#fluent in English and Dutch

[in-sightpublishing]

Matthew Scillitani on Machine Learning and Family

Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen Publication (Outlet/Website): The Good Men Project Publication Date (yyyy/mm/dd): 2024/07/23 Matthew Scillitani, member of the Glia Society and Giga Society, is a software engineer living in Cary, North Carolina. He is of Italian and British lineage, and is fluent in English and Dutch (reading and writing). He holds a B.S. in Computer Science and a B.A. in…

[hemaris]

i love u book translators ❤️

[laurasimonsdaughter]

how many languages do you speak? :o

That's a very cruel question to ask a multilingual person, I have never spoken a language in my life

[canary-song]

my classmate will never know that he accidentally gave me a new name to go by a year after I stopped running into him. Jiang Anguo, if you're out there..

[ef-1]

You speak dutch?

I speak afrikaans, so I understand Dutch

[decompositie]

i was at this art of writing reunion which were classes given in english granted but almost all the people i talked to were dutch and when i told them i also wrote stuff in dutch they ALL were like ew why. uhm. because thats the language we speak

[vogelmeister]

just found a whole ass disclaimer on wings of love where i straight up go "i'm not dutch. i do not claim to be. therefore as a result the dutch here is flawed. um. don't shoot me for the character of merel rooijakkers."

[tragedycollectivesflagz]

English translation for my bio!!

| ◟ Ray 𓈒 minor, block me if you're an 18+ posting blog ✦

| relationship stat: not looking for a relationship

| ⌗ prns — they/them

| sexuality(s)𓈒 omni ( male preference )

| ★ gender ; agender

| ◟ undiagnosed depression 𓈒 working towards therapy

◟ nicknames 𓈒 Litterally anything you can think of for me

◟ will be posting 𓈒 pfps! typically with LGBTQ+ frames

◟tonetags 𓈒 please use if your going to joke around with me

◟ venting 𓈒 mutuals only and ask beforehand

◟ 🇺🇸 & 🇳🇱 ( dutch ) 𓈒

★ Extra(s) ; strawpage for info: 💫

[queer-crusader]

I need to make a fucking bingo card for Dutch films and TV shows (would probably just make the viewing experience worse but. Honestly I'm already ticking off the bingo boxes in my head even without a real card)

[veilk]

[Plaintext: (i’m counting languages where you took one class for a semester if you retained any of it congrats you are a little multilingual) /End PT]

how many languages do you speak?

(i’m counting languages where you took one class for a semester if you retained any of it congrats you are a little multilingual)

(reblog for bigger sample size!)

[bird-likes-to-fandom]

ride the cyclone fan. gripping your shoulders. Mischa is NOT stupid. he's not an idiot. he is canonically a polyglot, fluent in English, Ukrainian, Russian, and some Dutch. He is a poet, a lyricist, a media analyst, and a GOOD one at that (even if he gets the movie title wrong). he is thoughtful and smart, and YOU have a bias against people who do not speak English as a first language, even if it means you disregard canon characterization for a punchline to a bad and overdone joke.

[translatingpostsinfrench]

french thing is being a second gen moroccan immigrant. your mom was born there but grew up in france, she speaks flawless french (tho people often assume she barely does because she wears a hijab) and amazigh (also spanish, english, dutch and italian but still she wears a hijab). your dad isn't as fluent in french (tho he taught himself spanish from tv), so when they get married, he tells your mom to speak with him in french only. and when you are born, he tells her to speak with you in french only. probably to avoid staining your tongue with an accent - as if your face and name didn't give it away anyway, actually it doesn't, you are the most white passing of your siblings because you don't have a typical arabic name and you speak french so good and also you're openly a dyke so people wouldn't think you are a bougnoul too because that'd be too much. but then you're 8 and they want you to speak arabic, god's language (and only god's language, family's language is amazigh (tho it was introduced as an official moroccan language in 2011 only, tho everytime you tell people most people on your family doesn't know arabic but do know amazigh you have to give a speech on what is even amazigh) and they send you to the arab classes given at the mosque which you fucking hate because which kid likes extra school on the weekends so after years you can barely read arabic. but then you are 13 and you have to speak to your cousin in english - she's learning french at school like every morrocan kid but probably hates it as much as you hated arabic classes. but then you are 16 and your dad's side grandma is dead and you never had a real conversation with her because she only spoke amazigh, not french not arabic. but then you are 19 and every aunt and uncle is teasing you for not speaking amazigh, and you wish you could just start learning it but there's no duolingo classes for it, the best and maybe only way to learn is to get someone to teach you, and they laugh but don't teach you. but then you are 21 and when you actually get and want to practice arabic or amazigh you can't sound out half the syllables. but then you are reading yet another article where a "journalist" is whining about french teens and tweens using arabic words as slang (you see kids as white as your left asscheek using arab words you didn't ever heard of), which is ugly and indicative of poor language, whether it's hagra or mashallah or wesh or wallah, it's all gross arab trash that those damn kids made the new cool thing thanks to rap and social medias or something, and it's a problem. but then you're crying.

[meazalykov]

crashout

parentalfigure!pernille harder x parentalfigure!magdalena erikkson x f!reader

warnings: swearing. mutual aggression with reader and opponent player. reader is intended to be between 17-20 years old. platonic fic!!!

sprinting across the pitch, the mia san mia in the crowd blasts into your ears, the 24/25 red kit sticks to your skin as sweat beads down your forehead. the red feels like a second skin at this point, a far cry from the blue you wore just over a season ago at chelsea. 

london is a memory now… you’d packed your bags and traded it for munich’s crisp air before pernille made her own move herself. you beat her here by a year, a decision that felt right even if it meant leaving behind the familiarity of everything. 

pernille’s been your anchor through it all. she’s more than a teammate…she’s the closest thing you’ve got to family or a parent figure. growing up, you didn’t have much of that. neglect left its mark, hollowed out spaces where parents should’ve been, and it’s shaped you in ways you don’t always like to admit. 

emotionally, you’re a bit of a mess. you seem quick to flare, slow to settle. however, pernille’s steady. she’s got this quiet strength, a way of looking at you that makes you feel seen without being judged. you call her your parental figure, and she’s never shied away from the role. 

also there’s magda, her partner, who’s just as much a part of your life now. you live next door to them in a cozy munich suburb, and magda’s warmth with her dry humor and gentle nudges has earned her a spot as another motherly presence. 

still, it’s pernille you’re tighter with, the one you turn to when the world feels like it is too much.

every night, you’re at their place and having dinner together is an every evening occurance with pernille stirring something on the stove, magda setting the table, you sprawled on their couch like it’s your own. they’ve built a home around you, filled the gaps your childhood left behind.

today, it’s not about quiet evenings or shared meals. it’s wolfsburg, a match that’s got your pulse hammering from the first whistle. 

hours before the stakes were high and the tackles were brutal. bayern was losing 1-0 and you were already on edge, frustration simmering beneath your skin. sometime right after the second half, lynn from wolfsburg catches you with a late challenge. 

you stumble, boots skidding, and whip around to face her. she mutters something under her breath…the dutch word for stupid slicing through the noise. 

you’re not fluent, but you’ve picked up enough from teammates and travels to know exactly what she said.

you knew she called you stupid from the look on her face. the dam breaks in that same moment. you storm toward her, chest heaving, and unleash a barrage of curses…english, german, a chaotic mix of whatever spills out in the heat of the moment. 

your voice is sharp, venomous, cutting through the damp air as you close the distance between you. lynn’s eyes flash with surprise, then defiance, but before she can snap back, the pitch explodes into chaos. 

teammates and opponents swarm in, shouts overlapping as hands from pernille and glodis grab at your arms, and your shoulders pulling you away. you’re still yelling, words tumbling out in a furious blur, when pernille’s voice cuts through like a blade. 

“stop it, right now!” she says, her grip on your elbow unyielding. pernille’s tone’s not loud, but it’s heavy, serious in a way that makes your stomach twist. you shake your head, muttering under your breath, and wrench yourself free, stalking back to your position. 

the ref’s already got the yellow card out, waving it in your face. you barely glance at it. 

whatever.

the whistle blows later, and luckily you guys won 2-1 but you’re still pissed, pacing the locker room, boots scuffing the floor as you replay the clash in your head. pernille catches your eye across the room, her expression unreadable. 

“we’ll talk at home,” she says simply, and you didn’t argue. 

you know it’s coming.

many hours later, you’re still slouched on their couch, the familiar scent of magda’s cooking lingering in the air even though dinner’s long over. magda’s beside you, her presence a quiet comfort, her knee brushing yours as she scrolls through her phone. 

pernille’s standing, arms crossed, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun. she’s not mad, not exactly, but there’s a weight to her gaze that makes you shift uncomfortably. 

“why’d you get so upset out there y/n?” she asks, her voice calm but direct, like she’s peeling back layers to get at the truth.

you shrug, staring at the floor. 

“we were down 1-0. i was already pissed off. she was there, running her mouth. i had to let it out and put her in her place.” your words come out rough, still laced with that lingering heat.

pernille tilts her head, studying you. 

“it’s football,” she says. 

“things get heated. words get thrown around. but you don’t need to go off like that… cussing her out and somehow making it personal.” you scoff, rolling your eyes, the defiance bubbling up again. 

“she did it first and called me stupid.”

“she said it in dutch,” pernille points out, stepping closer. 

“she didn’t think you’d even understand. and since when do you know dutch anyway?” her brow arches, curious, but you dodge the question, jutting your chin out instead. 

“doesn’t matter. she meant it and i felt it.”

magda sets her phone down, her voice softer as she chimes in. 

“still doesn’t mean you have to match her fire with your own. you’re better than that.” you glance at her, her steady brown eyes meeting yours, and something in you softens, just a little. pernille nods, picking up the thread. 

“you’ve got to control it,” she says. 

“not every fight is worth picking. that yellow card is a warning. learn from it and don’t be stupid in the next game, yeah?”

you lean back, arms crossed, the tension still coiled tight in your chest. 

“lynn started it,” you mutter, stubborn. 

pernille sighs, crouching down so she’s at your level, her hands resting on her knees. 

“maybe she did but you took it further and you know that you did not need to. you’re stronger than that…on the pitch, off it. you’ve got us to lean on, you know that.”

the room goes quiet, the weight of her words settling over you. magda reaches over, squeezes your shoulder lightly. 

“we’ve all been there,” she says. 

“losing your head’s easy but keeping it’s the hard part.”

you exhale, long and slow, the fight draining out of you bit by bit. pernille’s right…magda too. 

you know it, even if it’s hard to swallow. 

“fine,” you say finally, voice low. 

“lesson learned. yes including the yellow card and all.”

pernille smiles, small but genuine, and straightens up. 

“good. we’re settled then.” she moves to sit on the armrest of the couch, close enough that you feel her presence like a tether. magda nudges you with her elbow, a silent check-in, and you nod. 

the anger’s still there. it is a faint ember, but it’s fading. 

masterlist

[zoueriemandzijnopmars]

Oh yeah as an English second language speaker, I would say it’s for me probably the easiest of the languages I’ve attempted learning. I think this is because:

1. My native language is Dutch, which is pretty closely related to English. I really think this is the most important factor in whether a language is deemed easy to learn or not.

2. The sheer amount of content that’s available in English. I’ve also had a relatively easy time learning Swedish as it’s also closely related, but it’s way harder to find fun shows to watch, books to read, etc.

3. I personally find English grammar pretty simple, nouns are not gendered, verb conjugations are fairly regular and there are not that many different types (looking at French here) and there are basically no grammatical cases (as opposed to German which is also closely related to Dutch - and I understand a lot of German, but speaking it myself, not so much)

I would say that indeed spelling is the most complicated thing about English, or in my case since I mostly learned through written text, the pronunciation of written words. But like that is something I mess up once or twice and then I know.

I always feel like, "English is so difficult" is just monolinguals trying to feel special, like their language is as hard as walking to school uphill both ways in a snowstorm. Because firstly, every language is equally difficult/easy for babies to learn as a first language (citation: graduate level language development courses). Secondly, lots of languages have messed up writing/spelling systems. And thirdly, learning a language as an adult depends on your first language and the level of similarity. As in, if you know English, Dutch and German (same root) and French (shared vocabulary) are easier to learn as an adult. They have whole language root maps that show you:

The more you learn about other languages, you'll realize they are just as weird as English. Hard to spell stuff in this language? Well according to my colleague who speaks Farsi, they have 4 "z"s, 3 "s"s, and two "t"s that make no sound differences and have to be memorized for spelling because they came from Arabic (citation needed, but the Google seems to back this up). Japanese has three different alphabets. French, Swedish, Faroese, Tibetan, Mongolian and Hebrew also have "deep orthographies" meaning that the relationship between letters and their sounds is less direct than we wish (which may cause a higher incidence of dyslexia), just like English.

English isn't some special language that's so difficult to learn. If it was, I really doubt there would be 750 million second language speakers worldwide. And this isn't just coming from a random internet person, Stephan Pinker, a linguist, has a whole chapter in one of his books about how English grammar is surprisingly regular and we keep making it more regular (eliminating exceptions like "learnt" for "learned") and it's not as weird as people make it out to be.

And yes, I'm aware most people learn English as a second language for economic reasons/colonization/imperialism, but if it was really that hard people would give up. It's just regular hard. Languages are all hard and they all have weirdnesses and histories and English isn't special it's just another language among thousands.

[transformativeworks]

OTW is Recruiting for Policy & Abuse, Translation, & TWC

Would you like to assist AO3 users by resolving complaints? Do you have strong proofreading or editing skills? Are you fluent in a language other than English? OTW is recruiting volunteers! 

We really need volunteers who speak Afrikaans, Arabic, Basque, Bengali, Bulgarian, Catalan, Danish, Dutch, Estonian, Filipino, Finnish, Greek, Hebrew, Hindi, Japanese, Latvian, Lithuanian, Macedonian, Malay, Marathi, Norwegian, Persian, Polish, Portuguese-PT, Romanian, Serbian, Slovak, Slovenian, Spanish, Thai, Turkish, Ukrainian, Vietnamese, and Welsh.  

Help us signal boost or find out more at https://otw-news.org/53a6ncnr

[gothicfied]

Quero algo longo sobre Dean Huijsen 😭

LOOKIN' AT YOU GOT ME THINKIN' NONSENSE

Pairing: Dean Huijsen x fem!reader, friends to lovers

Summary: You've been in love with Dean Huijsen for years. But, him being the team mate of your brother always made it very difficult to approach him in a romantic way. When he flew you out to his last game for Bournemouth, it seems like he had also set his eyes on you and wasn't planning on letting you go again.

Word Count: ~3.9k

Reading Time: ~16 Minutes

Warnings: Reader is implied to be dutch, reader is hopelessly in love at the beginning, reader has an annoying older brother, the interpretation of Dean's career is probably super inaccurate but I had to google a bunch of stuff, swearing, slightly abrupt ending, other than that it's just fluff, not proof read (English isn't my first language)

A/N: hi! sorry this took so long, but I had to take time iff because I'm still on vacation (and because I didn't feel like writing anything these past couple of days). Anyway, I hope this is enioyable, because I kinda think this got shitty towards the end. I'm already so in love with this man, I'm not kidding. Hopefully our second game will be better tho.

Football was never something you were interested in. The most you watched of it was during the Word Cup and maybe the EURO's. Nontheless, your parents would always drag you to your brother's games, whether you wanted to or not. Obviously, like every boy it seemed like, Max started playing at a very early age and always said he'd go pro at some point.

You couldn't tell if he was good, average or absolutely stupid with the ball, but you liked teasing him about not being good enough. And that was all fun and games until he was called up for the U17 team of your national team, the Netherlands. Sure, maybe you didn't care for normal football, but even this was a big deal for you (even though you weren't all that patriotic).

The one thing you absolutely enjoyed the most about your Max's career was Dean Huijsen. The one team mate you've had a crush on ever since you had laid your eyes on him. You didn't know what it was: Maybe it was because he's so freakishly tall, maybe it's the fact that football is only attractive when he plays it or maybe it's because he's fluent in spanish, as he had demonstrated to you before. Well, those parts definitely had a play in it.

Over the years, you've gotten to know many team mates of your brother and they come and they go, you never pay attention to them. Him, though. Oh, him you could never forget. Max thought it was stupid that you suddenly seemed so interested in the sport and especially his career, since you now showed up to every one of his national games.

Lucky for you, the two boys were really good friends. You'd get mad at your brother when he didn't announce that Dean would be coming over, yelling about how you didn't have time to shower or get ready, to which he'd always meet you with a "Why are you so obsessed with him?".

You wouldn't force hang outs, because being the weird little sister would be worse than not seeing Dean at all, but you'd literally take any chance to talk to him. Causually, of course.

After celebrating another win for the Netherlands with your brother, or at least after congratulating him for it, you stood by the side lines, greeting every familiar face you came across. "Hey," You said in an almost instant when Dean walked by while he gave you a sheepish smile. "You played well today." His eyes scanned your face for maybe a hint of sarcasm or a purpose as to why you specifically were talking to him. "Thanks.. Max's little sister." Oh, he didn't even know your name. Before continuing to walk to his family, he patted your shoulder in an acknowledging way.

Since then many things had changed. Gradually over those one to two years, even you and Dean grew closer together. Not close enough to hang out alone, without other friends or your brother, but now he at least knew your name and always stuck around to talk a little more. You'd walk him to the front door if Max was too lazy (or fell asleep) and, even though you had said your goodbyes like three times by then, he'd gladly stand in the doorframe to talk to you a little more.

Your friendship was even strong enough to withstand a generous amount of distance between the two of you. You obviously wished him all the best when he made the move to Juventus and when he got the chance to play for the second team. Dean was talented, that much you could tell, even if your football knowledge was limited. At least you still got to see your crush for the U18 or U19 Team of the Netherlands, where he'd obviously still play with your brother.

And, well, that didn't last long. Or longer. After Dean's move to Bournemouth he decided to rather play for Spain. His other half. The other half that he always seemed to like more about himself. You loved seeing him thrive, but this decision hit a bit too close to home. You obviously still had school to finish, so you couldn't even drop everything for a game during international break. But, Max was his best friend, so it was natural that he'd invite him over to watch a game or two in the UK.

"Look, I don't know why you're so upset." Max shrugged and looked at you with a weirded out expression while you expressed your disappointed. Your disappointed that Dean didn't invite you, too. "You're not friends with him, or are you?" You huffed at your brothers comment and stormed off to the kitchen. "Ugh, what? Why are you so fucking obsessed? Do you want me to let him know that you also—" He was cut off by you yelling "No!" through the whole house. "No! If you do that I'm seriously—" The words in your mouth died out when Max looked at you in realization. Oh no, it finally clicked. "Oh my god, there's no way. Him?! Seriously? You like.. him? Dean Huijsen? What is wrong with you!" While you chased him through the living room, threatening to break both his legs, your brother just laughed at you.

Max may have had the last laugh back then, but now you do. Apparently, you were missed dearly and because Dean's schedule often clashed with your brother's, he opted to inviting you instead.

...

"So you'll be there?" Dean sounded as excited as ever, while you tried your best not to do the same. You had your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder, trying to multitask while making a hot chocolate for the little girl you were currently babysitting. "Yeah! Of course, it'll be great." Dean had just called to invite you to his last home game for Bournemouth.

Carefully, you handed the kid her drink so she could finally watch Minions 2 in peace, while you cleaned up the kitchen (and talked to Dean, obviously). "Soooo," You started, your thoughts already flooded with ideas on how to convince your parents to let you skip school for this. "Soooo?" He asked with a chuckle, "Are you sad? Like, because this is your last game for Bournemouth?" For a moment, there wasn't a single response from his side. You took your phone from your ear and looked at it confused because you thought he might've actually hung up at that stupid question you just asked him. Yeah, of course, the question must've been stupid! Why else wouldn't he—

"Hard to say. You're the first person to ask me this."

"Oh, well, I just thought.. maybe. Real Madrid is a big deal, I must say. But.. I don't know, it'll be weird not seeing you in red and black anymore."

"Heh," Dean chuckled again. "No, don't look at it like that. I'm sad... a little bit. But, like you said, this is a huge deal, you know?"

"Yeah..."

"Real's kits are superior by the way. I'll give you one when I get mine."

The words died out in your mouth. Dean, despite inviting you to his games more often than not (no matter if you were able to make it or not), had actually never given you one of his jerseys to wear. It maybe be a bit embarrassing, but you had thought about scenarios where that might happen to you some day and now he was just.. offering it! Just like that!

"Oh my god, really?" You were taken aback by how excited you sounded. "I mean... Yes, that would be cool." The boy on the other end of the line laughed and agreed with you, telling you he had to go now in the same breath and hung up. "Fucking hell, why am I so awkward?" You muttered to yourself. Suddenly you felt someone tug on your pants:

"Can you make me pancakes?"

...

"But! But Mom! Are you serious? No this is really important to me, come on.." Max rolled his eyes at your whining. Even if you would've done every chore in advance, even if you had cleaned the whole house, took care of dinner, done the laundry, got straight A's or brought peace on earth, your parents still wouldn't let you go to Dean's game.

"I said no! What is so hard to understand about that? I don't want your grades to suffer, sweetheart. I've already let you skip school three times for that boy!" While you were losing your mind about this once-in-a-life-time miss, even though it really wasn't, Max was amusing himself. "Stop laughing!" You hit him on the back of his head, to which he quickly whipped around and tried to do the same. "Max! Cut it out! Don't hit your sister." Your Dad finally yelled. "But she did it first!"

"So what? Are you ten? You don't have to hit her back?"

"Look, honey, I know that you like him and you think that he's the love of your life—"

"Mom!"

"I know that! But, you can't just always leave the country for two days just to see him. I can't go with you this time and your dad can't either."

"Mom, I'm literally 18, I already already passed my finals! There's no school I'm missing and I can go alone."

Apparently, no one outside yourself really understood what this meant for you. Defeated, you plopped down next to your brother on the couch and tried to somewhat enjoy the movie that was put on. After a few minutes of your Dad looking at you, then back at the TV and then back at you again, he sighed:

"When would it be?"

"What?"

"The game, silly."

Your face lit up, since this was a pretty clear sign that he had given in. Max next to you, on the other hand, just groaned and facepalmed, like this was the stupidest idea he's ever heard in his life. "Nah Dad, come on. This is ridiculous, I don't want her to date one of my friends!" You shot Max a look after he tried to come up with multiple excuses again on why you shouldn't be let go to the UK.

Of course, in a way you understood him. It was probably frustrating to him that he didn't even get invited in the first place and it must be annoying that one's little sister has this massive crush on one of your friends, but it's not like you can control your feelings.

"Alright, all of you need to stop with this whole dating thing." You said in response of your brother's complaining. To your suprise, Max actually stopped to hear you out for a second. "He just.. it's his last game at home for Bournemouth. Nothing will happen, I won't come home married or pregnant—"

"Oh, you better not! Or else I'll kill that kid."

"Dad."

"What? He always looks drugged out of his mind anyway."

Now you were the one that facepalmed and your Mom quickly told your Dad to knock it off. Your cheeks felt hot and your legs like jello as this topic about Dean was dragged on and on. You didn't like talking about your crush, especially not with your parents, that's like a thousand times more embarrassing.

Your mom grabbed the remote and put the movie on pause, grabbed both of your hands and made you look at her properly: "Okay," She started, suddenly seeming so serious about this, "You can go." Before you could even try to celebrate, she immediately cut you off again. "Ah! But! Only because school's almost over and only, only if you do your's and Max' chores for the whole week."

Max looked at you with a twinkle in his eye and laughed when he heard that he'd be free off his duties, but in reality you didn't mind. Frankly, you'd probably do anything to see Dean again. Alone this time. No annoying older brother, no overprotective parents, only him and you.

Later that night, Max decided to pay you a visit in your room. You were just minding your own business and typed something on your laptop, when the door suddenly swung open. "Max!" You yelled out, while said brother shut the door behind him. "Don't you know how to fucking knock?"

"So," Through the tone of his voice you understood that he was only here to tease you again. "You and Dean, huh?" Max took a seat on your bed. "Me and Dean, huh?"

"I just want you to know," When he realized you didn't pay any attention to him, he took the liberty to shut the laptop and take it off your lap. You sighed in annoyance and just gave him a 'what-do-you-want-from-me' kind of look. "...that you have my blessing."

"Your blessing? What are you talking about? I don't need your... blessing or whatever."

"Wait, so you weren't even the slightest bit scared that I wouldn't approve?"

"Believe it or not, you're not Dad. I don't need anything from you."

Max wasn't mad at you, but he still enjoyed seeing you doing all the exhausting things he would normally have to do. And when you asked for help, he refused, saying it was your own choice and you wanted to go see Dean's game. He'd scold you like your Mother if you didn't do the dishes correctly or forgot to do the laundry, basically taking the piss out of you.

What made it all worth it, though, was being able to talk to Dean more often. The footballer would text you, would check up on you and tell you how excited he is that you're coming over. That just fueled your delusions even more: Like, no one could tell you he didn't like you back just a little bit.

Why else would he fly you out and not someone else? Maybe if you manifested it enough, it would come true. When Dean moves to Spain the distance between the two of you will just grow closer, so you basically had to make the first step. If you got rejected, then.. well, sure you'd lose part of your dignity, but at least he's in Spain.

...

With your luggage in hand, you were waiting to be picked up by Dean's father, Donny, like always. Currently, you were listening in on a conversation between a husband and his mistress, on how he doesn't know how to divorce his wife and what would happen to the kids. Bournemouth Airport. It never gets old.

When you were finally in the car, and on your way to Dean's family home, you were really grateful to speak to someone in Dutch again after hours getting by with your, accented, English.

"How did your finals go?" Donny asked you whiem leaning one arm against the edge of the window. This was strange — No matter how often you flew to the UK, you'll never get used to sitting on the left side, in the passenger seat. "Uh, pretty good, I'd say."

The man next to you chuckled, "So you passed?" You've known Dean's family for a long while now, but it still was a bit awkward in that moment. Especially because there wasn't your dad or your mom to make conversation with the other parent.

"Thank you for coming by the way."

"Oh, there's no need to thank me! I.. I really like doing this. It's actually an honor that he invited me for his last game at home."

"He's been really excited. Primarily because you'll be there."

Donny laughed after he just exposed his son like that and you could immediately feel your cheeks burn up again. You took a moment to look outside the window and think about how this may go. Should you pretend like everything was fine and platonic? Or should you just.. tell him? Maybe it works out in your favor and you could cheer on your boyfriend tomorrow. No, that would be too much. You knew you couldn't ever confess to someone like that, you were too shy. But maybe you shouldn't be this time.

"Dean really likes you." It was like Donny could read your mind.

"Hah, really?"

"Yeah, no, no, no... He really, really likes you. I think you were actually the first person he told about his move to Madrid, outside of his family."

You smiled to yourself when you heard that. True, you were actually the bearer of the news to your brother, and if Dean didn't tell your brother first then.. yeah, that checks out. Donny probably already knew that you liked his son back, which you had already suspected. Ever since that one conversation he had with your mother, he can't help but try setting the two of you up.

"Anyway, here we are." The car pulled up into the driveway of this very british looking neighborhood you knew so well.

A happy and, suprisingly, little nervous Dean opened the front door for you and his dad. While the latter hauled your suitcase inside, Dean almost immediately leaned down to give you a hug. The way his eyes lit up when he saw you was probably the cutest thing you've seen all year.

"How are you?" He asked you out if courtesy, his hands coming down to rest on the small of your back when he slightly pulled away. It was like your brain turned into mush when your eyes met his, you didn't know what to say without sounding like an idiot. "Uhm," You chuckled nervously, "I'm good! And you?"

If you hadn't fully pulled out of the hug, you were sure you would've exploded right then and there. Dean shut the door behind you, but still kept his arm around your shoulder when leading you to through the hallway and to the living room. "Good. Great, even!" When you looked up to him you noticed that it was the first time he looked... awake, basically. Dean's droopy eyes are what you loved most about him, but seeing him like this was pretty amazing.

"Ah, oh my god!" Macha, his mother, hollered from the couch. Dean was basically a carbon copy of her and she was just as excited to see you. "Aw, how are you? Oh, it's like I haven't seen you in ages."

The woman gave you a warm hug, asking you about your family and how your brother was doing. "No, no, he's very happy at Ajax." You explained about Max while Macha was fixing you something to drink.

"I knew he'd be. He's a clever boy, your brother!" Donny has had his fair share of time at the club himself. While his parents asked you a million things about your life and your brother, Dean was more than eager to get you away from them. "Sorry, they're so nosy." He whispered to you.

"Don't worry, you'll get her all for yourself in a minute." Macha gave her son the look and handed you thr coffee you had requested.

"Mom.. I'm just—"

"There's still time left until dinner. Why don't you guys go upstairs?"

...

"Here," Dean tossed a shirt out of his closet directly at your face. Confused, you took it into your hands and held it up to see what it read. Huijsen. Oh, his last name. You looked at the boy with a slightly confused expression on your face, turning the jersey around to see the Bournemouth sigil stiched on the left side of it.

"I figured," Dean's voice suddenly didn't sound all that confident anymore. "Uhm, that you need something. For tomorrow." Your fingers delicately traced his number that was printed out on the back of the shirt. "I realized I never gave you one."

"Thank you! That's like, really thoughtful." Dean chuckled at your words and took a seat next to you on his bed. "It'll look good on you." He promptly took the jersey out of your hands and held it up to your body to see if he was right. "Maybe a bit big, but red and black are definitely your colors."

All you could do was nod and hope that Dean wouldn't notice how your cheeks turned almost crimson red the more compliments he gave you. Even if you attempted to talk at this point, only nonsene would come out. You took a deep breath to compose yourself: "You're like.. two meters tall, this will be like a dress."

Dean grinned and just shook his head. Nervously, you fiddled around with the hem of the shirt he had just gifted you, while he stood up again and searched through more clothes in his closet.

"Come here."

"Huh?"

"Come on, I gotta see something."

After a moment, you obeyed and approached him. Dean's room hadn't changed one bit from the last time you saw it — It's exactly what you'd expect a room of a man in his late teens would look like. Not very interesting, filled with individual trophies he won and pretty bare overall.. why are boys like this?

The footballer whipped around and gave you another jersey — Bournemouth's third kit of this season. "Okay, I get that you don't need these anymore, but why give them all to me?" Dean snickered and gave you the piece of clothing anyway. "You're funny."

"I'm just asking."

"I want you to have them. You're important to me so I'm giving them to you, what's there to complain about?"

"I'm important to you?"

Dean slowly realized he might've screwed up with his choice of words. His eyes fell droopy again, boring into yours like he was trying to see your soul through them. "Ehhh," His gaze shifted away from you and onto the ground, "..yes? I mean, I like you, don't I?"

For a long moment there was just silence as Dean stared at you in disbelief (at his own words) and you were just expecting him to speak up. "I fucked up now, right?"

Carefully, you dropped the clothes you had in your hand onto the floor, feeling more confident now that he seemed to be nervous. It was like becoming an extrovert when around other introverts — It came so naturally, you couldn't really tell yourself to stop. Because, this was literally your chance. The one you've been waiting for since forever.

"You didn't.. fuck up, Dean."

The boy took a deep breath.

"Okay, so this won't ruin our friendship?"

"What?"

The moment Dean cuppe your face with his hands was like getting hit over the head with a baseball bat and suffering short term memory loss. You only remembered to kiss him back after he had pressed his lips onto yours several seconds ago.

The kiss was slow, conservative, but still expressed the things he couldn't quite put into words. His lips felt so delicate on yours, as if he was too scared he'd break you if he deepened it too fast. This was making your brain go smooth, that's for sure. When he eventually pulled away and looked you in the eyes, searching for any amount if disapproval, he couldn't find any. Anything, actually. The more you stared at him, the more it felt like your pupils were physically forming into hearts.

"This.."

"Don't— Don't talk, it's okay."

"This doesn't change anything?" Dean looked at you confused.

"Everything. But.."

You were dying to feel his lips on yours again. In that very same moment you heard his mom yell for dinner downstairs.