#is it because you view certain loan words as more 'real' than others?

[strongintherealgay]

People who get up in arms when you point out that naan bread is redundant make me wonder why they're so insistent on calling it that despite never using the phrase "baguette bread." Almost like there is something different in the origins of those loan words. Maybe, just maybe, there is a reason why certain people feel the need to specify that certain words are "other" while they're more than comfortable including certain loan words to their language because they're just "normal" words. Right. Okay. Definitely nothing more. Totally.

[dinaive]

The Tao of Islam: A Sourcebook on Gender Relationships in Islamic Thought (1992)

by Sachiko Murata

Chapter 2: Theology (part 1)

Divine Duality

As soon as "God" is mentioned in the context of Islamic thought, the word can be understood from two points of view. We can consider God as He is in Himself, in which case we leave aside the cosmos, which is everything other than God. From this point of view, most Muslim thinkers have come to the conclusion that God in Himself, the "Essence" (dhât) of God, cannot be known. He is beyond our grasp. This comes down to the perspective of incomparability (tanzîh), which was discussed in the introduction. If we mention the cosmos in the same breath with God, then we have to take into account a number of relationships that are established between God and the cosmos. These relationships are given verbal expression by the divine names. In this respect we can either say that God is completely different from His creatures, thereby once again declaring His incomparability, or we can say that a certain similarity can be discerned. Or we can take both positions at once. In short, to speak of God--and this is unavoidable in Islam, or rather inseparable from Islam- -brings up at least two basic perspectives on the Divine Reality. Duality is inherent in speech and rational thought. We affirm God's Unity--tawhîd--but in doing so we establish the reality of duality, since it is we who speak. As the Hanbalî Sufi Khwâja `Abdallâh Ansârî (d. 481/1089) puts it,

None has affirmed the Unity of the One, since all who affirm it deny it. The tawhîd of him who speaks of His description is a loan, made null by the One. His tawhîd of Himself is His tawhîd-- he who describes it has gone astray.57 There is something self-contradictory about a discourse that claims to establish the unity of the Real. The Real in His Unity effaces all duality. By declaring His Unity we affirm duality through being ourselves and speaking. At the same time, it needs to be kept in mind that this "duality" never implies absolute separation. What is at issue is polarity, or two complementary dimensions of a single reality. If we use the term duality, it is because the texts commonly speak of two principles. Moreover, the more mythic and unreflective expositions of Islamic principles often discuss things as if they were truly different. In contrast, the sapiential tradition keeps the language of duality, but it understands duality strictly in terms of interrelationships and polarity.

God and the Essence

Duality, in short, pertains to the nature of human discourse about God. To conceive of God we have to grasp the limitations of our own conceptions, since, as the perspective of incomparability maintains, "None knows God but God." Hence we have two Gods: the God of my conception, and the real God, who is beyond my conception. The God of discourse pertains to my conception. The other God is understood neither by you nor by me that we might talk about Him meaningfully. No one explains this better than Ibn al-`Arabî, as, for example, in his discussion of the "god of belief."58 The fact that God is unknowable follows from the basic assertion of tawhîd: "There is nothing real but the Real." Given that God is absolutely and infinitely real while the cosmos and its contents are only relatively real, the divine reality lies beyond the grasp of created reality. The Absolute escapes the relative. "What does dust have to do with the Lord of lords?" asks the Arabic proverb. If we can indeed know something of God, this follows from the fact that the relatively real is, after all, real in some mode. The mode in which it is real connects it to the absolutely Real. In other words, we and the cosmos are related to God through the divine attributes that display their traces and signs in cosmic existence. We cannot know God in Himself, only God inasmuch as He reveals Himself through the cosmos. Within the Taoist context, as soon as we name the Tao, we need to recognize the Tao beyond names, the unnameable Tao that we cannot grasp. But the Tao that we are able to name demands yin and yang, since they are inherent within its own nature. Hence we begin with a double duality: first, the Tao that can be named and the Tao that cannot be named and second, the yin and the yang that define the laws of the nameable Tao. So also in Islamic thought: The God who can be discussed forces us to acknowledge the God beyond discussion. If we insist that God is One, still, the God beyond discussion is One in an unknowable way, while the God of discussion is One in a way open to understanding.

When we leave aside the unknowable God and refer to the knowable God, we have the same two perspectives: We know that our knowledge of God is deficient, which is to say that He is incomparable. At the same time we know that we can know something about Him, which is to say that He is similar. Hence we have incomparability and similarity on two different levels. The first level establishes a distinction between God as absolutely unknowable in Himself and relatively knowable through His attributes. The second level looks at the relatively knowable attributes and then establishes a distinction between those attributes that declare Him different and those that allow a certain similarity. For many Muslim authorities, the difference between what can be known and what cannot be known about God establishes the conceptual distinction between God and the Essence of God. There is no ontological distinction, since ultimate reality, Being, is one. Here the Chinese tradition provides us with parallel concepts in the distinction between the "Great Ultimate" and the "Chaos" or "Non-ultimate." Islamic thought makes clear that we are not dealing here with two realities, but with two different ways of looking at the relationship between God and the cosmos. In the first sense, God creates a universe and can be known through it. In the second sense, the same God is independent of the universe and has no need for it. He holds Himself back from His creatures not because He is secretive or stingy, but because they are utterly different from Him and incapable of embracing His reality. Rûmî alludes to this point in his famous line, "If you pour the ocean into a cup, how much will it hold? One day's store."59 Strictly speaking, the Essence as Essence has no relationships with anyone or anything. When we speak of relationships, we are discussing the Essence inasmuch as It is a God (ilâh). At this level of "divinity" (ulûhiyya), there are two basic points of view from which relationships can be discussed: From the first point of view, we discuss the relationships that God has with the cosmos. Once these relationships are established, we see that God has names and attributes that in some way conflict with other names and attributes. Then we have the second point of view, the question of relationships among the divine names themselves. In practice, however, these two perspectives are almost inseparable, since a divine attribute by nature sets up a relationship both with the cosmos and with other attributes. Both kinds of relationships are frequently expressed in terms that recall yin and yang. The very term relationship or relation (nisba) is fundamental for Ibn al-Arabî's school of thought, and commonly employed in other perspectives. Ibn al-Arabî uses it synonymously with the Koranic name (ism) and the preferred term of the proponents of Kalâm, attribute (sifa).60 Relationships have to be taken into account as soon as we conceive of two realities. And the two primary realities are God and the cosmos. As Ibn al-Arabî puts it, Once God has created the cosmos, we see that it possesses diverse levels and realities. Each of these demands a specific relationship with the Real. . . . Examples of these intelligible qualities include creation, provision, gain, loss, bringing into existence, specification, strengthening, domination, severity, gentleness.61 Other schools of thought also employ the term relationship. Rûmî even employs the term in his poetry. He is discussing the mystery of the perfected human heart that embraces God: This heart has a thousand names and attributes. Each name is another relationship, different from the others.So also, in relation to you one person is a father, but in relation to another he is a son or a brother. The numerous names of God are relational, so toward the unbeliever He is Invincible, toward us Merciful. How many there are who are angels in relation to you in your belief, but devils in relation to another! Likewise your awareness is unveiled in relation to you, but hidden in relation to others.62

57 Ansârî, Manâzil al-sâ'irîn 113. 58 Cf. SPK, chapter 19.

59 Rûmî, Mathnawî I 20 (cf. SPL 9). 60 Ibn al-Arabî, Futûhât III 289.4 (SPK 34). 61 Ibid. 441.31 (SPK 35)

62 Rûmî, Dîwân 21880-84.

[bookofmirth]

I saw your recent response to an anon where you mentioned the drama that occurred the other day based around bookprofessor’s post. Obviously you don’t have to respond to this or publish it if you do not wish but I just wanted to bring up that while it is important to focus on the real life issues at hand, the OP was hypocritical in her post which is why people were getting upset. She was preaching against ableism while simultaneously flaunting her IQ and degree which is a form of ableism. She was speaking out against racism while ending her post using the racial slur “cracker” when talking about the possibly Caucasian Twitter elriels.

Obviously she had some important points but it was completely overshadowed by her participation in the hate speech and prejudice that she was speaking out against.

This does not in any way justify the nasty messages she received but on the same hand, I do not blame anyone that called her out for her hypocrisy. I hope you can understand why her post was so negatively received and how flawed it was. My hope is that one day everyone can just ignore the negativity, report those who are being racist/prejudiced in any way, and block those who are just being loud and who you don’t wish to see content from. But unfortunately I do not see that happening any time soon.

There are a few things I want to address in this because I think it's a good moment for the fandom to step back and reflect on how we treat one another, how we react to such issues, and how we behave moving forward.

First off, thanks for explaining your point of view without being antagonistic. I do think that everyone's emotional reactions to the post were valid. I do NOT think their responses, in terms of words and actions, were valid. Now before I move forward, I want to clarify that when I use the word "you", I am referring to anyone who may have had the response I am describing - not you personally, anon. Also please don’t freak out about how long this is, as a majority of it is a response to the fandom in general, not you in particular.

What was - and wasn’t - said in the original post

In this post, there were completely valid criticisms of the way that people in this fandom behave, and it wasn’t “generalizing” a certain group, it was literal, actual proof of things that had been said, by multiple people. I’m not going to get too into what Alyssa argued because her critiques of those tweets was flawless. The original post had very valid criticisms of what was happening on Twitter. Alyssa exposed the actually racist, homophobic, and imperialistic underpinnings of those tweets.

However, a lot of people are stuck on the bits before and after those critiques. @bookprofessor apologized for different aspects of her post in a few different asks. There were perhaps better ways that some of those things could have been phrased, some things that could have been left out. And she apologized. People can accept that apology or not but we can’t act like it didn’t happen. Like she didn’t reflect and learn to do better.

However, the people she was calling out have not done the same thing, and if anything, comments that focus more on Alyssa’s tone than why she wrote the post in the first place lets those people off the hook.

On cracker - Using the word "cracker" is not racist in the same way that using racial slurs against POC is. Is it prejudiced? Yes. But you cannot say that it is the same thing when that is demonstrably untrue, given centuries of oppressive history. No one has been oppressed for being white. Those are not the same. Reverse racism is not a thing because a white person punching down on POC is NOT AT ALL the same thing as a POC punching up at white people. The actions look the same, but the impact is so unequal it’s not even funny.

Racism is a systemic, institutionalized problem. It is not defined by individual actions, though those actions can either support or challenge racism. When someone calls a white person a cracker, there isn’t centuries of oppression giving power to and reinforcing that statement. That is not a “gotcha” moment.

Saying “I have x IQ” or “I have X degrees” is not ableist. I’m sorry to whoever told you it was ableist (again, not you specifically anon but people who had read the “aw shucks guys” vagueblogs about it), but it’s not. Those are facts. I have no idea what my IQ is, but I have five degrees from institutions of higher education. Me saying that is in no way ableist. 

Often, people mention those things to be elitist, yes. Sometimes, they can be used to say “hey I know more about this than you”. They can be used in a way that tries to make themselves feel superior. I suspect that this is the impression that a lot of people got of the post. However, there is a fine line between saying “hey that’s elitist” and professing anti intellectualism. Which is perhaps a side issue so I’ll let that go for now.

Another reason that people mention their degrees or qualifications is to establish their background knowledge and credibility. If I were to say “hey y’all I have two MA degrees” (which is true) I am not being ableist! It is a fact! It is factual! And I worked my ass off for those, I will be in student loan debt until I die for those, I have every right to mention them if I want to, and often I do so in order to establish my credibility, to explain the position I am coming from. And my prior knowledge of these topics is relevant when we are talking about literature since that’s what my degrees were on - literature and linguistics. That is why Alyssa mentioned her background, though she did pair it with comments about other people, for which she has apologized.

My final point about this is that I 1000% understand feeling insecure or less than because of educational attainment. I dropped out of high school. I had a complex about that for a long, long time. But I also know that if I took offense at someone else saying they had a PhD, then that offense is about me, not them. Someone else’s inferiority complex is not reason for people to pretend to be less than they are.

If those two comments are what overshadowed the bigger, more important issue for a lot of the readers of that post, then y’all allowed them to overshadow those more important issues. I am 99% sure that someone right now is reading this and thinking “but Leslie, it was the way that she said it!” Boy have I got some news for you!

How we react

This next section is not specific to this ask; instead, it is a discussion of how the fandom responded. If it were only one person who had said “but her tone” then I wouldn’t need to make this point. The fact that multiple people are exhibiting the behavior explained below is what makes this a cultural problem within the acotar fandom.

The main argument I saw on the post itself, and indeed any time I see people bring up how nasty Twitter can be, is that “it was a joke” and “that’s how stan Twitter works”.

No.

Those responses were quite useful for this post, though! So buckle up everyone, because I am going to talk about gaslighting, racism, respectability politics, and tone policing. While I understand that some people might have taken personal offense to what was said, there is a much bigger issue at stake that has nothing to do with individual feelings, and everything to do with ensuring that POC stay silenced and white supremacy is upheld. 

Back to the “but it’s a joke” thing. Thanks for gaslighting! Great example of that, person I’m not going to tag! Gaslighting is when you make someone question their experiences, when you try to make them think “wait, did I really feel that way? Is my feeling about that valid? Do I need to re-evaluate my response to this?? Am I blowing this out of proportion???” And saying “it’s just a joke” is a perfect way to do that. Did I say something accidentally sexist? It’s just a joke, nbd! Now you’re the problem, because you didn’t understand my joke and laugh!!! 

Saying “it’s a joke” or “oh they are old/young/ignorant, they will learn” is not a good response to... anything. It takes the responsibility off the people who are doing the harm, and putting it onto the people who were hurt. And in this case, anyone who read those tweets and found them harmful (which should be everyone?) is completely valid. You aren’t lesser for being angry or emotional or for seeing a problem where other people saw a joke. The people who see those things as acceptable jokes are the ones in the wrong.

This is a tactic that is used against women all the time. Any time a woman is sexually harassed at work or online, for example, and she gets upset about it, and someone chimes in with “oh they weren’t serious, can’t you take a joke?” So you can imagine what this is like for women of color.

It is a very, very common tactic for people of color to be silenced via tone policing and respectability politics. Tone policing and respectability politics are very closely related, especially in this context. The idea is that if Alyssa had just written that post in just the right way, it would have been more palatable to white people, and therefore okay to write. The idea that if she had tried to be “understanding” or “see it from their perspective” or understand that it’s “just a joke” are all ways to silence and de-legitimize any accurate, valid criticisms that were made of those tweets. It effectively re-routes the conversation away from the real issues, and to the person trying to bring them up. It’s essentially an ad hominem attack in disguise. 

We see respectability politics in media when people of color who act or dress or speak like white people are afforded more respect. Or any time that a person of color is pulled over and people say, “well if they had just done what the police officer asked...” There is a pervasive idea that if people just “act” properly, aka if you act white, then the police won’t feel antagonized and try to kill arrest you. If we are nice enough, meek enough, smile enough, etc. then we will be accepted.

When we tone police, we refuse to allow marginalized people the right to be angry. We say that "hey, we can only have this discussion if you leave emotion, which you rightfully feel, at the door, and we can only continue this discussion if you behave in a way that makes me feel comfortable." But guess what? It isn’t about you! These discussions are often highly uncomfortable. There is no nice way to tell someone they are being racist. And yet somehow, that is the ever-moving goalpost. It seems reasonable, right? “Just be civil, be nice, don’t insult each other!” And there is that. But those criteria change constantly, to the point where anyone (white) at any time can say “WHOA WHOA THIS IS MAKE ME UNCOMFORTABLE???” Then we find ourselves at zero, and suddenly the focus of attention has shifted away from the actual problem.

Before we go further, I want to say this: people have a right to be angry. They do not need to make their anger palatable or tasteful for the consumption of others (read: white people). 

We saw this last summer, and I’m not sure how the message didn’t get across. But people are rightfully angry about racism. They are angry about the murder of people of color by police, they are angry about lack of quality education, or clean water, of centuries of oppression that have led to this very moment when all of that ceases to matter because a white woman’s feelings got hurt one time. 

And that is what pisses me off so much. There is no way in this world that we could criticize tweets like those that everyone would agree with, and that everyone would “approve” of, that would be “nice” enough and yet still be impactful and make the authors of those tweets understand the gravity of what they have done. 

The least we can do is allow one another to express our anger, our outrage, because it’s highly likely that those people know exactly what the fuck they are doing, and they do not fucking care. By criticizing a woman of color for the way in which she chose to engage with this topic, we are avoiding the issue and letting the people in those tweets off the hook. 

There were many responses to that post that were positive, that agreed with Alyssa. There are a ton of people who disagree with those tweets, who find them disgusting, who understand exactly how and why they are problematic. That should be what we are talking about. Getting to the core of the argument, on that post or any about racism or other problematic behavior in fandom, requires getting past our own egos. It requires us to be able to step back, say “hm this thing is frustrating but there is a bigger picture here”. It’s not easy, and I recognize that. 

The fact that it is a common tactic though? To say “hey this hurt me personally and so I’m going to ignore any valid points you made?” That feeds directly into centuries of white supremacy because it, once again, silences POC and makes them try to play a losing game. And they will always lose, because no matter how hard they try to play the white game, the goalposts are constantly shifting. So you know what? Fuck the game, and fuck respectability politics, and fuck tone policing and “uwu be nice guys” because when it comes to things like racism and sexism, I don’t expect the people who deserve to be criticized to be nice. In fact, trying to be nice only serves to fuck POC over in the end.

Indeed, in response to that post, certain blogs have taken the opportunity to position themselves as “the nice ones” or “the ones who would never” or “uwu let’s be nice guys” while completely ignoring the fact that a woman of color was attacked for calling out racism. And yes - that was the point of her post. People getting hung up on mentions of her degree are (intentionally or not, it doesn’t matter) completely obfuscating the fact that that is not what her post was about, which was to call out disgusting behavior. idk how many words the post actually was, but essentially, people are focusing on 5% of it to the detriment of the 95% that was actually really important shit. These types of vagueblog posts about the issue fall into exactly what I am talking about - these are people who have decided to look at this issue, see how Alyssa (and anyone else who dares speak up) has approached it, and intentionally try to act like they are “better” because they can be “rational” and “kind”. Newsflash, if you don’t have something to be angry about, then being “nice” about racism isn’t that much of a flex. If it didn’t bother you, then congratulations. That doesn’t make you better than people it did bother. You just got lucky this time, and decided to use that to your advantage to look like the good guy.

I am not saying that all calls for peace are doing this. Obviously it’s what we all want. This is the worst I have seen this fandom in the 4+ years I’ve been here. But we cannot have that by ignoring the real problems and pretending that if we are all just nice to each other, then we will solve racism and sexism and all bullying in the fandom will stop. 

So combining all of this - the gaslighting, the tone policing, and what do you get? You get a fandom that refuses to actually engage critically with its own problems and take accountability for them. You get a fandom that decides that it’s easier to be distracted by this one mean comment over here than it is to engage in the fact that you know what, the culture in this fandom has actually turned incredibly disgusting and a lot of people are just okay with it. You’ve got a fandom that is using the tools of white supremacy to avoid the discussions that should actually be taking place. Maybe people don’t realize that that’s what they are doing. But if someone still thinks that after reading this post, then godspeed my friend, I hope you enjoy Twitter.

Okay so my last thing I want to say is that I didn’t come to all of this knowledge fresh from the womb. I do a lot of work, in my personal life and my professional life, to be better. So here is a list of books that I have found particularly helpful:

How to Be An Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi

Stamped From the Beginning: The Definitive History of Racist Ideas in America also by Ibram X. Kendi

White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism by Robin DiAngelo (side note, I was kinda meh about this one but the chapter “White Women’s Tears” is particularly helpful)

So You Want to Talk About Race by Ijeoma Oluo

Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness, and the Politics of Empowerment by Patricia Hill Collins

I’m not going to talk specifically about Alyssa’s post anymore, but if anyone wants to continue talking about these broader issues going on in the fandom, I am game. (I really should be grading papers though, so it might take a bit.)

[kira-bitz]

Edd was already fed up with his situation. How had it come to this? Well, the events have not happened long ago, they were still fresh in his memory.

And it was that his parents didn't saw with good eyes that, as he grew up, Edd developed a greater interest in cartoons and comics. Even traditional arts like painting and sculpture were alternatives they were willing to accept for their oldest son, but comics? Animations? He wasn't even talented enough to stand out from the crowd and have a promising future. This is how, when Edd mentioned his intention to study animation after finishing his studies at school, his father didn't hesitate to give him an ultimatum:

- Either you choose a traditional career as how it has to be, or you finance them by your own.

Edd already saw that answer coming, so he wasn't discouraged by his father's words. In a way he understood his fear, but that wasn't going to stop him, he would prove to them that he could fulfill his dream with or without their help. He had already planned what to do in advance, because due to the great income of money from his family, he knew that the loan or grant options wouldn't allow him to cover much of the cost of his studies if he continued living with them, so he was already focused in finding a part-time job. On the other hand, his friends Matt and Tom told him about their intentions to share a flat, in order to live in a more central place. Nothing could go wrong.

But there he was a year later, exhausted from the fifth merchandise landing of the night at the supermarket. Too tired to get home and get on with his college projects, he just wanted a shower and sleep. Wasn't there another type of work that drained less of his energy? A job that didn't take up so many hours of his day?

This is how Edd began to investigate in different places, increasingly corrupt sites, until in one of them reached at his ears the information of a certain business that was done in a night pool club, where in exchange for "requests" of clients a good sum of money was paid. Edd hesitated to try after seeing what kind of requests there were, but one in particular caught his eye.

“A guy on my campus constantly harasses me. I have denounced him repeatedly, but I haven't received a response from the authorities since he has not physically attacked me. I just want to give him the scare of his life so he can leave me alone. I'm scared."

Edd thought about it for a moment as he looked at the contact number attached to the application and the amount to be received for said service. He was tall, maybe not the most muscular boy, but he had knowledge of fights from his most rebellious school years. Plus, he had a pretty convincing dummy gun. Maybe... he could try.

When the day came, Edd took one last look at the photo of a blond young man to confirm that it was the same one he was watching casually walking down the sidewalk in front of him. He crossed the street while pulling on his hood and shoved the boy shorter than him into the alley, away from the public view. He grabbed him by the neck almost lifting him off the ground as the guy emitted little screams of terror:

- I know you, George Smith. I know where you live, your boring schedule, and that you were now on your way to see your friends Tyler and Henry at the place a few blocks from here. Too bad I'll have to spoil your fun.

Wide-eyed in sheer terror, the smaller guy watched as Edd took his gun from his back pocket, pulled the hammer and aimed it at George's head.

- If I see you near Miss Emily Brown again, I will come for you again, and I will not be alone.

Between screeches and gasps from George from the tight grip, Edd slammed his knee into his stomach, completely knocking the air out of his lungs. Finally, before George could catch his breath, and with one swift movement, Edd hit George over the head with his gun, knocking him out instantly.

The tallest one looked at the scene for a second and felt the adrenaline rush inside him. He has never felt something like this. It reminded him a bit of the school fights of yesteryear but with a much greater intensity. He felt control and uncontrolled at the same time. He liked it.

Slowly, Edd began to take more and more requests from people he called "in a situation of need for not acting of the law" sometimes allying with others like him when the service required more than one individual, and even going so far as to buy a real gun and learn how to use it to take less risk. With this new inflow of money, he could leave his other job since in less hours he was earning much more, he could pay for his studies without problem, improve his work team and pay the rent for his home.

And so he did, the day his new computer and drawing tablet arrived was the happiest day of his life. Tom and Matt were undoubtedly happy for him and when he finally had everything set up he called them over to see his latest model equipment. Edd didn't expect them to come into his room filming and celebrating the fruit of so much hard work. Between congratulations they took one last photo to keep for the memory.

- Thanks guys. You are the best.

Finally, already in the darkness of the night, an Edd could be seen without being able to sleep. Since, although in a couple of years he should no longer have the need to continue with this work, something had awakened in his being that said that what began as a need, was turning into an obsession.

---

Well here I brought the first promised backstory of the boys in the EW Lone Digger AU. I hope you like it! Please remember that this is fiction and that threatening people is bad, carrying weapons is bad, illegality is bad, etc asdfg.

And there is a small cameo of Ghost Friends since I will be part of the team of the first episode as character designer and that makes me happy 💖.

I take this opportunity to comment it is very likely that next week I will open commissions again, but I must adjust the prices and it will be probably 5 slots only for now.

Y para mi gente hispanohablante, abajo del Seguir Leyendo se encuentra la versión en español 😘

Edd ya estaba harto de su situación. ¿Cómo había llegado a esto? Bueno, los sucesos no habían ocurrido hace mucho, aún seguían frescos en su memoria.

Y es que sus padres no vieron con buenos ojos que, a medida que crecía, Edd desarrollaba un interés mayor por las caricaturas e historietas. Incluso artes tradicionales como pintura y escultura eran alternativas que estaban dispuestos a aceptar para su hijo mayor, pero ¿comics? ¿animaciones? Ni siquiera tenía tanto talento como para destacar del montón y tener un futuro prometedor. Así fue como, cuando Edd les mencionó sus intenciones de estudiar animación al terminar sus estudios en el colegio, su padre no dudó en darle un ultimátum:

- O eliges una carrera tradicional como corresponde, o la financias por tu cuenta.

Edd ya veía venir esa respuesta, por lo no se desanimó con las palabras de su padre. De cierta forma entendía su temor, pero eso no iba a detenerlo, les probaría que podía cumplir su sueño con o sin su ayuda. Ya tenía planificado qué hacer de antemano, pues debido a la gran entrada de dinero de su familia, sabía que las opciones de préstamos o subvenciones no le permitirían cubrir gran parte del valor de sus estudios si seguía viviendo con ellos, así que ya estaba mentalizado en encontrar un trabajo de medio tiempo. Por otra parte, sus amigos Matt y Tom le habían comentado sus intenciones de compartir un piso, para de esta forma vivir en un lugar más céntrico. Nada podría salir mal.

Pero ahí estaba un año después, agotado por del quinto desembarque de mercadería de la noche en el supermercado. Muy cansado como para llegar a casa y avanzar en sus proyectos universitarios, solo quería una ducha y dormir. ¿No existía otro tipo de trabajo que drenara menos de su energía? ¿Un trabajo que no ocupara tantas horas de su día?

Así fue como Edd se dedicó a investigar en diferentes sitios, sitios cada vez más corruptos, hasta que en uno de ellos llegó a sus oídos la información de cierto negocio que se hacía en un club de pool nocturno, donde a cambio de “solicitudes” de clientes se pagaba una buena suma de dinero. Edd, al ver el tipo de solicitudes que se habían dudó en intentarlo, pero uno en particular le llamó la atención.

“Un sujeto del campus me acosa constantemente. Lo he denunciado en reiteradas ocasiones, pero no he tenido respuesta de las autoridades ya que no me ha agredido físicamente. Solo quiero que le den el susto de su vida para que me deje en paz. Tengo miedo.”

Edd lo pensó un momento mientras observaba el número de contacto adjunto a la solicitud y el monto a recibir por dicho servicio. Él era grande, tal vez no el chico más musculoso, pero tenía conocimiento en peleas de su etapa escolar más rebelde. Además, tenía un arma falsa bastante convincente. Quizás… podría intentarlo.

Llegado el día, Edd miró por última vez la foto de un joven rubio para corroborar que era el mismo al que estaba observando caminar despreocupadamente por la vereda de en frente. Cruzó la calle mientras se colocaba la capucha y empujó al chico más pequeño que él al callejón, alejándolos de la vista pública. Lo sujetó del cuello casi levantándolo del suelo mientras el chico emitía pequeños chillidos de terror. Sacó su arma y apuntó a su cabeza:

- Te conozco, George Smith. Sé dónde vives, tu aburrido horario y que ahora te dirigías a ver a tus amigos Tyler y Henry en el local a unas cuadras de aquí. Lástima que tendré que arruinar tu diversión.

Con los ojos abiertos de puro terror, el chico más pequeño vió cómo Edd tomaba su arma del bolsillo trasero, jalaba el percutor y apuntaba a la cabeza de George.

- Si te vuelvo a ver cerca de la señorita Emily Brown vendré nuevamente por ti, y no estaré solo.

Entre chillidos y sonidos ahogados de George por el fuerte agarre, Edd le propinó un golpe seco con la rodilla a su estómago, sacándole completamente el aire de los pulmones. Finalmente, antes de que George pudiera recuperar el aliento, y con un rápido movimiento, Edd golpeó a George en la cabeza con su arma, noqueándolo instantáneamente.

El más alto miró por un segundo la escena y sintió cómo la adrenalina corría en su interior. Nunca había sentido algo así. Le recordó un poco a las peleas escolares de antaño pero con una intensidad mucho mayor. Sintió control y descontrol a la vez. Le gustó.

Poco a poco, Edd empezó a tomar cada vez más solicitudes de gente que él llamaba “en situación de necesidad por el no actuar de la ley”, a veces aliándose con otros como él cuando el servicio requería más de un individuo, e incluso llegando a comprar un arma real y aprender a usarla para correr menos riesgos. Con esta nueva entrada de dinero podría dejar su otro trabajo ya que en menos horas ganaba mucho más, podría pagar sus estudios sin problema, mejorar su equipo de trabajo y pagar la renta de su hogar.

Y así lo hizo, el día que llegó su nuevo computador y tableta gráfica fue el día más alegre de su vida. Tom y Matt estaban indudablemente felices por él y cuando por fin tuvo todo instalado los llamó para que vieran su equipamiento último modelo. Edd no esperaba que entraran a su habitación grabando y festejando el fruto de tanto trabajo duro. Entre felicitaciones tomaron una última foto para guardar para el recuerdo.

- Gracias chicos. Son los mejores.

Finalmente, ya en la oscuridad de la noche, se pudo ver a un Edd sin poder conciliar el sueño. Puesto que, aunque en un par de años ya no tendría la necesidad de seguir con este trabajo, algo había despertado en su ser que le decía que lo que empezó como una necesidad, se estaba convirtiendo en una obsesión.

[elizabeth-mitchells]

the only touchstone of truth - I Care A Lot (2020) - Marla x Fran

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: I Care A Lot (2020) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Fran/Marla Grayson Characters: Marla Grayson, Fran (I Care A Lot) Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Origin Story, Canon Backstory, First Meetings, First Kiss, First Dates, Getting Together, Morally Ambiguous Character, Illegal Activities, Eventual Smut, Flirting, Partners in Crime, crime wives Summary: The American dream. The small business that Marla Grayson built from nothing. And now it's all crumbling down back to... nothing. Marla is left to pick up the pieces of the broken dream, but this time she's determined to start a fire with what she has left. The problem, or rather, the solution, comes in the shape of Fran, a gorgeous woman that, unlikely as it seems, has just as many tricks under her sleeve as Marla. This is how they meet, this is how they fall into each other's dangerous games, and most importantly, this is how they fall in love. Love, the only honest thing about each other, and the most important part of their story.

Chapter 1:

Marla was sitting behind the counter in her shop, wearing a sharp white shirt and her blonde hair falling in soft waves on her shoulders. The place was desolated, only Curtis stood by, idly reorganizing the shelves for maybe the hundredth time. Restlessness disgusted Marla. When she caught herself starting to lazily spin from side to side on her swivel chair she shook herself out of it by planting her feet firmly on the floor and picking up her vape pen. She’d only started using it to become a master of the trade she’s decided to pursue, but she’d grown quickly attached to it. Like an assassins’ favorite knife, it could be used as a weapon, but it brought comfort in unexplainable ways too.

“Curtis,” Marla exhaled, staring at her friend, “What is… the most American thing you can think of?”

The man smiled, an objectively beautiful smile, and said, “Cowboys.”

Instead of laughing, Marla nodded very seriously. That was, indeed, a very American thing. Men proudly resorting to childish ideals of what it is to be a man, hoping to use boyish charm to earn points in a game nobody could possibly win something worthy of. The problem was, Curtis wasn’t like that, not with Marla at least, and his answer was genuine. Besides, the fictional idea of a traditional cowboy was very American indeed. “What would a cowboy do,” Marla wondered slowly, “when facing a god-awful rival?”

“Get rid of them?” the young man replied. That was a certain answer, and the impulse of making it sound like a question at the end was just a consequence of answering to Marla. It was a common thing, he wasn’t immune to it, and she actually relished the fact that she could make people doubt the most obvious things they should be confident in.

“Exactly,”  Marla clicked her teeth and winked, adding a playful gesture as if she’d just shoot him with an invisible gun.

Her friend and employee chuckled fondly at her. “Yeah, sorry, Marla, but I don’t think you can get rid of them.”

Gracefully, Marla stood up from the chair. What she’d been staring at so intently on her computer’s screen was the view from one of the security cameras outside, pointing across the street at the line of people waiting to get in at the bigger and flashier vape shop that recently opened up. “I know,” she said, almost soft enough to hide the venom in the words of acceptance of her downfall. She spread both hands on the counter and stared. It was the beginning of goodbye. She wasn’t an overly emotional person, she didn’t exactly hold a sentimental attachment with the place, not even to the person she had been when she started this journey. But, she had to say goodbye. However, “I won’t go down without a fight,” Marla stated. She walked around the counter and toward the front of the shop.

Personally, Marla had a different idea of what was the most American thing a person could do. Walk away from a suffocating family to the big city, make the most of what the world currently wants and turn it into a business, build it all from the ground up, turn it into an empire, make yourself rich enough to become a challenge to royalty and deities alike. It was a perfect plan as long as nobody warned you of the impossible to overcome obstacles that would appear in your path. Marla had done her work, she had spent the better part of her youth working inconceivable schedules and begging for loans. She had studied the market, the competition, the ins and outs of one smart investment, and it had worked. Until the grand opening of a monstrous shop close enough for it to be humiliating. They sold a brand, and Marla couldn’t compete. She’d done everything right, perhaps it was time to do a little bit of wrong in order to come out as a winner.

Marla had chosen that particular place to set up her shop because it was convenient for her type of business, but she never liked the place very much. That was something she could admit now that she was saying goodbye to it. She was staring out the glass windows and almost grimacing at the view. She’d always wanted an office that would be at least one floor up from the ground, before reaching the highest level of the building, of course. Now she was making herself the promise not to rest until she achieved her real goals and desires, the bigger the better, no space for conformity with accomplishing the bare minimum, not anymore.

“Maybe they can get rid of me,” Marla finally said, much to the confusion of the young man listening to her. She didn’t have just an idea, she’d just come up with an entire plan

------------

The police sirens were a perfect soundtrack, just like Marla had imagined it. But they carried, along with the blinking red and blue lights, unexpected effects. It was the perfect background for a few of Marla’s nightmares, and for most of her dreams. If only she didn’t have to hold back for one reason or another. If the men that threatened her ever came to something. If only she listened to that little voice in the back of her head that encouraged her to push further and harder against life. It felt like every “ what if ” of her life ended up with police sirens and red and blue lights at her back. Only one slight movement of her shoes on the broken glass that covered the floor of her shop was enough to pull her out of her deep thoughts. Only of discreet shake of her head to push her hair off her face was enough to bring her back to the conversation at hand.

“I didn’t see it, at first,” she said in a frail tone of someone retelling an awful nightmare, “it wasn’t until Curtis pointed it out that… Christ. It looks bad.”

Marla, her loyal employee, and the police officer were, of course, discussing the broken windows, trashed shelves and, more specifically at that instant, the graffiti painted on the floor of her place, it was the logo of the big store just down the road.

“There are a few options,” the detective mumbled, “Could be the competition, of course, but could be simple, overenthusiastic buyers with an interest in causing trouble. Nothing out of the ordinary. I’m positive we’ll catch the people responsible for the attack to your shop, Miss Grayson.” After a pause, she added, “I wonder how far they went. May I look over the office, the storage?”

The blonde looked away with a pained expression, “I don’t think I could,” she forced herself to take a deep and steadying breath and when she looked back at the other women she had a perfectly sweet smile on, “Curtis will accompany you, detective.”

As the two of them walked further inside the store, Marla walked out. She’d left her own car parked out front, so she leaned her back against it and put her vape pen on her lips. Only a couple of seconds later, the second officer that had shown up to the place had joined her.

“That’s not going to work,” was the first thing Fran said to Marla.

“Excuse me?”

“Using that guy as bait.”

Marla blinked, reeling back her slight surprise. “And why is that?” she inquired.

Fran shrugged, staring straight at the broken windows of the shop. “Lou’s my ex,” she mentioned as nonchalantly as she should have introduced herself but instead had only nodded when her partner was the one to remember the protocol, “she’s not gonna fall for your boy’s charm.” She finally turned to look at Marla, as if it were the first time, but knowing that since she arrived at the place she’d been casting furtive glances at the striking and intriguing blonde. “You, on the other hand, give her another one of those smiles of yours,” Fran said, with barely a hint of a smile on her pink lips, “and it might work.”

Along with a breathy and quick chuckle, Marla did smile. She wasn’t used to being so blatantly called out for her strategies. People complained all the time about the way she constantly managed to get what she wanted, but nobody ever seemed to know exactly what about her they were upset about. Then there was this complete stranger that with one look and right from the first sentence she spoke, she caught Marla. And the best part, she didn’t even seem to be complaining about it. Marla would have been lying if she said it didn’t feel strangely good. Partially, because she knew she was good at her games, and if no one played at her level then nobody could actually appreciate her. It was pleasant to be seen. Partially, too, it was just because of the way the other woman was looking at her.

“Not that one, though,” Fran continued. She leaned in closer, talked in conspirative whispers, and for some reason was displeased with Marla’s smile. She was fascinating almost to a point of dizziness. Her presence, to anyone of slightly weaker disposition than Marla, would have brought them to their knees. “That one’s sincere,” she said of the smile they were discussing, “and that’s dangerous.”

This time Marla scoffed. She looked away, hoping that the brunette, without looking into her eyes, wouldn’t be able to read how much Marla was struggling to draw the line between being fed a flirtatious line out of the millions of them, and the shockingly unique feeling of it all, something that she’d only seen in Fran.

“You look too young to be a detective,” Marla said, as a way to change the course of the conversation. Only after she said the words she started thinking about what they meant. What could this woman, with the imperfect ponytail, worn leather jacket, and secretive smile, have done in order to get to where she was in life?

“And you look,” Fran started to say, pausing just long enough for Marla to think that if she dared called her old she would simply walk away and never return to the damned shop, “too smart to own a place like this.”

She wasn’t the first person to point out the fact that simply something about Marla’s eyes revealed that she was meant for things greater than a vape shop. She would’ve laughed, or smiled, but that would’ve made things too easy for Fran. “It’s just business,” the blonde said slowly.

“Is that why you did all this?” Fran nodded toward the broken windows and the mess beyond.

Marla turned to look at her and remained speechless for a moment, even if her cold expression did nothing to reveal the spark of surprise that Fran was fueling with every word she spoke. The silence wasn’t as uncomfortable as expected. Marla quickly figured out that if Fran was smart enough to figure out in a few minutes the complexities of her carefully crafted smile, then it wasn’t all that shocking to see her solve a case that she’d probably even seen before.

“Do you think she’ll notice?” Marla finally asked, talking about Fran’s partner. For some reason, she wasn’t worried in the slightest about Fran being the one to ruin her plans.

The younger woman tilted her head from side to side, genuinely thinking it through. The impulse to talk shit about her ex was strong. But she knew and respected the woman as a professional. Plus, a consequence of being so good at pulling the truth out of unwilling people was that she wasn’t that interested in the effort it took to lie.

“There’s a chance,” she replied at last. “But, really, give her one smile,” Fran continued, “and she’ll probably give you that signature you want to take this to court.”

This time, the two women laughed together. When they made eye contact then, it was completely different. No careful glances, no studying the other one, simply looking for the sake of a beautiful and frightening view. Right from the first night, they came across that feeling of absolute freedom and awe of standing at the edge of a cliff that would paralyze in fear those of faint heart, but that they would eventually come to fondly associate with each other.

“And you?” Marla dropped the smile. If Fran could see her tricks, she could return the favor. It was her turn to lean in closer, whisper, and look just disinterested enough as she asked, “What do you want before you give me what I want?”

Fran looked away for just one instant, but they both knew this game well enough to know that such small action would count as a big win for the blonde. When she looked back up at those striking blue eyes, Fran thought for a moment, about what she wanted, what Marla could give, and how far she could push or pull at this unlikely and tremendously exciting situation so she could get the best deal possible.

“I’ll let you know,” Fran announced, pulling out a presentation card and offering it to Marla with a smile. “Someone might break into your business again. So dangerous,” she playfully shook her head and pulled herself away from the car they’d been leaning against, “Call me when you’ll need me.”

[star-anise]

why would your social environment affect if you identify as a woman or nb?

I don’t know if you meant it to be, but this is a delightful question. I am going to be a complete nerd for 2k+ words at you.

“Gender” is distinct from “sex” because it’s not a body’s physical characteristics, it’s how society classifies and interprets that body. Sex is “That person has a vagina.” Gender is “This is a blend of society’s expectations about what bodies with vaginas are like, social expectations of how people with vaginas do or might or should act, behave, and feel, the actual lived experiences of people with vaginas, and a twist of lemon for zest.” Concepts of gender and what is “manly” and “womanly” can vary a lot. They’re social values, like “normal” or “legal” or “beautiful”, and they vary all the time. How well you fit your gender role depends a lot on how “gender” is defined.

800 years ago in Europe the general perception was that women were sinful, sensual, lustful people who required frequent sex and liked watching bloodsport. 200 years ago, the British aristocracy thought women were pure, innocent beings of moral purity with no sexual desire who fainted at the sight of blood. These days, we think differently in entirely new directions.

But this gets even more complicated, in part because human experience is really diverse and society’s narratives have to account for that. So 200 years ago, those beliefs about femininity being delicate and dainty and frail only really applied to women with aristocratic lineages, and “the lower classes” of women were believed to be vulgar, coarse, sexual, and earthy, which “explained” why they performed hard physical labor or worked as prostitutes.

Being trans or nonbinary isn’t just or even primarily about what characteristics you want your body to have. It’s about how you want to define yourself and be interpreted and interacted with by other people.

The writer Sylvia Plath lived 1932-1963, and she said:

“Being born a woman is my awful tragedy. From the moment I was conceived I was doomed to sprout breasts and ovaries rather than penis and scrotum; to have my whole circle of action, thought and feeling rigidly circumscribed by my inescapable feminity. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars–to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording–all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery.”

She was from upper-middle-class Massachusetts, the child of a university professor. A lot of those things she was “prohibited” from doing weren’t things each and every woman was prohibited from doing; they were things women of her class weren’t allowed to do. The daughters and sisters and wives of sailors and soldiers, women who worked in hotels and ran rooming houses, barmaids and sex workers, got to anonymously and invisibly observe those men, after all. They just couldn’t do it at the same time they tried to meet the standards educated Bostonians of the 1950s had for nice young women.

Failure to understand how diverse womanhood is has always been one of feminism’s biggest weaknesses. The Second Wave of feminism was started mostly by prosperous university-educated white women, since they were the people with the time and money and resources to write and read books and attend conferences about “women’s issues”. And they assumed that their issues were female issues. That they were the default of femaleness, and could assume every woman had roughly the same experience as them.

So, for example, middle-class white women in post-WWII USA were expected to stay home all the time and look after their children. Feminists concluded that this was isolating and oppressive, and they’d like the freedom to pursue lives, careers, and interests outside of the home. They vigorously pursued the right to be freed from their domestic and maternal duties.

But in their society, these experiences were not generally shared by Black and/or poor women, who, like their mothers, did not have the luxury of spending copious amounts of leisure time with their children; they had to work to earn enough money to survive on, which meant working on farms, in factories, or as cooks, maids, or nannies for rich white women who wanted the freedom to pursue lives outside the home. They tended to feel that they would like to have the option of staying home and playing with their babies all day. 

This is not to say none of the first group enjoyed domestic lives, or that none of the second group wanted non-domestic careers; it’s just that the first group formed the face and the basic assumptions of feminism, and the second group struggled to get a seat at the table.

There’s this phenomenon called “cultural feminism” that’s an attitude that crops up among feminists from time to time (or grows on them, like fungus) that holds that women have a “feminine essence”, a quasi-spiritual “nature” that is deeply distinct from the “masculine essence” of men. This is one of the concepts powering lesbian separatism: the idea that because women are so fundamentally different from men, a society of all women will be fundamentally different in nature from a society that includes men.

But, well, the problem cultural feminism generally has is with how it achieves its definition of “female nature”. The view tends to be that women are kinder, more moral, more collectivist, more community-minded, and less prone to violence. 

And cultural feminists tend to HATE people who believe in the social construction of gender, because we tend to cross our arms and go, “Nah, sis, that’s a frappe of misused statistics and The Angel In the House with some wishful thinking as a garnish. That’s how you feel about what womanhood is. It’s fair enough for you, but you’re trying to apply it to the entire human species. That’s got less intellectual rigor and sociological validity than my morning oatmeal.” Hence the radfem insistence that gender theorists like me SHUT UP and gender quite flatly DOESN’T EXIST. It’s a MADE-UP TERM, and people should STOP TALKING ABOUT IT. (And go back to taking about immutable, naturally-occuring phenomena, one supposes, like the banking system and Western literary canon.)

Because seriously, when you look at real actual women, you will see that some of us can be very selfish, while others are altruistic; some think being a woman means abhorring all violence forever, and others think being a woman means being willing to fight and die to protect the people you love. As groups men and women have different average levels of certain qualities, but it’s not like we don’t share a lot in common. The distribution of “male” and “female” traits doesn’t tend to mean two completely separate sets of characteristics; they tend to be more like two overlapping bell curves.

So, like I said, I grew up largely in rural, working-class Western Canadian society. My relatives tend to be tradesmen like carpenters, welders, or plumbers, or else ranchers and farmers. I was raised by a mother who came of age during the big push for Women’s Lib. So in the culture in which I was raised, it was very normal and in some ways rewarded (though in other ways punished) for women to have short hair, wear flannel and jeans, drive a big truck, play rough contact sports, use power tools, pitch in with farmwork, use guns, and drink beer. “Traditional femininity” was a fascinating foreign culture my grandmother aspired to, and I loved nonsense like polishing the silver (it’s a very satisfying pastime) but that was just another one of my weird hobbies, like sewing fairy clothes out of flower petals and collecting toy horses.

Within the standards of the society I was raised in, I am a decently feminine woman. I’m obviously not a “girly girl”, someone who wears makeup and dresses in ways that privilege beauty over practicality, but I have a long ponytail of hair and when I go to Mark’s Work Wearhouse, I shop in the women’s section. We know what “butch” is and I ain’t it.

But through my friendships and my career, I’ve gotten experiences among cultures you wouldn’t think would be too different–we’re all still white North Americans!–but which felt bizarre and alien, and ate away at the sense of self I’d grown up in. In the USA’s northeast, the people I met had the kind of access to communities with social clout, intellectual resources, and political power I hadn’t quite believed existed before I saw them. There really were people who knew politicians and potential employers socially before they ever had to apply to a job or ask for political assistance; there were people who really did propose projects to influential businessmen or academics at cocktail parties; they really did things like fundraise tens of thousands of dollars for a charity by asking fifty of their friends to donate, or start a business with a $2mil personal loan from a relative.

And in those societies, femininity was so different and so foreign. I’d grown up seeing femininity as a way of assigning tasks to get the work done; in these new circles, it was performative in a way that was entirely unique and astounding to me. A boss really would offer you a starting salary $10k higher than they might have if you wore high heels instead of flats. You really would be more likely to get a job if you wore makeup. And your ability to curate social connections in the halls of power really was influenced by how nice of a Christmas party you could throw. These women I met were being held, daily, to a standard of femininity higher than that performed by anyone in my 100 most immediate relatives.

So when girls from Seven Sisters schools talked about how for them, dressing how I dressed every day (jeans, boots, tee, button-up shirt, no makeup, no hair product) was “bucking gendered expectations” and “being unfeminine”, I began to feel totally unmoored. When I realized that I, who absolutely know only 5% as much about power tools and construction as my relatives in the trades, was more suited to take a hammer and wade in there than not just the “empowered” women but the self-professed “handy” men there, I didn’t know how to understand it. I felt like I was… a woman who knew how to do carpentry projects, not “totally butch” the way some people (approvingly) called me.

And, well, at home in Alberta I was generally seen as a sweet and gentle girl with an occasional stubborn streak or precocious moment, but apparently by the standards of Southern states like Georgia and Alabama I am like, 100x more blunt, assertive, and inconsiderate of men’s feelings than women typically feel they have to be.

And this is still all just US/Canadian white women.

And like I said, after years of this, I came home (from BC, where I encountered MORE OTHER weird and alien social constructs, though generally more around class and politics than gender) to Alberta, and I went to what is, for Alberta, a super hippy liberal church, and I helped prepare the after-service tea among women with unstyled hair and no makeup  who wore jeans and sensible shoes, and listened to them talk about their work in municipal water management and ICU nursing, and it felt like something inside my chest slid back into place, because I understood myself as a woman again, and not some alien thing floating outside the expectations of the society I was in with a chestful of opinions no one around me would understand, suddenly all made sense again.

I mean, that’s by no means an endorsement for aspirational middle class rural Alberta as the ideal gender utopia. (Alberta is the Texas of Canada.) I just felt comfortable inside because it’s the culture where I found a definition of myself and my gender I could live with, because its boundaries of what’s considered “female” were broad enough to hold all the parts of me I felt like I needed to express. I have a lot of friends who grew up here, or in families like mine, and don’t feel at all happy with its gender boundaries. And even as I’m comfortable being a woman here, I still want to push and transform it, to make it even more feminist and politically left and decolonized.

TERFs try to claim that trans and nonbinary people reinforce the gender identity, but in my experience, it’s feminists who claim male and female are immutable and incompatible do that. It’s trans, nonbinary, and genderqueer people who, simply by performing their genders in public, make people realize just how bullshit innate theories of gender are.. Society is going to want to gender them in certain ways and involve them in certain dynamics (”Hey ladies, those fellas, amirite?”) and they’re going, “Nope. Not me. Cut it out.” I’ve seen a lot of cis people who will quietly admit they do think men and women are different because that’s just reality, watch someone they know transition, and suddenly go, “Oh my god, I get it now.”

Like yes, this is me being coldly political and thinking about people as examples to make a political point. Everyone’s valid and can do what they want, but some things are just easier for potential converts to wrap their minds around.. “I’m sorting through toys to give to Shelly’s baby. He probably won’t want a princess crown, huh?” “I actually know several people who were considered boys when they were babies and never got one, and are making up for all their lost princess crown time now as adults. You never know what he’ll be into when he grows up.” “…Okay, point. I’ll throw it in there.” Trans and enby people disrupt gender in a really powerful back-of-the-brain way where people suddenly see how much leeway there is between gender and sex.

I honestly believe supporting trans and enby people and queering gender until it’s a macrame project instead of a spectrum are how we’ll get to a gender-free utopia. I think cultural feminism is just the same old shit, inverted. (Confession: in my head, I pronounce “cultural” with emphasis on the “cult” part.) 

I think feminism is like a lot of emergency response groups: Our job is to put ourselves out of a job. It’s not a good thing if gender discrimination is still prevalent and harmful 200 years from now! Obviously we’re not there yet and calls to pack it in and go home are overrated, but as the problem disappears into its solution, we have to accept that our old ways of looking at the world have to shift.

[victorious-hypersnakes]

“A negative reaction in certain quarters to The Queen’s Gambit was inevitable, given the current political atmosphere. The popular Netflix series, based on the 1983 novel with the same title, ignores identity politics in its portrayal of a young woman’s rise to the top of the chess world.

In the Washington Post, Monica Hesse—who has weighed in foully in the #MeToo witch-hunt—summed up her view in a November 25 headline: “The Queen’s Gambit, a period drama that erases sexism from 1960, is the best fantasy show of the year.” Carina Chocano in the New York Times (“I Want to Live in the Reality of The Queen’s Gambit,” December 2) also asserts that a story “in which a female character succeeds in a man’s world without being harassed, assaulted, abused, ignored, dismissed, sidelined, robbed or forgotten” is a “fantasy.”

Hostile comments from such sources are a form of high praise. More about these reviews later.

One of the aspects of The Queen’s Gambit that makes the series effective is its avoidance of a didactic approach. As we have already noted, it has no simplistic villains or caricatures. The series does not begin with a message to hammer home, but realistically allows some important themes to emerge from the narrative itself.

A self-evident theme is that of young Beth Harmon’s success in a field that is overwhelmingly dominated by chess players who are men. The Queen’ s Gambit, however, does not place the issue of gender front and center. Instead it shows Beth’s emergence, not only as a chess champion, but also, as a rounded and wiser human being.

She struggles with the tremendous psychological trauma that comes with the loss of her family, and the particular circumstances that led to her becoming an orphan. The strict Christian orphanage in which she is placed is no help. While there, however, she meets an older girl, Jolene, as well as the building janitor, Mr. Shaibel. She finds a kind of salvation in chess.

This story, unusual but very authentic, cuts across the current orthodoxy in which every subject is depicted in terms of race and gender. Beth cannot and does not achieve her goal without assistance. Her supporters include men as well as women, Russians as well as Americans, the younger as well as older generations. Jolene, who is African American, is one of Beth’s strongest advocates. In the final episode, when she insists on lending Beth the money to travel to Moscow for the world championship competition, she says, “that’s what family does.”

Then there is Mr. Shaibel, who first introduces Beth, a withdrawn and traumatized nine-year-old, to the game of chess. Again, in the final episode, the bond between the older man and the young girl is movingly expressed after Shaibel’s death, when Beth, who has completely lost touch with him over the years, finds among his belongings at the orphanage a huge batch of newspaper clippings that reveal how he followed every step in her chess career. She breaks down in tears, and later, giving a magazine interview in Moscow, she insists above all that Mr. Shaibel be remembered as the man who first taught and helped her on the road to her future.

Other support for Beth comes from a number of young men who have been chess rivals, and who have come to respect and admire her for her determination and the growing warmth and generosity beneath her sometimes gruff exterior. This also finds expression in the final episode.

One can easily imagine the gnashing of teeth in upper-middle-class circles produced by these portrayals. At the same time, while The Queen’s Gambit goes counter to some of the current trends in popular culture, it immediately struck a chord with audiences and has become the most popular streaming series on Netflix. With 62 million views within its first month, it has been widely commented on, sparked a boom in the sale of chess sets and seen wide social media identification with its protagonist.

It is in this context that the Washington Post and the New York Times have published very similar “appreciations” of The Queen’s Gambit in the last two weeks. Both writers are clearly disturbed by the show, but they disguise their antagonism. Instead, they semi-facetiously choose to reinterpret the story as fantasy—escapist entertainment that has nothing at all to do with the real world.

Hesse in the Washington Post calls the show escapist, since it has “no women in peril” and “no skeezy men.” Though she claims to welcome the escapism, her descriptions betray her actual feelings. Her depiction of Mr. Shaibel is particularly revealing: “Beth meets an odd, reclusive janitor in her orphanage’s basement. An experienced viewer wonders if he’s about to molest her; instead he introduces her to the chessboard.” Later, Hesse continues, one of Beth’s rivals loans her strategy books and another provides her with an air mattress when she stays overnight, rather than assaulting or sexually harassing her.

All this is nothing more than a flight of fancy, according to Hesse. “And it’s at least some of why—even if viewers haven’t put their fingers on it—the show is so dang satisfying. … It’s revisionist history. It would be a wonderful future.”

Chocano’s approach in her New York Times Magazine piece closely resembles Hesse’s. She too expresses astonishment that Mr. Shaibel, “rather than molest her [Beth], teaches her to play chess.” According to Chocano, the circumstances depicted in The Queen’s Gambit are “so vanishingly rare that it comes across as utopian fiction.” This critic says she welcomes it—as long as we understand it as a daydream. This type of “of meritocratic, gender-agnostic fiction is desperately needed. … Nothing could be further from our current reality, but who needs our current reality?”

The claims that the series is appreciated because it is fantasy are disingenuous, to say the least. The show has struck a chord precisely because it is not seen as utopian fiction. The book was not a fantasy novel, and neither is its adaptation for film.

In the eyes of the upper-middle-class #MeToo campaigners, the relations between the sexes simply boil down to warfare. Men are generally rapists and monsters, with a few honorable exceptions. This is not an exaggeration on our part—look at their own words. According to Hesse, “an experienced viewer” would rationally expect that an older man, working as a janitor in an orphanage, would molest a nine-year-old child—in his own workplace, no less! And it is pure fantasy, on the other hand for this “odd” worker—who perhaps has three strikes against him, being white, male and old—to be impressed with the native ability and curiosity of the girl, and to be convinced to show her the game.

What about the claim that The Queen’s Gambit is fantasy because it ignores the problems facing women? This is also false. Beth faces enormous obstacles. She is not uniformly welcomed. She faces curiosity, disbelief and some condescension when she shows up for tournaments. The problem for the Post and Times writers is that the problems Beth faces do not include sexual harassment, which, according to them, must always and everywhere top the list.

There are other ways in which The Queen’s Gambit does not ignore the real world, including the issues facing women in the 1950s and ’60s. Some of Beth’s high school classmates in Lexington, Kentucky are pressured into early motherhood, or jobs that don’t allow for their fuller development. Her adoptive mother Alma must deal with a loveless marriage, a husband who deserts her and general unhappiness that encourages a drinking problem.

Above all, The Queen’s Gambit takes in a wider view of the world, including the working class. The world of Mr. Shaibel or Jolene (who they don’t mention at all) is not one that interests our upper-middle-class critics. Nor do they take note of the Soviet chess players, or of the chess fans, mostly women, who display increasing enthusiasm as Beth exits the tournament after successive victories.

How is it possible to watch this program and not be moved by Beth’s development, especially by the closing episode, when Beth realizes the impact and the heroic character of Mr. Shaibel? This is a real turning point for the young woman, more important than her chess triumphs up to then. And it leads to and is mirrored in the closing scene, when Beth spurns the State Department and its plans to use her fame for the purposes of the Cold War, instead returning to the street to meet and fraternize with her admiring Soviet chess players, most of them past retirement age.

The Post and Times critics note that Beth faces few obstacles, but there is another part of the story that they no doubt find utopian and in a sense dangerous, even if they don’t acknowledge it, and that is the unselfishness of Beth, as well as Jolene and Mr. Shaibel.

How could Shaibel teach a little girl to play chess? How could Jolene give Beth the money to travel to Moscow? How could Beth tell the State Department chaperone she is not interested in a dinner at the White House? This aspect, the rejection of the prevailing ethos of selfishness and wealth accumulation, is bound up with the issue of identity politics, directed as it is not toward the fight for equality and against discrimination, but rather toward personal advancement and power. The upper-middle-class critics instinctively recoil from this theme, and try to ignore it as best they can.

Young people see their experiences and their hopes embodied in the characters on screen. They exhibit a growing and healthy distrust of the claims for gender and racial “diversity” even while the status quo remains firmly entrenched. We repeat, the appearance and reception of The Queen’s Gambit are indeed hopeful signs of things to come.”

...You know every so often, the WSWS spits pure fire. 

[suckitsurveys]

Did you want to be a lost boy when you were younger? (I did.) Cool story. No. 

If you have a job, what is the longest shift that you’ve worked? I once worked 16 hours in one day.

Do you listen to Mayday Parade? No.

Would you ever get a tattoo of somebody’s autograph (famous or not? Eh.

Do you know all of the words to the Bohemian Rhapsody? I do. 

^ Do you sing it with all of the different voices? Yes.

Also, have you seen The Muppets’ version of it? Yes.

If you could live in any eighties movie, which would be? Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

Have you ever watched the tv show ‘The Big Bang Theory’? Unfortunately.

Is there a school subject that you detest, or did, but still did well in? English. 

Do you have a Pandora account? If so, what are your stations? I do. I haven’t used it in several years, though, so I don’t remember.

Have you ever visited a castle? I...think so?

Do you own more than one copy of a certain book? I have two copies of Bossypants by Tina Fey because I bought one to read on a plane trip and then my sister got me a copy for my birthday shortly after. I also had two copies of To Kill a Mockingbird at some point.

Were you raised in a very Disney-friendly home? Yeah, but we weren’t a “Disney” family. I liked the classic movies and whatnot, but I was more into Nickelodeon. 

You watch an old lady put a quarter in a slot machine and then walk away. You then pull the lever and SURPRISE you win the jackpot. What do you do? I wouldn’t pull the lever.

Would you attend a school/class that taught about rock music? A class, sure. 

Have you ever watched the tv show Lost? I have not.

Do you like interpreting poetry or just reading it for fun? Eh.

Do you feel that people are entitled to their own opinions? Opinions, yes. Shitty views about race, gender, sexuality, reproductive rights, etc, no. 

If I loaned you Doc’s DeLorean, would you go to the past or the future? The past I guess.  Would you enjoy taking a flying bus to school? With Ms. Frizzle, sure. 

Which superhero or villain would you want as your best friend? I’m okay.

Do you have a favorite Dr. Suess book? Horton Hears a Who. 

Are you good at reading people? I think so.

Do you prefer Red Vines or Twizzlers? Twizzlers. 

How do you feel about the colored feathers in the hair trend? Okay Kesha.

Do you watch The Walking Dead? If so, favorite character? I’ve seen a few episodes. Do you like or try to believe in the goodness of people? Yes.

What are we going to do tomorrow night, Pinkie? You mean Brain.

Do you have a go-to memory for whenever you’re feeling sad or mad? eh.

Has anyone ever bought you a snowglobe? Yes.

Do you own a 'lucky’ piece of clothing? Sure.

Why is Waldo always hiding? Or is he not even hiding? He’s on the run.

Have you received any cards in the mail this year? I received some for Christmas. 

Star Wars, yay or nay? Eh, I can take it or leave it. I was just telling my friend the other day how Star Wars is one of those pop culture phenomenon. Like, I’ve never seen a movie all the way through, but I know all the characters and the story lines and what not because of how prevalent it is in other shows and movies. 

What is your go-to comfort food? All of it. All the food. 

Can you bowl a turkey? I have before in real life. I’m pretty good at it in Wii Bowling too haha. 

Do you like big flashy rings? Sure?

Have you ever used a Polaroid camera? Yes.

Is there a particular glass/cup that you 'have’ to use? Nah.

Have you ever read an entire comic book series? Nope.

Do you own a pair of moccasins? No.

Would you like to do a road trip in an RV of all 50 states? That would be amazing. Or at least a RV trip to some states I haven’t been to. 

Do you make lists for just about everything? Pretty much. 

[mininky]

Love is for the birds baby!

Summary: You refuse to believe in love. It’s a concept created by big corporations like hallmark to get sad saps like you to buy their shit. But it’s all fake. You’re convinced of that at least until a series of events with a certain tattoo artist who you loved to hate makes you question everything you’ve ever known.

Pairing: Tattoo artist!Yoongi x (fem) reader

Genre/Warnings: Romance, slow burn, fluff, comedy, smut warnings include: unsafe sex (always wear a condom), oral sex (male & fem receiving), multiple orgasms, spanking, light breath play, mentions of squirting. Non smut warnings for lots of cussing. Lots.

Word Count: 13.3K

A/N: A special shout out to @mzpandylu for inspiring me with such odd dialogue. Also challenge accepted, a quivering starfish is mentioned.

   Love is a completely abstract and intangible concept to you, at least romantic love is. There are many forms of love. Familial love is a concept you sort of understand, let's just say that your home life wasn't the greatest but you do at least understand the concept. Platonic love you completely understand. But romantic love? You very secretly yearn to understand it, desperately trying to figure out how the fuck some people get so lucky that the spark happens. You've dated, sure. But try as you might none of them have ever made your head spin or your heart sing. Lust you get. You've had plenty of flings and even some longer relationships, but love? Love is for the birds baby.

   You refuse, absolutely refuse, to admit that you have in any way shape or form an interest in this bizarre concept that is the investment and endeavor of romantic love. You've carefully hidden away all of your fanfics and all of your shojo mangas and all of the things that others would say is honestly completely normal to keep questions at bay. You know that your friends are interested in love, and unlike you they have no shame in admitting it. They talk about it all the time. They fall in 'love' with each man they date. But you're convinced that's not love. It's something more than like, sure you'll give them that but you're sure that it'll all end eventually. Love isn't sustainable because it's all a lie. Maybe you're too romantic at being romantic, perhaps you've just been suckered into all these stories into believing that a whirlwind romance is possible until one day the crushing realization that it wasn't possible occurred. That the sparks of electricity and burning hot embers of passion aren't sustainable and aren't indicative of love.

   You were twenty, he was twenty-one. The two of you had been dating mutually for three years at that point, a lifetime in college years. Billy Johnson. Fucking Billy. He was smart and funny and he actually knew what a clit was, and he kissed you under the night stars and made you feel like you were in love. Maybe you were, but you like to think that the feelings you felt weren't actually that strong. It made the fallout easier. Which brings you to the fallout, that realization that romantic love is all a big corporate lie to sell shitty grocery store roses and cute snuggly teddy bears and dime back novels to sad sops like you. A marketing ploy. Not a reality. Fuck Plato for being the first to sell the idea of soulmates, and fuck Billy too. Billy Johnson was a cruel heartless asshole who fucked your best friend. And in one day you lost two loves, one romantic and one platonic. In turn, you gained a distinct hatred for romantic concepts and a world-weary view on relationships, waiting for the other shoe to drop every time you encountered someone new.

   You dated again after that, but now at the young age of twenty-six, you've decided that it's time to give up. Or maybe you gave up after Billy. You can't say you've ever actually given it a real try after that if you're being honest. You know when to call it quits. You refuse, absolutely refuse, to be a corporate sellout. And your feelings are in no way shape or form reflective of the animosity at being broken up with by Johny last week because you were too 'sarcastic' in the middle of your vacation to Busan. Too sarcastic your ass. You'll show that motherfucker sarcastic. God, sorry, you're getting off track here. Where were you again?

   Ah yes, love is for apparently everyone that isn't you. So you'll just be a cat lady. An affection earned entirely by ear scritches and feeding them. A reward system that makes sense. You take care of them and they tolerate you. Now that you understand. That makes sense. Why in the ever loving fuck would you try romance again when instead you can have a mutually beneficial understanding with something as cute as a cat that can't tell you 'I think you're a bitch' in a language you understand? Fuck Johnny, and Billy. And every other man for that matter.

   You're ruminating in anger as you order your coffee, eyes staring straight into the young and timid barista as you slap down the change. Poor kid, it's not his fault but today you just hate the world. You try to smile but you're pretty sure that just scares him more if the way his eyes go large and round in fear is anything to go by. Christ, you need to work on your people skills. And you're totally not thinking that because of that dick weasel who you've decided will no longer be named.

   Normally once you get your caffeine fix you're in a much better mood, but today the only thing you want to do is karate chop your own throat. Or maybe just play Red Dead Redemption 2 and kill a bunch of people in a completely legal way. Not online though, you really don't need another 13-year-old boy slurring about how much girls suck unless you want to unleash the crazy bitch inside of you to the point of no return. But unfortunately, you have bills to pay. Caffeine fixes to afford. Student loans to pretend you'll someday actually pay off except interest is a bitch. Which means going to work. Normally something you love, but today you're really not in the mood to edit another shitty sci-fi story where the physics of breasts go beyond the dudebro fedora lover that wrote the shitty thing.

   Be an editor they said. You love books they said. You'll be great they said. They hadn't warned you that being an editor at a major publishing house still meant reading through a painful amount of crap writing that you would, in turn, make all pretty and nice and somewhat more presentable garbage for public consumption with no acknowledgment or credit for all the hours you spent trying not to bash your screen in with your face. At least you were close enough to walk to work.

   You grab your piping hot venti quad shot vanilla latte (with soy) as you go back out into the frigid air. Your eyes are cast down on the pavement, trying not to bump into too many of the zombie state morning foot traffic as you make your way into the office. At least you have an office of your own, a salvation of peace and quiet away from prying eyes that allows you to wallow in self-pity safely. The rest of the day goes by in a blur, your normally somewhat antisocial personality becomes far more present as you hide away from even your beloved breakroom coffee pot to avoid too many interactions. You just knew that you would end up running into Susan. Nice gal, but she talks way too much and she set you up with Johnny no wait, the douche canoe. You forgot he must never be named again. The last thing you need is her bringing up how he dumped in you in the middle of your vacation.

   You're also the last one to leave tonight. For someone who didn't really want to step foot into the building, you sure do seem to be having a hard time getting out of here. But there are deadlines to meet and your vacation meant that there's a pileup of work that needs to be done. That and you really don't feel like going into your empty apartment to binge watch on Netflix while you host another internal pity party.

   By the time you're finally out the door and into the freezing winter night, you can feel exhaustion seeping deep into your bones. Or that might just be the joint pain that this super shitty winter is causing. That's another thing the world lied about, joint pain isn't just for old people. It's apparently also for future cat spinsters who hate everything no matter their current age. Your head is stuck on the last chapter you were editing, trying to make sense of how exactly you might be able to convince the author to scrap the whole damn thing politely as your nose picks up on the smell of a cigarette wafting over. Your stomach rumbles, brain shutting off as fingers twitch. God, it's been two years since you stopped smoking but it smells so painfully fucking good right now.

   Your face whips up as you see the small trail of smoke wafting over to you. It's the guy from the tattoo shop, Min fucking Yoongi. You should've known. The guy is hot you'll give him that. Eyes just sharp enough to give him that bad boy image when paired with his full sleeve tattoos and the crawling cherry blossoms on his neck. The chronic scowl that says 'try me' in a way that oddly makes him hotter. Hair that looks like he spends way too much time on usually. Today however he's decked out in a beanie and black leather jacket with pants just tight enough to make you wish he would turn around and walk away. But in the last year since you've unfortunately gotten to know him you know that he's every bit as snarky, bitchy, and firey as you. He's also as much bite as he is bark, although so far you've never been the one he's pointed his bite at.

   "(Y/N), I see you were working late again." He takes a lazy drag on his cigarette, eyes staring straight through you as his lips quirk up into a smirk.

   "Yoongi." Your eyes narrow in on his, fingers twitching at your side as you bite down the incessant desire to beg for a cigarette. You won’t break, especially not in front of him. Just because you’ve had a series of bad days doesn’t mean you actually need that cigarette.

   "Jesus, what's wrong with you? You seem even bitchier than normal. I guess this cold snap we're having is because the ice queen decided to control your body."

   "Har-har-har little man." He bristles at the jab and you can't help but cackle internally at your small victory (pun completely intended.) "No for your information the world is a cruel, evil bitch and yet again I fell for its corporate seductions and evil capitalist ploys."

   "Right, I'm going to nod my head and pretend I understood what that meant just so you don't kill me. Hey, so are you ever going to get that tattoo or not?"

   You reach into the trenches of your memory, recalling months ago on a particularly good day when you told this same tiny Satan that you wanted to get a tattoo. He had seemed oddly impressed that you wanted a snake on your upper thigh and all was well until he told you that he pictured you wanting some shitty positive statement, most likely placed on your collarbone or ribcage and adorned with little doves or a dreamcatcher or some other shit. Bleh. That's when he first learned that you are possibly insane and most certainly a bit of a bitch. It's all been downhill with him since, each run in turning into a battle of insults.

   He stubs out the little remaining part of his Marlboro before gesturing to the warm shop. "I've got an opening to do a consult if you wanna talk about it more."

   Perhaps this is it, maybe this is what you need to do. Something different. Something that doesn't include your usual routine of wake up, caffeinate, work, work, work, and Netflix binge all in between minor anxiety driven breakdowns. Besides, it's just a consult, not the actual tattoo. "How do I know this isn't an elaborate plan to eventually see me half naked?"

   Yoongi rolls his eyes as he opens the door to the shop, glaring at you as he speaks slowly. "You might be hot, but I have a feeling you'd be the type of girl to try to peg me with no lube. I prefer cuddling. Trust me, I'm not interested in getting you naked and seeing where it goes." You're thrown for a loop at that one, shuffling slowly behind him as your brain tries to make sense of it. You know you should be offended that he seriously thinks you wouldn't use lube, but Yoongi likes cuddling? The guy who scowls at life itself? The guy who you've watched physically throw out a neo-nazi who wanted a tattoo? The same guy who rides a motorcycle and refuses sugar in his coffee because he likes it as bitter as his very soul? Man, life is really fucking weird.

   You follow behind him tentatively, shocked to hear rather calm hip hop station on. Maybe you stereotype too much but you pegged him (pun not intended this time) as a Lamb of God kind of guy, definitely not a Dean and PH-1 fan. He takes you over to his office, gesturing at a free seat before he sits down at his desk. Every surface is covered with intricate artwork. From Japanese style tattoos to Sailor Jerry flash pieces to pops of dystopian Disney paintings. "So, you still thinking about doing the same thing?"

   "Yeah. Red Belly black snake. I'm thinking upper thigh/hip area." You stand up and move your coat to the side to point to the area.

   "That's a good sized piece. Have you thought about adding anything more to it? Maybe some hyacinths on the left and right of the snake, I'm thinking in maybe a pale pink so it doesn't offset the red in the snake too much."

   "You know what a hyacinth is?" You snort slightly, glaring back at him when he leans onto his elbows to shoot a look that he's probably hoping will kill you.

   "I'm a tattoo artist. Do you know how many fucking flowers I have to draw every day? Swear to god I should open up a flower shop next door and make a killing with my amazing arrangements." This time you give a full-blown laugh, shocked to hear him mirroring quietly. In all the time you've kinda sorta known him you've never heard him laugh. It's nice, deep, and the gummy smile he gives has your heart doing little flip flops that you absolutely refuse to analyze.

   You take just a beat too long to look at him, your head tilted slightly as you mentally murder the lone butterfly that has survived all of the anger you've culminated in the last few years. "How about a peony instead? I think it would look better."

   "We can do that. With the size you're looking for and all the color work I'd guess that we're looking at at least 6 hours if we want to make sure it's done right. We can split it into two three hours sessions. I charge $200 an hour so you're looking at at least $1200, but you might want to be thinking to around the $1600 range just to be safe. I also require a $300 deposit usually just for a consult and another $300 later but I figure I can always hound you if you don't come in." He opens up his computer, clicking away for a moment before adding, "I have enough time to get started this Friday night if you want? At 8:00."

   "Gee thanks for the trust. Yeah that all sounds good, I'm down."

   He nods quickly, hands grabbing at some paper as he starts making drafting up some rough sketches. You try not to invade his space as you look over the paper, brain desperately searching for a small talk topic. God, you've always been bad at this. "So...how long have you been a tattoo artist?"

   "Well I started my apprenticeship right out of high school at 18 so 10 years total, but as an actual artist only about 8 years." Interesting, so that would make him two years older than you. For some reason, you feel a need to put that in one of your mental files. "What exactly do you do at that giant office building down the street?"

   "I work for a publishing house in there as one of their many editors."

   Yoongi snorts, nodding his head as he keeps sketching away. "Yeah, I can see you working with books. Your creative insults suddenly make so much more sense."

   "I'll take that as a compliment." You lean back into your chair, taking in your surroundings a little more closely before focusing unabashedly at the man before you. His tattoos are on full display now that he's taken off his jacket. Almost all are black and white with small splashes of reds and pinks laced mostly on his neck where cherry blossoms fall delicately off a branch. His eyes are cast in complete concentration, lower lip bitten as he works. There's something painfully sexy about the image. You almost want to burn it into your brain to use for late night consumption.

   You aren't sure how long the two of you sit there in silence, but it's comfortable. There's something soothing about listening to the way his markers glide over the paper as soft music, buzzing tattoo guns, and chatter filters in fuzzily through the closed door. You can feel yourself finally start to relax, all of the earlier rage and grudges held at the world slipping away momentarily as you enter a near-meditative state just watching him work.

   Finally, he glances up, a smile on his face as he pushes the paper over the desk to you. It's beautiful, a little rough around the edges without the finishing touches but it's better than anything you thought of. "Wow, Yoongi this looks great."

   "It's just a rough drawing. I still need to work on some of the other touches but if you're good with that I'll get started on making the transfer later this week."

   "Yeah..." You words are quiet as you look at the picture, elation growing in your heart. You might turn into a cat lady, but at least you'll be a badass one. "Okay, so seriously though do you want me to put down the deposit now? I have no problem with that."

   "Nah, don't sweat it. Oh, but I do need your full name and number to actually book it. And don't give me some shit about this being a ploy for your number." You roll your eyes before giving him the information. Standing up slowly when he opens up the office door and leads you back out to light snowfall. "Alright, see you this Friday (y/n)."

   "See you Yoongi. Thanks again." As you turn back to send a smile something painfully familiar stirs in your brain when he flashes that gummy smile and sends you on your way.

---------------Friday----------------

   By the time Friday rolls around you've been through a whole litany of emotions. You're of course excited about the tattoo, that's not the problem. No the source of all evils is Min Yoongi. Sexy. Witty. Can handle your sarcasm. Enjoys cuddling. He's plagued your thoughts, gummy smiles invading your daydreams and inky tattoos hovering over you at night. It's been a long time since you've actually crushed on anyone. Dating as an adult is an entirely different experience. Usually, you know someone who knows them or met them on tinder and you're just praying that they aren't a secret serial killer and that you share enough interests to talk in between getting railed while praying for an orgasm. At least, that's been your shitty experiences anyway. You know that it isn't always the case considering that just about all of your friends have gotten magically engaged or married recently. But Yoongi? There's something about him that stirs up all of your previously assumed dead thoughts on love. All of the secret romantic pinings combines with lust in a painful swirl but luckily the thoughts you have of him are usually fleeting.

   You step forward into the tattoo shop after grabbing a bite to eat, two warm cocoas in your hand as you try not to freak out that the big event is finally here and you'll be face to face with tiny, sexy, tattooed satan yet again. The man behind the counter looks over at you, and you can't help but wonder for a moment if being really good looking is a requirement to work here. Deep dimples, sunkissed skin, glasses perched on his nose.

   "Hi, do you have an appointment?" You shake your head yes, staring at the floor for a moment before finally squeaking out that you're there to see Yoongi.

   "Ay, (Y/N)'s here!" He shouts out towards Yoongi's office and you see him strolling out just a moment later.

   "Jesus Joon, you've been spending too much time around Hobi. I think the whole shop could hear you." Yoongi steps around the desk eyeing the other cup before you hand it out to him.

   "It's just cocoa, I didn't lace it. This time. Also, it's made with soy milk." You can hear the man called Joon laughing in the background as Yoongi slowly grabs the cup and squints at it before taking a tentative sip.

   He gives a small nod that you assume is to signify satisfaction before he starts walking over to a curtained-off section in the back. "You ready to get started?"

   "Yep, all ready!" You take a sip of the cocoa and sit down on the tattoo chair slowly.

   "Alright, just check over this transfer and let me know what you think before you undress so I can put it on." You look over the image, heart warming up slightly at the brush of his fingers before you finally nod a silent affirmation. "I need words babe, is it good or not?"

   You can feel yourself bristle at the tone, sighing wearily before you finally bite out, "Yes, babe, it's perfect."

   "Cool. I'll leave you to get undressed, I'll be back in just a moment." The one shitty thing about the placement of your tattoo is that it will require not only pants to come off but underwear too. Before nerves can take over you strip quickly, laying back down on your side before you can think about it too much. Getting undressed faster than you can sneeze was probably a bad idea though because now you're forced to just sit there with your ass cheeks freezing and mind shutting down while you wait for him to come back. After a minute you hear him announcing that he's coming in before opening up the curtain.

   Your eyes are trained on the floors. Jesus, you wish you could get your tiles to glisten the way their's does. They must mop a thousand times a day, you can't even see a speck of dirt in the grout. The sound of him clearing his throat has you jolting a bit before turning around to glare at the sound of his laughter. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm just going to disinfect the area and put the transfer on then I'll have you take a look and let me know what you think of the placement." You decide to go mute apparently as your only response is a feeble thumbs up before quickly turning to resume your ever so interesting study on what floor cleaner they use. Probably Fabuloso.

   You force yourself to stay stock still when you feel his warm hands on your hip as he cleans the area and peels the transfer on before he gives a light tap to your thigh. "Alright, take a look." With all the grace of a hospice patient you slowly swing your legs off and walk over to the mirror, trying to not pay attention to the fact that you're awkwardly half naked in front of arguably the hottest man who's admitted he enjoys cuddling before you finally relax at the sight of the transfer. "Man, this is going to look rad. Alright little satan, do your thing!"

   "Little Satan? Really? What happened to all your usual creative bitchiness? What was it you called me that one time?"

   "Oh! Degenerate Malfoy with a nicotine problem? Or was it wannabe colon inspector?"

   "Neither actually, it wasn't even something you called me now that I remember it. You once told me 'Ah I see the fuck up fairy decided to mess with my life and force me to see you yet again.' That's a good one by the way, I've used it a few times."

   "Glad I could help, but I wish I could copyright it so you could pay me the rights to use it." You try not to get too nervous as you hear him slip on his gloves and the needle buzzing ominously behind you. The pain won't be that bad right? "Relax, you'll be fine." His voice for once isn't laced with sarcasm. It seems that even the formidable Yoongi has a professional voice that he employs occasionally.

   After what feels like ages filled with anxiety-ridden thoughts you feel the needle prodding away, moving quickly while leaving tingling and ever slight burning sensations in its wake. It does hurt, but not to the point of being unbearable. "See it's not so bad, scaredy cat." You resist the urge to turn around and pummel him in his annoyingly handsome face.

   "If you weren't tattooing me right now I'd choke you out."

   "Kinky, but I prefer a chick to at least buy me a drink first."

   "Already did jackass, the cocoa remember."

   "Huh, you did didn't you. Okay, well it's still off the table for you. You'd probably keep going until I actually died."

   "Hell misses it's little satan though, I'd just be helping you reunite with all your friends."

   "Do you have a snarky remark for everything princess?"

   "Nah, depends on the day and the person. You're a special one Min Yoongi, something about you makes me want to bludgeon things."

   "Oh, what a sweet compliment. Isn't that how people feel when things are too cute too?" You don't even need to look over to know that he's smirking as you flip him off.

   "Or annoying." The rest of the three hours the two of you spend going back and forth with each other to the point that some of the other artists passing by started to call out their two cents in. By the time you're done, you have the outline complete and some of the black shaded in. The rest will be done in just two weeks time at his next opening.

-------------2 weeks later-----------

   Oddly enough for once, you haven't seen Yoongi outside during his normal smoke break time when you leave work for the last couple of weeks. You also haven't seen him getting his normal disgusting black coffee either. Not that you've been looking for him. Okay...so maybe you have. There's just something about him other than the really good looks you like. In one sense it's almost like walking on a blade the entire time you're with him, never sure when he's going to make a jab. On the other hand, he's also easy to talk to. In a way where everything is oddly comfortable even with this underlying lurking sexual tension. Or maybe that's just in your head. Maybe there's no sexual tension and it's just been so long since you last had a good lay (the dingleberry boy who shall not be named was terrible) that you're starting to hallucinate. Which is a rather real possibility.

   This time when you walk in with another cocoa it's with far fewer nerves. No, you're ready for the battlefield and only tremble ever so slightly when you have to face him with a bare ass in his face.

   "Alright sunshine, let's finish this bad boy up." Is all he states before he gets right into it, ever the professional. By the time he's finished, you're 110% positive that you were just imagining the sexual tension because his eyes don't even wander as you check the tattoo in the mirror. Which is a good thing right? Because you're supposed to be on your fast track to nundom not trying to bag the super hot tattoo artist who works near you.

   There's a bizarre sinking feeling in your heart though when you realize the tattoo is done and you won't be able to see him for extended periods of time on such a good excuse. An expensive excuse, but an excuse nonetheless. Now, however, with your beautiful, intricate, and very sore skin you'll have to go back to happenstance run-ins. You think that maybe, just maybe, if the somewhat hollow looking smile he gives you when you leave is anything to go by that he doesn't really want it to end either. But that's probably just the few embers of hope remaining in you that needs to be crushed out.

--------1 month later---------

   You've spent another night overworking yourself. This time there wasn't really a good reason to either. You're not only on schedule but way ahead and yet you've decided to just keep busting through work until dusk begins to fall and the shitty flickering streetlights by you turn on. Almost every night for the past few weeks you've been working longer days and as much as you hate to admit it it's to try to keep yourself from wallowing too much at night about your impending lonely doom. Tonight will be different though. Tonight you'll ruminate and bask in the fucked up world with your dear old friend Irene as she's finally decided to have a night away from her obnoxiously good looking fiance Taehyung. She might not be able to relate to your doom and gloom sentiments on life but she's always a good friend for a pick me up.

   You set off in the opposite direction of your usual route, winding through the chilly streets until you get to your favorite bar that serves oddly impressively delicious fried chicken. The moment you step in you notice Irene sitting at one of the few tables at the place, glaring at a man who clearly can't take a hint. Marching over you grab the seat across from her before biting off a 'Jesus how much aftershave do you use? Did you put in on your asshole too or something?' Knowing he's now outnumbered, and out bitched, the two of you watch the man leave without protest.

   "You know you really should be careful. People are crazy, aren't you ever afraid that you might get hurt or something?"

   You shrug nonchalantly before sighing at the doe eyes she gives you. "Irene, I love you but I'm not curtailing my inner bitch just because some douche might murder me. There are countless absurd ways I could die, if I have to check myself in fear of that then I just let all those asshats continue being menaces to society without being put in their shitty sad places."

   "So what you're like a superwoman with a bad attitude only you save the world one dick at a time with well-timed insults?" You know that voice, you know that voice all too well. Your ears perk up and your jaw drops open as you whip around to come eye to eye with Yoongi. For one whole month, you haven't seen him even with perfectly timed coffee runs around his smoke breaks. Not that you learned his habitual schedule or anything. Nope. Nothing like that at all. Just coincidence is all. And you just happened to notice he wasn't there. That's all.

   "Yoongi!" You hate the way your voice goes up an octave, excitement making your voice quiver like a little puppy reuniting with their owner after a short separation. You can already feel the heat bursting on your cheeks as his head tilts, eyes watching you carefully before he cracks a lazy smile.

   "Um, (y/n), who is this guy? Do I need to mace him or something?" Irene whispers to you, but just loud enough that as Yoongi steps closer he can hear her.

   "Please don't mace me. I promise, I only bite if you're into that."

   "Hey, watch it, mister. She's a taken woman." Reluctantly you wave your hand over the free seat to invite him over before looking back at Irene. "Irene this is Yoongi, Yoongi this is Irene. Yoongi did my tattoo for me."

   "Oh, you got a tattoo? Can I see it?"

   "We'll definitely get a free round of drinks if you show it off, that's for sure." You can't help but smack Yoongi's shoulder, shocked at the sturdiness of it. Considering how slight he looks you really didn't think that he worked out but now your mind is starting to wander.

   "Yeah well, kind of can't show you in public considering I have to take my pants off. Oh! But I do have some pictures!" You pull out your phone, swiping through until you find one and turning it to show her.

   "Wow, that looks like it hurt. It looks great though you did a good job..." Irene pauses, eyes going wide with panic before she finally adds, "Yoongi."

   "Thanks." He almost looks shy and you can feel your heart breaking. Yeah, typical to have the hot dude fall for your friend and not you.

   "Did you order drinks yet?" At the shake of Irene's head, you're grateful to have an excuse to flee to the bar not rushing to grab the bartenders attention and face falling slightly when he sidles up next to you immediately. The world is a cruel place. You want them to take their time and they're there immediately. You want them there right away and suddenly so do seventy other people. Luck. Or murphy's law maybe. Whatever.

   You huff out a sigh before plastering a smile on your face, "Two cranberry vodkas, please. Tall and stiff." The bartender nods as you slap down a twenty, praying that perhaps he'll at least make the drinks slowly but oh no this man must be one of those bartenders that enters fucking speed competitions because he's sliding both drinks over before you can fucking blink. Unbelievable. The service at this place is just too good and it's making you twitch slightly in irritation.

   Trying not to huff, you grab the two drinks and make your way back to your table. Heart sinking even more at the sound of Yoongi being strangely amicable to Irene. This was not the night you wanted at all. You wanted to get drunk and hang out with Irene and forget about how shitty boys are, not have glaring reminders everywhere about how the capitalist ploy that is romance will suffocate you to death. Okay so maybe you're being a little melodramatic. A lot. Whatever. It's your pity party, you can cry if you want to.

   When you finally sit back down and hand Irene her drink you can't help but guzzle yours back right away, ignoring the acidic burn in your throat and the quirked eyebrow from Yoongi.

   "So...(y/n)...any new boys after Johnny?" Irene refuses to look you in the eyes as she asks, smart enough to sit just out of reach from your possible rage.

   "I refuse to fall victim to the bullshit masquerade we call love yet again. I've called it quits. I'm just going to be a spinster with a million cats who will inevitably be forgotten until my landlord finds that mittens, my favorite cat, has eaten my left asscheek for sustenance after my untimely death."

   Irene bawks, trying immediately to rush into lengthy reasoning as to why you shouldn't stop searching for love as Yoongi nearly falls off his chair laughing so hard. At the end of Irene's dialogue, Yoongi wipes away a stray tear before shooting you a gummy smile. The kind that makes you want to hate him less, but you refuse to. Because that's dangerous territory. Territory you've sworn to never cross again. "You don't actually mean all that bullshit right? Love is natural, it's needed. It's biologically ingrained in us to be social creatures and affectionate."

   "Don't you judge me and mitten's life path!"

   "You don't even have a cat!" Irene looks exasperated as she takes a sip of her drink, silently judging you. "Listen, I get it. You've been fucked over a million times by terrible guys. But that doesn't mean that the whole world is that way." At the withering look you send her Irene sighs, shaking her head but falling mute. You feel a little bad that yet again you've ruined the mood so you try to lighten it up a bit, reaching over to pinch her cheek lightly.

   "Thanks, Irene. I'm sorry. I'm just...I don't know. I've been in a bit of a mood." You bit your tongue from further sarcasm at the pointed look she gives you. "Things haven't been so hot lately. I'll get over it. In like a decade. But you know that's better than never." You can feel Yoongi peering at you, analyzing you from the corner of your eye.

   "Why though? Why are you so convinced that love is such a sham?" Yoongi's words don't seem to hold any judgment or his usual quiet hostility, instead just honest curiosity.

   "Well if they don't cheat on me they always grow tired of me. I'm a bit too much of a bitch for my own good. I should really work on that." You shrug, staring at your almost empty glass as you try to shush the self-loathing thoughts that want to invade.

   "I like that part about you though. You've got spunk doll, it ain't a bad thing. You just need to find a guy who can match it." He smirks at the way you go quiet before leaning slightly into you at the table. "I don't know, I think I'm up for the challenge if you are." He grabs a card from his pocket, placing it next to your cup as he stands up. "That's my cell on there. Text me sometime babe." You hate the way your brain shuts down, playing back the way he calls you babe until all senses fail.

   "You should do it. You know he was asking about you the entire time you were getting drinks?" You feel your heart sink even further at the realization that you judged the situation too quickly before suddenly soaring at the idea that Min Yoongi asked you out on a date. You. Snarky, bitchy you found a match in hell. Capitalist ploys be damned! You'll at least find out if he's cocky for a reason. If you don't chicken out that is.

-----------------------------------

   Later that night after all the alcohol has left your system and you're snuggled up under enough blankets to possibly suffocate you, you find yourself staring at your phone. You entered in his contact almost immediately after he left at the urging of Irene. Apprehension has held you back from actually sending anything though. Your fingers hover over the screen, bottom lip stuck between your teeth as you suck in a breath. What have you got to lose?

[You]: Hey...

[Yoongi]: (Y/N)?

[You]: Yeah

[Yoongi]: This is unusual. I'm used to quippy remarks. Don't tell me you've grown soft?

[You]: Fuck off. I'm just confused that's all.

[Yoongi]: What's there to be confused about? You're funny, you have no problem with giving it right back to me, and you have a fantastic ass

[You]: Well that was blunt

[Yoongi]: I'm an honest man [Yoongi]: So listen, about that date, I wanna take you out Sunday

[You]: That's in like a day from now

[Yoongi]: Yeah well I've wanted to take you out from the first time you told me off for smoking on the street. And that time you told me you were going to shove my tattoo needle up my ass solidified it.

[You]: You have some odd kinks sir

[Yoongi]: Is that a yes babe?

[You]: Hmmm....yeah I'll go

[Yoongi]: Great send me your address I'll pick you up at noon

[You]: You aren't going to chop me up in a million pieces and feed me to the fishes right?

[Yoongi]: No I prefer my women in one piece

   You send over your address, butterflies swarming around as you squeal into a pillow before sending him a quick good night. You don't need to embarrass yourself by saying something off the wall as exhaustion starts to set in. Like "I want to kiss your face" or "Fuck me in your office." Yeah, that's not good pre-date material. You need to keep it kosher for now.

------------------------------------

   You had spent all day Saturday cleaning to keep your nerves at bay. Not that you can really tell much in your closet after you ransacked it. And not that you can tell you went through all of that energy just to pick a simple oversized black hoodie and jeans. It's too cold to go all out anyway. You've been staring in the mirror, double checking your hair and makeup a thousand times as you hear the doorbell chime through the apartment. It's a good thing no one else is around to see you nearly trip over yourself as you slip on your shoes and answer the door. "Hi!"

   Yoongi is wearing his usual black leather jackets, skin-tight black jeans, and cat-like smirk. "Hey. You ready?"

   "Yeah, oh just let me grab a jacket." Pulling one off the rack you shut the door behind you, locking the door before shuffling behind Yoongi. Much to your surprise, he slows down until your right next to him, clasping his hand around yours and smiling as he silently leads you to his car.

   "What, no motorcycle today?"

   "Nah, I figured you'd strangle me and we'd crash. Dieing on the first date just seems tragic. We need to get on date number five at least." He shoots you a wink as he opens your door, shutting it lightly behind him as he jogs around to the other side.

   "So...where exactly are you taking me?"

   "You're a curious little thing today, aren't you? Well at first I was thinking something simple like coffee, but let's be honest that's overplayed and boring. So then I thought about going to an aquarium just so I could make a joke about feeding you to the fishes but then I thought nah too easy. So I spent more time than I'll tell you plotting. And I realized exactly where we needed to go. We're going to the river for a picnic. Something that's oddly ordinary and you'll secretly love but no dude's ever actually done for you. Am I right?"

   You're at a loss. You certainly didn't expect him to think this through to this extent. Honestly, no guy has ever cared this much about a first date before. You figured that only existed in stories and movies at this point. "You're certainly right. Isn't it a little cold for a picnic though?"

   "I have brought plenty of cocoa and jjigae to keep us warm, don't you worry your pretty little head about it." You can't help but fidget slightly, nerves boiling over until his hand rests soothingly on your thigh and you feel yourself melt. Or maybe boil over until you malfunction. But that's something to dwell on at a later time.

   It doesn't take long after that until you pull up at the river. During springtime it's packed, everyone comes out to drink under the cherry blossoms, but right now it's serenely quiet. You're almost the only people in sight save the zealous runners and elderly couples strolling through on their daily walks. When you try to help set up the blanket and food Yoongi refuses, so instead you watch him meticulously lay everything out. Maybe this is a post-season Christmas movie because you swear you can feel your dead cold heart grow as you watch him. It's an oddly domestic feeling. Certainly romantic. Painfully sweet. And for once all of your usual bitter snarkiness has drowned it's self in the river to leave you a heart-eyed mess.

   "Come on, come sit. I told you before, I don't bite unless you're into that."

   "I'm into that, but right now I'd rather have cocoa and jjigae." You watch him pour out your drink as you sit down, carefully handing you the piping hot drink before pulling the still boiling soup out of the basket.

   "Alright, so I figured that being you'd probably refuse to tell me too much out of wariness. So I propose that we play 21 questions. What's your favorite food?"

   "Tofu, in all it's many forms. What's your favorite color?"

   "Black, just like my coffee."

   "And your soul." You duck as he tosses a napkin at your face, laughing at the gummy expression he sends your way.

   "Aish. Okay, next question, what are your hobbies?"

   "Reading and video games. Why'd you become a tattoo artist?"

   "I love drawing, but I especially love the idea of a living canvas. It's just so interesting. Although I hate that I don't usually get to control the outcome of it, some people have god awful tattoo ideas. Most people actually. I'm at least booked enough now that I can refuse those ones without worrying about my bank account too much. Why are you so afraid of love?"

   You weren't expecting that question. You figured he'd keep things easy but then again you should have known better. Of all the many ways you can describe the man before you easy isn't one of them. "Trust problems I guess. I didn't have the best home, parents kicked me out young and we haven't talked since so that's probably at the root of it all. I don't know though, never seen a shrink about it so that's just an educated guess. Add all the boys that I've dated either dumped me or cheated on me and it makes it tough to believe that love, especially romantic love is real. Why do you believe in it?"

   "Because love is the very essence of humanity. The best way to fight a shitty system that tries to keep us all down is through love. It's not power or money or any of that other bullshit they tell us we need. It's love. We all just need someone who understands us. It doesn't need to be a ton of people, just one who really gets us and bam! Everything's good. Sometimes those people come and go, but that doesn't make the love you held for that time discounted. It just means that now you need to find someone else who understands you." He chooses his words carefully at first, but when he sees that you're held in rapt attention he grows passionate. Eyes blazing as if to dare you to disagree. And suddenly you're seeing the world through a different lens. Here you had been chalking romance up to marketing, which isn't entirely untrue but that's just one part of it. But love the way he sees it? To him, love isn't about marketing or money it's just about human connection. And suddenly you're starting to understand that abstract intangible concept. You also realize that what you were looking for wasn't love, but perfection. You didn't want to do all the work, you just wanted all the pieces to magically fall into place for you and gave up when expectations weren't instantly met. "Next question, why'd you say yes to this date?"

   "Because you're hot." You roll his eyes at the exaggerated wink he sends you before eating a bit of the jjigae. "Okay so that was a part of it but mostly I was curious. You're this weird enigma Yoongi. At first, I thought I had you all figured out. Tough dude with tats and a motorcycle who probably has a slew of booty calls waiting for him. But then you said you liked to cuddle and I got curious. And then I realized that I didn't have the whole picture, just a glimpse. Why in the world did you ask me out? And for the love of god don't say 'dat ass.'"

   "Okay but dat ass though." The way he laughs full heartedly, slapping his knees at the sight of your glare almost makes you not elbow him. Almost. But you have a reputation to uphold. "You've just got this thing about you. You're like a fortress. A puzzle. I guess that same idea of wanting to figure a person out is the same reason why I'm so attracted to you. You see at first glance you seem to be just brutally honest, but then when you look closer it's easy to see that you're vulnerable. Fragile. Callous due to a previous naivety that landed you in shit places by the sounds of it. I like that you have spirit, you aren't afraid to tell people to fuck off. But what I like most of all is under that there's this heart of gold. At least if your interaction with your friends is anything to go by you do." Fuck, you think you have something in your eye. It's definitely not your long extinct tear ducts learning how to work again. Nope.

   You can feel his thumb brush a stray tear, hand cupping your face as you automatically nuzzle into the warmth before he clears his throat. "Next question-"

   Before he can finish the question your lips are on his. They're chapped but still soft, plush under yours. And suddenly that tailwind romance you thought was all fake feels so real as a spark of electricity zaps you. Or maybe that's more carnal, but whatever it is it feels so right. As if his lips were made to be against yours. And when you feel him kiss back roughly, hands weaving through your hair as he pulls you in closer you know that he must be feeling the same thing. You're floating. High in the clouds. Weightless. The sound of someone running past finally has the two of you breaking apart slowly. "Right next question, can we do that again?"

   This time there's a fire behind the kiss as your hands grab onto his jacket and his tongue slips into your mouth. This time you know it's more carnal. Burning bright. Passionate. Hungry. Needy. But before it can devolve into public debauchery you reluctantly pull back, blush creeping up your neck as you see his molten brown eyes focused on you in a way that clearly states that he is indeed as dangerous as he looks. At least if your definition of dangerous is sex right out in the open at a very public park anyway.

   "My turn. What's your favorite music?"

   The rest of the date goes by too quickly and you learn about everything Yoongi related and he learns everything about you. You're positive that you've never learned so much about a person on a first date, or hell even by the third. You've learned his birthday, his favorite music, all about his friends, how he actually co-owns the tattoo shop and how that all happened. You've learned about how he came from a poor family and how he makes sure to send a little bit each week to help out on top of the apartment he bought them. Suddenly the $200 an hour fee makes a whole lot more sense.

   By the time you're pulling back into your apartment, the two of you have already planned a date for next Sunday. And as he puts the car in park you can't hope but wish that somehow it was already magically next week. But when he pulls you in for a heated kiss and presses his forehead against yours before sending you off you're too much on cloud nine to pay any attention. You'll have to add that Yoongi is certainly the best kisser you've ever known to your mental file.

-------------1 week later---------------

   Well, it's official. You're nuts. You'd like to blame Yoongi but let's be honest, all you needed was a little help to push you over the ledge. Except the problem is that before you were very sure of life. Completely comfortable with anger, bitterness, and believing that everything inevitably fails. And in some sick twist of fate, his words have been playing back in your head over and over every single day for the last week. Before you thought it was all or nothing. Love was there or it wasn't. You get one shot at true love and if it fails then it never existed. Except now your world is flipped upside down.

   Perfection is a fruitless endeavor. An impossible task. One with zero rewards. And what you've been looking for all this time is perfection. A perfect love. A whirlwind romance. But if it's perfect it's fake. It's all a lie. An elaborate performance. Which is mostly all you've ever gotten, granted usually in short-lived moments but sometimes longer. And when the curtains closed each time you thought, "this show wasn't a real show. I'll go to a better play next door." Except the play was still very much real. A part of you. A part of them. Which means that love is indeed real it's just not always very grand. But when it was there it was beautiful, you were just blind and ignorant in even the good moments. Unaware of the magic in small acts. But with Yoongi suddenly you want to see all the small acts. You want to not just see the show but be a part of it. Go behind the scenes with him. See how this plays out.

   Which is completely fucking nuts. You're already talking about your entire worldview changing and the concept as something as obscure as falling in love with a man you barely know and have only been out on a date with once. It makes you afraid. It makes you feel free. It gives you options. It's like being able to use all of your senses at once for the first time. Except that's scary because there's too much coming at you at once. But it's equal parts exhilarating. You've been through every single possible emotion a person could have every day.

   By the time your second date finally arrives, you're suddenly calm about it all. As if everything is right and the puzzle pieces to life are aligning and maybe just maybe you have a chance to see things differently. And while before you would have rather poked your eyes out than face rejection again this time you just want to see where this takes you. You aren't thinking so much about the end results, rather the journey.

   Tonight Yoongi is taking you out to his favorite record store. While you don't own a record player you can certainly appreciate the aesthetics of vinyl. There's something oddly charming about them, even if it is ridiculously impractical in the modern world of space-saving technology and cramped apartments. Perhaps the impracticality of it is apart of the appeal, however. This time you aren't tripping over yourself to get to the door. But that's because you're standing right by it giving yourself a pep talk. Not that he needs to know that of course. After smoothing down your hair and doing a quick checklist in your head your pulling the door open.

   This time he's wearing an oversized sweater but again the same tight black jeans. The man must have stock in them. Not that you blame him, it looks good after all. "You look great, babe." Heat blossoms on your face as his eyes scan you from head to toe, that signature lazy smile adorning his face before he takes your hand in his and leads you to his car.

   "Still no motorcycle?"

   "Nope, still don't trust that you won't freak out and kill me accidentally. Why? You seem oddly keen on the bike."

   "It just looks fun that's all."

   "It is. There's nothing better than a good ride, and you can take that any way you please." He winks at you, laughing when you scoff and punch his shoulder. If any other guy said that line you would have jumped out of the now moving vehicle, but for some reason when he says it you turn into putty. Maybe it's the charm of being absurdly good looking. Or that tattoos. The bad-boy charm. Or maybe it's because in all his infinite aloof glory he's just Yoongi. Comfortable and confident in his own skin without being sleazy.

   The record store is quiet, playing a selection of upbeat jazz. Your brain is trying to figure out the tune until you finally snap your fingers and softly say, "Giant Steps!"

   "You know jazz? Are you a secret Coltrane fan or something?" Yoongi is giving you that look. The look that says he's clearly analyzing you. Studying you. Dissecting your brain as you speak.

   "Sort of. I dated this guy in college for years, he was a jazz major. His thesis was going to be on Giant Steps, it's been years since I've heard it though. Are you secretly into jazz, Min Yoongi?"  

   You watch him shake his head no as he scans the records before pulling one out. Outkast, ATliens. A great album, one that invokes nostalgia. He quickly puts the record under his arm before he continues searching. "Nah, I'm more of a blues guy myself. Nina Simone. Etta James. Bill Withers. The building blocks to all modern music. At least hip hop, R&B, and all the subgenres of rock."

   "You know an awful lot about music considering you're a tattoo artist. What's the background story on that?" You peruse next to him as you speak, flicking through the music slowly.

   "Once upon a time I wanted to be a rapper." There's something far off about his voice. As if he's reliving the memories. A gentle smile on his lips as he shakes his head as if to push them back into their little file in his brain to not be disturbed for some time. "But I had bills to pay. I'm not complaining though. I love music, adore it. But I love what I do too. It's almost like trying to pick between your two children. You might actually have a favorite, but it changes depending on the day."

   "Let's hope you only have one kid then."

   "Nah, I'm going to have a horde of mini Mins. Take over the world with them and overthrow capitalism. It's my diabolical plan to get housing prices back to normal and get student debt forgiveness."

   "And how exactly do you plan to have this army of darkness? Polygamy? A sex cult?"

   "God that just sounds exhausting. I can hardly keep up with you let alone more women. No, I think I'll actually stick with two children. You know, just so on tough days I can look at one and go 'ah yes today you didn't fuck up.'" You pray that he doesn't look over to see your cherry red face. He in a way made it sound like he's thought about children with you. Clearly, that's not what he means but now your mind is wandering. Mini mins. They'd be cute. Probably slightly evil but cute nevertheless. They might be born glaring though. Or smirking instead of crying.

   "What happens when they both fuck up?"

   "Then I've got you." Fuck, he was implying you. Holy shit. Holy shit. Act natural. Don't look at him. "Ooh look! They have a Frank Ocean Blonde vinyl. Unopened this bad boy is worth a few hundred. Man, I can't believe how cheap they're selling it for." He tucks it under his arm before cataloging through some more. For a short while the two of you work in silence, falling into a pattern that when you stare at one for just a little too long he's plucking it out of your hands and refusing to listen to you protest.

   By the end of it all, the two of you are walking out with a dozen records after learning a wealth of information on all of Yoongi's favorite artists. You also learned that once upon a time his rap name was 'Suga.' Which led to you immediately and passionately singing Sugar by System of the Down quickly increasing in volume until he clamps his hand over your mouth and stares at you with the rage of a thousand suns. Totally worth it though. Especially when the dude behind the counter picks up where you left off.

   Dinner goes by too quickly. You wish you could freeze time, force it to slow so you can languidly explore his world. It's with a heavy heart that you unbuckle your seat belt before leaning over and pulling him into a heated kiss. One that makes your head spin again and proves that the first date wasn't a series of flukes. Nope, Min Yoongi really does have a skilled tongue. When you pull away you can see stars in his eyes, his hair ruffled and cheeks red as he tries to even out his breathing. The most dangerous part about Yoongi is his duality. The way he can flit between sexy to cute and somewhere in between without trying.

------------2 months later----------

   You've lost count on how many dates you've gone on at this point. He's taken you out on his bike finally to go stargazing. Out to plays and art galleries. Sometimes you've just stayed in and watched movies together. You have lunch together at least twice a week now, grabbing coffee together for a short reunion in the mornings after spending all night talking about everything and nothing over the phone. It's as if a time before Yoongi didn't exist. It's comfortable. Oddly easy.

   It's to your chagrin and surprise that you learn that Yoongi wants to take things slow. He doesn't rush you into bed. He's the perfect gentleman. A punk Disney prince, albeit with a sharp tongue. No even after the third and fourth date when you try to heat things up he's quick to pull away and tell you that he doesn't want to rush things. Not with you, he says. He wants you to trust him first. He wants you to be truly comfortable first. He doesn't want you to think that he's only in it for that.  

   You get it. In fact, in a twist, it actually makes things hotter. But the build-up is getting almost painful now. The sexual tension mounting to epic proportions. Your poor vibrator would hate you if it wasn't inanimate. He wasn't lying about loving cuddling. He's also apparently a man of extreme patience because no matter how many times you've felt his hard dick against your ass mid-spooning he's refused to act on it. Or let you. It's left you more than slightly frustrated on multiple occasions. It also wasn't helpful that it, in turn, made you an awkward mess. In fact, you remember jokingly mentioning some gibberish about your starfish quivering to try and crack the tension and for a while you thought he would never let you live that terrible joke down. Starfish, really? What were you thinking?

   What you belatedly realize though is that his master plan fucking works. Because somewhere along the way you started letting down your guards. Somewhere along all your dates, you find yourself falling. Allowing yourself to be human. Allowing yourself to stop fearing love. Allowing yourself to trust. Without fighting it. Without running. It's no longer terrifying. It's no longer something that gnaws at you in the chasm of anxiety.

   And just shy of three months into dating Yoongi you realize that you love him. Love. Abstract. Intangible. Yet not. It's the way he looks at you. The way he holds your hands. The way he thinks about the things that make you tick. The way the two of you try to find joy in the tiniest of things. Marie Kondo would tell you that you've finally found something that sparks joy. But it's not just from him. No, even when he's not around you feel lighter. Freer. Happier. You're still sarcastic. A bit of a bitch. But this time it's no longer from a place of longheld bitterness and pain, rather it's from your twisted brand of humor.

   This realization comes to you as you after hanging out with Yoongi's friends and coming back to his place to just chill and listen to his vinyls. When his thumb soothingly rubs your hand as you curl up into his chest. It's so natural. So right. "I love you." The words come out a soft sigh, muffled slightly into his chest but he hears them loud and clear.

   Yoongi twists, pulling your face up to his. "Did you just say you love me?"

   "Min Yoongi I love you." You don't expect to hear anything back. You aren't saying it for affirmation or reciprocation. You just want him to know.

   "I don't think I've ever heard better words. Say it again." That gummy smile is back. The one that stirs up butterflies. The one that warms your soul. The one that you fell in love with.

   You swing your legs over his lap, straddling him as you stare into his eyes. "I. Love. You."

   "God, you don't know how bad I've wanted to hear that. I love you so fucking much. So much. Holy fuck. I want to kiss you, can I kiss-" Before he can finish the sentence your lips are on his. Soft and pliant under yours, a lingering taste of leftover chapstick and nicotine. It's captivating. Dizzying. It's so easy to get drunk off his lips. His taste. The soft groans that leave him. Tongues intertwine as his hands roam your body before landing on your ass with a firm squeeze. It's messy. Needy. Sloppy but full of passion. As if you're the only cure for each other. Each emotion lingering in the air. Your hips swivel down, grinding against his pants as one hand weaves into your hair to pull your neck back and attach his lips to there.

   You can feel the small bruises blossoming already. Love bites and harsh sucks leave cherry blossoms along your neck, mirroring the pattern of his own tattoo. Quiet moans of need are spilling out, desire pooling into your panties each time his teeth scrape against you. "You, doll, are the hottest thing I've ever seen. I could worship you. Dedicate a temple to you. Can't wait to feel you. God, I want you so bad. I love you so fucking much." Each word spills out from him like a deep moan, reverberating through his chest and chewing them off at the end. A loud mewl of satisfaction leaves you. He loves you. He loves you. You're in love. Over the moon. How could you ever think that love wasn't for you? How could you ever give up? How could you honestly think that you were destined to be a spinster when a man like him wants you?

   His hands claw at your shirt, quick to remove your bra and leave you partially bare. Even with the slight chill seeping in through his apartment you still feel feverish. Each time his calloused hands roam your skin you can feel your temperature increase. God, you've never wanted someone so much. It's almost an out of body experience. Sex elevated off the mortal plane. You swear you might cum just from him touching you at this rate. His lips brush against your nipples before biting down, one hand reaching back into your hair as you arch into the touch.

   "Wanna touch you Yoongi. Wanna feel you." The words come out drunkenly. Wobbly. Laced with honey through your swollen lips. When his grip lets go of your hair you lean down to his neck, pressing kisses around his tattoo, tongue laving at the branch as your teeth scrape against his soft skin. The deep moans hiccuping out of him are music to your ears, urging you on as your grind against him. Desperate for friction. Desperate for release. Your hands toy at his shirt before finally breaking away to pry it over his head. Your eyes dance over his half-naked form, taking in the sight before you. Almost every square inch is covered, ink swirling around in intricate stories. God, you're about the fuck the hottest living canvas.

   His chest is heaving, breathing uneven as the two of you make eye contact again before lips come crashing together and he's picking you up. Carrying you out of the living room and into his bedroom, stopping occasionally to push you against a wall just to latch onto your neck or chest. By the time you make it to the bed, you're sure that for the first time in your life you could actually forgo foreplay. You're so wet that you can feel it seeping through your underwear and leaving a mark on your jeans. He stumbles onto the bed, your head hitting the wall with a loud thwack that has both of you pausing for a moment. "Shit, are you okay?"

   "Mmokay, take your pants off." You rub at the sore spot before reaching up to place a reassuring kiss on his lips. You hold your breath as you watch him strip, dick springing out proudly. Smeared with precum. Red. Throbbing and twitching. "You don't wear underwear?"

   He looks almost bashful for a moment. "It's laundry day actually..." At the sound of your giggles, he takes the opportunity while you're disarmed to unbutton your pants, freeing you from your jeans and leaving you in just your flimsy lacy panties. The mood shifts back again when you see the hunger in his eyes. As if he's staring at a feast. "Christ, can't wait to taste this pussy. Make you cry my name." His hands are shaking slightly as he slowly pries your underwear off, eyes narrowing on the way your juices stick to your underwear finally tossing it off the side of the best.

   "Please taste me, I need you. I can't wait."

   "Who knew you'd be so needy? So quick to beg for my tongue?" That usual lazy smirk is back on his face as he looks at you, hands hooking around your thighs and pulling them over his shoulders. His tongue flattens against your sex before you can respond, a choked moan drowning out your words. Jesus, he's good with his tongue. It moves slowly, languidly against your dripping pussy. Rhythmically. Diving into your folds only to swirl up around your clit, sucking lightly and releasing with a soft pop before going back down all over again. It's when his tongue dips even lower, swirling around your puckered rim that you can feel your eyes roll back and breathing cut off. Two fingers slip into your dripping cunt with ease, scissoring to stretch you. The dual sensation of his tongue on your ass and fingers filling you up has you clenching. Spiraling. Bright white flashing behind your eyes as a silent scream tries to leave your throat. Toes curling, his name finally rolling off your tongue as you chase the sensation, your orgasm consuming your senses. It leaves you dizzy. Panting. A mewling, drenched mess under him.

   Through fuzzy ears you can hear his low voice, "God how do you taste so good? Fuck, I could watch you all day baby girl."

   His fingers move slowly as he watches you return to earth, twitching underneath him at the oversensitivity. You feel so sated, but at the same time, you want so much more. The look in his eyes makes you hungry all over again. You want him to feel just as good as you. You look up with hooded eyes, hand wrapping around his drooling cock as you speak. "I wanna taste you too Yoongi."

   His adam's apple bobs, hands leaving your thighs as he pulls you into another messy kiss. It's almost all teeth and tongue this time, a thin line of saliva breaks apart when you separate. You shuffle off the bed slowly, knees gingerly falling to the floor before looking back up as your tongue swirls around his head before pulling back to lick a long stripe along his prominent vein. You pepper tiny kisses along his base, one hand cupping his balls gently as the other one twists around his base. You envelop his velvety length in your mouth, working slowly into a steady rhythm. Each sigh from him, soft moans of pleasure spurs you deeper. Jaw aching slightly as you try to take him deeper, using your hand to help stimulate the places you can't reach. His hands grip your hair tightly as he reaches past your molars, pulling you off of him with a loud pop. "Sorry love, I'm not gonna last much longer if you keep doing that and I really want to fuck you."

   You gulp at the way he's watching you. As if he's a predator and you're his prey. A feast for the night. You wouldn't have it any other way. He helps guide you back onto the bed, twisting you onto all fours as his hands glide over your ass. "Best ass I've ever seen. God, I've had so many wet dreams over this ass." His hand comes down sharply, the sting bringing a wave of pleasure to ripple through you as it soothingly rubs over. Your thoughts are quickly brought back to the throbbing between your thighs as his cock rubs against your swollen clit. "Please, fuck. God." You're incoherent, words stringing together slowly.

   "What's my name doll?"

   "Yoongi, come on. Fuck me before I bite your head off!"

   "Yeah yeah, we'll see how much sass you have left in you when I'm done." You wiggle your hips impatiently as you hear him spit into his palm, adding lubrication before he glides into you. "Holy shit." He stays still for a moment as you spasm around the intrusion. He's just thick enough to have you crying out in pleasure, just long enough to have you seeing stars as he sinks deeper.

   "Oh, fuck. Move, please move." You push back, sinker further onto him as he stays still before his hands snake around your throat.

   "God, you are so mouthy. And as much as I normally love hearing you talk back right now I really just wanna fuck you." He pulls out almost completely before slamming back in, balls slapping into your clit in a way that has you seeing stars. Each movement is harsh, quick, with stamina and vigor you didn't foresee him having. The feeling of his hand wrapped around your throat, cutting off just enough circulation to stutter your breathing, has you gasping and rutting underneath him. Fuck, was sex supposed to feel this good? In your fucked out state, you can barely make out the sound of him chuckling darkly behind you. "Look at you baby, already fucked out and I've barely started. Do you wanna cum again baby? Already?"

   "Fuck, please. Don't stop!" Your high pitched begging has him drilling in deeper, his free hand moving off your ass and onto your clit in quick circular motions that has you clenching around him. This time your orgasm is earth-shattering. Loud. Wet. When his hand finally lets go of your throat you face plant into the pillow, legs shaking around him as he keeps moving.

   "You're so beautiful when you cum, did you know that? My pretty baby girl, all fucked out on my cock. Now that's a sight I never want to stop seeing." Another loud smack to your ass has you sobbing into the pillow, moans spilling out as your release gushes around him. "Jesus, how is your pussy so fucking wet? Are you always this wet?"

   "No. It's just for you Yoongi."

   "That's right. This pussy is mine, isn't it? Say it, doll."

   "This pussy is yours Yoongi, fuck. Hold on, I wanna ride you." He stutters, pausing before pulling out so the two of you can shuffle around. You smirk as you crawl over his lap, one hand holding onto his cock as the other grabs his arm while you sink down. You're sure you look a fucked out mess, but so does he. Sweat is making his fringe cling to his forehead, kiss-swollen lips, hickies covering his neck visible even over his tattoos.

   You neck snaps back as you sink down completely, the new angle bringing him right to your g-spot and making your legs shake in overstimulation. You fall forward onto his chest, pulling him into another kiss as you circle your hips in small figure eights. You bite down on his lower lip, pulling it between your teeth as you reach behind you and gently roll his balls in your hand. You delight in the way he groans, eyes rolling back at the sensation. "Keep doing that and I'm not going to last (y/n)."

   "That's the point. Come on, cum with me Yoongi." It doesn't take much in your overstimulated state to get right back to the point again. Hanging over the edge as you dip your hand down to circle your clit, relishing in the dulcet moans from him as the two of you climax together. His nose scrunches up, eyebrows furrowing as he grips at your hips as you ride him into his own orgasm right after your third. It doesn't take long before he twitches inside you, painting your insides white as you slow down. At the feeling of him coming to his own completion you slump forward, your head falling into the crook of his neck as his hands circle your waist.

   "Wow. That might easily have been the best sex of my life."

   "Yeah, that was, wow." Your breathing is still unsteady, legs shaking as you feel him soften inside you.

   "Did you realize you squirted?"

   "Ah, yeah. Sorry to break your heart but that's actually somewhat normal for me."

   "God that is so fucking hot." You laugh into his neck, exhaustion taking over as you sigh. "You know, the first time I ever saw you I knew. I just knew. You were all sass and fire, and I just knew that you were it. You were the one."

   You wish you could reciprocate and say you thought the same thing when you first saw Yoongi, but you suppose it's better late than never. "I never would've guessed when I first met you that you liked cuddling, or saying such cheesy lines, or absolutely hated scary movies."

   "Yeah, but you love that about me."

   "Yeah. But I'm pretty sure I just love everything about you Min Yoongi."

   "You know, when you say my full name like that I get oddly turned on. Do you think you're up for a round two in like, half an hour?"

   You really should say no, you really just want to sleep. But just the thought has your mind spinning. Lord give you strength because you're going to need it, or at least better stamina, to last in survive this man.

   You never would've guessed that love could feel so right. So natural. So normal. It isn't always a crazy spark. It isn't all fire and passion, even though it certainly has its moments. No, it's softer. Gentler. It grows and evolves with you. It changes. It takes work. And the two of you do somehow make it work. Even after moving in and trying to learn how to love someone when there's only one bathroom. Even after you get married and fall into a routine. Even after you get pregnant and go a smidge hormonally insane both times. Even on days when both of the kids drive you batty. Even when they leave home and leave you with an empty nest all over again. Because love is something beautiful. It's something innate within us all, it's just a matter of both parties wanting it enough. Working at it enough. And whenever anyone asks you what love means to you it was simple from that day forward. Min Yoongi.