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ohnoitstbskyen · 7 months ago

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I deleted the ask, but someone wrote one basically saying "why do you post reaction videos to Helluva Boss? Don't you know the show exploits its workers and they're overworked and get burned out?"

And, I mean, I love your energy, person who asked, definitely hold on to those values and speak up about this. But also, I am afraid I might have some bad news for you about literally the whole entire animation industry.

As near as I can make out from the sparse journalistic reporting that's been done on SpindleHorse -- and as a sidebar, please for the love of god read actual reporting about these things and not just callout posts and fandom discourse -- as near as I can make out, SpindleHorse as a studio is neither all that much better nor all that much worse than basically anywhere else in the industry on their level. It seems like it is (or was? Hazbin Hotel seems to be run differently) a studio mostly run by contracting people on a project-by-project basis, which leads to a crapton of turnover, and a huge need for organizing and onboarding, which according to the reporting I have read, the producers and freelancers have struggled to balance and manage properly, which has negatively impacted a number of the workers.

Top that with the usual catty, clique-based backbiting, sniping and poorly managed conflict resolution that's just kinda endemic in creative environments mostly staffed by twentysomethings and stressed out freelancers, and you have the recipe for a workplace where a lot of people are going to have a great time and feel creatively fulfilled, and a lot of people are going to come away feeling justifiably burnt the fuck out and exploited.

All of this is... not especially unusual for the animation industry, or indeed for any creative industry. Which is not to say that it is good, or that it should be allowed to be normal, or that it shouldn't be reported on and criticized (and please for the love of god support unionization efforts because that's the only thing that will actually address these kinds of systemic problems). It's just to say that if those kinds of issues are the line in the sand you draw where you refuse to engage with a studio's output...

Then, for starters, say goodbye to basically all of anime, because the Japanese animation industry is actively in a state of crisis trying to recruit new talent because its working conditions and pay are so astonishingly abysmal. And the horror stories that escape from that industry make the issues at SpindleHorse look like summer camp at times.

But you also have to say goodbye to a lot of American and European animation. Please do not imagine that Disney and its subcontractors, or that Nickelodeon or Warner Bros, are benevolent employers. They exploit their staff brutally and are currently trying to crush the labor value of animation with threats of generative AI being used to replace jobs. But those corporations also have extremely well-funded PR departments and the ability to silence employees with NDAs and threats of blackballing, so you don't get to hear as many of the horror stories as you might from a smaller independent studio that's less able to silence criticism by holding people's careers hostage.

All of this is to say that 1) it's valid and important to have criticism of both large and small-scale animation studios, and to keep the well-being and happiness of the workers higher in your priorities than the output of Products™.

And 2) if you're going to have a principle for what kinds of problems make a studio's output morally untouchable for you, and what kinds of problems you think should make a studio's output untouchable to other people, you do need to apply that principle consistently to the entire industry, and not just to the independent animation studio that happens to be surrounded by the internet's most inflammatory fandom discourse.

If you don't apply that principle consistently, maybe don't send reproachful messages to strangers scolding them for not living up to your standards, and even if you do apply that principle consistently, maybe still don't do that, because it's mostly quite annoying, and doesn't really do anything to support animation workers struggling for better working conditions.

The Animation Guild in the US is currently in the middle of a bargaining process with their industry, and they have a social media press kit as well as relevant talking points on their website which you can use to post in solidarity with the workers. If it comes to a full industry strike, consider donating to their strike funds to help them maintain pressure. Outside of the US, try and find out what (if any) local unions exist for animation workers, and maybe sign up to their mailing lists. They will let you know what kind of support they need from you.

#tb posting

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lordofdestructionm · 1 year ago

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Wick Sable

The odd duck in the guilded cage

Despite this being a feral Mordecai and Viktor account I do occasionally like to dig into the others.

Wick is a character Lackadaisy fans love but don't talk about very much. He just the rich friendly geologist with a love of illicit beverages and a crush on Mitzi. Indeed he is all those things. But I want to dig a little into what may be hidden depth (geography joke haha)

Professional dissatisfaction

When we first meet Wick he is behind his desk looking very tired and beaten down. Forcing himself to keep working late into the night with excessive coffee. Attending to a large pile of paper work for tomorrow.

His expression shifts slightly when he sees the Lackadaisy pins fall out of the envelope and realises the letter is an invitation to him (and his fellow aristocrats) to the speakeasy.

This hatred of paper work and the administrative side of his business is a recurring issue for Wick. Making the reason for his reliance on the capable and attentive Lacy very obvious. Exhaustian and too much alchohol are no doubt partly to blame, but it seems to be something that puts him in a very depressed state of mind.

But when actually on the job, overseeing the hands on work of blasting a new quarry, his mood is much more positive. Indeed he has a very real and sincere love for geology and the nitty gritty work of his business. When he first went to the Lackadaisy he was spellbound by the lime caverns themselves as much by Mitzi's charm.

Its his special interest and he will go on long unprompted monologues on the topic if given the chance. Meaning it is specifically the being trapped in his office dealing with the red tape that makes him so unhappy not the industry itself.

Its almost sad that he is the one in charge of the company rather than in a role that puts him closer to the action which seems to bring him real joy. Like someone who loves cooking being in charge of a restuarant or someone that loves drawing running an animation studio.

They love the product/industry but that doesn't mean they enjoy their specific place in it.

Unimpressed Peers

Despite Wicks enthusiasm it proves not be infectious with his fellow elite, who complain about being dragged out of town to watch something, that while very important to Wick, they clearly could not care less about (even not that quietly mocking him and his love for rocks and construction)

When the evening doesn't go to plan due to the uninvited pig farmers Wick has an interesting exchange with Edmund Church, seemingly the most prominent of the St Louis upper crust in the group. Warning him about getting any more involved with an unsavoury crowd, especially Mitzi, outside of simply enjoying the occasional drink.

Wick doesn't take kindly to the snarky criticism and borderline threat to his reputation and responds with a much more direct statement on his peers sour nature

Tracy has mentioned that Church has a role yet to play in the story and it seems safe to assume from this it may well involve Wick in a less than friendly way if he continues to associate with his "lessers" as Church and the others see things.

Despite needing to remain on civil terms to keep them invested in his business, Wick clearly has little love for them, a feeling that is mutual as they have little respect for him and see him as an oddball, only tolerating him because his talent in his field can help make them a tidy profit.

But while he doesn't appreciate Church's sniping Wick IS concerned about his reputation, but not entirely for his own sake or that of his elitist associates, but for the many people who rely on him for employment, who could be hurt by extension of he gets pulled too deep into the less than repectable world of bootlegging

Romantic life

Outside of the crush he has had on Mitzi since first meeting her at the Speakeasy, we have very little information about Wicks love life before this. Being a handsome and wealthy gentleman from a good family, you would think he would he fighting women off with a stick, maybe even be a bit of a playboy.

Instead you get the impression Wick is pretty far away from being a ladies man. Mentioning to Mitzi that he doesn't even really know how to talk to women unless its about rocks, bugs or limestone.

He is clearly attracted to her and is tempted by her to risk his reputation and by extension his business to get closer to her, but so far his fear of the very real consequences are deterring him from taking that gamble.

Though there is that personal aspect to it, it seems that in a more abstract sense Mitzi's appeal to Wick is not just in her beauty and seductive personality, but in the excitement and thrill of her Speakeasy and bootlegging operations.

In that sense Mitzi represents that touch of danger and excitement that during prohibition many otherwise law abiding citizens enjoyed indulging in illegal drinking establishments. Being* just* naughty enough to give them a fun thrill while being detached from the more brutal blood soaked aspects.

Wick is a good natured person (the worst thing he has done is shoot a duck in his youth which he was forced to do) living a very "respectable" life, but that makes the superficial glamour of the world of underground drinking establishments and secret booze stashes even more appealing. Thats why despite his concerns and responsibilities he keeps going back ,not just to Mitzi, but to the Lackadaisy specifically. It has pretty geography, a pretty owner, and an open door to a more exciting avenue of life

Its for that same reason he doesn't seem to be overly uncomfortable with lovable bi disaster Zib flirting with him at the bar. He may have no intention of reciprocating, but it couldn't be a more different experience to the world he is used to

Even if he doesn't yet want to take the full plunge it all excites him enough to keep him circling the edges.

Because despite having so much going for him there are things about his life that not only bore him but make him unhappy. Whether its piles of paperwork, dealing with much stuffier "conventional" fellow aristocrats and not wanting to be like them, or just a general lack of true passion in his life, he is clearly a man looking for something more satisfying

Whether or not he remains a "tourist" or decides to take that gamble, throw his reservations to the wind, and take a more active role in the gang, is yet to be seen...

Assuming Rocky doesn't set fire to him first of course XD

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xnihilosays · 3 months ago

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phanfic idea where dnp are actors working on a project together. they don't know each other very well but seem to have good chemistry and everything is going swimmingly EXCEPT phil's character is constantly bullying/antagonizing/sniping at dan's and dan knows that it's just a character but his anxiety just won't let go of the idea that phil hates him.

so being an emotionally mature, problem solving adult he starts hanging out with phil more in an attempt to get to know him better and separate phil lester the actor from the character he's playing and is absolutely FLOORED by just how much pure sunshine phil radiates. the two become fast friends and dan gains an appreciation for phil's acting ability, because how can somebody so sweet seem so cold and cruel in front of a camera?

then a new problem arises. dan starts catching feelings, and since heart-eyes howell has all the subtlety of a cartoon anvil, it carries over into his acting. fans of the tv show (is it a tv show? a play? a movie? who knows) are quick to pick up on the change in dan's character and suddenly the studio is getting all of these questions about queer subtext and an entirely new fan base and dan has to navigate this new dynamic, personal questions about his identity, and a series of comical misadventures where he desperately tries to keep anyone from telling phil that dan loves him before dan can do it himself.

#phan #phanfics #dan and phil #daniel howell #phil lester #dan and phil fanfics #phan au

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gul4bjamoons · 2 months ago

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✩ threads of patience;

jamal musiala ──────

when a footballer is sidelined due to an injury, the last thing he expects is to find solace in a fashion designer’s studio.

⭑ wordcount : three thousand one hundred seventy-eight.

⭑ notes : just a heads up the main character is of south asian descent !!

˙⋆✮ masterlist.

“Musiala, you need to sit this one out.” The words pierced his ears, yet his mind unable to grasp the meaning.

Jamal pouted, his arms folded tightly across his chest, a storm brewing behind his dark eyes. He leaned against the cold steel of the bench, the texture digging into his back as if mocking his inactivity. The training pitch buzzed with the rhythmic thud of cleats on grass, but Jamal’s gaze stayed fixed on the ground, unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes. His coach, Vincent Kompany, stood before him, unshaken by the young midfielder’s silent rebellion.

“We’ve talked about this Jamal…” Kompany’s voice was steady, a calm tide against Jamal’s turbulent sea. “Your ankle’s not ready, and if you keep trying to push yourself, you will make things worse.”

“I’m not.” Jamal shot back, his voice edged with defiance, though it trembled ever so slightly. “I just want to be part of the team.”

“You are part of the team,” Kompany replied, his tone softening but losing none of its firmness. “But right now, the best thing you can do is recover. We can’t afford to lose you long-term.”

Jamal muttered under his breath, his voice a low growl, barely audible but carrying the weight of his frustration. The coach’s eyes narrowed, the silence stretching between them like a taut wire.

“And for that to happen,” Kompany continued, his gaze sharpening, “you need to stay off the pitch during practice. You’re distracting the others.”

Jamal’s jaw tightened, his scowl deepening. He clenched his fists at his sides, feeling the strain of every muscle as if the tension could somehow mask the sting of his manager’s words.

He didn’t argue, though.

Deep down, he knew the coach was right. His irritation had spilled over onto his teammates all morning, sniping and snapping at every mistake. Even Manuel Neuer had joked about how Jamal seemed more intense on the sidelines than on the pitch. The laughs that followed the comment had only fueled the young boy’s anger.

Being benched wasn’t just a frustration—it was a simmering rage bubbling just beneath the surface. The UCL semi-finals loomed, and the Bundesliga points were precious, each one like a lifeline. Every second on the sidelines felt like an eternity, a punishment that gnawed at his resolve, whispering that he was letting everyone down.

“Why don’t you take the day to clear your head?” Kompany’s voice cut through Jamal’s thoughts. The head coach approached with a measured pace, a faint smile curling his lips. “Actually, scratch that—I have a job for you.”

Jamal’s eyes flicked up, suspicion shading his expression. “A job?”

“Yes.” Kompany’s smirk widened, as if savoring the surprise he was about to unveil. “You’re going to help review the kit designs for next season. The design team needs player feedback, and you’re not doing much else right now.”

Jamal blinked, his face a canvas of disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Jamal opened his mouth, ready to protest, but the glint in his manager’s eye silenced him. The words died on his lips, replaced by a muttered, half-hearted complaint about it being a waste of time. He turned away, limping toward the club offices, each step echoing with the dull thud of reluctance. His mind swirled with frustration, the sting of the coach’s directive gnawing at his pride.

The design studio was nothing like Jamal expected.

He had been here once before, years ago, when Bayern was unveiling a retro-inspired kit. Back then, the studio had an austere atmosphere, commanded by an older man whose stoic demeanor matched the cold, minimalist decor. Every surface had gleamed with an almost clinical precision, and Jamal had felt as though even a misplaced breath might disturb the fragile order. Now, as he stepped inside, he braced for a similar encounter, but the scene that unfolded before him was a stark contrast.

Colors danced across the room, a vivid array that immediately drew his eyes. Deep maroons and rich yellows blended seamlessly with earthy greens and serene blues, each hue carefully chosen to evoke a sense of warmth and creativity. The textures added another layer of depth—soft, flowing fabrics with intricate patterns that hinted at something more, their delicate weaves resembling motifs from distant, storied traditions.

Meanwhile your focus was intense as you studied sketches and swatches spread before you. The air around you was infused with an energy that felt both welcoming and vibrant. A faint scent of jasmine lingered across the room.

You were younger than Jamal had expected, and your presence exuded a natural warmth that softened the sharp edges of the room. The soft lighting caressed your rich, radiant brown skin, creating a subtle glow that harmonized with the gleaming gold jhumkas—traditional earrings—framing your face, their gentle swing punctuating each of your movements.

“Jamal Musiala, right?” you greeted him with a smile that was as genuine as it was disarming. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m the lead designer for Bayern’s kits this season.”

The boy offered a curt nod, his expression guarded. “Nice to meet you.”

You could sense the tension simmering beneath his cool exterior, but it didn’t deter you. You’d navigated the emotional landscapes of many high-profile clients before—athletes, actors, politicians—and you understood the art of balancing egos with empathy.

“I’ve laid out the initial concepts for next season’s kits,” you said, motioning toward the table. Your voice was steady, a quiet assurance in your tone as you gestured toward the designs. “Home, away, and third. We’ll go through each, and I’d love your input on the colors, patterns, and overall feel.” As you extended your hand, the gold bangles on your wrist caught the light, their soft jingle adding a touch of elegance to the moment.

Jamal nodded stiffly, the weight of his discontent evident in his posture.

You picked up the first sketch—a sleek red jersey with various shades subtly layered to create depth without overwhelming the classic color. “For the home kit, we wanted something timeless yet modern. It’s bold but not overpowering.”

Jamal barely spared it a glance. “Looks fine.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge dancing in your eyes. “‘Fine’ is not exactly helpful feedback.”

He sighed, running a hand over his face. “I don’t know. It looks… red.”

You refused to let his mood dampen your enthusiasm. “It’s supposed to be red. It’s Bayern’s home color.”

“I know that,” he retorted, his tone defensive.

“Then what do you think about the gradient? The collar style? The texture of the cloth?”

He shrugged, a reluctant surrender. “It’s good.”

Taking a deep breath, you reminded yourself to stay patient. You sensed that his irritation wasn’t truly with the designs but stemmed from elsewhere—a storm cloud hanging over his day.

“Okay,” you said, your voice calm and steady as you set the sketch aside. “Let’s move on to the away kit.”

You presented the next design—a sleek black jersey accented with light green and dusty orange, a tribute to the statue of Bavaria. You handed him a fabric swatch, your fingers brushing lightly against the sample.

“This material is lightweight and moisture-wicking,” you explained, your voice taking on a soothing cadence. “It’s designed for optimal performance in hot weather.”

He took the swatch with the air of someone carrying a burden, barely glancing at it before setting it down. “Yeah, it’s alright.”

“Alright?” you repeated, your voice laced with a measured calm that barely concealed your waning patience.

Your eyes locked on Jamal’s, searching for a flicker of engagement beyond the wall of frustration he had built. “Jamal, I need actual feedback. These kits represent the team. They’re not just about how they look; they’re about how they feel on the pitch, how they move with you, how they make you feel when you’re wearing them, leading the charge.”

For a brief moment, his hardened expression softened. His gaze met yours, and you could see the flicker of understanding—an acknowledgment of the care and passion you poured into every stitch, every thread of the kits. But it was fleeting. The weight of his frustration shadowed his features. He shook his head, the tension returning to his posture.

“Look, I get that this is important,” he said, his voice tinged with resignation. “But all I want is to get back to the pitch as soon as possible.”

You sighed deeply, the weight of his words pressing against your resolve as you gently set the fabric swatch down on the table. “I understand,” you said, your tone softening but holding firm. “But right now, this is part of your role. You’re still part of the team, even if you’re not playing. And this does matter—to the club, to the fans, to your teammates. What you wear represents who you are and what you stand for.”

He stared at you, his jaw tight, eyes reflecting the internal battle waging within him. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken frustrations. Finally, he sighed, a long exhale that seemed to deflate the tension in his shoulders. He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture of weariness, perhaps even apology.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just… not in the best headspace.”

You softened, offering him a small smile, the kind that spoke of patience tempered with understanding. “Let’s go over the third kit,” you said, lifting a sleek sketch from the table. It was a collared beige jersey with dashes of red uniformed across the shirt, like an artist’s deliberate brushstrokes. The design was a departure from the traditional, and though it exuded a quiet elegance, you couldn’t shake the nagging worry that the players might resist something so unconventional.

“This one’s inspired by the club’s heritage, but with a modern twist,” you explained, holding the fabric swatch closer for Jamal to feel. “The beige is subtle, but the red is fierce.”

Jamal’s brow furrowed, not in frustration this time, but in concentration. He ran his fingers over the fabric, his touch lingering as though weighing its texture against his experiences on the pitch.

“I see what you mean,” he said, his tone softer, more reflective. “It’s different, but... it might grow on people.” He paused, glancing at you. “Maybe the collar could be a bit more structured?”

You nodded, appreciating the thoughtful critique. He was more engaged now, though you could tell he wasn’t entirely present—his mind likely still half on the field, half on his current situation. You sighed inwardly but maintained your composed demeanor. "Thank you, Jamal. I’ll take that into consideration."

This wasn’t the best day for either of you, but you held onto the hope that his next visit—or even his feedback later—would be more fruitful. Perhaps this was just an off day, a temporary fog clouding his usually sharp instincts.

As you worked, you couldn’t help but notice the little things about him—the way his brow knitted when he delved into thought, the almost imperceptible way his fingers tested the fabric’s resilience, as if searching for its strength. Despite his earlier reluctance, there was a latent attention to detail in Jamal, an unspoken connection to the subtleties of design, even if he didn’t yet see it himself.

Jamal entered the design studio again, but this time, there was no scowl on his face, no frustrated dragging of feet. Instead, a calm acceptance settled into his posture, though a trace of disappointment remained in his eyes—a reminder of the three-week recovery dictated by the gaffer.

He knew better now, knew that defiance wouldn’t hasten his return. The idleness still gnawed at him, but he was determined to channel his energy differently this time.

When he stepped into the studio, he found you at the same spot as last time, perched gracefully on a stool by one of the long drafting tables. Your head was bent over your tablet, fingers gliding over the screen with practiced ease. The sunlight streaming through the window caught your hair, thick the luscious intricate braid that fell over your shoulder, a few wisps escaping to frame your face.

You looked up briefly, your smile polite but genuine. “Jamal. Back again?”

“Yeah,” he replied, scratching the back of his neck. “Coach’s orders.”

Your smile tightened slightly, and you went back to your sketching, the awkwardness between you two still lingering from your first meeting. Jamal couldn’t blame you. He hadn’t exactly been easy to work with.

He wandered over to the table where you’d laid out an array of patches and test prints. They were vibrant and varied—bold reds, deep blues, intricate geometric patterns, and minimalist monochromes. For a moment, he forgot his frustration and found himself running his fingers over the fabrics, appreciating their textures.

You glanced up, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He seemed… calmer this time. Less tense. Maybe even a little curious.

“What are you working on?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

You blinked, surprised by the question. “Oh, just some drafts.” you said vaguely.

He nodded, his gaze wandering to the device in your hand. “Can I see?”

You hesitated for a moment before turning the screen toward him. Instead of a jersey design, the sketch on the screen was of a stunning red lehenga—a traditional South Asian wedding outfit. The skirt was adorned with intricate gold embroidery, and the blouse featured delicate, hand-drawn floral motifs. It was breathtakingly detailed, a testament to your passion and skill.

Jamal tilted his head, intrigued by the vibrant sketch before him. “That’s not for Bayern, is it?”

You giggled softly, the sound light and melodic. “No, definitely not. It’s for my cousin’s wedding coming up. She asked me to design something special for her. Weddings are a huge deal in my culture. The outfits, the colors, the jewelry… everything has to be perfect. And red is the traditional color for brides.”

Jamal leaned in slightly, his curiosity piqued by the richness of your explanation. “How long does it take to make something like this?”

“It depends,” you said, your enthusiasm evident as you spoke. “A custom piece like this can take weeks, even months, especially with all the fitting sessions. Every stitch has to be just right.”

He watched you closely, captivated by the way your eyes sparkled with passion. You weren’t just describing a task; you were sharing a part of yourself, bringing the design to life with each word. The vibrant reds and intricate gold details in the sketch seemed to glow under the soft lighting, mirroring the energy in your voice.

“And the details,” you continued, your fingers hovering over the screen to highlight different elements. “See this gold embroidery at the bottom? I’ve been experimenting with different floral patterns. And the red fabric is silk, which has this beautiful sheen under the light. It’s not just about how it looks—it’s about how it feels when you wear it.”

Jamal nodded slowly, though his attention was no longer entirely on the sketch. He was mesmerized by you—the way your brows furrowed slightly in concentration, the gentle curve of your lips forming a small smile as you spoke with such fervor. There was something endearing about your devotion, a magnetic pull he couldn’t resist.

“You’re really into this,” he said softly, his voice carrying a newfound respect.

You looked up, slightly startled by the sincerity in his tone. “Well… yeah. It’s what I love to do.”

A faint smile played on his lips, the tension between you two easing like the first warmth after a long winter. The weight of the morning’s frustrations seemed to lift, replaced by a quiet understanding.

And as the morning progressed, you shifted your focus back to the Bayern kit designs, presenting Jamal with updated concepts. This time, he was more engaged, offering thoughtful input as you refined the details together. His earlier hesitation had given way to a genuine interest.

At one point, you reached for a tape measure to take his measurements for a prototype jersey. “I’ll need you to try this on,” you said, holding up a tester design.

Jamal complied, slipping the jersey over his training top. You stepped closer, your hands moving with practiced precision as you adjusted the fit around his shoulders and arms. “Hold still,” you murmured, the gentle command softened by the proximity between you.

He froze, his breath catching slightly as your fingers brushed against his arm, smoothing out the fabric. He could feel the focus radiating from you, the way your kajal had framed your eyes as they darted over each adjustment with meticulous care.

“Does it feel too tight around the chest?” you asked, glancing up at him.

“No, it’s fine,” he replied quickly, though his voice was quieter than he intended, tinged with a subtle vulnerability.

Your eyes met, and for a brief moment, the space between you seemed to shrink, the air charged with an unspoken connection.

The silence stretched, delicate and electric.

You cleared your throat, stepping back slightly to regain composure. “Okay, let me just check the length.”

Jamal nodded, his ears turning red as he looked away.

As the session went on, the awkwardness from earlier seemed to dissolve entirely. You found yourselves chatting about everything from football to fashion, discovering that you had more in common than you expected.

“Do you ever get nervous before a big game?” you asked as you adjusted the hem of the jersey he was wearing.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But it’s more like… excitement, you know? Once you’re on the pitch, it all kind of fades away.”

You nodded, understanding the feeling. “That’s how I feel before a big presentation. The nerves are there, but once I start talking, I forget about everything else.”

He smiled, his admiration for you growing with every passing minute.

As you finished up the adjustments, you stepped back to view your work. “Looks good,” you said, nodding in approval.

Jamal glanced down at the jersey, then back at you. “You’re really good at this,” he said sincerely.

“Thanks,” you said, fidgeting with your necklace.

Before he could hesitate, the words rolled out of his tongue. “So… uh… do you want to maybe, I don’t know… grab coffee sometime?”

You blinked, surprised by the question.

“I mean, you don’t have to,” he added quickly, scratching the back of his neck. “I just thought—”

“I’d like that.” you said as your chocolate colored eyes looked up at him.

His face lit up, a boyish grin spreading across his features. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” you said, feeling your own smile widen.

Later, as you packed up your materials for the day, a soft smile played on your lips. You couldn’t help but replay the moments shared, the quiet exchanges and the unspoken understanding that seemed to bloom between you and Jamal. The awkwardness had melted away, replaced by a comforting ease that felt special. Your thoughts wandered, anticipation bubbling up as you glanced at the time, looking forward to the future. It wasn’t just the designs that had you excited anymore.

#jamal musiala #soccer #imagines #football imagines #football #bayern munich #musiala x reader #jamal musiala x reader #bayern munich imagines #soccer imagines #musiala #desi reader #south asian #desi tumblr #football imagine #football x reader #football one shot #football drabble #gul4bjamoons writings

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