#The whole prospect of that clip humors me to no end.

[thislovintime]

Clips from 1997 and 2006.

Q: “Why did you get into the music business?” Peter Tork: “Approval. Respect. Love. Girls.” - Beachwood Confidential, 1995 (x)

* * *

"What I was working towards was to be in a group. When the Beatles hit, where were all the folkies going to go? But I also wanted to be a folk music performer. A lot of what I did was hanging out, feeling for the first time that I was part of the scene, walking down the street and seeing people I knew, doing a little flirting." - Peter Tork, Bringing It All Back Home: 25 Years of American Music at Folk City (1986) (x)

* * *

"Dear Peter, I hope this doesn’t sound stupid. It’s something I’ve always wanted to know. Why do rock stars get all the women? I figured you would know. Even my sister likes you a lot and she doesn’t really like anyone very much. She says hi, btw. I was thinking of becoming an architect but that doesn’t seem to get the girls excited. Should I learn to play guitar? Thanks bro,  Jon L."

"Dear Jon, Thanks for asking. I’ve never wondered the same thing; I’ve been too busy trying to get the women by being a pop star so I’ve never had time to stop and tell on the roses, as it were. But since it all came up lo, these many years ago, I’ve actually given the matter some thought. Here’s some of what I’ve come up with: For one thing, those of us who got into show business did so IN ORDER to get attention. This is sometimes an outgrowth of a conviction in childhood that people didn’t much care about us, or even notice us. We determined that if we could get the millions (or, say, dozens) to love us, then it wouldn’t matter that we weren’t much regarded on an individual basis in our youth. For some of us, it worked. Unfortunately, it has its drawbacks. You don’t get to know these ahead of time, so I’m going to tell you. One of them is, that the girls we do get mostly want us for the show we put on. By that, I don’t mean only the stuff that goes on onstage, but the way we present ourselves when we meet someone. I have a ready stock of funny stories and sly ways to hook a girl in, but in the end, that’s what she goes for, and when it comes time for me to be myself, she’s always kind of shocked. […] Check it out: architecture is a deeply satisfying career and you’re going to find a relationship that suits you if you’ll only let it happen and what you do for a living will be only one measure of your true value in the eyes of a worthy, intelligent, supportive woman. Good luck, Peter” - Ask Peter Tork, The Daily Panic, 2008 (x)

* * *

"In spite of all his clowning, Peter was a rather serious chap. […] Peter was a loud, powerful singer (I used to call him a romp’em, stomp’em type of singer), while I was a soft ballad singer. He had enormous stage presence and I had very little. He played the banjo, I played the guitar. […] He was restless and intense, while I was calm. He loved to be with a lot of people all of the time, whereas I liked to be completely alone some of the time. And last, but not least, Peter Tork had quite a way with the girls." - Bruce Farwell, 16’s The Monkees: Here We Are (1967) (x)

* * *

“Next to his music, girls interested Peter Tork more than anything else in the whole wide world. He loved them all — and most of them loved him. Peter wasn’t tall, dark or handsome, but he made up for his liabilities with his great warmth, enthusiasm and sense of humor. He was also basically a very kind and giving person. He just had a way of making people happy even when he was broke, freezing cold and there were no prospects for work in the future. That Pied Piper-ish quality Peter had attracted girls of all shapes and sizes. He had many brief romances and a couple of very serious ones, and even today Peter is still good friends with almost every girl he knew, dated, or fell in love with during his Greenwich Village days.” - Lance Wakely, 16, March 1967

* * *

“Peter was great for the chicks of the village… they queued up to see him and talk to him. But eventually he had an offer to join the Phoenix Singers, who were short of a guy to play banjo AND guitar. And if you still have any doubts about whether he really does play, and play well, then the thing to do is ask the management behind the Phoenix Singers. Even without the Monkees, there is little doubt that the amiable Peter would have mae the grade in the music business. When, eventually, Peter went to the West Coast, to California, he wasn’t kept waiting long for fame. Within two months he was auditioned and accepted for the Monkees. Behind him was a mass of previous girlfriends but, unlike many blokes, Peter has the knack of staying on very friendly terms with girls even after he’s stopped going out with them.” - Record Mirror, February 25, 1967

* * *

“...Inside his dressing room, he towels the sweat from [his] head, takes out a guitar, pulls up a chair and starts singing ME a song. [...] He DIPS me, yes, like a dance dip, asks me permission and then kisses ME chastely on my cheek!... [...] Months later, when I returned back to earth, I received a three page letter from Peter Tork (remember, he asked me for my address before the dip) which was just beautiful, poetry mixed with kindness, which is how I choose to this day to describe him as a human.”:

“I heard this on the radio!

‘TODAY at 4pm, THE MONKEES will be appearing at RECORD WORLD!’

I looked at a map to see where Record World was located (yes, I had a map in my glove compartment) and plotted and within seconds, turned the car in the opposite direction of Georgetown and hightailed to some mall in Virginia. The line to meet the Monkees was surprisingly huge. It wrapped all the way around the mall twice. Anxious to make it back to campus for the first night of my senior year, which we all know is the BEST night of the year, I became anxious the line was too long and The Monkees would leave before they got to me. I needed to come up with a plan, stepping off the line, I found myself moments later in Sharper Image, purchasing a small tape recorder.

With tape recorder in hand, I marched myself up to the security guard outside the RECORD WORLD where all four of the Monkees were signing records.

‘I’m here from the Georgetown University newspaper, The Hoya. I wasn’t even sure if that was the title of our school newspaper…a lucky guess.

‘I’m hoping to get a quick interview with the guys.’

‘Sure, right this way.’

WOW!  That was easy.

They let me cut the line and stand RIGHT behind the Monkees while they continued to sign records. Me looking out at a sea of other Monkee lunatics, just like me!

OMG!!!  I had NO questions, I had no way of handling being this close to the four guys that I spent my entire pubescent life fantasizing about marrying, dancing or at least camping!

‘Hello.’ Micky Dolenz says to me!!! and I go numb. I got nothing.  

I look over to Peter Tork, who asks me my name and when I say Mary, Davy Jones chimes in and says, ‘Ah, Mary Mary.’


WHAT!!!!????  Smelling salts please?? (Actually, true story, Lara did really pass out once when she met Davy Jones at a book signing!)

I stumbled my way through the interview, holding up the tiny tape recorder every time I asked a question. Thankfully they never caught on that the tape recorder didn’t even have batteries in it or that I had not actually pushed any of the buttons to start or stop recording. I just moved it from my mouth to their face, like a child playing make-believe.

I kindly say thank you and tear up. The security guard ushers me away from the table but right before I was about to steal a tuft of [Micky]’s hair, Peter Tork looks at me and said, ‘write your phone number down here.’

In a Monkees haze, I write it and then, I’m quickly whisked away by security.

I cried the entire 3-hour car ride back to DC, happy tears, and this was before cell phones, so I had no one to call and scream the news. Just me, alone, reliving how I had just pulled off a Monkees miracle.

When I arrived back to my senior year house, all my pals were wondering why I was so late and informed me I had thirty minutes to get dressed because we were all heading out for the BIG first night back at school. The night you waited all summer long for, so you could show off how great you looked to your biggest crush.

I threw down my bag, jumped in the shower and was interupted by my roommate telling me that I had a phone call.

Wet from the shower, I grabbed the call.

‘Hi.  This is the Monkees Tour Manager.  Peter Tork asked me to leave two tickets for you at the Will Call for tonight’s show.  It starts at 8pm.’

I looked at the clock…it was 6pm….the concert was two hours away, back to where I had just left the scene of my delicious deception.

I HAD TO GO!

I started down my list of roommates to come with me, one at a time, rejection, followed with ‘YOU’RE NUTS!!’

Finally, I bribed my most beautiful and most fun pal Emily to join me. I think the bribe was, I’ll pay all your bar tabs the entire first semester if you drive to Virginia with me.  If you saw how we drank back then, this was a generous offer.

She agreed to join me, but made me promise we could be back by midnight as to not miss out on the first night back to school.

‘Done!’

And there we were, back in my car, heading two hours south, right back to where I just come from.

We arrived at the concert hall and Emily (my personal timekeeper) reminded me. ‘You have two hours…that’s it.’

We had great seats and a bunch of songs in, a roadie came and plucked us from our seats to go backstage. WHAT!

There was an intermission or maybe it was the moment between the last song and the encore, but all I remember what that it was fast and there was a lot of scrambling.

This was the first ‘backstage’ I had ever seen.  A minute in, Peter Tork comes over to ME!?  Says, ‘I’m so glad you made it’ and invites ME!? into his dressing room.

I look at Emily, who somehow understands just how big a deal this was to me and grants me, sternly, ‘10 minutes!!’

Inside his dressing room, he towels the sweat from [his] head, takes out a guitar, pulls up a chair and starts singing ME a song.  

The 13-year old girl in me dreamt about this moment for years and now it was right in front of me. My very own little concert with Peter.

‘2 minutes!’ An announcement comes up on a loud speaker, but the perfect amount of time for him to put down his guitar, change his shirt, tell me that I was a very special person (something about my aura), asks me to write down my address in a small book AND then………

He DIPS me, yes, like a dance dip, asks me permission and then kisses ME chastely on my cheek!

The door opens, Emily is now [tapping] her feet and thwarting off flirtatious talk by Davy Jones (with something I remember as subtle as ‘FUCK OFF!’)

‘You’re done!’ She tells me sternly.

I was, forever.  Forever change, just like Marcia Brady was when Davy Jones kissed her on her cheek.

The whole ride home we laughed at the idea that we were ‘groupies’ and I tried to downplay to her how UNBELIEVABLE and SUREAL the whole moment was. Like I had manifested a dream.

Later that night, back with other people my own age, back to what we all deemed very important…shots and dancing, I was still reliving every moment of what happened that magical day, wishing I had a phone to call Lara (she’d never believe it) or that that there was a special Monkees hotline that I could call to discuss ‘my feelings.’

‘What is that!?’ My friend Chudney asked me mid dance to Franki Valli’s Oh What A Night, pointing to a small foam ball peeking perfectly outside the middle of my bra. I looked down, reached in and just started laughing.

Peter’s microphone fob (or whatever the furry thing is at the tip of the microphone) must have fallen into my shirt during our torrid dip.

This was sure to go into the Smithsonian of my life.  

Months later, when I returned back to earth, I received a three page letter from Peter Tork (remember, he asked me for my address before the dip) which was just beautiful, poetry mixed with kindness, which is how I choose to this day to describe him as a human.

Yes I was 22 and he was 52, yes this moment would be fully frowned upon today, but it was my moment, willingly and open heartedly.  I willed myself backstage and into that dressing room and I’m grateful for that his real sweetness and this (I’m hoping you find benign and funny) story.

Yesterday when I heard of Peter’s passing, I danced with my daughter (even dipped her a few times) and then expressed gratitude to Peter and The Monkees for keeping me innocent, for keeping me weird and for keeping me alive with possibilities of real love – the kind you get from a song, or a glance or a sweet cheek kiss.” - Mary Giuliani, thriveglobal dot com, February 2019

#Peter Tork #Tork quotes #Tork videos #The Monkees #Monkees #1960s #1970s #1980s #1990s #2000s #2010s #early 1960s #'beautiful poetry mixed with kindness' #Monkees fans #long read #Tork fan recollections #1997 #2006 #Ask Peter Tork #Beachwood Confidential Newsletter #Bringing It All Back Home: 25 Years of American Music at Folk City #can you queue it

[stardestroyer81]

Is this bus driver a Maypul mood?

https://youtu.be/I6Uhek2aGRE

I was not expecting to be led to a video titled “No one stabs my bus!” so that alone earned itself a chuckle But yeah, I can definitely sense some Maypul energy here. I feel like the only way it could have even more of a Maypul mood is if the bus driver just suddenly scales up the side of the bus and gives the swordsman a piece of her mind. Sure, that bus driver might not be capable of such a feat, but given Maypul’s clingy nature (And also given the fact that she’s a treetop dweller), it’s 100% something she’d do. Now I’m just imagining this scene but it’s a school bus instead. “NO ONE STABS MY SCHOOL’S PROPERTY!”

#Star Speaks #Ask #Lovers of Aether #LoA #Maypul #No One Stabs MY Bus! #Coolness #I love how you can tell the dude on the bus's top crossed the line when the bus driver exits the vehicle #A world of pain is immanent. #The whole prospect of that clip humors me to no end. #Can you imagine if the person who stabs the school bus is... Clairen? #Think about it. She's got a sword. She hates Loxodont. It all alligns perfectly. #THE GIRLS ARE FIGHTING

[sleeperswakewriting]

i just thought of a new prompt omg rivetra skating partners au??? IMAGINE THE SEXUAL TENSION??? THE SLOWBURN FROM BEING SKATING PARTNERS TO FRIENDS TO LOVERS 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

saw this tweet and imagined them sm: https://twitter.com/oyimpian/status/1383173356774699012?s=21

Omg anon, thank you for showing me this. I have 0 knowledge about figure skating but I do love watching it! I was totally listening to the Yuri on Ice soundtrack writing this. I don’t think I would be the best person to write a full fic, but I hope this 2k ficlet works! Routine and outfits based on this performance!

They had kissed more times than she could count. It had always been the same in their five years of working together--orchestrated, chaste, but just enough acting to dazzle the crowd and judges.

And tonight would be their last.

Petra tightened the laces of her figure skates, making sure not to snag the nylon of her stockings from her freshly manicured nails. She checked herself in the mirror; ginger hair locked neatly into a bun for the maneuvers they would be pulling off later, and her deep red velvet dress twirled around her hips. It was one of the most daring outfits she had ever performed in, with the back almost completely exposed and and the front neck cut a deep v-neck with the mesh layer.

She took a deep breath as memories washed over her, wondering where the time had gone. It had only seemed like just yesterday when Petra met her grumpy skating partner, Levi, and she had wanted to knock him off the ice  from their initial meeting to his brash attitude. However, they performed the tryouts at their coaches’ requests, and not only were they physically compatible, she had latched on to his crude sense of humor and found his company enjoyable.

Sure, it took them awhile, he would frequently get irritated at her when she would lose her footing or not stick a landing, and she would throw him a few choice words whenever he dropped her, which wasn’t often, but the minute his hands slipped and she came crashing down, tempers flared. They were both good at what they did, they were hand selected by the top coaches in their country, and with talent, came ego.

Unsurprisingly, their common work ethic served as a guidepost for their mutual partnership over the course of the five years they had been working together. Petra was relatively newer to the competitive figure skating scene, only doing some solo competitions but felt that she could accomplish more with a partner. Levi was in a similar boat, about to retire since he had gotten bored, but when his coach Erwin suggested a partner he said, why not?

Except it had been disastrous, with Levi mouthing off to each of his partners, and not to mention that they all commented on his height. It wasn’t a huge sore spot because he had been used to it, but the fact of the matter was, no woman wanted to be lifted by a man who was 5 inches shorter than her, so he resigned himself to retiring until Erwin suggested that he meet up with Petra Ral, a new, but talented skater who was 8 years his junior.

Not only was she shorter than him, but they were able to move in time with one another and were able to wordlessly read each other’s movements. It was an intimate type of connection, one that their mutual partners over the years had questioned time and time again, but they both reassured their partners and more importantly, themselves, that their feelings were completely platonic.

Or so had Petra thought until Levi told her that after this year, he would be retiring. He was getting older and he was looking at other career prospects, like possibly coaching, but valued their companionship over the years. He said the words with such a precise staccato that Petra even wondered if he cared at all since he took her out to dinner after practice to tell her.

It was then that her heart broke. She assumed it was just from losing her skating partner, that was a common occurrence in their field, but as the day of their last competition grew closer, Petra knew it was something more.

The way his hands pressed into her waist was no longer a section of choreography, but a gesture that made her heart flutter. His concentrated stormy look when they breathed in time with one another, preparing to execute a synchronized dance, was now filled with an electricity when their blades scraped their ice.

This routine in particular was special; it was from Moulin Rouge, one of her favorite movies and the first part of the routine was sensual and filled with lust. They had spent hours upon hours perfecting each and every single lift, and they had barely any time to see family and friends from the hours they put into their routine. Truth be told, they spent the most time with each other, and the action of hanging out after work wasn’t even strange, it was expected, as they alternated who picked the restaurant for the night.

There was a knock at the door, and Petra shouted, “Come in!” as she already knew who it was from the three steady raps.

Levi entered, looking handsome in his simple black outfit to compliment her own. He took her in and nodded appreciatively as the weight of the next hour hung heavy over them.

“You ready?” He asked, hand outstretched.

Petra smiled, used to the familiar words and routine they had as she took his hand and he led them out for their warm up lap around the rink with the other couples.

They had their routine down pat--they always kept their gazes locked on each other during warmups, not wanting to let the other couples distract them. Hands danced across each other’s bodies as muscle memory took over, going over their routine in bits and pieces and letting themselves become reacclimated to the ice for the day. Petra had often thought that she was becoming more used to skating than walking for the amount of time she spent dancing with Levi, and she flexed her back as they spun in time, hands locked onto each other.

Feeling satisfied with their warm up, they exited hand in hand to the waiting room as they were the third couple to go. It wasn’t unusual for them to be physically close during competitions, Petra was always nervous as hell, and even though Levi had a cool and fixated composure, competition day nerves also stirred inside him. Better to face them with each other, and they sat on the bench, looking absently at the TV as the announcer gave their routine opening speech.

Petra bit the corner of her lip. “Levi, I know we’ll have time for this later, but I wanted to let you know how much your partnership has meant to me over these last five years. I almost want to retire since you won’t be with me anymore,” she laughed airly, but fell silent at his narrowed gaze.

“Don’t do that, you have a whole future ahead of you,” he said in a clipped voice, eyes fixated on the television. He squeezed her hand a bit tighter as he diverted his expression to the floor. “But the same goes for you, Petra. I’ll miss you a lot.”

She nodded, feeling more reassured by his words as she moved to lean her head against his shoulder as they watched the other couples perform. They didn’t say a lot, usually keeping their opinions for post-competition hang outs and replays, but Petra didn’t know if there would be any of those anymore.

“Do you think the other couples are like us? I feel like we’re so in tune, like we get each other. Like them,” she said nodding to the current pair, “You can tell they don’t trust each other from the way her muscles are so stiff during her lifts.”

“There’s no one else like us,” Levi replied simply, raising himself from the bench to do a few stretches. Petra did the same and admired the way lean body looked in his current outfit, back sinewy and his hair gelled perfectly into place.

The speaker announced them, and Petra’s heart wrenched that that would be the last time she would hear Levi Ackerman and Petra Ral and as they moved onto the ice, holding hands, eyes locking. Petra took a deep breath, and all was lost as soon as the music started.

The routine started with her straddling him from behind, and she effortlessly jumped as he took her, arms locked at her thighs and hers around his neck. He lifted her as they danced, and she twirled, eyes fixated on him as her center as it always was. Then came the synchronized dancing and Levi’s hands were at her bare waist, hands hot and precise as they spared no moment in moving and darting between them. He lifted her again, and their foreheads touched while they circled around the rink, not caring for anyone but each other.

That was Petra’s favorite part about the way they skated together--nothing else in the world mattered besides them. She could drown out the crowd with him by her side, it was just the music, the ice, and them, moving and breathing in time. He held her from under her legs, the action sending a pleasurable shiver throughout her body despite being touched there by him thousands of times, and as she descended they locked eyes as they prepared for their next big moment.

They let go, red and black speeding and twirling around each other but not quite touching. As the music reached its crescendo, Petra leapt into the air as Levi caught her from around the waist, and they spun as each other's center of gravity. Legs wrapping around his, she straddled his waist as they leaned into each other and kissed as the music went softer and moved to a more sensual rhythm. Her hand laced through his hair, feeling his fresh undercut and inhaled his musk and their lips moved against one another, sending ripples of pleasure between them.

Breaths heavy, they released their lips as the crowd went wild, and Petra unhooked her legs as Levi took her hand and they moved in time, parallel to each other. Her heart beat fast as Levi’s lips still hung against her own, the kiss much more passionate than in their practice kisses or former routines, but tried to push it from her mind as the finale was coming up.

The music built and ended as they both stuck their landings and bowed as the crowd cheered. Petra was crying, just realizing the magnitude of their last competition as she saw her face on the large screen and Levi sped over to her, taking her hand, his eyes also filled with moisture as he kissed her cheek and led them away to watch for their scores.

It always took a few minutes for the judges to get the scores together, and before Petra could say anything, Levi moved her against their locker and pulled her in for a searing kiss. Legs weak from their routine and the adrenaline, her knees wobbled and he caught her, hands at her waist as he brushed his tongue against hers, deepening the kiss as she returned it with fervor.

Breaths heavy, Levi pressed his forehead to hers. “I’m not imagining things, right? This kiss was different.”

Petra smiled between tears as she nodded, threading her fingers through his hair as she continued kissing him the way she had wanted to for the past five years.

“Hey guys, what are you doing? They’re just about to announce the scores--” Erwin walked in and smirked at the partners as they held each other, but broke apart as they heard Erwin’s voice.

Both blushing from being caught, Levi held Petra’s waist as he guided them back outside, neither caring too much about their scores since they both had won the biggest prize that night.

#rivetra #Levi x petra #petra x levi #petra ral #ask prompt #my fics

[tundrainafrica]

AND LISTEN TO HALLEY'S COMMET- BILLIE EILISH IT'S LEVIHAN IN LOVEBUG

I just had to write something because this song made me imagine a scene.

Note:

Set at the end of Chapter 6 of Lovebug after Hange spoils Levi on PnP.

Light Zekehan smut so I’m gonna hide it under the cut.

Zeke had always been a gentleman.

In public, it was expected. Even late at night though, just the two of them in the room, he always found a way to make Hange feel precious.

He went through the motions slowly and patiently. He asked her the right things, easing her through it with questions weaved into one another so smoothly, it could have been story telling.

Does it hurt? Does it tickle? Do you want me to continue? He always opened up the privilege of choice to Hange.

Those nights were always about her. She would decide when a little fondle of the breasts could develop to his hands scurrying over her stomach, then down underneath the folds. She would decide when he could insert his fingers a little deeper. With every shift of movements, he always whispered little reminders and she was never left unprepared.

When the blood would rush to Hange’s face, sometimes she would let out a louder breath than usual. And Zeke always noticed it. He would press his palms against her cheek and the heat radiated more brightly, licking into her cheeks like a weak flame.

That day was no different. He went through the motions like it was his life’s work. He had years to learn, it would have been strange if he didn’t.

Hange had those years under her belt too. She ran on instinct and naturally, she knew which way to sway as he nuzzled his mouth onto her chest.

He bit and he started to suck. There was a mischievous tickle as his tongue traced shapes on her neck. Every now and then, a light stinging pain would follow. Late nights though, alone in the room, it was an unpredictable stinging sensation most others would welcome.

After all, it just made everything happen all the more quickly, it added some color at least to something so routine. By some primitive instinct, Hange’s body knew the exact moment to fall back on the bed. She spread her legs open, reached out her hands, offering some support Zeke probably didn’t need.

He was as coordinated as she was. Either way, he still took her hands, in some attempt to humor her maybe? He climbed over her.

Cheeks flushed. Breathes ragged. She was more than ready and they had years of practiced intimacy to read signs and gestures. The motions leading up to it were methodical, he didn’t tease her for any longer.

He thrust it inside her and Hange swayed to that same rhythm.

Predictable. When the rhythm was slow, when his movements were as gentle, Hange had to admit, it was terribly boring, predictable, tedious. So monotonous, she was coming up with every other word in the dictionary to describe it as they swayed.

Zeke had finished before she did. By some strong sense of obligation, Hange let out a sharp breath clipped by a soft croak.

Maybe Zeke had fallen for it anyway. He pulled out, slipped off the condom and fell to the side of the bed. “You okay?”

Or maybe he didn’t fall for it. “Toilet,” Hange said. She slowly and subtly reached for the side of the bed, she quickly pulled it towards and pressed it close. Just in case he’d ask why she’d have her phone with her.

Somehow, just the prospect of him noticing the phone had her hair bristling. He shouldn’t mind. Bringing a phone to the toilet wasn't too suspicious of a scene. It was three in the morning, he was exhausted and Zeke didn’t look at all interested. He had turned to his side, towards the window, and his breathing was slowly evening out.

Still, Hange was careful the whole way to the toilet. She couldn’t subdue that hyperawareness. The dim lights of the lamp, the stale darkness that made the other corners of the room seem like some abyss. She knew she had the early morning peace and silence on her side.

But her mind continued to race. Would she have been able to respond with something so casual?

Calming herself down was a matter of discipline. She took a deep breath, focused on the plush floors beneath her feet. She counted the steps towards the bathroom.

Their bedroom was large, a small two bedroom apartment for most people. Enough to occupy two bedrooms with a bathroom. For Hange and Zeke, their large large bedroom was enough for two closets, a sofa bed, a TV, and a few bookshelves.

At night, it was a maze. Hange was clever though and she memorized it long before. Even with just one dim light from the lamp, Hange knew distance, she knew direction. If she kept her steps small and soft and followed that same direction to the light, she would count twenty steps.

Twenty excruciating steps when she was fighting the blood rush, her sporadic breaths and just the possibility that Zeke might ask how she is again.

Why are you so jumpy? Hange asked herself. There were only so many ways to respond in the infinitesimally small chance that Zeke did ask her how she was.

Toilet. Tired. Sleepy. Hange didn’t like to lie though, she didn’t like to answer questions when she herself was in that strange in-between state between knowing the answer and just hating it enough to choose not to understand it.

She closed the door behind her with a click, relieved it didn’t come off as a slam. She took great pains to silence her phone. Nervousness had her neglecting to turn on the light. She wasn’t in any hurry though. She basked in the superficial security that came with complete darkness and her phone at the dimmest and the softest setting.

She opened her inbox to see the two names right on top of the other.

Zeke Jaeger

Levi Ackerman.

Hange’s movements were quick. She clicked on Levi’s contacts, then she hovered her hand over the call button. Her thumb stopped a hair's breadth from the screen.

Would Levi have appreciated a very early morning call from a random business partner? No, he wouldn’t.

Her thumb moved briskly. She closed the messaging app and turned on the Love Alarm. As expected, it didn’t ring. Hange was almost tempted to take Zeke’s alarm just to check for herself.

The possibility of the alarm not ringing again was a glaring thought. Just imagining waking Zeke up only to show him that it wasn’t ringing had her heart pounding in her ears. Stealing her husband’s phone would never be worth it.

But Levi had said to her the day before, the love alarm would still be gathering data, even when the alarms didn’t ring.

Hange left the toilet with one text sent.

5/15 3:23AM. Check my body heat, serotonin levels, dopamine levels…

Levi probably wouldn't be checking messages until early in the morning. Would he check it early in the morning? In the afternoon? Would he call or would he message her back?

Alone, hunched on the toilet, Hange felt a rush of guilt as she checked the time again. She spent ten minutes thinking about Levi. She shook her head, and took a big gulp of air.

By the time she made it back on the bed, Zeke was snoring peacefully. Careful not to wake him, Hange pulled her side of the bed slowly and gently and she willed herself to say some words just for him.

“Zeke, I love you,” she sang softly. She pulled the blanket over her.

Just for him? Or maybe for her.

“Love you,” she whispered again when she was right in front of him.

He didn’t wake. And soon, Hange realized, she was just as exhausted as he was.

Maybe dreams were born from instinct. Maybe they were born from something else.

Whether she had appreciated it or not though, she could have sworn that night, she had dreamt something clear, almost lucid.

Not of Zeke, but of one clean freak.

#drabbles #drabble #fanfic

[idlecreature]

the buried fic comment from hell (it's so long i'm SO SORRY, I GOT EXCITED)

DEL.. I WASN’T SURE IF IT WAS APPROPRIATE TO LEAVE A LONG ASS COMMENT ON UR BURIED FIC IN PUBLIC….. SO I’M DROPPING IT HERE i’m so sorry in advance this is about to be a mess,, i’m so fucking emotional right now

((the review under the cut is in response to my fic which can b read here))

okay first –

The mental image of tiny gangly Barnabas and Jonah crouched with their hands in the dirt….. is so fucking cute?? I could feel Jonah’s jealousy just burning off of him. You had me right away. Fuck. You know how to open a story and I’m deeply envious, I’ve always struggled with it. Also, you threw in that little hook:

Despite what Jonah believes, there are some things that just can’t be explained in words.

Barnabas’ voice is so fucking good… guh… you know. I didn’t much care about Barnabas in any deep way before I joined the Jonah server and you guys have all just completely GUTTED me, I can’t believe how much I care about this highly-strung bastard,, he is so GOOD. HE’S SO GOOD???? HE’S SUCH A SWEETIE. LIKE. BARNABAS FEELING GUILTY AND HORRIFIED THAT PEOPLE ARE GRATEFUL TO HIM AND WANT HIM AROUND???? AAAAAAAAAA. And the melancholy aspect, too, which I imagine is how Mordechai was able to relate to him, get attached to him… Barnabas being bitter about how useless his tears are while he’s crying anxiously at the prospect that he might not be able to help those families after all…….

All of those scraps of Barnabas’ letter to Jonah made such EXCELLENT transitions, holy hell. Again I am inspired by your storytelling prowess. I am taking notes, for whenever my ability to write longform fic returns from war. This one was my favorite, made my heart clench:

A good world starts with a good person and a few choices that are made with the heart—

He’s so earnest I’m going to weep ;_; Barny.. you can’t make Jonah a better person he’s AWFUL,,

(Side note, super digging that I can indent stuff, block quoting makes this SO much easier.)

Also really digging that Jonah doesn’t have as nice a reputation as Barnabas… Jonah is the bad influence friend lmfao. AND JONAH’S CAT… I LOVE HIM…

And then you delivered a swift blow straight to the religion kink, as promised… “There’s something undeniably old testament about Jonah; the fire and fury of creation, the self-annihilating stare of Lot’s wife.“ LOSING IT I’M LOSING IT… WHAT A WAY OF DESCRIBING HIM God, here I thought I couldn’t possibly be more attracted to this bastard man. I am aghast at myself.

LOSING IT EVEN MORE OVER BARNABAS STACKING TEACUPS ON JONAH’S HEAD???? Why must you make them so fucking cute oh NO this is going to hurt isn’t it. ((This was the note I stuck in the Word doc while I was reading it and I thought I’d leave it as was for your enjoyment))

“Taking cues from your dreams?” Barnabas replies. “You know only the desperately mad do that?” 

“Or desperately inspired—savants and prophets and visionaries.”

And then you continued to try to kill me… Jonah thinking of himself as a prophet……. hhhhh canon-typical overambitious zealotry I’m HERE FOR IT………

“Are you trying to make me angry with you by playing the devil’s advocate?” 

“Just testing you,” Jonah says in his alloyed voice, silver-and-honey-gold. 

Del I cannot stress enough… My religion kink………. It’s been SO VERY ACTIVATED.

“Your morality has only ever been a thin cover for your shame.”

OUCH, JONAH, JESUS

Every bit of their dialogue was so familiar and tinged with bittersweetness and I owe you my entire life… Sincerely. Ugh. Like, how you described Barnabas’ internal angst about it later on – when he’s thinking of Mordechai, and he refers to "his many dog-eared fantasies” about Jonah it just really vividly conjured the thought of he and Jonah having a sort of? Queer solidarity, ESPECIALLY having grown up together. And that makes Jonah’s flash of betrayal at Barnabas not wanting to be SEEN with him that much more agonizing, personally. Like. I’ve had that happen to me more than once in real life. And much as Jonah is a piece of shit who is absolutely manipulating him………. still, ouch. Ouch. (Barnabas’ thoughts on the company Jonah keeps also made me wince. You did an AMAZING job with all of the internalized shame and frantic rationalizations, hooooooboy.)

The Lukases being colorblind is such an interesting piece of lore by the way I love it????? Now I have. Some questions, about Peter. Mordechai’s characterization in this is so fascinating to me. I’m enTRANCED by how you reverse-Uno’d it so that Barnabas was the reason Mordechai lost himself to the Lonely… the power dynamics……. so tasty. Ugh. And all of the sensual descriptions, especially of that first visit Barnabas had at Moorland house?? I didn’t clip any because I would have ended up clipping the whole fucking thing. It was aching, haunting, beautiful, holyshit. Their romance is somehow more fucked up than Barnabas and Jonah’s…

Also, I was so eager to read this I skipped the tags/warnings and completely didn’t realize Mordechai was going to be an actual vampire so that was a VERY fun surprise lmfao.

Barnabas feels like he’s close to learning something about violence and desire, how close they are, how the wires can get crossed.

THIS QUOTE IS EVERYTHING TO MEEEEEE ugh I’m having an aneurysm over how Jonah managed to fashion Barnabas into a creature that could understand him by gifting him to Mordechai for a while… letting Mordechai crack him open at the points where he was already brittle and experience an influx of some of the true darkness of the world. Just a tasty taste. That way when he discovers the truth of Jonah’s occult interests he won’t run away, because he’s already got his own fingers in the mess. He’s already given himself to one horror, why not Jonah? Shave some of the shine off of his morality, make him nice and gray so he won’t contrast so much with Jonah… And satisfying his curiosity at the same time. Two birds.

Oh, also, still sobbing about this line:

he realises that he doesn’t want to wear any colours that Mordechai can’t properly see.

EVERY TIME I let my guard down for ten seconds you smacked me with more of Barnabas being the most precious bleeding heart in the universe!!!!!! He aches so much for the people he’s trying to help and he hates people like Mordechai but part of him also wants to save Mordechai, somehow… maybe recognizes the parts of him that are like these people, still. Nearly faded but not quite gone yet. And as you’ve already established, Barnabas simply cannot let things go. Can’t disappoint people… can’t leave them when he could be doing something. Anything. Augh, FEELINGS.

Of course he knew Mordechai and Jonah were friends, he’d just temporarily believed in a sane and fair universe where things like this don’t happen. 

AND YOU HAD SUCH A PERFECT BALANCE OF HUMOR… This could have been such a feelbad fic, and tbh it still would have been spectacular. But you always eased it at just the right moment to keep it from going off the rails into irretrievable deepdark territory. Fed me little soft moments so I’d still be vulnerable enough to have my HEART RIPPED OUT LATER…

I’m not super interested in the Buried canon-wise but I love how you’ve written Barnabas’ natural affiliation with it… so subtle but powerful? (Of COURSE Jonah was jealous, lmao. He had to work so hard and he’s still not on Barnabas’ level. There’s some kinda beautiful commentary on ambition versus goodwill in there somewhere but I’m too busy nursing my battered little heart right now to articulate it.) It wove its way in and out of the rest of the plot so naturally, too. For some reason it compliments Barnabas’ temperament as I read it in canon just… so well. Was there a discussion about this on the server, and if so, PLEASE tell me about it sometime I’m so fascinated.

Jonah wasn’t even present for a lot of the fic but his characterization was so INTENSE and luminous, Christ… I know I already praised it a bit but. Woof. I wasn’t expecting to get a taste of his POV at the end and I was so excited I kicked my feet (my cat was very disgruntled) like, this line!!!

Now, he thinks there’s some truth in those false statements, in the lies we tell and why we want to be believed.

GOD, YOU’RE REALLY GONNA GIVE ME FEELINGS ABOUT JONAH AND FUTURE-JONAHLIAS IN THE SAME FIC?????? EVIL… I’m so so so fucking here for it, oh my God, Jonah with an amplifying anxiety disorder, THE PRICE OF IMMORTALITY… too bad the Eye doesn’t let you see the future, Jonah, lmao… the line “immortality just made his anxiety turn nuclear” is SEARED into my brain now, I am NOT accepting canon to contradict this ever again. I’ve always wondered how Jonah’s neuroses might have worsened in two entire fucking CENTURIES and I love the way you wrote it. I am fucking. Losing my mind.

There’s so many other things I could comment on, like. The brief but glorious Jonah-grinding-himself-off-on-Barnabas’-thigh shenanigans. Was incredibly hot, and Mordechai’s poor fragile heart breaking, and Barnabas telling Isabel that it’s fine to call him Barny…….. I’m hhhhhhhhHHHH fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m just!! I am incomprehensible!!! Everyone told me this fic was amazing but it’s fucking amazing, Del, what the hell. I’m never gonna be the same after this. The end was SHOCKINGLY sweet and I have WHIPLASH.

………… So, now that I’ve made you read a novel. Hah. Sorry. My point is. I loved every bit of this. It deserved heaps more praise but my eyes are starting to cross. Thx for sharing :’) 

Love,

Tony xx

TONY. TONY THIS MEANS EVERYTHING TO ME. FIRSTLY I’M SO GLAD YOU LIKED THIS. SECOND OF ALL, THANKS TO YOU I’LL BE SCREAMING FROM THE ROOFTOPS FOREVER HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW THIS REVIEW HAS AFFECTED ME? IT’S THE BEST FEEDBACK I’VE EVER RECIEVED IN MY LIFE I FEEL LIKE A FIRSTGRADER GETTING THEIR FIRST GOLD STAR I FEEL ON TOP OF THE WORLD LIKE I COULD THROW THE JEWEL OF THE SEA OFF THE SHIP AND LEAN OVER THE RAILINGS BECAUSE YOUR ARMS ARE AROUND ME TONY IT’S BEEN MONTHS AND THIS REVIEW HAS BEEN A FIREPLACE KEEPING ME WARM THROUGH THE WINTER MONTHS I LOVE YOU DEARLY FOR THIS YOU ARE AN ABSOLUTE CHAMPION IF YOU WERE IN FRONT OF ME RIGHT NOW I WOULD FRENCH KISS YOU WITHOUT HESISTATION UNTIL THE BOTH OF US HAVE RUN OUT OF AIR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! FUCKING BLESS YOU TONY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

#fic review #mayormurdock #what the fuckkkkkk tony when are you getting your sainthood #long post #submission

[artificialqueens]

Daybreak over Manhattan (Scyvie) - Phryne

A/N: Long time, no see AQ! I’m finally back after putting DOPS on a slight hiatus to work on Ficmas and this fic right here. It’s a coffee shop au with some cute fluffy bits, a little angst, and that classic DOPS humor (I hope) we all love. 

Also thank you to @scarletenvynyc for being incredible throughout the whole writing process and encouraging me to see this fic through, and to @artificialmeggie for being the most incredible beta. 

Enjoy!

Word Count: 13K

***

Yvonne Bridges tugged at the collar of her tan trench coat in vain, trying to shield her neck from the mounting October wind. It was cooler in the mornings, though she didn’t mind it. In fact she quite enjoyed it. It was the time of year when the sun was just peeking over the horizon as she flew down the steps of the subway stop a few blocks from her apartment, and was fully bright, making her reflection golden and stretching in the skyscraper windows she passed, when she arrived at her first stop before work: the Starbucks. 

It was part of her morning routine, which she followed religiously. She arrived at the same time nearly every morning, buttoned the bottom two buttons of her pantsuit jacket while waiting at the register, placed the same order, checked her emails in silence while standing at the counter, waiting about about the same amount of time—it was a fairly empty store around six a.m.—and then left, heading on her way to work, fully prepared to handle her caseload, no matter what her boss would throw at her. 

It was comforting to see her usual barista Brooke and follow through the same thoughtless exchange. She only learned her name when she broke away from routine a couple months ago to study the barista. Brooke wore her hair wound up in a tight bun near the nape of her neck, her hair perpetually shiny and well placed. She wrote her name on her tag in all capital letters. It was severe. It was pointed. So was she. 

Brooke began each conversation with ‘hello’ and a nod. Yvonne replied ‘tall triple latte, blueberry muffin’ and pulled up the Starbucks app, her phone raising to a blinding brightness as she brought up her card. Brooke pressed a few buttons and said ‘seven seventy-four.’ Yvonne scanned her phone. Brooke nodded and therefore Yvonne moved to the side. They said a total of nine words to one another, each day the same nine words. It had been long enough that she shouldn’t have to explain her daily order to Brooke, but they weren’t feigning the closeness of friendship over ordering coffee, so they continued on with their nine word exchange, over and over until Brooke wasn’t there anymore. 

And on that October day, when Yvonne came in from the whipping wind, smoothing down her collar and adjusting her grip on her well-worn leather briefcase, the sunlight pouring in from the windows behind her, brushing against the back of her exposed neck, warming her so deliciously, so palpably, she was taken aback. 

“Welcome to Starbucks! What can I do you for this mornin’?” 

The voice was warm, like a well blended whisky settling in her belly, though it felt grating after what had to be years of Brooke’s cool, monotone voice. This voice belonged to a woman with brunette hair clipped back haphazardly, shorter strands escaping to graze across her sharp cheekbones, full from the smile she spoke with. 

The first thing Yvonne thought was that she couldn’t be from here, that was for sure. If the voice didn’t give it away, the exasperated joy at six a.m. did, the way she went about beaming at strangers like she had no good reason to save a grin that wide for a more special occasion did. She had to be new to the city—new enough to believe in the magic of Manhattan and all the people in it. 

Yvonne would scoff, but it would be quite difficult to scoff at the sun itself, and she thought that assumption applied here. She didn’t think she was bitter enough to scoff at joy incarnate appearing in front of her, wearing a leopard print cardigan and a soft pink t-shirt under her apron. 

“Where’s Brooke?” she asked, diverting the new barista’s question. “She’s always here in the morning.”

The barista finally broke from her incessant grinning, looking almost softer, more real, though Yvonne could now see the harshness of her jaw, the delicate point of her nose. She looked like a sculpture. She let out a weighted sigh. 

“Brooke got cast in some dance thing.” The barista drummed her fingers on the counter, pondering. “Like a group thing. I think she’s got some kind of team?” 

Yvonne put her phone down, the words still sounding off. More off than the prospect of Brooke not taking her order anymore. “A team?” 

“No, I guess that makes it sound like sports, huh?” The barista exhaled a light laugh, nothing more than an airy, thin laugh. “Like a ballet team. A posse? A gang?” She rambled on, somehow still holding Yvonne’s attention with each iteration of team, as though her words had a grip on Yvonne. 

“I don’t know,” she ended decisively. “But she got cast.” A little snort. Definitely a little miffed, which seemed understandable. 

The barista blew some hair out of her face before snapping back into her original sunny disposition. “Brooke quit yesterday, so now I have the opening shift,” she said. “I’m Scarlet.” And then she pointed to her name tag, her index finger highlighting how she wrote Scarlet in cursive, wide, looping letters, with little stars drawn around them. Yvonne couldn’t help but notice the stark difference between Scarlet and Brooke’s tags. And the difference seemed quite fitting. 

So Yvonne nodded, hoping to let that information pass, maybe even establish the same routine with this Scarlet, though it seemed unlikely with all the talking they had done already, which had to have passed her and Brooke’s nine word conversations. 

“Okay. Tall triple latte, blueberry muffin.” Yvonne said, watching her rapidly input on the register, tacking on “please,” as though it were necessary to be more polite to her—she didn’t know Yvonne’s routine yet. 

“Oh that sounds so good,” Scarlet replied. “I would kill to have a triple tall latte right now.” 

Yvonne couldn’t let what had to be Scarlet’s standard reply to an order hang limply between them. It all happened without her knowledge, the words firing from her brain and out her mouth, landing between them before she even knew it. 

“You’re telling me you haven’t had any coffee yet? And you’re like this?” Yvonne gestured lightly, now gripping her phone. “I’ve had no coffee and I’m like this.” She gestured down herself. Her exhausted self really — though exhaustion was a constant enough state that she learned how to look like it wasn’t. 

Scarlet laughed. And yes, it was a laugh directed at Yvonne’s thoughtless reply. It wasn’t even a joke. But nonetheless the laugh registered as authentic for a barista laugh. There was an appropriate lightness to it, enough to note it as actually funny but too much. Not enough to let Yvie know she was so unfunny that she warranted fake laughter from this poor barista. 

“You’re funny, even for this early,” Scarlet reassured. She uncapped her Sharpie and took up the cup. “What’s the name for the order, funny lady?” 

Her throat was tight. “Yvonne.” 

Scarlet nodded and wrote on the cup, setting it aside, ringing Yvonne up, and holding up the scanner for her phone. She stepped to the side, expecting the transaction to be finished. She didn’t expect Scarlet to tell her to “have a good morning” after the fact, and the elongated pleasantries left her floundering. She checked her emails, hoping to bring about a sense of normalcy. 

“Yvie. Latte and blueberry muffin for Yvie,” another barista called out. He glanced around, noting only Yvonne and an older man in a windbreaker and running tights in the store. 

Yvonne continued sorting through emails, adding Silky’s ‘daily meme’ email to her spam folder.

“Order for Yvie.” The barista pointed at the muffin in the bag. The older man shook his head. 

“Yvonne,” Scarlet called over to her, now standing where the other barista stood, holding the same latte and muffin. “It’s your order, Yvie.” 

She should have been irritated by the nickname. Never in her adult life had she been called by a nickname — really, she didn’t think something as cutesy as Yvie could suit her. It sounded like a name for a well groomed Pomeranian, not a grown woman. 

But she nonetheless accepted her latte and muffin, finding herself glancing down at the way Scarlet wrote ‘Yvie’ in sprawling handwriting, the dot of the ‘i’ trailing off in her haste. It was endearing. 

Scarlet was quite endearing, and something she could get used to every day, she decided, walking past the window on her way to work, stealing another glance at Scarlet, only to find her waving goodbye, her fingers fluttering away. 

***

“Tall triple latte, blueberry muffin,” Yvie said, still buried in her phone. “Please.” 

Please had quickly become a part of her routine with Scarlet, as much as Yvie didn’t enjoy setting new routines. Through it didn’t feel correct to carry over the same practices with Brooke to Scarlet, especially when Scarlet always beamed back at her, especially when the October sunrise seemed to chase through the front windows to meet up with Scarlet, making her perpetual flush look warmer and the little frizzy hairs along her hairline look nearly blonde. It made the please deeply necessary, and therefore routine.

Scarlet pulled out a cup and wrote out Yvie’s name, chirping back, “the usual, got it,” before getting Yvie’s muffin from the case. 

Yvie continued typing away at her phone, feeling her face tighten and her brows thread together with no way of easing them. She scanned over the email from Silky, her coworker, with whom she was handling the Davenport case—a complex web of familial relations, undissolvable trusts, and heaps of old money. It was nearly all wrapped up, but Silky was now flip-flopping on their analysis for their client, A’keria. 

“What the fuck does this mean?” Yvie exhaled steam, rapidly typing back to Silky. 

Scarlet returned with the muffin, sliding it across the counter. “It’ll be $7.74.” 

Yvie groaned, swiping through Silky’s attachments from her last email. The message only said “please advise.” Yvie did not want to advise on what she’d already advised on for the past three months. 

“Capitalism, right?” Scarlet threw her hands up with a shrug. “But you still gotta pay, Yvie.” 

“Oh sorry.” Yvie pulled away, glancing up at Scarlet, looking more and more like a court jester with her puffy-sleeved shirt and exaggerated expression, as though she were on the set of I Love Lucy rather than behind the counter at Starbucks. She pulled up her app and Scarlet scanned her card. 

“What’s going on?” Scarlet printed the receipt, tore it off, and immediately threw it away. “You seem all tense today.” 

Today. Scarlet really did joke. “I’m a lawyer,” Yvie replied dryly, her voice gritting. Just thinking about Silky’s email made her grimace. “I’m always tense, Scarlet.” 

“Nuh uh,” Scarlet tutted back, clearly waging her bets and pressing further. She was a woman of nerve, that’s for sure, pressing at Yvie when she was in one of her moods. “You look more stressed than usual. I can see it in your face.” She held up her thumbs and index fingers perpendicular in front of her, making a frame for Yvie’s face, as though she were capturing a shot of the stress. 

Yvie gave in easily, turning her phone over on the counter, ignoring the email. She sighed. “Well, I have to go argue a big case. Like a big money case today. And my partner’s reconsidering our arguments like we haven’t been preparing our arguments for fucking months.” She let out a long exhale, meeting Scarlet’s intent gaze. “But whatever. I don’t want to just bitch to you about it.” 

Scarlet laughed, brushing her off with a flick of her hand. “Please. No one else is here.” She looked around at the nearly barren store, the lack of line behind Yvie, prompting Yvie to notice the same. “Bitch away, honey.” 

She walked on over to the espresso machine, released a hot spurt of steam from the wand, and grabbed a jug of milk from under the counter, then pointed at the stools that lined the counter opposite her. “Sit down and spill it.” 

And for no godly reason, by no logical means, Yvie felt compelled to do exactly that.  

“Also, Silky keeps this shit on her desk that I hate.” Yvie brushed her hair back. “Like she’s got this calendar of these hot firemen and their dalmations. And like, not to be gay, but I don’t get men and their dogs.” 

Scarlet peered up at Yvie while pouring the steamed milk over the espresso. Yvie broke her gaze, suddenly much more interested in flipping her phone over in her hands. 

“I’m more of a cat lady myself,” Scarlet replied easily, returning her attention to putting a lid on Yvie’s drink, scribbling something else on the side of it and sliding it over to her. Scarlet placed her elbows on the counter, leaning in on her hands, coming in closer. 

“Same.” Yvie took her drink, sticking a latte saver in it. “And she’s got a picture of Mr. Fuzznut on her desk—” 

“Who’s Mr. Fuzznut?” Scarlet could barely get it out without laughing. 

“Her dog. He’s a weiner dog. In the picture he’s wearing a wizard’s hat.” Yvie pulled up the picture and slid her phone over.

“Ugh.” Scarlet pushed it right back. She let her index finger rest against her cheek. “Why is she that way?”

“Beats me. I just listen to her talk about that dog and her men all—”

“Excuse me, miss?” A man in a suit called over from the register, the vein in his neck clearly throbbing from having to wait more than five minutes. He shouldn’t have even bothered with excuse me. “Can you take my order?” 

Scarlet tilted her head, staring blankly before snapping back into her usual cheer. 

“I gotta go anyway.” Yvie hitched her purse up her shoulder, readjusting the tuck of her silk button down into her gray trousers. “Big case and all,” she said, trailing off. 

“Of course. I’m sure it’ll—” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Yvie patted the counter before taking off, leaving Scarlet to tend to this customer, who did not care for waiting now six minutes to order his coffee and told Scarlet just as much as Yvie left, in what had to be a demeaningly measured tone. 

Yvie noticed a touch of feathering Sharpie poking out from under the coffee sleeve, which was peculiar, as Scarlet wrote ‘Yvie’ on the cup and checked all the proper boxes like usual, but this marking seemed new. Maybe she did something different to her coffee and had to check a different box, like adding or replacing something would help Yvie’s constant state of exhaustion and stress, like Scarlet the barista knew best. Usually knowing best referred to her ability to select muffins, as she picked through the muffins with her tongs to find Yvie what she assured was the ‘best muffin.’ ”It’s the one with the most blueberries, of course,” Scarlet once explained with a cartoonish wink as she stuck it into a bakery bag. 

Yvie took a swig of the now cooled coffee. Perfect, as always. 

She slid the sleeve down and her lips tugged into a smile. It said good luck!! In her same loopy handwriting. And she connected the exclamation points to make a smiley face. Under the sleeve just for her. 

Yvie took pause, considering that Scarlet really thought to put it under the sleeve instead of out in the open where she could easily see it. Maybe she did that because she knew Yvie would see it anyway. But then she would have just said something, no? Maybe it was under the sleeve so it wouldn’t look weird in court, this coffee cup with messages. She knew if Silky saw it, she’d have a field day — even though Yvie’s girlfriend literally worked feet away from them — spinning some story about Yvie’s secret barista admirer. Maybe Scarlet was just smart. 

It was possible that Scarlet the barista knew best. 

***

It was the morning of Halloween and Yvie’s thoughts were rampant and ecstatic. Namely, she was contemplating whether or not she should waste her good witch costume on Silky’s party and how rude it would be if she claimed food poisoning at the last minute, just to stay in and gobble fun-sized Snickers while watching Carrie. 

As she approached the counter, she saw Scarlet all giddy, her little clip-on witch’s hat flopping its pom-pom tip, her cream sweater adorned with sequined black cats catching the light as she shimmied around. 

“Happy Halloween, Yvie,” Scarlet said with a little clap before pressing down on the counter, sharing as though it were a well worn secret. “It’s my favorite holiday. I love it.” 

It surprised her a bit, hearing that Scarlet loved Halloween, though she seemed just as adamant as she did about the holiday, and looked far more festive than Yvie, who could only muster the festivity of an all black pantsuit. She didn’t look like one to enjoy the spooky season — Yvie could more easily picture her in a soft, pale pink sweater and jeans, stomping her boots around in leaves and enjoying spiced cider from an earthenware mug than reveling in the blood and gore of a slasher flick. 

Though it was a good surprise, a new image of Scarlet in the fall time for her to comb over at her leisure. 

“It’s mine too,” Yvie replied. “Do you have any plans for Halloween?” 

Scarlet broke into a smirk, hand over her heart, laying in the slight twang of her accent. “Oh Yvie, what are you asking me?”

Yvie stopped dead, blood lying still in her body. She fiddled with her jacket. “I… I wasn’t…” 

“I’m just teasing, silly.” She brushed it off. “I gotta get my costume together and then my roommate, Pearl and I, we throw this big party. So we’ll have people over. I’m going as a devil.” She stuck two pointed fingers behind her head and giggled. 

Yvie laughed right back. It was a little absurd, thinking of Scarlet, with all her gentleness and joy, posing as the devil, in some sleek red thing, probably trying her absolute hardest to look cold and mean, though couldn’t possibly have a cold, mean bone in her body. 

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Scarlet startled her out of her thoughts, leaning in closer, Yvie following her lead. “Don’t tell my manager, but I invented a new Halloween drink.” 

“Oh?” Yvie didn’t know if she was more taken aback by the proposition of a new drink order, her willingness to accept it, or Scarlet’s closeness and how the fine hairs of her body stood at attention with every word. 

“Do you want to try it? It’s super cute.”

Of course it was super cute.

“It’s also a little unauthorized.” She quoted with her fingers. “Not as unauthorized as the first drink I tried to make, but still.”

Yvie pulled away slightly, her face willing itself to twist, but finding that she couldn’t, not with Scarlet already reaching for a cold cup from the stack next to her. And Yvie was not a fan of cold coffee, no not really, especially in late October, especially when it was barely over 30 degrees outside and she was in the same jacket she’d been wearing since the much warmer beginning of fall. Not with Scarlet already uncapping her Sharpie, preemptively doodling a pumpkin on the side of the cup, finishing it off with a curly stem sprouting from the top, just waiting to write ‘Yvie’ and seal the deal. 

So Yvie nodded and Scarlet rang her up for $5.04 and Yvie scanned her app and stepped off to the side, watching Scarlet take off, throwing one last glance over her shoulder at the back room before pumping some liquid into the cup and adding a bit of milk, pouring the mixture into the blender pitcher, and adding thick orange sauce to it. 

Yvie did not know or particularly like the idea of the blender. Or the thick orange sauce. She didn’t know how she was supposed to walk into the office with some kind of blended drink and be respected as an orator and a woman of law. Nonetheless, she trusted the decision, gaze trained on Scarlet, who added some more liquid and a scoop of ice and maybe something else into the blender, allowing it to pulverize the ice while she coated the side of the cup in a dripping, deep brown sauce, which pooled at the bottom. 

She was concentrated and swift, almost holding her breath as she poured the orange slush into the cup, careful not to mess up her design, smile tense as she topped it with whipped cream and a smattering of chocolate shavings that she found under the counter. 

“Here it is!” Scarlet placed the drink in front of her, using her elegant fingers to highlight each component, as though she were selling the drink to her on a home shopping network. “It’s a pumpkin spice frap with mocha sauce on the sides of the cup, whip, and chocolate shavings.” 

Yvie studied it for a moment. It was a very cute drink. 

Scarlet must have noticed Yvie’s quizzical look. “It’s Halloween because it’s orange and black and also it has pumpkin.” 

Yvie nodded, as though that answered some questions she had yet to form about the drink. 

“Try it.” Scarlet inched the drink forward. “I wanna see if you love it.” 

So she took a sip, the thick slurry like lead paint on her tongue. The pumpkin was combative with the chocolate, if she were putting it nicely. She swallowed, still finding the aftertaste of spice in the corners of her mouth, between her teeth. It was horrific—definitely a Halloween drink. 

But Scarlet was leaning on the counter, looking at her expectantly with her head resting in her balled fists, little witch hat flopping as she stirred while waiting for Yvie’s response. Usually, Yvie would have no problem bursting someone’s bubble; really, she did it for a living, and humility aside, she was quite good at it. But Scarlet looked so proud of herself and was so clearly excited over the drink, as much of a monstrosity it was. 

“It’s the cutest drink.” Yvie settled on, immediately rewarded by Scarlet bouncing around the prep area behind her, doing some kind of little dance that looked partially like a shimmy and partially like a medical emergency before coming back to the counter. 

“See? Aren’t you glad I convinced you to get it?” It wasn’t a question, it was just Scarlet excited to receive the compliment, and Yvie was happy to give it. 

“I am,” Yvie reassured her, slipping a sleeve over the drink to keep her hands warm from the frozen drink. And she was. She couldn’t bring herself to miss her latte, not when Scarlet was so pleased like this. She certainly couldn’t bring herself to remember her daily muffin, now absent from her hands.

And with that she left the store, absently taking another sip, immediately regretting the all-out assault she brought upon her taste buds for the second time that morning. She passed countless trash cans on the way into work, but on principle, couldn’t throw out Scarlet’s unauthorized special Halloween drink, even if it definitely qualified as a war crime, in her legal opinion. It would be far worse to throw out this piece of Scarlet’s joy. 

***

“Good morning, Yvie.” Scarlet began putting in her usual order—now that Halloween was over and Scarlet hadn’t had the time to come up with a comparably cute Thanksgiving drink—upon seeing Yvie enter the store.

However cheery Scarlet was, which was very, as per usual, she was incorrect in her assessment. It was not a good morning, and it likely would not be for a while, no matter how convincing Scarlet’s wholesome, toothy smile and strawberry red sweater were. She was not going to have a good morning and that was final.

“Actually, no muffin today.”

 Scarlet stood stiff as a board, grasping a muffin between her tongs, looking Yvie up and down. She was probably scanning over her to see if she was hurt, dying, hit her head — anything that would account for this sudden change in routine. All Scarlet could find would be a sad, brokenhearted lawyer requesting only a triple tall latte.

Scarlet finally stuck the muffin back into the case, her face still all screwed up like a lemon in a juicer, probably deep in contemplation.

 “Why don’t you want the muffin?” She returned to the register, making no moves to take it off the tab. “You’ve wanted a muffin every day for like a month and a half.”

 It was likely closer to two months, if Yvie really thought it through, thought back to when she started seeing Scarlet in the morning, when she thought back to the shock of her honeyed voice and her leopard print cardigan. It was exactly nine months and four days if she thought back to when she started getting a muffin every day.

“Well, I don’t want it anymore.” She could feel herself growing tighter, unable to fathom her stomach becoming any more tightly wound, any smaller than it had been since last night. 

Scarlet frowned. Fair. Yvie knew she was being harsh. “I’ll give it to you for free if you’d like.”

“No.” Yvie sighed, and allowed her thoughts to form sentences, gifting them to Scarlet, hoping to ease her tension.

“The muffin was for my girlfriend.”  Yvie shuffled her feet, back and forth over either side of the grout between the tiles. She stared at her hands. “And now I don’t have one of those, so I’m not going to get a muffin.”

She finally looked up again, only to find Scarlet’s flat lipped smile contrasting with her classic red lipstick. Only to find Scarlet’s downcast eyes, all blue and murky. Only to find Scarlet’s outstretched hand, laying on the counter, palm upwards, waiting for Yvie’s to join it, which she so thoughtlessly did.

Her palm was warm, so obviously softened by some kind of lotion, punctuated only by a few thin, plain stacked rings on her fourth finger. She curled her fingers around Yvie’s half smoothly, abruptly, and they just crested over the edge, Scarlet’s pale fingers with their short, blunt nails. And her thumb. How it rubbed the back of her hand. How it washed over her knuckles as though it could pull tension out of her. It could. Scarlet could. 

They stood this way for a moment, maybe more, with Yvie transfixed on their joined hands. And though she did not look up at Scarlet, though she could not tear herself away from the gentle palm under her own, she was sure Scarlet was looking at her the whole time, hoping against hope that she’d look up to meet her gaze. Yvie slipped her hand away.

 Scarlet nodded, the slightest dip of her sharp chin, and rang her up again.

 “I’m sorry.” It was weighted. It lay between them. Yvie didn’t want to pick it up. “That has to really hurt.”

 It did. And it was the best way Scarlet could have said it really. It did hurt. It was a dull ache between her ribs, something wet and scalding in her throat. It hurt. So, she nodded.

 “Would you like something from the bakery case? No extra charge.” Her voice was much lower now, as though they were words that needed to be spoken in the dark rather than a proposition about scheming her workplace out of one baked good.

 “Just the coffee.”

 But Scarlet was adamant. She already stood in front of the case with tongs in her hand again.

 “No really. On the house. Pick whatever you want,” she reassured, waving the tongs about to highlight the selection of pastries.

“Scar—”

“—And on God, you are not going to get a blueberry muffin.” She now pointed at Yvie, clamping her tongs a couple times, like a lobster snapping its claws. “That’s like the sad, drunk texting your ex of baked good selection and I can’t let you do that.”

Yvie laughed. She felt it warming her throat as Scarlet’s silly assertiveness made way for a return to her usual joy. That little smile, the crinkling of her eyes; she had to be pleased with herself. 

“No, really, I’ll pay for it.” She ceded all too easily, and upon further thought, far more willfully than she typically would, and for no apparent reason. She could analyze over and over, trying to figure out what did her in, if it was something about the joke Scarlet made, the tongs, the soft lights above both of them, breaking through the continual darkness outside, or maybe it was about Scarlet’s hand in hers and how her fingers ached for that touch again.

“Nope,” Scarlet said with a pop. “Just pick something.”

“Okay, a slice of that lemon cake.” Scarlet had the makings of a smirk spreading across her lips as she reached for a bag. “But Scarlet, please let me pay for it. I want to pay for it.” 

Scarlet placed the bag on the counter, quickly uncapping her Sharpie and writing “Yvie” on the bag, making a smiley face out of the curve of the “Y”

“Yvonne,” Scarlet admonished, setting her Sharpie down, catching her attention, refusing to allow her to draw away. “I’m not taking your sad, just dumped money. You’re just gonna take this free lemon cake.” She slid the bag over, practically pushing it against her hand.

So Yvie paid for her coffee, and as Scarlet turned away to place her cup on the line, Yvie reached into her purse, pulled out a fist full of crumpled ones and stuffed them in the tip jar. And as Scarlet caught her red-handed, Yvie pointed down at the jar and then at Scarlet, with a chuckle, and Scarlet rolled her eyes.

She wasn’t just going to accept a completely free slice of lemon cake without Scarlet getting something out of it. She didn’t need lemon cake charity, though she’d be lying if she said Scarlet’s insistence on cheering her up with the free lemon cake wasn’t highly endearing and somewhat helpful.

Yvie stepped to the side with her bag, watching as Scarlet made a little drawing on the side of her cup before sliding a sleeve over her Sharpie work and making the drink as usual, which intrigued her. 

Upon receiving her drink, the typical “Yvie” with the smiley face, all the proper boxes checked, she slid the sleeve down only to find a little drawing of two crocodiles standing upright with their splayed out feet and dragging tails. The first had a little speech bubble, complementing the other’s purse, while the other held up its purse and said “Thanks, it’s my ex!” It was stupid, a stupid joke with the cute little drawings, all crosshatched to show scales. But today, Yvie laughed at those dumb little crocodiles in such a hearty way, it almost felt as though she was clearing out her throat, finally unclenching her jaw. 

“Wow.” She drew Scarlet’s attention, even as she was making another customer’s drink. “That’s actually really good.” 

“Thanks,” she called over her shoulder. “Maybe if I can’t catch my big break in acting, I’ll try to make it in latte jokes.”

Of course that’s what Scarlet was after in life. Surely she could feign cheeriness at any sight, could have known that reaching out to her and taking her hand this morning was the right thing to do. And yet none of it seemed artificial of her. There was nothing method about it, surely. 

Yvie stopped herself from thinking about Scarlet becoming a star, accepting a Golden Globe in some shimmering, heavenly draped gown. 

She shrugged. “I think you could.” 

“Well, if my audition for corpse on SVU falls through, I’ll really consider it.”

The chuckle chased Yvie as she left the store, enjoying the little cartoon on her cup. Scarlet would continue with the jokes and drawings for weeks, until Yvie found herself struck with a new joy, walking the last couple blocks to work, watching the day break over Manhattan, sure this was exactly what Scarlet saw in this place.

***

Yvie now ordered “the usual,” as Scarlet had begun referring to her triple tall latte without blueberry muffin she purchased every day for $5.08 as “the usual.” And Scarlet paired this phrase, and Yvie’s growing affinity for this phrase, her affinity for having someone who consistently knew what she wanted, with her usual, all encompassing grin, from the moment she spotted Yvie entering the store, her head shooting up at the opening of the door at six a.m. This grin, which had a brightness rivaling only the sunlight bouncing off the reflective skyline and filtering through the storefront windows—which she deeply missed and would trade the late November haze for any day, continued as Scarlet picked through the bagels, rearranging them with her tongs.

Yvie was quite enjoying this new routine with Scarlet. 

Today, Yvie sat off to the side of the counter, perched on a metal stool, phone abandoned due to the miraculous sight of Scarlet’s concentrated face as she made Yvie’s latte. The bridge of her nose formed a couple wrinkles, three little canyons on its pointed form. Her eyebrows, unruly as ever, were tightly pulled together as her eyes became slivers. And her lips. Her bottom lip, bare and pink, chapped from the cold, crushed between her teeth. All this was shadowed by the little pieces of hair that fell free from her ponytail and now hung limply in front of her face. She held the cup up, inches from the counter while her left hand worked up and down, wavering the pitcher in slight, rapid movements, pouring out the milk with care. 

“Here, look Yvie.” Scarlet pushed the cup forward. “Isn’t it beautiful.”

Scarlet marveled at her own work and Yvie felt prompted to pull away and do the same. It was quite beautiful, this rounded thing that almost looked ribbed with the precise movements Scarlet made to produce it. It also almost looked like a vagina, though she wasn’t going to say that. She only nodded because it did look beautiful. 

“It’s a tulip,” Scarlet explained. “Or at least that’s what it’s called.” 

Okay, so same difference.

Scarlet scrubbed a hand through her piecey hair, letting the strands fall back in front of her face, not bothering to secure them in her gold scrunchie. 

But before those hairs fell forward again, Yvie noticed a teasing smear of brown across Scarlet’s forehead, glistening and decadent, far darker than the golden brown of her hair, especially in this light.

“Yvie?” Scarlet tried again, her look puzzled, and rightfully so—Yvie knew she was staring, though for how long, she wasn’t sure. 

“Oh, uh…” Her voice staggered before she straightened up, regaining composure. “You have a bit of… a little something on your face.” She pointed up at Scarlet’s forehead, circling her finger around the general area as Scarlet’s eyes went wide.

“Oops, thanks.” She swiped her arm across her forehead, only smearing it further. She raised her brows, peering up at Yvie. “Did I get it?” 

It was now only a thin film, it’s edge beading over her right eyebrow. She shook her head adamantly, endeared by Scarlet’s pout in response, and pulled a napkin from the dispenser. 

“Here.” She edged closer to Scarlet, motioning with her hand for Scarlet to follow her lead, drawing her closer. “Let me get it.” 

She didn’t know what made her say it, but whatever it was, it made her feel like her veins were filled with champagne, popping feverishly at every movement, circulating evenly within her. She glanced down at the napkin, looking up only to find Scarlet closer than before, held up by her left hand splayed on the counter, her arm straight, locked, and her eyes soft, unquestioning. And now that she said it and she was this close and she had the napkin in her hand, she willed herself not to tremble as she brushed Scarlet’s stray hairs from her forehead, holding them back with her overextended pinky, swiping the napkin across the liquid—what looked like chocolate sauce—resting her wrist against the curve of her full, perpetually pink cheek. 

She patted the napkin gently, though she knew it wasn’t clearing off more of the syrup, if for nothing but an arguably weak justification for why she was studying Scarlet like this. She dabbed and noticed the smattering of freckles across Scarlet’s nose, lingering, wandering off across her cheeks. The stray hairs under the arch of her brow, just dark at their tips, not visible at any further distance. 

She’d been staring too long. She knew this, though Scarlet made no move to indicate this. In fact, her eyes were closed and she somehow forced herself forward, as though she needed to be closer than before. So, she folded the napkin to a clean edge and gave it one last pull across her forehead before setting it on the counter. 

“It’s all gone,” Yvie whispered. She couldn’t muster anything louder. Especially not with how Scarlet’s eyes finally opened again at Yvie’s voice. 

Scarlet glanced down at her hands for a moment, her giggle like pennies splashing into a wishing-well breaking the cozy silence, before looking back up at Yvie. 

“Thanks.” It was warm and sincere, broken only by Scarlet noticing Yvie’s coffee, still without a lid, the tulip wilting into mere spirals of faint white. 

“That’s a hazard,” she muttered, pressing a lid over her creation and pushing it back to Yvie.

She was close enough that Yvie could smell a faint floral perfume on Scarlet’s neck and wrists, close enough that Yvie couldn’t bear to think about how fitting it was, how it all made sense with the green wrap shirt she wore, all sage and vital, dotted with splays of white flowers, without the burgeoning warmth in her core showing itself across her cheeks. 

Scarlet frowned a bit before pushing back against the counter. “Well, there you go, Yvie.”

Yvie nodded, slipping a sleeve on the coffee and heading out, gripping the cup tightly as she left the store and headed toward the office. Today, she was thankful for the chilling morning air, ensuring she’d be free of this excessive warmth by the time she arrived at work.

***

The store was crowded for the first time Yvie could remember. As she stood in line, she tried to figure out how there could possibly be a crowd, just today, when at six a.m., it was usually only her and Scarlet, occasionally some other business person or man who just finished an early morning run. She could count on one hand the times there were more than five people in the store when she was there.

But today there were far more than five. Yvie tried not to let this bother her, though if she had to rationalize two people in front of her in line, she also had to rationalize that while she could see Scarlet at the register, her hair held back by a red bandana, her voice strident, bringing forth a mounting warmth in Yvie’s core from a what felt like mile away, she wouldn’t really get time to talk to Scarlet. But it was silly to ponder such things, especially when her only real goal was to get her latte. 

Maybe there was a convention or some larger company was having a conference. She fidgeted with the belt on her black wool coat before stuffing her hands into its pockets, trying to warm them. It had to be something the store was planning for, as Scarlet was only taking orders while two other baristas filled those orders behind the counter. 

It didn’t matter. She was here to get her latte and head to work. 

Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what she’d miss by not having time with Scarlet this morning, if Scarlet would have to save some new wild story or additional details about shopping for the perfect Christmas present for her roommate, Pearl, who was the type of person who went on about how she didn’t need anything, though Scarlet knew she’d be upset if she didn’t receive a nice gift, so Scarlet took to prodding her over what she wanted, which wasn’t terribly fruitful, ending with the realization that the best gift she could get Pearl was tickets to Atlanta to visit her girlfriend, Violet, though she knew she couldn’t afford them. And then she added that she knew Pearl got her this beautiful, buttery soft red leather wallet she’d been eyeing from Coach for months, which she only knew about because she was ‘a bit of a rascal’ and ‘spotted the bag under Pearl’s bed while looking for her other winter boot because Pearl never returns shoes when she borrows them.’ 

Which is to say that Yvie would be very disappointed not having something like flights from JFK to ATL to look up during her lunch break. 

Not that it mattered or she had to be particularly concerned about Scarlet’s musings about maybe getting Pearl a pair of her own snow boots or possibly just some money stuffed into a festive card if she really couldn’t figure out something good. 

“You didn’t mark that right,” the man in front of her said bitingly,  pressed up against the counter, pointing directly at Scarlet, finger inches away from her chest. 

Scarlet stood paralyzed before spinning the cup around, gripping it a tad too tightly. She read it off, though she waivered, her voice staggered as she looked over her markings. “Grande three pumps vanilla, three pumps caramel soy latte?”

“Two,” he gritted out fiercely. “Two pumps of caramel.” 

“Okay.” Scarlet nodded and rang him up. “$6.05 please.” She stared down at the register, drawing in open-mouthed breaths. 

“Write it down because you’re not going to remember it.” His voice was scorching. Highly unnecessary. Yvie found her fists tight in her coat pockets. Attentive. Vigilant. 

“I’ll remember, sir,” Scarlet muttered, voice small. Body small. She still held the cup and her Sharpie in her hand, frozen. 

“I’ll write it myself. Fucking incompetent,” he fumed, a furious whisper he thought could only be heard by him and Scarlet, reaching over the counter to grab the cup. 

Yvie saw the mounting fury building behind her eyes, scorching her chest. And before properly surveying the man lunging forward, the line growing impatient over this man’s fit, she saw Scarlet flinch, swore she heard her breath hitch, cutting through the din of the store, and roughly drew the man’s arm back, grasping at a fist full of his jacket. 

“How dare you believe you have the right to insult her, let alone touch her” Yvie spoke fiercely, pulling the man roughly to face her, to meet her gaze as she looked down on him, at least an inch taller than the man in her heels. “Do you believe it’s in your right to attempt assault upon her?” 

The man looked shaken, making no moves to free his arm from Yvie’s grasp. “Well, I was—” 

“That’s not an answer,” she whipped back, feeling the store fall silent, save for the click of Scarlet’s Sharpie hitting the tiled floor. 

“I was just going to write it. It’s not assault to—” 

“You were going to grab something from her hands after an escalating exchange of language on your part. Assault is defined as an intentional act by one person that creates an apprehension in another of an imminent harmful or offensive contact. That is what you attempted.” She saw the smirk wash from his face as she recited the textbook definition of attempted assault. Practiced. Authoritative. Highly believable, and really she should be, having used it nearly daily. “Now, you are going to apologize to her for your attempted assault and hope she’s kind enough to make your ridiculous coffee. Do you understand me?” 

The man nodded, still making no move to face Scarlet, his eyes blank, still wide. 

“Use your words.” 

“Yes.” 

She came up close, lowered her voice to just above a breath, ghost quiet. “You’re just a little bitch yelling at a barista over a little bitch drink. Do you understand me?”

He nodded and Yvie released him and gave him a shove to face forward, allowing him to deliver his apology.

Scarlet still stood still, staring off past the man, mechanically accepting his cash and sliding his cup off to the side, surely still terrified. She preened over her piecey hair, tucking it and letting it fall, tucking it again as she waited for him to move away from the register to wait for his drink.  What she wouldn’t do to comfort her, to bring her in close, to wrap herself around Scarlet. 

As Yvie came up to the counter, she noticed Scarlet’s flush deepened as she stole glances at Yvie before pulling her focus back to tugging a tall cup from the stack. 

“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you or something,” Yvie said, pulling up her app to pay. “It just wasn’t right how he was treating you.” Yvie took a deep breath, willing her blood to quit its boiling at the thought of that man in his suit and gray coat. 

“No it’s…” Scarlet trailed off, rubbing her fingers with her thumb, steadying her breaths, trailing her eyes upward, over Yvie. “Fine.” 

Yvie let it go, not wanting to press her further. Scarlet rang Yvie up for her usual order, chewing at her lip, accidentally knocking the empty cup over with her frantic movements. And whenever she caught Yvie’s gaze for a split second, she drew away like a wounded animal, looking down at her hands. 

Yvie could take one, hold it in hers as Scarlet had done for her weeks ago, though she might be far too stimulated for touch. Instead she simply paid and added a hefty tip for Scarlet, if for nothing but to make up for that man’s behaviors. 

As she moved off to the side to wait for her drink, she caught Scarlet following her moments, having to snap back into focus to help her next customer. 

Yvie stood next to that man, who stood shuffling his feet, stiffening at her presence. Good, Yvie thought. If he makes one more move, I’ll have his balls rolling around in my Michael Kors. On Scarlet’s behalf, of course. 

***

“Yvie Yvie Yvie Yvie Yvie.” Scarlet bounced a bit in her spot, calling out her name incessantly from the moment Yvie exited the slowly falling flurries outside and entered the warmth of the store. She repeated her name, pulling her ever closer with only words before Yvie could bother to shed her scarf, so that the warmth of the store wouldn’t overwhelm her senses.

“Well, good morning, Scarlet.” Yvie chuckled at the woman’s excitement, placing her phone on the counter, unbuttoning her coat and unwinding her scarf. Somehow it was always a good morning for Scarlet, and though Yvie knew correlation did not necessitate causation, it generally meant she had a better morning as well.

“We got the holiday cups. Look.” She gestured toward them exaggeratedly, throwing her whole body into the movement, nearly knocking herself over. And Yvie was going to look, of course, though she wasn’t typically one to get excited over holiday Starbucks cups. 

Silky usually got excited over the cups and would get angry when she got a repeat within the first week or so. She ranted on and on for almost an hour in 2015 when they only had the plain red cups, as they ‘removed all festivity from Christmas, which could be considered culturally unsafe as defined within human rights law,’ which was not even the slightest bit true and made Yvie spend a bit of every day that December combing through all the choices that brought her to this desk in this law firm in New York. 

“I always like to rank the cups when we get them in,” Scarlet explained. “That way when people are rude or have children who are rude and shout about the amount of whipped cream they get, as though a cup can fit infinite amounts of whipped cream, I can give them the bad cup.”  

Yvie tilted her head at Scarlet cloyingly. 

“Yes, I have been yelled at by children. And, no, I do not like it.” 

“Right…” Yvie drew out as Scarlet’s frustration washed from her face, replaced with that same smile Yvie saw nearly every day, consistently took comfort in. The comfort of the toothy smile and the way her lips pulled back and her high, full cheeks, all pillowy over her sharpened cheek bones. She could run through the litany of Scarlet’s features by memory by now and she was sure they would never cease to bring her comfort. 

She held up the one with thin green and white stripes, pulling it close to try to make out the letters between the stripes before holding it out for Yvie to analyze. She gave it a passing glance. 

“It’s fine.” Yvie shrugged. She wasn’t one for games. But she was one for judging things, which made her a fan of Scarlet’s idea of a game. 

Scarlet put it at the end of the counter. “You’re right, like okay, still artful but not explicitly holiday-y.” 

She pulled another green and white striped cup out before retrieving a new design. This one was red and white striped, like a candy cane with ‘Starbucks’ written all over it. Again, she concentrated on the print, squeezing the cup a bit, as though to test the give of the coated paper, as though all the cups weren’t the same material. 

“6.5” 

“Okay, but how holiday-y is it?” Yvie retorted. “Is that not a pivotal measure of holiday cup goodness?” 

Scarlet lowered herself to a whisper, inching the cup closer to Yvie’s face, right until it was nearly touching her still frosty nose, a hair’s width from its tip. She leaned over the counter. “I don’t want to say this Yvie, but…” She poked Yvie with the rim of the cup, sparking something warm and electric inside her. “Is it possibly too festive? And therefore too festive to be holiday-y?” 

Yvie drew back with a gasp, clutching her chest. “Miss Scarlet!” 

“I know.” She pouted, playing into the idea that her language was vile, septically disgusting. 

“The blasphemy!” 

“I know!” 

It was silly, a silly game. And Yvie couldn’t remember the last time she played a purposeless game like this. Maybe when the M train was all backed up from god only knows what a month ago and she passed the time playing sudoku on her phone. But even that was numbers and patterns and some kind of mental gymnastics. Here, it was just saying whether the two liked the colors and patterns. It almost felt like playing as children. 

And as much as she could rationalize Scarlet needing this kind of fun in her menial job, especially with how she explained to Yvie that it was ‘so typical New York of her to make coffee until she got cast’ and how she likes to pass the time behind the counter making up characters to go with the people she waited on. Yvie probably needed this kind of fun too. 

“I see we’re doing this Merry Coffee thing, which is fun…” Scarlet trailed off, squinting at it. “Not that I’ve got important say here but I remember Brooke telling me about the time when they had just the plain red cups and oof.” Scarlet let out grunt with a quirk to her lips.

“It was apparently a hell shift. It was my first day and we were unpacking the holiday cups and she was on edge about them being Christmas enough for ‘Mothers of two-point-five kids and their husbands to not throw hot coffee at her’ like they did the year before. And then I was like ‘are they gonna throw coffee at me?’ and she looked me up and down and said absolutely.” 

Scarlet threw her hair over her shoulder. “And they have.” 

Yvie nodded, running through the math in her head, the idea of Scarlet covered in scalding coffee occupying only a second. If Scarlet started after that whole red cup, war on Christmas thing, then she had been here for years. Literal years. Yvie couldn’t figure what she had to be doing all these years to have never seen her, never taken note of her. She was sure if Scarlet was there the whole time, for years, Yvie would have noticed, no? 

Especially with how notable Yvie found her. Yes, that was what she would stick with. Her little cropped fuzzy sweater and her high waisted jeans, the ponytail and pink speckled acrylic hoop earrings. Notable. 

“I used to work nights only,” Scarlet added, turning the coffee cup about, as though she could read Yvie’s mind. “Actually, nights and weekends.”

“Oh.” Yvie felt completely slack, heat prickling at her cheeks though Scarlet was still studying the cup. Like she’d been found out. Like Scarlet had some kind of intuition for when she was on someone’s mind. Like Yvie had to be careful of something. “I’m always just here at six.”

“I’ve noticed.” A lilting exhale. 

“I’m not sure how to make coffee merry…” She trailed off, placing the cup to the side and deciding that she’d “try her damndest to make all coffee merry.”

She paused as the spotted the last one, with green polka dots on the red background, mouth open in a little O as she held it up to Yvie, the side of her hand brushed against the collar of her silk blouse, the touch perfect and chaste and yet Yvie found herself dumbfounded by the closeness of Scarlet’s to her chest, even with so many degrees between them. “Oh this one is perfect. It’s the exact same color.” 

Yvie glanced down, fully unaware of what she was wearing. She usually just got up and threw something together from her closet, sure she didn’t indulge in enough variation for anything to clash with anything else. 

But it was a perfect match between the red of her blouse and the red of the cup. 

“Huh.” Yvie couldn’t pull enough words together, especially with how Scarlet lingered, though they already matched up the reds.

But she didn’t move and Scarlet didn’t move, so they lingered on like this for a moment, up until Scarlet tore herself away to dig through tall cups to find this exact design. 

“I just think it’d be perfect for you to have everything all matchy.” Scarlet finally retrieved it and rang her up. “Like, it’ll be a fashion moment, for sure.” 

Yvie didn’t bother fighting against Scarlet’s excitement anymore. Instead she watched on as she marked up the cup and got to making the latte, pressing her hip against the counter, feeling the padding of her winter coat sink inward, finding herself staring at Scarlet and her meticulous movements, but not bothering to correct her gaze.

“You know, usually I hate when people order extra shots in their lattes.” 

“Oh, really.” Yvie’s lips curled at their ends. “You hate it?” 

“Well…” Scarlet pondered. “I surely don’t like it.” 

“Scarlet, is this your way of trying to get me to try some new Christmas drink you’ve come up with?” 

“No.” She steamed the milk before ceding to Yvie’s suspicions. “That’s still in its prototype stages. It’s just so hard to make things really green, you know?” 

Yvie could only imagine what kind of flavor combination was giving Scarlet such difficulty with making it green, shuttering at the returning thought of Scarlet’s Halloween drink, the thought alone turning her stomach. 

“Yes, I do know.” 

“See, Pearl told me that it needs more food coloring and less peppermint and caramel, but I’m just starting to think ‘making things green is hard’ might just be a fact of life.” 

“Well, when it’s here and green, I’ll try it.” Yvie said, somewhat hoping it would never become green enough for her to try, somewhat hoping it would, just so she could see Scarlet that excited again. It was cute how much someone loved the holidays, enough to make a drink for their own workplace. “You know, to save you from making all those extra shots.” 

Scarlet waved her off before pouring the milk, wavering just so, espresso rippling to create a leaf. 

“Wow,” Scarlet whispered to herself, setting the pitcher down. “God, I’m good.” 

Yvie came in closer to look at it. And it was exquisite. It looked effortless. Scarlet covered it with a lid. 

“I’m not supposed to tell you this, but this is my favorite latte leaf in my favorite cup and you’re my favorite customer.” Scarlet pushed the coffee across the counter before tending to another customer, now waiting at the register. 

She took the latte into her hands, relishing the warmth still so apparent through the cardboard sleeve, so cozy in her hands as she prepared to face the elements one more, though as she glanced back out the window, the snow seemed to have slowed down in the time she was talking with Scarlet. 

She turned over the conversation once more, staring off, half interestedly watching some city workers wrap the scraggly little trees that lined the sidewalk, shooting up from their gravel filled grates, in Christmas lights. 

Scarlet had been here a long time. At least three years. Three years of her menial coffee job. Three years of children yelling about whipped cream and making extra shots and business men with no manners and watching coworkers like Brooke finally get their big break, a break she’d been waiting her whole life for, hoping endlessly that she’d get called back for some minor role and that she could spin it into a career. 

Yvie craned her head back toward Scarlet, who counted change at her register, handing the man a few loose bills and a handful of coins.

It had been years, and that woman still had the nerve to get excited about cups and holidays. She had the nerve to have favorite latte leafs and customers, and tell them about it. The nerve to believe they cared as much about her as she did about them. 

And Yvie did. She was sure of it now. There was no way not to care about a woman with such a divine combination of grit and tenderness.

As Yvie left the store, she caught Scarlet mouthing to her “not my favorite” while giving a snappy tilt of the head to the man who just paid for his coffee, her grin snarky.

Yvie was sure Scarlet was her favorite barista. 

***

“Did you know that the mermaid on the latte stick is called Melusina. Well, it’s the mermaid that’s everywhere, but it’s also on the latte stick, you know?”

Yvie, now sat on the edge of the counter—after Scarlet assured her over and over that it was fine, no one was going to see her, and if her manager did see and yelled about it, Scarlet would wipe off exactly where her butt was, should her butt not be clean enough for Starbucks standards—stopped fiddling with the Christmas mug filled with those little green sticks. 

“No, I…” Yvie pulled one out and studied it, rubbing her thumb over the plastic embossing. “How do you know that?” 

Scarlet shrugged, pouring an espresso shot into Yvie’s cup, which this time was a green one, as Yvie insisted she didn’t need Scarlet wasting cups looking for one that matched Yvie’s ‘vibe,’ before Scarlet reasoned the green one did in fact match her vibe if she closed one eye and looked at her at a forty-five degree angle. Yvie supposed this was how vibes were checked nowadays. 

“I don’t. I was totally just lying to you.” Scarlet glanced up at Yvie, flashing that mischievous look at her before adding another shot. “If you say anything with enough confidence, you can make anyone believe you. Even a lawyer extraordinaire like yourself.” 

Yvie chuckled, shifting around on the counter, accidentally kicking her briefcase resting on the ground over on its side. “Gosh, I must be losing my touch.” 

“I sure hope not, or else you’re never gonna be a woman of the law in this here town again.” Scarlet leaned forward across the counter, slipping into a thick southern accent with ease, words dripping like molasses. Yvie played with the splash stick, staring down at her lap to hide how the heat prickled in her chest. Scarlet was very talented. 

“Nope, I must be losing it. If one little Lettie can lie to me and get away with it, imagine how many bad guys can?” Yvie faked a sniffle and a quivering lip. “If my firm finds out, I’m surely done for. They’d fire me on the spot, surely.” 

Scarlet scoffed. “I hope not. I got a feeling I’d like you less when you’re not in that whole lawyer-pantsuit-heels getup you got going on.” 

Yvie then felt very conscious of her clothing, of every pinstripe on her charcoal gray pants, of the white, silky blouse, of Scarlet’s eyes clearly scanning her clothing at the same time she was. She wrung her hands together. 

“I’m kidding. Gosh.” Scarlet shoved at her shoulder. “I’d like you in anything, nothing, all the inbetween.” 

Before Yvie could process, Scarlet ran into her next sentence. “Besides, not that I know how to make it as an actress, but I wouldn’t give up my lawyer job to follow that spastic lip quiver, wherever you think it’s going.” 

She slapped a lid on the cup and haphazardly pushed it across the way to Yvie, then moving to fix her hair. “Here’s your latte, Yvie, Ms. Lawyer Extraordinaire.” 

“Please, I’m sure you know enough about how to make it as an actress.” Yvie accepted the drink, fiddling with the sleeve on her cup. She made no move to lift herself from the counter, pick up her briefcase, and go about her day. “I know you have it in you. I’m so sure everyone’s gonna see it soon enough. I believe it.” 

And she did. Yvie didn’t expend energy lying, gassing people up, stumbling around fragile feelings. She never had the time for it and knew she probably never would. They were new words to her, assuring someone that their superficially outlandish dreams weren’t actually outlandish, but they felt correct to say. They felt like the most honest sentence she could say to Scarlet as the barista fiddled with her hair, trying to fit it into a suitable bun with a pout struck across her lips. 

Scarlet huffed. “You believed me when I said the mermaid was called Melusina and then you believed me when I said I was lying.”

“What does that have to do with anything, Scarlet?” 

Scarlet took the splash stick from her hands as Yvie looked up, following her touch, only to find Scarlet with her hair down and draped over her shoulders, those brown curls haloed by a golden friz, resting against the deep plum of her knit sweater. She cursed her body for acting as though she never saw a woman’s hair before, for picturing how it would feel as she grazed it, how Scarlet could just melt at Yvie’s fingers against her scalp. 

She would curse her mouth later for how it opened, how her lips parted at the thought. 

“I’m just saying, you’ll believe anything I say, even if it’s just me being delusional and really thinking I’m going to make it.” Scarlet gave the splash stick back. “Also it really is called Melusina and you should actually believe that.” 

She placed her latte back down on the counter. “Scarlet, I really do think—” 

But she was cut off by her fumbling hands as she tried to stick the splash stick into her latte without holding the cup firmly, tipping it over with her course movements, scrambling to stand it upright as the latte spilled out. 

“Fuck,” Yvie groaned, trying to pull a fistful of napkins out of the dispenser. 

“Hey, it’s fine” Scarlet reached over to steady her hand. She took a cloth to the mess. “I’ll just make you another.” 

“No really, you don’t have to. I spilled it and there’s probably still a lot left and I don’t want to trouble you.”

Yvie tried to take the cup but Scarlet was quicker.

“No really. I want to.” Scarlet walked back over to the register and pulled out another cup. “And besides, if I don’t remake it, I’m gonna spend all day thinking about you how you don’t have your latte and I’m gonna be sad over it.” 

Yvie couldn’t argue for Scarlet being sad all day, especially if what could prevent that sadness was her getting to remake the latte. So she nodded, though she considered if Scarlet did think about her before deciding not to bother herself any longer with following such a silly train of thought. 

Scarlet handed her the new latte after sticking a splash stick in herself. “Because now I know you can’t handle the Melusina splash stick,” she teased. 

“I’m gonna handle the Melusina splash stick tomorrow.” 

“Yeah you sure are. And I’m gonna get cast.” Scarlet rolled her eyes and flicked a strand of hair over her shoulder. 

Yvie picked up her briefcase and turned to leave, tossing “You’ll see. It’ll happen.” over her shoulder as she walked out, surely not referring to the silly little splash stick. 

Upon taking a good look at Melusina, she now saw Scarlet wrote Yvie’s name with what had to be a heart. She could spend all day convincing herself otherwise, but that was a heart and the end of her name, small and filled in with black Sharpie. And she was very sure she was going to spend all day thinking about that. 

***

It was all wet. The clouds broke ever more, leaving the street slick and oily under lamps and strung up lights outside little bistros, against the roving reds and purples filtering through the window of the nightclub Yvie passed before crossing the street, shouldering people aside, hoping to get inside somewhere, hoping to charge her phone, call a cab, and forget this whole night had even happened. 

She pulled her trench coat tighter, cursing the flimsy fabric in the January chill. She hadn’t thought to dress warmer, walking down a now well worn path in her unsensible heels and smart black dress, feeling her feet soaking through as she dodged sidewalk grates. 

She was only thankful for the crowds and the downpour to hide her tears, to smear her makeup further, to allow her night—or what should have been her night of getting dinner with that girl from finance, maybe a few drinks afterward — blur into the collective night of Manhattan, filtering out of anyone’s care or consciousness but her own. 

She came past those same mirrored windows, tearing her gaze away when she saw her hair stuck to her forehead, how she shivered and looked so small in her coat. She kept walking until she landed on the Starbucks, the one she knew so thoroughly, knowing that it was a tad past closing time, but, God, she hoped the doors would open at her needy tug. 

They didn’t. It was locked. Barely past 10 p.m. and it was already locked.

Fuck. God fuck. She just wanted to charge her phone a bit, hail a cab, and maybe get in from the cold for a moment. But she shouldn’t have bothered in the first place. Or at the very least, she shouldn’t have waited for hours for her to show up, sipping water from a sweating tulip glass, obsessively checking her phone for a text, a call, anything, deleting old emails to pass the time between unanswered, frantic calls, until she was asked to give up her table, battery hovering around five percent, swallowing to keep her lip from quivering, unable to swallow back her hot tears the minute she left the restaurant. Fucking stupid.

“Yvie?” 

She looked up, meeting Scarlet’s concerned face, head tilted as she fiddled with the key to the door, unlocking it, pushing it open, and pulling Yvie inside by the arm. 

“What happened? You—” Scarlet looked her up and down from an arm’s length. Yes, it had to be bad.

“I just gotta charge… Can I charge my phone here?” Yvie paused. “Since when do you work nights?”

Scarlet didn’t answer. Instead, she wrapped an arm around her waist and lead Yvie over to the couch — this well worn cognac leather thing with a couple rips down the side, sat in front of the window — and lowered her down, resting her hands on Yvie’s shoulders, fiddling with the lapel of her coat before smoothing her shoulders. 

“You stay here and I’ll be right back, okay?” She waited for Yvie to nod before she scurried off behind the counter. 

“Can I charge my phone?” Yvie called back, feeling her voice waiver. It was even more apparent in the empty store, nothing more than two people and the sound of hot liquid hitting a paper cup, lifting her head to see Scarlet tearing open a tea bag and shoving it down into the water with a wooden stick.

Scarlet jogged on back to the sofa, swearing every time the water sloshed over the edge of the cup, and placed it down on the table before sitting next to Yvie on the couch. “Sorry, yeah I work closing on Saturdays and yeah of course you can. I have a charger somewhere, I just thought you’d like something to warm you up first. I didn’t know how you took your tea though so I—. 

As Scarlet rambled, Yvie found herself growing all the more worked up, as though her throat were swelling and her chest had this raging, prickling burn until she spilled over again, until she felt fat, hot tears running down her face, until she heard Scarlet mutter “oh no, Yves,” until she felt the soft, warm, faded cotton of Scarlet’s striped long sleeve shirt against her cheek and Scarlet’s arms wrapped around her waist, fingers interwoven and resting on her back, anchoring her down. 

She let out a heaving sob, but tried to pull away. It was pathetic. She was acting pathetic. But Scarlet wouldn’t let her go, just pulled her in again, shushing her as she cried. 

“It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” Scarlet’s voice was smooth, soft, with the texture of a cello’s vibrato. “What’s wrong, Yvie?” 

“She didn’t show up.” Yvie mumbled against Scarlet’s shirt, sniffling. She was probably staining Scarlet’s shirt with her damn mascara. “She was supposed to show up and she didn’t.” 

“What happened?” Scarlet pressed her cheek against Yvie’s wet face, nearly speaking into her hair. “Who didn’t show up?”

“My date. She worked in finance. She was a friend of Silky’s friend. She just…” Yvie pulled herself back, tearing the heels of her hands across her eyes. “I waited hours and she never showed up and she never said why and I…” Yvie felt smaller now, sinking into her coat. She felt like a smashed porcelain doll, all shards where her body should have been. 

“Why didn’t she show up?” Yvie asked, much quieter now, like the words were cursed. They did haunt her though. Why didn’t she show up? “I just want to know why.” 

“Hey,” Scarlet soothed and took Yvie’s hands, now clenched, and smoothed them out, holding them in her own, resting their clasped hands in her lap. 

“Well, Yvie,” Scarlet began as Yvie looked down at her lap. “It could have been traffic. Or maybe a rogue taxi driver took her to Long Island by what had to have been a mistake or maybe some evil plot because, like, it’s Long Island. Or maybe her cat died? Does she even have a cat? Maybe she got stuck at work late? Does she work Saturdays? Or maybe her phone died too.” Scarlet gave her hands a squeeze. “You know, two people can have a dead phone at the same time. My phone’s probably dead right now.” 

Yvie giggled lowly. 

“But probably she got stuck in Long Island and she’s suffering double right now because she missed a date with you, and you know…it’s Long Island.” She laughed to herself and Yvie couldn’t help but join in, falling forward, shoulders shaking. 

“It’s the Florida of New York,” Yvie added meekly. 

“Please, it’s the Tampa, Florida of New York.” Scarlet laughed again at her own joke. “I don’t know if that’s worse. I don’t know a lot about Florida, but it sounds worse. I feel like shit happens in Tampa.”

Yvie couldn’t help but join her, couldn’t help but look up to capture the image of Scarlet’s joy in her mind’s eye, let it wash over her, let it wash over her thoughts, only allowing the pressing, increasingly present thought of Scarlet and how she wouldn’t have wanted to be here with anyone else, how thankful she was that she answered the door, how she couldn’t picture enjoying her date more than she enjoyed Scarlet.

And she was staring at her lips, Scarlet’s lips, with their ChapSticked sheen, as she spoke. And her hands were in Scarlet’s. Oh, how she did that thing with her thumb, as though she could ease all of Yvie’s pain with a gentle massage to the knuckle, as though that was where the hurt was, just like she did when she’d just been dumped, months ago. She couldn’t have remembered how it calmed her, that metronomic, even touch, how it eased her hurt with its ceaselessness. And yet, if anyone would remember, it was Scarlet. 

It was always Scarlet, wasn’t it? Why was she fucking around with some other date, some woman who worked in finance, when the best part of her day was sitting right in front of her, holding her hands, rambling on about how Florida alligators probably got to Long Island via underground sewer channels that spanned the entire east coast.

“Scarlet?” Yvie pulled a hand out of Scarlet’s grasp to rest it on her leg, taking Scarlet out of her speech. 

She snapped down to stare at her hand before meeting Yvie’s gaze again, failing miserably to hide the blush that had spread across her cheeks, right up to the tip of her sculpted nose, illuminated by the string lighted trees and their honeyed light filtering through the window and the flush of the lamps flanking the couch. 

“Yeah?” 

Yvie swallowed. “May I…” She shook her head a tad. “Fuck, I—” 

“Hey, it’s fine,” Scarlet said, rubbing Yvie’s shoulder, water still beading on the sleeve of her jacket. She rested her hand on her forearm. “We don’t have to talk about tonight anymore. It’s all fine, Yvie.” 

“No, it’s just.” Yvie pushed her hair away, leaving her fingers caught in her still dripping hair, heavy sigh escaping her parted lips. She locked eyes with Scarlet. “You make every day better. You make all my days better. Every morning I start with you is better and every day after is better. Even rotten, horrible days are better. And just… I just want more of that. I want more of you.” 

“Scarlet.” She pulled her hand out of her hair and placed it over her and Scarlet’s interlocked hands, wrapping herself around them. “Can I kiss you?” 

Scarlet pressed her lips together, closing her eyes and exhaling into a smile. She nodded eagerly, so Yvie brought her hand to cradle Scarlet’s face, fingers grazing her jaw, thumb swiping across her cheek. Scarlet’s eyes roamed, first to their hands, still connected, still in Scarlet’s lap, then around the store and through the window, then back to Yvie. Yvie was sure she was looking directly at her now. 

“What are you looking at?” Yvie ended with a hum, leaning in closer. Their legs brushed together. 

Scarlet’s free hand shifted from Yvie’s arm to rest on her hip, teasing at the knit fabric of her dress. “I’m just taking it all in, is all.” She halted her movement, tilting her head back down to look at her lap. “Just… I’ve been here before, wanting you to kiss me for a while. And now it’s real.” 

Yvie now rubbed over Scarlet’s knuckles with her thumb, watching her chin tilt up to release a breathy giggle, like rings of smoke floating into the air. “It’s real, Scar.” 

With that, she captured Scaret’s open lips with hers, feeling Scarlet’s hand inch upward to rest on her waist as she deepened the kiss, feeling Scarlet’s hair brush against her neck, feeling her nose against her own, feeling Scarlet’s fingers stretch in their interlocked hands before gripping tighter in an attempt to pull her closer, like she was hers. And she was. 

They parted, foreheads still touching, fingers still intertwined. Yvie pressed her lips against Scarlet’s once more. 

“I—” Scarlet began, eyes still closed for a moment, breathing still deep and calm, fingers pressed so ardently into Yvie’s waist. 

“I want to be with you,” Yvie cut her off, letting her hand fall from Scarlet’s cheek to play with a tendril of Scarlet’s hair, fitting it between her thumb and index finger. 

Scarlet mashed her lips together before responding softly, her voice plush and full. “I want that too. I want to be with you too.” 

Upon hearing that, upon processing that Scarlet wanted her as well, that she was wanted, the severe elation of being wanted after being so aggressively unwanted moments ago, how her slick coat and soaked hair reminded her as much, she broke their hands apart and grabbed Scarlet roughly by her hips, pulling her into her lap and kissed her again and again and again, kissed until it all felt well-worn and new in the same breath, until all Yvie wanted to do was fit her chin on Scarlet’s shoulder and revel in the closeness she’d wanted for so long in the exact spot she’d wanted it. 

They sat together, the hours passing, thin as gossamer, fractured only by their words and the smattering of rainfall outside, far too intimate in the empty room to be anything but whispered, if for nothing but the reassurance that they were theirs and only theirs, openly, finally, and ceaselessly.

#rpdr fanfiction #scarlet envy #yvie oddly #brooke lynn hytes #silky nutmeg ganache #scyvie #fluff #angst #lesbian au #coffee shop au #starbucks au #daybreak over manhattan #one shot #phryne #concrit welcome #submission #s11

[beckzorz]

World on Fire (5/12)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader; background skinny!Steve Rogers x Peggy Carter Warnings: Canon-typical violence; language; sexual content. Summary: Brooklyn, 1948. Bucky Barnes, war hero, lives three floors down, and the evenings he comes to watch the sunset with you on the fire escape are the best times in your shabby life. But reality is far uglier than it seems when swinging your legs six floors up with Bucky at your side. On top of a good-for-nothing brother and a poor family upstate, there’s a new mob hitman in town: the Winter Soldier. A/N: Written for @cametobuyplums Fizz’s 2000 Plums Writing Challenge—thanks Fizz!

5. Tuesday, June 3

After a night spent tossing and turning, you finally fall asleep as dawn streaks pink across the sky. But you’re forced awake less than an hour later by your alarm. You drag yourself out of bed, exhaustion settling heavy on your shoulders. A quick sponge bath, a fortifying breakfast, an indulgent cup of coffee with nearly all your remaining sugar—damn the ration, won’t it ever end?

 Despite yourself, you can’t help but look yet again at the window. Your cheeks warm as you swallow. The window. The fire escape. Bucky.

Oh, lord.

For someone who is, in the common way, no more than an acquaintance, Bucky Barnes has the strange ability to make you half forget your own name with polite words alone. Ten minutes talking with him, and your whole night had been ripped to shreds with thoughts and dreams and wanting yet another thing you can’t have. Bucky might claim you’re helping, but he doesn’t even hint at what’s troubling him. How much can you really matter to him?

Why does he have to be so effortlessly charming? So handsome, so good? If you had more sense, you’d avoid him. Be chilly. Dissuade him from coming up to your window to talk. Surely he can go gaze out across Brooklyn with other people, other girls, other women. It would sure be easier for you if he did. You could look twice at other men, maybe even settle for one. Settle with one, you correct yourself, but it’s a lie.

Everyone else pales in comparison. Arm, no arm; weary, energized; next to you, anywhere else.

You toss down your toast, appetite gone. There’s no point eating when all you can think about is everything your life is missing. And the worst part?

You’re too chicken to do anything about it. Goldie, even Mary, probably, would’ve done something by now. Six years! Practically forever. But how can you do anything when it would risk what you do have?

No, there’s nothing for it. Just dreams, and hopes, and prayers.

—

The second you step foot in the basement at Dr. Simon’s, Alice crowds you into the corner.

“There’s an English agent upstairs,” she hisses. “Looking for you!”

“I’m sorry, a what?” You blink, too exhausted to fully process her whispers.

“A woman,” Alice says, a little slower but no louder. “English, and all brassy and bossy and—”

“Mrs. O’Connell, is this her?”

A clipped, accented alto follows you down the stairs. Alice blanches. You whirl, gaping up at… 

“Peggy Carter?”

Brown eyes blink. Red lips curve into a smirk. Peggy and her heels and her legs come down the rest of the stairs.

“Well hello,” Peggy says. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Weren’t you looking for me?” you ask. Your brain is awash with questions—what on earth is Steve Rogers’ dame doing here? Looking for you? Is this even about Steve? You’ve only met Peggy once before, by chance on the street when she’d looked even sharper than she does now. What is this about?

“She was,” Alice says.

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. O’Connell.” Peggy gives Alice a look that could curdle milk—an impressive feat, given how pretty she is. “Perhaps you could bring up those biscuits so we can catch up in private.”

Alice swallows. She picks up the china plate from the counter and vanishes.

You lean against the counter, brow quirked up. Peggy wanders around the kitchen, studying you as she settles herself on the edge of the table.

“Uh, did you want something to drink?” you ask.

“Oh, this isn’t a social call,” Peggy says airily. She glances around the kitchen. “I’m here to ask about your brother. David, I believe?”

Your heart drops so fast you can almost hear it clatter.

Peggy Carter is Steve Rogers’ dame, but that’s the personal of it. Peggy Carter, like you, is a working girl. But she’s not a secretary.

She’s an agent.

“Yes,” you manage. “His name is David. Is something wrong?”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

Truth, or lie? Your bloodstained pillow flickers in your memory. David, too, stumbling towards you in Prospect Park on Sunday—no, you can’t lie, not when so many people saw him.

“I saw him Sunday.”

Peggy’s level gaze settles back on you. She looks almost… pleased?

“Your brother’s not settled, is he.”

You swallow. Your knuckles are white against the counter. “He makes do.”

“Does he?” Peggy narrows her eyes. “How?”

“Work,” you say weakly.

“What kind?”

“I don’t know,” you tell her.

“No?” Peggy stands, steps closer. “I heard that your family upstate just got a nice little package. From you.”

The money. The money from David…

“David doesn’t like the post office.” You clench your jaw. “And I’m not in the habit of interrogating my own relations.”

“Whyever not?” Peggy’s expression is quite innocent. “Aren’t you curious?”

You sputter. “Peggy—Agent Carter—”

“Now what I think is that your brother has gotten caught up in something too big for his breeches,” Peggy continues. Her eyes glint as she fixes you with her sternest look yet. “In your neighborhood, you must know that the mob is hoarding sugar.”

Well—it’s true, so far as you know. You nod.

“Some has gone missing. Has your brother got a sweet tooth?”

Hot anger flares in your chest. “What, are you investigating for the mob now?” you snap. “If David—if someone is giving them a run for their money, who are you to complain? Unless you’re crooked too.”

Peggy purses her lips. “Federal investigations don’t stop after the first level of thievery,” she says coolly. “And they certainly don’t get advertised so everyone in the city hears about it, either.”

You open your mouth, but she holds up a manicured finger, silencing you before you’ve even begun.

“Do you have any information about your brother’s current whereabouts or recent activity?”

A shake of your head. “And I don’t want to know,” you add.

“The truth has a ugly habit of rearing its head,” Peggy says. “It’ll come out, sooner or later. You should prepare yourself, if you haven’t already. Your brother’s up to no good.” She turns on her heel and strides back to the stairway, pausing with one foot on the first step. “If you do find anything out, don’t hesitate to call.” She balances a business card on the banister, but the wake of her climbing the stairs sends it fluttering to the ground.

—

It’s been two days since you’ve been well rested, and you nearly trip up the steps of your building’s stoop on the way home. After your delayed start—thanks ever so, Agent Carter—you’d had to stay late, and now it’s nearly seven. Your key scrapes against the lock. Just before the door closes, someone catches it behind you, their heavy breathing an immediate danger sign in the back of your head. You spin, expecting a burglar—

But it’s only David.

Unless he is a burglar. Brother, burglar, or both? You heave a sigh.

“David,” you say wearily.

He catches you in a tight hug, pulls back. Only then do you realize how pale your brother is, how nervous his wide smile. You frown up at him. His eye is still a little swollen, the scrape on his cheek is still pink, but that’s not all that’s wrong. His right hand is held awkwardly, and all his weight on his left side. There’s a dark spot on the knee of his trousers. You put a hand to his shoulder, and he winces.

“David,” you say again, “what—”

“Almost got run over crossing the street.” David’s head drops forward. “Can’t catch a break this week,” he jokes, but you can’t find any humor here. Something nags at your mind, but you can’t quite unravel it.

“Come up,” you tell him.

You take the stairs slower than usual, ready to offer a hand, an arm, but David never asks. He just grits his teeth and forces himself up, up, up.

Your linens are getting a beating, that’s for sure. David’s trousers and shirtsleeves are rolled up; there’s a damp towel against a scrape on his arm, a wet handkerchief on his knee. He’s as browbeaten as you’ve ever seen him. You toe off your shoes and move to the sink.

“‘M sorry,” he mutters. “I keep wreckin’ your hankies.”

You frown. He’s sorry? The nagging at the back of your mind comes rushing forward. Your hand trembles as you set a glass of water beside him.

He’s sorry? David’s not the apologetic type. If he’s apologizing, it’s because he’s done something wrong. Almost run over crossing the street? By accident, or on purpose?

You glance at the window. The curtain’s wide open. A chill curls down your spine; you hurry over to shut the world out. For all that you’d been upset by Peggy Carter’s visit… She can’t be right, can she? It’s one thing to imagine David doing small things, but stealing from the mob? Is he insane?

A breath catches in your throat, and you sink down onto your bed.

“What?” David asks, but you shake your head.

Almost run over?

Last week’s words to Bucky echo in your brain. A new hitman. They say he doesn’t leave any survivors.

No survivors?

You stuff your hands between your knees, eyes wide and unseeing. The beating, the car… Is all this the work of the Winter Soldier?

You force yourself to focus. David is staring at you, confusion and dread mixed in his face.

He’s come to you twice now, just barely escaped from no doubt a far worse fate. But luck only gets you so far. The next time you see David, will it be in a hospital?

Or will it be in a morgue?

Enough walking on tenterhooks. You can’t stand this anymore, not for one more minute. You open your mouth to ask—no, to demand the truth, but a knock at your door has David’s expression shifting to relief.

No. No. You sit silently. You can wait them out. But David twists in his seat.

“Coming!” he calls. You snarl at him, but he lurches to his feet and yanks open the door to reveal—

“Bucky?”

Bucky stands frozen in your doorway, his eyes latched onto David. At the sound of your voice, he blinks, but there’s still a world of questions in his eyes as you patter over.

“David, my brother,” you tell him. “This… is James.” You don’t say Bucky. Bucky is for you, and just a few others. Not for David, with all his lies.

David offers his left hand; the injured right one is stuffed in his pocket. Bucky just stares. His left sleeve is pinned up. No prosthetic tonight, either. He always seems to take it off when he comes up to your floor.

It takes a moment for David to register that Bucky’s missing most of an arm.

“Oh,” David says. “Sorry. I was just leaving anyway. Bye, sis.”

He slips past Bucky and rushes down the stairs without giving you another look. All that’s left of him are the bloody linens stuffed in the sink. You rub your forehead and lean against your door, shooting Bucky a wan smile. You don’t usually see him two days in a row, and with that you suddenly remember last night.

Your hand tightens on the door, your heart runs a quick beat. He’d touched you, he’d kissed your hand; you’d touched yourself—

“What brings you here?” you blurt, face burning.

“I just wanted to tell you I’m going out of town,” Bucky says slowly. “For work.”

His eyes slide to your sink. It’s an effort not to angle yourself to hide it. If you do that, you’ll just look guilty.

“More nosebleeds?” he asks.

You force a smile, as much answer as you can give. Lying to Bucky… there’s not much point, is there? He seems to know it’s a cover as much as you do.

“Well, be careful,” he says. When you raise your eyebrows, he amends it to, “Take care of yourself.”

“Oh,” you tell him, “I do.”

Bucky nods, his eyes on your face. He’s a few feet away, and the light in the hall is dim. But you can still see the curve of his jaw, the shape of his lips, the curl of his hair across his forehead. You can still see, and your heart is tight from seeing. And now he’s going away.

“How long will you be gone?” you ask.

“Not too long, I hope,” he tells you. There’s something strange in his face, something you can’t put a finger on. He opens his mouth, closes it. “Back Sunday, maybe.”

“Okay.”

“I—take care of yourself, will ya?”

You blink. It’s urgency in his face. Urgency. Why?

“I always do,” you say.

Bucky lets out a slow breath. He nods. “Okay,” he says. His hand twitches at his side, and he steps back quickly. “Well, bye.” He turns on his heel and flees nearly as fast as your brother had. You’re left standing stock-still in the doorway until you regain your senses and slam the door shut.

What is it about you that sends the men you care most about running?

#bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #bucky barnes x y/n #winter soldier imagine #becca writes

[thebestkoreantravelblog]

My Korean Tutor!

When the university I was studying at offered to set me up with a current student to help with my Korean, it seemed like a wonderful idea. Traveling abroad can be extremely lonely, and I’d always wanted to have a friend to practice Korean with at will. I wondered what she’d be liked, what she’d be majoring in, what kind of fun excursions we’d have together. At the end of my language class that day, my teacher handed me a small slip of white paper, clipped from a spreadsheet. I didn’t know the word for gender in Korean, but I could tell by the name and by the “M” placed under the column that my prospective Korean bffffff was a dude... and a CS major at that.  

It’s not like I’m exactly intimidated by dudes. A lot of my friends are dudes. In fact, I have more dude friends than chick friends. My two older brothers babysat a lot for me when I was young, and in school I’d always been attracted to male friend groups where my crass sense of humor, tomboyish way of dressing, and introverted nature seemed more welcome. 

But sometimes, for reasons I can’t explain, working with dudes makes me more nervous than working with girls. Really it’s only certain dudes. Some dudes give me the vibe that they’re highly aware of the fact that I’m female, and these same dudes often give me the feeling like they’re evaluating me in some way. I can’t really explain how, but before I even met him (for privacy’s sake, I’ll call him Jinyoung) I felt like he was one of those dudes. 

I didn’t have WIFI access outside of my small goshiwon (more on that later), so I texted Jinyoung a whole three paragraphs describing where I’d be standing, what I’d be wearing, what time I’d be there, the works. Looking back, it’s so laughable. I was a foreigner! Certainly, without any help at all, Jinyoung would have been able to identify the only white girl in Gwanak standing awkwardly in front of a 7/11 as his tutee. 

“안녕세요.” 

“Uhh, uhh, annyeong!” 

“어디에 갈까요?” 

Whoa there, buddy. You’re breaking out the Korean already?!?!?

“Uh, uh, geuncho ay, geuncho ay Starbuck-sseuga isseoyo.” 

Wordlessly, Jinyoung began walking in the direction I pointed, and said some things in Korean that sounded to me like “fngjdfksgjdkfgjdfkg”. As I followed along with anxiety already firing through every nerve in my body, I thought to myself, “Damn it. It makes it worse that he’s hot!” 

And so began the odd and very interesting relationship between me and my Korean tutor. 

#korean travel #여행 #한국어 #learning korean #travel #blog #experience #photo

[drynights-funnights]

Videotik Review

When pop feeling Taylor Swift introduced her solitary" Me" in April 2019, the tune went viral promptly. It Includes Brenden Urie of Stress! At The Disco as well as the music, the movie is among the both of them dancing and vocal singing at a kaleidoscope of light colors. Not long after the launch, Swift's TikTok accounts published a clip in the motion picture utilizing all the Hashtag, #AnotherLikeMe, as well as it is a verse in the song. "Show us the very best re-creation of the dancing, utilize MEdancechallenge, and also we'll situate our favs," the accounts posted. A great form of TikTo marketing would be to use VideoTik which you can see a full review of here https://youtu.be/efMfu9-PWaU

A week after, #AnotherLikeMe had actually gotten greater than 3 million perspectives. Also, #Medancechallenge had actually acquired over 500,000 point of views on TikTok. It ended up being a promotion triumph for Swift.

If you are uncertain yet why as well as exactly how to embrace this funny and also tongue-in-cheek stage, this is our four finest TikTok advertising assistance.

1) Hashtag Challenge

In 2018, warm late-night TELEVISION host Jimmy Fallon contested The Tonight Show audiences to release videos of these rolling about on the floor, for example, specific tumbleweeds to Western songs on TikTok from the #tumbleweedchallenge. By ancient 2019, over 8,000 #tumbleweedchallenge flicks were shared around TikTok. The response made him comply with a 2nd TikTok difficulty, requesting his audiences to share clips of these drawing mustaches in their faces with an indelible pen.

The challenge would certainly be a large section of TikTok's beauty and accomplishment. Anytime, there'll be numerous obstacles that consumers are participating in. The idea of the #HashtagChallenge includes customers lugging a concept, whether funny, unusual, or requiring some gift, as well as iterating on it utilizing their flicks. Brands use the struggle in precisely the exact same manner Taylor Swift failed by difficult TikTok individuals to make films inspired by the brand's authentic video clip.

2) Creative, Viral Articles

Back in April 2019the the German football team Bayern Munich established a formal profile TikTok preparing to get to prospective young lovers. Although a soccer team seems to be a not likely match for a program that spreads viral, so 15-second films of young adults executing quirky, humorous items, football players' disposition to observe their intentions by dancing on the location made this an ideal video game.

Bayern Munich's TikTok material plan, run in the club headquarters in Germany, involves the social networks group uploading a couple of clips every week of gamers strutting their things. Given that the group began its account, it's obtained virtually 80 000 lovers, as well as its initial 11 short articles have seen more than 4 million events. A great form of TikTo marketing would be to use VideoTik which you can see a full review of here https://youtu.be/efMfu9-PWaU

In 2018 in the united states alone, over 26 million active customers invested, generally, 46 mins on a daily basis over the TikTok. Nonetheless, together with the program still in its infant footwear, there is a true chance for entrepreneurs to increase their makers' achievement as well as susceptability given that it's not yet as puffed up as systems like Instagram as well as Snapchat. Spontaneous, viral articles can, as a result, get you a whole lot farther, in which there is less competition for customers' interest. It's likewise a lot more cost-effective to enlarge your promo on TikTok should you would love to venture right into promotions. The majority of suppliers using the program have started tiny, with this type of natural web content to inspect the waters.

Along with the program offering users the unlimited capability to come to be imaginative, besides, it works specifically well for makers who are offering innovative web content as well as aid. Complying with GlobalWebIndexout of 10 TikTok, consumers share tunes they enjoy to social media, also 53 percent share tunes videos primarily. That is exactly why musicians such as Swift was among the extremely initial to capture the possibility TikTok was introducing.

3) Takeover Ads

The use of advertisements on TikTok remains reasonably new as well as just began in January 2019. When it is mosting likely to cost you cash, it's furthermore a guaranteed technique to obtain eyeballs in your brand name, especially when done properly. There are lots of techniques to utilize promotions on TikTok, in addition to the program, which supplies efficient gauging metrics like clicks, impacts, and also one of a kind reach to establish the achievement of your advertisements.

Takeover ads can be purchased for a brand-new touchdown web page or Hashtag barrier. Additionally, TikTok supplies promotions unique to classes daily. This suggests simply one brand may take control of a course each day. Brand Takeover ads could be in the type of still pictures, motion pictures, or perhaps GIFs.

4) Hashtag Branded Ads

If you are afraid your hashtag difficulty will certainly not remove because you require to it, then you may also buy a hashtag challenge promotion on TikTok. The really initial brand name to do this was style tag Guess along with all the #InMyDenim difficulty. Every customer that began the TikTok program was introduced the battle, which takes a look at started utilizing popular, and also prominent material developers like @ourfire (2.3 million lovers) and additionally @madison_willow (+983 000 fans ). The #InMyDenim difficulty gotten seen over 36 million perspectives.

Sponsored hashtag obstacles are embeded in the kind of a banner ad on the page, which will route individuals right into some challenge page comprising instructions for your obstacle in addition to existing web content using this Hashtag. It'll cost you a little bit of money, where natural hashtags obstacles will certainly not but may deserve your time.

https://zebracaaakes.tumblr.com/post/619361026159362048 https://funkycoldmajima.tumblr.com/post/619361026364850176 https://martasiilva.tumblr.com/post/619361026987687936 https://equally-angry.tumblr.com/post/619361027009773568 https://moviestoker.tumblr.com/post/619361026966700032 https://catgovernment.tumblr.com/post/619361026948890624 https://fiascoworldwide.tumblr.com/post/619361026831466496 https://leodamagan.wordpress.com/2020/05/28/videotik-review/ https://mainstreetsannapolishome.wordpress.com/2020/05/28/videotik-review/ https://twitter.com/1249974936157818880/status/1265982416956555264 https://twitter.com/1249982658635091968/status/1265982417338277890 https://twitter.com/1249970126641864710/status/1265982416914710528 https://hiddenfairyland.wordpress.com/2020/05/28/videotik-review/ http://ipricecanoneosrebelcheap.blogspot.com/2020/05/videotik-review.html

#videotik #tiktok #review

[sanchez25harder-blog]

Do you think you may use video marketing to assist you promote your products? Have you any idea the way to get the job done? You need to understand the correct information and data as a way to successfully style a video advertising and marketing program. Keep reading for additional information pertinent info to help you.

Observing effective viral video lessons is the easiest method to get a sense of the thing that makes a video preferred. Keep up-to-date with new styles, check out social networking sites along with other sites your audience loves and place with each other a summary of qualities you understand within the viral video lessons the truth is. Video clips can easily be utilized to clarify your products or services to prospective customers. Finding how the merchandise operates may help your customers discover how to make use of product and why buying from you is much better to other dealers. So, finding out how to make videos to describe what you really are promoting will quickly improve your subscriber base. An excellent idea for individuals beginning with video marketing is usually to choose wonderful titles. Ensure your titles are related and fascinating to get visitors in. This primary impression could make or crack your video's success. Spend some time to think about imaginative and related titles for productive online video marketing. Make sure you take a camera together with you for the open public occasions you attend. During this time period, solicit on-digital camera interviews with many other professionals -- a good brief clip will work. Alternatively, you could possibly change the video clips to make and add a documentary of sorts. If you are supplying a general public speak, ensure somebody documents it. Do you offer a variety of providers in your business? If you have, think about using video marketing to describe the normal professional services in your organization. Create a short movie exhibiting each kind of assistance you do and just how a consumer can decide the amount of support they want. This will likely advise your consumer and likely improve income. So, demonstrate with online video all the things that will make the services you provide a cut higher than the relax. With your online video marketing, allow the viewer know why it is basically that you supply the service or product that you simply do. They can easily see everything you offer, but inform them the explanation for it. Wide open, real and honest conversation engenders believe in, which engages new target audience and retains prior consumers. Video clips must be personalized to capture the viewer's attention. Be exciting, friendly, relax and comfortable as well as your watchers won't alter the funnel, as we say. The greater open and truthful you will be, the higher acquired you will end up. Adhere to subject areas you're really excited about as that will turn out within your manner. Be dvd duplication service near me ! The greater phony or contrived you seem the less likely viewers are to watch your whole online video. When you can't study a script without sounding like a dork, then don't. Adhere to your identiity and represent yourself as well as your firm and also the video clip will turn out great. Use videos for promoting your web sites or social media marketing. Somebody that sees you on a relevant video discussing website might not know you have a appearance on social networking way too. Share your data across a number of web sites for increased traffic. Once you weblink your video clip in your social websites information, that may truly increase web traffic and product sales. Videos which can be unpredictable job. Provided you can make a move with your movie which happens to be surprising and yet not corny or lame, you'll get your viewer and they'll discuss the recording with loved ones. Go along with adorable, alarming or humorous and prevent gory or juvenile sense of humor whenever possible. Make thought-provoking video lessons. No matter what your video clip is around, try to have your viewers get in touch with you regarding the content material. This could be done by possessing comments empowered in your videos. You could potentially consider asking for their opinions about anything you talked about, or you might end your videos with queries that you'd like them to response about related topics. Use colours which can be pleasing. This is true for your set up, clothes and then make up. Some shades are simply not attractive and may very easily turn people away and off to your online video. Primary colors are classic and fascinating to many people. However neon colours can turn a lot of people apart. It can be difficult to be aware what the topic of your video should be. One of the better approaches to determine what is going to be productive is by considering what other people did. How-to video lessons, commentary on current events, and interviews with individuals "within the know" are subject areas which may have confirmed fascinating to web users. It really is tough to challenge the point that online video marketing has played out a large part in the achievements of numerous organizations in recent years. Nevertheless, with out a great deal of in-range understanding about the best ways to begin utilizing marketing with video, great outcomes can be elusive. Keep your assistance in this particular item in close proximity as you may engage in your video marketing preparation.

[movietvtechgeeks]

Latest story from https://movietvtechgeeks.com/nene-leakes-lands-rich-bravo-deal-rhoa-plus-bella-thorne-scott-disick/

NeNe Leakes lands rich Bravo deal for RHOA plus Bella Thorne on Scott Disick

NeNe Leakes didn't mind having to wait a few seasons before returning to Bravo's Real Housewives of Atlanta as that only made her price tag rise more as Phaedra Parks fell apart on the show. After some very intense negotiations, Leakes will be earning more than $2 million for this upcoming season. This will include some sweet perks that will have her returning to her famous mantra "I'm rich, bitch!" These perks include her getting the personal treatment she loved in the past so she can juggle personal engagement and any new shows she might be on. Ryan Murphy won't be including her in anything after using her for Glee and The New Normal, so she'll be looking for another producer who loves a 'hot mess' as Murphy as always said. Bravo will let her promote her HSN Clothing, SWAGG Boutique along with hosting Fashion Police on E! Big news for fans of Bravo’s reality series Real Housewives of Atlanta. On Wednesday, it was announced that Housewives alum NeNe Leakes would be officially returning to the show. Back in 2015, NeNe exited the weekly drama-filled show and proceeded to pursue other opportunities in the entertainment industry. In fact, the humorous star has since been a facet on E!’s show Fashion Police. On Wednesday, Nene took to her Twitter to share the big news with her fans and followers. Alongside a photo of her holding up a drink and wearing a crown, NeNe captioned, “It’s been a long process, but we’ve finally reached an agreement! All hail the Queen for season 10 of [Real Housewives of Atlanta].” NeNe Leakes, Twitter post: https://twitter.com/NeNeLeakes/status/875089492339810304 While NeNe is returning to RHOA, it has been reported that fellow cast member Phaedra Parks will not be on the 10th installment of the reality series. After she was caught spreading malicious sexual assault rumors about her costar Kandi Burruss and her husband Todd Tucker, Phaedra’s career as a professional Housewife has supposedly come to an end. Filming has begun, and you can be sure that NeNe has negotiated to be a central storyline with her return. Kandi Burruss, Porsha Williams, Cynthia Bailey, Kenya Moore and Sheree Whitfield are all expected to return full-time. Williams’ friend Shamea Morton will make appearances alongside Kim Zolciak. Stay tuned for more details about the upcoming season of Real Housewives of Atlanta. Remember a few weeks back when 19-year-old former Disney actress Bella Thorne was spotted getting super close to troubled reality star Scott Disick? While their extremely short-lived fling may have lasted only a few days, people are still talking about the unexpected pairing. Inevitably, Bella decided to candidly address her run-in with Scott in Cannes in a brand-new interview with Complex magazine. When asked how she met Scott, the Famous in Love star told the magazine, “I throw a lot of house parties and that’s how I meet these people. They come to my house party and they’re like ‘Yo, I heard you’re having a party.’ I’m just like ‘Okay, French Montana. Hi, French.’ That’s how I met Scott - he came to a house party of mine [with French] and I was like ‘hi.’” Later in her interview, Bella went on to explain exactly what was going on at the time Scott was photographed blatantly touching her chest. The star gushed, “Honestly, my nipple came out of my bikini, and he tried to fix it for me, and it looks like he’s grabbing my boob. That’s very nice of you to actually not sit there and stare at my nipple because my boobs are big - they come out of my shirt all the time! You can’t keep those suckers down.” While the two seemed to have been enjoying each other’s company at the time, Bella claims that she just didn’t fit in with Scott’s hardcore partying lifestyle. Bella told Complex, “Scott is really nice, sweet and charming. I don’t drink, and he really drinks a lot. And it just ended up…I just wasn’t down, I was like, ‘I got to leave.’” The star went on to elaborate, “We were [at Cannes] a day and a half before I was like I’m booking my flight and leaving. I love to go out and have fun, I love to f***ing dance, but I just don’t party hardcore like that, and it was way too much for me. I was like, ‘Woah, this is not the way I live my life, bruh.’” Ever since she and Scott abruptly ended their flirtation, Bella has been getting close to her ex-boyfriend, actor Greg Sulkin. Conspiracy theorist Alex Jones says he'll release an unedited version of his controversial interview with Megyn Kelly set to air Sunday on NBC. Jones said on his Infowars website that the full interview he recorded will counter Kelly's upcoming report, which he labeled a "fraud." The site touted the interview's availability Thursday night, but it was not online after midnight EST. The Infowars host posted a video online, along with a teaser clip, around 8:45 p.m. and claimed he would be posting the full tape on the conspiracy website later in the evening. “I’ve never done this in 22 years, I’ve never recorded another journalist, but I knew it was a fraud, that it was a lie,” Jones said in the video, recalling how Kelly approached him about the interview. “God, she was like, ‘I want to get steaks with you, I’m obsessed with you, oh my God,’ wiggling around in her seat. It was all crap,” he explained. “I knew it was all a lie. I said Sandy Hook happened, and she wouldn’t even put it in the promo pieces. So we’re going to release, oh yea, we’re going to release the pre-interview. And then when they put their fraud out on Sunday — which I’ve asked them not to air because they’re misrepresenting who I am and saying I’m as bad as Saddam Hussein, or Jeffrey Dahmer, or Charles Manson — we’ve got the whole interviews here…We’ve got it all…It’s all going to come out.” The clip that accompanied Jones’ tweet featured a short audio recording of Kelly, seemingly assuring the 43-year-old that her questions wouldn’t be tough. “All I can do is give you my word and I don’t double-cross,” she can be heard saying at one point. “My goal is for your listeners and the left — you know, who will be watching some on NBC — to say, ‘Wow, that’s really interesting,” she adds. “It’s not going to be some gotcha hit piece, I promise you that.” Kelly and NBC have been getting blasted by families affected by the Sandy Hook Elementary School massacre, with several victims’ parents writing letters to the network — urging them to scrap the interview — due to Jones’ prior beliefs that the shooting was staged. “What I think we’re doing is journalism,” Kelly has previously said about the exchange, which is currently set to air on her new NBC show, “Sunday Night.” “The bottom line is that while it’s not always popular, it’s important.” Jones, who has since admitted that the Sandy Hook shooting was real, said in his preview video on Thursday that Kelly and NBC took his words out of context and edited his interview to make it seem like he still was on the fence about the subject. “You’re gonna hear what I actually said,” Jones claimed. “Like when it cuts, and I’m sitting there and they go, ‘Oh, you don’t think Sandy Hook happened.’ And I go, ‘Yea! Well, you don’t care about dead Iraqi kids!’ I’m [really] like, ‘Hey, they did fake babies in incubators, they did fake dead kids, that’s why we have to question this. I don’t hate the families. We question everything.'” NBC did not immediately respond to a request for comment. A backlash greeted NBC's decision to book Jones, who has questioned whether the killing of 26 people in 2012 at an elementary school in Newton, Connecticut, was a hoax. Sources close to Jones have commented that he has been using the NBC to his advantage and threatening to leak the full interview and then not doing it is nothing new for the conspiracy theorist. "With Alex, it's not about getting the truth out. It's all about exploiting every opportunity to line his pockets any way he can," the source, commented. "Fifteen years ago, he was more about the truth, but once he realized how to make easy money, he suddenly didn't care about selling out." A new round of deliberations is raising the prospects that Bill Cosby's sexual assault trial will end with a verdict instead of a hung jury. Jurors who have appeared stressed and even angry seemed more upbeat as they left court outside Philadelphia Thursday night than on previous nights, despite enduring another marathon session. The sequestered jurors had deliberated about 30 hours before telling Judge Steven O'Neill earlier Thursday that they couldn't reach a unanimous decision on any of the counts against the 79-year-old comedian. The judge told them to try again for a verdict. As the jurors left for the day, O'Neill heaped praise on them, thanking them for their dedication and the sacrifice they've made being 300 miles (482 kilometers) from home in the Pittsburgh area. "I want to reiterate how proud I am of each and every one of you," O'Neill said as he sent the jury back to the hotel. "I thank you from the bottom of my heart for everything that you've done." They will get back to it Friday morning. Cosby is charged with three felony counts of aggravated indecent assault stemming from Andrea Constand's allegations that he drugged and violated her at his suburban Philadelphia home in 2004. Each count carries a maximum 10-year prison term, though the counts could be merged at sentencing if Cosby is convicted. Cosby's lawyer said he and Constand were lovers sharing a consensual moment of intimacy. The jury of seven men and five women have deliberated for nearly 40 hours since getting the case Monday. Cosby's spokesman said the impasse showed that jurors doubted Constand's story. "They're conflicted about the inconsistencies in Ms. Constand's testimony," spokesman Andrew Wyatt said. "And they're hearing Mr. C.'s testimony, and he's extremely truthful. And that's created this doubt." Constand's lawyer, Dolores Troiani, said only that the "jury is apparently working very hard." The district attorney's office declined to comment. Dozens of women have come forward to say Cosby had drugged and assaulted them, but this was the only case to result in criminal charges. The jury must come to a unanimous decision to convict or acquit. If the panel can't break the deadlock, the judge could declare a hung jury and a mistrial. In that case, prosecutors would get four months to decide whether they want to retry the TV star or drop the charges. The case has already helped demolish his image as America's Dad, cultivated during his eight-year run as kindly Dr. Cliff Huxtable on the top-rated "The Cosby Show" in the 1980s and '90s. The families of the victims of the Sandy Hook massacre have sent a legal letter to NBC News chairman Andy Lack urging him not to broadcast Megyn Kelly‘s interview with controversial InfoWars host Alex Jones. The letter, from the law firm Koskoff, Koskoff and Bieder who represent several of the families who lost loved ones in the 2012 tragedy, reads, “Airing Ms. Kelly’s interview implicitly endorses the notion that Mr. Jones’ lies are actually “claims” that are worthy of serious debate; and in doing so it exponentially enhances the suffering and distress of our clients. For that NBC is responsible. “We urge you to consider the ethical and legal ramifications of broadcasting this interview to millions of Americans. By now, it should be clear to NBC that airing the interview will cause serious emotional distress to dozens of Sandy Hook families. ” Describing the pain the families still suffer, the letter states, “Parents have marked their children’s seventh, eighth, and ninth birthdays not with wonder and joyful chaos, but with the most profound loneliness this world knows. Erica Lafferty walked through a graveyard in her wedding dress and veil so that she could feel close to her mother, Dawn Lafferty Hochsprung – a woman who died trying to protect other parents’ children. “Then there are all the other days; regular Thursdays like this one where a sound or a smell can transform the unrelenting ache of grief into intense, physical pain. Surely, we can agree that these families have suffered enough already and that they will continue to suffer enough to last several lifetimes. “Which is why we cannot fathom – from a moral, ethical or legal standpoint – NBC’s decision to amplify the voice of a man who has made a living debasing that suffering and smearing our clients’ names. “Over the last few years, Alex Jones has weaponized his radio show to publish false and defamatory statements about our clients: chief among them that they are actors perpetrating a massive fraud on the American public by faking the deaths of their loved ones. “NBC is not responsible for the harassment and abuse Alex Jones has cruelly visited on our clients. But, by choosing to air his interview with Ms. Kelly – at all, let alone at prime time on Father’s Day – NBC has tendered its good name and considerable influence to provide Mr. Jones with something he has never enjoyed: legitimacy. “This decision may be driven by the simple urge to gain an edge in a well-publicized ratings war, but it has devastating human consequences as well.” The letter was sent on behalf of Mark and Jacqueline Barden, who lost their 7-year-old son Daniel, Hannah D’Avino, the sister of Sandy Hook teacher Rachel D’Avino, Nicole and Ian Hockley whose son Dylan, 6, was killed. They also speak for Erica Lafferty who lost her mother Dawn, the principal of Sandy Hook Elementary, Veronique Pozner, the mother of Noah, 6, who was killed, the family of Victoria Soto, a first-grade teacher who died trying to shield her first-graders, and Francine and David Wheeler who lost their son Benjamin, 6.

Movie TV Tech Geeks News

#Alex Jones #Bella Thorne #Bill Cosby #Bravo #Featured #Megyn Kelly #NeNe Leakes #Real Housewives Of Atlanta #Scott Disick