say this, he did try to bite her after all. “Not if I have to fight. I feel so… weak.”

And there it was, the last thing she expected from him: vulnerability. His reluctance to show weakness was written all over his face. Perhaps it wounds his pride? Regardless of the doubt she has for him, it changed Serenity’s perception of the vampire ever so slightly.

“If I just had a bit of blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please.”

Now this is a pleasant surprise. Astarion saying please? Is this a dream?

Still, the tiefling wanted to dig deeper at the truth. Brows knitting together in concentration, she knew better than to use the tadpole, but the damn thing established a psionic link with other infected individuals. 

Serenity pushes into the vampire’s mind to search for the truth.

“I- what’s this? What’s happening?” Astarion blurts, experiencing slight discomfort from the intrusion.

Pushing deep into the elf’s cracked and quivering memories, Serenity strains as she sifts through centuries worth of them, until she has reached its heart. There, she found herself in Astarion’s shoes; quite literally. She sees dark eyes that commanded her to feed, and instinctively, her body follows suit. Serenity, experiencing this through Astarion’s memory, opens her mouth, biting down, but not into a tender, pulsing neck. Though she wanted to recoil in disgust, there was no other choice; she couldn’t physically resist. The choice had been made for her- no, made for Astarion.

Astarion’s fangs pierce the twisting body of a rat - the only thing his master allows him to eat.

In return, Serenity’s own memories leak through the cracks of her psyche, and Astarion finds himself in the body of a wee girl with horns too big for her head. Ravenously, he inhales the sweet, buttery aroma of a freshly-baked pie resting on a windowsill. Astarion’s hands, now small and of bluish color, reach for the baked good with caution. A warm, ash-colored hand presses on his shoulder, and he sees the smiling face of a tall, drow man. Instead of hurting him for attempting to steal, the dark elf ushers him to a table, and offers him a slice with a compassionate smile. Serenity will never forget her first taste of the buttery pie crust, the sweet blueberries, and a hint of lemon and salt.

Now, Astarion will never forget that taste, either.

The connection between them severed, Serenity takes a moment to collect herself.

“You ate animals because you were forced to. Not because you wanted to,” she mumbles, eyebrows knitted together. Is it sympathy? Or perhaps his experiences reminded her of her own relationship with food?

Whatever it was, the tiefling’s perception of Astarion drastically shifted. On the surface, Astarion is a noble who turns up his nose at folks like her, but in truth, he suffered under the hands of a cruel master.

Being a pompous ass is a defense mechanism for him.

“I- yes,” Astarion says with resignation. “Yes, I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked. So, you can see why I’m slow to trust you,” he continues, and Serenity swore the expression he wore on his face tugged a few strings in her heart.

“But I do trust you, and you can trust me,” Astarion tells her.

Serenity thinks it might not be fair for her not to. How can she say that she can’t, after she saw his past for herself, and he didn’t show any hostility towards her for intruding upon his darkest, most haunting memories?

“I do. I believe you,” the bard responds, and she can hear his relief when he mutters “Thank you.”

Perhaps Serenity had judged him too harshly in the past. The drow who took her in cultivated compassion in her heart, and it’s beckoning to her.

“Do you need blood?” Serenity asks him, and there is genuine surprise on his face.

“I was about to ask,” he tells her, expression shifting into something more pleasant. “I only need a taste, I swear.”

“As long as you don’t take a drop more than you need,” Serenity replies, loosening her clothing slightly, her smallclothes peeking through.

“Really?” he asks, and he sounds almost eager.

“I- of course. Not one drop more.”

That damn vampire flashes her a smile that sends lightning rippling through her veins.

Astarion’s yearning eyes flicked to her exposed flesh, barely making out the purple tinge on her bluish skin as blood rushed from her chest to her face. Seeing where his eyes are roaming, Serenity feels her heart racing faster, and she swiftly lies down, back turned away from him. The tiefling bard is not about to let her companion see her flustered state.

Face inches away from her head, Astarion catches a whiff of the tiefling’s scent. He quietly thanked the gods that she didn’t smell of sulfur or rotting meat; instead, the bard smells of ash from freshly burned incense, laced with a warm, spiced scent.

The vampire holds her gently, delicately, until he strikes.

Astarion sinks deep, fangs like shards of ice piercing her neck. Serenity lets out a gasp, and her face contorts into an expression of pain and discomfort. Thankfully, the pain is quick and sharp, and as the vampire continues to feed, it fades gently into throbbing numbness. The bard feels her blood coursing through her body, into Astarion’s mouth, who sucked and slurped it hungrily.

He leans forward, one arm almost draping over the bard’s torso to support his weight, while the other still holds her head. Palm running through her short obsidian hair, he stops as they touch one of her horns, hand enclosing into a fist around it. Gently tugging, the elf tilts  her head for better access.

Astarion’s lips are wet from his meal’s blood and sweat, and his own saliva. They glided on the sensitive skin ever so slightly as he pursed them and sucked harder. Serenity found her breath catching in her throat from his actions, pulse quickening as her hand flew to grasp Astarion’s arm, filed fingernails turning white at the end.

In a figurative and literal sense, she’s holding on to dear life.

“Ah, Astarion, that’s enough,” she mewls, hand moving to grasp his hair, fingernails running through his scalp. Not enough to hurt, but enough for the vampire to snap out of it due to the sensation it produced.

The vampire moans, almost carnally, then it is followed by a surprised, questioning grunt. Serenity’s pleas, and the scrape of her fingernails took him from his trance-like state. Immediately, he removes himself from her neck, swallowing thickly.

“Oh. Of course.”

Serenity sits up as he pulls back, light-headed from the blood loss. She turns to the pale elf, her breathing ragged as her fingers gingerly pressed on her bite wound. The tiefling felt a blush creep on her face, neck, and pointy ears as she gazes upon Astarion’s face. In the firelight, she can see that his pupils are blown out in ecstasy, and blood is trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“That- that was amazing,” Astarion purrs, wiping off her blood and bringing his fingers to his mouth, savoring it to the last drop. “My mind is finally clear. I feel strong. I feel…”

He pauses, and Serenity stopped breathing for a moment.

“Happy,” he continued, sighing in contentment as he gave her a gentle, genuine smile.

Serenity had to blink a few times to confirm that she wasn’t seeing things.

She clears her throat, hoping to dissipate the delicious tension between them. “I look forward to seeing you fight,” the bard says to him, drawing her knees to her chest.

“Shouldn’t take long. So many people need killing,” Astarion responds, bowing ever so slightly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more… filling.”

The pale elf turns around and just like that, he is back to normal, snobbish self.

Serenity slumps back on her bedroll, exhaling slowly as her heart finally slows down. Her body crashes from the surge of adrenaline and the blood loss. Turning her head, she watches as the elf stalks towards the forest; stronger, more confident, and ready to hunt.

“This is a gift, you know,” Astarion tells her, back still turned from her, looking over his shoulder.

“I won’t forget it.”

Serenity won’t forget it either.

It didn’t take long before Astarion found a deer in the forest. As he drank the beast’s blood, he couldn’t help but compare the taste to Serenity’s blood. The animal is more filling indeed, but now? Nothing compares to the taste of the tiefling’s delicious blood.

She is the first humanoid he ever tasted, after all.

And how will he describe her taste?

The darling tiefling is bubbly, gentle, and sweet, much like her demeanor; almost sickeningly so, for his standards. It’s comparable to the Monastery of the Yellow Rose’s blueberry wine: a fragrant dessert wine he had the pleasure of consuming with delicate cheeses and light cakes back when he didn’t have any fangs.

Or perhaps he had associated her with the fruit due to her memories mingling with his.

Either way, when he said that he won’t forget it, he wasn’t just referring to the favor she did for him. Astarion was referring to Serenity’s taste as well.

Meanwhile, in the camp, Serenity draws her lute to her chest, plucking the strings softly in an attempt to lull herself to sleep. It doesn’t ease her into slumber like it usually does. Sighing, she squeezes her thighs together, heat pooling between them as she recalled the vampire’s lips on her pulsing neck. Perhaps it’s not the lute that she should be plucking at.

Reaching into the waistband of her trousers, the bard gives in to her secret desires.

At least there weren’t any more nightmares for the night.

[nooneelsecomesclose17]

I'll leave what I'm chasing - part 7

And it's finished. I really struggled with this final part and still I'm not sure about it but it's driving me crazy so here it is.

(AO3 link)

“Aaron!” The shout and the knocking at the door isn’t unexpected a week later, but Robert still gave Aaron a look saying ‘I told you so’ as he sighed. “Still can’t believe you asked your lot. I thought you said they’d all sided with your Mum.”

They’d gone round and round about whether to invite them. His protective streak had come out, telling Aaron it wasn’t worth the hassle, but Aaron was adamant he was sending invitations to them all.

“Well yeah, or at least they didn’t side with me. I’ve decided to be the bigger person, same reason I invited Mum. Besides, like I said, this way we’ll see just how many of ‘em actually are on her side. If they turn down free booze and grub then I know not to bother with them again, don’t I?” Aaron’s got that annoying grin on his face as he walks to the door.

“You’ve got a lot more devious since I’ve been away.”

“Mmm, learnt from the best didn’t I?” He opens the door, face schooled into indifference. “Mum.”

“What’s this?” Robert can’t see her from where he’s standing but he can imagine she’s waving the invitation around in Aaron’s face.

“What does it look like?”

“Don’t get smart with me. You don’t speak to me for months and then you send this, and Aaron and Robert Sugden-Dingle? What’s all that?” Robert sighed from his place in the kitchen, trying to keep out of it knowing his presence will only make things worse. “Bit posh this invitation isn’t it? And what’s with the Sugden-Dingle? His idea I suppose?”

“Mine actually. Mum what’s the problem?” Robert pushed himself away from the kitchen cupboard he was leaning on and walked over to Aaron, a hand on his shoulder in silent support.

“You’re a Dingle!”

“No I’m not. You said it yourself at our wedding, remember, and I changed it officially before Ana was born, and Robert is changing his. I’m a Sugden-Dingle.”

“But…”

“Are you coming or not because we need to know the numbers so Sarah can sort the food.” Aaron folds his arms and Robert sees the moment Chas’s mood changes and he knows what’s coming. “I’m done talking about this.”

“He’s no good for you Aaron. Look what he did.”

“Do you really want me to list our family’s long long list of prison stays or can we get on so I can eat some breakfast. What’s really the problem?”

“He hurt you.”

“Yeah. I’ve hurt him too over the years, but that’s our business.”

“I…you’re just letting him back in as if nothing has happened.”

“Mum...” Aaron sounds exhausted and Robert feels guilty all over again at him having to deal with this all alone for the past few months.

“I just don’t understand you Aaron. Everything he’s done to you, and you just keep going back for more and turning against your own family. It’s not right.”

“No. I’ve not turned against anybody. What’s not right is my family not respecting my choices. Neither you nor Paddy seem to realise that I’m an adult, that I can make my own decisions.”

“We just want what’s best for you, love.”

“No, no you don’t. What you want is what you think is best for me and I’m done putting up with it. So, as I said, we have things to do. You’re welcome at the christening if you can be civil to Robert, and stop slagging him off to everyone, but if you can’t then I want you to stay away.”

“And you, you’re alright with me turning up are you?” She turns her gaze onto him and he refuses to look away.

“Whatever Aaron wants. Just one thing, don’t you ever talk about us in front of our children the way you did.”

“I mean it Mum. I’m done putting up with it. So think long and hard yeah, and tell Paddy the same. I’m not that messed up kid anymore. I can make my own decisions and live my life how and with who I want. I’m happy, for the first time in months I’m truly happy.”

Chas doesn’t say another word, just glares at him once more before turning and walking away. Aaron doesn’t move until the door is closed and then he’s holding onto Robert.

“It’s ok. She’ll come round.”

“I don’t think so. She’ll never change.”

“You don’t have to lose her.”

“I do. I’ve thought about it a lot, and you know she’s been in my head about you right from the start, picking away every time I thought we were happy. I’m done with it. It’s just…I wish just once she’d choose me, choose to support what I want.”

“I know. She’s your Mum. Maybe if she has time to think she’ll come round. You never know.” Aaron nods.

“Whatever she says, I love you, that’s never going to change.”

“Good, because I’m not going anywhere, never again.” Aaron’s hold on him tightens as he kisses him. “Come on, I’m going to make you breakfast. I reckon we’ve got about an hour before Mum brings the kids back and chaos reigns again.”

When the food is on the plates and they’re sitting down Aaron speaks again after not saying anything the whole time he’d been cooking. “I spoke to Charles yesterday.”

“I thought Mum was doin’ all that.”

“This was about something else. I can’t do anything about her birth certificate, not without a whole lot of red tape, but he said he could include a name if you wanted.”

“I’m not changing her name Aaron. I love what you chose, you know that.”

“Obviously. But maybe, If you wanted you could give her a middle name. He said to just let him know and he’ll include it.” He can’t speak and Aaron’s watching him worriedly. “It’s fine if you don’t want to.”

“No...no I do. I don’t deserve you, you know that don’t you?”

“Well tough because you’re stuck with me.”

*****

On the morning of the christening he’s feeling uneasy. Nothing major, just a nagging feeling, eating at him all morning and before he knows it he’s walking down the path to the graveyard. He’d told Aaron he was just going to see Vic before the service because if he knew where he was going he would’ve insisted on coming with him.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there before he feels someone beside him and he smells his Mum’s perfume.

“Robert?”

“Am I like him? Dad?”

“In some ways. For all his faults your father did love his family, and you have to admit he could be a bit stubborn, like someone else I know. But that’s what you’re asking is it?”

“He cheated, on you, on Pat. I’ve cheated on pretty much everyone.”

“Yes, but as far as I know that’s not a gene that’s passed down love. My parents were faithful to each other and yet I cheated on your Dad.”

“He did it first.”

“That doesn’t make it right. You’re not him, Robert. You’ve made mistakes, some because of things that happened to you, others because everyone does. That’s not excusing you because you really can mess up when you try, but now I think you see that and you try and do things differently. You know there are people there now who love you for who you are, not who you think you ought to be. You don’t have to be perfect, so maybe stop trying, hmm?”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“I think you’re trying to make up for things the only way you know how. But Aaron doesn’t care how many breakfasts you make him, or that you’re perfect with Ana and Seb. He loves you just the way you are, like I do, like your sister does.”

“You sure about that? She could barely look me in the eye when I went round.” He’d tried, but Vic was still angry with him over everything, what happened, cutting everyone off, hurting Aaron and he didn’t know what to say to make it better with her. The distance between them was too big now and he had no idea how to fix it.

“Well your sister inherited his stubbornness too and some of mine for good measure. She loves you Robert, and it might take some time for the two of you to get back to how you are, but now you’re back you will, I know it. Now, where are my grandchildren?”

“Aaron was feeding Ana in the hope she won’t scream the church down. I was doing his head in, he reckoned so I told him I was going to check the church. Ended up here.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “What do you think he would’ve made of today?”

“I don’t know love and that’s the best answer I’ve got. But he’s not here, so stop letting him ruin all the good moments in your life. He can’t do that any more. He’s gone.”

“Yeah.” It wasn’t that simple. He can’t separate the Dad he loved, who would carry him on his shoulders and show him the animals with the man who hurt him, and he doesn’t want to lose the one he loved because there are good memories.

“Come on, no more maudlin thoughts. Today you get to show off your beautiful family. Have you decided on a middle name for Ana?”

“Yes. Last night.”

“And?”

“And you’ll find out at the church like everyone else except for Aaron.”

“You’re such a spoilsport. Ah there they are.” She rushes forward to meet Seb as she spots her, all dressed up in his little suit. They all match, after being ordered by his Mum to buy new suits because they were not under any circumstances to wear their court suits to the christening of her grandchildren.

“Do you like my suit, Ganma?” Robert can’t help chuckling as Seb attempts a twirl.

“You look very smart peanut! Very grown up! Are you going to come and sit with me inside?” Seb nods and with a grin at him and Aaron she heads inside the church.

“You didn’t go to Vic’s did you?” He shrugs at him, “She rang just after you left.”

“I ended up in the graveyard.”

“You ok?”

“I am now.” He runs a hand through Ana’s hair making her giggle. “How many people are inside?”

“A few, it’s still early.” Suddenly he looks behind him, frowning and Robert turns round to see a collection of Dingles making their way down Main Street. “I don’t need this today.”

“Wait...they’re all dressed up. Look.” Cain and Moira are leading the pack with someone Robert doesn’t know. He guesses that’s the brother, and they’re followed by the others. There’s no sign of Chas or Paddy and a part of him is glad.

“Alright.” Cain nods at him.

“What’s all this?”

“We were invited.” Sam pipes up.

“Yeah Sam, I know. I s’pose I didn’t think you’d turn up.” Aaron shrugs, disturbing Ana, so Robert takes her, using that as an excuse not to get into conversation. He’s still not sure how he feels about them all and the fact they just left Aaron to cope alone because it was easier than going against Chas. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“There won’t be any.” Cain tells him, and from the look on his face Robert can tell he had words with them all.

“Did you threaten them?” He can’t help himself.

“Didn’t have to. Just told ‘em to look beyond what Chas was saying. She’ll see sense in the end you know.”

“Might be too late by then.”

“Then she’ll have to deal with the consequences. For the record, I reckon you did the right thing, prison’s no place to be taking a baby.” He nods and takes his outstretched hand before standing aside to wait for Moira.

When they’ve all finally gone in, it’s just them, Ana fast asleep on his shoulder.

“You ready?”

“Just one more minute.” He nods. Aaron might say he’s sure about cutting his Mum off, but he knows a part of him is still hoping she and Paddy might turn up. “I just thought…”

“Yeah.”

“It’s stupid.”

“No it’s not. She’s your Mum. I sometimes still wish my Dad was here, that he’d be happy for me.”

“Least we’ve got your Mum. Right, let’s go in.”

*****

Later that evening when everyone has gone home he’s sitting outside the house watching Seb play in his treehouse when Aaron sits beside him, Ana on his lap.

“Ok?”

“Yeah. Just thinking.”

“Anythin’ good?”

“How lucky I am. Sometimes I wake up at night and for a second I think I’m back there, stuck in my cell away from you. Then I remember that I came home and you’re here and I’ve got a family. It’s just...I was so close to losing you forever. If he’d died…”

“He didn’t.”

“But he could’ve. Mum says I try and take everyone’s problems on as my own and don’t stop until I’ve solved them.”

“Maybe.”

“But she’s right. Look at...sorry but even with Gordon, I kept going. All that stuff with Ryan. I couldn’t stop because I had to fix it.”

“You make mistakes, everyone does. Ok so maybe yours are bigger than most, but at least you realise that they are mistakes. My Mum has been pushing me to do things her way ever since I came to live here and she’s never worked out that all she does is push me further away. She keeps making that mistake, she never learns. The difference though is you’ve learnt, at least…”

“I have, promise. I’m never going to put us at risk again.” He brushes a hand over Ana’s hair. “So, you’re sure about the name?”

“Bit late now, been said in front of God and all that.” He jiggles his knees making the little girl giggle. “You like it don’t you sweetheart. Ana Hope. It’s perfect.”

“Just like her. Just like we’re going to be.” He shuffles closer as Seb runs over to them, flopping down onto him. “Hey mate.”

“You don’t think that’s a bit boring?”

“Right now, boring sounds absolutely amazing.”

[musicprincess1990]

The Best of Me - for ILY Anniversary 2021

This is inspired by the song by The Starting Line.  I was listening to my #TeenYears playlist (yes, that’s the title I picked, sue me), and I noticed the album cover featured the words, “Say it like you mean it.”  Um, hello TFP vibes!  And then I started the song over, paying attention to the lyrics, and BOOM!  A fic was born!  Starts out with a bit of post-TRF pining, leading up to a TFP finish. And it’s a long one, so catch the whole story below the cut.

Happy Sherlolliversary, everyone!  😘

*

Here we lay again, on two separate beds

Riding phone lines to meet a familiar voice

And pictures drawn from memory.

*

It started after the fall… some months later, in the midst of yet another doomed-to-fail relationship with some other not-him bloke.  Molly didn’t know why she seemed to measure time both by her own failed relationships, and by his major life events, but there you go.  After a ten-hour shift, a disappointing date, and an extra glass of wine, she was more than ready to pack it in for the night.

She’d only just hit the mattress when her phone buzzed, and she whimpered in dismay, assuming it would be Mike needing her for a last-minute post-mortem.  She considered ignoring it and claiming she’d been asleep, when a second text sounded. With a sigh, she rolled onto her side and unlocked her phone.  It wasn’t Mike after all, but two messages from a blocked number.  Again, she thought about ignoring them, not keen on starting a conversation with a stranger, when a third text came through, and she began to wonder… Sitting upright, she tapped on the notification and opened her messages, her heart leaping to her throat as she read:

IN A SAFE HOUSE IN SARAJEVO.  

COULD DO WITH A FRIENDLY VOICE.

MOLLY?

It had to be him… it just had to be!  No one else she knew had any need for a “safe house.” And besides that, no one else would have been so cryptic, so confusing.  Sherlock Holmes never talked about his feelings, in fact, half the time he pretended not to have any.  This was bordering on soul-baring for him!  Why?  Why now?  Why her?  Well, she supposed it the fact that the rest of his friends thought he was dead might have something to do with it.  Even so, what had happened to make him seek her out like this?

A fourth text came through, interrupting her thoughts.

MAY I CALL YOU?

Sherlock Holmes, asking for permission?  Now she’d well and truly seen everything!  Anxious and delighted and terrified all at once, she quickly tapped out a reply in the affirmative, and waited.  It couldn’t have been more than ten seconds before her phone lit up with the incoming call.  In her haste to answer it, she dropped the silly thing on the floor, swearing loudly as she flopped onto her stomach to reach for it.  And, of course, to her embarrassment, the line was connected, meaning he heard it all.  Molly pressed the phone to her ear and whispered, “Sherlock?”

A loud exhale, and then a familiar voice, “Hello, Molly.”

She let out a watery laugh.  “Oh, my God, it’s you!  How are you? Oh, God, stupid question—”

“Molly, it’s fine,” he cut her off.  “I am… as well as can be expected.”

Her brow creased with worry.  “Are you okay?  I mean, is it… going well?”

A beat of silence.  “As well as can be expected,” he repeated.

Clearly, she was not going to get a wealth of information from him on that front.  Not that she was certain she wanted all the gory details—knowing who he was dealing with, “gory” would most definitely be the right word.  Still, he had instigated this phone call, she wouldn’t let him get away with perfunctory answers.  Shifting a bit so that she was leaning against the headboard, she asked, “What made you decide to phone me?”

“You weren’t answering your texts.  Figured you had gone into shock.”

She chewed on her lip a moment.  “Well… you’re not wrong.  It did surprise me.”

“Yeeeesss, I’d gathered that,” he drawled in that posh, pompous tone of voice she never thought she would come to miss.

“Truth be told, it wasn’t just the fact that you texted that came as a surprise, it’s what was in the text.”  She paused here, waiting to see how he would respond.  When he said nothing, she went on, “I suppose even the great Sherlock Holmes needs to phone a friend once in a while.”

“Don’t do that,” he said abruptly.  “I’m not ‘the great Sherlock Holmes’ now, am I?  I’m just…” he hesitated for a moment, “…just Sherlock.”

Molly’s breath came out in a whoosh.  So that was why.  Just like she had before, when he looked sad, she saw him clear as day… even if she couldn’t physically see him.  This mission, this seemingly insurmountable task, she couldn’t even imagine how difficult it must be.  It had to be taxing, even for Sherlock, who always seemed so detached from the situations. But deep down, he was still a man, he still felt things, and he still needed friends.

“Molly?”

His tone was soft, but filled with anxiety, and she realized she’d been silent for some time.  She put on a smile, making sure he would hear it in her voice, and whispered, “I’m here, Sherlock.  What do you need?”

A quiet laugh sounded on the other end of the line, followed by a one-word answer: “You.”

*

*

We turn our music down, and we whisper,

“Say what you're thinking right now.”

Tell me what you thought about

When you were gone and so alone.

Sherlock’s phone calls became something of a regular thing after that. Whenever he felt a little too human, or when he didn’t feel human enough.  Molly was happy to act as his anchor to his old life, to keep him afloat when he could easily drown in the work, the pain, the loneliness.  Even when being his anchor often meant being woken up in the middle of the night.

She never asked him to explicitly talk about his thoughts and feelings, knowing what a minefield that conversation would be, but she always asked what he was doing, usually regarding his mission. That was familiar territory for him, talking over the details of a case, discussing the possibilities and bouncing ideas off another person.  It was this familiarity, she thought, that most soothed him, reminded him of home.

These calls varied in frequency and length over the years, but they always came.  Through the horrors he faced in dismantling Moriarty’s network, through her engagement to Tom, through his four-minute exile (ooh, she’d had some choice words for him about that), and though Mary’s tragic death.

He called her almost daily after that.  She wasn’t entirely sure he really wanted to hear her voice, or if, while John was being a git and ostracizing him, any friendly voice would do. She decided not to care, and to just be there for him anyway.

One call in particular stood out to her, the night of his birthday. They’d gone for cake earlier in the day, and he’d been pleasant enough, but awfully silent.  John had seemed almost back to his normal self, and Rosie was an adorable bundle of energy, effectively distracting all three adults from their own loneliness.

That night, she returned with Sherlock to Baker Street, for the “night shift.”  After a few minutes spent scrolling silently through his emails, he announced he was going to bed.  Molly waited a bit before shuffling up the stairs into John’s old room, which had been converted into a guest-room-slash-laboratory.  The door was left open in case Sherlock started puttering about in the middle of the night, she would hear him and be down to help him, if needed.

Molly had just settled onto the bed when her phone rang, and Sherlock’s name appeared.

What?

“Sherlock?” she answered hesitantly.

“I realize you’re just upstairs, and I could easily have gone up there or had you come down here, but this seemed a bit more…”

A little smile tugged at her lips.  “Familiar?”

He exhaled slowly.  “Yes.”

“It’s okay,” she assured him.  “I don’t mind.”

“Thank you, Molly.  For everything.”

*

*

Jumping to conclusions

Made me fall away from you;

I'm so glad that the truth

Has brought back together me and you.

“What is she doing?”

“She’s making tea.”

“Yes, but why isn’t she answering her phone?”

“You never answer your phone.”

“Yes, but it’s me calling…”

*

“If it’s true, just say it anyway.”

“You bastard.”

“Say it anyway.”

“You say it.  Go on, you say it first… Say it.  Say it like you mean it.”

“I-I… I love you.”

*

Molly dropped her phone as the line went dead, then slid to the floor as sobs wracked her entire body.  She didn’t… she couldn’t begin to think… why had he asked that of her? After all the years he’d known her, all the time he’d been calling her out of the blue… She’d never once asked him to…

Her stomach lurched, and she scrambled up to her feet just in time to vomit into the sink.  Her body felt hot and cold and shivery and aching all at once.  Funny, the scientist in her thought, how a broken heart can have noticeable physiological effects on a person. She was in fact ill, bit of a cold, but it was that horrible conversation, not a silly little virus, that had made her stomach decide to violently expel its contents.

That wasn’t the worst of it, though.  No, the worst part was finding an old letter Sherlock had written, sometime during his absence from London, near the end.  She remembered getting it in the post, and quickly shoving it into a safe, secret place, where Tom wouldn’t find it.  He was at her flat no more than five minutes later, picking her up for a date. He proposed to her that night, and she completely forgot about the letter… until today.  She’d found it while rooting around her cupboards, looking for her favorite citrus tea, the one she always made whenever she felt ill. Its contents had nearly shocked her cold right out of her system.

Dear Molly,

I don’t know if this letter will reach you. There are so many unknowns at the moment.  I don’t even fully know why I’m writing.  I simply wished to express my gratitude for everything you have done for me.  I know that I have caused you pain many times, and in all probability, I will do so again.  And yet, after seeing the absolute worst of me, you are still my friend.  That fact baffles me more than any other mystery I have encountered.

When I return, yours is among the first faces I look forward to seeing again.  I wish I could offer an estimated time frame, but that is one of the many unknowns I now face.  But the one thing that I know is certain, the one thing I can cling to, is that you are, and always will be, a dear friend.  You matter more to me than you realize, Molly Hooper.

Love,

Sherlock

Tears had welled in her eyes, and anger pulsed in her veins, boiling her blood with every word.  Anger toward him, for writing such a letter, instead of calling her.  It was cowardly, no matter how lovely the letter was (dear God, was it lovely!), and when he returned just a few months later, he said nothing.  He gave no indication that he even remembered the letter, or the fact that he’d written it!  Why?

Because you were engaged, a traitorous voice whispered. And then her anger shifted, now aimed toward herself.

If she had read the letter before Tom proposed that night… she would have said no.

And then she was angry with him again, for not fighting for her, not saying what was clearly visible between every word on every line of that damned letter.

He loved her.

Or so she had thought.

After that phone call… she couldn’t be sure of anything.  If he really loved her, how could he do this to her?  Forget making her say the words, as impossible as that felt, how could he treat it all like an experiment? Treat her like an experiment?  Her anger and her desperation battled through the entire conversation, with anger eventually winning out, though it expressed itself with an eerie calmness.

You say it first.

Well, he had.  But only because she’d told him to.

God knew he’d never have said it otherwise.

Molly trudged into the bathroom and brushed her teeth, washing away the sour taste in her mouth.  She never had finished making her tea, but she was too exhausted to even contemplate remaining upright for another minute longer than necessary.  Instead, she went straight into her bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, falling quickly into a fitful sleep.

*

The knock on her door startled her awake, and somehow she knew exactly who it was, even before his voice followed the pounding, begging her to let him in.  She scowled in the direction of her door, rolled onto her other side, and smashed her pillow over her ear.  Eventually, one of her neighbors would complain, maybe even call the police. That, or he’d pick the lock… and if he did, she’d call the police.  Probably Greg, oooh, he’d love that!  There wouldn’t be any real consequences—big brother Mycroft had far too much pull for that—but it would be humiliating for Sherlock.  Served him right, after he humiliated her.

The pounding and the shouting stopped suddenly, and she foolishly let herself believe he’d finally gone.  But a moment later, her phone chimed with an incoming text.  Then another, and then another after that.  Equal parts annoyed and curious, Molly finally sat up and grabbed her phone to read the idiot’s texts.

PLEASE LET ME IN.  LET ME SAY IT AGAIN.

I DON’T WANT TO DO IT OVER TEXT.  YOU DESERVE BETTER THAN THAT.

PLEASE, MOLLY.

Unless…

Molly’s head spun by the end of the third text.  Say it again?  Did he mean…?  Oh, of course he meant that, what else could he be talking about?  But why the hell did he need to say it again?  Wasn’t once—well, twice—enough torture for one night?

A fourth text lit up her phone.

IF YOU WON’T LET ME IN, WILL YOU AT LEAST LET ME CALL YOU?

She almost laughed.  Answering his call was what got her into this mess, wasn’t it?  And yet, against her better judgment, that cursed curiosity forced her to type out a reply.

OK.

*

Sherlock sighed at the response, his hand shaking as he pressed the phone to his ear, listening to the dial tone.  He ran through a thousand opening sentences in his head in the time it took for her to answer the call, and the moment he heard her voice, forgot every single one of them.

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

Her voice was raw, probably from crying, and oh, how he hated himself for doing that to her.  But broken as it was, her voice was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

“You,” he replied, his own voice matching hers.  “Always you.”

She sobbed, and the sound went straight to his heart, piercing it, shattering it.  “Then why—” she was interrupted by another sob, “—how could you—”

“I’ll tell you everything,” he said quickly.  “Everything you need to know, but not like this.  For now, I just need to say one thing.”  Sherlock drew in a breath, bracing himself.  “I love you, Molly.  I’ve loved you all along, before I even realized it.  I don’t know if… there was a letter I sent, but it must have gotten lost… I should have said it when I came back, but when I saw that ring on your finger…”  He swallowed. “I thought I’d lost my chance, that you weren’t in love with me anymore, that—”

The door opened, and there she stood, still wearing that ridiculous jumper, eyes filled with tears, and holding a piece of paper in her hand.  The letter.  His hand dropped to his side, phone still in hand, staring in wonder and confusion.

“I hadn’t read it,” she explained in a small voice.  “Not until today.  That’s… part of why it wasn’t a good day.  I’d gotten it the day Tom proposed.  Right before he picked me up.  I panicked and shoved it in the cupboard where he wouldn’t find it.  He never touched the cupboards, always left it to me to cook or make tea or… anyway,” she finished lamely.

“You didn’t read it?”

Molly shook her head, gnawing on her lower lip.  “I wish I had.  I wouldn’t have gotten engaged.”

“I am so sorry, Molly.”  His eyes fell shut against the pricking of even more tears.  “I should have told you every day, with every phone call…”

“I’m sorry, too,” she said, prompting him to open his eyes.  “I’m sorry for letting my anger get the better of me.”

He gave her a tentative smile.  “Understandable, considering the circumstances.  I tend to bring out the worst in everybody.”  To his delight, she laughed, and his heart lightened at the sound. In a more serious voice, he added, “You, however, bring out the best in everyone… including me.”

Molly went still, and Sherlock worried he’d somehow hurt her again, until she suddenly sprang at him and wrapped her arms around his middle, pressing her face against his chest.  Warmth erupted along his skin where she touched him, and his arms found his way around her, clinging to her, locking her against him.  He rested his chin atop her head, eyes squeezed shut to fight back the now-constant threat of tears.  Good Lord, he was a sop now…

Well.  If it meant Molly would continue hugging him like this, he’d be whatever she wanted him to be.

“You smell like algae,” she commented, her voice muffled against his shirt.

He must have been in shock, or otherwise delirious, for at her words, he burst out laughing.  Fortunately, Molly joined him, leaning back her head and grinning wildly.  “I suppose there’s a story that goes with that?”

“Quite a long one,” he nodded.  “And not a very pleasant one.”

Molly seemed to consider this, then gave a slight hitch of her shoulders.  “Later,” she said.  “I think a bath and a good night’s sleep are in order.”  She took his hand and led him inside, and Sherlock followed, happily leaving the worst behind them.  There was still much to say—so many words unsaid, his mind quoted at him—but for now… he just wanted to be with her.

Finally.

*

*

The worst is over,

You can have the best of me.

God, that took forever… I’ll be honest, this is still open to editing and rewriting.  There are a lot of things I want to add to it.  Hell, maybe I’ll even add a second chapter.  I don’t know.  But this song, OMG!!  Go look it up, listen to the rest of the lyrics.  ALL THE SHERLOLLY FEELS!!  Thanks for reading!

[mommymooze]

Big Girls, Big Hearts

The Golden Deer are devouring their lunch on a sunny fall afternoon. The conversation is lively as they are quite the boisterous bunch. Rumors are spreading about strange things happening in Remire Village. Everyone is working themselves into an anxious state about the perplexing rumors being overheard. Hilda decides it is time to lighten the conversation.

“You know, every year they hold a ball at the Academy. The students get the chance to get to know each other better in a more friendly environment and its sort of a reward for working so hard as well as a possible way to find future partners.” She grins widely.

“A ball?” you ask. “With dressing up and dancing? I’m a commoner. It’s only for nobles, right?”

Hilda scoffs. “No silly! It’s for everyone! Dancing and romancing!  Time to find love and intrigue, hugs and kisses.”

“Um, this is an optional event, right?” You ask nervously. You’ve never been to a ball. Never had to learn to dance. You would rather beat up 500 bandits than go to a single ball.

“Come on (y/n) . You are the bravest person I know. What’s so scary about a little dance? Getting to hold a special someone in your arms for a bit, maybe even a kiss in the moonlight…Ooooh so exciting!” Hilda clasps her hands together daydreaming wistfully.

“Maybe I can catch the plague by then.” You grumble at your empty plate in front of you.

“No! Don’t even think that. We are going to get you ready and dressed up and you will not believe how beautiful you will look.” Hilda stomps her foot at you.

“Yeah, like putting lipstick on a pig, but with fat swollen lips because I’m allergic to it.” You further groan.

“Pish Posh! We can accentuate your good qualities yet keep you comfortable. I may let you wear shoes with less than 3 inch heels even.” Hilda puts her finger on her chin plotting further ways of dressing you up.”

“Balls are for petite cute girls like you and Marianne. My arms are like tree trunks. I am bulgy and lumpy. Not a sweet and delicate flower such as yourself.” You moan on, hoping she gives up soon.

Hilda puts her hands on her hips. “Yes, I can be a delicate flower. I also wield an axe just like you. Those things are heavy and take strength to swing around. Yes, I will admit to having a few muscles. Not everyone wants a delicate maiden that falls over from the slightest breeze. Some want a good hunk of warm and loving body to squeeze them back until they can’t breathe. Everyone knows you are incredibly strong. Didn’t I hear about you carrying Dedue to the infirmary not that long ago? I bet Felix or Sylvain couldn’t do it at all, but you just whisked him up and hauled him across the monastery like he was a little kid and ran him up the stairs to the infirmary.”

You blush furiously. “What was I supposed to do? I walked into the greenhouse just as he slipped on the wet rocks and he was knocked out. I couldn’t just leave him there.” You are hiding your face in your hands, feeling incredibly embarrassed.

Hilda laughs. “(Y/n), We watched you carry him bridal style running to the infirmary. I heard that when he found out he blushed for a half hour straight.!”

You want to crawl under the table, settling for crossing your arms and burying your face in them.

Hilda tugs your arm, “We are hitting up the dressmaker in town. Gonna get you a killer dress, show off those muscular toned abs and legs, and get you set up for the night of your life.”

“Nightmare of my life more like.” You mumble to yourself.

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

The battle at Remire is terrifying. Thomas turns into a really creepy ghosty old guy. The Flame Emperor shows up being threatening. The worst part is the villagers. They are going crazy killing everything, even their own families. They didn’t know they are attacking their own loved ones, their own friends. The Deer try so hard to rescue as many villagers as possible. You work to subdue as many of the possessed ones you can. They are still someone’s family and hopefully the madness is temporary. When the battle is over you look at the village, not much is left of it. The smell of smoke and burnt everything is thick in the air, choking everyone, making their eyes burn.  Finally, after the cleanup is done and all the villagers are treated for injuries, it is time to head back to the monastery.

The Golden Deer are unusually quiet as they silently march back to the monastery. Even Hilda is quiet after what she had seen. Ignatz makes his way over to you as the group keeps walking back to the academy.

“You ok?” He softly whispers to you.

You take your sleeve and wipe the tears from your eyes. “Yeah, I just got a lot of smoke in my eyes there. Thanks.” You mumble back, hanging your head a bit lower than it was before.

It is a long walk back. Everyone finally makes it into the monastery gates and the group splits up, everyone going their own direction.

Claude takes you aside. “Are you going to be okay? I’d be happy to chat if you want to. The professor is a great listener too.” He says with a look of concern in his eyes.

You don’t know where your tears are coming from now. They haven’t stopped since you were in Remire village. You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Professor Byleth comes over and puts her arm around your shoulder, leading you to her room. She pulls out a tea set and prepares tea.

“You know I lost my parents in a fire. Watching the village burn brought the whole thing back.” You stare down into your teacup.

“I’m sorry.” Byleth responds. Her face is not extremely expressive, but you can tell she is being very sympathetic from her body language.

“Do you think I can talk to Seteth about helping them out some? Isn’t this something like what the church would do? It is so late in the year and many of them don’t have secure homes to live in.” You ask, the tears slowing.

“My father and I spent a lot of time at that village. That was where the church found us.  I will talk to him as well.” Byleth nods.

You return to your room to try to sleep after such a nightmarish week.

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

The next morning you check with Seteth about assisting the village. You find that he has already spoken with Captain Jeralt and Lady Rhea feels that this is an excellent idea. After a few days of gathering supplies and materials, a small caravan heads out to Remire. Professor Byleth, the Golden Deer, Shamir, Jeralt and all his former mercenaries who had been incorporated into battalions, Alois and some of the Knights of Seiros, and surprisingly, Dimitri and Dedue.

The town elders meet with your group, discussing their wants and needs. Repairs to the structures that are salvageable should begin quickly. Tasks are divided between those that are experts in certain areas assisted by warm bodies that can lift, move or hand things to others. Ignatz is working on a map of the to be reconstructed village. Since assistance has arrived so quickly, there are fewer residents that will be leaving for other towns, happily staying now that they have some support. Everyone has something they can do. Cutting trees, clearing branches, gathering wood and kindling, sifting through burnt houses for useful items that can be salvaged like utensils, plates, and tools. The young go with the old to fields gathering heather, reeds, and straw for thatching the roofs.

You start with gathering salvaged bricks together to repair buildings. Even Lysithia can carry a few bricks at a time, you tell her 30 are needed at this house, 15 needed here. A few Knights head off to a local riverbank for sand and water to make the mortar.  You clean and prepare the bricks, measure the materials and have someone stir the mortar mixture. Soon you find yourself up on a ladder with a full mortarboard spreading an even layer of the compound, then place a brick, lay more mortar between it and the next brick. Starting with the smaller repairs first there are now several restored residences that will keep the wind and weather out.

As the sun goes down, everyone gathers in the center of town around large cauldrons full of soup, together with fresh baked bread made by the residents from the supplies brought by the Academy volunteers. Many of the townspeople are crying thanking everyone for their help. The Knights certainly push that this is by the grace of the goddess and the church. Others are simply happy to help in any way they can.

You grab some soup and take a seat near Dimitri and Dedue. They greet you and welcome your presence.

“I am surprised by your bricklaying knowledge. I had no idea of your talents.” Dimitri smiles.

“My older brother was a bricklayer, I helped him out often when I was growing up. I can’t wait to get my hands on some hammers and nails once the brickwork is complete.” You grin. “I am surprised to find the two of you here.”

“Hey your Princeliness, Dedue, (Y/n). Mind if I join you?” Claude takes a seat next to you. “We really appreciate your help. We did not expect other houses to send anyone.”

“I am very interested to see firsthand the reconstruction after disasters such as this.” The prince says excitedly. “It is wonderous seeing everyone come together with a single mindset of rebuilding. Everyone is helping in so many different manners. The strong are carrying bricks and trees, cutting wood, lifting loads. The weaker are preparing food for everyone, gathering materials and completing more delicate work. I am amazed at how much has been accomplished in just a single day.”

“Agreed. Many hands make light work.” Dedue nods. “I am happy to lend my strength.”

“Both of you are certainly welcomed with open arms. There is plenty of heavy lifting to do.” Smiles Claude. “I hope we can replace a few homes before we leave. Talking with the elders, there are some families doubled up in the same house. At least if each family has their own place it would be much more pleasant making it through winter.”

“Another important thing is to provide these people support and comfort.” You softly speak. “Let them know there are others out here who care for you as your fellow man. I do not know any of these people, but I do know about losing things to disaster. People that had no idea who I was helped me, kept me going when my life was crushed by disaster. Now here I am, helping out someone else that I have no idea as to who they are. I just want to help them. I hope it keeps them going as well.”

Dedue nods and smiles. The two house leaders agree that this is a great learning experience for everyone. You take the empty dishes leaving them to chat amongst themselves and head over to Byleth who is sitting with her father and their former mercenaries.

“Byleth, Jeralt. I wanted to thank you personally for helping bring this together. It didn’t sit right with me leaving these people behind and in such a ruined state.” You say, a smile finally crossing your lips.

“If Seteth would have said one word about not helping with this I would have punched that ‘No’ right off of his face.” Jeralt laughs. Byleth smiles. “This is a great learning experience for everyone. I think all of the classes should complete a project like this. Hands on learning is the most practical. Even Lorenz is finding some hidden talents as a result of this experience. I think he has a greater respect for Leonie too. That girl can turn a pile of trash into 100 different useful things.”

After dinner there’s not enough light to work on building without making it dangerous. So you decide to knit a sock or two. That way you can talk to everyone and when you’re done, someone has a new pair of socks. Win-win! There is plenty of chatter to go around the campfires with everyone in the village telling interesting stories of its history, or funny residents who did silly things, famous village romances or deeds. They also share stories of when the Blade Breaker came to town to save or help them. Being in a village isn’t all peace and quiet. There were some exciting and spicy tales shared until the cobwebs filled everyone’s heads and it was time to sleep.

The next day is just as busy with more homes being made whole by the end of the day. Construction is started on two different houses. One for a larger family, one for a smaller. Everyone gives their all in some way or another. Gathering kindling, firewood, food, finding the animals that were scattered by the calamity. Suddenly Saturday morning arrives, the last day the group from Garreg Mach will stay for rebuilding. What a difference everyone has made! Every family in Remire has their own place to stay without having to share. There are a long row of stalls for wares in the new Marketplace. There is even a barn and stable to keep horses for the community. Firewood is stored to keep the homes warm. It is everything the smaller village needs to get them through the winter. There is a celebration in the village center and tears are shed. However, these are all tears of joy as new friendships have been forged and the feeling of a job well done can be left with the people. The march back to the monastery is full of high spirits and happy hearts.

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

Back at the monastery you look forward to a warm bath and sleeping in your own bed. Just as you’ve changed into your nightgown there is a knock on the door.

“Um, I was just about to go to sleep. Can we talk tomorrow?” you anxiously respond to the knock as you stand at the door.

“It’s just me.” Says Hilda. “Come on. We’ve got some girl talk to do.”

You roll your eyes as the chipper pink ponytailed girl comes bouncing in your dorm.

“You haven’t forgotten the ball now, have you?” She winks.

“Oh yeah, that.” You stammer. You kinda sorta did forget.

“Tomorrow we’re going to town and getting a dressmaker to take your measurements. I know exactly what you need to wear.” She bubbles out excitedly. “I think you would be adorable in yellow. I saw the most darling shimmery satin material that would make you look like a princess.”

“A muscular, big shouldered princess.” You whine.

“Girl, you have no idea how to work with what you have, and you have a lot going for you.” Hilda smirks. “Now, I’ve been thinking. I know that you can’t wear lipstick, but I was hoping you can do some lip gloss. It has different things that go into it. Some are even flavored. Have you ever tried any?”

“Um. No.” You shrug sheepishly.

“Great! Hold still now.” Hilda has you in her grip as she plunks you down in your chair and starts carefully applying some gloss to your lips.  “There. How is it?”

You mush your lips together. They aren’t tingling or stinging. They don’t feel like they are getting fat. She pulls your mirror from your dresser to show you your lips.

“They’re just shiny.” You say, looking confused.

“Shiny is healthy. Gloss makes your lips slippery. It’s really good for you in the winter. When the cold air hits them, they stay soft and won’t peel. Your lips are really pretty. They’ll be lined up around the building wanting to get a turn to kiss those cute shiny lips.” The pinkette grins.

“But this is a dance. Where is the kissing coming from? Do I have to? I’m so confused.” You plunk back down on your chair with a big frown.

“Listen and listen good. Pretty soon we’re going to graduate, everyone is going to go their own way and you’re my friend and I’m just trying to help you get the most out of life. The ball isn’t just a celebration for nobles. It’s a chance to get to know the other students better in a different environment, a casual and fun environment. So many people have met the love of their life at this very same Academy event! Who knows what will happen on that glorious evening? The magic is calling for you, I can hear it!”

You look at her like she has two heads.

“Come on! Loosen up! I told you I will get you through this. Let’s start with the dance lessons. If you are dancing with a guy, he’s supposed to lead. If you dance with a girl, then either of you can lead, just agree who is to lead before you start. So I am going to lead. That means you put your left hand on my shoulder on the same side, and put your right hand into my palm on the other.” She grabs your hand and waits for you to put the other on her shoulder. “Good. Now don’t stomp on my feet, you have socks on, so put your toes on mine so you can follow me. The lead person is going to take their right foot and step forward, since you are following, you take a step back on your left foot. You will be moving backwards mostly, so the lead person watches to make sure you don’t crash into anyone…” Hilda goes through the basics of the box step for the waltz. You don’t quite crush her toes, and just maybe you do get the hang of it a bit. She tells you to look at her face, don’t look down. Stop looking down. Looking down will mess you up. You crash and fall over on the bed laughing once and she makes you get up and try again.

“Enough for your first lesson. You did great.” Hilda smiles. “So tomorrow after breakfast, we hit the dress shop.”

You yawn, “Sure…” and wave as you see her out the door. You would have bad dreams about going to the ball and stomping on everyone’s feet, but you’re too tired to even do that and actually just have a good night’s rest.

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

After breakfast Hilda practically drags you to town.

“Maybe I should just wear pants.” You grumble.

“Come on, you would look so cute!” She giggles.

“Cute is a bunny or a baby chick. I feel more like a silly goose.” You whine.

She hauls you into the dressmakers where a tall redheaded woman with a lowcut red dress assists you. “Hello dahlings.” She greets you at the door. Hilda curtseys, so you do too.

“Madame Palmyre, I’ve brought you another beauty in need of a dress for the ball.” Hilda proclaims.

“Hmmm. Hmmmm. Well. Athena. Hmmmm. No, Artemis! With the shoulders of Atlas. Oooooh. Yes.” Madame coos and ahhs as she walks around you touching your shoulders, lifting your head, raising your arms. “We must measure, quickly!” and shuffles you to the back where you are hastily stripped to your undergarments.

Madame’s hands work at a fast pace. She’s put special strings around various parts of your body, writing numbers down. Hilda stands next to her and they chitter and chatter with each other for a while. You decide to put your clothes back on.

“Lovelies, I shall have it ready two days before the ball. She will be magnifique!” Madame Palmyre raises her right hand with a flourish and a wide smile.

Hilda drags you to the cobbler to see what sort of shoes would be best. You glance at the boots longingly.

“No. “The Goneril girl shakes her head. “Cute. Not clunky.”

“Hilda, I have feet shaped like a duck.” You groan.

“Come on, work with me.” Hilda finally finds the shoes she is looking for. “Check this out. There is almost no heel, the toe is rounded but the way it is made, it gives you room for your wider foot to be comfy. Still cute!”

You look at the shoes, then at your friend. “I know you know what you are doing. I am so clueless. Just promise me I won’t want to cut off my feet by the end of the ball and I will wear whatever you want me to.”

“Gotcha, fam!” Hilda smiles as she puts in the order. The cobbler takes your measurements and says they will be ready next Sunday.

Hilda takes you to the final store of the day, which is great because this is really getting confusing and exhausting and overwhelming.

“Hey Mattie!” Hilda greets the owner. “We’re here for lipgloss and earrings.”

“But I don’t have pierced ears.” You look at her puzzled.

Hilda grins. “You will.”

You are a brave girl in battle. You fight and punch bad guys in the face. Intentionally letting someone stab holes in your ears is a whole different story. You were brave when they created the first hole and stuck the earring through. But when they stabbed your other ear with the needle, the needle that kept getting bigger the more you looked at it, the tears were shooting out of your eyes like rain.

“It’s done, its done. You’re fine! Look! So pretty!” Hilda is patting you on the back showing you the mirror. Mattie gives instructions to turn the earrings frequently and keep them clean. They should be well healed by the time of the ball. She helps you pick out some mint and honey flavored lip gloss.

You feel exhausted and overwhelmed. Not even fresh treats from the bakery tempt you. You just want to go back and hide. And maybe punch out a Duscur bear. Do something more familiar and relaxing.

That night you can’t sleep well. You always sleep on your side and no matter how you crunched up or mauled your pillow it still hurt your ears. You are going to die from lack of sleep long before the night of the ball. That is a welcome end, you think to yourself.

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

The next morning, dark circles hang heavily below your sleep deprived eyes, you barely make it to class in time. Lysithia notices something different as soon as she comes into the room.

“Your ears are pierced. That is so cute! I’ve been thinking about it. I may do that too some day.” The white haired girl muses.

“Hey (Y/n), Lysithia! Look who has more holes in her head! Just kidding.” Claude says as he taps his own earring while looking at yours.

Hilda strolls into the classroom followed by Marianne. They come to sit beside you.

“My ears are killing me. You better take good notes. I am going to sleep through class.” You warn the mischievous pinkette.

“And you’ll be cute doing it too. Yes, sometimes beauty can be painful, but it will go away soon.” Hilda tries to reassure you.

“I wish I could use magic on it, but it might make your earrings stick to your ears.” Marianne comments looking at her hands.

You rest your hands on your books and your chin on your hands. Nothing is touching your ears and you fall asleep before Hanneman comes in and starts his lecture about crests.

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

The excitement surrounding the ball continues. Your stomach starts to twist in knots every time you hear the word “Ball”. You have your new shoes and Hilda makes you practice dancing in them and walking around your room in them so they are broken in enough to not hurt you on the night of the..you know.

Hilda drags you to town the Sunday before the ball to get a fitting for your dress. She’s being a real stinker, because she makes you wear a blindfold so you can’t see it.  It comes with a special bustier, lifting your bust to be plump like a partridge (Madame Palmyre’s words). You had no idea what a bustier is in the first place. They picked and primped on you for a few minutes and then took the dress away, letting you get back into your comfy clothes. It wasn’t too uncomfortable, but you certainly wouldn’t battle in the dress, you chuckle to yourself.

Hilda continues with dancing practice. Marianne joins so you can observe them dancing as well. Marianne, the best dancer in the Deer glides gracefully across the floor. You feel like you are stomping around like a moose with four left feet. You are getting better though, you hardly step on Hilda’s feet any longer.

Soon, too soon, the fateful day arrives. The ball is this evening. They have classes in the morning so that everyone can get ready or in your case, panic in the afternoon. You just know you have a fever, you’re sick to your stomach. You should go to the infirmary so they can pronounce you on the brink of death and give a written note excusing you from the…the thing.  Class finally ends, before you can escape, Hilda, Annette, and Dorothea grab you and physically take you to Hilda’s room for hairstyling and makeup. You try to excuse yourself because you forgot your lipgloss, but they are on to you and will not let you go. You have no idea how they can fit so many females in the same room and still have room to work on them all. You hope you can escape when getting lunch, but no, they are too evil and have lunch brought in for everyone.

“(Y/n), I have the perfect jewelry to match your look.” Hilda giggles. She holds up gold crescent moon earrings, bracelet, and a matching necklace. Many “oohs” and “ahhs” are heard from the others. The stones in the bracelet are perfect, they are a pale yellow and black, matching the colors of the dress. Hilda sends you off to your room with Annette and Dorothea to get you into your dress. The songstress shows you how to put on the sheer and dotted with gold sparkles thigh high stockings without ripping them, teaching you how to fasten them to the garter belt. They adjust the lacing of the bustier so that you can breathe easily and move, yet your bust is enhanced, which is quite embarrassing, but then you look over at Dorothea and she’s super enhanced and ready to spill over the top of hers any second. Finally they help you lift and pull the dress on. Soft yellow chiffon at the top, gathered under the bust into its empire waist. A black airy stretchy panel starts there and goes to the bottom of the dress, flaring out a bit. The front is just past your knees, the back a few inches above your ankles. It visually pulls your waist in. Dorothea has that perfect hourglass figure with a waist so tiny that you could almost enclose it with your hands. You have much more um, meat, around your waist, the muscles alone make you twice as wide as her, but with the black panel it flares so you really do look, dare you think it, feminine. You thought the slightly puffy sleeves would make your shoulders bigger, but they just give you more freedom of movement. This is the most comfortable and beautiful dress you have ever worn. Madame is a magician.

Dorothea nearly has tears in her eyes. “Our baby looks all grown up.” She sniffles.

“Wow.” Declares Annette. “I need to meet this seamstress. She really knows her stuff. Its like you’ve been magically transformed. If I didn’t know it was you under there (y/n) I would say it was a different person.

“Come on, you are going to make me cry.” You were emotional before, but seeing the whole outfit, you do feel like the princess Hilda wanted you to look like.

Suddenly it is time for everyone to head to the ball. Many of the women head off to meet their dates. Hilda and her date, Marianne, look adorable together. They have the same purple flowers in their hair and their dresses complement each other perfectly. They walk with you toward the sound of music playing. The students are filing into the large room for the dance, the variety of colors and styles are striking. Everyone looks so beautiful.

You wander over to where the Golden Deer have congregated on the side of the room. Raphael is wearing a shirt that fits across his chest, although his muscles in his arms still look like they are about to burst through the sleeves.

“Hey, (y/n). Glad to see ya. You sure look pretty.” Raphael grins. You take it as an amazing compliment, he usually only notices food.

Ignatz is nervously pulling at his collar. “I haven’t been to a Ball before. The monastery really went all out for this. The food, decorations, and presentation are a work of art.”

The house leaders are called to the front accompanied by Hilda, Hubert, and Mercedes. They perform a special dance together that includes changing partners. Of course, Claude has to ham it up by dipping Edelgard who is a bit shocked but recovers well from the unexpected move. The special dance ends and the surrounding students now fill the dance floor.

Leonie sits next to you with a plate of appetizers and sweets. “Go grab some food, (y/n). They have some amazing things on the banquet tables. I tried this gray stuff, it’s delicious.”

You quickly shake your head. “My stomach is so jittery. I’ll stick with apple juice.” You weakly smile as you take a sip.

Looking to the left, there is an anxious Lysithia trying to drag a dressed-up Cyril out to the dance floor. You laugh because he looks more nervous than you. Hilda has Marianne out on the floor, the couple gliding along smoothly like the floor is made of ice. Annette is smiling widely as Ashe is guiding her safely around the other couples. They look too cute.

“Ahem! (Y/n)” you suddenly hear a male standing next to you, breaking you from your trance.

You jump a little in your seat to see the Prince of Faerghus bowing low and asking you for a dance.

You stand up and stammer, “Oh, yes. Thank you.” You place your right hand into his left as he leads you among the dancing couples. Hilda’s dance practice pays off as you have yet to stomp on the Blue Lions leader’s feet or trip over your own. You chat about how happy he is having participated in the rebuilding of Remire and how some day he will rebuild Duscur as well. Just as the song ends, he bends closer to your ear.

“I think Dedue would like to have a dance with you as well. He is a bit shy, but if you wait patiently close by him he may gather enough courage to ask you, unless of course you ask him first.” Dimitri smiles as your face turns completely red.

You can feel the burn of the blush all the way to the back of your neck.  You curtsey as the song ends and he leaves to find another partner. You just happen to be close to where Dedue is standing, the tall man is against the wall, his hands behind his back, eyes flitting from couple to couple. You decide to stand not far from the Duscur male.

Watching the students dance, Claude pulls Professor Byleth out onto the floor. You laugh at the shocked look on her face. Balthus is dancing with Manuela. He has a grin from ear to ear as he twirls her around, making her laugh. Perhaps this is what everyone needs, to have a night to forget about their problems and issues going on and simply enjoy themselves, if just for a little while. You find yourself swaying with the music as you look over at Dedue who takes a step towards you.

“Are you enjoying the ball?” Dedue asks softly, smiling pleasantly.

“Yes. I was not looking forward to it, however now that I am here it is nice. It is good to see our friends simply being happy.“ You answer him. “Would you like to dance?”

Dedue bows, “It would be my honor.” He says, taking your hand in his.

He is so incredibly tall. The top of your head is well below his shoulders. You have to crane your neck to look into his face, but it is worth it to see his gentle smile.

The white haired man looks down at you, “You are small.”

You nod as you smile, trying not to laugh because compared Dedue, absolutely everyone is small.

Dedue continues, “You are very strong.”

You blush, mashing your forehead into his chest. This giant man just said you were strong.

He is not finished. “And cute.”

Your ears are burning because you are blushing so hard. You’ve never been cute before. You’re having a hard time looking into his eyes while you are blushing so hard, so you decide to focus your sight on his strong handsome chin. Breathe, don’t forget to breathe.

“You have many wonderful talents. Not only fighting and helping Dimitri.” You tell Dedue, daring to look in his eyes again. “In the village I was impressed by your construction skills. Your assistance helped us complete more buildings than we had originally planned. Thank you.”

You both smile at each other as you continue to dance for the rest of the song, as it ends, you curtsey, he bows.

Before you take one step toward exiting the dance floor, Claude mysteriously appears behind you, taking your right hand in his. He kisses the back of your hand.

“May I have this dance, my Deer?” Claude smiles widely at you.

“I cannot say no to our Leader-man. That would be against the rules. Not that you pay much attention to rules, Claude.” You laugh as you place your left hand upon his shoulder.

Dancing with Dimitri and Dedue had been proper and elegant. Their steps carefully measured, in perfect time with the music. Dancing with Claude is like holding on to a leaf in a whirlwind. You moved up, then down back then right then spun and twirled. One time he had spun you around you thought he was trying to fling you into the middle of the orchestra. You think it strange, then funny, then you begin to laugh. He twirls you away from him, then pulls you to twirl the opposite way around toward him, your chest lightly crashing into his as you laugh together.

His steps suddenly fall back in with the tempo of the music, you following. Your laughter calming, you gasp a bit as you are slightly out of breath, and dancing very closely with Claude. You feel his right arm around you, his fingers close to the center of your back, his chest is warm against you.

“Hilda told me that if I play my cards right that I might get to dance with a beautiful princess tonight.” Claude purrs softly in your ear. “I think I have a winner here.”

You blush profusely, trying to look away from his dazzling emerald eyes and failing. Claude’s grin is as wide as you have ever seen it. Suddenly the music concludes. The orchestra takes a brief break.

He bows and you curtsey back.

“Thank you, princess (y/n).” Claude Grins.

“Thank you, Duke von Riegan.” You smile.

Hilda runs up to drag Claude off to gossip about who knows what as you grab a seat and catch your breath. You will have to honestly thank Hilda for making you go to this. You catch your breath in the quiet during the orchestra’s break. Your heart has simmered down after beating at such an excited rate for so long.

You glance about the room. Looking left you see the orchestra has returned, preparing to begin, to your right you see two different redheaded gentlemen headed your direction. Oh my…