#abj

This one’s for the Jaggie shippers 😂

Aggie looked sinfully good in the car’s light, illuminated in rhythmic intervals by the streetlamps and then left in a pleasant half-shadow that revealed only her long blonde hair and her blue eyes.

A hairdresser they’d sent to the hotel had styled her neatly, and another woman had dusted her face with a veil of delicate makeup that drove her crazy. She wasn’t wrapped in a dress — she’d chosen a dark suit instead, one that echoed the night of awards and flashes that awaited them.

“You ever notice how your eyes go half-lidded like you’re about to say something I probably shouldn’t let you say in public?”

The girl turned toward her, a faint smile on her face as she met the striker’s lively gaze.

“What?”

But Aggie knew by heart the way she leaned back just slightly, head tilted, the look of someone who admired, who desired with elegance — and the soft smile of someone who appreciated. The goalkeeper slid her hand lightly behind the blonde’s back, wrapping it around her and resting it on her hip, brushing over the fabric of the suit.

“It’s not public though, so you can’t exactly stop me from saying stupid things.”

“It’s not public yet,” replied Chelsea’s number thirty-three, her expression confident and perhaps a little arrogant. After the medals and trophies of those incredible seasons, she wasn’t the one being nominated — and she felt something strange at the idea of standing beside someone who was instead just a breath away from the prize. She saw her dressed immaculately, but could only focus on how her hand moved imperceptibly at her side, almost lazy.

The car slowed as the sound of the crowd grew closer, merging into the line of other vehicles from which players were gradually stepping out. They could make out Arsenal’s forwards, and a little farther off, Barcelona’s promising young talents. You felt it first in the shift of Aggie’s weight beside you — the way she straightened, smoothed the fabric over her thigh, rolled her shoulders once like she was settling into herself. She didn’t get nervous. She got aware.

The Chelsea striker traced the line of the goalkeeper’s back with her eyes, following the path from the waistband of her trousers to where her hair fell softly over her shoulders — and outside those doors the attention toward them swelled, nonspecific but loud, among voices and flashes.

Once out of the car, she took a breath of cool air, slipping a hand into her pocket, back straight and elegant, carrying herself like someone who knew she’d been nominated for a prestigious award and had every intention of deserving it. Then she turned back toward the car, offering her hand. And Aggie took it, sure.

The cameras followed the moment they came into view together, and they felt it in the way the air shifted, in how people seemed to look at them a few seconds longer than necessary beneath the star-studded sky, wrapping the event in one of the most surreal and refined atmospheres of the season.

They walked a few steps behind the other players, greeting people here and there — some filming videos, others arriving just after them, following at an easy pace while chatting about nothing in particular.

“Over here!” “Keeper — look left!” “Smile for us!”

Once on the red carpet, they laughed, momentarily blinded by spotlights and flashes as photographers waved wildly behind lenses that hid their faces. The goalkeeper felt the Englishwoman’s hand on hers and let herself be held without ceremony, the volume of voices growing more deafening and those blue eyes she knew so well becoming increasingly curious.

“Aggie! Aggie, this way!” “Together, please — just a second!” “Can we get one of you both?”

Aggie whispered something in her ear, and she bent down to listen, the shutters capturing her profile as it cast the striker’s elegance into partial shadow — before they laughed together, sharpening the curiosity of those behind the cameras, satisfied with some shots but always wanting more.

“Close,” a photographer called. “Yeah, just like that.”

Her hand wrapped around the blonde’s waist, brushing imperceptibly over the fabric of the suit as their shoulders touched. She guided her through the space the photographers wanted without ever pulling her away, as if they’d rehearsed every movement for hours — and as if the way the lioness leaned more and more into her touch didn’t drive her crazy.

Subtle. Deliberate.

Someone laughed behind a camera. “Hold that.”

And she did just that, fixing the lenses with that familiar, grounding gaze, feeling her relax in place — looser, less calculated, though still composed and smiling.

Only once did their focus falter.

When the goalkeeper glanced down without meaning to, her gaze catching on her mouth before she pulled it back — when every call blurred together, right, left, one more — and then they were moving again, leaving the wall of sound behind.

Inside, the noise dulled, as if the world had been padded.

The hand she’d kept at her hip fell as they walked, but Aggie stayed close anyway, close enough to look at her — sideways and quick — with one corner of her mouth lifting without saying a word.

“You’re terrible at pretending.”

“What?” she asked, looking at her.

“That you don’t like the attention,” the Chelsea striker smiled.

The other shook her head, watching her as she stepped ahead and adjusted the dark vest over her shoulders. “I don’t.”

“Mhm,” she hummed.

Around them, the environment had changed. The ceilings were impossibly high, surrounded by balconies and perfect staircases, along with dark drapes dividing the spaces and perfumed with some exclusive fragrance that teased them both.

The theatre was beginning to fill, and waiters in immaculate uniforms prepared the tables for the aperitif dinner planned in the central hall, slowly filling with people and conversation.

The goalkeeper gently pinched her arm as she watched her take everything in.

“That wasn’t convincing,” Aggie said.

“You didn’t give me much to work with,” the other added. “Cameras, people staring.”

Musicians accompanied the players’ steps with a catchy, repetitive, somewhat hypnotic melody, with a prominent bassline that felt uplifting yet melancholic, evoking sparkling, powerful reflections that built gradually.

They shook hands with some of the colleagues they encountered while wandering the room, talking about the night and the ongoing season, congratulating victories and taking lessons from defeats.

Katie McCabe, attending the event with the rest of Arsenal’s squad, looked toward the stage — understated and elegant — bearing the Ballon d’Or logo projected behind it.

The table reserved for the two of them, the Chelsea nominee for the same award and Lucy Bronze, sat near the front row, so close the stage felt unavoidable.

But they had slipped into a rhythm of quiet, almost imperceptible laughter as they moved between the bar and the people around them, immersed in football and the sweet perfume of everyone else’s fragrances.

Someone from the table next to theirs leaned over — a striker who had given her quite a hard time in recent matches — and shook hands with both her and Aggie.

“Didn’t know you were bringing backup tonight,” she said, half-smiling.

“I was the last resort,” the blonde joked, running a hand through her soft hair, her lips gleaming in the refined light of the theatre.

“Blink twice if she’s holding you hostage.”

They both laughed, the Englishwoman’s back drifting closer to the goalkeeper’s chest, who kept her close without any cinematic gestures — one hand resting on the back of the chair in front of them, the other now forgotten in the pocket of her tailored trousers.

“She’s not,” Aggie said, amused. “At least not tonight.”

In the distance, the walls were covered in projected montages of the evening’s nominees — their best plays, along with stars of the past, watching over those of the present and future.

Some people had already started taking their seats, and they could catch glimpses of the partners of some of their teammates, wrapped in stunning dresses that looked as though they’d been made just for them.

“Still,” the striker added, “shame you’re taken tonight.”

The Yashin Trophy nominee smiled, looking toward the stage and wetting her lips at the woman’s comment, Aggie’s wrist held lightly between her thumb and index finger as she brushed her skin.

“Behave,” the blonde murmured once the striker had moved on, now face to face with the other player.

She leaned closer, her voice low and playful. “You started it.”

After a while — laughter and chatter with the Chelsea girls, and a moment when the goalkeeper stepped away to talk with her Barcelona friends, queens of the women’s league — they both returned to the table.

The nominee pulled the chair out for her plus one as the room hummed, people taking their seats, conversations overlapping atop an instrumental track that was barely noticeable.

“You look like you’re already bored.”

Her arm was draped over the back of Aggie’s chair, fingers absentmindedly brushing her shoulder blade as she leaned slightly toward her, blonde hair grazing the fabric of the other’s suit.

The host stepped out to a round of applause and launched into the usual welcome speech — warm and terribly rehearsed — already celebrating the year of football they’d lived, one destined to be remembered like so many seasons before it.

“I’m conserving energy.”

She looked at her with that unbearable smile, taking in her soft profile and the way her mascaraed lashes made her blue irises stand out.

They’d added something to her cheekbones too — just enough to accentuate them without taking anything away from the pale, perfect skin of the England striker, who was watching her.

First her eyes.

Then, for a barely perceptible second, her lips.

“For what?”

“For pretending not to care,” the goalkeeper sighed.

But Aggie smiled knowingly. “You’re bad at that too.”

Her gaze dropped to the other woman’s lips as well before she caught herself — but it was too late. The blonde had noticed and smiled, pleased, framed by that black waistcoat that showed her off in all her splendor and in the ease she carried both on and off the pitch.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” the nominee asked, fingertips moving up and down her arm in the gentlest way, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

She didn’t answer — just bumped her knee against hers, playful as they’d been since the day before, when they’d taken a quick tour of Paris with a few friends who’d shown them some hidden gems.

The host’s voice rose, and conversations at the tables paused for a moment.

Aggie sighed softly. “Back to pretending we’re listening.”

The other folded her arms across her chest, sinking slightly into her chair and adjusting her watch beneath the sleeve of her jacket, smiling as she looked toward the striker.

“You’re doing great.”

The blonde shook her head, focused on the stage.

Around them, the room settled for a while — the lights slightly less dim, attention returning — as a gourmet dinner was served and Hannah and Lucy slipped into conversation, keeping things lively.

Plates appeared, steam rising faintly, the sharp scent of something citrusy cutting through the perfume and polish of the room. The clink of cutlery replaced the applause for a moment, and the entire space exhaled. People shifted in their seats, leaned closer to their tables, rediscovered conversation.

“Do you reckon this is one of those meals that looks tiny but somehow fills you up?”

“I reckon I’ve finally got proof of Alexia stopping for fries on her way back to the hotel.”

“It was just to make small talk, you know,” the blonde laughed, wetting her lips before cutting into the appetizer they’d been served.

They both chewed for a while, as if the whole point of the evening were judging the food.

“Okay,” the goalkeeper sighed. “It’s good.”

“High praise,” the striker teased, earning an amused look from the other woman, who bit her lip to hide a smile.

When the first awards began to be handed out, the main course was about to arrive, the waiters halted by applause that swelled gradually — polite, certainly, but genuine nonetheless.

Aggie had rested her chin on the shoulder of the woman beside her as she watched attentively, the stage retracing the previous winners of the Best Young Player award.

The Yashin nominee stroked her arm again, then slid her hand lower, teasing the skin just beneath the waistcoat at her side. It made the blonde drop her gaze, inquisitive at first, then softened by amusement.

“Relax. It looks polite.”

Her lips twitched. “You’ve never done anything politely in your life.”

“Unfair,” the other replied. “I hold doors.”

“For yourself.”

The goalkeeper shook her head, eyes back on the stage, as young Vicky López stepped up with a dazzling smile and the confidence of someone who knew she was strong and promising.

The Chelsea striker almost laughed at the faintly arrogant look the other woman wore — the one she always had whenever, without realizing it, they became so obvious even they couldn’t deny it.

“Show-off,” she muttered under her breath.

“You love it.”

Then the men’s award was presented on stage, the host speaking in a measured, warm voice as the crowd roared when the winner took the trophy in his hands and another young Barcelona player was crowned.

Aggie tilted her head toward the screen, and the other watched the light flicker across her face instead — the focus in her eyes, the way her mouth curved when she recognized someone onscreen.

Applause swelled again, sudden and loud, as the player hopped off the stage. Chairs creaked softly as people clapped, bodies leaning forward and then settling back as conversations bloomed again and the main course was served.

At the table, someone cracked a joke the Yashin nominee only half-heard. Chelsea’s striker laughed, warm and unguarded, tipping her head back for just a second — close enough that her blonde hair spilled over the goalkeeper’s dark top, her chin brushing Aggie’s head.

She flicked her eyes meaningfully around the room when the other woman moistened her lips. “You’re being obvious.”

“And I’d say you’re arrogant,” the goalkeeper shrugged, as if her observation weren’t true.

“That’s dangerous.”

“Looks fine to me.”

The next award stretched longer, the host drawing out the speech as the camera searched for familiar faces in the crowd, talking through all the prizes still to come and the votes the players had submitted.

The goalkeeper saw herself on the screen — caught mid-smile, arms crossed as she leaned back against her chair in the half-darkness of the dimmed lights, nearly extinguished for the celebration.

The music had changed, slower and heavier, expectations settling among the guests as the Ballon d’Or drew impossibly closer.

But it was still early.

The waiting was brutal — award after award, important but not the one they were there for — and with each announcement parts of the room seemed to release their tension in laughter and sighs, while they withdrew into their own bubble.

Aggie’s hand slipped between the goalkeeper’s legs, squeezing her right thigh reassuringly before her gaze returned to the stage.

Aggie groaned dramatically and tipped her head back against her shoulder. “They’re cruel.”

“And to think you’re not even the nominated one,” the goalkeeper smiled. “They just enjoy suspense.”

The ceremony flowed on, applause rising and falling like waves in a stretch of time that felt eternal and impossibly fast all at once.

Waiting had probably sharpened her focus on the smallest details — the uneven seam along Aggie’s side that had caught her fingertips, the way the striker’s knee stayed pressed to hers without ever feeling intrusive or forced, the way Aggie played with her fingers, stroking her wrist as if placing punctuation marks while anxiously waiting for the prize she so clearly deserved to finally be awarded.

When the Yashin Trophy was finally introduced, it felt different.

It was as if the room itself knew.

The lights went dark, and the sequence of the most important awards was about to begin.

Onstage, the presenter was accompanied by music and clips of iconic saves — gloved hands meeting impossible balls midair.

The goalkeeper took a deep breath, running a hand through her hair, while the blonde watched her as if no one else existed, smiling at the way the montages reflected in her eyes and reduced everything else to her surreal profile beside her.

The nominees appeared one by one.

Her name flashed on the screen, applause breaking out — louder, sharper — while a proud Aggie sat a little straighter, saying nothing.

Third place was announced. And the goalkeeper’s name filled the room.

She finally exhaled, something loosening in her chest, even if she hadn’t reached the very top.

“Third in the world, huh?” smiled the Chelsea striker, applauding along with the rest of the room as the presenter paused before announcing the runner-up.

“I’ll take it,” the other replied, framed by every camera as the corners of her mouth lifted politely, hiding the pride swelling in her chest.

“You’re terrible,” Aggie said, eyes still fixed on the goalkeeper.

When the applause finally died down, it felt like the night was nearing its end, waiters serving dessert as only the most prestigious award remained.

The ceremony carried on, but the tension surrounding them loosened, replaced by a lightness they hadn’t realized they were waiting for.

“Don’t get humble now,” she said. “It’s unsettling.”

The other laughed, looking at her in that disarming way, eyes locked onto hers as the striker lifted her glass to clink it gently against her own.

Someone leaned over to congratulate her, another squeezed her shoulder in passing. Aggie was briefly pulled into a joke from the other side of the table, laughter spilling out of her the way it always did.

But seeing her proud was something entirely overwhelming.

The way she gestured as she told some story, the way she tilted her head when she tried to listen seriously.

“What?”

The third-best goalkeeper in the world shrugged. “Nothing.”

But Aggie narrowed her eyes, amused. “Liar.”

“I plead fatigue,” she sighed.

She’d slipped her jacket back on — a similar shade to the one the blonde was wearing — adjusting the sleeves as Aggie’s fingers fixed her hair, brushing against her cheekbones in the process.

“You clean up well for someone who hates this,” Aggie said.

As the final awards wrapped up, the room slowly loosened its grip on formality. People stood, stretched, gathered their things. The music softened, becoming background instead of punctuation.

They both rose at the same time, bodies instinctively close. The goalkeeper’s hand settled at her waist again — not guiding now, just resting there because it belonged.

“You know people are definitely talking now,” the striker observed as she took the last sip of water and stepped closer to the player she’d arrived with.

“About what?”

The other woman’s gaze, which had been resting on the joyful figure of Mariona waving at her with a wide smile, returned to her.

She raised an eyebrow, as if to say it was obvious.

“Let them.” The Yashin podium finisher smiled, unbothered, listening to the quiet laugh of her plus one.

The Chelsea player paused for a second — just the length of a blink. She had watched her tie her hair back, as if signaling that the night was over for her, that she no longer wanted to stay or look pretty for the cameras and the journalists’ photos. She had that confident air, bright eyes as she looked around, giving small nods here and there, unconsciously wetting her lips after a while.

Then she recovered, rolling her eyes and tugging lightly at her wrist. “Come on. Before someone else decides to give a speech.”

So they walked into the sea of people pouring out of the theater — talking, comparing notes, loosened by the liters of champagne that had been poured and by the awards night they’d just lived through. Every touch became less calculated, just like the glances, increasingly magnetic.

Near the edge of the hall, where the lights were softer and the noise dulled, the goalkeeper — who was in front — stopped. Not intentionally, just because the flow of people did.

Aggie sighed, placing her hands on the woman’s hips from behind, resting her face against her arm as if trying to see past her. She noticed some of the youth-team girls stopping near the most famous players, small groups slowly forming, teammates finding each other again after the formalities that had kept them apart.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” she answered, smiling. “I think it’s hitting me now.”

Aggie grinned. “Good hit or bad hit?”

“Are you enjoying being with me?” She earned a nod from the blonde. “Then good hit.”

As people piled toward the exit and a wall of photographers continued to block the way, everyone ended up stuck in a comically bad organizational mess — trapped in the massive exit corridor of the theater, packed together like sardines.

The scent of the room mixed with everyone’s perfumes; some people laughed, others huffed, desperately wanting to get back to the hotel for a proper night’s sleep.

The goalkeeper turned to look at the blonde. The space between them shrank so much it was almost ridiculous how close they were.

Aggie laughed under her breath as she stretched her neck slightly, her skin glowing under the lights.

“We’re being ridiculous.”

The other woman was suffering from the rising temperature and was grateful she’d tied her hair up.

“Speak for yourself.”

She looked up at her, eyes bright, a little breathless. “See? Impossible.”

But the goalkeeper smiled, murmuring, “And yet—”

“And yet,” Aggie echoed.

The goalkeeper’s hands were steady as they brushed along her arms.

“You’re not even subtle.”

“Never claimed to be.”

The striker laughed, watching her, as they were pressed closer and closer by the crowd — Lucy Bronze arguing with some guy who was pushing, trying to break free from the chaos.

“You’re going to get us caught.”

The goalkeeper shook her head, feigning innocence, and when the blonde shifted her weight, the other’s hand moved with her — sliding down involuntarily.

There was no intention to guide or ground her, and her palm stopped — unmistakably — against the curve of her ass. Firm. Confident. Completely unplanned. Still.

And the world seemed to stutter.

Aggie froze, her breath catching sharply, eyes widening as they flicked up to her face. There was shock, obviously — but layered with something bright and delighted and dangerously amused.

“You,” she whispered, barely audible over the noise, “are unbelievable.”

The goalkeeper didn’t move her hand. She didn’t apologize.

“Ceremony’s basically over.”

The blonde shook her head, biting her lower lip to hide an enormous smile, relaxing back against the other’s palm — which was more than enough to make everything clear and unmistakable.

“Next time,” she murmured, eyes sparkling, “warn me.”

But the goalkeeper leaned closer, her voice low. “Where’s the fun in that?”

The crowd was growing impatient — some laughing it off, others resigned, a few complaining aloud. The award-winner behaved enough to move her hand back to the striker’s hip, leaving only the memory of where it had been, like a held note finally released.

Aggie was surprised. She was smiling, as if trying to hide a grin that was far too big for someone as composed as her.

“I knew you were annoying. I didn’t know you were… bold,” she said, her gaze dropping to the other woman’s lips.

“I came third,” she replied, tilting her head, a mischievous wrinkle forming at the bridge of her nose.

“That’s your justification?”

“Absolutely.”

When they finally got outside — about half an hour later — Paris was already asleep, cars waiting outside the theater. The stars were ready to close out a night of awards, beneath the dark French sky.

What a hug can heal

The Spaniard closed the door and turned around. Aggie Beever-Jones, Chelsea forward and Lioness, was in the hall of her apartment in London looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

“How…? What…?” Jana blinked a few times, not believing her own eyes. Aggie grimaced. “What are you doing here?”

alternatively: writers using dancing as an engine to throttle the doomed storyline full speed to make sure the knife cuts through us clean. Note: Also used as an allegory for queer love when they cant just go "these bitches gay"

Example 1: Powder and Ekko

Example 2: Shion and Nezumi

Example 3: Ride your wave

Example 5: Violet Evergarden. not a tragedy but purposeful queer undertones

Some mentions that have no dance but same energy:

Banana fish

Eiji teaching Ash Japanese they do something "normal", something that they would be doing if the world was all well and safe, the feeling of "we could be dancing in an alternate universe, instead of fighting for our lives", and this translates over the same sad way

Unbelievable space love

a 9 min watch that guts you with just a few incredible scenes - ABJ productions