#worn in New England

[silkdamask-blog]

A special #FootcandyFriday from on-site at the @WoodmanMuseum where we are opening an exhibition 4/6 I have had good fortune to work w/ all 3 pairs of shoes TY to @unhlibrary & @MoffattLaddHouse for the loans for ‘Combing History: Flax and Linen in New Hampshire.’ @unhresearch

[marzipanandminutiae]

ok but what are YOUR favorite and probably real victorian funfacts?

There genuinely were some doctors who thought riding in trains would cause uterine prolapse [uterus falling out], when trains were new. The concern was that the vibrations from travelling so fast would break the fibers connecting the uterus to the abdominal wall. Unsurprisingly, this did not stop women from riding in trains. Because fuck that noise- trains!!!

One time in the 1840s a bunch of doctors shellacked live horses and rabbits and concluded, when the animals died (probably from heat exhaustion after being unable to sweat), that they had suffocated and that mammals breathed partially through our skin.

Some beauty manuals of the era may have created accidental sunscreen. Occasionally you see advice to wear cold cream on your face when going out, to prevent sunburn. This probably mostly didn't work- but some cold cream recipes contained zinc oxide for a "white foundation" effect, due to beauty standards favoring very light skin, which may have created a low-level SPF. Other manuals also advocate sealing the cold cream in with powder...which even more frequently involved zinc oxide.

A dentist may have gotten away with a malpractice death by blaming tightlacing. A 23-year-old maid named Annie Budden, of Preston, England, went to have a tooth pulled in January of 1895 and suffocated after the procedure, during which she had been dosed with nitrous oxide. The dentist said she was tightlaced and therefore the coroner ruled that he was not at fault- however said dentist claimed that her natural waist was 23" and her corset measured 18". Presumably that's the closed measurement, and corsets were commonly worn with at least a 2" lacing gap at the time (one corset ad I've seen mentions that women liked to give the theoretical closed measurement of their corset as their waist measurement, to make it sound smaller, while actually wearing it with the customary gap). Ergo, she was only laced down about 2-3 inches, a difference unlikely to cause asphyxiation. The fact that she worked as a maid similarly calls the assessment into question- how could she have successfully done physical labor while laced down in a way that diminished her lung capacity so much? Her employer vouched for her good character and excessive tightlacing was seen as vanity- and would have been noticed by making Miss Budden look out-of-proportion physically. That doesn't add up either, to me. The dentist went on to become mayor of the town where this all happened.

That thing above started as a fun fact about the only credible death due to tightlacing and then I looked into it more and now I'm just mad.

Justice For Annie Budden

Sorry this has gotten off-track but I'm still mad about the whole Annie Budden thing

[purplereina11]

You're a highly successful basketball player who has just been transferred to Barcelona's women's team. The number 11 holds deep personal significance for you. Among the spectators is none other than football superstar Alexia Putellas, synonymous with the number 11 in Barça history, watching from the sidelines. What starts as mutual admiration quickly turns into something more, fuelled by weeks of playful yet intense online flirting. The chemistry between you and Alexia becomes undeniable.

🏀

The lights inside Palau Blaugrana burst in brilliant hues as you step onto the gleaming hardwood court for the very first time wearing the iconic Barcelona jersey. The atmosphere vibrates with energy—an almost tangible electricity that courses through the air, mixing with the bright hues of blaugrana garlands worn by passionate fans. The rhythmic beating of drums resonates like a heartbeat echoing off every wall, while the mingled aromas of polished wood, mingled with perspiration and adrenaline, transport you to a realm where dreams and determination meet. Your new teammates clap you on the back with murmurs of encouragement that mesh with the pulsing rhythm, yet your focus remains crystal clear.

Number 11.

Boldly stitched across your jersey like a silent manifesto, this number has been inseparable from you for as long as you have danced with the game. It signifies much more than a mere digit—it carries the weight of countless hours of practice, of triumphs and stumbles alike. That steady emblem grounds you as you glance into the sea of faces, absorbing every moment. And then, amidst the roaring crowd, you see her.

Alexia Putellas.

Seated courtside with an air of relaxed authority, she crosses her legs gracefully and rests her arms lightly across her lap. A mischievous half-smirk tugs at her lips, hinting at stories untold. Even if you weren’t a devout follower of the sport, her presence is legendary—a symbol of Barcelona, of dominance, and, by extension, of the emblematic number 11 itself. In a fleeting, electrifying moment, your eyes lock with hers, and though she swiftly turns away, the impression is indelible. In that subtle flicker of amusement on her face, it seems as if she already understands the impact of your presence.

Focus. It’s just a game.

Yet, it isn’t simply a game. It is your grand debut, your moment to prove that you belong in this exclusive circle, to earn your place in this storied club and in this vibrant city. Moments earlier, you had been all smiles, trading jokes with teammates as your image flickered onto the giant screen—your arrival marked by every eye in the arena. Rumor had it that Barcelona had splurged to make you the highest-paid woman’s basketball player in the world, enticing you from your hometown team all the way from England. There was an undeniable buzz surrounding you—a magnetic force drawing every gaze. The weight of their expectations did not weigh you down; rather, if pressure was present, you welcomed it and transformed it into fuel.

Though many whispered about your stature—standing a mere five foot nine inches—it only served to make your exploits on the court all the more remarkable, as every move defied the conventional limits.

And then, the whistle slices through the symphony of excitement, and in that instant, everything else blurs into insignificance. The opening minutes become a whirlwind of fast breaks and razor-sharp passes; the sound of sneakers squeaking against the polished floor punctuates the relentless pursuit of victory. When the ball lands in your hands, a calm, instinctual resolve takes over. You surge toward the hoop, a graceful blur as you spin past a defender, and then release an almost effortless jumper—a testament to your honed skill.

The crowd erupts in a tidal wave of cheers.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of Alexia leaning forward, her gaze intently tracking every nuance of your movement. Her lips part just slightly, as if momentarily captivated by the poetry of the game.

The contest intensifies into a ballet of tight defenses, aggressive maneuvers, and a relentless battle for every point. You are utterly absorbed, dropping three-pointers with surgical precision, orchestrating assists that shimmer with brilliance, and proving over and again why Barcelona had so ardently sought you out. Yet, amid the flurry of action, your gaze repeatedly drifts toward the sidelines, drawn by the unmistakable presence of Alexia. In those rare glimpses, a subtle tilt of her head, a perfectly raised brow, or an approving nod after a particularly elegant play speaks volumes.

Then arrives the defining moment—a high-tension climax. The score hung in a delicate balance as the final seconds tick away. The ball, as if by fate, finds its way to you at the top of the key. You draw a slow, steady breath, feeling every heartbeat echoing in your ears. Rising as if suspended in time, you release the ball and watch in silent awe as it arches gracefully through the air, spinning in a perfect trajectory before whispering cleanly through the net.

Game.

In that instant, the arena becomes an ocean of sound; cheers cascade over you, and your teammates swarm in a jubilant embrace, their hands slapping your back in a celebratory symphony. Yet, in the midst of the euphoria, your eyes search relentlessly for one singular figure. There, standing amid the explosion of festivity, is Alexia, clapping with measured enthusiasm and that tantalizing smirk still etched on her face. Her expression is enigmatic—a canvas of emotions too intricate to decode, yet charged with intensity.

As the crowd’s roaring applause continues to swell, Barcelona officials step confidently onto the court to honor your debut. A microphone is passed to the team captain, whose brief but rousing speech extols your arrival, your skills, and warmly welcomes you into the heart of the club. Your teammates whirl you into a jubilant huddle, and the atmosphere ascends to a fever pitch. Cameras flash in rapid succession, capturing every triumphant detail as your jersey, emblazoned with the proud number 11, is hoisted high for all to see.

Then she appears.

Alexia Putellas, standing just off to the side with her jacket’s pockets casually imbued with confidence, steps forward as if drawn by inevitability. The distance between you dissolves in the wake of her quiet assurance, mirroring the ease with which the official introductions had been made. In that charged moment, the game itself—with its adrenaline, its roaring crowd, and the embrace of your teammates celebrating your first monumental performance in a Barça jersey—fades into a vivid, unforgettable memory.

Throughout the night, you had caught glimpses of her presence: the way her eyes followed your every move, the subtle lean forward whenever you readied your shot. And then, with calm clarity, she spoke.

“Felicidades,” she intoned smoothly, her voice low yet piercing through the clamor of the arena. “Buen debut.”

Though not every word in Spanish was crystal clear, the tone of her greeting sent a shimmering thrill straight through your chest. “Gracias,” you responded, locking eyes with hers in silent conversation. There was an ineffable quality in her gaze—a mix of challenge and admiration—that left you momentarily breathless. Then, with a playful lilt, she added, “El 11 te queda bien... por ahora.” (11 suits you... for now.)

Without a moment’s hesitation, you quipped back, “I make it look better, though.” Her knowing smirk lingered as she turned to walk away, leaving a trail of mystery and promise in her wake. A quiet laugh escaped you as you shook your head, forever etched with the memory of that final look, a spark that hinted at many more encounters yet to come.

The locker room buzzes with the euphoric aftermath of victory—a symphony of congratulatory shouts and laughter that ricochets off the walls. Your teammates surround you, their faces illuminated with genuine admiration, yet you find yourself replaying that brief exchange with Alexia, her words echoing in your mind like a melody that refuses to fade.

"Champagne for the game-winner!" someone calls out, and suddenly a bottle appears, its cork popping with a satisfying thunk that sends foamy bubbles cascading over eager hands. The cold liquid kisses your fingertips as a plastic cup is pressed into your palm.

"To our new número once," your captain toasts in a thick Catalan accent, raising her cup high. "Who plays like she's been wearing blaugrana her whole life!"

Your phone already overflowed with notifications—family, friends, and former teammates all witnessing your Barcelona baptism from afar. But their words blurred together as your mind kept replaying that brief exchange with Alexia, her enigmatic smile lingering in your thoughts like a melody that refuses to fade.

You take a slow sip, savoring the bubbles that dance across your tongue, watching your teammates' animated faces as they relive the game's highlights. The locker room's fluorescent lights cast everyone in a warm glow that matches the heat of victory still pulsing through your veins.

"That last shot," Claudia says, your point guard with hands like magic, "I knew it was going in before it left your fingers." She mimics your shooting form with exaggerated flourish.

"Pure instinct," you reply with a shrug that belies the thousands of hours spent perfecting that very motion.

As the celebration continues, your phone buzzes again in your locker. This notification is different—an Instagram follow request that makes your heart skip Alexia Putellas. Your finger hovers over the screen for a moment before you reciprocate, trying and failing to suppress a smile.

Later that night, the team drags you to a celebration at a dimly lit restaurant tucked away in the Gothic Quarter. Ancient stone walls curve around intimate tables, while flickering candles cast dancing shadows across plates of steaming paella and bottles of rich Rioja. Your teammates switch effortlessly between Catalan, Spanish, and English, their laughter a universal language that wraps around you like a warm embrace.

"To think we stole you from London," Claudia teases, refilling your wine glass. "Their loss, our treasure."

"The English never know what they have until it's wearing Barcelona colors," adds Marta, the team's veteran center, her eyes crinkling with mischief.

You're about to respond when your phone illuminates with a notification. Alexia Putellas commented on your post of you mid air the ball flying through the air on its way to score the winning basket

Nice shot tonight.🏀🔥

Three simple words that send a current through your body. You stare at the message, fingers hovering over the screen, suddenly aware of your heartbeat in your ears. The restaurant's ambient noise fades to a distant hum.

"Earth to superstar," Claudia waves her hand in front of your face. "Who's got you smiling like that? Your English boyfriend missing you already?"

You lock your phone quickly. "No boyfriend," you reply, taking a deliberate sip of wine. "Just congratulations."

"From someone special?" Marta raises an eyebrow knowingly.

You shrug noncommittally, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrays you. You set the phone down, trying to focus on the conversation flowing around you.

The flirting starts subtly.

You reply, Didn’t know you were a basketball fan.

Alexia’s response comes quickly. I wasn’t. Until now.

A smirk tugs at your lips. She’s smooth, you’ll give her that. The conversation flows easily after that—teasing comments about your shooting percentage, her claiming she could school you in a game of one-on-one, you laughing at her confidence. It escalates when she sends a picture of her boots, captioned: Think I could pull off sneakers instead?

You reply with a simple: Doubtful.

A minute later, she sends a selfie, clad in a Barcelona basketball hoodie that’s clearly not hers, lips pursed in mock offense. Better?

Your pulse quickens. I stand corrected.

The back-and-forth continues over the next few days. Playful jabs, inside jokes, the occasional late-night message that lingers on read for a little too long before one of you responds. There’s something unspoken beneath it all, an undeniable tension that neither of you address outright, but it’s there, simmering between every message.

As you scroll through your phone the next day, it’s obvious she’s not done playing. That moment? It hasn’t left your head since. Barcelona as a city, as a community has welcomed you with open arms, and your name is already making the rounds in sports headlines. But nothing compares to the moment Alexia Putellas personally congratulated you after the match, her voice low and smooth as she spoke in her native tongue. You didn’t understand every word, but you understood her the way her eyes lingered, the slight smirk pulling at her lips.

And now, the communication continues.

Alexia comments under a post from FC Barcelona’s official account, featuring a photo of you mid-game.

@alexiaputellas: El 11 te queda bien… por ahora. (The 11 looks good on you… for now.)

A challenge. A tease. You don’t hesitate to respond this time.

@yourusername: I make it look better, though. 😏

Your notifications explode after your writing exchange mimicking the private one face to face the night previous. Fans flood the replies with speculation, excitement, and over-the-top theories. Some are just here for the banter; others are fully convinced something is brewing between you two. Fans speculating, debating, and fuelling the growing tension between you both. The chemistry isn’t just a private moment on the court anymore, it’s playing out in front of thousands.

You post a photo from the gym drenched in sweat, muscles tense, mid-shot, pure focus in your eyes. The caption reads:

Working on my shot, but some things just come naturally.

Minutes later, Alexia replies

 @alexiaputellas: Like? 🤭

You laugh, shaking your head before firing back.

@yourusername: Like winning. Maybe I should teach you how.

More likes, more replies, more eyes on you two. It’s not just fans noticing. Your teammates tease you in the locker room, nudging you with knowing looks. Even club officials seem amused.

Then, later that night, Alexia ups the ante. You’re scrolling when you see a notification; she’s tagged you in her Instagram story. It’s a clip from your first game shared from an official Barcelona page, you nailing a three-pointer, followed by a close-up of her reaction court side, lips parted, brows slightly raised. The caption?

Maybe I should learn from you after all…🤔

Your chest tightens, heat rushing to your face. She’s playing with fire. And you’re more than ready to match her. You reply in her DMs.

You: Careful, Alexia. Keep watching me like that, and people will start talking.

The typing bubble appears almost instantly like she was expecting you to respond.

Alexia: Let them.

And just like that, the game changes. You don’t respond to Alexia’s last message.

Let them.

Two words, yet they sit in your mind long after you put your phone down. She’s pushing now, playing with the line between teasing and something else. And you? You’re more than willing to push back.

The next morning, training is business as usual, but your teammates are already buzzing about your little social media exchange. Whispers and knowing glances are exchanged before anyone even says a word to you.

"You and La Reina getting close?" one of them finally asks, nudging you with an elbow as you stretch. Their tone is teasing, but there's genuine curiosity behind it.

Another teammate chimes in before you can respond, grinning. "That little back-and-forth last night.. looked pretty flirty to me."

You roll your eyes, exhaling through your nose as you switch positions. "You lot need a hobby," you mutter, but the smirk tugging at your lips betrays you.

They laugh, clearly not convinced. "C'mon, you’re not even denying it!" someone calls out, and a few others chuckle in agreement.

You shake your head and focus on your warm-up, refusing to give them anything more. Let them speculate. Like the rest of the world. It harmless. Playful. It would fizzle. You were sure of it.

Still, when you check your phone post-practice, you see a DM from Alexia waiting for you.

Alexia: No comeback? I was expecting more from you.

You grin before typing back.

You: Didn’t think you needed me to spell it out. You’re already watching me closely enough it seems.

You send it and lock your phone, refusing to check for a response right away. Let her sit with it for a while. Later that evening, you’re at home, scrolling through Instagram when another notification appears.

@alexiaputellas liked your post.

The post in question? A new picture from training today focused, intense, a caption that reads:

One of us has to be the best female 11 in Barcelona. Might as well be me.

Something you know would bait Alexia in, you knew she couldn’t resist to comment. Not only has Alexia liked it, but she’s also commented.

@alexiaputellas: Bold statement. Hope you can back it up.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you type:

@yourusername: I can and have, yet to see you do so

@alexiaputellas: You’ll see soon enough. Might have to invite you to a game personally.

You huffed a quiet laugh, staring at your screen. She’s bold today. It didn’t take long for your mentions to explode. Fans caught on immediately, flooding the comments with theories, reactions, and over-the-top ship names.

After a moment of thought, you tapped out a reply.

@yourusername: Got a ticket for me La Reina? 👀

@alexiaputellas: Front row or nothing. See you there. 😏

The internet lost it.

Your teammates lost it.

And you?

You just grinned, because for the first time, you felt in control. Now, it was just a matter of seeing how far she’d go. The comments explode. Fans are already losing their minds over the not-so-subtle invitation.

@yourusername: I’ll be there. Front row.

Your stomach does a slow, lazy flip. It’s a challenge. A promise. And for the first time since arriving in Barcelona, you’re not just thinking about basketball anymore. You're thinking about her. Your phone is practically vibrating from the attention. Your last comment—"I’ll be there. Front row."—has sent fans into a frenzy. The replies are a mix of shock, speculation, and sheer amusement.

-Did she just confirm she’s into Alexia?! -This is some next-level flirting. -Forget football, forget basketball, I’m here for this storyline.

"You are such a menace.” You heard soon as your bag dropped in your spot and your back sit felt the cool wood beneath it as you took a seat.

You glanced up from your phone to see your teammate, Jordan, shaking her head at you from across the locker room.

"What?" you asked, feigning innocence.

Camila snorted. "Oh, don’t act like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing." She held up her phone, showing your exchange with Alexia on her screen. "This? This is elite-level flirting.”

A couple of your other teammates leaned in. "I give it two weeks before you two are spotted together."

"Two weeks? Please. By next week, she’ll be showing up to our games."

You just smirked. "That’s assuming she can handle the heat.” Another said

Jordan rolled her eyes. "You realise this means you have to go now, right? You can’t just flirt with the most famous footballer in Spain and then not show up."

You stretched your legs out, feigning nonchalance. “I’ll see how I feel."

Jordan shook her head. "You’re enjoying this way too much.” You didn’t even try to deny it.

"Let me get this straight," your coach said announcing her presence in the corner, arms crossed, a barely-contained smirk on her face. "You’re flirting with the most famous footballer in Spain… publicly?"

You rolled your eyes. "I wouldn’t say flirting—"

"Really?" The whole team cut in, in unison, Marta holding up their phone as evidence. "Because to me, ‘Front row or nothing. See you there.’ sounds a lot like flirting."

You had nothing to say to that.

Your coach just shook her head. "I’ve seen players distracted by a lot of things, but this might be my favourite."

Your teammates snickered from across the gym.

"She’s already in her head," Claudia teased. "We might as well start planning a double sports wedding."

"Oh, shut up," you muttered.

Your coach laughed. "Look, as long as you don’t start missing shots because of her, I don’t care what you do. But…" She paused, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Just know that if she shows up to one of our games, I’m putting her in a jersey and making her run drills."

You grinned. "I’ll let her know."

🏀

Before I explore this idea more, would anyone actually want to read it?

Part 2

[fashionsfromhistory]

Winter Ensemble

1880s

Anyone living in New England realizes that dressing in winter means dressing for warmth. A stylish few, however, somehow manage to combine warmth with elegance. This ensemble was purchased by Miss C. L. W. French of Roxbury and Boston, Massachusetts, from Mlle Lipman's establishment in Paris for the lavish sum of 1,600 francs. Miss French surely would have impressed anyone as she strolled along the Commonwealth Avenue mall or rode down Beacon Street in a sleigh.

The original bill and a photograph of one of Miss French's relatives wearing the dress in 1920 were also given to SPNEA. Along with the photographs, the donation included a program from a Suffrage Pageant in 1920. This tantalizing bit of evidence suggests that Miss French may have been a suffragette, for this dress was worn in 1920 by a relative at a celebration of the Nineteenth Amendment awarding women the vote.

Historic New England (Accession Number: 1990.507A-G)

[woso-dreamzzz]

Ma'am: Christmas

Aitana Bonmatí x Royal!Reader

Summary: Christmas in the Ma'am Universe

"Is it worth setting Real Madrid on fire?" You wonder aloud as you lay across three different seats in the friends and family box, throwing a tennis ball up and down thoughtfully.

"I'm afraid that might cause a diplomatic incident, ma'am," Your ever present bodyguard says gruffly," It doesn't belong to you."

You sigh, long and drawn out. "I guess." You think for a moment before sitting up. "Should I buy it? And then set it on fire?"

Your bodyguard, tall and serious and dressed entirely in black and wearing shades you're ninety percent sure means he can't see anything when the sun goes down, doesn't even let his lip twitch. You suppose he's meant to be intimidating with his stocky shoulders and large frame but he's holding your puppy Rufus, fast asleep in his arms, and shivering slightly in the cold air.

"Well?"

He sighs. "Why would you want to do that, ma'am?"

"For a Christmas present. For Aitana. It would make her happy, I think. For Real Madrid not to exist anymore."

"Has Her Royal Highness asked you that?"

"Well...no...but-"

"Then perhaps it's best that you refrain from that, ma'am."

You huff. "I don't think I want you holding the prince anymore."

That manages to get an upwards quirk of the lip from him though as you take poor sleepy Rufus from his arms. "Don't worry, Rufus," You whisper to him as you both watch Aitana walk onto the pitch with the team," We'll find something for your Mami that she'll love for Christmas."

Christmas for you have always involved pomp and ceremony and now that includes Aitana too. The family had their traditions and you were expected to abide by them.

Aitana hadn't really thought about how her life would change by marrying you. A lot of it hadn't. She could stay in Spain and with Barcelona and still play football. She could come home to the apartment you and her lived in with yappy little Rufus where you'll be at the stove, cooking up some monstrosity that she would eventually save you from after showering.

But this was Christmas and you were both expected at the Sandringham Estate to celebrate with the family so it wasn't going to be a quiet, private Christmas spent with just the two of you.

You had your traditions, which is what Aitana assumed this was.

"A present? It's the start of December."

"I can't give my wife a gift?"

No matter how many times you said it, Aitana could never stop the smile appearing on her face at that word.

Wife.

Your wife.

It was the new title that Aitana loved the most.

Because that was what she was.

Your wife.

"I...I haven't gotten you anything extra," She says," Was I meant to?"

You shake your head, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to her lips. "I'm the one that's changing Christmas for you. It's going to be different this year so I'm sorry. It's the least I could do."

"You're so sweet."

You grin. "I was planning on setting Real Madrid on fire but I was persuaded not to."

Aitana laughs, another kiss landing on you.

The gifts pile up after that.

For every day leading up to Christmas. Not one day is missed and you're both there to watch her open it, in front of the Christmas tree and happy little Rufus and his silly little puppy smile.

Jewellery, clothes and more practical things like a new pair of boots because her own were getting worn out or a book series she'd only mentioned wanting once in parting.

The gifts piled up and you didn't even seem to care for anything in return except for maybe a kiss.

"Tell me what we're doing later," Aitana says as you both lay back on the bed in the private jet," What should I expect?"

You'd delayed it as long as possible, letting Aitana have that private holiday season she had wanted. But you couldn't delay it forever so early Christmas Eve, had you both (and Rufus) flying back to England to join your family.

Aitana's fingers trace a pattern over the skin of your arm as you relax back into the pillows.

"Well William likes to play a game of football before dinner," You tell her," I expect you to show him how it's done and win. He's so excited to see your skills up close. But he'll be wearing stupid Aston Villa socks so be sure to tell him he looks stupid."

"So win a football match? I can do that."

"We do presents on Christmas Eve too. And then when all the kids go to bed we have a black tie dinner. I checked with Father though and our son can stay up and come."

Aitana laughs. "You don't have to keep referring to Rufus as our son, you know."

You frown. "Why wouldn't I? He is our son."

She laughs again. "What's next? Christmas Day? What do we do then?"

"Well, we usually go to a Christmas service but you don't have to come if you don't want to. After that, we'll have to go back to Buckingham Palace. That's where Father wants to broadcast his speech from this year."

"And we're coming too?"

You grin at her, biting your lip and leaning close to whisper in her ear. "I'm saving up a present for you. But you can't tell anyone."

"I can keep a secret."

And it's a secret Aitana does keep for the next day.

She does end up on a cold, English football pitch against your eldest brother and she does end up humiliating him much to your delight.

She plays circles around everyone like the professional she is and chooses William wearing the Barcelona kit instead of his favoured Aston Villa one as her forfeit.

Her pile of presents is large and not even all of them are from you but the ones that are, are her favourite.

Your own presents range from things you actual enjoy and want (from people like your father and auntie Anne) to gag gifts like one particular shirt planted with Aitana's face from your brother that you wear proudly before being forced to take it off for dinner.

"See," You whisper to Aitana with a grin," Not all English food is bad."

She looks down at her roast thoughtfully and purses her lips, fighting back a smile.

You poke her cheek. "Is that a grin? Is it? I think it is! I knew I would convince you one day!"

Aitana allows a weak smile on her face. "There's outliers in every cuisine," Is all she offers," I stand by what I said. Spanish food is better."

"Yeah," You laugh," That's why you've been eating all the Yorkshire puddings."

"They're nice! You should make these at home."

You kiss her hand with a wink. "As Her Royal Highness commands."

It's not the first time Aitana's been to Buckingham Palace but there's a different feel to it during the holidays. There's a tree in practically every room and festive lights hung up everywhere they can be fit.

You're giggling as you lead her through the halls, a pretty smile on your red cheeked face. You had a bit of liquid courage earlier in the form of a spiked eggnog that Kate had given to you before you and Aitana set off back to London with your father and his wife.

"Where are we going?" Atiana giggles as well," What is it?"

"Okay," You say, finally skidding to a halt in front of a pair of ornate doors," Close your eyes."

"You can't be serious-"

"Please? It'll ruin the surprise!"

"Fine."

Atiana closes her eyes and allows you to lead her into the room.

"Careful," You warn her," We're going up some steps. And then turn...Yeah, like that...And sit."

"Can I open my eyes now?"

"Just give me a moment."

Something is placed on her head and Aitana gets the feeling that she knows where she is.

"Okay," You say," Open."

You're on your knees in front of her, head pillowed on her thigh as you sit between her legs on the little dais.

"Beautiful," You say.

"You know I'm not meant to be sitting on this," Aitana says though she makes no movement to lift herself off the throne.

"But it suits you."

Aitana hums, lips pressed together thoughtfully as you plant a small kiss on the inside of her thigh. "You spoil me."

"Yes."

She frowns. "You'd do anything I asked."

"Don't say it like it's a bad thing," You say, eyes wide earnestly," It's not a bad thing. I'll do anything for you."

"Even now?"

You nod. "Even now."

Aitana grins at you, some of her own liquid courage swirling around her body as she widens her legs and fists her hand in your hair.

"I think you know where I want you."

[hellotailor]

Apologies if you've already done a post on this and I've just missed it, but can I ask for your take on the pyjamas worn by the cast of interview with vampire? I mean technically they're not a 100% necessary item, but just from a quick look there seems to be a lot of variety and they do change over the series

ok, i’m delighted by the specificity of this question, and it turns out that i have a VERY extensive answer.

there’s a lot of sleepwear in IWTV due to the volume of bedroom/coffin scenes, and like any other outfit, these costumes are shaped by characterization and historical period. for instance claudia initially wears a long, modest, frilly nightgown - an old-fashioned style that plays into her girlish doll wardrobe purchased by louis and lestat. however her sleepwear matures over the years, including a trendy lace nightdress with bloomers in the 1920s (note the rectangular silhouette), and a pink padded jacket/pastel robe outfit in 1940s paris. she's following contemporary trends while charting a visible trajectory from child to adult.

when i wrote about the Théâtre des Vampires coven costumes, i noted that while their wardrobes share certain themes (ie. monochrome patterns and stripes), they each have specific personal tastes. that holds true for sleepwear. in the S2 finale we see the coven going to bed in their coffins, with Eglee in a gorgeous (maybe 1940s?) robe, Celeste in a striped pajama suit reflecting her 1920s-30s cabaret style, and Armand in a plain grey set of prison jammies because he's Suffering.

of course, the star pajama outfits all belong to Louis and Lestat, playing into their wealthy domestic aesthetic in S1. they receive multiple bedroom/coffin scenes, and Lestat's gold Leyendecker robe is obviously iconic.

touching on the historical side of things for a moment, pajamas (as in a matching buttondown top and loose pants) were popularized in the western world in the 19th century, as a repurposed south asian import - kind of like how banyans became trendy among the upper classes in 18th century england. this was when loungewear started to catch on as a concept, both in terms of dressing gowns and smoking jackets (which you could wear while socializing at home) and actual pajamas, which became unisex in the 1920s.

back in his human life in the 18th century, Lestat probably slept naked or wore a shapeless white nightgown (and possibly a nightcap, the sexiest of garments). but in New Orleans he adopts Louis' lifestyle, which involves a luxurious wardrobe of fashionable menswear. they're both into shopping and looking good, and i think they enjoy the ritual of getting dressed together each night.

(i also have a personal theory that Lestat may prefer to sleep fully clothed because his formative traumatic memory involves waking up naked in the dark. after all, he doesn't need pajamas to stay warm, and he doesn't have a recent habit of wearing them in his human life like Louis does. then again, maybe he just enjoys having a new outfit for every occasion!)

in Dubai, we only get one scene (iirc) with Louis and Armand in their pajamas, lying in bed wearing outfits that tie into the striped prison bar imagery of their bedroom. Armand is in warmer brown tones (like his Paris wardrobe) while Louis is in black and grey, like the rest of his Dubai outfits. i'd also note that this is the one place where they're genuine in private, meaning that they aren't putting on a show for Daniel. so this is potentially Armand's most relaxed costume in the present day.

the fact that they're wearing this kind of old-school sleepwear feels very appropriate for their whole deal, imo. in the 21st century, a lot of people just sleep in boxers and t-shirts or whatever. there's a slightly 20th century vibe to wearing a full set of buttondown pajamas, and Armand's outfit reads as more stylish (and possibly more wealthy) than your average millennial guy. which makes sense! they're old men.

i think we can assume that every single thing in their Dubai home is ferociously expensive, even when it doesn't need to be. considering the way Louis gives himself a modern makeover in the finale, i do wonder if he'll switch over to sleeping in t-shirts etc next season, or if he'll stick with variations of the same sleepwear he wore during his mortal life.

p.s. all of my iwtv design posts are available on this tag!

[gpcwsl]

Leah Williamson x Reader

Hey, rockstar!

WC: 4.2k+

MasterList

Warnings: kissing, teasing, mentions of death (brief, kinda), very long.

Song: I found you - Alabama Shakes

It was a crisp January morning in London, the air sharp with winter’s bite. The Arsenal Women’s squad had returned from the break, with the transfer window officially closed. Among their newest additions was Y/N Y/L/N, a 25-year-old Australian signing that had come with high expectations.

You were still settling in, getting used to the cold weather and the rhythm of a new club. Wanting to make a good impression, you had arrived early for training, hoping for some quiet before the rest of the squad trickled in.

Dressed comfortably in an oversized black hoodie with the Arsenal crest embroidered on the chest, baggy grey sweatpants, and a pair of well-worn black Converse, you looked effortlessly relaxed. A silver chain peeked out from under your hoodie, glinting in the soft lounge lighting. Your dark brown wavy hair was slightly messy, curling at the ends as it framed your hazel-brown eyes. You had a ring or two on your fingers, one of them spinning absentmindedly as you settled onto one of the couches.

Placing your foot on the coffee table in front of you, you propped your guitar up on your thigh. It was an old acoustic—scratched and well-loved. Letting out a breath, your fingers skimmed over the strings before you began strumming the opening chords of a song.

“Can you see me? ‘Cause I’m right here,”

“Can you listen? ‘Cause I’ve been tryin’ to make you notice,”

“What it would mean to me,”

“To feel like somebody…,”

Your voice was smooth, rich yet soft, carrying through the empty lounge. You weren’t just playing—you were lost in it, each note sinking into your chest like second nature.

What you didn’t realize was that you weren’t alone.

Leah Williamson had arrived early too. She’d come through the doors expecting silence, maybe a quick coffee before training. What she didn’t expect was the warm, mellow voice filling the space. Stopping in her tracks, Leah’s eyes locked onto the figure on the couch.

You, completely unaware of your audience, were lost in the music, your fingers dancing effortlessly along the frets. Leah leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms, letting herself listen. There was something about the way you sang—like you meant every word. It was different from the usual dressing room chaos, different from hearing someone sing along to the radio. It was raw. Real.

And then there was you yourself. The hoodie slightly oversized on your frame, the way you absentmindedly bit your bottom lip between verses, the way your fingers plucked the strings with a confidence that told Leah this wasn’t a hobby—it was a part of you.

Leah found herself smirking slightly. Talented and attractive. Interesting.

As you sang the last words, letting the final chord ring out, you finally glanced up—only to see Leah standing there, watching you.

Your heart stuttered. “Shit,” you muttered under your breath, sitting up straighter.

Leah chuckled. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You—how long were you standing there?” you asked, shifting awkwardly.

Leah pushed off the doorframe, stepping further into the room. “Long enough.”

You felt your face heat up. You’d expected to come in, play a little, and go unnoticed. But here was Leah Williamson—England captain, Arsenal legend—watching you with an amused expression.

“You’re good,” Leah said casually, nodding towards the guitar. “Didn’t take you for a musician.”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool despite the way your heart was still racing. “Just something I do on the side.”

Leah smirked. “Well, you might want to be careful playing like that around here. Some of us tend to arrive early too.”

You exhaled a laugh, shaking your head. “Noted.”

Leah gave you a wink before walking past, leaving you sitting there, gripping your guitar a little tighter.

You hadn’t even been at the club a week, and somehow, you’d already caught Leah Williamson’s attention.

Training was in full swing. The crisp January air did little to cool the intensity of the session as the team moved through drills, preparing for their next match. You had settled in well so far, blending into the squad, but there was still the unspoken pressure of proving yourself. New signings always had something to prove.

Now, you were lined up for set-piece drills, standing just outside the box, waiting for the ball to be whipped in. You steadied your breath, focusing on the movement in front of you, watching as the ball was sent into the air. You took a step forward, preparing to time your jump—

And then a hand landed lightly on your waist.

You stiffened for a second as the warmth pressed against you, and then you felt the slight pull from behind. A voice, low and teasing, brushed against your ear.

“Let’s see how good you are at this… better than singing, yeah?”

Your breath hitched, your grip tightening into fists at your sides as you turned slightly, catching Leah Williamson’s smirking face beside you. She was standing close—too close. The scent of her lingering cologne mixed with the fresh air, and the way her fingers ghosted over your waist sent an involuntary shiver up your spine.

Before you could even react, she leaned in just a little more, voice softer this time.

“You still look pretty playing on the field… just like behind a guitar.”

Your focus wavered. Just for a second. The ball was coming in, but for a brief moment, all you could think about was the way Leah’s breath tickled your skin, the way her presence wrapped around you so effortlessly.

Then, as quickly as it happened, you snapped out of it.

Shoving her lightly off you, you pushed forward, planting your feet and timing your jump perfectly. Your head met the ball cleanly, sending it straight into the top corner of the net. The sound of it hitting the back of the goal was satisfying, and when you landed, you heard the sharp whistle of approval.

“Good job, Y/N!”

You turned to see Rénne Slegers, Arsenal’s manager, watching you with a satisfied smile. Her arms were crossed, her expression pleased—not just because you won the header, but because you hadn’t let yourself get distracted.

As you jogged back to your position, you caught Leah watching you, that familiar smirk still tugging at the corner of her lips. But this time, there was something else there. Something… proud.

“Not bad,” Leah said, nodding slightly.

You rolled your eyes, brushing past her with a small smirk of your own. “Told you I wasn’t just a musician.”

Leah chuckled, jogging after you. “Guess I’ll have to keep testing that, then.”

Something told you that wouldn’t be the last time she tried to distract you.

Training had ended, and the sun was beginning to dip behind the training ground buildings, casting long shadows across the fields. You had worked hard, and despite Leah’s teasing distractions, you had proven yourself. The praise from Rénne Slegers still echoed in your head as you made your way through the corridors, the adrenaline of the session finally starting to wear off.

You walked into the lounge room, expecting the usual post-training silence, maybe a chance to grab your things and unwind for a moment.

But as soon as you opened the door, a familiar sound filled the air.

Strumming.

Your guitar.

Your eyes immediately landed on the figure sitting casually on the couch, legs stretched out, fingers effortlessly plucking at the strings of your old acoustic. Leah Williamson.

She looked up at you, that damn smirk already in place. “Oh, hey, rockstar.”

Your jaw clenched. “Leah.”

Her fingers stilled slightly, but she didn’t stop completely. Instead, she let out a playful hum before strumming again. “Gotta say, she’s got a nice sound. No wonder you sounded good earlier.”

You marched forward, irritation bubbling under your skin. “Get off my guitar.”

Leah grinned but didn’t move. Instead, she strummed again, this time actually singing along. And to your dismay… she was good. Really good.

“Can you see me? ‘Cause I’m right here…”

Your eyes widened slightly. Was she seriously singing your song from earlier? Mocking you?

You lunged forward, but Leah was quick. She jumped to her feet, still holding the guitar, stepping back with a laugh. “Relax, Y/N, I’m just borrowing it.”

“Give it back,” you demanded, stepping closer.

Leah grinned, taking another step away, still strumming. “You chase everyone who touches your stuff, or just me?”

“Leah—”

She laughed, trying to step around the coffee table, but you were faster. You grabbed her by the hoodie, yanking her back toward the couch. Leah stumbled, losing balance as you pushed her down onto the cushions. Before she could move again, you snatched the guitar from her grip.

You quickly checked it over, your fingers running along the wood, making sure nothing was scratched, nothing was broken. You turned it over in your hands, checking every part.

Leah sat up, watching you with a curious expression. “Y/N, I didn’t do anything to it.”

You ignored her, running your fingers along the fretboard, double-checking. Only when you were completely sure it was fine did you let out a breath, gripping it tightly in your lap.

Leah tilted her head. “Seriously, I was careful.”

You swallowed hard before muttering, “It was my mum’s.”

Leah’s smirk faded.

You kept your eyes on the guitar, fingers gripping the edges a little tighter. “It’s the only thing I have left of her,” you added, quieter this time.

Silence settled between you both.

Leah’s playful demeanor shifted, her smirk replaced with something softer, something more understanding. “I didn’t know,” she said, her voice quieter now.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Yeah, well. Now you do.”

Leah watched you for a moment, then gave a small nod. “I’ll leave you and the guitar alone, then.”

You finally glanced up, meeting her gaze. She wasn’t smirking anymore. She looked… sincere.

You nodded slightly before looking away, shifting the guitar back onto your lap. “Good.”

Leah didn’t push, didn’t tease. Instead, she simply stood up, stretching slightly.

But before she left, she gave you one last glance. “For what it’s worth… she’d probably be proud of how good you are.”

And with that, she walked out, leaving you sitting there with your guitar still clutched tightly in your hands.

The next morning, you walked into the training ground with your guitar case slung over your back, your grip on it noticeably tighter than usual. After yesterday, you weren’t taking any chances.

Leah hadn’t meant any harm, but it still stung. That guitar wasn’t just an instrument to you—it was the last piece of your mum you had left. And having someone else’s hands on it, even if it was Leah Williamson, had sent your emotions spiraling.

As you made your way toward the changing rooms, fully prepared to put yesterday behind you, an arm suddenly reached out, grabbing you by the sleeve. Before you could react, you were pulled to the side—straight into the lounge room.

The door clicked softly behind you, and when you turned, Leah was standing there, a small, almost hesitant smile on her face.

“Leah, what the hell?” you muttered, shifting the guitar case on your shoulder.

Leah raised her hands slightly in surrender. “Relax. I just—” She exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck before motioning toward your guitar case. “Can I?”

Your grip tightened automatically. “Only if you’re careful,” you said firmly.

Leah nodded, taking it gently from your hands and setting it down on the couch with an almost exaggerated delicacy. “See? Careful.”

You rolled your eyes. “What do you want, Leah?”

She hesitated for a second before shoving her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. “I wanted to say sorry. About yesterday.”

You studied her, a little surprised. You hadn’t expected her to bring it up again.

Leah rocked on her heels slightly, glancing down before looking back up at you. “I didn’t know how much it meant to you. I should’ve realized—I mean, it was obvious when you practically tackled me to get it back.” A small smirk flickered across her face before fading again. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

You crossed your arms, shifting your weight. “It’s fine. Just don’t do it again.”

Leah nodded, but there was something else in her expression—something lingering. Then, with a casualness that felt almost forced, she said, “Let me make it up to you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “How?”

Leah’s smirk returned, but this time, it was softer. “Come out with me. Tonight.”

Your heart stuttered slightly, but you kept your expression neutral. “Like… a date?”

Leah shrugged, playing it cool. “Nah, just a ‘sorry.’” But the glint in her eyes told you otherwise.

You let the silence stretch for a beat longer than necessary, watching the way she shifted slightly under your gaze. Then, finally, you sighed.

“Alright,” you said, pretending to be reluctant. “But if this is actually a date, I’m making you pay.”

Leah’s smirk grew. “Deal.”

And with that, she grabbed your guitar case from the couch, holding it out for you with extra care. You took it, shaking your head slightly as you walked past her.

Leah Williamson had just asked you out. Well—just a sorry, as she put it.

But deep down, you both knew the truth.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of training, recovery sessions, and the occasional Hey, rockstar from Leah every time she passed you.

At first, you’d rolled your eyes, brushing it off as just another one of her teasing habits. But as the day went on, you caught yourself waiting for it—anticipating the smirk that always came with it.

By the time the evening rolled around, you found yourself standing in front of your mirror, adjusting your hoodie and brushing a hand through your hair as if you weren’t about to spend the night with Leah Williamson.

It wasn’t a date. Just a sorry.

You repeated it in your head, but deep down, the nervous energy twisting in your stomach knew better.

Then, a knock at the door.

Taking a steadying breath, you opened it—only to be met with Leah’s signature smirk and an outfit that somehow made your breath catch in your throat.

She had opted for casual-comfy, but somehow, she still managed to make it look effortlessly good. She wore an oversized grey Essentials hoodie, the sleeves slightly pushed up to reveal her forearms. A pair of well-fitted black joggers sat low on her hips, tucked slightly into white Nike Air Forces, looking perfectly broken in. A small silver ring adorned her right index finger, and a simple chain peeked out from beneath her hoodie. Over her shoulder, she carried a black Nike backpack, the strap hanging loosely in that relaxed way only she could pull off.

Her hair was slightly messy, the kind of messy that looked unintentional but perfect all the same. And when she smiled—soft this time, not teasing—your stomach flipped.

“Hey, rockstar,” she murmured.

You huffed out a small laugh, stepping aside. “You gonna keep calling me that?”

Leah shrugged, stepping in past you. “Suits you.”

You closed the door behind her, turning back—only to find her already rummaging through her backpack.

“I got something for you,” she said, pulling out a small box and holding it out toward you.

You blinked, hesitating slightly before taking it. The box was light in your hands, simple but carefully wrapped. You glanced up at her, eyebrow raised. “Leah—”

“Just open it,” she said, her tone softer than usual.

Curiosity won over, and you carefully pulled at the wrapping before lifting the lid.

Inside, nestled against black velvet, was a delicate silver necklace. A small, finely detailed guitar charm hung from the chain, catching the dim lighting of your apartment.

Your breath hitched.

For a moment, you just stared at it, fingers running lightly over the charm. “Leah…”

“I figured,” Leah said, shifting slightly, “since your guitar means so much to you, you should have something you can keep with you all the time.”

You swallowed past the lump in your throat, your fingers tightening slightly around the box.

Leah stepped closer, voice quieter now. “Want me to put it on?”

You hesitated, then nodded.

Turning around, you lifted your hair, exposing the back of your neck. You felt Leah move behind you, the warmth of her body so close it sent a shiver down your spine.

She was slow, careful, as she unclasped the necklace and draped it around your neck. The cool metal met your skin first, followed immediately by the warmth of Leah’s fingers as they brushed against you. Her touch was light—almost too light, like she was testing the waters, gauging your reaction.

You held your breath as she fastened the clasp, her fingers lingering for just a second too long.

And then—before you could even register it—her lips pressed a feather-light kiss against the side of your neck.

A shiver ran through you, your hands gripping the front of your hoodie as every nerve in your body came alive. Leah stayed there for a second longer than necessary, close enough that you could feel the ghost of her breath against your skin.

Then, just as smoothly as she had come in, she pulled away.

The air felt charged, the tension so thick you could almost touch it. You turned slowly, heart hammering against your ribs as you met her gaze.

Leah was watching you, something unreadable in her expression—something deeper than her usual teasing smirk.

“You good?” she asked, voice lower than before.

You swallowed, nodding once.

She smiled, reaching out to lightly tug the charm of the necklace. “Looks good on you, rockstar.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

For now.

The night had passed in a blur of laughter, conversation, and the occasional lingering glance. Leah had been easier to talk to than you expected—casual, laid-back, effortlessly charming. And maybe, just maybe, you had let your guard down a little.

Now, as she walked you back to your place, her hands shoved into the pockets of her hoodie, you found yourself hesitating at the door.

You weren’t ready for the night to end.

“You wanna come in?” you asked, keeping your voice as nonchalant as possible.

Leah’s smirk was immediate, but there was something softer beneath it. “Obviously.”

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head as you pushed the door open. She stepped in behind you, and the warmth of her presence filled the space instantly.

“I was thinking of ordering takeout,” you said, toeing off your shoes. “You want something?”

Leah leaned against the wall, tilting her head slightly. “Depends. What’s on the menu?”

You pulled out your phone, already scrolling through options. “Pizza?”

Leah grinned. “Solid choice, rockstar.”

Rolling your eyes at the nickname, you placed the order, tossing your phone onto the counter before heading into the kitchen to grab some plates. Leah followed, perching herself on the counter like she belonged there.

She watched as you moved, her gaze lingering a little too long when you turned to grab the forks and knives from the drawer.

The moment your back was to her, she moved.

You barely had time to react before Leah’s arms wrapped around your waist from behind, her body pressing into yours. Her voice was low, right against your ear.

“You looked good tonight,” she murmured.

Your breath hitched.

Leah took full advantage, her lips brushing lightly against the side of your neck—soft, teasing. Her hands splayed across your stomach, holding you in place.

“You’re bold,” you muttered, forcing your voice to stay steady.

Leah hummed in amusement, her lips barely ghosting against your skin. “You like it.”

You hated how your body reacted to her—how easily she got under your skin. Slowly, you turned in her hold, facing her. Leah didn’t move back. If anything, she leaned in closer, her eyes flickering between your lips and your eyes like she was already planning her next move.

And then—

The doorbell rang.

You blinked.

Leah blinked.

Then, with a sharp breath, you pushed her away. “That’s the food.”

Leah sighed dramatically, rocking back on her heels. “Terrible timing.”

Ignoring the way your heart was pounding, you cleared your throat, straightening your hoodie before heading to the door.

As you pulled it open and exchanged cash for the takeaway bags, you could still feel Leah’s gaze burning into you from behind.

This night was far from over.

The soft hum of music filled the room as you and Leah sat across from each other at the dining table. The plates were now empty, the meal long finished, but there was still a quiet energy between you. The conversation had ebbed, leaving behind a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the background music and the sound of you both cleaning up.

You stood up from the table, gathering the dirty dishes, and made your way to the kitchen. Leah stayed where she was for a moment, watching you with a quiet intensity, before following you in.

As you began washing the dishes, the familiar motion of scrubbing and rinsing gave you a sense of peace. The water was warm, the rhythmic sound of the sponge against the plates grounding you.

The song changed, and Play Pretend by Alex Sampson started to play softly in the background. The gentle strumming of the guitar combined with the soothing lyrics, and before you knew it, you found yourself softly singing along. You weren’t trying to, but the lyrics just slipped out, natural and effortless. It wasn’t loud—just a quiet hum as you moved around the kitchen, more focused on the task at hand than on the words coming out of your mouth.

What you didn’t notice was Leah watching you, her expression softening as she listened. The vulnerability in your voice caught her off guard. You hadn’t even meant for her to hear it, but she did—and something about it made her heart skip a beat.

Leah remained silent, the tension building between you two without a single word spoken. Her eyes never left you. Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile, but there was something else there too—something more intense, more determined.

The song played on, and as you finished washing the last dish, Leah slowly got up. She moved toward you with purpose, stepping quietly so you wouldn’t notice until she was right behind you.

You didn’t have time to react before she gently took the dish from your hands and set it aside. You froze, her body so close to yours now that you could feel the warmth radiating off her. Leah’s fingers gently cupped your face, her touch surprisingly tender as she turned you toward her.

For a moment, everything went still. Her breath was warm against your skin, her eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver through your body.

“Can I?” Leah asked, her voice low, almost hesitant, but the sincerity in her tone was unmistakable.

You nodded without thinking, your heart racing as you stared up at her. The space between you two was so small now, the air thick with anticipation. Without another word, Leah leaned in.

Her lips brushed against yours softly at first, testing, as if she were waiting for you to pull back. When you didn’t, she deepened the kiss, her hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer. The kiss was slow, deliberate, each movement filled with a quiet urgency. You could feel her breath, warm and steady, against your lips as she kissed you again—deeper this time, with more confidence.

Her hands moved to your back, fingers splaying across the fabric of your shirt as if she wanted to pull you even closer, to feel you pressed against her more fully. The kiss was sweet at first, but the longer it lasted, the more the tension between you two built. You felt the weight of it, the spark that had been there all night, now igniting with every second.

Leah’s lips were soft but insistent, the kiss growing more passionate as you both gave in to it. For a moment, you forgot about everything else—the dishes, the music, the world outside. All that mattered was the way Leah held you, the way she kissed you with a hunger that had been building for far too long.

When the kiss finally broke, both of you were left breathless. Leah’s forehead rested against yours, her chest rising and falling with each deep breath.

Her voice was quiet, but you heard the smile in her words. “I’ve been wanting to do that all night.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you simply smiled back, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. You couldn’t remember the last time a kiss had felt so right.

The music played softly in the background, but it felt like nothing could interrupt the quiet, lingering moment between the two of you.

You had no idea what came next, but in that moment, it didn’t matter.

[tsunodaradio]

just call me yours ⛐ 𝐙𝐆𝟐𝟒

THIS IS: FORMULA ONE, A MILESTONE EVENT 📀 “you know, if this were a drama, this would be the part where the love interest gives the hero some kind of incentive before his big moment.”

♫ starring: zhou guanyu x childhood crush!reader. ♫ word count: 3.2k. ♫ includes: romance, friendship, fluff. mentions of food. ferrari reserve driver!zhou, childhood friends, one-act and open-ended. anon requested yesterday by jay park. ♫ commentary box: jumped with joy when i saw a zhou request and of course i had to do something hometown-hero adjacent in time for shanghai. ‹𝟹 𝐦𝐲 ���𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Zhou isn’t hiding.

Or at least that’s what he tells himself as he stands in the dimly lit snack aisle of a convenience store just outside the circuit, hands tucked into the pockets of his Ferrari team jacket. The store is quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos of the paddock, where team personnel scramble to adjust strategies and media personnel wait like vultures for a comment.

He should be in the garage. Should be going over last-minute preparations, listening to his engineers, doing something productive. But instead, he’s here, staring blankly at a shelf stocked with shrimp chips and hawthorn candies, the same ones he used to buy as a kid.

He’s never subbed in for a race before. Not like this. Not at home.

It should be a dream come true. And yet, all he can feel is the crushing weight of expectation pressing down on him. 

China’s first F1 driver, back in Shanghai, stepping in for Charles Leclerc. The headlines write themselves. He knows what people are saying— that it’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance, that he needs to prove himself, that this could be the opportunity that changes everything.

He believes that. Really, he does. Right now, though, he just needs a second to breathe.

The jingle of the convenience store door barely registers in his mind, drowned out by his own thoughts. It’s only when someone steps into the aisle with him that he glances up, and—

Oh.

You.

It takes a second for the recognition to settle in, for the years to melt away and for him to see you as you were back then. Before he left, before England, before everything. You, standing there with a basket in hand, looking just as startled to see him.

“Zhou?” Your voice is hesitant, like you can’t quite believe it’s him.

A stunned beat passes. 

Then, suddenly, he’s a kid again, racing down familiar streets on a bicycle too big for him, laughing breathlessly as you try to keep up. He remembers summer afternoons spent swapping snacks, the endless debates over whose mom made better dumplings, the way he had promised— so earnestly, so naively— he’d come back soon.

He never did.

He swallows, a tentative smile tugging at his lips. “Hey. It’s been a while,” he greets in English, because that’s what he instinctively clings to nowadays. 

You huff out something between a laugh and a scoff. “That’s one way to put it,” you say, though not unkindly. You ignore his English, jumping right into the familiar, sharp lilt of Shanghainese. 

Just like that, the tension in Zhou’s chest loosens a little. Because if there was ever a moment to be reminded of who he was before all the pressure, the expectations, it’s now. Standing in a convenience store with an old friend, surrounded by childhood comforts. Speaking a language that he knows like the back of his hand. 

Maybe, just maybe, he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

Your eyes flicker toward the screen above the register, where the news ticker rolls on a muted sports channel. It takes a second to register, but then you must see it. Zhou Guanyu to drive for Ferrari this weekend; Leclerc ruled out with food poisoning.

You glance back at him, arms folded as he pretends to be very interested in a bag of shrimp chips. “So,” you start, watching for the moment his shoulders tense, “Ferrari, huh?”

An easy, practiced smile slips onto his face like a mask he’s worn a thousand times before. “Yeah,” he says, giving a light chuckle as he finally slips into the mother tongue you share. “Crazy, right? Big opportunity.”

He’s always been good at looking composed, but you still know him too well. You catch the way his fingers tighten around the bag, the way his breath isn’t quite as steady as he wants it to be.

“Guanyu,” you say, and his name still feels natural in your mouth despite the years. He blinks at you, smile faltering just a fraction, and that’s all the confirmation you need. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m excited,” he corrects immediately.

“You’re lying,” you counter just as quickly.

Zhou shakes his head, looking down at the snack aisle like it holds some sort of escape route. “I forgot you were always annoying like this.”

“You forgot a lot of things,” you tease, plucking the shrimp chips from his grip. “Like how you’ve never been able to lie to me.”

That earns a quiet laugh from him. “Maybe,” he admits. Then, after a moment. Softer, quieter, “It’s just… a lot.”

You nod, understanding without him needing to explain. The weight of it all— especially here, in front of a home crowd. He doesn’t have to say it. You can see it in the way he’s hiding out in a convenience store, looking for something familiar to ground him.

“Well,” you say, turning toward the counter, “at least you don’t have to face it on an empty stomach.”

You ignore his questioning look as you hand the cashier a bill, motioning toward the shrimp chips and grabbing a couple more snacks while you’re at it. Zhou’s eyes widen as he realizes what you’re doing.

“Wait— no, I should be treating you,” he stammers, reaching for his wallet. “I’m the driver here, remember?”

You scoff. “Please. It’s the least I can do for a hometown hero.”

He huffs a surprised laugh, but doesn’t argue any further. His parents would probably admonish him for having such terrible bill game, and against a family friend, no less. He lets you win, though, because he can already barely keep his head on straight. When you hand him the bag, he takes it with a quiet, sincere “Thanks.”

One look at his face gives you the impression that he still doesn’t want to head back out. He’s recognized at every corner, revered for being the one who made it. It’s not something he wants to face. Not yet. Not at this moment. 

You exchange a couple of words with the cashier, who— despite undoubtedly recognizing Zhou— has been benevolently normal this entire time. The driver think it might be some skewed sense of pity, the one aunties and uncles shower him with when they coo about how young he is. How fast his cars are, and how his mother probably worries about him all the damn time. 

You beckon at Zhou. He hesitates for just a moment before following you toward the back of the store, casting a glance toward the circuit entrance like it might drag him back by force. But he doesn’t resist when you push open a door near the stock shelves, leading him into a dimly lit backroom filled with extra inventory and an old, humming fridge.

“I used to hide back here all the time,” you say, settling onto an upturned crate. “The store owner’s my uncle. He never minds as long as I don’t mess with his stock.”

Zhou watches as you dig through the plastic bag of snacks you had insisted on paying for. He knows he should be heading back soon— Fred will probably be calling in the next fifteen minutes— but for now, he allows himself this reprieve.

“Didn’t peg you as a troublemaker,” he murmurs, accepting a bottle of water when you pass it to him.

“You’d be surprised.” You flash a grin before tearing open a bag of dried plums. “So? Are you going to pretend for much longer, or are you going to admit you’re terrified out of your mind?”

Zhou fingers pausing where they’re picking at the label of his water bottle. “I—”

You tilt your head, giving him a knowing look. “Come on, Zhou. You still can’t lie to me.”

He sighs, shoulders sagging slightly as the tension in his frame unravels. “I should be excited,” he admits. “This is what I’ve worked for, right? A shot in a Ferrari, in front of my home crowd. But I just— I didn’t expect it to happen like this.”

“You wanted it to be on your own terms,” you offer.

Zhou nods, rubbing his temple. “And it’s Charles’ seat. I’m just keeping it warm.”

“But you’re still driving it,” you counter, nudging his knee with yours. “That has to count for something.”

He looks at you, then, searching for doubt in your expression, but he only finds certainty. The same certainty you always had when you were kids, when you’d tell him he’d be a champion one day. Back then, he had believed you so easily.

“Guess I just need to keep the car out of the wall,” Zhou grumbles, mostly to himself.

“You’re capable of a lot more than that,” you say, popping a dried plum into your mouth. Then, after a beat, you smirk. “Though, I should be honest— I’m mostly being nice because of the embarrassing crush you had on me back then.”

There it is. 

Zhou chokes on his water. “What?”

You laugh, watching his ears go red. “Oh, come on. You thought I didn’t know?”

“I—” Zhou gapes at you before groaning and pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “That was so long ago.”

And it has been so long ago. Some 17 years, in fact, since he was helplessly, hopelessly enamored with everything you did. It’d been the classic ‘first love’ trope, the one that had both your parents consulting fortune tellers and shamans for a read on how well this might pan out. 

Zhou never bothered to ask what they found when they went looking, but he’d always secretly hoped that it was something good. An invisible cord of red, tying the two of you two together. 

“It was still pretty cute.” You grin, clearly enjoying his embarrassment. “I mean, you followed me everywhere. You’d blush so hard whenever I held your hand—”

“Okay, okay,” he grumbles, but there’s no real frustration in his voice. Just a quiet sort of fondness.

“You should’ve just told me,” you tease, popping another dried plum into your mouth. “Maybe I would’ve liked you back.”

Zhou chuckles as he leans back against a stack of crates. “Too late for that now, isn’t it?”

You hum, glancing at him. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Oh. That’s— oh. 

He swallows around the lump forming in his throat, suddenly hyper-aware of how warm it is in the backroom. Or maybe it’s just his pulse hammering in his ears. He hadn’t expected you to tease him about this, and he definitely hadn’t expected the look in your eyes when you did. 

Amused, yes. Something else, too. Something much mote honest.

He licks his lips, stalling. “You’re only saying all this now ‘cause I’m in F1, aren’t you?” he teases, though it doesn’t come out quite as lighthearted as he hopes. 

He’s trying not to sound desperate, but he is. Just a little. Because if you tell him yes, that the past doesn’t really matter and it’s all about the here and now— well. He’s not sure he’ll like that answer.

You scoff, rolling your eyes before breaking off a piece of the candy bar you’d been working on. “Don’t be an idiot,” you snap.

You hold the chocolate up to his lips, and before he can think twice about it, he lets you feed him.

That, too, is something that reminds him of his childhood. The easy consideration the two of you would trade. Always picking each other first on the playground. Your favorite Kai-Lan band-aids in the pocket of his backpack; his class schedule, scribbled on the back of all your notebooks. 

You watch him for a moment before adding on to your answer. “You think I just woke up one day and decided, ‘Oh, that Zhou Guanyu is pretty cute now that he’s a Ferrari driver’?” Your lips curve in a way that’s almost rueful. “Come on. Give me some credit.”

Zhou watches you, trying not to let his face betray just how much he’s hanging onto every word.

“I thought you were cute when you were just the boy next door,” you admit, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “Before all of this.” 

You gesture vaguely, as if to encompass his career, the world of Formula 1, the pressure he now carries on his back. “You were already Zhou Guanyu before you were the Zhou Guanyu.”

A mix of affection and relief settles warm in Zhou’s chest. It’s stupid how much he needed to hear that. How much he needed someone, you, to remind him that he’s still just him, that the world can blur around him all it wants, but the parts that matter— the parts that make him— don’t have to change.

“You could’ve told me that back then,” he says, watching you with something like wonder.

You shrug before offering him another bite of chocolate. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He takes it from your fingers, holding your gaze. He chews slowly, considering his words before finally speaking.

“You never reached out,” he says, trying his best to keep his voice light. “All these years, and not a single message?”

You blink at him, a little caught off guard. Then you raise your shoulders raise in a shrug. “Didn’t think I’d matter much to you anymore,” you say in that clinical, cutting tone that reminds him of his elementary teachers. 

Zhou frowns. “Why would you think that?”

“I mean, look at you. F1 driver, racing in front of millions, rubbing elbows with celebrities. I wasn’t sure if I—” You pause, toying with the wrapper of your snack. “I didn’t know if I belonged in that world. Your world.”

Zhou’s throat feels tight, because it’s ridiculous. The idea that you, of all people, could think that.

He shifts slightly, tilting his head at you. “That’s dumb.” There’s no real bite to his tone. “You didn’t even try.”

You shoot him a half-hearted glare. “What, and risk finding out that you’ve completely forgotten about me? My ego isn’t strong enough for that.”

“I wouldn’t have forgotten you.”

“Please. I’m sure you had plenty of other crushes after me.”

At that, Zhou falls quiet. Not because you’re right, but because… well.

He sorts through his memories, combing through years of traveling, of new places and new faces, of fleeting affections that never quite lingered long enough to mean anything. And yet, somehow, some of his fondest memories— the ones that have stayed, steady and stubborn— involve you. 

The curb outside your house where you sat with fruit-flavored popsicles under the rancid, summer heat. Plates of peking duck and bowls of egg drop soup shared for every birthday, every end-of-school celebration. The one and only time he was brave— the chaste kiss he pressed to your cheek the day that he was set to leave, and how the warmth of your skin had lingered on his lips throughout the 16-hour flight. 

He’d been young then. A kid with a crush. 

He’s older now, which he supposes makes him an adult with a crush. Infinitely worse, he privately decides. 

Zhou clears his throat and forces a smirk on to his lips. “Yeah, of course,” he lies, casual and smooth. “I’ve had loads of crushes since you.”

You don’t call him out on it, but he sees it in the way your eyes linger on him, in the way your grin widens just a little. You know. Of course you do. But you let it slide. Instead, you just laugh under your breath as you pick up another snack. “Figured as much,” you tease. 

The next couple of moments pass with the cursory small talk. You trade stories about your parents; you tell him about your job. When you mention having tickets for Sunday, he tries not to think too deeply about it.

Everyone will have their eyes on him this weekend. Now, though, you’ve cursed him to only look out for yours. 

Zhou stretches his arms over his head, eyeing the empty snack wrappers scattered between you. The small escape you carved out for him has come to an end, and you both know it. He needs to head back. The team is probably already wondering where he disappeared to.

Still, Zhou can’t resist one last jab. 

“You know,” he starts, voice as casual as he can manage, “if this were a drama, this would be the part where the love interest gives the hero some kind of incentive before his big moment.”

You raise a brow. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Zhou leans in slightly, feigning deep thought. “Something like, ‘Win the race and I’ll go on a date with you,’ or ‘If you finish in the points, I’ll give you a kiss.’” He grins. “That kind of thing.”

You roll your eyes, but the upward tilt of your lips betrays you. “Is that what you want? Some cheesy incentive to get you through the weekend?”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t say no to it.”

After a beat of consideration, you fix him with a look— one that’s exasperated undeniably sincere. “Alright, fine,” you concede. “If you finish the race unscathed, maybe I’ll give you a proper confession.”

Zhou blinks. “A confession?”

“You know. The whole ‘I like you’ speech, but a little more eloquent.”

He narrows his eyes playfully. “You’re telling me you’ve been holding out on me?”

“Maybe.” You break out into a grin that makes his ribs ache. “Or maybe I just want to make sure you make it to the end in one piece before I say anything too heartfelt.”

“If you finish in the points, though,” you continue, tapping a finger to your chin in mock contemplation, “maybe I’ll throw in a little something more.”

He straightens, eyes sparking with interest. “Something more?”

You don’t elaborate. You just smile at him, slow and knowing, before standing up and dusting off your hands.

Zhou follows suit, walking with you back toward the front of the store. His mind is already racing, trying to guess what exactly something more entails. He doesn’t get a chance to ask, though, because as you reach the door, you pause— turning back to look at him one last time.

“Oh,” you say, like it’s an afterthought. “Just so you know, I don’t usually kiss on the first date.”

This wasn’t a date, wasn’t it? Zhou’s confused by the sudden statement, and it’s evident in the way he drags out a befuddled “Okay…?”

You grin, your voice dropping just slightly. “But I suppose childhood crushes have some exceptions.”

Zhou barely has time to process what you’ve just said before you step outside, leaving him standing there— completely gobsmacked, mouth slightly open, brain short-circuiting. By the time he recovers, you’re already halfway down the street, a bounce in your step.

It’s a threat as much as it is a promise.

It’s a reminder that what the two of you have is not the red string of fate that he once so fervently hoped for. 

The two of you are a taut rubber band, stretched across continents and decades— something that was always meant to snap back into place. 

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for when he ducked into this convenience store, but now, as he steps back into the light of the Shanghai afternoon, he knows one thing for certain.

Zhou is done hiding. ⛐

ScuderiaFerrari Putting the "hero" in "hometown hero" 🇨🇳 ZhouGuanyu24 finishes P7!

[13atoms]

The Morning After the Night Before (Declan O'Hara x Reader)

My first Rivals fic! Big shoutout to @stellamarielu and @rivalsispunk, who’s work I wholeheartedly recommend and was, inevitably, inspired by when I decided to join in writing about Declan! <3

Summary:

Bff’s dad!Declan x Younger!Reader

As a friend of Taggie’s from college, you’re invited up to the Priory for the Venturer party. By the next day Taggie and Maud have both vanished, you don’t want to leave Declan alone in that big empty house. [5k words]

Contains: Exposition, feelings, then a bit of smut. Exhibitionist!Declan, big age gap, post!Maud rebound sex, lots of foreplay, Declan is a fiend, 90% exposition, priory!sex

The Priory was quiet the day after Maud left. It was the first day of a new era, of Venturer, rung in with hangovers and that bittersweet feeling of a moment to celebrate passing by unacknowledged.

You weren’t sure why you couldn’t go anywhere else. Taggie had invited you up from London for the party, and then promptly been distracted by an MP with a sharp jawline and foul jokes, only to disappear with Seb at the end of the night. With her departure Taggie left you with the sense you were living in a haunted house, filled with Maud’s books and earrings on sidetables and the leftovers from the party to snack on whenever you could bring yourself to eat. Patrick and Caitlin had found friends to crash with. You knew why they couldn’t come back. You weren’t sure why you couldn’t leave.

Sometime in the early afternoon you had heard movement upstairs, and made yourself scarce, hiding in the lounge, tidying what you could and drifting along the spines of the novels which lined the O’Hara’s huge bookshelves. You’d picked up something that could’ve been Maud’s or Declan’s – you weren’t sure. It didn’t look well-worn. You’d been meaning to read The Shining for years, now seemed as good a time as any to sit at the end of the O’Hara’s sofa, and try not to think about what you had seen the night before.

“I didn’t realise you’d be staying.”

A hundred pages had passed before you heard that thick Irish lilt, rich with that kind of blunt hospitality which had to be imported from Dublin. You knew it sometimes rubbed people the wrong way, particularly in this passive-aggressive pocket of privately-educated England. You liked it.

He looked startling similar to the Declan O’Hara you were used to watching on TV. Not much like the Declan O’Hara who would pick Taggie up from club nights and sleepovers, waving with a sly, knowing smile from the car and asking if you’d be able to get home safely.

“Taggie invited me for the long weekend, but…”

You gestured around with the book at his empty living room. His empty house. There were streamers stuck in the rafters, too high up for you to grab and shove into a bin liner.

“Apologies for my daughter’s lack of hospitality,” he sighed, and sat down heavily in the armchair adjacent to your sofa, face in his hands for a moment.

He rubbed the skin of his forehead aggressively, and when he looked away his face was marked red, his hair thrown into chaos.

“That’s okay, I’m sure she’ll be back. The quiet is nice, after last night.”

Declan hummed, and spread his arms along the back of the chair, reclining. For once, spreading out didn’t make him look any bigger. He was wearing jeans and a smart white shirt, but it obviously hadn’t been ironed.

“You’re reading Stephen King?”

“Oh,” you closed the book around your fingers, showing him the cover, though he already knew, “yeah. A borrowed copy, I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all! Please, borrow or eat or steal whatever takes your fancy. It’s the least I can do to make up for this shitshow. And my daughter’s forgetfulness…”

You chuckled, and looked anywhere but Declan. He had such an intense gaze, you wondered how anyone stood their own against him across an interview stage.

“It’s really fine. I’m glad she seems happy, or at least excited…”

Declan huffed, stared at the ceiling, and you couldn’t tell what it meant. His hands came together and met his lips like a prayer.

“Have you read The Shining?” You asked quickly.

He was a master of awkwardness, and of silence and question evasion, but you didn’t want to pressure Declan in his own home. If he were one of your friends, you’d already be crushing him in your arms, letting him break down against you in the fiercest hug you could imagine. Instead, he was Taggie’s dad, who you’d never been able to bear to look at too closely, and watched obsessively whenever he appeared on television. You’d even watched him judge a pagent, for God’s sake, crammed around a kitchen table with your housemates complaining and a VHS Taggie had sent whirring away in the player.

You felt a swoop of pride when he perked up at your question, a glint of white teeth visible as he leaned forwards to take the book from your hands, your page number lost. You’d find it again later, in exchange for that dry brush of his fingers against yours. Declan flicked through the pages, eyes moving quickly.

“I have. That’s my copy, in fact. I don’t think the girls ever ended up reading it.”

Something on the page caught his attention, and he hummed as he skimmed the prose.

“Oh, room 217, gives me the shivers even now,” he raised his eyebrows expectantly, and you frowned, tilting your head.

“I don’t think I’ve read that far…”

“Ah, shit. Pretend I didn’t say anything. He has a lovely time in room 217.”

He was joking, and you laughed to be polite. Declan looked drained. Exhausted, hungover, sad.

“Can’t wait,” you replied dryly, as Declan dropped the book onto the coffee table between you.

“I had to stop reading it in bed,” he admitted, glancing from side to side, as though his secrets might be revealed to some unwanted intruder, “I started waking Maud up, talking in my sleep about a ghost in the room.”

You laughed, again it was because Declan wanted you to – wanted to keep the mood light – but you never quite found the right pitch and volume. Maud. He seemed to remember then, talking about her, what had happened.

“I’m sorry you had to see that fiasco yesterday,” he had shifted his voice, and become formal again, like he was introducing his show.

You remembered his falling face, Maud telling him to beg, bag in hand. You remembered Taggie, putting on a mask after the tears had fallen, and the hollow way she imitated the cheeky eyebrow raise you’d exchange over schoolgirl crushes and flirting in clubs, before she sought out a man old enough to be her father. She’d been crushed.

“No, it’s… don’t apologise for that. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t need to say what for. He shrugged, and stared up at the ceiling. The house was so, so quiet. Declan’s breathing was quiet, but you could see how laboured it was in the rise and fall of his chest.

“Do you think she’ll come back, after rehearsals?” you dared to ask.

“I don’t think she’ll come back after the run’s done, to be honest.”

There wasn’t anything to say. You looked up at the fireplace, ancient and beautiful. In the long centuries the house had stood, you wondered if it had seen any sadder sight than this.

“She’s a fucking star!” he announced, voice too loud and his hands flying up, up, before crashing back to his thighs.

You froze, watching him cautiously. He cleared his throat, and made fleeting eye contact as he glanced at you, suddenly appearing sheepish.

“Sorry, that was… sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.”

You murmured that it was fine, but in truth you had no idea if you actually said anything. Declan was panting. Tears or rage seemed equally likely, and he looked at you beseechingly. You wished there was anything you could do to answer him. To help him. The silence went on for longer than you wanted, but there was nothing to say. What could you offer?

Not that ‘there would be others.’

Not that ‘she never deserved him’, handsome and sharp and so, so damn principled it made you ashamed.

He was clenching and unclenching his jaw. You could see it, the muscles flaring and thinning. Your heart pounded in sympathy, something hot and nauseating darting around your stomach, and when his eyes met your sympathetic gaze, you couldn’t bear it. You watched the floor by his feet.

“I knew she was cheating on me. This time, I mean.”

“I’m sorry. That’s not fair.”

Declan sighed, and rolled his head, stretching out his neck. You wondered if he’d been drinking, if he was still drunk. You could smell him, aftershave and sweat, but no whiskey. His eyes were clear and sharp, there was something so controlled about him. He was always in control of the frantic chaos around him. Action and madness had always circled around Declan.

“I’m just sorry for the girls. They deserve better than a father who can’t keep their mother. Or a job. Or a house,” he laughed hollowly, and fell back into his sofa again, watching you from the corner of his eye.

“Mr O’Hara…”

He smirked at you from where he was collapsed, a twitch of his upper lip hidden by his moustache. You could really see his amusement in his eyes, sparkling. You thought of evenings spent at their London house, Declan making the family roar with laughter over a takeaway while Maud was elsewhere. He was always doing something, when he was with his kids. Inventing clever games and telling stories and beating you all at cards. He was a man in control of every room he entered.

“Please don’t sound like you work for me.”

“Sorry,” you teased back, “but don’t half those people last night work for you now?”

He groaned, head in hands, but it was teasing this time. You knew he was joking. Declan kept his eyes uncovered, checking your reaction.

“Christ knows. I’ve no idea who does and doesn’t. Maybe I work for them? It’s all on my head if it goes tits up, though. That’s the main thing.”

“That doesn’t sound stressful at all,” you collapsed a bit in sympathy, pressing your face to your forearm, laying against the arm of the sofa.

“No,” he groaned, “selfish as it is to say, a runaway wife is the last thing I need right now.”

“At least she’ll be happy,” you ventured, and froze as his stare fixed on you, heart catching in your mouth.

“Sorry,” you rambled, “as in, she’s doing what she loves. Not… not that you made her…”

He stayed quiet, and watched you. It was a poor thing to say and a misstep and suddenly you froze. You’d overstepped, lying on his sofa and reading his books and joking with him like he wasn’t Taggie’s bad.

“I just meant, it might be easier, not worrying so much. That she’s making her own choices, and you’re not to blame for whether she’s happy.”

“Maybe I did make her unhappy.”

“Declan…”

He ignored your plea, his gaze fixed firmly on you, warm and intense and melted-chocolate brown. It was far too much, though you could tell his mind was elsewhere.

“I thought we were doing well. Not, well, per se, but well enough. Well enough that she wouldn’t leave me for London the first chance she got.”

You had no idea what to say. You let him speak.

“Everyone else in this fucking town seems to cheat at their heart’s content – God knows Corinium has herpes in the sofa cushions – and yet… I thought she wouldn’t. They all seem to pretend to be happily married, but my crime? Working too much? With the rate Maud burns through money, there’s no other choice. Venturer was all so I could finally stop being at someone else’s beck and call. She’d have supported that, back then. When we first met.”

When Declan stopped speaking, and let the room fall into uncomfortable silence, you realised you could hear your own heartbeat. It was pounding in your ears. Your pulse was thumping in your throat, and it hurt where your chin dug into your arm. The Priory was old and thick-walled and it absorbed all sound, so the quiet between you was absolute.

It wasn’t right, or any O’Hara home to be quiet. They were the loudest family you’d ever heard.

Finally, when it seemed like Declan was never going to speak again, you could bear to look at him again. He was still staring, but you weren’t sure he’d realised you were in the room. He looked so morose; you couldn’t bear it.

“I think Maud might never have been happy here. No matter what you did. If all she wanted was to be on-stage, what else can replace that?”

“She wants attention,” Declan sighed, “that’s what Maud’s always wanted. To be adored. Maybe she didn’t feel adored enough.”

“I think a lot of women would feel lucky, I mean, watching you with Maud… it was obvious how you felt for her.”

He raised an eyebrow as he looked at you, and rest his head against the arm of the oversized armchair, mirroring you.

“I’ve often wondered if she needs too much for any one man to give,” he speculated, the gentle rhythm of light-hearted teasing was back in his voice.

You were surprised to realise how much you’d missed it. Still, you weren’t sure what to say.

“She needs hundreds,” he continued, “fawning over her every night, cheering and throwing flowers. And maybe someone to watch her in the odd play as well.”

You laughed, sincerely this time, and it made Declan laugh too.

“God, that’s terrible,” you played at scolding, but had no heart for it.

Declan was smiling, indulgently, watching you sideways with half of his face pressed into his armrest and forearm. He was flexing his hand out absentmindedly.

“True, though,” he scoffed, “I always wondered what you must have thought, when you girls got all dressed up to go out and Maud showed up, all miniskirts and cleavage. You must’ve thought she was a nutter, trying to outdress her own daughters.”

“I actually asked her if she wanted to come out with us once,” you remembered fondly, “I was sure Taggie was about to murder me with a curling iron.”

Declan chuckled. Lethargic and curled up on an armchair, the fierceness of two decades in entertainment melted off him. You could see his frownlines when he raised his eyebrows to listen to you, but they soon smoothed again. Was this how he had looked when Maud first met him, gentle, relaxed?

“I was always glad she had you,” Declan admitted, “I was glad to see you, on the nights you’d all go out together. Knew that meant there’d be someone to look out for her.”

Something had changed, and he was talking to you as a peer. Dissecting a time when you’d been younger, known less. Maybe seeing his wife walk out on him qualified you to speak on equal terms.

“I think Taggie’s the most sensible person I know, I’m not sure she ever needed me.”

Declan sighed, and gestured into thin air, and you remembered how the two of you had ended up alone in the house. The hours of tears over Rupert Campbell Black, a small fortune in phone bills that Declan had paid silently, as penance for bringing his family to the Cotswolds.

“She’s got a good heart. Not sure I’d say sensible.”

You wanted to argue, but you knew Declan adored his kids above all else.

“With their genetics, I’m afraid all of them were going to end up brash. Emotional.”

“Clever, though. And kind. Isn’t that what matters?” you weren’t talking about Maud, and Declan knew it.

“They’re already better people than we ever were,” was all he offered.

You had been completely enraptured by their new house when you visited, and privately fascinated by the ‘countryside’ version of Declan. You had hoped he’d be less stressed, but from what you’d gleaned about his business ventures, nothing could be further from the truth. Nonetheless, there was something different about him.

About how he watched you.

Something self-assured, despite Maud and his kids abandoning the house. Perhaps it was your imagination, but it looked as though Declan was trying to work something out.

“What are you going to do now?” you asked.

“Hang out with you, I suppose. If you don’t mind.”

You remained silent. Declan read people for a living, and he knew that wasn’t what you’d meant.

“I suppose I’m meant to wait for her to come back,” he sighed, “and beg again, perhaps. Try not to catch crabs off whatever actor she’s under.”

You couldn’t help it – you winced.

“Sorry – I shouldn’t say shit like that. Tag would tell me off. I just… I’m not sure how many more times I can take it. It’s humiliating. Pathetic.”

“You’re taking the high road, I suppose…”

“Ah, fuck the high road!” he interrupted you, and threw his head back against the back of the sofa, “I’m tired of the sodding high road. There’s no one there, at the end of it, saying ‘congratulations on keeping your wedding vows while your wife fucked another man’. I know Maud. She’ll fuck around in London, and if it goes badly she’ll crawl back, and mope until she finds another ‘casting agent’ to fuck. If it goes well, I’ll never see her again, and if Venturer ever makes a profit she’ll divorce me to get it.”

You weren’t sure what to say, and when Declan’s brown eyes met yours past the forearm he’d thrown over his face, you realised his eyes were glassy.

“Sorry, you didn’t ask to hear all that. Christ.”

“No, I… I’m glad you’ve got someone to talk to. Declan… I can’t imagine.”

“Do you know what isn’t fair? What really isn’t fair? For all that talk about being abandoned and lonely and bored, I’d come back after work, or sneak back on my lunch break, and it was always ‘not now, Declan’. Every single time. ‘Neglected’ my arse.”

When you froze, it felt like a prey instinct. Declan was talking about his sex life. To you. His lack of a sex life. Christ. The way Taggie complained about her parents, you’d imagined something very different from Declan. You’d imagined Declan a lot, in fact.

“What a fucking hypocrite.”

You weren’t sure if it was your swearing, or your sentiment, but Declan’s face cracked into a grin.

“You’re telling me!”

“God, if I had a man in my gorgeous house, sneaking back on his lunch breaks…” you broke off with a laugh, and looked anywhere but Declan.

“You’d what?”

Was he closer? Declan’s voice was serious, and you had to glance towards him to realise he’d leant forwards, elbows on his knees.

“I’d take every chance I could get,” you finished quietly, and the words seemed to linger in the room forever.

“Atta girl,” Declan murmured.

Fuck. You could hear the shifting of his clothes as he fidgeted in his seat.

For a long time, you remained in silence, wondering if the heat you felt would suddenly dissipate. The air had become molasses thick, and you couldn’t look at Declan. He wasn’t far away, a few feet, when he leant forwards. Finally he slumped back into his armchair, legs spread obscenely far apart.

“Do you have a boyfriend, back home?”

You wanted to laugh. In disbelief. In embarrassment. Your clothes felt too tight against your heated skin. Instead, you murmured a no.

“Good. Not a damn man in London good enough for ya.”

The silence played out a little longer. You wondered whether Declan cared about fidelity at all. If he was going to move at all. For a while you just watched him. Forced yourself not to look down, top see if he was as turned on as you felt. It was obscene, how exhaustion and stress and misery still couldn’t hamper his good looks.

There was something more than look about Declan, though. Something in his mannerism. The intensity he watched you with. The way he catalogued every little time you’d interacted. The way he was letting his eyes sweep across you, his gaze hot and searching.

“I don’t want you to regret this, I’m not…” he began.

“I know what a rebound is.”

Your voice was so hollow, it turned bitter, and surprised you. His lust-drunk eyes widened suddenly, and the tension returned to his face. You could feel your own body respond, growing tenser, startled.

“I don’t know what you take me for, sweetheart, but I’m a damn sight older than the boys you’re used to. I wouldn’t know how to ‘play games’ if I tried. I swear. This is the first chance I’ve had to fuck you, and if you’ll let me take it, you’ll have a good time. I promise, the greatest thing about you is that you’re not my wife.”

He paused for breath, and seemed to struggle for a moment. You noticed his hand gripping his thigh, stopping it from shaking.

“You’re kind, and patient, and you listen to me, and you’ve read bloody Stephen King from my bookshelf without me begging you to care about what I care about.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re gorgeous. As soon as Taggie brought you here, I knew you’d ruin my fucking life. You used to ask me how every show went, do you remember? Back at the BBC? Not even my damn wife did that.”

He held a hand out for you, but you weren’t sure what to do with it once you took it. Fingers entwined, you climbed onto his armchair, straddling his lap. Declan groaned, and latched onto the exposed column of your neck, his free hand enormous as it found your waist.

“Oh, your ego likes me? Is that it?”

“Him too,” Declan murmured, and shifted, so that you suddenly realised you could feel him, hard against the crotch of your jeans.

“You’re too young for me,” he murmured against your skin.

“Who cares?”

He laughed, and you knew it was what he’d wanted to hear. Declan pulled more of your weight onto him until you were practically crushing him, thighs on thighs and chest to chest, and then he kept squeezing until his closeness began to hurt.

You rolled your hips and ground down against his lap, hoping to distract him, and Declan groaned, bassy and gorgeous.

“Tag can never know,” you breathed, and felt Declan’s hand move further up your torso in response, clutching the underside of your breast.

“Never,” he agreed, “never.”

When you wrapped both hands around his face and detached him from the underside of your jaw, Declan only released with a grotesque, went smack. You missed the feel of his tongue, skin chilled where his mouth had been, but it was far more important to pull him to your lips. He went willingly, head heavy in your control, looking up at you with glazed hazelnut eyes.

Declan groaned when he kissed you, matching his hands to your face as he took control.

“Do you know how fucking glad I was to see you yesterday?” he groaned against your lips, migrating across your face until he could return to the sensitive join of your jawline and neck, “and I couldn’t even admit to myself why. Isn’t that pathetic?”

“Honourable,” you mumbled, “I think it’s honourable.”

His hands were back on your body, groping until he could shove your bra up, pinching at your nipples through your clothes.

“You’re not gonna think I’m very honourable after tonight, sweetheart.”

“Yeah?”

You were grinding on Declan, desperate for the flashes of friction you could find against the seam of your jeans. He kept getting distracted, groaning when you found an angle he could feel.

“Think I might make you cry, I wanna see if I can make you tell me to stop. You ever been eaten out?”

When you didn’t respond, he squeezed your breast hard, making you yelp. You could feel the jolt from the pain between your legs. He cooed as he rubbed the pain away.

“Sorry baby, didn’t realise you were so sensitive,” he was mocking you, and it was making your entire body thrum.

A laugh shuddered from you, and Declan finally slid a huge, warm palm beneath your shirt and across your stomach.

“I’ll tell you what, why don’t you come upstairs, and we can get these clothes off, hm? Unless you want people to see.”

He slid a hand to the back of your neck, just firm enough to keep you facing down towards him. With his other hand, he began pulling your shirt up, until it was peaking above the mess he’d made of your bra, flesh spilling out obscenely.

“You’re right opposite the window, you know love, that big driveway. Anyone could be coming up to the house… and see you like this. All mine.”

Even lust-addled, you gasped, and tried to look up, but Declan’s grip on your neck stopped you, forcing you to stare down at him.

“You want me to make you cum here, right in from of anyone? In front of Tony? Or Rupert? The postman? My wife might walk back in right now…”

“No!” you gasped, trying to ignore the feeling of him kneading at your exposed breasts, your bra cutting a tight line across them, “please, Declan…”

“You’re sure? I don’t care,” he told you, glib, as he toyed with whether he could reach his mouth to your nipples, a wet tongue snaking across your skin.

“Declan!”

Finally, you wriggled away, and he gave up the moment you resisted him. You glanced up at the gravel driveway, exhaling shakily at finding it empty. Declan was chuckling to himself, pulling your torso closer again so he could mouth at your flesh.

“I did ask if you wanted to go upstairs, I think you were distracted.”

Finally, you could bring yourself to laugh breathily, pulling your shirt down despite Declan’s wandering hands fighting you.

“Upstairs!” you demanded, and pulled Declan to his feet.

He was walking differently, from how hard he was, and you palmed over his crotch, desperate to feel him. Declan groaned, and reluctantly tugged your hand away, adjusting himself.

“Before you get too mad at me,” he returned to your neck, and spun you in front of him, forearms bracing across your chest and stomach, forcing him against you.

You realised then he was framing you against a mirror, forcing you to look at how ravaged the pair of you looked. And the clear view Declan had of the driveway behind you.

“You’re a bastard, Mr O’Hara.”

Declan laughed, but you could see the colour rising in his cheeks, the gulp which moved his Adam’s apple.

“I told you you’d say that.”

“I’d assumed for better reasons than that,” you teased.

You wrapped your fingers around his belt, and began moving the leather to undo the buckle. Declan groaned and it caught in the back of his throat, rising to a whimper.

“C’mon, old man. You’ve made me some big promises.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep them,” he admitted, “if you keep touching me like that.”

“That’s okay,” you ran your hands along the inside of his waistband, feeling his stomach muscles twitch at the contact. “I know it’s been a while. How about you put that silver tongue to use first, yeah?”

“Christ,” Declan groaned, as you finally undid his fly. You stroked across the fabric of his underwear, and Declan threw his head back. His eyes were clenched shut, and his wandering hands had finally fallen to his sides.

“Do you think you’ll make it up the stairs?” you teased, “or should I just go up and finish this off on my own?”

Finally, he opened his eyes, and encircled your wrist with his fingers, pulling you away from him.

“Don’t say shit like that, love,” he went for your ear again, teeth grazing the skin and his lips salving where he’d been, “I’ve imagined that enough for a lifetime.”

“Oh yeah?”

You drifted your hand across his shaft one more time, and Declan let you, loosening his grip on your wrist.

“Come on then,” you teased, and took off.

He was slow, slower in his current state, but you let him chase you, up the stairs and across the landing, his breathless, deep laugh following you as he gave pursuit.

“I’m not that old,” he insisted, as he finally caught you on the upstairs landing, wrapping his arms around you from behind and briefly pulling you from the ground.

“Never said you were.”

“You’re really making me work for this,” Declan growled, sliding a hand down the front of your jeans. You laughed, safe in his grasp.

“I was just worried we’d never get up those fucking stairs.”

He chuckled, and pulled you against the bannisters, fighting with the button of your jeans. You laughed, and let him struggle, until the moment he succeeded, and his fingers met your clit, slippery and swollen.

“Please, just pick a room,” you begged.

“C’mon, love. Give me one here.”

You realised his gaze was out, across the fields, on the path where any one of the bastards in this village might see the pair of you. They wouldn’t, of course, but that was far from the point.

“Declan!”

“C’mon, just one.”

“Make it quick,” you conceded, and gasped as he let his finger slip fast over your clit. You could see the bliss on his face in the reflection of the window.

“That’s up to you, love. Think you can be good for me?”

“You’re the one,” you gasped, as he changed pressure again, experimenting, “you’re the one fingering me, Declan.”

He kissed you, suddenly, sweetly, on the cheek, fingers still working quickly over your clit. Despite the pressure building in between your hips, you laughed.

“What?” you asked him, catching him grinning to himself in the glass.

“I can’t believe I just heard you say that.”

[taylorswiftstyle]

On stage at Eras Tour | London, England | June 23, 2024

Tiffany & Co 'Diamond Wire Ring' - $2,675.00

The Eras Tour costuming has been unique in many ways but one that I've noted specifically is the care Taylor has taken when it comes to accessorizing over the course of her three hour set. There are dedicated necklaces worn during the Lover set to coordinate with a particular bodysuit. She wears a 'RED' merch replica of her Cathy Waterman 'LOVE' ring during the RED set. These are obvious bits of costuming that take the immersion of the show into that time period's era that one step further - because details matter.

Taylor doesn't typically wear personal pieces on the stage, though that's changed somewhat since last summer when she added a few new lobe piercings to her ears and she's since opted to wear her own earrings on the stage. But my eye happened to catch a new addition to her ring stack on Night 3 in London with what appears to be a T&Co ring. The 'wire' design is iconic from the Tiffany's T collection and, of course, features two T's mirroring one another.

Photo by Gareth Cattermole via Getty Images

[tradgedyinwaves]

Touch - Ch. 2

Poly!141 x chunky!reader tw: little creepy at the end, stalking vibes

By the time the other three members of Task Force 141 made the drive to Ghost’s hometown, he had already determined where you were living by following you from the market and was back in his own flat, swirling a glass of whiskey. The team sat down to make a game plan, almost treating you as if you were one of their missions while sitting around Ghost’s beat up old dining table. You’d be theirs, one way or another. 

A Week Later, Saturday. 

Bleary weather had plagued Manchester for the last few days, gray clouds hovering overhead while you attempted to find your motivation for your job. It wasn’t helpful that you’d received news from your mom that your cousin and Kit would be getting married soon. A brick settled in your stomach at the news, ending the call with your mom quickly as you forced down the tears you refused to keep crying over him. 

In an effort to cheer yourself up, you headed out of your flat and down the street to the sweet little flower shop you’d found your first week in Manchester. The owner, Magda, was a kind, gentle old lady who essentially took you under her wing when you had trouble finding your footing in the new country. She’d been a boon to you, telling you the best shops for everything from groceries to clothes. You’d helped her find her cat when the mangy thing had slipped out the back door to fight the stray living behind a neighboring shop.

The bell chimed above your head, banging against the worn wood. You were immediately greeted by the scent of the most beautiful flowers and Magda’s voice talking a man through the best choices for an apology bouquet. You caught her eye over his shoulder and waved, a soft smile on your face as your eyes drifted to the back of the man’s head.

He easily stood a foot and a half taller than the elderly owner, cropped mohawk adding to the already egregious height difference. His shoulders were broad, though not quite as broad as your masked man back in New York. Why were you thinking about him all of sudden? You shook your head, clearing your mind like an etch-a-sketch and headed straight to the hyacinths and lilacs, wanting the sweet scent of your favorite flowers to brighten up your flat and completely missing him turning to take you in.

“Pretty flowers. Almost as pretty as you.” A low voice startled you out of your reverie, spinning on your heel to face the man Magda had been helping previously. Now, you could see that his eyes were a shocking blue and the lopsided smile he provided you made your heart stutter against your ribcage. But the size of him was what intrigued you. 

You’d accepted that this was the way you were now. Despite doing months of working out and eating well, your body hadn’t changed much from when you’d left the States. The cleaner food of England helped you feel better though, breathing a little life back into you after everything you’d dealt with. But that also meant that men weren’t as courageous in approaching you, their bravado faltering in the face of society's expectations. So when an attractive man approached you, blatantly flirting, your first response was to think it was a joke, snort and walk away, effectively blowing him off.

A gentle hand on your shoulder a few minutes later had you whipping around to ask what the guy's problem was, but was greeted by Magda instead. Immediately, you looked around for the mohawk guy, but he was nowhere to be found and you could have sworn the bell hadn’t dinged against the door. Weird. Bringing your gaze back to the elderly woman, you raised a brow at the scrap of paper in her hands. “That sweet young man paid for your flowers and left this as well,” Magda handed you the piece of paper with a number and a messy name scrawled at the bottom. 

Johnny. 

You’d gone home with your overly expensive bouquet and the scrap of paper after, staring down at it as if it would burst into flames at any moment. You took a deep breath, telling yourself “Why the hell not?” as you punched the number into a new message chain. 🪻: Uh, hi. Is this Johnny?

🧼: Ay, it is, Petal.

🪻: Petal? 

🧼: Well, I don’t know your name, do I?

He made a good point, making you sigh as you released your own name to him in spite of your reservations. But maybe, just maybe, you could manage to make a few friends if he ended up not being interested in you.

The next few days were spent lounging around your flat, going to work, and texting Johnny. What you didn’t know, though, was that he was reporting everything back to his boys. It had only taken Simon’s word and the one picture to have each of them wagging their tongues and readying their arms to protect what they now saw as theirs.

By the time you were winding down on Wednesday night and brewing tea that Johnny had insisted you know how to make, you were smiling at your phone that lit up every few minutes with his messages. The two of you had discussed everything from your favorite color and food to what had brought you to England. When he’d heard the details of that night, sans your interaction with Ghost, and paired it with Simon’s recollection, he’d been furious. His fingers tightened around the phone to the point that Price had taken it from him in an effort to not have to buy another replacement.

Simon had been in the same boat as Johnny, opting for stomping out of the flat to walk off his rage and guilt, feeling it gnaw at him for not stepping up before and then abandoning you after. His feet carried him to your building, watching from the ground as you paced around your space. When your pacing brought you in front of the window, you paused and looked through the glass, heart hammering as you saw a dark shape of a man standing on the sidewalk. But the light of the lamp posts made one thing stand out very clearly,

the white skull painted on his mask. 

I didn't want to offend any Scots with trying to type out Johnny's accent. I have a feeling this is going to turn into some long winded fic, so buckle in if you're ready for that.

Thank you so much for your support!

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Delightful 1860 stone folly, (a building that has little or no function, and pretends to be something that it is not. The building of follies was especially popular in England during the 18th and 19th centuries), in Gloucester, UK. 3bds, 2ba, £525k / $685,230. The house needs some refreshing- the carpeting is worn and some of the walls seem yellowed.

I love the pink fireplace and the chandelier. It will need new flooring, though.

The wallpaper in the dining room is cute, but it looks yellowed. The carpet is shot, too. It's a sizeable space, so it could look very nice.

The large kitchen looks like a playhouse kitchen, doesn't it?

The large family room features sunny yellow walls, a painted beam, and turquoise fireplace.

Vintage bath with some fancy tiles.

In the primary bedroom, the bed should probably go into the nook on the right.

This is cute. I really like the closets.

Isn't this adorable? Some cute and colorful furniture would be amazing in here.

The 2nd bath is blue, which could be nice.

Oh, this smaller bedroom also has a built-in nook. Very nice.

Larger room that fits 3 beds. It could also have a nice sitting area and desk if it has fewer beds.

I like the tile in this bath. Victorian toilet and stained glass window gives a vintage look.

Tiered patios in the back.

Two stone outbuildings.

Lovely pond.

The original little folly was expanded to make it a large home.

https://www.rightmove.co.uk/properties/152084159#/?channel=RES_BUY

[enwoso]

sexier in black | lucy bronze

*something that’s been in my drafts for a few weeks, sorry for the lack of fics but i am writing little bits in between studying but exams are nearly over so should be able to get more done soon<3*

navigation

“black or pink?” you questioned holding up a black satin dress where the straps crossed over the front and in the other some a matching light pink suit. lucy looked up from her phone as she lying on the hotel bed. looking back and forth between the two outfits several times.

you were leaning towards the black dress, it being a while since you had worn a dress or even had the excuse to dress up fancy. so what better excuse than lucy and the lionesses going to an award show. although you weren’t nominated for anything due to spending half the season out with an injury - you still wanted to be there to support lucy and the other girls.

you and lucy went way back and had been friends for a while before any feelings actually came into the picture. knowing of her since you began in england U17s youth teams.

it not being until you were called up to the senior team, and she took you under her wing, lucy having joined a year earlier that you started hanging out more often, until you both confessed your feelings for each other — ever since then the two of you had been inseparable.

the award show was paying tribute to young and upcoming stars both domestically and internationally, the girls being nominated for their work done at the euros. it also being a chance to see new and old faces.

“hmm.. well you do look adorable in pink but-“ your girlfriend pausing, her face deep in thought you could see the cogs moving behind her eyes as she looked between the two outfits still not giving you an answer.

why was the girl so indecisive?

second felt like hours had passed and she was still looking between the two outfits, the clock ticking and you already didn’t have a lot of time to get ready as the two of you decided to have a thirty minute nap which actually was two hours.

“so i’ll just pick the pink then?” you ask, your arms getting sore from holding up the two outfits for so long like some sort of clothes statue.

“no, no!” lucy quickly said as she moved to sit on the side of the bed, “you look cute in the pink but the black.. you just um what the word..” lucy continued, she was dragging it out on purpose now knowing how short of an attention span you had to begin with and how much your hated waiting.

“you look sexier in black” lucy smirks, as your stomach begins to do flips. “so go with the black!” she confirms her answer as you nod satisfied that you had finally gotten an answer from the girl.

“could have just said that in the beginning!” you mumbled, but still loud enough for lucy to hear you as you turned around to move back into the bathroom to get changed.

placing the dress down on the counter as you began to get changed, the black satin dress which hugged your curves just right and for once maybe lucy was right — you did look sexier in black.

not that you would ever admit that to your girlfriend’s face knowing the smug smile you would get if she knew you thought she was right.

the ego of hers did not need to be boosted anymore than it already was on the daily,

fixing the straps to ensure that they sat on your chest in the correct way, feeling a pair of eyes staring you down from the doorway.

moving your head slowly to the direction of the doorway, your eyes were met with lucy as she stood in the doorway a large oversized hoodie which will definitely make its way into your wardrobe later, and some shorts that she always slept in.

little flyaways coming from her bun as her hair was all messy from the nap the two you you had just woken up from but still she managed to look gorgeous, her tattooed arms standing out as she stood with a giant smirk across her face.

“yeah?” you asked wondering she she needed anything as she stood there in her own thoughts, while you began to rummage through your makeup bag for a certain product.

“oh nothin’ just admiring how beautiful my girlfriend is!” lucy smiled as she came and wrapped her arms around your waist her head resting on your shoulder.

“mhm that so?” you mumbled as you began to press makeup into your skin, drawing lines and dots on your face.

“why are you even puttin’ that on your face?” lucy asked, as she focused on you dabbing your face as the product blended into your skin. lucy of course knew the basics about make up but she didn’t wear it a lot — in fact very rarely. the most makeup she wore was mascara other than that her makeup supply was very limited.

“makes me look more put together!” you shrug as she hummed, “you look gorgeous with and without out!” lucy whispered as she placed a gentle kiss to your neck, a grin appearing on your face like a child at christmas.

you carry on with your makeup as lucy does everything in her power to slow the process down by teasing you.

placing sloppy kisses to your sweet spot on your neck, sucking slightly on it every few seconds as you body tried to remain calm, your head had other plans.

“luce, please… you need to go and get ready” you squeaked out. however you weren’t sure if you were wanting her to stop and listen to you or if you were wanting her to carry on kissing you.

your breathing increasing with each kiss she placed on your body. seconds beginning to feel like hours as she removes her hands from your waist, lifting you so you were now sitting on the bathroom counter.

kicking the door shut with her foot, as she placed on hand on your lower thigh and the other moved up to your cheekbone and gently tucks the loose strand of your hair behind your ear.

you swore you could hear her pulse as she brings her lips to yours as you can feel the fire crackle under your skin. the same feeling you get in her tummy as you did when you and lucy had your first kiss appears once again.

if there was one feeling you could have for the rest of your life — this would be it.

you don’t let yourself think about how your going to explain to the rest of your teammates why the two of you are so late.

all you wanted to focus on right now was the way her hands slowly roamed your body, your body feeling flushed just at her touch.

the way her mouth tastes, the way your tongue somehow knows how to follow hers and the way your hands grip her neck to pull her closer into you.

burying your fingers into her hair, tugging gently at it as her hands find their way fumbling with the straps of your dress. feeling the smirk on her face as small whines fell from your lips as she nipped and tugged at your body.

“lucy! y/n!” georgia yells banging on the bathroom door startling both you and lucy as you jump away from each other a the sudden noise. “are yous’ in there” a thick milton keynes accent of leah williamson sung out as they both began to bang on the door at the lack of the answer.

“hang on!” lucy yelled back, while the two of them still banged on the door — probably just to be annoying.

lucy helped you down, smiling as she kissed you one last time before opening the door. both leah and georgia nearly falling over at the sudden moment of the door opening.

“how are the two of you not ready yet?” leah asked as her and georgia stood all dressed and ready while lucy opened her mouth to say something before being cut off by leah pulling a face of disgust, “you know what don’t answer that i don’t wanna know”

“can yous like hurry up, everyone’s waiting and im starvin” georgia complained as you stood their beginning more to wonder how they even got in when neither have a keycard for you door and for a good reason.

"how’d you even get in-" you began.

“okay cool- also lucy you’ve got lipstick on your face!” georgia cut you off before you even had a chance to get your sentence out, directing the last part to lucy as she pointed to your girlfriend. before the two left giggling, quickly leaving your room.

“do i really have lipstick on ma face?” lucy asked turning to you as you smile to yourself reaching to rub it off with your thumb.

“darling you need to get better at puttin’ makeup on!” lucy cheekily says as she watched you fix up your own lipstick.

“and someone needs to learn to keep their hands to their self!” you sass as a gasp comes from your girlfriend as your quick remark.

“don’t wear that dress next time.” lucy mumbled as you stood dumbfounded as she was literally the one who told you to wear the black dress.

“go and get ready, we’re already late!” you smile at lucy hitting her slightly in the shoulder as you pushed her out the bathroom.

[purplereina11]

New Signing, New Beginning

Mia Larsen was Barcelonas new summer signing

Alexia Putellas is a club legend who just can't seem to talk to her

Mia Larsen was awoken gently by her grandmother cooking her favourite breakfast the smell filling her senses filling her body with warmth and comfort. She’d had a tough couple of weeks moving her whole life from England to the outskirts of Barcelona, to live in the spacious bungalow, it was an adjustment. She went from living alone following her rules and schedule to having to consider her grandparents and there strictly set regime they followed to the minute. If you didn’t know her grandfather was in the army it wouldn’t take you long to figure it out.

She threw the blankets off her body and set her feet in the slippers waiting at her bedside, the tiles were always incredibly cold on the bottom of her feet something in the mid-day heat she was thankful for. But when she’d just woken up, it was not appreciated especially since Mia wasn’t a morning person. Something her Grandparents learned the hard way.

She saw her Grandparents growing up, she was aware of them, she felt comfortable with them. But the two visits a year and the posted Christmas and birthday money didn’t make her comfortable enough to relax in there company when living with them.

Mia caught sight of herself in the pyjamas her grandfather spotted on the market and just had to buy them as he knew his little néta would just love them. It had been a long time since Mia had worn long sleeved pyjamas especially with animals plastered all over but never Donkeys on a lilac silk, they were hanging off her body her Grandfather getting a size to big.

She hated them. But she did find a little smile whenever she found they’d been washed and put back in her drawer.

“Bon dia estimada” Her Grandmother smiled, Mia smiling through tired eyes kissing her cheek.

“Bon Dia” She spoke softly back pouring herself the black coffee her Avia learned she had of a morning that was like a magic potion making her less grumpy so always made sure to have a fresh pot made for when she rose. “Bon Dia Avi” she spoke spotting her Grandfather at the dining table in front of the window with the view she’d never tire of, his glasses on his nose as he tried to complete todays crossword.

“Bon Dia amor” he smiled as Mia took her place on the bench under the window clutching her coffee cup.

“Don’t forget our neighbours have invited us for a barbecue this afternoon” Mia rose her eyes, “There’ll be people your age there, maybe you could make some friends”

“Yeah..” Mia lifted the mug to her lips before muttering, “Maybe” she trailed off in to her own thoughts of the significance the day held tomorrow.

She was officially signing for FC Barcelona after spending her entire career since the age of 14 playing for Arsenal.

+

Mia didn’t make friends, but when she was dropped off at the Barcelona training facility by her Grandfather like a kid on there first day of school she kissed his cheek and exited the car to a chorus of encouragement. It was a big deal Mia playing for Barcelona this season, her grandfather a life long Barcelona fan had spent his summer familiarising himself with the women’s team. He bought the scarfs the flags. He had his favourites. It was cute really, that he felt pride in her.

Mia was met with staff all very welcoming, she did all the formality all the shots for the media and even was taken on a little walk around of the facilities with Pere who was incredibly easy to talk to. She stood on the training field one leg outstretched in front of arms folded. She smiled as they spoke some of his coaching staff there also, her nationality was brought up when asked why she didn’t play internationally, “That’s a confusing one” She scratched her face, “My mum was born in Barcelona, my grandparents to, they still live here, my dad he was was from Norway and I’m technically English with being born there and living there my whole life.”

“So who you represent?”

Mia laughed her body moving as she did, she shrugged, “You tell me, it’s a mind field who’d I even choose”

“Ah Alexia”

Mia’s eyes were averted to the blonde Spaniard with tired eyes approaching with a small smile gracing her lips, she greeted the coaching staff before her attention was moved to Mia. Mia caught Alexia give her the once over before her hand outstretched in front of her as she approached.

“Mia, Encantat de con��ixer-te” Alexia as she shook Mia’s hand looked a little taken a back then amusement showed on her lips her eyes softening.

“You speak Catalan?”

Mia shrugged, “A little, think saying I speak it is a stretch”

Alexia scratched her face moving to stand beside her, “Had me fooled” Alexia mumbled, she even had the accent with it, “They’ve shown you around?” Alexia reverted to English being told she was English, before shaking her head, “No?”

Mia nodded, “Yeah, pretty impressive facility, with a view to match” Alexia continued to make small talk with Mia, who felt a little bit of satisfaction when she made La Reina laugh even if it seemed a little forced from the stoic Catalan native. Ok laugh might be over doing it. She pushed air out her nose the edges of her lips curling ever so slightly as she looked at the ground arms folded. Did that count as a laugh?

Mia told her grandfather on the ride home she didn’t feel comfortable around Alexia, but that was just purely of who she was and her stature in the game and the fact you didn’t really get much back from her. She was on guard with her watching every word, how she held herself, she was her captain after all. And quite possibly the best female football player in the world. She was intimidated.

Mia was all smiles over dinner as her Grandmother had invited her Aunt Uncle and their children over to take her mind off the big day tomorrow. Her first training day with Barcelona, it was also a celebration dinner. It was a big deal there little Mia was now playing for the best club in Europe if not the world after the 6 months she had. It was nice to see her smiling.

On the other side of the city Alexia was at her Mami’s leaning on the kitchen counter in a death scroll on Instagram when she was supposed to be preparing the vegetables in front of her. Alba peeked over her elder sisters sister, “She’s cute.. who is that”

“New signing” Alexia muttered locking her phone putting it down and started the task she was set before her mami noticed and she got into trouble.

“Why were you on her instagram?”

“Research” Alba rose her eyebrows at Alexia as she sipped her water, clearly not believing her, “Met her today, just wanted to see what kind of person she is”

“And you couldn’t achieve that with the conventional method of a conversation?” Eli smiled chancing a glance at her girls, Alexias face spoke volumes, she didn’t like to be questioned.

“She was guarded”

“Wonder why” Alba was sarcastic as she turned, “Need me to do anything Mami?”

“Help your sister with that veg so we can eat this side of midnight”

Mia was dropped off by her Grandfather, “We’ll have to take you car shopping, you can’t keep getting dropped off by your L’Avi Mia”

Mia hummed looking out her window seeing many faces she’d watched play on the TV many times heading in all smiles greeting each other as they were excited for the new season to get going, Mia kissed his cheek opening the door, “I’ll see you later” she bolted out the car before all her resolve left her and she was left in the car with no confidence to walk into the club.

“Have a good day, show them what your made of”

Mia smiled “T’Estimo” she spoke leaning her head down to look into the car and shut the door, she didn’t hear her Grandfather drive away as she sorted her bag onto her shoulder and was making the walk to the entrance. She did however hear a car door

“Oh look what the cat dragged in”

Mia looked and smiled, Keira Walsh was heading towards her, her Grandfather smiled seeing her be greeted by one of the players with a warm hug, put his car into gear and left her to her first full day feeling less nerves for her.

“It’s good to see you” Mia spoke warmly as they parted from there embrace, Mia did play for Arsenal previously and was close friends with Leah Williamson, Keira’s best friend so they’d got to know each other over the years through Leah. She’d consider Keira a friend, they’d text often checking in. 

Mia and Keira conversed, one that was constantly interrupted as Mia was getting players coming up to her to welcome her and do introductions. “I can’t believe you’ve lived here nearly 3 weeks and your yet to ask me to hang out with you” Mia smiled as she took a seat in her cubby that was thankfully next to Keira, Mia sent a little smile to Alexia who would be the other side.

“Bon dia” Alexia said with a little nod

“Bon Dia” Mia spoke before Keira noticed the interaction, “Well I can’t believe I’ve been here nearly 3 weeks and you haven’t asked me to hang out” Mia rebutted

“It’s kind of hard when you don’t follow people back on Instagram or give them your new number” Keira folded her arms sitting back Mia rummaging in her bag for something. “.. Katie McCabe” Mia paused her search, “I thought better of you than that Larsen”

Alexia moved her eyes from Mia to Keira then back again, “Yeah well, we all have lapses in judgement”

“That was some big lengthy lapse”

Mia sat up finding her drink finally, “I’d be careful, you know she’s your besties bestie” Keira just rolled her eyes as Pere came into the locker room to welcome them all back or welcome them entirely to the new season. He clapped when he was finished the girls following suit before he urged for them to get out onto the grass.

Mia finished tying her laces as the girls round her all rose to her feet, she wasn’t delaying the inevitable but she was making a meal of tying her laces. She needed to settle her nerves, something she didn’t often feel but she felt out of her depth surrounded by the greats of European football. She rose to her feet, Keira hovering at the door to the grass, as Mia stepped out she noticed Alexia was only just slightly ahead fixing her hair. “Ale” Keira called Alexia turned to the brits walking backwards, “Have you met Mia?”

Alexia simply nodded, “Yesterday” she turned and took off in a jog

“She’s not a morning person” Keira made the excuse jogging after Alexia asking her why she behaved the way she did, and she didn’t get a lot back from her captain. Mia lowered her head before picking up her pace, she was handed a bib on arrival assigning her to other players. Mia missed Alexia spotting Mia pull her bib on, removing her own and handing it off.

Over the next two hours, Alexia always seemed to be where Mia was, not once did she strike up a conversation with the new striker, Mia on a few occasions had caught Alexia looking at her. All she got was unsolicited advice or direction when Mia made eye contact. Some had been useful others were just plain obvious. Alexia seemed more bothered marking Mia than attacking with her team.

Mia felt it by the end of the training session, it was different to the last 13 years at Arsenal, she sat packing her bag up texting with her cousin about where she managed to pull up to collect her.

Mia bid a goodbye to the girls remaining in the locker room, most wanting to touch her hand, Patri with a big smile even gave her a hug, “Gets easier from here on out.. promise” seeing what kind of day Mia had, she held her own and impressed for her first day. But it seemed she struggled momentarily on each new task before Alexia had a word and then she took it in her stride and did her best, despite the looming captain always there. Watching and judging.

Mia paused ever so slightly as she was coming through reception and saw Alexia perched leaning on the desk. “Si uno” Alexia spoke.

 She moved by her without a word before deciding to turn to her, “Alexia” she spoke softly, Alexia moved to face her, turning her whole body as she was addressed, “Thanks for your help today”

Mia felt her heart crunch in her chest when it appeared Alexia smiled ever so slightly, she put a fist towards her, “No problem” Mia touched it with her own pierced her lips together turned and left. She had hoped for a little encouraging word like Patri had.

Little did she know as she was met with a excitable hug from her cousin Alexia moved closer to the exit watching on wondering who she was hugging and why she got a hug and Alexia didn’t despite her admission she helped her today.

Over the week Alexia still seemed to keep Mia close but not seemingly making an effort to get to know her in anyway keeping it limited and formal the interactions. Mia had developed a friendship with a few of the girls, she felt more comfortable in the routine, she now knew where she needed to be what with without having to ask Keira constantly.

Keira looked as Mia came into the gym, “Mia” she waved her over across the gym, Mapi Leon made her laugh with a comment on the way over. Seemed they’d got an inside joke already. “What you doing after training?”

“Well” Mia popped a hip, “I’ve got a sudoku puzzle that’s calling my name back home”

Keira smirked, shaking her head, “You need to calm down” Keira smiled. Mia missed Alexia walking behind her but her perk ass caught her attention from Keira if only briefly when she was leaning over to grab a weight

“I really do” Mia smiled something that gave Alexia butterflies when she stood up straight weight in hand seeing it in the reflection of the mirror she stood before. She never smiled at her, Alexia probably would self combust if she did. It really made those Green with little flecks of blue eyes sparkle.

Mia looked to Alexia as she turned around, “Bon dia” Alexia spoke almost inaudible

“Bon dia” Mia said with a little nod, Keira just stared at Alexia as she seemed to want to start a conversation, Keira was thankful Ingrid called her name so she could leave the awkward situation. She needed to speak to Mia, Alexia was nothing but warm and welcoming with her.

“Your girlfriend’s cute” she said, her muscles pulsating with her holding the weight not that Mia would know she was in pure agony keeping her exterior calm as always. Mia was actually impressed she could hold the weight so casually. It made her bicep pop.

“My girlfriend?” Mia questioned with furrowed brows

“She picked you up from training Friday no?”

Alexia furrowed her own brows when Mia seemed to laugh at her even if it was gently also like she was trying to have a level of respect, “No, that was my cousin Julia.. she’s single”

Alexia jutted her chin in recognition, “She’s not my type” and with that Alexia turned to leave

“You said she was cute” Mia spoke stopping Alexia in her tracks, she caved and put the weight down before her arm dropped off.

“Yeah?”

“I assumed-“ Mia could see she wasn’t giving much back and to be honest her face held no expression which made Mia think she was pissing her captain off and gave up, “Never mind” Mia took a step, “I best go.. do” Mia sighed as she turned to go across the gym, she had no idea what she’d done. Alexia seemed to at least tolerate her the first day they met and now she could barely even do that. As she did her program she spent the whole time in her head replaying all the interactions in her head to try and figure out what she’d done wrong.

It wasn’t because she was new because she laughed and joked with the other new signing and overtly made an effort to speak to her and welcome her under her wing. Quite literally, like know the girl was tucked under her arm as they spoke with Pere.

She just seemed to be sizing Mia up and the more she did the more she seemed to not like what she saw. Maybe her Ex Katie was right, she wasn’t good enough for a team like Barcelona and it’ll be career suicide.

Alexia watched Mia, she seemed in her own head, she certainly wasn’t present in the room, she was doing what was supposed to. She wasn’t slacking by any means but the minute no one engaged with her, back into her head she went.

Once they got on the pitch Alexia resumed her normal habit, but this time it seemed Mia was catching on and would move away. Not so obviously but Alexia could tell a little glance in her direction and Mias feet would carry away to ask someone a question when she could have just asked her. Alexia grabbed a bib when Mia wasn’t provided with one. Mia looked over her shoulder when she heard Jana complaining she didn’t want an extra layer on when it was unseasonably warm. “I’ll take it” Mia smiled when Jana thanked her with a soft smile their hands grazing getting an electric shock making Mia laugh. Now that was music to Alexias ears almost so she almost missed her queue to join the mini match

Mia slipped it on as she stepped on the pitch in the mini match, she saw Alexia spot her and could see she didn’t seem to like the fact they were on the same team. If Alexia couldn’t even hack this how would she feel if Mia got game time which was feeling less and less likely with the attitude Alexia displayed towards her. Surely the captains word held validity some weight within Pere’s ear.

Mia got the ball in midfield after Alexia passed to her, she almost fumbled it not expecting it to come to her from that source. She one touched in between Mapi and Ingrid to Alexia running behind. “What a ball!” Pere exclaimed clapping as Alexia placed it in the back of the net, Mia turned smiling when Ingrid pretended to be pissed at her. Pere clapping exclaiming about Alexias finish.

Mia was walking fixing her hair, “Mia” she looked it was Alexia. “Good pass”

Mia nodded, “Gràcies” Mia missed the little smile Alexia mustered in her direction as she looked to Pere who was shouting directions at her.

Mia controlled the ball with one touch from Aitana in the centre out to her on the left hand side. She lifted her head spotted the move Alexia would make before she made it and hung the ball up in yet another perfectly weighted pass into the box for Alexia to get on the end of. And just that she did.

Pere blew the whistle and the teams switched Mias team getting a break, she was first to the water cooler grabbing her energy drink and moving away so the other players could get in to get to the drink container.

Mia looked as Keira touched her side, “Leah told me what happened, you ok?”

“Same drama different day” Mia smiled softly, “I’m fine, you don’t need to pander on your friends behalf, it was just a couple of texts”

“You should of told me”

Mia laughed softly putting the bottle back into the cooler, “I’ll be sure that you’re the first to know all about my dating life’s dramas”

Keira smiled greatly, “Please do.. it’s juicy”

“Fuck off” Mia shook her head with a smile as she turned around, Alexia didn’t like that Mias smile dropped as her head did when there eyes connected.

“Can i be next?” Maria asked with her sweet smile Mia couldn’t help but reciprocate.

“Sure” Mia touched her arm on the way past, “But it’s not that interesting”

Keira nodded, “It is, i’ll tell you later” Maria seemed intrigued as they headed back out to play yellow team this time.

Mia looked as Alexia went jogging by, Mia worked hard, she so desperately wanted to impress Alexia. She played balls she got into positions and set up so many of Alexia’s goals. She didn’t even take her own oppurtunties always squaring it for Aleixa. But she felt then maybe now she was sucking up and would that annoy just as much.

She felt like she couldn’t win.

Aitana gave her a high ten and hugged her, “You did good today”

“Thank You” Mia smiled moving along to smack other hands, she seemed to be following Alexia through the players and in the end she was the only one she didn’t high five.

It was really getting to her.

Everyone else spoke to her, said how well she was doing, some even asked if she wanted to hang out outside of training knowing she had no friends.

But she got nothing from Alexia.

+

Mia was sat in her room doing another sudoko, her phone lit up, it was Julia.

Get dressed, i’m coming to get you. We’re going for a drink.

I have training tomorrow

Don’t get drunk then, i’ll be 10 minutes

Mia felt self conscious as she sat in the bar with Julia and a couple of her friends, it was a pretty bar better than the dives she went to in London. The atmosphere was chill sophisticated beautiful decorated, every detail clearly meticulously planned and executed to high level. She felt a bit out of her depth but like the only other aspect she had in her life currently.

Mia even appreciated the wine glasses she ran her finger up and down the stem as she zoned out of the girls swooning over some girl they knew but couldn’t place.

“Mia” she rose her eyes to Julia, “What’s wrong? You’re not still pineing over Katie are you”

“God know, never did pine over her” Mia pulled a face, “My captain hates me and i don’t know why”

“It can’t be that bad”

Mia sighed and rambled about all the ways Alexia makes her feel inadequate like she doesn’t belong how she was an annoyance. How obvious she was making it she was sizing her up and disappointing her at every possible moment.

“It’s probably like an initiation or something to see how you react”

Mia stared at Julias friend, “She’s not like that with the other new signings”

“I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news but, i’m pretty sure she’s just walked in”

Mia looked over her shoulder, she swallowed. Yeah that was Alexia all right. Heading to the bar chatting to an older woman. Another a similar age to herself wandering behind.

“I need the toilet” Mia grumbled finishing her glass getting to her feet, she felt eyes bore into her as she walked through the bar. She was in her pink jacket short black skirt and biker boots her white socks just showing because apparently thats how the kids wore there socks these days. She was feeling herself so enjoyed the feel of someone paying her attention.

She was washing her hands delaying going back to the table in the hopes one of the girls would have gotten a round in so she wasn’t met with an empty glass.

She rose her eyes when one of the doors behind her opened, she gave a polite little smile to the women emerging that had been following Alexia.

“Disculpeu-me, teniu un tampó?”

Mia smiled nodding, “Si” she said to the woman’s request pulling a tampon out her bag, Mia laughed softly at the women telling her she was a lifesaver quickly dipping back into the cubicle.

Mia was drying her hands, she wasn’t stalling. At. All. This Putellas seemed a lot more friendly and for research purposes wanted to see if that was the case. As the women washed hers, her eyes rose in the mirror “I love your jacket by the way”

“Thank You”

“Where’s it from?”

“Zara” Mia told the exact store in Barcelona she found it in since she had the trauma of going to three as the others didn’t stock it when she’d popped into those.

“Gracias” The women slipped by as Mia held the door and they walked together, Alexia rose her eyes to see her little sister smiling with Mia at whatever she was saying to her.

Mia then laughed, “Si si” Mia pointed, “Si en necessiteu un altre, sóc allà mateix” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, telling the woman where she was if she needed another tampon from her, she felt Alexia watching her as she turned to leave there eyes fell on each other. Mia never noticed how kind her eyes were before.. shame the facial expression she got didn’t match.

“Bona Tarda” She briefly pulled the corners of her mouth back very quickly that if Mia had blinked she would of missed

“Bona Tarda” Mia nodded the once before heading off, probably being friendly with her family was a nail in a coffin she was well and truly settled into with Alexia.

Alba sighed looking to Alexia, “Are you not playing nicely at work?”

“What did she mean if you needed another one?” Alexia asked a mix of confusion and annoyance on her face glancing to see Mia walking, she couldn’t help notice just how short the skirt was, her eyes running down her legs before them meeting back with Albas.

“I borrowed a tampon”

“Also” Alexia’s face scrunched her head shaking like something had just resinated in her brain, “Why do you automatically think it’s my fault?” Her hand came to her chest

“I know you and she was kind enough to lend a total stranger a tampon and tell me where i can buy her jacket because i really liked it”

Eli Alexia’s mother handed her a drink, “If i didn’t know any better i would think you looked nervous around her Ale”

“As if” Alexia pulled a defiant face sipping a drink, “Shall we go sit down?” Alexia walked away, Alexia had always been a little bit shy, her career helping massively with that but there were still shades of it at times. She’d never had to be worried about being shy around a woman, if she had been they’d made all the moves, started all the conversations. No matter how many times she made herself near Mia, Mia just didn’t seem to want to start a conversation. Everyone always wanted to talk to Alexia have her attention have a piece of her. The one person she found herself wanting to talk to and find all about, the English woman that could speak Spanish and Catalan, and according to Ingrid Norwegian as well. Just wouldn’t engage. It was infuriating, resulting in a somewhat sour mood with Alexia when she was around Mia. Mia was different. She was intriguing, not like the rest.

“Think you hit a nerve Mami” Alba smiled at her mother’s face as they sat with Alexia deep in her thoughts when they’d found where she stomped off to.

“Is she not fitting into the team Ale?” Eli asked hoping the blonde wasn’t the way she was because it was falling on her to try to intergrate someone who either wouldn’t or didn’t want to.

Alexia nodded, “No she is.. I was only saying to Pere today how seamless is seems, she’s picked up our style so quick, it takes others months to get it, also she makes me look great plays some great balls, she’s also gaining a lot of favour that she actually seems to understand the language”

Alba furrowed her brows, “What are you talking about?”

“She’s English”

“Fuck off!” Alba exclaimed, “I did not get that from our conversation”

“She only moved here 3 weeks ago”

“Oh wow” Alba seemed impressed, “Do you know what I did get from our conversation?”

“Go on” Alexia sipped her drink before placing it back down as Alba leant on the table.

“She’s hot and if you don’t do something about that.. I will”

“How many times? No more teammates, you make it so complicated when you get bored and ditch them” Alba laughed at her elder sister looking to there Mami for help, “I’m being serious Alba. No.”

“I’ve always stayed out of your drama and I will continue to do so” Eli sipped her drink, “Just talk to her Alexia.. you have something in common, football, start there its clearly bothering the girl. You don’t have to get into the personal, keep it about the team.”

“Thought you were staying out of it” Alba looked to her mother, who gave her youngest a look that sent her retreating into her self, “You do you mami” Alexia smiled and got a kick under the table for her trouble

Alexia looked over her shoulder her eyes landing on Mia almost instantly, Alexia was going to have to pull her big girl knickers on if she was to talk to her new teammate.

Part 2

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Fashion History

for your next poem/story (pt. 1/2)

1850-1879

The Civil War began in 1861 and ended in 1865, heavily impacting the lives of those living during the time period. In fashion, the rise of the sewing machine allowed more decorative effects to be used in dress, and new aniline dyes paved the way for brighter shades of dress.

This time is known as the Crinoline Period because cage crinoline made of whalebone or steel hoops replaced heavy layers of petticoats, and were commonly worn under dresses by women of the time.

One trend that hit its peak in the 1870s was the bustle, an item women secured under the back portion of their skirts to add volume.

In terms of silhouette, a narrow waist with a fitted bodice and full skirts was the recurrent style. Popular sleeve styles included pagoda sleeves, gathered bishop sleeves, and the coat sleeve.

During the day, high necklines were appropriate, but women often wore lower necklines in the evening.

Wraps and shawls were commonly worn, and accessories such as parasols, gloves, snoods, and bonnets were highly desired.

1870-1900

The years 1870-1900 include what is known as the Bustle period, in which the popular silhouette shifted from full skirts to a more fitted look characterized by fullness in the back.

Throughout the Bustle period of the 1870s and 1880s, a variety of padded devices were utilized to create back fullness, as the bustle took on different forms.

The bustle of the first stage (1870-1878) was achieved through manipulation of drapery and the use of decorative details such as flounces and bows at the back.

From (1878-1883) fullness dropped to below the hips and decorative effects of the skirt became focused low as a result.

Long trains and heavy fabrics also helped to emphasize the focus on the rear.

The latter part of the decade (1884-1890) saw the bustle at its largest. Often referred to as the shelf bustle, it was rigid and took on the appearance of an almost horizontal projection. At this time, skirts shortened to several inches above the floor and rarely had trains, with the exception of some evening dresses.

Additionally, they include the 1890's, which are often referred to as the Gay Nineties or La Belle Epoque. Times were good, Paris was the center of high fashion, and for those who could afford it, dress was lavish and highly decorative.

The corset continued to be worn, aligning with the fashionable silhouette of a full bust and hips with a narrow waist.

Dress ensembles typically consisted of two pieces -- a bodice and matching skirt.

The one-piece princess dress, worn by some during the latter part of the period, was an exception. Bodices were often fitted, with the cuirass bodice style emerging from around 1878-1883.

Sleeves were close-fitting and ended at either three quarters or at the wrist.

Evening dresses were differentiated by their lavish trimmings, level of ornamentation, trained skirts, and short sleeves. Weighted silk offered greater body and was a popular choice for dresses beginning in the 1870s.

Full sleeves were at their largest in 1895, before they gradually decreased in size towards the turn of the century.

By the 1890s, sleeve with fullness were only seen with small puffs at the shoulders.

Tailor-made costumes consisted of wool or serge skirts worn with a shirtwaist blouse. and were considered ideal for traveling.

Shirtwaist blouses were often accessorized by cravats and jabots. The variety of outerwear for women increased during the late nineteenth century and was dominated by coats, jackets, and wraps.

Accessories of the period included small hats, gloves, muffs, decorative fans, and parasols.

1900s

The first decade of the twentieth century is often referred to as “La Belle Époque” - French for "the beautiful age." During this time, Paris reigned as the capital of art and fashion, extravagance and opulence was in, and French couture became all the rage.

Edward VII became King of England with the death of Queen Victoria in 1901, ushering in the “Edwardian Era.”

Additionally, Henry Ford's Model-T was introduced in 1908.

Art Nouveau influenced fashion and ornamentation with the popularity of curvy shapes, floral prints, and ornamentation.

And with the introduction of Ford's Model-T, "motoring garments", such as duster coats and goggles, became essential for automobile riding.

The dominant silhouette of the period was the S-bend hourglass shape, which was achieved through the use of long bell or trumpet skirts that swept the ground, and the “monobosom” fullness of the front bodice.

Voluminous sleeves were another popular feature of turn-of-the-century fashion. Women still wore tightly-boned corsets, along with layers of petticoats. Two-piece ensembles were introduced, consisting of a skirt and a shirtwaist blouse. Garments often featured necklines with high standing collars for daytime and exceptionally low décolleté necklines for evening wear.

Lingerie dresses — flowing white gowns with lace detailing — were a popular choice for outdoor hot weather. Pale colors and un-patterned fabrics adorned with lace or embroidery were favored in this style. Shoes and boots exhibited pointed toes, and parasols were a must-have accessory for outdoors. Elaborate, often large hats decorated with bird feathers enjoyed heightened popularity.

1910s

The War Years (1914-1918) resulted in simpler styles, with moderation in fabric usage as well as the use of darker hues. As a result, garments of this period often have a more utilitarian and masculine appearence.

The “teens,” as the 1910s are often referred to, saw sweeping changes in fashion due to the work of French designer Paul Poiret, who was largely inspired by both the exoticism and color of the Far East and the Ballet Russes. “Orientalism” in fashion became all the rage and was seen in kimono-shaped coats, capes, saturated colors, and exotic embellishments.

Popular trends included the “peg-top” silhouette with hip fullness, Paul Poiret’s narrow-at-ankle “hobble skirt”, and Mariano Fortuny’s “Delphos gown” which featured his secret pleating technique.

Tunic dresses were also introduced, and featured a short skirt layered over a longer one. Necessitated by the new shapes in fashion, the hourglass S-bend silhouette transitioned into a more column-like, tubular form with a higher waistline. Brassieres replaced tight corsets and accommodated the soft, unfitted tea gown, a popular choice for afternoon hosting. The wide-brim hat continued to be a fashionable accessory and shoes began to replace boots.

1920s

The year 1920 marked the beginning of Prohibition, as well as the end of the Suffrage Movement, with women gaining the right to vote.

King Tutankhamen’s tomb was discovered in 1922, further fueling the taste for the exotic, and creating an obsession with all things Egyptian.

The Harlem Renaissance ushered in the Jazz Age; sleeveless dresses with shorter hemlines and sequin, bead, and fringe embellishment enhanced and enabled the fast-paced dance movements of the Charleston and Fox Trot.

The "Roaring Twenties" were years of major change for both fashion and society.

Besides major cultural events inspiring change, fashion was also influenced by Art Deco through the use of straight lines and geometric forms in both silhouette and decoration. The twenties silhouette was straight and tubular, and dresses deemphasized female curves, breasts, and hips.

Chemise dresses hung straight from the body and helped created this fashionable linear silhouette. The “flapper,” with her bobbed-hair and boyish silhouette, became the epitome of the fashionable look of the period. Hemlines rose, revealing more of the female leg for the first time in dress history, and shifting the focus to shoes for the first time.

During the period, Gabrielle “Coco” Chanel popularized costume jewelry — as well as wool jersey suits.

The cloche, a bell-shaped hat, was “the” hat to have.

Small beaded purses and long beaded necklaces were popular accessories.

1930s

The defining event of the 1930s was the Great Depression.

The stock market crash of 1929 and the ensuing depression created a need for less expensive garments without elaborate ornamentation. Designers of the period therefore relied on seam lines and darts as major forms of embellishment. Clothing that was cheaper and diversified was critical, thus creating the need for ready-to-wear fashion.

The overwhelming popularity of the movies in the 1930s helped perpetuate the ideals of “Hollywood glamour.” Women began looking to screen stars for inspiration in fashion, hairstyles, makeup, and even demeanor. The movies, and the glamorous lifestyle they portrayed, were a way for the public to escape the harsh realities of the Depression.

Designers such as Elsa Schiaparelli incorporated concepts of Surrealist Art into fashion designs, offering fantastical creations that also provided a flight from reality.

The 1930s also saw the birth of American sportswear and two-piece bathing suits for women. The decade saw a continuation of the linear shape of the 1920s, but with a leaner, longer, more feminine silhouette. The waistline returned to its natural position and hemlines dropped. Evening fabrics tended to be pale or white solids of silk or satin, and the backless evening gown was introduced at this time.

French designer Madeleine Vionnet created the “Bias Cut”, which produced a “liquid” clinging effect on the body. Hats of all varieties were widely worn, and a right-angle tilt was a common way hats were styled. Shoes featured low heels and rounded toes. Costume jewelry and fur added the final touch of fashionable glamor.

1940s

World War II began in 1939, ushering in a new conservatism in fashion. Fashion designers were forced to close their houses in Paris, and “practicality” became the new buzzword in fashion, with a focus on producing sensible styles and “utility garments” which required a minimum quantity of fabric.

In the United States, the L-85 Limiting Order aimed to freeze the war-time silhouette and stop rapid seasonal changes in styles in order to conserve fabric use. Tailored suits and military-influenced styles were seen in items such as belts, breast pockets, high necklines, and small collars. Both clothing and hair were influenced by the war.

For women who worked in factories, superfluous decoration and long hair posed safety threats. Hairstyles and makeup became an integral way to achieve personal style, since clothing and accessories were rationed.

Hollywood stars such as Veronica Lake, Rita Hayworth, and Bette Davis were significant influencers of fashion. American designers began developing sportswear collections, spurred by the necessity of the war-time focus on the ideals of simplicity and utility.

Casual separates, shirtwaist dresses, slim skirts with patch pockets, and halter and square necklines became popular. Women could also be seen wearing trousers, although it was mainly for utilitarian purposes, not everyday wear. 

The 1940s silhouette was tailored and narrow, with a nipped-in waistline and squared shoulders achieved through the use of shoulder pads. Hemlines rose to just below the knee. In light of rationed fashion, hats allowed an individual fashion statement, and small styles such as veiled pillboxes and berets, often worn at a right angle, were most popular. Shoes were usually chunky with rounded toes and featured either low-heeled or wedge soles.

Leg makeup was also introduced and offered women a remedy to the rationing of nylon stockings.

More Notes: On Fashion ⚜ Writing Notes & References

[woso-dreamzzz]

Proud V

Hardersson x Teen!Reader

Summary: Your first match for Sweden

"And Sweden is making a substitute. On comes y/n Harder, Arsenal's youngest forward. Blackstenius makes way."

It's your first match for Sweden, the first of Sweden's euro qualifiers as well.

You high five Stina on your way onto the pitch.

It's a late substitution, maybe five minutes or so until the ninety minutes are up so you know you're the last kind of hail mary before this ends in a draw.

You pass some of your Arsenal teammates on the way to the corner that's being set up.

It's hardly the first time you've worn a Sweden jersey. You were a staple on the youth teams. You always had been.

Your first long term foster family had gotten you into football. They'd sorted you out with kit and gear and put you into a kid's football club to see if you liked it.

You really liked it.

Their foster license expired and you got moved but you never left your football behind.

Some families were more into it than others but none of them stopped you from pursuing your football.

Least of all Magda and Pernille.

You knew Magda from a distance when the senior team had come down to help out with whatever youth team you were on at the time. It was almost like fate that you got placed with her and Pernille over the summer.

It had been the best summer of your life both emotionally and physically.

They worked on your game while they were off season. They helped you with your studies and they took you out to the arcade and the beach and anywhere you wanted to go.

You didn't want to leave.

They didn't want you to leave.

There was a bunch of red tape around it, lots of meetings with lawyers and the judge and your care worker but by the time the next season rolled around, you had a new last name and two mothers.

Now, you're here.

Playing in Wembley Stadium for Sweden with Momma's last name emblazoned on your back.

You weave between Morsa and Johanna, slotting between them during the jostling to get into position.

The ball comes in and you make the jump.

It gets cleared away and England are on the counter attack quickly.

Magda peels away from your side quickly to sprint down the pitch to intercept while you follow at a more sedate pace.

Defending is not your role and you're not the greatest at it.

You've been bought onto this pitch for one thing and that's to score a goal.

You pass Lotte on your way and exchange a small smile with her. You've still got to go back to North London after this and you and Lotte are friends.

Morsa recovers the ball quickly and boots it up the pitch.

Most of your team was concentrated in your half of the pitch so the ball falls neatly to your feet.

You can feel Lotte at your back quickly, almost too quick for you to react but you turn even quicker, keeping the ball out of her reach.

You don't have any backup as you drive forward into the box.

Greenwood slides in for the tackle but you jump over neatly with the ball practically attached to your feet.

Charles and Bronze start closing in as you lose Lotte behind you.

The angle's getting tighter and tighter and Earps starts coming towards you to collect the ball.

You've driven into the box so quickly that there were no reinforcements for you to pass to.

So, you kicked the ball upwards just as Earps comes out.

The ball sores over her head before landing and rolling into the empty goal.

The Sweden supporters go wild as, seconds later, the ref blows the final whistle.

You scored.

The familiar arms of Morsa wraps around you from behind as you celebrate.

"Debut goal!" She cheers as the rest of the team finally run over.

You laugh. "Do you think Momma was watching?"

Of course she was.

She couldn't travel to watch, not with preparing for her own Euro qualifiers but your phone is ringing by the time you get back to the locker room.

"Hi," You say as you pick up, Pernille's face filling the screen.

"Debut goal," She teases and you look down bashfully.

"That's what Morsa said."

"It's impressive," Pernille says.

You roll your eyes. "It's my job."

"Still impressive. Don't sell yourself short."

"I'm a Harder," You reply," It's what we do."

Pernille grins at you, face full of pride. "Don't do that," She says," Celebrate, alright? You have my full permission to let loose and drink tonight, alright?"

You huff out a laugh. "You know most mothers wouldn't encourage underage drinking."

"I think I can make an exception tonight."