#i want reactions weekly on the dash

[bettydonnas]

when riverdale ends i think we should just start collectively rewatching it from the very beginning once a week like it never ended and is actually just beginning . therefore entering ourselves into the eternal cycle of riverdale

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPXDC prompt. Field trip.

Some people would call gothamites petty, but given that most of the USA population treated them as scum, they believed that their behavior was justified.

They didn't like tourists, to put it mildly. Therefore, after learning that in their city were people on a field trip from Amity Park who could not leave Gotham for several days due to weekly escape from Arkham, the news channel immediately decided that a short interview from the guests would definitely amuse the locals. The reaction of outsiders never ceases to be ridiculous.

Reporter: ~Good afternoon~ Gotham News! May I ask you to share what you liked most about our wonderful city?

Mr. Lancer*still in a cold sweat and looks at every passerby as a potential villain*: Uh, no, me..It's so unexpected. Well, first of all, people here are very…

Danny *is high after the tasting samples Dr. Crane gave him for free and is extremely eager to share his happiness with others*,* picks a microphone*.

Danny: Gotham is the best city in the world! Like seriously, damn, I'd like to die here. Although there are constant shootings somewhere, half the time people don't even shoot at me! I haven't been this relaxed since middle school! And in the evenings, there is often such a pleasant scent of fear and despair on the streets. This fear toxin of yours is a real miracle! It's sooo good!

Sam *decides to take the initiative in her own hands before Fenton says too much*: Personally, I am very pleased with the number of green spaces you have in your city. It's nice to see that here eco-activists are really being listened to. Also, the fact that most restaurants have a thoughtful menu for vegetarians left a very pleasant impression.

Dash in his favorite T-shirt "it's not gay if he's dead": Four words. Hips of Red Hood. The fact that it is not marked in the guidebook as the main attraction of the Crime Alley is a real crime. This dude clearly never skips leg days. My respect.

Tucker: What can I say? The speed of internet here, even during villains attacks, is absolutely  unbelievable. I don't want to leave this place.

Jazz: I love Gotham! Finally, I was able to buy all the works published by Dr. Harleen Quinzel. *girl picks up an impressive stack of books* For some reason, they are not available online.

The camera points at a red-haired guy with a twitching eye.

Wes: I'm 85% sure Bruce Wayne is Batman. I have a proof and I am ready to provide it.

A girl with a "Good Guess" pin from Riddler enters and takes camera away from conspiracy theorist.

Star: Sorry, he slipped out at night and went to look for problems. Again. Don't pay any attention to him. He's always like this when he drinks more than two energy drinks in a row.

[sphireath-wisp]

Hi! It's my first time requesting something. I just came back from the obey me confessions page, I would love if you wrote the brothers reactions after they found out that mc tried to stir up drama on purpose. Feel free to ignore, love your writing❤️

oh my goodness, thank you so much. I know I promised a part 2 recently, but I wanted to finish this first. The anon here refers to this post for anyone who's lost.

Lucifer thinks he's too busy for this and assumes people are just bored, watering the post down to fake news. What's with the surge in fake news in devildom anyway? He sighs deeply - a testament to how much he thinks this is such a waste of time. It was a terrible idea for Diavolo to approve of this confession page, rumors like this tarnishing your name only push him to take the account down.

Mammon wastes no time. He bursts into your room - even when he knows you're at Purgatory Hall for your weekly visit. Wait... purgatory hall? Oh my Diavolo, how could you! He's your first man and you can't just be going around kissing randoms like that. Completely ignoring Levi chiding him for the mess he's making, Mammon dashes out the door with his heart pounding in his chest. Who knows what that shady sorcerer could be doing to you now? And why him, anyway?!

Levi hears the ruckus from Mammon scrambling around in your room. Levi knows he's the type of scattered-brained idiot to forget how you're sleeping over at Purgatory Hall today, but really? Messing up your room like that? As someone who considers his room to be his safe space, seeing your space safe like that... he's really annoyed. What is Mammon rambling about anyway? You kissed Solomon? Jeez, what an idiot. Who would believe fake news like that?

Satan would rather hear it from you himself. This page is unreliable. Unless he hears it from your own mouth, he isn't too bothered by it. Admittedly, it does irk him though, but he's not the type to ask you bluntly out loud. He'll gauge your reactions and observe for now. Being too hasty with his assumptions would only make him more upset.

Asmo screams and I mean SCREAMS out in shock. He's typing away on his D.D.D., practically begging you or Solomon to answer. "Is it true? You all kissed?!" He's so proud of you, MC! Being so bold and brazen in RAD, he'll make sure to give you a surprise of his own soon!

Beel doesn't check his devilgram much and he doesn't post a lot either. The only reason why the post reached his ears was because of Belphie, but he doesn't have much of a reaction to it. It doesn't concern him and plus, anyone could have anonymously sent that right? Maybe Solomon himself posted that, only someone who cooks so horribly would try to stir the pot like this.

Belphie's pissed. You're kidding, right? There's no way. Is that why you left to sit with Solomon earlier that day? While Beel's reasoning did calm his nerves down a little, don't expect to run away to Purgatory Hall now. Both of them are on their way to Purgatory Hall as we speak and you better pray Solomon has a plan or else you're getting dragged back to HOL as soon as they get there.

Bonus:

Solomon is extremely amused, delighted even. He had the luxury of getting a sweet kiss from you and now, he has you on his bed right by him teaching you spells. As long as he ignores the constant buzz of his D.D.D. in the background and the missed calls, he feels like this night is perfect. Perhaps you'll give him another kiss tonight? Perhaps he'll make sure to record it this time as proof?

[scuttle-buttle]

Co-Pilots

Nobody asked for this. I have the flu. I needed something nice to focus on and apparently this was it. Blame @lorna-d-m my partner in crime :) also kudos to winniemaywebber and sagesolscitcewrites because i def read all their stuff and was vibing it and the pet names and stuff sooo hard

Rated: 18+

Word Count: approx. 3k

Tags: MMF, fluff and reassurance, mentions of wartime ptsd, body confidence issues, mentions of having children, PiV sex, female receiving oral, male receiving oral, voyeurism, no stated use of contraception

A/N: Croz is referred to as Crosby, Harry, and Bing in this (so as not to confuse). And idk what rank Rosie is by this point so were just going with Major

✈️

The bright lights blinded you the first time you walked through New York City; tonight was no different. Flashes of neon whites, golds, blues, reds, lit up your path as you entered the lobby to the Ritz hotel. Your husband had made arrangements for you to meet him in the city much as he had a near 2 years ago during the height of the war. You wanted to meet him at the airport. Crosby insisted he find you at the hotel. And now, with Hitler defeated, he was on his way home. For good. 

His phone call had startled you. Usually, you wrote him weekly, sometimes more if you felt lonesome. Harry’s letters were less frequent, but no less loving. Little Steve kept you more than busy most days, back home safe terrorizing your mother and father while you got some rest and relaxation with your Bing in the big city. The toddler was a shining light in your dark days. He had the same dark curls, the same downturned eyes as his father. A piece of your love that was yours no matter what the war brought - or took.

You’d nearly lost your footing when you heard his voice, gruff and mellow, across the line. Darlin’ it's me, he'd said, I'm coming home but I've got some business to finish in the city, meet me there. I'm bringing Rosie, you remember him yeah? Said he'll take us dancing at the best jazz spots. I love you Mrs. Crosby. See you soon.

Now you wait in the lobby for your love and his friend.

Minutes tick by as you wait. Maybe the plane was late? Maybe they had to meet somewhere after landing to debrief? Maybe there was a problem with the engine? Just as your maybes started to drown out the chatter and bustle around you a voice rang out.

“Well ho-ly mackerel, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes Mrs. Crosby.”

The sight of your husband had you dashing into his waiting arms. Tears streamed down your face as you kissed him senseless over and over and over. Crosby couldn’t contain his laughter at your reaction, nor did he bother hiding it when he wiped his eyes dry. 

“I’ve missed you so much Bing.”

His forehead rested on yours. “God how I’ve missed you too, Darlin’.” 

Over his shoulder you notice a taller man, stylish moustache and curls neatly gelled into place, attempting to avert his eyes and give your reunion privacy. You were struck by how attractive he was. “Bing?”

“Oh!” Harry takes a step back. “Darlin’ this is Robert Rosenthal - or Rosie as us boys like to call him.”

Rosie gives a toothy smile and holds out his hand for a firm shake; “so nice to meet you, Mrs. Crosby. Croz here has told me all about you.”

Giving your husband a raised eyebrow, you ask “all good things I hope?”

Both men chuckle. “Only the best, ma’am.” 

The three of you settled into your rooms before deciding that a celebration was in order. Rosie commandeered the evening, promising only the best jazz New York had to offer. Drinks flowed, the band jived, and couples danced the night away. 

Night after night, Rosie took you somewhere new. You’d split your time whirling the dancefloor between both your husband and his pilot friend, never satisfied until your feet ached. Harry claimed all the slow dances, nestled up close to your body. But Rosie? He got the fast-paced, jumping, hip swaying swing that Crosby claimed he couldn’t keep up with. Two left feet, he’d claim. Each morning after you slept in the plush, luxurious Ritz bed until lunchtime while they attended to their military duties. 

Friday rolled around. It had been a week of this routine. You should’ve been exhausted, you should’ve wanted to slow down - after all you were no spring chicken anymore. Yet, something about being in the arms of your husband and Rosie as you swayed to Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, and Glen Miller felt so right. 

When the barkeep yelled for “last call” you knew it was time to retire for the evening.

“Say, why don’t you come have a nightcap in our room, Rosie? Crosby asked.

The three of you settle into the living room of the suite assigned to you and your husband. Bing plops into an armchair with a satisfied huff. You join Rosenthal on the loveseat, a respectable distance inbetween. A bottle of whisky sits open on the fireplace mantle. Conversation comes and goes as the trio fall from the high of the night. It’s easy. Almost makes the boys forget the horrors they endured in Europe. 

Around 1am the conversation begins to lull as you finish regaling the group with a story of the shenanigans you and your girlfriends would get up to during university days. “-You think you boys were bad flying all around in your skivvies, but it was nothing compared to us girls that night!” Laughter filled the room until all had let it trickle to a close; the silence was warm like the fireplace embers. Robert sat enraptured by your story, by your beauty, by the thought of you under that blue dress and all your curves. He knew he shouldn’t have noticed…..he was just a man after all. And with the things he’d seen? Could you really blame him?

“How long’s it been Rosie?” The question broke the man’s gaze from you and directed it towards Crosby. He didn’t know it was so obvious. 

Rosie was about to stumble out an answer, an apology for looking at you like that, he doesn’t know, when Croz interrupts again. “When’s the last time you felt the touch of a good woman, Rosie?” Harry waits for an answer. Rosenthal can feel his face heat; he runs his fingers through his hair mussing the curls out of place. This confident Crosby was much bolder than the one he’d met when he first shipped out to the 100th. “Before the war?” There is no judgment in his eyes, no disdain or hesitation towards his comrade as he asks. Rosie shakes his head in affirmation. His glass clinks against the table as he sets it down, whisky unfinished.

Crosby sighs. “Too long.”

“Too damn long…” Rosie agrees in a mumble. 

You sit and watch the boys in rapt attention before meeting Bing's chocolatey eyes. Rosenthal is a good man, a great one from what your husband’s letters proved, and he deserves kindness and softness after all he’s been through. They both do. A delicate hand moves to rest on Rosie’s knee where he sits next to you. His brow furrows. The Major flits his gaze between you and your husband.

In all seriousness Crosby says “It’s alright, I don’t mind.” He tilts his head forward in permission, a silent go ahead. 

The navigator noticed how Rosie looked at you all night, how you returned the glances like a game of chicken. Each admiring but neither willing to do anything about it. How the two of you danced around the club without a care in the world at his insistence. He hadn’t seen Rosie smile like that in ages. He knew you hadn’t laughed like that since before he announced he was heading to the front. You definitely were reveling in the attention of both men tonight. This was never something you had discussed with your husband; somehow you just knew each other well enough even after so long apart to know that it was okay. It was something you both wanted.

Your fingers drifted higher on Rosie’s thigh; not enough to be indecent, but enough to get the message across. His larger palm came to rest atop yours, stopping the movement. “You uh- you’re okay with this?” the Brooklyn native questioned. 

Without hesitation you reassure “I am.” 

In a measured, almost odd approach Rosenthal shifts towards you. His lips hover over your cheek for a moment before the softest kiss brushes your skin. The whiskers of his mustache tickle. You can’t help the grin that threatens to break. He continues to kiss along your cheek, once, twice, thrice, each getting closer to your waiting lips. Finally, his chapped lips meet yours. This kiss is awkward at first as he gathers his bearing, quickly finding a rhythm as if no time had passed since he last kissed a pretty dame.

Crosby sunk deeper into his chair as he watched. He could feel the tell-tale sign of his slacks becoming tighter as he watched his best girl and his best friend. “She loves it when you kiss her neck,” he instructed with that smirk of his. Rosie dragged his lips to your throat. “Little lower-” again he shifted “-right there.” A moan slipped from your parted lips as your body warred with the directions from your husband and the attentions from your lover. 

The room felt stifling. Rosie’s coat, your dress, his shirt, your stockings, his trousers, your brassiere - each fluttered off to the floor one by one. Even Bing had lost his button down. 

The Major guided you onto your back along the couch, trailing open mouthed kisses down your sternum, along your breasts. A moment of clarity passed your mind that your body was different now than the last time you had been made love to, whether by your husband or not, since the baby. Your breasts weren't as pert, your stomach was softer than it used to be. Lips pursed, you let out a small sigh. 

“What’s wrong darlin’?” Bing asked. The navigator leaned towards you, brushing a strand of fallen hair from your face. “You know I can read you better than any map.” Rosie stopped and rested his chin on your abdomen to look up. 

“We can stop,” Rosie offered.

“No, It’s silly…” you tried to brush off.

Both men came to your defense immediately. Looking between the two you finally settle on your husband’s face. “It’s just that… since the last time we saw each other I’m different. My body changed and- I don’t know. I want it to be enough for you. For you both,” you add with a look to Rosie.

Crosby drops from the chair to his knees before you. “My pretty girl.” He kisses you slowly. “We’ve all changed.” From below Rosie adds nothing is the same. “You are still the most beautiful, most incredible, woman I’ve ever seen. Gosh - you’re my wife. Mrs. Crosby! I would fight to the ends of the earth to come home to you.” Softer he adds “I did fight to come home to you… and to bring this flak-happy bastard along too,” he laughed, nudging his elbow at his mate. “Now be a good girl and let us treat you right.” At your nod Rosie resumes his ascent down your waiting body. 

With a flourish your panties are gone, your dripping center exposed to his hungry stare. “What does she like, Croz? Because I'm not stopping until she comes begging all over my tongue.” He licks a deep stripe along your slit. “Sweet as sugar, babydoll.” Gone is the man unsure of himself, and in place is a god amongst men who knows exactly what he wants. It’s all you can do to hold on as Rosie devours you at your husband’s suggestions. Fingers dig into the cushions, tangle into his curls as you writhe under him. 

Rosie puts in his best effort to undo you; your husband saunters up to your face, his pants long forgotten. Cock stiff and ready, dripping with need, he runs the tip of his thumb against your bottom lip. Your teeth nibble at the pad.  “Think you can take me too, darlin’?” A whimpered please is all that comes out.

A cacophony of moans fills the air as your senses are assaulted - Rosie latched to your pussy like a lifeline and your Crosby’s cock deep inside your mouth. “That’s it darlin’, just like that. I bet you missed me, huh? I can tell you did, sweet girl. Fuck I missed you….” 

You gave him everything you had as you licked and sucked at his length. You could have sworn it was bigger than you remembered. He could tell by the look in your eyes you were getting closer, hell he was too. Lord knew he didn’t want to finish like some schoolboy in your lovely mouth. Crosby pulled himself out and you gasped for air. Cheeks flushed and sweat dripping down your temple he turned to his partner. “Use your fingers Rose, drives her wild when you crook them up inside her ‘n don't be afraid to get rough - give her a nip.” He punctuated the end of his command with a nip of his own to your throat. Rosie did exactly as instructed, sending you careening further to the edge and hips bucking.

“Oh- please Rosie- oh god don’t stop-” tumbles out as you start to fall. You swear you feel him humming against your clit as his fingers burn pleasure into your skin.

“That’s it darlin’, just let go for him. Being such a good girl for us,” croons your Bing.

When it all gets too much you gently push him from you. He goes gracefully, dropping chaste kisses to your thighs and hips. Despite feeling like a bowl of jello you remember your purpose tonight - to give Rosie a proper homecoming. 

Sitting up you demand he rid himself of his trousers. 

He grins. “Yes ma’am.” 

Just as Rosie goes to cover your body again you place your hand on his broad chest, pushing until he is in a sitting position. You quickly seat yourself over his lap, his length resting against you. Grinding down, he grunts. “Let me take care of you Rosie, it’s okay.” Kissing his temple, the corner of his mouth, his Adam's apple, you repeat “I want to take care of you dear, let me.”

With another roll of your hips he enters you. He feels different than your husband, but no less wonderful. Rosie’s hands land firmly on your hips as you rock above him. He knows he won't last long, you feel too good. “God Croz how do you do it? She’s so- ugh fuck” he grunts, head tossed back as you squeeze his length. 

“I know, Rose, I know. Just like heaven.” Your husband rubs your back as you move.

Rosenthal buries his face in the crook of your neck, his whimpers muffled so that only you can hear. There are no words for him to describe this feeling: the feeling of being comforted, the feeling of warmth, the feeling of home inside you, even if just for tonight. He almost feels a tear spring to his eyes. Circling your arms around his shoulders you remind him that you’ve got him, that he’s safe, that you're here. You pick up the pace as you ride him, bringing him closer and closer to his fate. His pelvis bucks up to meet yours with every roll.

“Honey I- I’m getting real close.”

You seal your lips on his; “I’ve got you, Rosie. I want you to come for me dear.”

With a deep groan he lifts you off his cock, his spend covering your stomachs and lap in a sticky mess. You hold him as he comes down from his high. 

“That was wonderful, thank you…just, thank you.” You kiss him once more; he knows he doesn’t have to thank you for anything, but he does because he’s Rosie. He carefully cleans you of his come with his discarded undershirt.

Crosby drops his lips to the crown of your head, beginning to pull the pins out of your carefully styled hair. “Come here, Darlin’.” He helps to lift you from his colleagues’ lap. “I wanna make love to my wife.” 

In seconds you’re on the floor under Crosby, his cock already buried to the hilt within you. Neither of you move as you both enjoy the feel of each other reunited as husband and wife. Whispered streams of I love you and I missed you and fuck you feel so good tumble from your lips, barely an inch apart. Harry would never need a map to know the curves, the sensitive spots, the constellations of beauty marks on your body - he knew it better in his memory than any map he could chart.

Besides you on the couch Rosie has slumped over to lay down, his arm hanging off towards you. Every breath of your husband’s puffs against your neck, every tickle of hair from across his chest reminds you that he’s here and he’s alive and he’s yours. Emotion overwhelmed you; “Bing, love please, I need you.”

Crosby hitches your thigh up and around his hip; “I’m here Darlin’.” With that he starts to thrust within your walls. His lithe body moves with a power you had nearly forgotten. Each roll of his hips he pounds into you harder, faster, with abandon; his dog tags cool against your breasts where they hung. Harry was a gentle man, but held so much emotion inside. He could let go with you. 

Your next orgasm was building, hotter and faster than the first. Nails raking down your husband’s back, you reached out your other to grab hold of Rosie’s outstretched palm. The slap of skin echoed around the room, mixed with the crackle of the fire and the sound of heaving breaths. 

An inferno raged within you. Every touch, every movement atop you sent sparks down every nerve ending. You didn’t know where you stopped and your husband began. “Fuck Bing mmmm- Harry please-” The rug beneath you rubbed your back raw but you couldn’t bring yourself to care as long as he kept going.

Crosby had his thumb rubbing quick circles on your clit in an instant. “Tell me you’re close, I need you to come Darlin’.” You couldn’t catch your breath so you nodded the best you could while squeezing the life out of Rosie’s fingers.  

Another snap of his hips and you’re gone, obliterated. Everything felt euphoric and white-hot. Crosby follows suit, his release filling you and your name on his tongue. Bruises will surely linger on your thighs. 

There you lay, tangled in the afterglow, your loving husband above you stroking his knuckles against your side and your new lover’s hand in yours. No words needed to be spoken. The moment you shared would be seared into your mind forever playing on repeat. God forbid another crisis happened that would ship your boys out and away from you - yet if it did you would hold on to tonight like a talisman. It had been a long four years, and longer so for them. But the war was won, with spoils a plenty. 

Finally. 

Lips meeting your Bing’s sweat-slicked forehead, your grip on Rosenthal tightens. “Welcome home my boys, welcome home.”  

Tags: @sagesolsticewrites @winniemaywebber @sailorscuttle @thirstyvampyr @hellfirequinnie @lorna-d-m

[livin4woso]

Breaking the media

Chapter 6- You're okay now

The days after had been hard yet you had managed to keep yourself under control and almost push the incident in the past. Alexia had advised you took the next few days of however you didn't want to miss training before the first game you weren't promised to play but there was a good chance you were making it to the bench. Like normal training was enjoyable but this time it was different all the girls had to do a weekly check with the physio just to make sure nothing was wrong and everyone was up to standard for the match. You had thought nothing of it as you had made your way into the room and were greeted by the physio "hola y/n" he said as you sat on to the medical bed. You had been here quite a few times so you knew what the protocol was just testing muscle tightness and how well your joints were working.

The first half was going smoothly until he placed his hand on your upper thigh just where the man had a week prior. The memory flashback in your mind as you became panicked and you curled up in ball hiding your face from him hyperventilating. The physio was frozen in what to do he couldn't just leave you but he couldn't console you either so he did the next best thing and went to where the girls were sat waiting for thier appointment "guys i have a slight issue, i was just doing movement checks and when i put my hand on y/ns leg shes gone... i guess panicked im not sure" he said staring at the girls almost blankly. Alexia had heard this and she bolted straight to the room where she found you a curled up ball sobbing. Yet you almost look terrified the air wasn't coming in or out it was stuck making your panic worse than before "hey pequeña, im here its okay can i hold you" she asked walking towards you. Then no response came you were so trapped in your mind it was hard to snap you out of it. Alexia had no clue what to do so she did what she thought best call for ingrid she had her fair share of panic attacks and was sure she knew what to do.

Ingrid had recived the text from alexia and she swiftly moved herself from the arm chair she was sat on to the the physio room. She opened the door and it was exactly what she feared it was the feeling where nothing is going in or out and everything is overstimulating from the feeling of your clothes to just the loose hairs whisping off your neck. She sprung herself into action she knew how to deal with panic attacks but ones caused by something so triggering and from recently she didn't know much about. "Y/n can you look at me" she said while crouching at your level still there was no response it was like you were in your own world one surrounded with thoughts of him and the way his words spat at you the way he stared as though you were an object. She waited a couple seconds and began to repeat her question but still no response came from you only the sound of your laboured breathing. Ingrid was almost lost for anything to do she was completely out of luck and she felt a dash of worry for you as your condition didnt change, therefore it lead to doing the only thing she knew what to do. 'Y/n im going to touch your hand okay" she said reaching her hand out slowly towards you and she placed it on your shaking hands you look down and instead of the expecting reaction of you holding it and breaking out of your thoughts your mind was so clouded with him the thought of someone touching you was almost as bad. "GET AWAY FROM ME....PLEASE" you yelled standing up from the floor and the two girls swiftly followed you to thier feet.

There it was you looked into alexias eyes and the fear in her eyes almost crushed you and you just collapsed into her arms realising what you had done and it wasnt him it was your friend, your teamate who you'd just shouted at. You clung to her as though she was your life line "im sorry im so sorry i wont do it again" you repeated into her shoulder through sobs. Alexia just rubs her hands on your back and through your hair as her and ingrid glance at eachother of almost panic and a sense of relief. You finally calm down and let go of alexia the corner of her jumper drenched in your tears yet she makes no remarks you walk over to ingrid and hig her tightly "im so sorry for shouting at you i didnt mean it i promise" you say burried into her shoulder "its okay love i know you didn't" she says back to you. "However I think you should go home and get some rest" she added pulling out of the hug to see your tear stained face the tear tracks still prominent on your cheeks.

Alexia had excused herself for a minute to compose herself she was so built up with worry over you and the fact you hadn't said anything the past week had really bothered her but you were young and probably trying to put on a brave face for her. "Come on pequeña lets get you some sleep" she said putting her head round the corner of the door. You had made it back home when you had sat on the couch. "Ale can we watch a movie" you asked her "sure whatever you want" she replied joining you on the couch. You played your favourite movie and you didnt mean to but it just sort of happened as the movie progressed, slowly you made your way to alexias side and leant into her "is this okay?" You said in an almost whisper tone "of course pequeña" she said wrapping her arms around you and running her finger nails through your hair. You slowly adjusted into her side and the longer it went you fell asleep on alexias shoulder it felt like home and for alexia it felt like peace knowing you were safe and in arms reach.

[infamous-if]

dev update (august 9th 2023)

I'm really bad at doing these, I apologize. I find I prefer just dropping things without much notice haha but since chapter 2 is out I do want to do better at these sort of weekly log things.

Anyway, with the Patreon out I've been having a lot of fun dropping stuff. I have a whole folder of deleted scenes and extra bits that I kept aside collecting dust so that's been fun. I've done a lot with August so far so I'm determined to keep up that momentum, especially since I'm deep in G's POV right now.

I started picking away at Part II. Luckily, I feel it may be shorter than Part I so it won't be too long until I'm dropping it. I'm going to make sure not to change any variables until after it's published so people can just play from where they finished off. Hopefully...if I can avoid it. If I speed run through Part II I feel like I can drop it next month or late this month. I'm not making any promises but if I do, I'll be giving myself a huge pat on the back lmfao.

Since Part I dropped, I've been getting a lot more asks and suggestions. Many people have been suggesting certain choices and reactions and dialogues which is great. People tend to catch things that I don't catch or have ideas that don't come to me so it helps when I go back to rewrite. I can't promise I'll add it but so far I've been getting a lot of good suggestions. I don't respond to them just so I can keep them in one place, so don't think I'm ignoring you! I do read all my questions I just tend to be picky with answering them so as not to flood the dash. I was having a wild idea to make a side account just to answer questions because I wake up to so many that I can hardly handle it and my inbox gives me a bit of a fright every morning lololol I currently have 3.5k questions and I feel terrible every time because I feel like I'm ignoring people.

As I said before, once Part 2 is out I'm going to go through the entire demo with a fine tooth comb and pick it up bit by bit. Improve on it, add dialogue, choices and just fix it up. It won't be a rewrite lol since I like what I have but I think I can improve the prose and the overall...cleanliness? of my writing!

I'm always taking suggestions or anything that may make the game better. I can't do everything but I do try. I'm also always taking song suggestions for the master playlist. I do listen to it when I write so that's fun lol

This was a non update but I do like keeping everyone up to date on what I'm doing! If anyone has suggestions for something August related to do this month, I'm all ears!

[sysmedsaresexist]

I snapped today

(Well, yesterday, but I made a point of sitting on this to make sure it was what I wanted to do)

I'll be making a post at some point to address some of the drama that I'm sure many of you have been seeing over the last couple months, but before I do, I want to just talk about something personal.

Edit: this is the post. This is the only post I'm going to make addressing the drama. This will be my response.

A vent, rant, I don't know under the cut.

The TL;dr I broke my leg in a way that fucked it up for life and I'm depressed and struggling and being dragged into drama. I want to talk about it, because I never talk about this stuff, and I'm so tired of all of it.

I'm too old for this kind of drama.

A deep dive into my mental health, physical status, my side of the story, and a message for anyone still struggling with the problemaddtic situation.

Earlier this year, I slipped.

I was telling one of my clients about it at work, he's an older gentleman, very sweet, and his reaction still makes me smile.

He asked how I fell, and I said it was black ice.

His eyes went wide. "Black ice? That's dangerous and invisible!"

It sure is, friendo... it sure is.

It was really bad. Both sides of my ankle were crushed to dust. I was in a cast for nearly 8 months. I got an infection around the metal pins and was ill. The pins had to be pulled early, which extended my recovery.

I still dream about the feeling of them trying to pry the pins out of me. You're awake when they do it.

11 months later, I'm still in physio, I've had to add chiro and ortho to my weekly appointments. Most days, I walk with a very heavy limp. I don't have full rotation of my ankle, and I hurt myself a lot by turning too quickly. I still struggle to stand for long periods-- like cooking dinner or showering.

It's becoming increasingly apparent that because of the amount of "hardware" in my leg that I won't get full rotation back. I already have arthritis, so this is wonderful.

I hurt. A lot.

It's not the pain of a broken ankle or leg.

It's this constant, dull throb in my bones. It's the constant "full" feeling as I walk, like my ankle is surrounded by a thick gel that slows its movement. It's sharp, breathtaking stabs when I turn wrong or too quickly. It's the pain that's spread to my already damaged and arthritic hips that keeps me up at night. It's never being able to get comfortable.

Mentally, I'm a wreck.

I already hated this body, and now my leg is scarred and deformed. I'm constantly terrified I'm going to fall again. I'm incredibly self conscious about whether people can tell and if they're judging me. I can't walk fast enough to keep up with crowds, and people are cruel about it. My balance is horrible. I'm realizing all the things I won't be able to do.

I love hiking so goddamn much, and my dream of hiking the orcas island is dashed.

In 2012, after the assault that nearly killed us, it was where we were sent to heal. Elevation 2,500ft. See that little tiny thing at the top?

It's an old observation tower. The end of the hike. I was only able to hike half at the time, but I was driven to the top.

I'll never hike that now. I'll never finish my goal after the assault.

My relationships have taken a massive hit.

I'm angry.

I'm so fucking angry.

He was just a kid, that was just a bit late to his job. The lot should have been salted twenty minutes earlier. As I was lifted into the ambulance, I saw him standing at the front entrance, with his little shovel and bucket of salt. The nephew of the owners, and I could see the fear in his expression. A way to save money over hiring an outside crew.

And now my life will never be the same.

I'm angry for everything that was taken from me.

I'm angry because it doesn't feel fair.

I'm angry because I'm scared all the time now. It won't be much longer before the first snow. I cry every time I think about it.

I'm struggling to come to terms with things.

Today, I had to be in the office, and it was really rough. Normally, I can work from home, but I need to be on site every couple of days. I'm really struggling with forward movement the last few days, and I'm just in a lot of pain after that much walking.

And something snapped in us today.

"Good forbid I mentally NEED to maintain my own sense of peace for a few months so I don't fucking off myself at the idea of my new depressing life as a goddamn cripple"

I have a lot of feelings about this message that I sent to the person posting about me.

I don't like the message. I want to know which one of us is responsible-- who has such deeply negative feelings about disability. I know we're struggling, but maybe I didn't realize how much.

It's terrifying when you have a CDD and your alters talk like that. Looking around in your own head like, "okay, raise your hand if you want... to die..." and everyone is like

"Does anyone want to claim that message?"

In the screenshots below, you'll see me say the above. I guess I just want to provide context and get out thoughts that have been trapped in my head.

I just want this person to leave me alone.

Between my injury, the drama with AEV and our change in stance from anti to pro--

Finally putting an end to my petty drama with Sophie, and ongoing drama with another system that we were casually flirty with for a hot minute (fucking try me, seriously, I don't care anymore, always threatening to publicly post our fucked up relationship drama, GO AWAY, YOU WILL ALSO LOOK BAD IF YOU DO THAT, YOU WILL ONLY SUCCEED IN HUMILIATING US BOTH AND ACTUALLY DOXXING ME), we refused to take part in the release of the most recent sophie doc.

All of this was happening at once.

Now don't get me wrong here-- I've already explained this in another post. It was mostly my content being used in the doc, and that of one of my friends, and I agreed to help go through my posts. I ATTEMPTED to participate in the creation of the doc, though eventually I admitted defeat and said that I would not be able to help. Every time I opened my old posts I hated myself more. I don't like that person. I hated the way I behaved.

And I was struggling so much with finally seeing Sophie as a real person with real feelings and Reasons™️ for doing things. Just like I have reasons for doing things. Just like you have reasons for doing things.

I told them I was struggling, and how and why.

I told them in my very first message that I would not publicly participate, for all the reasons mentioned.

I was not well.

And the posts being made about me are in anger that I didn't stand up for the doc or them.

The one I specifically said I would not get publicly involved with.

And while I wanted to support you in the aftermath, your final messages made me feel as though I shouldn't reach out to check on you. There are several people that will tell you that I worry about you, that I have nothing but positives to say about you, that I stress that you're Going Through It™️ and should be left alone.

People ask me about your posts, whether they're true, what's going on. You have me blocked, but I know you're going to see this. I don't need to look at your blog to know what you're saying, complete strangers fill me in.

It's fantastic, I feel great.

Every time I start to relax, someone new reaches out and it starts all over again. I'm so tired of drama.

Despite everything, despite the fact that you hurt me too, despite the fact that you're actively traumatizing me right now, I still apologized to you.

You'll get your post, but it'll be the truth.

You sent a LOT of messages, at the time I couldn't read them, I mentally could not handle it after our last conversation, but I got the impression you wanted me to post something. I was right.

Today I learned about a new post, and a new blog, and I snapped. I finally managed to bring myself to read your messages in full. And I responded, prompting ANOTHER post about how I'm trying to silence you.

I'm not doing this anymore.

Here are the messages. People can decide for themselves.

But let's actually talk about what you're blaming me for.

While I posted several times about you on my blog, these are the posts in question, where I supposedly started this "rumor", almost two years ago.

TW, SA, ending after the next set of images

When I first read your post, my first thought was, "that's what he said to me."

For survivors, "the only thing you're good for," often brings their assault or abuse to mind. Is the problem that I tagged it as SA? Is that how you think the "rumor" started?

Whether you intended to trigger people or not, you did.

I'm sorry that you're still receiving harassment, and I ask that whoever is reaching out to blue's mutuals to leave them alone. That entire situation was a mess and everyone played a part.

Chances are, though, you're not sending those messages because of me or on behalf of me. It's far more likely that you're sending them because you, yourself, were triggered by blue's words and behaviour.

I don't really have a right to tell you to stop, if that's the case, but as much as I've changed, so has blue.

Everyone deserves a second chance.

People gave me one.

Blue, I meant it, you're brilliant and funny, you deserve better, and I'm so sorry this is happening to you. I wanted to be friends, I'm so sorry that I hurt you. I never wanted to. I'm sorry that I wasn't well enough to help you. I thought I had been clear.

Now everyone leave me alone.

[feycorvus]

nine people I'd like to know better

tagged by my beloved worstie @oddconvictions im jingling malevolently under your bed as i type this

usually im hesitant to do these but in the spirit of post-boopageddon interactivity i will submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known!!

last song: saving me saving you by ruen brothers, just from my shuffled spotify likes

favorite color: if i had to choose a SINGLE colour it would have to be like a nice deep rich wine/rose red but i honestly prefer colours in combinations since i think they look better contextualised by other colours! my fav combinations are red/orange/yellow/brown (autumn!), aquamarine/teal/admiral basically just oceanic bluegreens, and brown/gold

currently watching: a few things!! the main one right now is im binging black butler with my roommate because i missed out on it during its peak but it was like, their Formative Anime so im getting the runthrough before watching the new season. the other one is we're also watching dungeon meshi weekly as it comes out! and lastly ive been (very willingly) dragged into watching stargate since it's another friend's Obsession Show and its yet another thing that's up until now not been on my radar

sweet/savory/spicy: how am i supposed to choose between savoury and spicy.

relationship status: single but im not entirely sure if its because im aroace or because the whole gender thing means i dont like the idea of someone being attracted to me in a relationship context. which is weird because im a vain little peacock who likes flirting and being flirted with and i WILL preen if complimented by friends or strangers. whats up with that. gender and sexuality are weird. we'll see how i feel in a few years when ive been on T a while

current obsession: it's been solidly kingdom hearts since like january. help. this is also my roommate's fault it was another formative childhood obsession of theirs that they inflicted on me after i mentioned i was unspoiled for the entirety of the series. seriously it was like they smelled blood in the water they insisted they had to watch me play it to see my reactions and I Understand Now

last thing you "googled": "let me in gif eric andre"

tagging: i have no idea who's already done this so sorry if you've already done it!! my dash never ends so i miss a LOT

@sunsetcowboy @jacedoe @miserablecreachur @worm-knight @mostbeautifulsoundyouveeverseen

@trickymxtape @thewaythroughthewoods @anairbri @boxesfullofthoughts

(note that if you want to tag more than 5 people you need to do a line break--thanks marty for pointing it out!!)

[my-mt-heart]

My weekly essay quiz:

There's nothing in terms of shipbaiting on the show so far that makes me concerned about where it's going. There's no chemistry between Isabelle and Daryl, and it's not played like there should be. Each episode has reinforced that Isabelle is a nun, that she chose her life and it's an informed decision because she used to lead a very different life. Everything she does is for Laurent. He is her raison d'être. Anna, the nightclub singer and Quinn's (I assume) bedwarmer, has a line which sums up the episode and Isabelle's emotional drive: "Women need a damn good reason to come back." There's a beat with Quinn's non-reaction to her insignificance. "Sometimes a damn good reason to stay." Isabelle has stayed (alive) for Laurent and she will go back to Quinn for Laurent.

However, the show does "borrow" Caryl/Carol beats liberally, which is cheap, annoying and lazy writing. Make Isabelle a character in her own right—Clémence could've carried the weight of this show if they'd let her— don't make her go back to her old life and her emotionally abusive boyfriend to protect her child. In 104, we see Laurent hiding from walkers underneath a sheet of corrugated steel, much like Sophia underneath the car on the highway, including the walker trying to get to him. Earlier in the episode, Daryl told Isabelle when he found out the boy was missing that, "He's a smart kid. He's running, he's hiding," but there's no urgency to his words, unlike when he was searching for Sophia.

In that same scene, when Daryl first walks into the apartment and finds Isabelle there, he asks her if she's okay. There's none of the careful tone he usually uses for Carol when he knows she's fragile; the camera is on Daryl, so we can see from his face that there are no emotional stakes on his part. Isabelle's been out searching for the kid all night and his is the first friendly face she sees, so she hugs Daryl. Judging by the body language, it's because she needs to connect with someone, anyone. The camera is still on Daryl when he hugs Isabelle back or, really, offers her some basic comfort. He's hesitant and slow in putting his arms around her and he just sort of places them there. There's no squeeze, no melting into each other's embrace. It's almost impersonal.

Sylvie asking Isabelle if she's ever had romantic feelings for anyone after she took her vows serves two purposes. One, to drive Sylvie's arc—she's the young nun who's had no other life and meets a dashing young man in the big city, so it's a standard romance trope used as a foil for Isabelle's arc. In each episode so far, Isabelle has emphasized that young people know of nothing else. They have had no options. She's lived, loved and made mistakes. Isabelle has no reason to lie to Sylvie about her own feelings when she says she was simply concerned for Daryl, not emotionally invested (at least not for his own sake). She's entrusting her nephew, a boy who means everything to her, in his care and Daryl had just acted completely unhinged when they interrogated Quinn's henchman, so whatever concern she felt was completely justified.

(Emotionally unstable men don't make for good love interests if you're looking for a happy ending and Isabelle is far from naïve.)

Speaking of the interrogation scene, the misogyny is so strong. The captured goon speaks about Isabelle (to her) in much the same way Ed spoke to Carol, echoing whatever mean streak keeps Quinn alive and breathing. Isabelle is an obsession, a possession he wants. Daryl doesn't understand a word that's said because it's all in French and Isabelle doesn't translate that she's being called a whore. (The translation offered onscreen is "slut," but the word used is "putain.") Daryl loses his shit on the guy, but it has nothing to do with anything going on in the scene (because he doesn't understand 90% of the conversation) and is just out of character. He's calculated and brutish, telling a story about "Jimmy, the runt of the neighborhood and incidental pig sticker," which seems intended to scare the other guy, but he doesn't speak much English, beyond "she very bad girl," so what's the point if it's lost on him anyway?

The "battered wife" ambiance is coating everything in this episode. I've mentioned the pervading misogyny before, but it's not solely in relation to Isabelle. Anna, too, is used (and pretending like she has agency) and Sylvie is young and unworldly, she should be getting an "how to stay safe in the real world" talk from someone who knows it's not all butterflies in the stomach.

Nothing about this show (so far) is butterflies in the stomach.

France/Paris is pretty. The second unit does some fabulous work in all the episodes I've seen. Cinematography is top notch. The set design and the VFX are not. It feels like the set dressers might come from stage or maybe studio set productions (like sitcoms) where you have limited space and all props need to be arranged to maximize visual angles. There's a strange feeling of corridor design in all outdoor sets, much like a janky computer game with low resolution textures. Buildings in the distance are all a blurry soft focus, so we won't spot that the kudzu and the decay either look painted on or pixelated. The green screen is an immersion breaking corneal abrasion and the Eiffel Tower does some gravity defying feats.

DD is supposed to be an arty action adventure, I guess...? I think Norman was going for an "elevated," more European feel to the show, like what you'd see produced on local TV in continental Europe, but they'd need European writers who won't cram the show with every trite cliché Americans might assume is true of France. Zabel (and his crony Richman, who only get jobs by handing them to each other) write somewhat campy/soapy drama, with a bent toward white man's history and copious biblical references, so action scenes aren't in the wheel house of either man and every single fight scene has been cringe worthy.

If Norman and/or Nicotero wanted "something completely different" from the flagship show, the showrunner would still need to have seen TWD to know what they're subverting and to keep the characters in character, so we don't end up with the toxic mess that seemed to sum up much of Daryl in the episode.

[SF]

Thank you for all of this 🙏 Hopefully people find it helpful. I only watched a 10s clip of Daryl talking about Jimmy and it was enough to upset me. Daryl didn’t sound like himself at all. This is not an art project, it’s a TV show based on a character with some of the best development in history. Story matters. Voice matters. Continuity matters. Why does nobody in charge seem to care? (That’s rhetorical).

[ladyaislinn]

31. Oktober 2024

Rufus Sewell reveals The Diplomat season 2 cliffhanger was 'redacted' in scripts

"There were bits that were blacked out until the read-through," Sewell tells "Entertainment Weekly

ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY: Going into this season, were you aware that you weren't dead?  RUFUS SEWELL: Yeah, I was pulled aside and reassured. So I knew I'd be coming back.

Hal is such a fascinating character because on the one hand, I trust him. On the other, I don't at all. I'm curious of your perspective on the kind of guy he is. I find people's reaction reactions to him quite interesting. Sometimes quite amusing, sometimes really exhausting. But that's the thing. It's the same way with humans. We make judgements about people. Often people will describe Hal as jealous or self-centered or controlling; I don't think he's any of those things. I think he's quite self-centered sometimes, but I think he is a massive fan of Kate and he really believes in her and he will do anything to put her forward. He has his own personal ambition, but everything he does when he's sneaky and manipulative, it's actually for the greater good of her and also himself.

He believes that she is capable of being vice president, even president, that she has greatness and that she needs to be maneuvered to get out of her own way to do that. Now, if the door that had opened was one that would present an opportunity for him to be vice president, then that's what they would be doing. But the play is for her to be vice president. And that means he falls into a role that maybe isn't perfectly suited for him... The problem with Hal is he thinks he's well suited to be able to play the role that she played for him, which is backup, but he's not the right shape for it. He's not naturally built to play backup without stepping on the lead singer's toes. And he really does try, bless him. But he does truly believe in her, and they're complex human beings. I think he's great.

I do think their relationship is rooted in love. Absolutely. 

It's maybe not rooted in trust.  Well, it's rooted in even the lack of trust as a trust. They trust each other for him to be as untrustworthy as he is in the ways that they both understand, you know what I mean? She says, I don't trust you, but it's not because she thinks that he'll betray her, but he can't be trusted not to be Hal. He can't be trusted not to be who he is and who he is has the potential of greatness. But there's a certain kind of a dashing quality to what he's capable of doing, which when it goes wrong, has more casualties than someone who is a little more timid. And that's what he can't be trusted not to do. 

It's like when he insists on talking to the president and then gives the man a heart attack.  Well, who would guess? That would've been the right play had that not happened. He very nearly saved the day. And you'll find that, occasionally, he does, too. 

That's what makes this show so fun to watch, is everyone is so interesting, and at any given moment, they could make a decision that has massive consequences. I've said in the past that I didn't want to be playing bad guys. What I really should have said was I wanted to be doing good writing. Meaning in good drama, just like in politics, everyone's a bit of everything. They might lean one way or another, but all people have their good and bad side. And what I love about Kate and Hal is that they are incredible fun. They are liked, they're funny, but in a certain way they're both killers. And I think that is what is essential to be in this world as they are. They have to be able to know when it is a time to kill. That's what's really fascinating about these characters, because they both actually have it. 

Even with Grace Penn, there's that moment where you think she's the bad guy, and then you hear her explanation for the decisions she made and you realize it isn't so simple. I know, I know. Even people who do things that you might think are bad or good, they all have really strong justifications, and if you get them to talk about it, you can see it from their perspective. It's just so well constructed. And that's just the way that [showrunner] Deb [Cahn] writes. She just makes sure that everyone comes from a position that they can fight for. 

Do you get all the scripts before you start shooting, or are you reading about the president's death as you're shooting? We're often a couple of episodes ahead, but some of the big plot twists, like that one, we knew about a couple of episodes or one episode ahead. I mean me and Keri, but the rest of the cast didn't because they were reading redacted scripts. There were bits that were blacked out until the read-through, which was fun because you really got to see the reaction on an audience, the audience being the cast, in real time. And when the page was turned and it got to that bit, you could see the realization explode across the room, most vocally with Ato [Essandoh], who's always fun to do a reading with.

That's kind of the best of both worlds. You know what you need to know, but you still get that experience. Exactly. You still get to enjoy it as a lover of the show the first time you read it. And the great thing of this is, I'm really looking forward to the script. It's not always the case when you're doing a long-running show. Sometimes there's a bit of anxiety about whether the writing is going to be consistent. I don't worry so much about whether my character is going to be killed off. My great fear has always been that my character would be kept alive with bad dialogue.

Speaking of the dialogue, I don't think people talk enough about how funny this show is. When I read it, to me it was a comedy. I always get a little bit of a jolt when it's described as a drama, because when I read it, I thought, "Oh, this is funny." I loved the rapport between Kate and Hal. It was incredibly witty, kind of screwball, but also not in that over-stylized way where you can tell the writers are high-fiving about having nailed a genre. That's what I instinctively reacted to when I read it. Our favorite bits are always the stupid, but also very true, fights and the bickering and eating on the bed and bickering about this and that, just the things that, to me, make it funny — but more than that, make it absolutely, recognizably real. 

[alazyparallelworld]

sending an ask to engage with what you were saying was a random impulse but im happy to see you respond and give it thought, definitely wouldnt mind sending more since this is an interesting topic :3 glad you dont mind... it can be weird being a detached observer of somebody elses life specifically if they are uncomfortable with the idea of it. i think the reason i jump to using the word "oversharing" is that talking a lot generally has a negative connotation for me because i have negative experiences with talking a lot and being ignored. i guess one of my main insecurities? so maybe i dont have the same type of accidental charisma because im too obviously desperate/curating myself too much, idk. marketing myself as a persona isnt necessarily a good goal to have so maybe sharing myself in more private spaces is for the best (not like i dont compulsively share to anyone who will listen anyway)

also being the way that i am i dont appreciate the observers/audience i DO have enough because im constantly looking for evidence of it. kind of a never enough situation. i definitely think i just have to let it go & if it happens it happens. actually, i do have a decent chance of gaining a following over my art, and when i got more interactions i swear it was when i drew more, so i guess that is part of whats happening with you. art drawing people into somebodys persona or something? i wonder if part of it is just like, when scrolling the dash peoples attention is caught more by images so it makes somebody more likely to get invested. but i think your art has a lot of personality and its what personally made me interested in following your blog so i guess the art is just like, one piece of the whole of a "persona"

diving into the pure psychological sense… going to put the entirety under a read more.

leans back, in the "contemplating therapist" pose and aura. This is a distinct position for anyone familiar.

forgive - me - in the event of bad perspective. entirely: i am not a medical professional, and if these woes are Distorting your life into an unhappiness (ability to function, socialize, that ilk) on a regular basis, either from the 'expected' of bi-weekly to the 'constant' of daily - internet guidance should be an appetizer, at best…!! while a peer's view is quite different from a, "Went to college for half-decade for this particularity" employee, they are both helpful -

but I don't mean. "Go to a therapist," because: i minimized my daily-distortion of BPD (fond Bitch Personality Disorder) thru worksheets, pamphlets, scientific texts. this conversation between us is 'improper' text, ""Uneducated"" but it is not without merit. I just don't want the existence of only two options - "[symptom of mental disorder] reddit" or "therapist that specializes in [mental disorder]" in an analogy. There are a plethora of ways to better yourself - "so maybe sharing myself in more private spaces is for the best" cannot be the single possibility. i believe in you - broaden yourself, and do not hastily imprison yourself to Any distraught for the easy answer, "better in the long run"

what you desire is evident. That is a crucial first step, and your life is measured in the thousands of footprints. Time is here for you - there is no real clock, rather, you know where your satisfaction is in space. Be proud of self-awareness, of identifying desire, these are inch forwards.

now, your path forks - "can i transfigure that want, into something 'healthier," "is there a healthier route to that want," and how exciting is that…! how to min-max pain and pleasure, that is the basis of all species. and if the decision solidifies further into, "i have to go home, i have to let this all go," that is the first option. there is no shame in release.

that is my thought on. "insecurity," and i hope - even if very inaccurate, maybe Inappropriate, your reaction of 'that's wrong!' strengthens what you know to be true.

[head on desk] That's a heaviness…! not on you. This could've been a very simple answer. I'm strange and chattery, for I don't talk IRL and only online. At least, in length…

ART…! art is eye-catching. It is intrinsic. Of course, my artwork pulls people in (but I captured attention b4 I started, as I only began in winter 2020, blah) for any colorful stimuli it kickstarts the brain. Nervous symptom responses.

(i don't think it provokes the sympathetic nervous system SPECIFICALLY, but i'm not abt to rabbit-hole myself into certainty. sensory is prolly also incorrect, just in a 'less wrong' kind. i'm singling out nervous specifically, as the 'colorful'ness of art prolly agitates the body first into, 'is this a toxic plant' survivalism and NOT the visual aesthetics of being 'pleasing to the brain,' i think that's a secondry concern, aaaand i'm rambling abt special interest SORRY)

word-of-mouth, 'reblogs,' or searches is how people notice the un-art. Fanfic writers. Clever meta. Observations. Diary-ing. to 'appeal,' you have to either - as mentioned previously - change yourself, or redirect your goal - but for less extensive… Journaling via pen-and-paper, or a notes app, is easy in THEORY but difficult in PRACTICE. these don't fulfill the, 'exchange,' because journals and notes are private. However. These are good practices. Writing onto yourself sharpens the ability to communicate, your dialect - there's a difference of 'early' ramblings here to current ones. (admittedly, a, 'there's been developments in psychosis,' is a portion rather than True improvement, but it's not a singularity)

review sites i.e letterboxd and backloggd serve similarity, but are dedicated to movies/video games respectively. And, they center around either criticism, or humor - which isn't what you want… you want your natural self to be attractive. I do think you could find enjoyment outside, and it can be good fun or a learning exercise finding out that You Hate Writing Meta.

[petrichoraline]

petri are you watching boys planet!!!!!!! i was so happy to see boys planet gifs on my dash and i didn't even realize it was u reblogging them

hey love <333 i am not because i'm too weak hearted, survival shows manage to make me feel bad in a myriad of ways so i tend to stay away from all of them (even ones that ended ages ago) buuuutttt the introductions that were all over tiktok got me :') and i am now vaguely keeping up with it weekly, i know more than i want to and less than i need to haha

@howitrulyam patiently explains to me the voting systems, member facts, catches me up on weekly events etc. 💓🥰 so i'm not totally clueless and i'm keeping my eye on a few guys but overall just enjoying the stages and the ridiculous editing on the reaction versions 😂

i would absolutely love for you to rant about it and share your opinions, i've been curious 😁

[snackhobi]

this is my part of the rockin’ around the christmas tropes collab with @yeojaa, @underthejoon @ladyartemesia, @ppersonna, @untaemedqueen, @xjoonchildx ✨ MERRY (early) CHRISTMAS Y’ALL

summary: yoongi is your favourite regular. he’s patient, polite, and predictable, a-large-black-coffee-to-go-please, no cream, no sugar, thank you. rinse and repeat. the seasons might change, but yoongi’s order stays the same.

and then one fateful day in winter, yoongi asks about the weekly specials, orders a cup of christmas and sugary sweetness, and everything starts changing.

pairing: yoongi x barista f!reader / word count: 14.8k / genre: coffeeshop!au, fluff, dash of smut (NSFW)

warnings: slow burn, terrible drink concoctions, pining, miscommunication (kind of/reader comes to incorrect conclusions based on literally nothing), the tiniest bit of swearing, heated makeouts, oral (m receiving), I think that’s it

a/n: I have a lot of people to thank: thank you to my loveliest most beautiful wife @yeojaa for the beautiful banner 🥺💖 thank you to @morndas for helping me name this fic and suggesting some of the awful weekly specials featured within 🥰 thank you to @yeoldontknow for letting me have multiple meltdowns at her and for letting me pick her brain about working in the music industry, and for helping me with plot points I wasn’t sure about!! 💕

also thank you to @hobi-gif for helping me brainstorm the original fic idea with her; she hasn’t beta’ed this fic because I am TERRIBLE and literally finished this like an hour before posting. that’s on me and not her. I am a shambles without her indomitable proof reading skills; any mistakes are down to me, and I apologise for that. I’ve only read this through like once, sorry in advance, I’m literally formatting this while I should be getting ready for work

Being a barista isn’t all bad.

Like, okay, you’re on your feet for hours at a time, the pay isn’t exactly the highest in the world, and coffee beans have a tendency to end up in the weirdest places (how did you get the light roast in your bra?)—but it’s not entirely terrible.

Here’s a (totally not comprehensive) list of good things about working at the Paradise coffee shop:

The free drinks (y’know, for taste testing purposes)

The free food (you probably eat more than you’re actually allowed, but who’s telling?)

Your coworkers (like Taehyung, who is—yep—currently shoving a whole mini panettone in his mouth)

Most of the customers are pretty nice, too (you have some lovely regulars)

(If you had to be more specific, there’s one regular in particular that you really, really like—)

(Yoongi appears like clockwork every week. Just after the Tuesday lunch rush, the bell above the door will sing out its greeting as he steps inside, ordering the same drink each and every time he’s here—a large Americano, to go, plain and simple and unadorned, no room for cream or milk, no added sugar or sweetener.)

(Yoongi really is the perfect customer. He has been from the very beginning, a point of quiet in a churning sea of hot, sweaty people all begging for frappés and milkshakes, the hottest point at the very peak of summer. The queue had been growing longer and longer, out of the doors as the blenders whirred their way through a neverending cascade of sugary, iced blends; the counters were a mess and all the baristas were running around and everything was chaos and in had walked this guy, all dark hair and dark eyes and dark clothes, even in the height of summer—you were ready for death at this point, hands sticky with syrup and apron streaked with flecks from almost every drink from the summer menu, and you’d braced yourself for some terse words, impatience and passive aggressive comments on the long wait—)

(—and this intimidating man had just patiently asked for an iced Americano, calm and quiet and polite.)

(You’d fallen a little in love, then and there. Fallen in love with that simple order, quick and easy to make, and fallen a little in love with the dichotomy of the man who looked like nothing but sharp edges being the softest customer you’d had all day. There was nothing rushed about his motions, no desperate need to get his drink and get away, no anger at having waited for so long.)

(He’d been ready to pay, too, no fumbling with his wallet or money; he’d tapped his card, easy and breezy and all lemon squeezy, but he’d left a tip in change, dropped almost thoughtlessly into the jar. He’d collected his cup with the smallest upturn to his lips, a tilt of his head, and then he’d left, other customers parting before him like the Red Sea.)

(The only thing that’s changed over the months is that the iced coffees of summer have changed into hot Americanos for the cooler months, autumn and now almost-winter, warding off the chill in the air. Everything else is the same; his dark eyes and low voice and patient smile, small but ever present, pressed lightly into the surprisingly soft line of his mouth.)

(So, yeah. Yoongi is your favourite customer. Even if you’ve barely spoken, really, the two of you dancing through the same short script each time he comes in—the longest conversation you’ve had so far is the one where you’d tentatively asked if he’d like a rewards card, and after a moment of contemplation, he’d quietly agreed.)

(You like to think that you’re Yoongi’s favourite server, too. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but—)

(Taehyung had been stunned into speechlessness, because, to quote his words exactly: “I tried getting him to sign up for a card last time and I swear he just pretended he couldn’t hear me? He just straight up didn’t respond? What?”)

(—you know Yoongi likes you at least a little bit.)

Anyway. You’re getting off the point. Paradise is a decent place to work, the people are nice, and the building is pretty and airy and welcoming and warm, toasty and cosy in the upcoming cold of winter. It’s one of the things that keeps people coming back, that lovely atmosphere.

Another thing that people apparently love about Paradise is the constantly changing menu. It’s not enough to have seasonal menus, no—you need to have weekly specials, apparently, to keep people interested.  It’s like a gachapon, but instead of cute little capsule toys, it’s a random mix of concoctions that are hit or miss.

“Well, I liked the Peachy Keen Jelly Bean,” Taehyung says, around a mouthful of sweet bread, still chewing his way through the panettone.

“You’d be the only one,” you reply, swiping a cloth over the counters and crinkling your nose  at the pile of coffee grounds you gather. “Iced peach tea with blackberry and vanilla and cherry and watermelon syrup has got to be one of the worst things we’ve ever served.”

That had definitely been one of the misses. This week’s special, though, is far more palatable, if incredibly sweet—Crystal Snow, a white chocolate mocha with whipped cream, dusted with powdered sugar, and a crystallised sugar stick to stir in. Sugar on sugar on sugar, basically. (Your teeth ache just thinking about it.) 

But there’s always something so fun about making the winter specials, no matter how sugary they are; the smell of the sticky syrups, the swirl of cream to top off the cup, the dusting of cocoa or cinnamon, everything mulled in the sweet warmth of winter. Even if the drink you’re making is questionable, you get so excited about it, genuinely enthusiastic when you recommend them to customers, carrying everyone into the spirit of the upcoming holidays. You’d hardly describe making coffee a billion times a day fun—it’s pretty exhausting, actually—but you’ve always had a weird affection for the winter menu and the weekly specials alongside it.

You don’t upsell the drinks because you have to. You do it because you want to.

(You’re pretty good at it too. Not a flex: just a fact. Your customer service is on point.)

The only person you’ve never tried to persuade into trying something new is Yoongi. He might not be rude or short tempered, but he clearly knows what he wants, and you hate the idea of ruining the easy flow of his visits. You’re not about to embarrass yourself by asking Mr No-Cream-Or-Sugar if he’d like a drink that's nothing but cream and sugar. Asking about the rewards card had been nerve-wracking enough, even if it had been worth it for the genuinely-unintentional-but-definitely-not-unpleasant brushing of your fingers when you’d handed the card over to him.

(Okay. Look. Yoongi is patient and pleasant and polite and cute. You never thought that you’d crush on a customer, but here you are. He just… oozes masculinity in an understated, self-assured way that has you internally swooning. He looks intimidating and serious but when he smiles his eyes go soft-soft-soft, his voice a low rumble as he gives you his gentle thank you, and everything about him is just so… attractive. Even the way he holds his coffee is hot, fingers loose around the lid as he makes his way out of the café, your eyes tracing every motion as he goes. Like. Come on. Of course you’re crushing on him.)

(Just a little bit, though. Just a little bit. It’s just an itty bitty crush. A teeny weeny crush.) 

The bell above the door chimes. Your kneejerk reaction is to snap your head over to see who it is—but you hold it together, instead letting your head turn at a normal, natural pace. It’s just an unfamiliar woman, rearranging the tassels of her long scarf with one hand and holding her phone with the other as the door swings shut, and you deflate.

(... It’s a small crush, you swear. It’s not like this is around the normal time Yoongi appears and you’d thought it was going to be him. Nope. Definitely not that.)

As the woman lingers near the counter, eyes flicking between her phone and the chalkboard menu on the wall above your head, Taehyung finishes licking the panettone crumbs off his fingers.

“It’s Tuesday,” he states solemnly.

“I know?”

“It’s just past two o’clock,” he continues.

“I know,” you repeat, glancing at him quizzically. “You told me what the time was less than five minutes ago.”

“I did.”

The bell chimes again. This time, a gaggle of giggling girls come bubbling into the café, cutting you off before you can ask what Taehyung is trying to say. You go to flick your cloth at him before thinking better of it, not wanting to rain dark roast everywhere.

“Go wash your hands,” you say, just as the scarfed woman approaches the counter, ready to order. A bright smile splits your face, voice rising into its usual peppy Customer Service tone. “Hi, welcome to Paradise! How can I help you today?”

She barely glances up from her phone as she orders, asking for a latte macchiato and croissant, a distracted ‘no thanks’ when you ask if she’s interested in this week’s special. Oh well. The girls behind her, though, all seem incredibly excited when they catch wind of it; they all eagerly listen as you describe what a Crystal Snow is, your eyes lighting up as you mime piping the cream and dusting the sugar on top, laughing when they ask if they can buy extra sugar sticks to take home, because of course they can, you’d be happy to do that for them, would they like those in to-go bags? Yes, the bags are cute, aren’t they, the snowflakes are lovely, you agree.

Taehyung’s just finished wiping the steam wand when you give him the next order. You see the way his face crumples before his brows lift and his lips purse, pleading as he looks at you with big eyes, and you just roll your own eyes affectionately.

“Yes, yes, I’ll make them even though you’re meant to be on the bar, it’s fine,” you say, and Taehyung’s whole face lights up.

You’ve worked with Taehyung long enough by now to know that it takes him until at least Wednesday to memorise how to make whatever that week’s special is. And there’s not a queue, so you don’t mind taking over, pulling espresso shots and steaming milk and pouring everything together, puffing air in Taehyung’s face when he peers at your cream swirling technique. (No matter how many times you’ve tried to teach him, he’s never been able to get it right, usually just farting a mess of cream out of the nozzle and hoping for the best. Results are… mixed.) Maybe the flourish you put into dusting the sugar on top is unnecessary, but, hey. It’s fun. You smile to yourself as you give a small flick of the wrist over each drink, powdered sugar floating down like snow, and, done.

You don’t like to toot your own horn but the drinks come out Instagram perfect, each latte glass set on a tiny napkin on a saucer, sugar stick on one side, and you take a moment to admire your work.

“They’re so pretty,” Taehyung says, and your smile grows wider.

The girls all agree, cooing over the drinks in a way that only makes your smile grow even more, wide on your face. You watch as they squirrel themselves away in a corner, talking and laughing and nibbling their food and sipping at their drinks, pleased at the way their eyes widen at the first taste.

Yeah, it’s the small things that makes your time here good. Being a barista is a thankless job most of the time, as relaxed as Paradise usually is, so you try to appreciate the small things. Like having fun when you make a drink, for example. Making nice customers happy. (Having cute regulars that you can quietly ogle.)

Actually, on the note of cute regulars—

“Your 2:15 appointment is here.”

You tear your attention away from the table of girls at the sound of Taehyung’s voice. “My what—?”

There’s someone in front of the glass display, hunched as they slowly and quietly peruse the selection of pastries and food inside—and you realise with a jolt that it’s Yoongi. You have no idea how long he’s been there, so distracted with patting yourself on the back for making a few nice drinks; oh, God, what if Yoongi had seen your pleased expression? Do you look smug? You probably look smug. Great, now he probably thinks that you’re a self-obsessed clown, honking your nose like some sort of narcissist. 

“You’re spiralling,” Taehyung points out mildly, voice low enough that Yoongi doesn't hear.

His surprisingly perceptive comment snaps you out of aforementioned spiralling, and after shaking yourself off, you glance over at him. “Why didn’t you serve him?”

He shrugs. “He didn’t seem like he wanted to be served so I just left him to it.”

To be fair to Taehyung, he’s not wrong. Yoongi is staring intently at a slice of carrot cake—even if he’s never ordered any before—and it’s not until you move to your usual spot behind the till that his attention finally rises, meeting your gaze with his deep, dark eyes.

Your inner schoolgirl feels like she needs to sit down. Your entire stomach and chest is a looping mess of frantic butterflies after making eye contact with the cute boy who you’re crushing on, but you’ve got a great poker face; you’ve worked as a barista long enough that you’re good at shoving your real feelings down, none of your internal turmoil playing across your face as you smile. Customer service mode activate.

“Hi, and welcome back to Paradise. What can I get for you today? The usual? Large Americano, to go, for Yoongi?”

You’re a little softer than you would be with other customers, a little more subdued, dialing down how upbeat you normally are to match Yoongi’s level. His lips lift almost imperceptibly, the faintest smile playing across his mouth, and it takes all your strength for your knees to not immediately buckle. 

“Hi,” he says. His voice is soft and low, faintest drawl at the end of his words, and yep, just your weekly reminder that you’re enamoured with him. Cool. “Yes, please, that would be great.”

He already has his card ready, you know he does. He always does; card to pay, loyalty card to swipe, tip to drop in the jar, quick and smooth and easy. This is normally where you’d rattle off the price—as if he doesn’t already know what it is—but you pause, thinking about how intent he’d been on the pastry display, as uncharacteristic as that is.

“Did you… want something to eat, too? I couldn’t, um, help noticing that you were eyeing up the carrot cake?”

Yoongi blinks, wispy lashes fluttering. You can see the muted surprise that flashes across his face, and you wonder if you’ve misstepped, thrown off the usual rhythm of his visit. It’s an unusual step away from your regular script, an ad-lib that he wasn’t expecting.

“Uh, no, thank you,” he says. “Maybe… next time.”

He’s polite as ever, thankfully. You’re not surprised at his answer but you do have to wonder why he was looking at the cake so closely if he hadn’t planned on getting anything; you know he likes getting served by you the most, if the evidence over the months means anything at all, but you don’t think he’d stare at cake just so he would avoid Taehyung. You’re making assumptions based on the fact he just drinks black coffee and literally nothing else, but you’ve guessed he doesn’t have a sweet tooth. (The only time he’s ever ordered food had been two months prior when he’d asked for a single croissant, and nothing since. Taehyung still talks about the croissant sometimes.) 

Well, it doesn't really matter. If he doesn't want cake, you're not going to force it on him, and the rest of the transaction goes as normal. Yoongi hands over his rewards card, fingers long and knuckles knobbly and altogether lovely, pays for his Americano—made by Taehyung, cup wrapped in the sleeve that you’ve written Yoongi’s name on, black sharpie bleeding into the cardboard—and smiles at you both when Taehyung hands it to him across the smooth wood of the counter.

“Thanks.” He gives you that slight tilt of his head that he always does, and you smile helplessly back. 

He’s a gentleman, through and through, even if he looks as distant as ever; dressed in all black, his ripped jeans the only splash of lightness in his dark outfit. Maybe you’re biased, but no matter what he wears, he looks stylish, somehow. It’s something in his aura. All cool understated elegance and power. 

And here you are, in your cream jumper under the dark mulberry apron of your uniform, a flower blooming next to the name on your badge. All chirpy customer service, smiling broad and wide as you go through the same motions over and over with each new person that comes in. Sometimes you wonder what Yoongi thinks of you, as different as you are to him, but at the end of the day it doesn’t really matter—because he keeps coming back, doesn’t he?

“Have a nice day,” you say as he turns to go, and when he glances over his shoulder and says you too, smile soft and eyes softer, you know he really means it. 

(And if your eyes always trail after him once his back has turned, who’s telling?)

“You’re staring.” Taehyung’s telling, apparently.

You tear your eyes away from Yoongi, bell tinkling as the door swings shut behind him. “He’s my favourite customer,” you say. As if that explains why you were staring.

“You’ve barely spoken to him.”

“He’s my favourite customer,” you say again, emphatically. “He comes in, he gets the world’s simplest drink to make, is always polite, always leaves a tip, and he goes. Literally the perfect customer.”

 “Alright, true,” he says, as if he hadn’t considered that before now. “Cute, too.”

You sigh. A little wistful. “Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, he is.”

Taehyung opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else when someone spills their drink on their floor with an unholy clattering sound, even if nothing breaks; without saying anything, both you and Taehyung raise your hands, eyes narrowing at each other.

"Rock, paper, scissors," you chant. Taehyung promptly loses, and the pout that forms on his lips doesn't disappear until he's finished mopping everything up.

(“Why do I always end up having to clean spillages?”

“Because you never win rock-paper-scissors. You always choose scissors, Taehyung. You literally always choose scissors.”)

The tradition of the weekly specials at Paradise is a weird one, truth be told. Each Monday whoever’s on the opening shift will enter the coffee shop and find that the board on the wall has been updated, the recipe typed up and laminated, waiting on the counter for the baristas. You all assume it’s the mysterious owner, who no one has ever seen, and no one even knows the name of, apparently.

“Someone has to know their name,” you’d said, once, back when you’d first started, only to receive a shrugs from everyone.

“I heard one of the old baristas say the owner’s name was Jackson,” Taehyung had said, and you’d just blinked at him.

“Huh?” you’d said, but Jimin had rolled his eyes and told you to ignore him, so you had.

This week’s drink is the Marshmallow World. As always, when you and Taehyung start your shift together, you read the recipe and follow it step by step to learn how to make it. Warmed milk, vanilla syrup, topped off with marshmallow fluff instead of whipped cream—not bad in theory, if you like sweet things, although it does pose one significant problem.

“It’s clogged my hole,” Taehyung says sadly.

You sputter on your own drink, desperately hacking your lungs out as you try to stop milk from going down your windpipe. “I’m-sorry-it’s-what,” you wheeze all at once, struggling for air.

Taehyung tilts his takeaway cup at you, gesturing at the lid. (All the mugs are still out back or on a rinse cycle so laziness had forced you to make do.) “My drink hole. It’s blocked,” he explains. “The fluff is getting in the way.”

So, yeah. It clogs people’s holes, apparently. But other than that, you have to admit it’s pretty nice, and if you drink it in the café (and thus out of a mug) then you’re fine. You just get into the habit of warning the customers if they order it to go and laugh about it with them and it’s all fine and dandy and everyone is happy.

It’s starting to get busier, now. The nights are getting longer and the days are getting colder and everyone’s starting to think about Christmas, which feels both close and far away, all at once. Close, because you still have presents to buy and there’s never enough time for it; and far, because the lights have yet to go up and Christmas songs aren’t dominating the radio yet and you have yet to experience the real winter rush. Students home for the holidays and families out to see Father Christmas and workers grabbing Secret Santa gifts, everyone desperate for something warm and soothing, hot and comforting in the face of the snow which has yet to fall. 

But there’s something in the air, that cool hush that lets you know it’s nearly here—the changing of the seasons, the burnt sunset colours of autumn melting into the iced blues and greys of winter. No matter if you prefer hot or cold weather, there’s something about the beauty of wintertime that’s undeniable.

And it’s a lot easier to sell something like the Marshmallow World on a day like this, the nip in the air almost solid, biting cold into the apples of your cheeks, nibbling at fingers that are so cold they feel frost-bitten. Once again, your genuine enthusiasm shines through, persuading people to give the drink a go, happy to add a shot of espresso for whoever needs it, desperate for caffeine to buoy them up through the day.

You’ve just finished laughing with a lovely old couple, wearing matching scarves and hats—awwww—waving them goodbye as they go to sit down, when you come face to face with Yoongi, blindsided by his sudden appearance. You’d been so caught up, once again, too busy giggling your way through the conversation with your other customers, able to persuade them to try one special to share alongside everything else they’ve ordered. 

“Oh. Uh. Hi,” you say. Your hand is still by your face after you’d given the couple a cute wave, and when you realise, you freeze. Flustered. Behind you, Taehyung is struggling to spoon the marshmallow fluff neatly on the vanilla steamer, making small noises of distress, but you’re too caught up in your own distress to really notice.

Once again, you have no idea how long Yoongi’s been there. You’re slipping. You’re normally aware of him as soon as he steps into the coffee shop. (You know, because you’re always aware of when a new customer steps in. Like any good barista would be.) Had he witnessed you enthusiastically waving your hands and talking about marshmallows and s'mores? Seen the way you'd grinned and laughed as you'd gotten excited over the weekly special, yet again?

Well, if he had, he doesn't seem perturbed at all. His usual smile is on his face, though you would swear it seems a little softer around the edges, almost fond. 

“Hi,” he says, and… that’s it. 

There’s no addition of his usual that would be great, and that’s when you realise you haven’t asked about his coffee. In fact, your fingers are still curled near your chin, almost like a claw. You clear your throat and let your arm fall to your side, fiddling with the tie of your apron. 

“Hi,” you repeat. Flounder for a second. Try to remember your usual line. “Large Americano?”

“Y/n.” Taehyung whines your name from the bar, loud enough that it catches your attention. “The marshmallow isn’t staying. Why do you keep recommending Marshmallow World? Why must I suffer through this torture? Every day I wake up and I make coffee—”

“Sorry, sir, one second,” you say, face scrunching in apology at Yoongi. 

“It's just Yoongi,” he replies, gentle, and your heart thuds in your chest. "You don't have to call me sir."

Your face feels warm. "Um, okay, Yoongi." You've said his name before, of course, said it dozens of times to confirm his order, but never like this—by invitation from the man himself, an acknowledgement of familiarity.

Taehyung makes another noise. Yoongi's expression turns into one of faint amusement, eyes drifting over your shoulder to your friend; when you turn around, you can see why.

The other barista’s managed to get marshmallow fluff all over the edge of the glass, on the handle of the cup, all the way up the spoon, on his fingers—everywhere except on the drink itself. It’s funny, in a sad sort of way.

“Wow.” You have no idea how he managed it, but you’re here to help. “Alright, go wash your hands, Tae. I’ve got this.”

The cup is a goner.  There’s no way you’ll be able to wipe off the sticky marshmallow. You’re acutely aware of Yoongi at the counter, able to watch your every move, but then you get distracted as you salvage Taehyung's attempt at a Marshmallow World. You just feel grateful that it’s a steamer so you can pour it into a new glass, not having to worry about layers of coffee and milk and foam; it’s a pretty easy fix. Good. (You don’t want to keep Yoongi waiting, as patient as he may be.)

It doesn’t take long to spoon the marshmallow on, whipped peaks in the sticky white, and by the time Taehyung returns you’re ready to present him with the picture perfect drink, not a single lick of fluff anywhere it shouldn’t be. You've got your hands on your hips as you survey your work proudly, and Taehyung sticks his tongue out at you.

“Witchcraft,” he says, and you laugh.

“You’re welcome,” you say. “Alright, shoo, go take this over to the table before they start wondering where it is.”

When you turn back, Yoongi’s watching you. Contemplative. You tamp down the flush that threatens to spill onto your cheeks, face burning, but before you can say anything, he speaks.

“Was that the weekly special?”

You blink. Blindsided. Yoongi’s never asked about the special before, never commented on the A-frame outside, the sign on the wall that sits next to the regular menu. No surprise there—why would someone who only drinks Americanos want to drink ninety-nine percent of the weekly specials you offer? “Um, yeah,” you say. “We’ve got the Marshmallow World this week.”

“Would you recommend it?”

You can’t help it. You light up. You love when customers ask for recommendations, and the fact that it’s Yoongi—whose blood must be made of coffee at this point—who’s asking about it? Americano Yoongi, asking about something without caffeine? Black coffee Yoongi, asking about a weekly special that’s nothing but sugar and sweetness? Something inside you switches on, a Christmas tree, all flashing lights and shimmering tinsel and excitement.

“Oh, if you like sweeter drinks, absolutely! It’s great for a cold day like today,” you gush. Maybe you should reel it in, far more exuberant than you usually are with Yoongi, but. You can’t stop. “It’s warm milk and vanilla, so it’s a lovely comfort drink, and we can add a shot of espresso too if you were wanting a little pick-me-up. And then you’ve got marshmallow fluff on top for some extra self-indulgence. We were meant to, uh, toast the top, actually, but we don’t have the necessary health and safety clearance for blowtorches. I guess you could do that at home if you really wanted to. Everyone likes toasted marshmallows, right?”

Yoongi hums, and you wonder if you’ve maybe gotten ahead of yourself. Oversold it. Maybe he was asking out of curiosity. Just because he’s asking about it doesn’t mean that he wants one—

“Can I get a Marshmallow World, please? Large, to go?”

—or maybe Yoongi is an official convert to the world of sweet drinks, changing after a lifetime of drinking unadorned, unadulterated black coffee. Holy shit. Holy shit? Holy—

“And a large Americano to go, too, please.”

(Record scratch. Freeze frame.  

Yoongi of-the-black-coffee is ordering his usual drink, and another. Both large. Too much for one person to reasonably drink before one of them got cold. He’s not ordering for one person; he’s ordering for two people. Of course Yoongi wouldn’t order something as heart-stopping as the Marshmallow World—not for himself, anyway. 

Mental maths. Two plus two is four, four plus four is eight; one large Americano and one Marshmallow World is two people. Yoongi and one other person is two people, a couple of people, a couple—

Oh, God.

A couple.

You’ve been crushing on a taken man.

You know how they say your life flashes before your eyes before you die? It’s sort of like that, but rather than remembering your life, you immediately recall every moment over the months where you’ve looked at him or thought about him with even the smallest iota of longing and you want to crawl under the counter and never come out. 

You feel weirdly guilty. Like… like you’re some sort of unintentional homewrecker. Even though, you know, you thought Yoongi was single and you haven’t made a single move on him and nor had you had any plans to. The guilt bubbles up inside you anyway.

All at once, you feel immensely, incredibly embarrassed. Of course he’s taken. There’s no way he wouldn’t be, as attractive and nice as he is, and you’ve just been sat here crushing on him like a big dumb idiot. 

You are the worst.)

You manage to squeeze this internal breakdown into the span of a few seconds. You’re grateful that you have your customer service face locked on, giving nothing away—from the outside the smile looks just like that, a smile, rather than the rictus of deathly mortification it actually is, burning through you like a wildfire. 

Yoongi seems none the wiser, just patiently waiting for some sort of acknowledgement of his order. Most of your brain power is still taken up with the mish-mash of humiliation and guilt that’s roiling through you. Luckily, though, the part of your brain that’s still in the moment (trying to drag you back to the real world, shame-faced as you are) forces you to move before things get weird.

“One large Americano, one large Marshmallow World, both to go.” You tap the drinks into the till on auto-pilot, dimly noting that Taehyung’s been pulled into conversation with the old couple at their table, having delivered their drinks and food to them. It’s just you behind the counter, no one else to man the coffee machines. “Let me get those started for you.”

Luckily, making the drinks means you can turn your back to Yoongi, oscillating through the five stages of grief as you fiddle with hot milk and coffee grounds and paper cups. You always take pride in your work—especially when it comes to Yoongi—and you take even more pride now, determined to make these drinks as lovely as they can be. His Americano is fairly simple, but the Marshmallow World requires a bit more finesse, and you lavish attention on the fluff, swirling it beautifully, even though you know it’ll stick to the lid anyway. 

(Okay, listen. Whoever this person Yoongi is seeing must be as nice as he is. They both deserve nice drinks.)

There’s something sweet about it, actually. Before the lids go on, you spent a second staring down at the drinks and the juxtaposition between them; black coffee and white marshmallow, bitter and sweet, night and day. It’s lovely, really, these two opposing things coming together. You wonder what Yoongi’s partner is like. Exuberant and bright, rather than his subdued warmth? A balance, yin and yang, opposite but complementary. 

(Isn’t that a nice thing to think about? Finding someone who’s different to you but matches you so well?)

You firmly press the lids into place, making sure they’re secure. The protective cardboard sleeve of Yoongi’s Americano has his name—the name you’ve memorised, written out countless times—while the Marshmallow World has a scrawled happy face, and an enjoy! on it, for this mysterious person who likes sweet drinks. You do sincerely hope they enjoy it. You really do.

“The fluff blocks the hole,” you warn, sliding the cardboard tray for both drinks carefully across the counter. “It’s probably a better idea to just take the lid off.”

Something flickers across Yoongi’s face, too fast for you to identify. But then he nods, lifting the tray up with equally careful hands. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. 

He’s always polite to everyone, Taehyung and the other baristas, but he seems to smile at you the most. He’s smiling at you now, curling at the corners of his lips, and you smile back, fighting through ten layers of embarrassment and self-inflicted shame to do so. Just because he smiles at you the most doesn’t mean anything. You can smile at people and not have it be weird; it doesn’t mean you return their ill-fated attraction.

Why, oh why, oh why.

By the time Taehyung returns to the counter, having escaped the chatty, kind clutches of the elderly couple, Yoongi is long gone. Your fellow barista finds you crouched down in front one of the cupboards with your head in your hands.

“Y/n?” He sounds incredibly concerned. “Are you okay? Do you have a headache? Are you sick?”

You let out a quiet noise, a mix between a whale dying and a hippo trying to swallow porridge, muffled into your palms. “I’m such a doughnut,” you say. “Just an absolute doughnut.”

Taehyung crouches beside you. “A glazed doughnut or a jam doughnut?”

Your hands drop away from your face as you think. “Plain,” you say, eventually. “Unglazed. No toppings or fillings.” A little sad and disappointing. It seems fitting. 

Taehyung puts a hand on your shoulder, warm and comforting. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You feel embarrassed all over again, thinking about admitting your (now-squashed) crush to your friend. It was stupid in the first place, crushing on a customer, especially as you’d barely spoken to him; Yoongi might be cute, and nice, but your crush was silly and dumb and you’d been silly and dumb not to think that he was already in a relationship.

“I’m fine,” you say. “Just going through it. And by ‘it’ I mean life generally, you know?”

Taehyung makes a noise of understanding, patting your shoulder. “Big mood,” he says sombrely. He always knows what to say, empathetic to a fault.

“Uh,” a customer says, craning over the counter to see the two of you. “Sorry to interrupt, but can I get a refill on my coffee, please?”

That effectively kills the conversation, which is good. Keep yourself busy and distracted. By the time you see Yoongi next week, this crush will be dead and gone and you’ll be fine. Just fine. Absolutely fine.

He’s dyed his hair.

It’s a Tuesday afternoon, the café is full of people, and Yoongi has dyed his hair.

You’d spent all of last Tuesday alternating between all-consuming guilt and embarrassment, Taehyung catching you with your head in your hands in one moment and furiously cleaning the steam wand the next, channeling your tumult of emotions into anything that will distract you. 

It had worked. Mostly. You’ve had a week’s worth of time since, to get over this month’s long crush, your brain consistently reminding you that Yoongi is in a relationship, with someone who’s probably lovely and attractive and all around just wonderful (just like him). You remind yourself about this every time you find coffee grounds under your nails, or notice milk flecked on your apron, soured and off-white after a day of work; your life isn’t a meet-cute, and you’re not the cute barista who falls in love with the cute regular. You’re the tired barista who makes more cups of coffee in a day than most people probably drink in a year, and Yoongi is the cute regular who’s already in a long term relationship and comes to Paradise just because he likes the dark roast you use. That’s as far as it will go, because this is real life, and not a romance film or novel. (Even if you wished that it was.)

You’ve come to terms with it. Really, you have. But then he has to step into the coffee shop looking like that, his hair bleached so blond it almost looks white, silver hoops in his ears, and he’s still dressed in dark clothes but he’s wearing glasses, no, this isn’t a drill, Yoongi’s dyed his hair, he’s all light and dark, soft and sharp, and you want to crouch behind the counter again. Because he looks so good and of course he’s in a relationship because he’s hot, and you feel dumb for not having realised it sooner.

You can’t hide behind the counter, though. There’s a queue of people, all waiting for your attention and your time, and it’s still just you and Taehyung; none of your usual Christmas temps are back yet, still away at uni, hence the we’re hiring! posters that are up for all the customers to see (and mostly ignore). The seasons are changing and the weeks are passing and the really eager people are starting to think about Christmas shopping; you swear you don’t even need a calendar, able to trace how close you are to Christmas just based on the amount of foot traffic the coffee shop gets. You’re definitely hitting peak.

But it’s fine. You have this down to a fine art. You and Taehyung are both good on the till and scarily efficient at making drinks and plating food, dancing past each other with an ease that only comes with time spent working together and friendship alongside.

People aren’t ordering the weekly special as much, either, not today. You can’t blame them. Candy Cane Dreams is a white hot chocolate, flavoured with mint and coloured green, topped with whipped cream and sprinkles of candy cane bark and red and green drizzle too; it’s… pretty overwhelming. So it means you don’t have to take over for Taehyung from the bar, focusing on smiling at customers and soothing them after their wait, taking their orders and shuffling them along as quickly as you can. You keep a smile plastered on your face as Taehyung pulls espresso shots and grabs tea bags and heats milk, routine and familiar.

When Yoongi steps up to the counter, you’ve barely had time to mentally prepare yourself, so focused on serving everyone else in the queue; it feels like a slap to the face, a kick to the knees, but then you take one deep breath and exhale. Long, deep, slow, forcing air out of your lungs and thoughts out of your mind, and you smile.

You’ve been so careful up until this point, wanting to keep Yoongi happy, wary of misstepping—but he’s just a regular customer. You feel more confident, now, less worried about breaking this tenuous thing you thought you’d had; less worried about what you’re doing being construed as some weird, roundabout way of flirting, because. You know. He’s in a relationship, so it doesn’t matter either way. He’s definitely not interested. You can talk to him like you would anyone else. 

So you say: “You dyed your hair.”

And, just like you suspected, Yoongi doesn’t seem bothered that you’ve broken your usual script. “Oh, yeah.” He reaches up, touches his head, as if he’d forgotten. “I did.”

“It looks nice,” you continue, because it does.

He’s smiling back at you. He looks pleased; maybe a little bashful, even, as surprising as that is. “Thanks,” he says, warm and genuine. (The tiny gremlin of a crush that’s still lurking in your soul lets out a wistful sigh.) “Can I get a large Americano and a—” he squints at the board— “large Candy Cane Dream, please?”

(One plus one is two, Yoongi and his other half, the sugar to his coffee.)

“Sure!” Your voice is bright. “I’m guessing the Marshmallow World went over well?”

There’s a brief beat of silence, but you don’t notice, too focused on typing Yoongi’s order into the till.

“Yeah, it was great,” he says after that moment of quiet, and you smile. Good. You’re glad they enjoyed it. 

“I’m really happy to hear that,” you say, genuine and bright. 

“What’s actually in the, ah, Candy Cane Dreams?” Yoongi asks, and you laugh, leaning forward conspiratorially.

“It’s horrendous,” you say in a low voice, as if you’re sharing a secret. “Have you ever seen green hot chocolate before?”

You’ve never spoken to Yoongi like this, easy and light, and it’s… nice. He gives no indication of surprise at your sudden friendliness after months of barely talking. If anything he looks pleased, and at one point he even gives you a smile you’ve never seen before, wide and wonderful, flashing his teeth and gums. (The crush gremlin rattles at your ribcage like prison bars, trying desperately to escape, but you don’t give it a chance.)

“Alright, let me just swap with the other barista, he’s still not gotten the Candy Cane Dreams recipe down.”

You hear a suspicious crunch as you make your way over to Taehyung. He turns to you with a guilty smile, edged with sugar, munching on shards of candy cane while his back is to the customers.

“You’re terrible,” you say affectionately. “Go take over on the till, I have a special to make.”

Taehyung glances over, sees Yoongi making his way down to the collection point. “Huh. Alright.”

The Candy Cane Dreams recipe might be a questionable one, but it’s definitely fun to make (watching the white hot chocolate turn green makes you feel like a kid all over again, mixing shampoos together in your bathroom and calling them potions), and maybe you’re overly generous with the candy cane bark, giving Yoongi’s beau more to nibble on and enjoy. It’s not Christmas yet but you’re already in a giving mood, so sue you. 

“Here you go.” You slide the drinks towards him, the man busy reading one of the vacancy fliers, eyes flicking away from the poster when you appear. Your lips quirk up. “Looking for a job?”

You’re expecting a huff of a laugh, a small shake of the head, but he answers you seriously. “Not me, but I have a friend who is,” he says, reaching to take the tray.

You realise your hands are still curled around the cardboard; you quickly pull away so that there’s no chance your hands will brush. (You might have shoved your crush down as far as it will go, but you have to be careful with your weak, gooey heart.) 

“We could do with any help, honestly. Your friend is more than welcome to apply.” You glance over at the queue, which is small but ever present, and you know it’ll only get worse as time goes on. “And, hey, if you ever decide for a change of pace from whatever it is you do, we’d be glad to have you, too.”

This gets a laugh from him, a warm burst of sound. (The gremlin points out that this is the first time you’ve heard him laugh, really laugh, a little raspy and a little quiet and altogether lovely; you beat the gremlin back with a stick.) “I’m better at drinking coffee than I am at making it,” Yoongi says, eyes soft with lingering amusement. “I’ll leave that to the experts.”

You might have gone off script, but the nod he gives you is his usual one, that familiar tilt of the head. “See you next week?” His eyes are dark, dark and deep, and it’s so hard not to fall into them, to fall all over again.

“See you next week,” you echo, hoping the smile you plaster on your face doesn’t look as forced as it feels, as you struggle once more. Yoongi is just nice, okay? He's just being nice, but still. He needs to let a girl breathe.

(He needs to let the gremlin of her crush wither away, instead of making it threaten to come back as strong as before, fuelled by his smile and his eyes and his everything.)

(... maybe you’re not as over this crush as you thought you were.)

It seems like the we’re hiring! posters actually worked.

“I’m Jungkook,” says the new starter, all crooked smiles and warm eyes and thighs so thick they threaten to split the trousers of the café’s uniform, ties of his apron emphasising his small waist.

(“Good lord,” Taehyung says faintly.)

It’s the last week of November and even though Jungkook is still learning the ropes, he’s a massive help, and you know he’ll be a lifesaver over Christmas. He’s eager, learns quickly, and gets stuck right in, material of his shirt straining across his shoulder blades when he rips a bag of coffee beans open with his bare hands, rather than having to use scissors like you or Taehyung. 

Taehyung watches with stars in his eyes as Jungkook pours the beans into the grinder. You cover your smile by sipping at one of the espresso shots Jungkook has pulled—full-bodied and dark, rich in your mouth. 

“This is really good, Jungkook,” you say. He looks over, eyes squeezing into a smile.

“Thought it would be,” he says, and you can’t help but huff a laugh into the tiny espresso cup. He’s cocky and competitive, telling you that he’d never made coffee before but he was going to do a better job than any of the other baristas here. He’s too endearing to come across as arrogant, though, and you have to admit that the coffee is good. (Not as good as yours or Taehyung’s, of course, but still. Pretty good.)

Taehyung coos at him and reaches out to shamelessly squeeze his bicep. “Jungkookie is a natural barista.”

Jungkook’s cocky smile turns equal parts pleased and flustered. You continue to sip at the espresso as Taehyung moons over him, then the bell above the door rings, and the mooning temporarily is put on hold. (Temporarily, because Taehyung continues to moon over him for the rest of the shift, insisting on doing the bulk of his training, which is fine by you.)

It’s the 1st of December tomorrow, so not only do you have to clean after the café is locked up, you have to put out all the Christmas decorations, too. But it’s more fun that it is work, the three of you dragging the tree out of the storage room and decorating it with a menagerie of tinsel and baubles; Jungkook lifts Taehyung so he can get the star on the tree, wrapping his arms around Taehyung’s waist and hoisting him up effortlessly, leaving your friend with a pleased smile on his face.

Jungkook is new, only on his second shift, but he’s slotted in so easily. He laughs at Taehyung when he wiggles his butt along to the Christmas songs you've put on to play, and he helps steady the stepladder as you string garlands of snowflakes on the ceiling, even if he doesn’t really need to. 

He absently readjusts the reindeer headband Taehyung had unearthed from the storage room and proudly placed on his head. “Yoongi-hyung talks a lot about this place,” Jungkook comments, offhand.

If you’d heard this a few weeks ago, you probably would have fallen off the stepladder, inner gremlin grabbing your heart with both hands and squeezing tight-tight-tight. As it is you only pause for a moment, one of the larger snowflakes cradled in your palm, before you go back to your job of hanging them up. 

“So you’re the friend he mentioned that needed a job,” you say. 

“That’s me.” Jungkook grins, boyish and bright, and you laugh. “He really, really likes this café. Wouldn’t shut up about it, even before he told me that you were hiring.”

You can’t imagine Yoongi gushing about a café to his friends, but then again, he clearly is passionate about his coffee. Jungkook will know him better than you, having a real friendship rather than this patron-and-customer back-and-forth that you’ve had, so who are you to imagine what’s normal for Yoongi and what isn’t? You didn’t even know he was in a relationship, after all. You don’t know anything about the guy, really. 

“Well, we appreciate his custom,” you say. “I know Yoongi is the one who actually comes in, but you can thank his other half, too, and I hope they enjoy their drinks as well.”

You’re too busy hanging the garland to see the way Jungkook’s face twists. 

“Huh?”

“You know. Yoongi always comes in for his Americano and the weekly special for his partner,” you say.

You’re focused on stepping down the ladder without falling to see the expression on Jungkook’s face, nose scrunched and lips pursed, like there’s something he’s smelled that he really doesn’t like.

“Did he say that to you? That it was for someone else?”

“Hm?” You pause in grabbing another string of snowflakes, glancing up. “Oh, no, I just worked it out, you know? Yoongi is a religious coffee drinker, why else would he order something that’s basically hot sugar water? I think it’s cute,” you add, belatedly. “That he always comes in to grab something for them, too.” 

(You wish you had someone to do that for you.)

There’s a beat of silence. Jungkook’s holding the stepladder, ready to move it, staring at you in a way that’s weirdly intense. “I see,” he says, like that isn’t weird or mysterious at all.

Then he drags the stepladder’s rubber feet across the floor with such a loud noise that Taehyung startles, bauble falling out of his hand and shattering. Jungkook, of course, profusely apologises and insists on cleaning it up—but not before making sure Taehyung is okay, of course, grabbing his hands and looking over them, as if the bauble had broken in his palms and not the floor. 

Taehyung looks immensely pleased. You just smile quietly to yourself, roll your eyes lightly, and go back to hanging snowflakes as Jungkook speaks to Taehyung, soft and low.

You think your favourite thing about training a new starter is witnessing their reaction to the weekly special.

“So,” Jungkook says, slowly. “You put in the whole gingerbread man—gumdrops and icing and all—and just blend it?

“Yep.” Taehyung’s reply is cheery. “Straight in and whizz it all up.”

This week, it’s You Can’t Catch Me, I’m the Gingerbread Frappé which is a) probably the longest name known to mankind and b) probably the most questionable name known to mankind and c) who orders a frappé in December?

These thoughts are clearly playing across Jungkook’s face as Taehyung coaxes him to drop the gingerbread man into the blender, and you’re too busy enjoying the consternation on Jungkook’s face to notice someone stepping up to the counter—until they clear their throat, that is, and you all turn. 

“Hi,” Yoongi says.

“Oh! Hi,” Taehyung says.

“Hyung! Look!” Jungkook says.

“Jungkook, wait—” you say.

“Whirr,” the lidless blender says.

It’s chaos. Frappé ends up everywhere, splattered over the counter and the floor, splashed across the wine-red aprons of both of your fellow baristas, as close to the blender as they were—saving you from any of the sugary fallout, unwitting human shields.

There’s a beat of silence, where you all stare at each other—

And then Yoongi laughs.

You’ve never seen Yoongi laugh this loudly, eyes squeezed so hard you wonder if he can even see, almost cackling as he laughs at Jungkook’s expression, joyful and loud and free. It’s another dimension to him, another new part you witness as Jungkook wipes gingerbread and ice off his face and Taehyung stares at the mess spattered across his hands and arms.

It makes you think of a paper crane. Yoongi is this unfinished thing in your mind, each new thing you learn about him another fold that you add, a flat sheet of paper turned into something entirely and wholly new. You wish that it weren’t so alluring, watching it come together, finding out more and more about this man you’ve technically known for months, but only recently started to get to know.

(You wish that it wasn’t so easy to keep falling for him.)

Once the counter is cleaned, both Jungkook and Taehyung retreat to replace their aprons, leaving you—once again—alone with Yoongi. He’d stopped laughing to tease Jungkook, to gently rib him, but you can see the smile that’s etched on his face, the echoes of mirth written across all his features.

“We usually train the baristas to keep the lid on, I swear,” you say, and Yoongi’s face splits into another smile.

“I was going to say that it’s an unorthodox blending technique,” and you can’t help but smile back at this, even if you’ve been trying not to laugh. Professionalism barely wins out, your lips trembling as you try to hold your giggling back, but Yoongi spots it anyway, looking pleased, like he’s accomplished something by getting you to (nearly) laugh.

You’re not laughing when you have to make one of the special frappés, though. You stare at the gingerbread man as you hold him above the blender, at his cheery iced face and his cute little buttons (not the gumdrop buttons), and brace yourself to drop him.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, and let him go, before quickly slamming the lid on top and turning the blender on so you don’t have to look at the betrayal you’ve just committed. 

When you turn, Yoongi has an expression of sympathy on his face; for you or the gingerbread man, you can’t tell, but his face smooths the second he notices you looking at him, blinking innocently, as if there’s nothing unusual going on. It’s disarming, seeing that expression on his face, when you’d gotten used to seeing him act more reserved, but it’s cute.

(It is cute, whether you’re crushing on him or not. It’s just a statement of fact, okay? It’s nothing more than that. Even if that tiny gremlin of a crush still lives in your chest, scuffing its feet against your heart, reminding you of its presence when you least need it.)

(It digs its heels in when you put the frappé and Americano side by side, nestled snug in their cardboard tray. You slide it towards Yoongi and you’re a little too slow, fingers brushing his when he reaches for them; you’re surprised by how quickly he moves, how eager he seems to be reaching for his order, fingertips dragging across the back of your knuckles, and the gremlin kicks your heart, pulse rising just at that glancing touch. Even if you know it’s fruitless, useless, you can’t help but like Yoongi anyway.)

(“See you next week,” he says, and you can’t do anything but smile helplessly back.)

You normally love snow. You love waking up to the sight of it, pure and pristine white, adding another dimension to your familiar world—you love snowball fights and snowmen and snow angels, even if it all leaves you feeling cold, chilled right to the bone, nose running and hands freezing. The best part about winter is getting warm again, the season of throw blankets and hot water bottles, knitwear and scarves, tea and hot cocoa, all cosy and lovely and wonderful.

It’s a bit different when you have to work all day, though. You watch as the snow on the streets outside is threatened by the spray of salt and a thousand spinning car wheels and busy feet, ice turned to slush water; for now the snow is winning, though, and judging from the weather forecast, you think that’ll be the case for the rest of the day. You hope it lasts through to tomorrow, too; by the time you get home you’ll be too tired and it’ll be too dark to play in the snow, and it leaves you feeling disappointed and sad. 

(Winter is lovely but it can be a hollow season, too, something about the leafless trees and fogged windows making everything feel like an empty dream.)

At least Paradise is warm, even if you’re cooped up inside, safe from the still-falling snow that keeps trying to turn the world into an untouched, frozen wonderland. It’s quiet in the coffee shop today. Only the bravest of people have ventured out into the not-a-blizzard-but-basically-a-blizzard, plastered against radiators and putting drinks to their faces, letting hot steam heat their cold cheeks.

It’s why you’re both surprised and unsurprised when Yoongi appears, bell chiming above his head as the door swings shut and he stamps his feet on the front mat, knocking snow off his boots. He somehow looks disgruntled and soft all at the same time, a royal blue beanie on his head forcing his fringe down to sit messily over his eyes, bundled up warm even if his face is scrunched up and his cheeks are red from the cold.

“I hate cold weather,” he tells you once he reaches the counter, gloves peeled off his fingers so he can reach for his wallet, his nose tinged pink as he sniffs.

You proffer him a box of tissues. “You look like you need it,” you say gently, and he smiles at you, a warm hearth in the cold winter.

“Thank you.” His voice is equally as gentle as yours, and something aches in your chest.

It’s just you behind the counter right now, so you take Yoongi’s order and make the drinks too—one large Americano and one large Latteggnog (a basic latte made with eggnog instead of milk, rich and thick and creamy), this week’s special: everyone’s favourite Christmas drink, but with a twist of coffee. 

The quiet gives you time to think. Jungkook and Taehyung are out back, the older barista coming up with the most ridiculous excuses to take them away from the counter; you don’t mind that they’re taking the time ‘counting the coffee beans’, as deserted as the café is. 

The café is practically empty and Yoongi hates the cold but here he is, venturing into the ice and snow to get this person he cares about the drink they want, because they’re that special to him. (You hope they realise how lucky they are.)

You’re normally okay being single. Don’t really think about it. But there’s something about today, this moment, that has you reflecting; Taehyung has this budding thing with Jungkook, Yoongi has this steady thing with his love, and here you are, by yourself, alone. It’s hard to summon up your usual energy, going through the motions as you make the drinks. You tilt your head forward, dusting nutmeg on the eggnog latte, watching the way the sprinkle of spice settles delicately and softly in the foam. No flourish, no flick of the wrist, not today.

(There’s two cups in front of you now, but later, when you’re home, there’s just going to be one. Yours. Yours, and no one else’s.)

(When you get home, you’re going to do what any self-respecting single person would do: order too much takeaway, rewatch The Good Place, get emotional over Eleanor and Chidi’s relationship—they’re so different but they’re so perfect for each other, why can’t you have that?—mope for a bit, rewatch The Princess Bride, get emotional over Westley and Buttercup—where’s your cute farmboy who saves you from an evil prince?—mope a bit more, before finally climbing into bed and hugging a pillow to your chest in the space of having someone else there. You know. Perfectly normal single person things.)

When you turn to Yoongi, drinks ready and raring to go, you’ve forced a Customer Service Smile onto your face. They say that just the act of smiling makes you happier, right? Maybe if you smile hard enough, you’ll cheer up, chasing away this sudden sadness that lingers in the back of your throat, scratching at your lungs like black ice.

“Here you go!” Your voice seems too loud for the quiet hush of the café, but you roll with it anyway. “Enjoy your drinks!”

Yoongi takes them from you, hands carefully cupped around the tray, but his eyes don’t leave your face. He doesn’t return your smile, as convincing as it should be (even Taehyung struggles to tell between your real smile and your work smile, sometimes); he stands for a moment, looking at you.

You think he’s about to say something when he clearly thinks better of it. He tilts his head, like he always does, but you’d swear his expression is tinged with concern. “Thanks,” he says. Pauses. “The roads are really icy. Get home safe, okay Y/n?”

Blink, blink. Your eyelashes flutter. You suddenly realise that he’s never said your name out loud, never had a need to, even if he must have known it all along from the badge on your chest. It sounds so good in his mouth, soft and safe.

 “Oh,” you say, slow with surprise. “Thank you. I will. You, too.”

Yoongi nods again, as if to himself, before he turns to go.

He stops one more time before he goes. He stands at the open door, glances over his shoulder before he steps out, dark eyes meeting yours, as if checking that you’re still there, still tethered to the ground. Seems satisfied when he finds that you are. He gives you one last smile, all soft around the edges—that’s something you know intimately about Yoongi, that he’s soft through and through, even if he can look sharp, as cold as the ice outside—and then he goes, back into the falling snow to deliver a steaming sip of warmth into the hands of the person he loves.

(Your heart aches.)

It’s the week before Christmas. The whole world has that feeling it always does at this time of year—excited and bright, if a little frantic, the hanging lights in the city a backdrop to people’s last minute shopping, their breaths pluming out into the air as they rush around in the cold. The whole world feels full of life, that final push towards the end of the year; the hearth fire of Christmas before that weird in between before the new year, that held breath of potential, before the clock ticks over and the world is thrown into the next year.

Paradise has been busy. It’s like summer, only instead of sundresses and shorts, everyone is in knitwear and scarves, shivering as they wait to be served, desperate for a drink to warm them up, something to eat to fill their bellies. You spend more time in the coffee shop than you do at home, pulling overtime shifts to help your fellow baristas out—everyone thinks Christmas is a time of relaxation and coming together, but it doesn’t feel like that when you work in a customer facing job, oh no. It’s just non-stop busyness and being rushed off your feet.

(You’d barely had a chance to speak to Yoongi, café full when he’d stepped in, your pace frenetic as you’d danced around behind the counter with Taehyung and Jungkook; you’d slid his drinks towards him, his Americano and the special, and maybe your smile had looked more harrowed than you thought because he’d caught your hand and squeezed it.

“I hope you get a chance to rest over Christmas,” he’d said, concerned and sincere, as you’d stood in stunned silence, not expecting that almost-intimate touch, gentle against your skin.

“I will,” you’d said eventually. Yoongi had seemed to suddenly realise he was still touching you, fingers clasped around yours, and he’d withdrawn quickly, giving you a smile that felt like a whispered secret, before leaving you to deal with the ever-growing queue.)

Suffice to say, it’s been a long week, and you’re tired, and your feet hurt after all the running around you’ve been doing, and you just want to go home. You just need to finish the close, need to finish setting everything up for the open tomorrow, need to finish cleaning everything, and then you can get some sleep.

At least, that’s what you thought. Instead, you’re standing across from Jungkook and staring at him incredulously. You can feel a headache coming on.

“Wait.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “What do you mean, we need to deliver some coffee?”

You don’t know if Jungkook is being deliberately obtuse, but he just stares at you as if you’re the one talking nonsense right now, and not him. “We have a customer order to deliver,” he says.

“Yes, I gathered that,” you say. “I just mean, why did no one tell me sooner?”

Paradise doesn’t do deliveries, as such. You cater for events, and you technically do deliveries then, but it’s less ‘one coffee to go’ and more ‘enough sandwiches and pastries and bagels and coffee to feed an entire office’. It’s not that you can’t bring someone their order directly, it’s more that you just… don’t.

“Taehyung took the order,” Jungkook says, as if that explains everything.

You pinch the bridge of your nose again. You can’t ask Tae about it, the other man having had to leave just as you’d been about to flip the sign to closed (‘Jimin says Tannie peed in his shoes again! I have to go clean it up! I’m so sorry, I swear I’ll cover a close for each of you next time!’), so it’s just you, and Jungkook, and the slip of paper on the counter between you. You’ve worked with Taehyung long enough to trust his judgement and his decisions, as inexplicable as they might seem sometimes, but you do think it’s weird that he’s taken this delivery on board.

“It’s not too far from here,” Jungkook adds, peering at the address on the paper. “It won’t take long.”

“We have to finish closing, Jungkook,” you say. 

He shrugs casually, carelessly. “I’ll do it, I don’t mind. You can just do the delivery and then go home straight after, it’s whatever.”

“It’s not whatever,” you mumble. “Why can’t you deliver it?”

“You’re the senior barista, you’re a better representative of the brand,” he says, and you have no idea where he pulled that from. (You blame Jimin. You know they’ve had shifts together, and Jimin is too smooth-talking for his own good.)

As much as you want to argue, you can’t help but cave, because the prospect of getting home early is one that you’re not about to sniff at. (You’d worry that Jungkook would get home late, what with the amount of prep he still needs to do for tomorrow, but you half suspect that Taehyung will reappear at some point, anyway.) You’re too tired to want to argue. “I just want to say this is a one off, and normally we cater for events, we’re not really a delivery service, okay?”

“Duly noted.”

It’s a simple enough order, anyway—it’s just two drinks. The first is a large quad shot latte with caramel and toffee syrup, extra whipped cream and cinnamon on top (something you’d definitely order, you think, indulgent and milky and with enough caffeine to kick you up the ass). Jungkook dutifully cleans as you start the second drink. The special this week is far, far less sweet than normal; a Rudolph the Red-eyed Reindeer: a simple red eye with a pinch of holiday spice, coffee with an extra espresso shot and topped with cinnamon and nutmeg. You take in a deep breath, swallowing down the warm smell and letting it flow through you before you double check the details on the note.

It takes you a second as you squint at the address, wondering why it looks familiar—and then you pause. This is Yoongi’s office, you think to yourself, and it feels a little like there’s an apricot pit sitting heavy in your stomach, heavy and hard. Paradise had catered a breakfast for them last week, and it hadn’t been on your shift and so you hadn’t gone, but—you’d heard enough about it from Jimin, the type who gets to know everyone and everything the second he walks in the door. You’d heard about the team that Yoongi manages, found out that Yoongi works in music, in artist and repertoire, and when you’d had the chance to Google exactly what that meant, you’d been bowled over. He has such a complex, high skilled job, and here you are, struggling to get a job with your degree, hence the barista thing. (Thanks, economy.)

You hastily shuffle past the address, trying to ward off your sudden sense of inadequacy, focusing on the name instead. What sort of name is Suga? you think to yourself, and then shrug. Probably one of the workers had enjoyed the breakfast the other week and was still hanging around before going on holiday for Christmas, or something.

“Alright, I’m off.” You’re ready to advance into the cold outside: coat on, scarf looped around your neck and hat secure on your head, cardboard tray of drinks clutched in your hands. “If you need help closing, just call me and I’ll come back, okay?”

“I won’t, but, thanks,” Jungkook says, equal parts self-assured and reassuring. “Don’t fall on your ass!”

It is icy outside, the entire world a winter wonderland, beautiful but cold and daylight long gone; snow drifts slowly from the sky above, dusting your shoulders and the top of your hat, flakes caught so softly by the weave of your clothes. It’s the kind of day that’s perfect spent indoors, curled up with the people you love, warmed through and through—and here you are, picking your way across the pavement slush to deliver a coffee to someone. (You’re not even getting paid for this.)

At least it’s not too far, really, just a few blocks away. The building is small, which is a plus, because it means you won’t have multitudes of rooms and offices to trawl past to get to your destination. The receptionist is more than helpful, too, when you say that you have a delivery for Suga; she gives you exactly directions and then she smiles at you, pleasant and pretty and lovely, and that gremlin that’s still clinging desperately onto your feelings for Yoongi whispers: what if this is Yoongi’s girlfriend? She’s beautiful.

Shut up, you think, before smiling back and thanking her, and heading on your way.

This close to Christmas you’d think that the building would be almost empty, but you’d be wrong. It’s not a buzzing hive of activity but there are still people walking around, speaking behind closed doors or laughing through open ones, decorations and tinsel hanging from the ceiling. Up ahead you see a someone come out of a room, shutting the door behind them before they walk in your direction. It’s a man who looks like he’s just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine and as you pass in the corridor he pauses, raising his eyebrows at you. Not suspicious, just surprised.

“Uh, I have a coffee for Suga,” you say without prompting, as if he was about to accuse you of some sort of nefarious scheme and your coffee delivery is the only thing saving you from that.

“Oh,” mister-model-handsome says, suddenly smiling widely, like this is all perfectly normal and not weird at all. He’s got some of the poutiest lips you’ve ever seen. “You’re nearly there, he’s just down the corridor and on the right. Have fun!”

“Uh, you too?” you reply. (Is he Yoongi’s boyfriend? He’s tall and broad shouldered and incredibly attractive, with the type of smile that makes people’s hearts race, and Yoongi definitely deserves someone like that.)

Your destination seems to be the office the (probably) model just came out of. You look around the corridor, which seems to be deserted now, the hubbub of people elsewhere in the building. You knock quietly, not wanting to disturb the hush that’s filled the air around you.

A beat. Then: “Come in,” someone says, voice muffled through the door.

It swings open easily at your touch. You stand on the threshold, mouth open around the announcement of your delivery when the words die on your lips.

Yoongi’s there, sitting behind a desk and his head bowed as he scribbles something in a notebook. He doesn’t look up. “Shut the door,” he says. Dumbstruck, you do just that, and it’s not until the door’s quietly clicked shut that he starts to raise his head. “Hyung, I already said that I don’t need to eat—”

And then he spots you standing there.

He stops mid-sentence, mouth open, eyes widening. He looks as shocked as you feel, utterly taken aback and agog, and even now you can’t help but notice how good he looks. He’s in a black button up, sleeves rolled to the elbow and top button undone, revealing the pale skin of his collarbones. It’s another juxtaposition, the Yoongi that you’re familiar with (an aura of effortless authority and attractiveness) in a place you don’t know at all, completely professional, his desk neat and the entire space put together. There’s a tastefully decorated tree in the corner but it doesn’t throw off the balance of the room at all. 

“Uh.” You cough lightly. “I have… a delivery… for Suga?”

Yoongi stares at you.

“Is this… not the right room? I can go,” you mumble, gesturing over your shoulder with a thumb.

This seems to snap Yoongi out of whatever thoughts he was having as he shakes his head. “No, this is… Suga’s office,” he says. “I just didn’t order any coffee.”

You open your mouth. Shut your mouth. You don’t have an Americano on the tray, but he’d probably like the red eye, coffee with extra coffee, no sugar or cream. Just a little pinch of spice. 

“Maybe it was a surprise, or something? Couples get each other gifts all the time.”

Yoongi’s lips quirk up. “I’m not really the type that gets surprised with gifts.”

Something about this strikes a discordant note in you. He’s always delivering gifts of coffee—he deserves those expressions of love returned to him. You can’t help but say as such.

“You’re always giving gifts, though,” you say. “Those weekly specials. I wouldn’t be surprised if your other half is returning the favour.”

Blink, blink. He looks perplexed. “I don’t have an other half?”

Your mouth opens again. “Uh,” you say eloquently. “What?”

“I… don’t have an other half? I’m… single?”

“You’re…” Your face scrunches up, wrinkled in confusion. What? He’s… what? “But you always buy two drinks?”

Silence. Then: “I… the Americano is for me,” he says. “I usually just pour the special away. I only started ordering them because you got so excited talking about them and making them. I never planned on drinking them.”

Your mouth falls open, soft around a quiet breath, a soft oh. “You—wait. You ordered them because I got excited about them?”

Yoongi’s eyes are so dark, so gentle; melted chocolate, warm. “You started to talk to me more, after the first time I did,” he says, and you know you had. Because you thought it was safer to talk to him, though you were secure in the knowledge he wasn’t single—but he is single. “So I kept doing it, because I wanted to talk more to you. I thought you knew? And that’s why you started having real conversations with me.”

You’re frozen in place, eyes as big as dinner plates. Min Yoongi, your futile crush, who looks as sharp as a knife but is as sweet as spun candyfloss, has been coming back week after week—for you. He’s not in a relationship, and he’s been flirting with you.

Or at least he thought he had been. You, however, hadn’t even realised.

“I was going to ask you on a date after Christmas,” he continues, calm and steady, as if your brain isn’t melting. He’s still sitting behind his desk, and there’s something about his tousled hair and bared lower arms—watch on one wrist and a few bracelets on the other—that has your heart pounding, that casual air somehow not at odds at the weight of the surroundings. Because the world is a backdrop to Yoongi, and he makes it work.

��What the fuck,” you say. You realise you’ve never sworn in front of him when something flickers in his eyes; not a bad flicker, no. Definitely not. “I thought you were taken.”

“I’m very single,” he says lightly, belying the weight behind the words. And then his eyes drop to your hands. “You said you have a coffee for me?”

Which leads to this: Yoongi, in his chair, you, leaning against his desk. He’s taken the red eye (of course) while you sip at the latte, relishing the punch of espresso, the flavour of the syrups.

You’re both staring at each other as you drink, air in the room growing thicker by the moment, when Yoongi breaks the silence. “This is probably the only weekly special I’d actually want to drink.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Black coffee with more espresso? That’s you all over,” you say. “The other specials aren’t so bad, though. I think you just need to give sweet drinks a chance.”

You’re speaking without thinking, but the second those words leave your mouth, the air turns electric. Yoongi’s still staring at you, unwavering and intent, and everything inside you is melting, leaving you flushed and hot. The smile hasn’t left his face, which had been warm but it’s changed, evolved, edged with something sharper.

“If you say so,” he says. His eyes are on your lips. “Let me try?”

His fingers are so gentle on your face, hands cupping your jaw as he tilts your head down. All your thoughts leave you. There’s nothing in your mind but Yoongi, his warm hands and dark eyes, the heat of his body so close to yours, his mouth; you can’t help but look down, tracing the shape of his lips with your gaze, a small soft pout that’s so at odds with the weight of his intensity. 

When he kisses you, it’s featherlight. Barely the softest of pressures, the potential of something more—and then he pulls you in deeper, and there it is, that heat flickering in your stomach jumping into a full fire. The kiss turns hot and wet as he licks the flavour of caramel and toffee syrup out of your mouth, and he tastes like coffee, dark and bitter; you make a noise against his lips and he swallows it down, pulls you closer.

You’re straddling his knees, a little awkward and cramped in his office chair, but you don’t care. You’ve been wanting to kiss Yoongi for so long, even when you felt like you shouldn’t, thought about his dark eyes and pink mouth, the curve of his lips, the paleness of his hands; a steadying presence around your waist, holding you in place.

When you pull apart, Yoongi’s lips are flushed, kiss swollen. It looks good on him. Really good on him.

“I’ve thought about that more than I’d like to admit,” he says, and you can’t help but feel warmed by it, the realisation that you’ve wanted to kiss him but he’s wanted to kiss you, too.

“This really isn’t comfortable,” you say, wriggling a little—your ass is starting to go numb, sat on Yoongi’s knees—and Yoongi sucks in a quick breath at the way you’re all but squirming in his lap, even if he doesn’t say anything.

Oh, you think. 

When you move away, he lets you go without protest, hands sliding off your waist. It’s not until you fall to your knees that Yoongi realises what you’re doing, his eyes widening.

“Y/n,” he breathes. “You don’t have to—”

“Please, Yoongi, I’ve wanted to do this for months,” you say. Maybe it was a little crass to start with, wanting to get on your knees for a man you barely knew just because he was hot and polite to you, but now you know he wants you back. You’re not about to let this opportunity pass you by, staring up at him between his knees, hands braced on his thighs. “But if you want me to stop, I’ll stop.”

He looks torn, just for a second, eyes darting away from your face and to the door. It’s shut, but it’s not locked, and though the building is quiet there’s nothing to say that someone couldn’t walk in at any second.

Without thinking, you lick your lips. Yoongi’s eyes flicker back at the motion, watching how your tongue moves, and you can see how he crumbles.

“I don’t want you to stop,” he says, and you dig your nails into his trousers, electricity shooting through you.

“You’ll have to keep your voice down,” you warn, and reach for his zipper.

It’s a struggle for him, you can tell. He’s already biting his lip by the time you’ve tugged his trousers and boxers down, hardening under your grasp, and you knew his dick would be as pretty as the rest of him. You don’t have the luxury of worshipping him the way you want to, acutely aware of the fact you’re in his office, but it doesn’t mean you’re not going to make Yoongi feel good. It’s dirty and messy, the way you suck his cock into your mouth lewd and wet, lavishing attention on the most sensitive parts; his hips jump as you circle the head with your tongue and jerk the rest of his length with a hand. 

Everything’s sloppy with spit and precum and Yoongi’s biting off curses, hand tightening in your hair as you take in as much of him as you can, relaxing your throat and swallowing him down, down, down. When you look up at him through your lashes he looks wrecked, the paleness of his skin flushed pink, and you can’t wait to see that all over. Can’t wait to see Yoongi entirely bare in front of you, when you have the luxury of time and pleasure.

But there’s something about this, too, that has your heart racing, cunt throbbing. You’re running your spit slick lips down the side of his shaft, tonguing the throb of the vein there, when you hear footsteps nearby, muffled through the door. It doesn’t sound like they’re coming in this direction and Yoongi seems almost entirely lost to the feeling of your mouth on him, but you flick your tongue across the spot where the head of his cock meets the shaft and he bows forward, swallowing down the noise that threatened to spill from his lips. He’s so fucking hot like this, falling apart under your hands and mouth, and you know he’ll give as good as he gets.

“Gonna cum,” he rasps. You smile up at him before taking his cock back into your mouth, jerking him off hard and fast as you lick and suck—and when he cums it’s with a noisy exhale of breath, a muffled groan, and even as you’re swallowing down his cum and mouthing at him until he winces with oversensitivity, you’re imagining what he sounds like when he doesn’t have to be quiet.

He’s not shy, either. You’ve barely tucked him back in when he’s reaching for you, kissing you. There’s no taste of coffee any more and you shiver, molten and boneless at the way his tongue presses into your mouth.

“Still want to take me on a date?” 

You’re being cheeky, voice light as you joke, but Yoongi’s responding look is equal parts serious and affectionate. He sweeps a thumb over your cheekbone and you relax into his hands, feeling like a cat that got the cream. Here you are, on your knees in his office, the glittering lights of his Christmas tree thrown across your hair and skin, warmed by the touch of a man you’ve wanted for months but never thought you would get.

“Of course,” he murmurs, gentle-gentle-gentle, as if you hadn’t just sucked his soul through his dick—and you love that about him, love his inherent soft core, his big heart. You might not know him as well as you’d like—not yet—but you already know that much about him. “I owe you a present, too.”

Your face scrunches. “What, because I gave you a blowjob?”

At this he laughs, mouth split wide and gums on show as his whole body shakes with the intensity of it. “No, because you brought me a coffee,” he says. He still has your cheek cupped in his hand, palm warm against your skin. “But if you want to say it’s because of the blowjob as well, then sure.”

“There’s plenty more where that came from.” You smile at him, gentle expression at odds with the meaning behind the words and your position—still on your knees.

You don’t know if they ache when you stand, because Yoongi is kissing you again, distracting you. And it’s easy, this back and forth you have, comfortable as you finish the (now lukewarm) coffees and get ready to go, because Yoongi insists on walking you home. Because he’s a gentleman, your gentleman, and he even holds the door open for you.

You’re not sure if you can reach for his hand, if that would be too forward in his place of work, if he doesn’t want to when this thing between you is so tentative and new. But you’re barely halfway down the corridor when he stops you with a gentle hand on your arm; when you look over, he’s smiling at you, and then tilts his chin up.

“Oh!” You stare at the huge bundle of mistletoe above you, tied with red ribbon and messily taped to the ceiling. It brings a smile to your face. “Oh, how cute.”

The hand on your arm shifts down. Yoongi weaves his fingers with yours.

“You know about the tradition, right?” There’s a twinkle in his eyes, and it’s not just from the lights from the ceiling above, turning his dark eyes into warm chocolate, deep brown. “Kissing under the mistletoe?”

You can’t help but blink, surprised at his sweetness, his forwardness. There’s nothing to say that someone couldn’t walk by right now, to see the two of you hand in hand under the mistletoe, but Yoongi doesn’t care at all. He’s staring at you like you’re the only other person in the world, and you feel like a fountain of champagne is bubbling inside you, heady and sparkling and light.

“I think I’ve heard of it,” you say, and he’s still smiling, a small thing, just for you. “Do you think you can show me?”

And he does, with his hand in yours, your lips against his, and up above, the mistletoe sparkles.

(Your phone rings. Caller ID says it’s Taehyung, but when you pick up, he’s not the one who speaks.

“So.” Jungkook sounds knowing, his voice bordering on smug. “How did the delivery go?”

In the background you can hear someone crowding close, put it on speaker, Kookie, I want to hear too, and you can’t help but smile at Taehyung’s eagerness.

“Good,” you say. Yoongi’s palm is warm against yours and you swing your joint hands together, looking at him, entranced by the way the snowflakes dust his eyelashes. The sky above is dark and the wind around you is cold, but the man beside is so bright and warm. You feel wrapped up in it. “Yoongi says he’s going to kill you, by the way.”

“He won’t,” Jungkook says cheerfully, loud enough that Yoongi can hear. He looks fond.

“Well, tell Taehyung I’m going to kick his ass for lying about Tannie peeing on Jimin’s shoes,” you say.

“You won’t,” Taehyung says, equally as cheerful, and you can’t help but smile.

“No, I won’t,” you say. 

You think about the seasons. You think about the man walking beside you; the man who says he hates cold weather, but has kept his gloves off so he can feel your hand against his. The man who came out in the snow to order a drink, just to make you smile. The man who looks like winter but feels like spring, something cold bursting into potential, new life.

In the depth of winter, under the snow and twinkling Christmas lights above, Yoongi squeezes your hand.)

taglist: @beyoncesdragon​ @vensulove

[redrobin-detective]

the only ghost in Amity Park

Continuation of Half Of

______________________________________________

Only in Amity Park did the revelation that a local teenager was sorta, kinda a ghost just blow over in a few days. Sure, people still stared at Danny Fenton as he walked by and everyone was still wondering what exactly he was, but overall life had moved on. Star sighed to herself as she organized her notebooks, waiting for class to begin. Just another day.

Star herself really didn’t want to get involved in whatever was going on with Danny. She didn’t like him before he was a celebrity and didn’t plan on starting anytime soon. While Paulina still relentlessly, and vainly, pumped him for information on her dead boy crush, Phantom and he and Dash formed some weird macho bond or whatever, Star avoided him. He’d given her the chills since the day he’d walked into Casper High. When Danny’s secret had been exposed mid-attack, Star hadn’t been surprised. She didn’t need some ghost to tell her that there was something deeply, unsettlingly wrong with Danny Fenton.

Danny didn’t seem particular bothered, by his inhuman nature or by suddenly having his secret exposed. If anything, the nerd looked more relaxed than ever. Star had been watching him, they all had, but Fenton kept his ghostly antics to a minimum when in public. The occasional flash of green eyes when emotional, a grin of sharpened teeth. He made Mikey’s locker lock intangible the other day when the kid had forgotten his combination and he floated down the stairs instead of walking sometimes. It had been a week and it was  frightening how quickly such strangeness had become almost normal. 

“Alright kids, phones and notes away we’re starting class with a pop quiz. Hope you’ve all kept up with your weekly readings,” Faluca announced cheerily. The whole class, including Fenton, moaned and packed up their bags. Star supposed being an undead being haunting his own life didn’t make him immune from normal human problems. She was biting her lip trying to remember which antibody caused allergic reactions when she got an uneasy feeling. She looked up and was not surprised to see Danny Fenton looking around too. It had been a solid week without ghost attacks, looks like Fenton’s supposed vacation time was up.

Star stopped her writing and adjusted the bag at her feet to prep for evacuation. She briefly wondered what Fenton would do, what he could do? Did he also hunt ghosts, like his parents? Like Phantom? There were no blasts, no screams, no monologues but the dread increased when a ghost shield descended over them. Actually, it looked like it was just covering their classroom. Now everyone was looking up from their quizzes and out the window at the flickering, green shield.

“You’d think the administration would’ve warned me we were going to do a drill,” Faluca said but his voice was hesitant. Clearly this wasn’t planned so despite the lack of alarms, there was a good chance this was real. “Pencils down for the moment while I figure out what’s going on.”

“Mr. Faluca, I need to go,” Danny said, raising his hand. Star was so used to hearing the request she almost ignored him but the dread curling in her stomach made her look again. His face was pinched, sharp and his eyes burned with an icy fury like a sudden storm blowing in without warning. 

“Mr. Fenton, I don’t think...” Faluca murmured uneasily. Danny frowned harder.

“It wasn’t a request, actually,” Danny said roughly as he stood up and began walking towards the door. He was almost there when the door slammed open and Fenton had no less than 3 ectoweapons pointed in his face. A few kids jumped back in alarm but Danny held his ground as half a dozen Guys in White agents entered the room and surrounded him.

“Spectral scum formerly known as Daniel Fenton, you’re coming with us,” one of the agents said. 

“Danny not Daniel and it’s still my name,” Danny quipped, eyeing each of the government officials and their weapons. “And no, I’m not. I’m still alive, somewhat anyway, so I have rights. The courts backed me up.”

“Everyone who signed for your freedom doesn’t know ghosts like we do,” Another agent said so forcefully, some spittle flew out of their mouth and hit Danny’s cheek. Star watched it freeze and fall away the instant it hit his skin. “Your kind are too dangerous to wander around, you need to be contained and eliminated. Don’t worry, your parents will receive a sizable check as recompense.”

“I’m the one who needs to be contained?” Danny said slowly, evenly but there was a static to his voice that caused the hairs on the back of Star’s neck to rise. When she breathed out, she saw her breath was misting. Everyone’s was as the room temperature continued to plummet. “When you come in here and take hostages to threaten me?” Danny hissed, he took a step forward and his eyes took on a neon green glow. “You didn’t come to my home or on the streets, you came to take me in the middle of biology when I’m surrounded by civilians, kids.”

“You delude yourself into thinking you’re still human,” another agent scoffed. “Everyone knows ghosts are weaker when giving into their obsession.” Danny laughed, it was loud and mocking and like fingernails running down a chalkboard. Faluca, stuck in between Danny and the agents, was white as a sheet and gripping his desk like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing.

“You know nothing,” Danny hissed, his voice barely recognizable as human. His hair and shirt floated in an invisible but angry breeze. Frost crawled up his arms and his face. Various ecto alarms were ringing on the belts of the agents and they started to look a bit nervous. He looked nothing like the kid who, minutes before, had clearly been struggling with their bio quiz. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with. You cannot come into my haunt and threaten my people to get to me. Protecting what is mine will always make me stronger!” 

“This whole town is constantly under attack because of things like you!” One particularly brave agent said even as a few others had backed up. “Amity Park is on the verge of collapse because of all the ghosts!”

“There is only one ghost in Amity Park,” Danny said, he tilted his head, his black and white hair dangling in his face as he gave a sharpened smile. “There is only me and the ghosts I allow, ghosts who know the rules, who respect my authority here by keeping damage to people and property down. I am the only ghost haunting this town and why do you think that is?” One agent threw down his gun and ran through the open door.

“You’re-you’re a monster!” Another woman shouted, shaking as she stepped back before fleeing.

“I’m not the one who needs to threaten innocents to get to their target,” Danny sneered. “It’s a good thing you did though, I wouldn’t hold back if I wasn’t worried about collateral.” Another three agents turned tail and ran. Until there was only one left. His gun was still trained on Danny but his hands were shaking. 

“You don’t scare us,” the agent trembled through the obvious lie having been abandoned by his comrades. “We’ll get you monster, if it’s the last thing we do.”

“Looking forward to it,” Danny drawled sarcastically as some of his horrifying aura dissipated along with the freezing grip on the room. Within moments Danny has settled back into more human form. While he’d been angry before, now he looked almost bored. At no point had he seemed afraid. 

“You take your people and your equipment and you leave Amity’s borders by sunset tonight,” Danny declared resolutely. “If you have continued problems with my existence, you take it up with the courts. We settle this as humans but if you treat me as a ghost then I will fight back like one.” His eyes turned green again as a threat. As a promise. 

“I don’t take orders from spooks!” The agent shouted, securing his finger on the trigger and preparing to fire. Star had ducked to avoid the blast so she missed exactly what happened. All she saw was the green glow and heard a strangled scream from the agent followed by a series of thumps. By the time Star had gotten back into her seat, Danny was aggressively pulling apart the ectogun with his bare hands. There was no sign of the agent and, around them, the ghost shield fizzled away. 

“Jerks,” Danny grumbled, kicking at the remains of the ectogun he’d destroyed. “Sorry about that, Mr. Faluca. I knew they’d cause problems but I didn’t think they’d come to school.” Their teacher stared at Danny like a rabbit facing down a lion. “You okay?”

“Fine, Mr. Fenton, just fine!” Falcua grinned in a high pitched voice. “Shall we get back to our quizzes?” The bell rang just then and Danny did a little fist pump.

“Tomorrow then? After I get a chance to study more?” Danny asked with puppy dog eyes. It looked wrong on his face that had just threatened the government with bodily harm. Faluca just nodded dumbly, not sure what else to say. “Yes! I’ll pass tomorrow for sure. The attention kinda sucks but it does come with some perks.”

He walked back to his desk, ignoring the wide-eyed looks of the class when he stopped and gasped, his breath fogging in front of him. His lips pursed again with annoyance. A few people jumped in surprise as the Box Ghost, a familiar annoyance, poked his head through the wall.

“Child! Your requested reprieve is up and the Box Ghost is here to cause insurmountable square shenanigans!” He laughed heartily, stopping when the room temperature dropped again. Danny didn’t even turn to face the ghost. 

“Your watch is off, Boxy. I have another 10 hours before I have to deal with you annoyances again,” Danny growled. “I’m feeling good right now, take advantage of it and leave in one piece.”

“Uh right okay then,” the ghost stammered, sinking back into the wall. “See you tomorrow.” Danny cracked his neck before he walked to his desk, grabbed his things and walked to the front of the room.

“Late bell’s gonna ring any minute, you guys should hurry if you don’t wanna be late,” Danny said as he left. Falcua’s strength gave out as soon as Fenton was gone and he hit the floor, one hand clutching at his chest.

“Jeepers,” Mikey surmised appropriately before stuffing his things in his bag and leaving as well. Star watched everyone loosen up themselves and begin gathering their things to leave. No, she would never like Danny Fenton but he and his ghost weirdness was just part of the deal now, whether they wanted it or not. Such was life in the most haunted city in America which was only haunted by a single ghostly entity.

[shotorozu]

Heya! I love your writing. Could I request scenarios for Bakugou, Kirishima, Todoroki, Midoriya and Denki (if that’s ok, and if not, just cut Denks 😔) with a S/O that snorts when they laugh and their a little insecure about it, so they usually cover their mouth as soon as it happens or just try not to laugh at anything and as a result they put up this serious front when, in reality, they are really just ✨a crackhead✨

s/o that doesn’t like their laugh

character(s) : bakugou katsuki, kirishima eijirou, midoriya izuku, todoroki shouto, kaminari denki

legend : [Y/N = your name] they/them pronouns, quirk not specific

headcanon type : fluff, crack-ish (if you squint, there’s a dash hurt and comfort)

note(s) : PLS i can relate to this, my laugh is a cross hybrid of a window being cleaned, and a hyena 🗿 i normally don’t write 5 characters in one post but.. exceptions will be made. sorry that this took so long! will go back to writing requests

»»————-　♡　————-««

bakugou katsuki

he was very confused, and shocked?? it was a lot

you and him are very similar, like,, out of all the people in 1-A, he’s never seen you laugh like.. hysterically.

it was always normal for him to surpress his laughter when the times are right. but even when you guys got together, he never saw you laugh

which was just a “hm.. okay? wtf, i haven’t seen them laugh before??” moment

and don’t get me wrong, it’s not like you’re emotionless, and he HASN’T seen you laugh, it’s more like you just cut yourself off before it gets too intense

which is.. 🤨 weird. to him at least

laugh if you need to laugh, he doesn’t get why you always cut yourself off, like smh the audacity

okay so imagine this, you’re sitting in the kitchen— only a few feet away from katsuki, as he finishes cooking for you, just like any normal day

but i also headcanon that bakugou likes to taste test his cooking, before he can serve it to you. y’know— just in case he accidentally used bad ingredients which is rare, since he’s very precise with cooking

so he prepares the plate and utensils, and before he serves it to you— he takes a quick taste to see how it is, but his face immediately twists in disatisfaction

“what the fuck—” he sputters, looking at the plate “who the fuck switched the salt and sugar?”

and that seemed to be your breaking point, you immediately burst out into a fit of giggles and snorts, even with katsuki still recovering from the weird after taste.

if it was any other person, he would’ve chucked them out of the kitchen— but seeing you laugh out loud like this left him appalled

but your laughing episode is cut short when you realize that katsuki’s just staring. not saying anything, nor is he telling you off for laughing.

his expression looks so indifferent from seeing you laugh?? so you simply just apologize “sorry, i know the laugh is ugly.”

katsuki quickly snaps out of it, ruby irises glaring at you “ugly? when the hell did i say that?” he questions, voice gruff

your silence makes him think that you’re actually insecure about your laugh, an despite the weird aftertaste in his mouth, he decides to speak

“look, it was nice seeing you laugh, idiot.” he adds, because it sounded a little too nice “i don’t get why you have to hold your laughter back, especially around me. laugh if you need to, i’m not gonna judge you.”

plus, he’s not the person to judge you for your laugh anyway, his laugh.. is questionable for sure. i wouldn’t say it’s any better, so that would’ve be hypocritical of him

“you sure?”

“hell yeah i’m fuckin’ sure! but anyway, i’m gonna kill the bitch that switched the salt and sugar!” he gets up from the table, plate in hand as he goes to fix the meal

he surely can’t see your face right now, but when he hears you laugh, he can’t find himself not being able to smile.

he can only look forward to seeing you laugh again.

kirishima eijirou

his first reaction was :00 and 😳

so he was kind of left to his own thoughts when he realized that,, he hasn’t seen you laugh wildly before

and it’s not like you were just 😐 the entire time, you just always covered your mouth whenever you wanted to laugh

it was a big mystery to him, but he doesn’t think it’s quite manly to ask you that, it wasn’t long before he found out anyway

so! i headcanon that kirishima has his lil gaming night with the bakusquad maybe once or twice a week, they usually choose to communicate through the voice chat so.. no physical interaction.

and you’re just there, spectating the entire thing. because you still wanted to spend time with eijirou— but you didn’t want to interrupt his weekly gaming moment

so there’s a twist— he was actually playing a rpg multi-player horror game with the bakusquad, so.. jumpscares, am i right?

you were just sitting there on his bed, just watching if there’s anything interesting so far— and surprise! there’s a jumpscare.

eijirou jumps a little from the impact, and you can just hear the faint girlish screams of bakugou and kaminari, even from this length— basically telling all of them to just fucking dip! run the other way!

AND YOU WEREN’T EXPECTING BAKUGOU TO SCREAM SO.. HIGH PITCHED?

so you just start laughing when you hear the continuous screams, from his headset rip kiri’s ear drums and while kirishima tried to focus on the objective, he couldn’t help but turn around

just to see you laughing your ass off. and he’s there like 😳 they’re laughing?? they’re laughing!

so kirishima quickly finishes the game, but he just found himself in a state of shock. but then you covered your mouth so :(( aw.

you notice that he finished his game, so you just stop laughing entirely “oh— are you finished, eijirou?”

he’s still kind of taken aback by the laugh, and you seem to have noticed his reaction “wait, did you.. hear that?”

when you see eijirou nod, your expression seemed shell shock— which confused him, until you told him that you assumed that he didn’t hear you because of the headphones

“what? is it bad?” he asks with genuine curiousity, but you just explain that you’re just embarrassed. because the laugh itself is ugly

which kirishima disagrees!! >:(( your laugh had him in awe. he loves seeing you laugh, and it was a nice surprise.

“i love hearing you laugh! it makes me happy— i don’t see any reason that you should be ashamed of it, everyone’s laugh is different, after all.”

you’d say he’s lying, but the genuine toothy grin on kirishima face convinces you that he has the purest intentions.

midoriya izuku

now that i’ve thought about it, have we ever seen this boy burst into laughter?? this excludes the hospital scene of course.

but he’s not too concerned about himself not being able to freely laugh, but it was more like he was curious (or concerned) about you

you’re always quick to either cut yourself off, or you just cover your mouth entirely. and he can’t help but feel curious!

he asked you at some point on why you do those things when you laugh, but you just shrugged. so until that point, it was just simply a mystery— that’s left to his own imagination

so whenever midoriya creates new moves with his quirk, he’d have the sudden desire to show his s/o and ask if the move would be practical in anything. because why not

and we all know how much midoriya trains right? he’s quite the hard worker. but you were taking a nap in the afternoon, after finishing your school work for the day

it’s probably reaching 3pm now, and izuku finished making new moves with his quirk, and he was eager to show you!

he didn’t want to do this but he ended up waking you up anyway, and he brought you outside to show you the new moves

“look at this, Y/N!” he says, all excited oh boy

what he didn’t expect was how fast he was going— missing the entire key move, and he started plummetting to the ground (similar to a ragdoll being thrown)

you were still partially dowsy, and you weren’t expecting him to fall to the ground like THAT, so you started laughing hard

and because you’re still drowsy, you don’t recognize that you’re actually laughing— yeah, izuku may be still on the ground, but wow. you’re laughing!!

he’s surely taken back, because he’s never actually seen you burst into laughter like this, he was just

yet, you immediately slap your hand over your mouth— when you realize that you’re actually laughing out loud, and snorting in front of your boyfriend wjdnwkx

“i’m sorry, izuku” you regain composure, immediately rushing to his aid to help him up, “you didn’t need to hear, or see that.”

but why are you apologizing? he’s the one that dragged you out here to see him fail 💀 “no, no! it’s fine Y/N. i was just surprised, that’s all.”

the expression on his face kind of worries you— because omg what if he thinks the laugh was ugly? i’ll never laugh again.

“i’d understand if you’d think my laugh was kind of ugly, izu—”

“what— it’s not ugly!” he’s quick to object “i think.. it’s really nice. it surprised me, but your laugh’s interesting! in the good way, and it’s also kind of cute, uhm—.” pls don’t give him a heart attack

you shake your head, because you already have a good idea of what he feels— and it’s quite positive. “i get it, izuku. thank you for the reassurance.”

he finally calms down when you give him a quick smooch on the lips. in short, you were the one to calm him down rip

todoroki shouto

he’s definitely curious about it

i mean, it’s a natural occurence at this point— shouto was already observant of you, what more when he started developing feelings for you

once again, not someone who freely laughs (he’s quite oblivious with the socializing part so it’s too be expected) but that doesn’t mean you should mirror him

like midoriya, he probably tried speaking to you about it— but you always reassured him that it was just a subconscious habit still odd but.. if you say so

so, shouto’s downstairs in the kitchen right? he’s preparing a snack to bring up to your room, and while he was trying his best to hurry up with it

you eventually trekked downstairs, and saw shouto preparing said snack. so what do you do? you surprise him!

“shouto!” you peak behind him, and he’s startled because he thought he was alone this entire time

so— he might’ve accidentally started a mini fire out of shock, and he’s quick to realize that

🧍 there’s a fire. that i’ve created. it was a miracle that he didn’t set off the alarms

the situation is handled pretty quickly, since he’s fast enough to put out the fire. but now, shouto’s just staring at the burned piece of snack.

silence.

“..there was an attempt.” he says it simply, while also equipped with a rather frazzled expression.

this causes you to burst out into a fit of laughter, snorting at the scene in front of you— the comment being oddly hilarious

he’s the personification of 🧍right now, and shouto’s just watching at the rare scene of you hunched over the kitchen counter, snorting from laughter

“i’m sorry, shouto.” you cover your mouth, still trying to regain your composure “i’m sorry that i scared you but.. it was kind of funny.”

shouto’s just thinking “..they were laughing.” not in a bad way, of course. he’s heard people laugh at his ‘jokes’ but this was definitely a different feeling.

shouto being well,, shouto. he’s going to be blunt with his words “your laugh is pretty.”

but your first reaction is 👁👁?? PRETTY?? “shouto, out of all the things my laugh could be— you chose pretty?” you’re looking at him like he’s crazy rn

he’s really confused like,, “yeah. your laugh is pretty, is that bad?”

so then you explain that you just never perceived your laugh as pretty, only because you ‘snorted like a pig’ he thought that was a little sad to hear

“i don’t see a reason that you should be ashamed of your laugh, Y/N.” he moves closer, setting a cool hand on your shoulder “every part of you is special in their own individual way. and i’ll love every part of it.”

“you,, mean that? like really??” you ask, and he confirms it with a nod, resting his head against your shoulder “i’m sorry that i burned your snack.”

“it’s fine. i’m sorry i scared you,”

“if it made you laugh then.. i’d say it’s worth it.” and you can’t really think that he’d lie, just by the way his mismatched eyes stare at you in pure adoration.

kaminari denki

the only person here that laughs freely whenever and wherever, he has that class clown type of beat

he was a little sad to see that you always covered your mouth whenever you laughed, since it sort of makes his day to see people laugh at his jokes

but of course, he’d never judge you— he may be curious about certain things but,, he’ll never secondguess you as a whole

similar to todoroki and midoriya, he’ll ask you in a lighthearted way on why you cover your mouth whenever you laugh

and you always brush it off, so he’d just have to respect that

i’d imagine that he’d encounter your laugh when you guys are doing your daily cracktivities

you guys were already quite good friends before you guys started dating, and this was quite a habit that always occurred maybe once or twice a week

the both of you were desperately trying to hold in the laughter that threatened to escape your lips, at 2am 💀

and the both of you guys were watching compilations of that talent show livestream on youtube (tiahra nelson’s to be specific)

so you’re still holding in your laughter, and reaches to that point in the video, where tiahra nelson was watching that dude sing ‘electric love’ (ref : this video)

seeing denki’s shocked reaction made you realize that— you just can’t hold it in anymore, so, you bursted into a fit of snorts and laughter, sliding onto denki’s shoulder

denki’s still holding in his laughter because he doesn’t want to get busted by iida or something— but oh my, YOUR LAUGH IS CONTAGIOUS TO HIM

he’s never heard you laugh this hard but omg, your laugh is contagious as hell— so he starts laughing with you 💀

eventually, the laughing does die down— and you guys move on to the next video. it’s oddly quiet at first, because the realization had just hit you and hard

you snorted in front of your boyfriend, and you’re sure that he doesn’t care that much but,, wow, you are embarrassed.

“wow— your laugh is contagious,” denki slides his hand across your shoulder, and while he’s been trying to keep the atmosphere at it’s normal, he’s quite nervous??

“it was a new experience uhm, sorry, i don’t know what i’m saying, and i know you’d be insecure about it all and..” he fumbles with his words for a bit, because denki isn’t THE BEST with serious things

“your laugh is cute.” his eyes are glued onto the screen, and his tone is basically stating that he’s right. your laugh is really cute

“you’re cheesy,” you playfully smack his chest, but you can’t help but feel quite bashful of his words

no but really,, whenever you laugh, denki starts to laugh along with you, since it’s so contagious he’s not that sorry about it

moving past the sappy shit, it’s quite helpful in cracktivities 💀

»»————-　♡　————-««

likes and reblogs are appreciated, thanks for reading!

i do not own bnha/mha and it’s characters. boku no hero academia/my hero academia belongs to horikoshi kohei, i only own the writing and i do not profit off of my hobby

do not plagiarize, repost, translate, or use my works for audio readings without permission :))

[stephspurs]

A Family Affair | Euro 2020 Football Fanfiction

Life is beautiful and life is cruel. This is a window into the souls of the victorious and the vanquished. In a way, football did come home during the summer of 2021. Follow along Amelia’s journey, navigating the football world as a tactical analyst for the Italian football team, with a brother and father part of the three lions. Will Amelia leave Italy and come back to England? Will she leave the Serie A for the Prem? Will she set aside the bianconeri stripes for new colours, leaving behind friendship for love? Maybe she can have both...

Wow - the response i received in a little under 24 hours since i posted the first taste of part 1 has truly bowled me over! I wasn't expecting that reaction & tbh i would have been happy if 2 people wanted to read this story hahaha! So, i've been writing in the background & the first few parts have already been proofed and are ready to go. HOWEVER! I am open to your suggestions so please please let me know what you think and how you want to see Amelia's story play out. As far as i'm concerned, this fic is as much yours as it is mine! So please enjoy this first part, in its entirety, and let me know your thoughts! Love always,

Steph xx

UPDATE as of 31/07: I've made some additional editing changes due to some feedback about the confusion between ben white (her brother) and ben chilwell (not her brother LOL). Nothing has been added to the story, just the addition of either surname has been added where i think it could be more straightforward - for future readers!

Part 1 | prima parte

warnings; none - maybe a bit of angst? (what sibling rivalry doesn't have a bit of angst)

word count; 1978 words

writing tools; third person until dashed line, first person thereafter.

next update; Sunday 25/07 5pm AEST. Updates will be twice weekly at this stage. Probably Wednesday’s and Sundays from next week!!

link to fic masterlist here

The world of football, no matter how big it may seem, is as tight as a close-knit family. Whether its management staff, senior players, scouts, academy players, business developers, medical team, groundskeeper - everyone knows someone who knows someone else involved in the sport. For Amelia White, it was a family affair.

Having grown up with her father as a senior tactical analyst for many different clubs throughout his career, and an older brother currently playing for Brighton in the Premier League, there was no opportunity for her to escape the fanaticism of the sport. It was what her household lived and breathed, football. Most would think that, with her brother being as successful as he is now, her childhood was shadowed by her brother's success but that's not the case. She capitalised on her ability to think both logically and creatively, and absorbed all of the information her father could give her as if she was a sponge, to establish a name of her own in the sport and advance her career in the sport. At the age of 21 she upped and left the comforts of her home in West London, accepted a position at Juventus within their graduate program & worked her way up the ranks to be their youngest tactical analyst by the age of 24.

So far in her career, the support of her mother, father & brother were unmatched by any. They were all so proud of her for making her own name, proving herself and succeeding in one of the most competitive football leagues in the world. She was smart, tactful, both meticulous and ruthless in her approach to her career and the success of her players. Because after all, they were her players. She worked day in and day out, studying them and their opponents, drafting performance plans and set pieces for every possible outcome of the play, so that they could perform at their best. They had her trust and faith, and she had theirs. This is probably what her family was most proud of, and wished her every success, until she was appointed as a tactical analyst for the Italian National Team for the upcoming Euro 2020 tournament. Which happened to be the same tournament that her brother had received his call up to the Three Lions. Which was the current level at which her father was a senior tactical analyst for the English National Team. The Euro 2020 Tournament was about to be a real family affair...

10 July 2021

It had been 2 months since she last had any contact with her family. 3 months ago, Amelia signed a contract with the Federcalcio, the governing body of football in Italy, to become the Azzurri’s tactical analyst for the foreseeable European Football Championship. In turn, her silky signature at the bottom of the agreement, also constituted a digital and physical contact ban with members of her family that were also involved with the tournament...her father and her brother.

At the time of the contract, and against her better judgement, Amelia hadn’t told her family of her opportunity. She knew her father would be proud, but her brother would be bitter. Her mother was switzerland, completely neutral and rooting for both of her children - but that's not how football works. No matter your role you have a job to do, and you do everything you can to make sure it is your team that lifts the trophy at the end of the tournament. So, on May 23rd her family congratulated her for another successful season at Juventus, and unbeknownst to them, said goodbye for the next 2 months. Until the day before the final match of the tournament, Italy v. England.

Her heart dropped when England won their semi final match against Denmark. She wanted nothing more than for her brother to be happy and for her father to succeed, but she didn’t want to have to go up against them in the final. Ultimately, she knew they were good, but she also knew that she could hold her own and compete with the best. Having a close relationship with her brother, up until this period, meant that she often paid attention to the premier league. This was a major benefit to her as she had already started analysing the azzurri’s opponents. It was her job to know what foot Raheem Sterling preferred to pass with, what direction Declan Rice preferred to take the ball up the field, what direction of receiving the ball did Harry Maguire struggle the most with. So that's how she spent the three days between matches, solidifying her knowledge of her opponents & predicting the plays her dad would be instructing the English team to complete, to attempt to outperform the Italians. However nothing would prepare her for the knock on her suite door, or for what was on the other side…

_____________________________________________________________

“Ciao Amelia, vieni con me per favore. abbiamo organizzato una visita supervisionata con tuo fratello prima della finale di domani sera. sorpresa!” (hi amelia, come with me please. we have arranged a supervised visit with your brother prior to the final tomorrow night. surprise!). I stood there in shock staring at one of my players & closest friends, Federico Bernardeschi. I was a person who didn't enjoy spontaneity, who thrived off of preparation and organisation. I needed the opportunity to overthink every situation so that I could prepare for every possible outcome. This was not my idea of a good time. Of course I missed my brother, but I know just how volatile he can be. Nevertheless, I grabbed my jacket and shoved my sneakers on before following Fede down the hall and into a blacked out van that was waiting to take me to St. George’s Park for my family reunion.

Upon arriving, and after a stern pep talk from Fede (who was my appointed supervisor for the visit - not sure I would say he was the most responsible choice but he did talk some sense into me) I walked into the main entrance and saw my father leaning against the reception desk waiting for me.

“Papa!!” I called as I walked over to him, ready to smother him with my love and affection. My father, Dean White, and I had as good of a relationship as possible, being that he was always heavily involved with my brother Ben’s footballing career as well as his own. I think when I came along, my father didn't know how to be a girl dad, so he took my mothers advice and just involved me like he would Ben. I was glad that I would be seeing him first, and he would be taking me to see my no-doubt pissed off brother.

“Dad, this is Fede, one of my players”

“Ciao Dean, it’s very nice to meet you but i am also her bodyguard for this evening” Fede introduced himself to my father and they exchanged pleasantries. I had a look around the foyer of the facility until I heard my name brought up in conversation.

“Amelia, come on. The boys are just over here. I don’t think you have long before heading back to your camp” My dad called to me. Boys? As in...more than just my brother?

“Hahaha that's funny dad, just show me to his room and we can have our screaming match there. Should only be about 20 or so minutes”

“Ben’s not in his room, we have a recreation room for the players and staff to lounge about and relax in. Pretty sure he’ll be in there. Come on, you’ve never been scared of your brother before. Why start now?” Before I knew it, Dad was leading us through some doors and into a large common area with bean bags, pool tables and couches - all occupied by current first team members of the English National Football team.

“Dean mate, don’t normally see you down here after 7pm. Oh look at that, someone let the trash in.” A loud mouthed player, that I used to adore as if he was my own brother, calls out as he notices us enter the room. And just like that, I shake off my nerves, stand in front of my taller & more argumentative bodyguard, relax my shoulders and stare into the eyes of Kyle Walker - daring him to challenge me and push me further.

“Relax Kyle, Benjamin White - your sister is here to see you.” Dad cut Kyle off. I didn’t need him to defend me against Kyle’s harsh comments, I could defend myself.

“Wow, I thought hell would freeze over before I got the opportunity to speak to you. Of course, I didn't realise hell would look quite like seeing you in that shade of blue.” My brother, Ben, spoke bitterly at me as he approached me from the other side of the room. This, coupled with Walker’s exclamation earlier, got the attention of the majority of the players scattered about.

“Ben, if you let me explain in private I'm sure you will be able to understand why things had to be this way” I tried to reason with him. Letting go of my always-defensive guard and pleading with my big brother to open his mind to see my side of the story.

“As if I would even talk to you right now, the night before the final, you’re probably here to try and get some insider information. Boys make sure you don’t say anything to her, she’s as sly as they come” Ben’s words were as sharp as a knife - but I knew what I had to say would cut him deeper.

“Ok that's enough! You are ridiculous! What did you expect me to do? Not take the job because you’re my brother? This is my career we are talking about here” I challenged him. “If you think for one second i stopped supporting you then you must be even more stupid than i thought. Of course this isn't the ideal situation, I'm proud of you for reaching a final but I'm just as proud of myself for doing the same thing.” I got progressively closer to my brother, who stood there with his hands beside himself, unable to get a word in.

“I came tonight to wish you good luck, to tell you I loved you, to give you a hug and tell you to stay safe and play smart. Whilst I still wish all of this for you, I now want you to know that I want you to play your best so I can be better than you. I can show you exactly how good at my job I am. I want you to know that no matter what way you play the ball, I'll be right there waiting for you. I am prepared for this, I hope you are too - so that it will feel that much more sweet when we beat you” I sneered at my older brother, who at this point, is quite visibly feeling a mixture of shock and embarrassment.

I take a step back, let out a breath and shake the tension from my shoulders. Breaking eye contact with my brother, I look briefly - yet confidently - at the other players in the room and take a step back. I turned to my dad, who was looking at me solemnly, as though he wasn’t happy with my outburst but understood it came from a place of frustration with my sibling. Walking up, giving him a kiss on the cheek and wishing him luck, I turned to look at Fede and began to walk to the door. This interaction with my brother, although supposed to be a nice moment shared between siblings, has only gone and motivated me to be at my best tomorrow, to prepare my players to go to war and to come out the other side victorious.

Part 2 | seconda parte