#they are so condescending. we’re in the same job and get paid the same but they treat me like shit

[shimmeringseaa]

I am honestly so fucked

[darthkieduss]

A Request of Generation Z from a Millennial Activist.

(If you know Lance Henriksen, please read this in his voice in your head. Best voice actor I’ve ever heard.)

This July 5, 2023, I will leave my twenties and enter my “Dirty Thirties” as my wife calls it.

As time goes on and I grow older, I have a message for the Generation Z. But not just a message, I will also have a request for them. For any “Zoomer” reading this, before I go on, please know this isn’t condescending or looking down on you. This is from one older comrade to the younger comrades. And I personally couldn’t be more proud of your generation TBH.

As 80s millennials enter their 40s and us 90s millennials enter our 30s, just know that unlike the generations that came before, most of us will NEVER forget who we are. We will always remember what it was like to be young. To be thrust into a world that was rigged against us. To crush on a girl in class that you had NO chance with. The senior home coming dance. Getting your driver’s license. Getting your first job. you know. But We also remember telling our parents thing they DIDN’T want to hear. Like coming out as gay or trans. Or not Christian anymore. Or coming out as a Socialist Catholic in my case. Yeah, my parents DID NOT like that. Point is we will always be young at heart. 

We are comrades united because we are fighting for the same cause. The fight you’re fighting now is the same one we stood for when we were teens and you were kids exploring Minecraft. (am I hip yet?) I remember going to pride parades as a straight ally at 21 in the months before Oberefell v. Hodges legalized same sex marriage in 2015. Though I couldn’t vote in 2008 (I was 15), we millennials made the huge turnout to elect the first black man into the White House. I remember getting tear gassed as an “old” 26 year old during the BLM protests.

Let me say as a millennial I am so proud of your generation, Zoomers. You’ve stepped to the mantle when called. In some cases, you’ve outshined us. That’s why I’m asking you, not to revere us millennials, but simply to remember us. Not because we were in the fight first, but because we’ve been in this fight so long and we’re just getting fucking started lol. Remember that unlike us when we were younger, you are not alone. We millennials were alone because we were the first to recognize the rot in the system made by the previous generations, especially the Boomers. But now y’all are coming of age and taking up the fight for our futures. You swell our ranks and I can’t thank you enough. One day as time goes on, we will take this country back. TOGETHER.

We stand with you.

The war against the system is not yet over. It’s only just begun. So as President Kennedy said in his inaugural address, “Let Us Begin.” But we’ve made some victories from 2008 to last years 22 midterms.

In 2020, Millennials and Gen Z united to kick Donald Trump out of the White House.

In 2019, millennials entered Congress for the first time. We Georgians elected the First Millennial to the United States Senate (Jon Ossoff) in 2020-21. And now Maxwell Frost has the honor of the being the first Gen Z in Congress in 2022.

We’ve suffered many losses, but we won the last two elections. These victories belong to each of us. Every man, women and child. Every person in every state.

Now as we take our first steps toward restoring what we lost, we must remember what it took to win. These weren’t victories by a single party, a single voting bloc or a even by a single generation. If this war has taught us anything, it is that we are at our strongest when we work together. And if we could put down our grievances to defeat something as evil as Donald Trump, imagine what we can achieve now that he is defeated. It will take time, but we can rebuild everything that was destroyed. Our homes. Our lives. Our economy and country. All of this and more.

Together we can build a future greater than any one of us could imagine. A future paid for by the sacrifices of those who fought, bled and even died alongside us. A future that many will never see.

And while we still have many challenges ahead of us, We can face them Together. And we will honor those who fell to give us that future.

That’s why I’m asking Gen Z as you come of age and take power, remember us. For we were your age once and one day you will were we are now. And one day, the Generation Alpha that my four nephews belong to will succeed you. For inspiration, look to yourself and your millennial brothers and sisters beside you.

We stand with you so stand with us.

Sincerely, a 1993 Millennial.

PS: please stop eating tide pods. at least cinnamon is meant to be eaten. JFC

[scuttling]

Lavender

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 9,244 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Dad's Best Friend Friend From Work Hotch, Me turning a naughty, smutty story into something way more aka my specialty, Fingering, Unprotected sex, Oral sex, Semi-public sex, Office sex Summary: You absolutely dread going home for vacation, to your sickeningly cheery childhood bedroom and opinionated parents, but meeting your dad's friend from work at a stuffy cocktail party has the potential to make this a vacation you'll never forget.*Requested by anon, severely altered by me 😅 Link to A03 or read below! Most people would jump at the chance for an unexpected two week vacation, but you are not most people. When your boss emailed you to inform you that there had been some kind of glitch in HR’s system and you actually had two weeks of paid vacation that were set to expire, your anxiety had kicked into high gear. There isn’t enough time to coordinate travel with any of your friends, too short notice, and you’re kind of afraid to travel alone, though you’d never admit it, so that’s out.

There’s always the prospect of hanging out at home, catching up on all the shows you started but never had time to finish, doing things you’re always too busy for, like cooking and cleaning out your closet and going to the animal shelter to pet the dogs and cats.

Unfortunately, those dreams are crushed when you accidentally let slip during a call to your parents that you have the time off, and they literally insist you come home, will not let you get off the phone without confirming your plans.

You only live about an hour away from them, but for one reason or another, you rarely visit.

The minute you step into your childhood home, you’re reminded of why you rarely visit.

“There’s my little do-gooder!” Your dad is all but waiting at the door when you arrive, pulls you into a hug despite the fact that your hands are full of luggage. “Let me look at you.” He pulls back, hands on your shoulders, acting like it's possible something has changed about you since you had lunch together a month ago in DC. “Oh, you’ve got that serious lawyer hairstyle now,” he remarks with a chuckle, even though your hair is styled the same way it was at that lunch. He might not mean it to come out this way, but it sounds condescending.

“That would be appropriate, considering I am a lawyer,” you remark, trying to keep the snark out of your tone. You know he always means well. “You look good.” He takes his hands off of you and puts them on his stomach.

“Your mom has me on some kind of greens and beans diet, says it will help me live longer.” You smile, a little awkward, not sure what to say about that—your dad is typically the meat and potatoes type, so you figure some variety can’t hurt, but if you say that you’ll never hear the end of it, and you’ve already got a headache.

“Where is mom, anyway?” You shift your bag on your shoulder, and your dad clues in, takes it from you and starts walking up the staircase.

“Oh, she’s at the gym, then taking care of some last minute things for the party.” You pause at the base of the stairs, sigh softly.

“Party?” You weren’t told about any party. Your dad keeps walking, and you’re forced to follow.

“Yeah, nothing major, just some people from the office and their spouses coming over for drinks tonight. Maybe some of their kids,” he adds innocently, and you can’t help rolling your eyes.

By kids, he means sons: eligible sons to try to set you up with. You wouldn’t mind being in a room full of hot, single men vying for your attention any other time—in fact, it’s been a little while, and your most recent hookup was lackluster, so you’re a bit more tightly wound than usual—but the kinds of men your parents bring around aren’t your type at all. You’re career driven yourself, but all they want to talk about is how they plan to be the youngest partner at their firm, or the clubs they can get into, or worst of all, money. Your potentially somewhat relaxing vacation just went to shit in no time at all.

“I didn’t bring anything to wear to a cocktail party.”

“I think mom got you a dress, honey. Check your closet after you get unpacked.” He pushes the door to your former bedroom open, and you’re assaulted by the color lavender; somehow you’d actually forgotten how purple it is. “You’ll look beautiful no matter what you wear.” He sets your bag on the bed—oh god, the frilly purple comforter, you may have actually repressed that memory—and you drop your other luggage there too. “I’ll give you some time to get settled in, maybe order some lunch for us? Vesuvios?”

As irritated as you are about the party, it’s sweet that he remembers your favorite restaurant. You went there for dinner after you graduated from high school, college, and law school, so there are lots of great memories associated with the place.

“Do they adhere to the greens and beans diet?” you ask with a grin, and he puts his finger up to his lips to silence you.

“What mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right?” You shake your head fondly, and he slips out of your room and leaves you to it.

You start unloading your clothes into the empty dresser, hanging them in the closet that holds things like your prom dresses, graduation gowns, old cheerleading and volleyball uniforms. Every touch of silky fabric is a memory, and at this point in your life most of them are good, even if they weren’t at the time. It’s kind of nice to remember where you came from, when where you are now can be so hectic, so fast-paced you don’t see the forest for the trees.

Feeling nostalgic, you walk over to your desk, where you spent so much time with your face crammed into textbooks it’s not even funny, and flip through your old stationary set—what teenager had her own stationery? You were a total nerd—and photos you’d taken off the mirror but left sitting in a pile to be packed away eventually.

You snap out of the past after that, finish putting your toiletries away, setting up your laptop and chargers where you want them, then shove your empty suitcases in the closet and grab your phone to head downstairs.

You meet up with your dad in the kitchen, where he is opening steaming takeout containers full of Italian food. You grab some plates from the overhead cabinet and lean against the counter, look over the offerings to decide what you’ll have.

“So how are things at the ACLU?” he asks with a bit of a teasing tone. You’re well aware of the fact that he thinks you could be doing more—translation: making more—in private practice, or working for the government like he does, but neither of those things interest you and he is well aware of that.

“They’re really good, actually. We’re working on a disability rights case now that will probably make national news if we win.” It’s been forever since you had penne arrabbiata, since it’s not very easy to eat at your desk without running the risk of staining your blouse with spicy red sauce, so you load up your plate with it, add wilted spinach for color, a piece of garlic bread because it’s garlic bread. You lick your thumb, and your dad points a finger in your direction in that way that means he’s about to give you life advice.

“When you win; if you’re not confident about your capabilities, no one else will be.” You roll your eyes good-naturedly, nod, because that’s a pro tip you’ve heard time and time again. “If you came to work at the bureau, you’d win more of your cases; Constitutional law isn’t easy.” He says that like you don’t already know, like you haven’t been working in your current department for more than a year. You sigh.

“I’m not really the bureau type, dad.” You take your plate over to the breakfast table, sit down and start to pick at your food. Arguing about your chosen career path is enough to make you lose your appetite, even for your favorite dish. Your dad follows, sits across from you.

“You’re so smart, honey, you could be if you wanted to.” He takes a bite of fettuccine alfredo, points his fork at you. “Hey, maybe you could talk to Jim from the Office of General Counsel tonight—or maybe Aaron. You’d be really interested in the work his team does.”

“Who’s Aaron again?” You don’t recognize the name, so he’s probably not one of the attorneys on your dad’s team, but he works closely with so many departments you might have heard it before and missed it.

“Friend from work. He’s the unit chief at the Behavioral Analysis Unit. They’re criminal psychologists or something. Profilers,” he says, snapping his fingers. “That’s what they call them. They get into criminals’ heads, analyze them and interrogate them. I know you minored in psychology, I bet he could get you an internship.” You laugh at that, because he always gives you advice about furthering your career, but that’s a step backward for you and he can't be so dense not to realize it.

“An internship? I’m a little old for that, don't you think? Not to mention I have a job that I love.” You stab at your food, more than a little agitated by the current conversation.

“Never too late to get your foot in the door, sweetie. It’d be great to see you more, that’s all I’m saying,” he adds, ending on a gentler note, and you sigh. Your mom does it too, but your dad is an expert into guilting you into doing what he thinks is best. Unfortunately, you’ve never handled guilt very well.

“Okay. I’ll talk to him, if it means that much to you,” you promise, and you both smile and make easy small talk for the rest of the meal. The dress your mom bought for you for the party is a black, sleeveless, designer cocktail dress, something more form fitting than you would normally wear—she is evidently trying very hard to find you an eligible bachelor tonight. You pair it with your favorite jewelry, simple heels, and when you head downstairs your mom acts like it’s prom night all over again.

“Oh sweetie, you look so beautiful!” She puts her hands on your arms, spins you around. “You’re looking too thin—must be eating a lot of salads on that paralegal salary,” she throws over her shoulder to your dad, and they both laugh. You wish life were a documentary so there was a camera you could look into with an unimpressed expression.

“I’m a staff attorney actually. Fully accredited,” you add, but it’s no use. If you don’t follow in your dad’s footsteps, you will always be seen as living beneath your potential, and therefore always the butt of these types of jokes.

You love them, really, and you know they love you, but they are not the most supportive pair by a long shot. They made sure you got into a great college, let you follow your law school dreams—and you’re grateful, won’t deny their money is a privilege so many other people in your position do not possess—but that was only because those were their dreams as well. As soon as you told them about taking the position at the ACLU, it was like the tables were turned, and instead of your accomplishments, all they saw was wasted potential.

It’s enough to keep you away most of the time, which sucks, but it is what it is. It’s easier to love them from afar, so that’s what you do.

At the party, you shake hands, talk about the weather, introduce yourself to so many middle aged white guys and their sons that their faces all start to blur together. After half an hour you excuse yourself, head to the bar for a drink, and come to stand next to a middle aged white guy you have not introduced yourself to—this one, you’d have remembered, because he is tall, broad, serious looking, and very handsome.

If you were a dog, he’d have your ears perking up, no doubt about that. Instead, your heart just races a little.

“I have to say, these FBI parties are even less fun than I thought they’d be,” you comment as you wait for your drink. The man lifts the corner of his mouth in a slight smile.

“Get a bunch of men who are past their prime in one room, and all you hear about are the glory days. Can’t get a word in edgewise.” The bartender hands you your glass, and you turn to fully face the stranger.

“Why aren’t you talking about your glory days?” You immediately kind of want to slap yourself. Your social skills have been exhausted tonight, apparently. “I’m sorry, that was rude; I didn’t mean to insinuate that you’re… past your prime.” You give him a brief once over, because he deserves it, is even more gorgeous up close than you’d initially assessed; he chuckles softly, sips on his own drink.

“It wasn’t rude, it was… shrewd.” His own gaze lingers on your face, maybe the neckline of your dress, just a little. “Your father’s really happy you’re here, wouldn’t stop talking about it.”

“Yeah, he's one of the most ambitious people I know; he gets an idea in his head and won’t rest until he’s seen it through.” It’s a quality that sounds good on paper, but when it’s constantly being applied to your life, it’s more tiring than anything. “Right now he’s trying to get me to bully one of these poor guys into giving me an internship, as if I’m not twenty-nine years old with a career of my own.” He wets his lips, laughs again.

“I think I’m the poor guy—Aaron Hotchner. I’m the unit chief overseeing the BAU.” Wow, 0 for 2. This guy’s got to think you’re a complete idiot. He extends a hand and you shake it firmly, melt a little because his palm is so broad, his fingers so thick.

“Right, I’m so sorry. Feel free to tell me right now that I’m not the right fit, and I’ll slink off and hide in a corner somewhere for the rest of the night.”

“No need for that. You strike me as someone who would be a great fit for my team, if that was something you actually wanted.”

You aren’t looking for a career change in the slightest, but you can’t deny it would be tempting to report to this man every day.

“It’s not that I’m not curious about what you do; my dad told me a little, and it sounds really intriguing. I just have a lot on my plate right now. If the offer had come up before I started my current job, I would be all over it.” You smile, shrug. “Unless you could have me intern for the next two weeks I’ll be on vacation, I’ll have to politely decline the offer you haven't actually made me.” You smile, and so does he.

“Now who’s ambitious?” he asks with a raised eyebrow; the way he says it, like he finds it charming, makes your face heat a little. You’ve never connected like this at one of your dad’s FBI events, and even though there’s no way it ends well—if anything even starts—you feel the need to see how far you can go. Even if it’s just a little flirting. Even if it’s just tonight.

“Have you ever been here before tonight?” you ask after a beat. You take a sip of your drink, and he mirrors you. You lean in a little closer.

“Once, briefly. I didn’t get a grand tour, or anything.” You smile—bingo—and reach out to place a hand on his arm.

“Oh, I’d be happy to give you one, if you like. Usually my dad is all about it, but he looks occupied.” You both glance across the room at where he is in the middle of a group of men—still discussing their glory days, no doubt—and Aaron looks at you again, nods.

“Sure, I’d love one.” You show him around downstairs, the backyard, the garage—he doesn’t seem to care about the cars at all—and then go upstairs, show him guest rooms, the master bath your mother recently remodeled; he gets a little closer as you go, and you smile more, flirt a bit. You stop outside the door to your room, block it with your body while you talk about the art hanging in the hall; he’s very good at reading your body language, apparently, because he leans closer to you, puts his hand on the doorknob next to your hip.

“What’s this room?” he asks, feigning innocence, and you put your arm over his.

“Oh, no, we’re not going in there. That’s my old bedroom.” He smiles, and you grimace.

“You mean the room I most want to see now? Come on.” He turns the knob, hears it click, and you cover your face with your hand, sigh.

“This is going to be really embarrassing. It’s exactly the way it looked when I went to college, and that was over ten years ago.” You push the door open with your hand, walk in and flick on the light. Aaron follows, chuckles.

“It’s... purple. Cute.” He makes toward the bed, touches one of the frills on the comforter with his big, broad hand. The juxtaposition of your innocent lavender bedding being stroked by the fingers you can’t stop staring at is a very interesting one.

“No, it’s not cute, it’s horrifying,” you say, and when he walks toward the open closet, you begin to regret this little tour. He pulls out your prom dress, your cheerleading uniform.

“Cheerleader, huh? You don’t seem the type.” He looks over at you, and you push it back into the closet, lead him away from it with your hands on his arms.

“I’m not. It was important to my mom.” The two of you are by your dresser now, and he leans in to look in the mirror, at you standing behind him and not his own reflection.

“I see. Do you always put other people's needs before your own?” You sidle up next to him, and he turns to face you.

“This is what you do, right? You… deduce for a living? Like Sherlock?” That makes him laugh, which in turn makes you smile.

“It’s called profiling, but that’s accurate enough.” You feel a challenge brewing inside you, take a step closer to him.

“Okay… What can you tell me about myself by looking around the room? Remember, this stuff is from ten years ago; a lot could have changed.” He crosses his arms, nods.

“You’re right, but your core values wouldn’t have.”

Slowly, he walks around the room, taking things in, touching things, looking back at you briefly and then rifling through parts of your past. It’s a few minutes before he speaks again.

“I think your father wants you to work at the bureau, and you don’t want to because you’ve always felt like you’d live in his shadow if you followed the same career path. You want to blaze your own trail, do what fulfills you, not let his last name be what moves you up the ladder.”

That’s all scarily true, so you nod, cross your arms, lean your butt against your desk.

“I think you’re afraid of commitment because you don’t think any relationship you’re in will ever measure up to what your parents have.” That stings a little, but he’s not wrong. He points to a flyer stuck to a cork board, something about a charity project you’d worked on that revolved around recycling. “Environmentally conscious: I bet you drive a hybrid, and if your dad bought it for you, it’s a... BMW.”

He glances back, and you encourage him to go on. He points to a copy of your Georgetown diploma hanging on the wall, then picks up a cheerleading trophy on your dresser.

“You were a cheerleader to please your mom, went to Georgetown to please your dad, excelled at both; you’re an only child, so you felt you couldn’t let them down. My question is,” he says, looking up at you curiously, “what pleases you?” The words make your heart beat fast; you lick your lips, tilt your head.

“Not much.” He comes closer, arms crossed again.

“Why?” God, that’s a loaded question for a Friday night, for the first day of your vacation. You absently wonder if he’s going to bill you for this impromptu therapy session.

“I find it difficult to ask for what I want,” you ultimately say, and he moves even closer. His stare is probing, and you speculate that he may have been a lawyer before the FBI. The look on his face is the same one you’ve seen in many courtrooms over your short career.

“Of course you do. You’ve never done it before. You've spent your whole life asking other people what they want from you.”

You feel very seen, and you kind of hate it, but you also kind of like it—that he’s able to dissect you like this is a huge turn on. What that says about you, you’re not entirely sure; maybe that you enjoy being seen for who you are—for all that you are—instead of who you know, or who you could have been, for a change.

“I think you didn’t lose your virginity until college—your second year.” It feels like bringing that up is a bold move for him; he doesn’t meet your eyes when he says it. “I would guess you got drunk for the first time around then, too. Your first year you were trying to navigate the feeling of not being under anyone’s thumb anymore; your second year, you finally felt like your own woman, you wanted to try new things, but it made you feel out of control and you don’t like that. Even now you only drink socially, never to get drunk.” He is directly in front of you now, and he reaches out a hand, brushes it over your cheek. “I also think you gravitate toward men you find inappropriate and unattainable so you don’t have to worry about being the reason your relationships fail.”

He looks into your eyes with a questioning gaze. It’s a painfully accurate take, but he softens the blow with the gentle touch.

“Wow, you’re kind of an asshole,” you breathe, but you smile, and he laughs low.

“Maybe. But am I wrong?” You nod your head, and his face falls a little, so you narrow your eyes to mess with him a bit.

“Only about one thing: I actually drive a Kia hybrid. And I bought it myself, for your information.” He smiles, and you press your hands against his chest; it’s crazy how quickly he drops back into the serious expression you first saw him wearing by the bar. “Are you unattainable and inappropriate?”

“I work with your father; we’re the same age. We play golf together sometimes.” He doesn’t seem uncomfortable, doesn’t back away or remove your hands. You slide them down his body, over his stomach, stop at his belt, and he looks the way you feel: tightly wound, aroused, a little breathless.

“That doesn’t really answer my question, Aaron. May I do some profiling of my own?” You look up at him, curious, and he nods.

“Be my guest,” he murmurs, and you lean back. You rake your eyes over his body slowly—there’s no mistaking your appraisal for what it is. “No ring on your finger, but there’s no way you haven’t been married before. My guess is you’re divorced, and it wasn’t your idea.” You look up at his face, smile softly. “Sorry. You weren’t exactly pulling punches either.” He huffs a laugh.

“You’re right: I wasn’t pulling punches. You’re right about the divorce, too. Go on.” You nod, hum.

“Okay. You have a strong moral compass; you always do what’s right, even when it’s difficult. It’s what makes you such a great leader for your team. You like to go by the book, you’re a Fed through and through—but when it comes down to the bureau or the people you care about, you’ll fight the establishment with all you have. You aren’t a blind believer in the government; you have your criticisms, and you aren’t shy about voicing them.”

“Unlike your father,” he says, and you sigh. “You don’t have an appreciation for his work.”

“No, I really don’t.” Your dad specializes in Freedom of Information Act litigation—he does his best to keep the FBI from actually living up to its commitment to be transparent with the American people, and it doesn’t sit right with you, never has. You may both be attorneys, but you could not be more different if you tried. “But I’m profiling you, remember?”

“Right. Please continue.”

“This might be going out on a limb, but I think you went to law school. The way you speak, and the way you looked at me earlier? It was a little like cross-examination. Am I right about that?” His answering smile actually looks pleased.

“You are. I was a prosecutor for a number of years before joining the FBI. I think it’s something you don’t ever really lose.”

“For better or worse,” you say with a smile of your own. Happy with your assessment, you move a little closer again. “One more thing. I don’t think you’re the kind of man who would normally let a woman take you into her bedroom after less than an hour of knowing her. Childhood or otherwise.” You smooth your hands down either side of his tie, over his firm chest and solid midsection. “Maybe you saw something in me you liked?”

“I was... dreading coming here tonight.” He brings his hands up to cover yours, but doesn’t pull them away, just holds them. “If you’ve been to one of these parties, you’ve been to them all—no offense to your father—and I was contemplating a good excuse to leave early, if I’m being honest. Then you showed up at my side—my friend’s mysterious daughter that I’ve heard so much about—and you’re funny, and charming. Insightful. Vulnerable.” He squeezes your hands, presses them closer to his chest. “Beautiful. It’s been a long time since I’ve looked at someone and felt an instant connection. Do you feel it?” His voice is just above a whisper, and you nod lightly.

You aren’t the type of woman to take a man into her bedroom after less than an hour of knowing him, childhood or otherwise, but he makes you want so badly you’re almost ravenous—you’ve felt this way before, maybe twice in your life, but neither of those experiences ended with you getting what you wanted. You really hope this time might be different.

“Kiss me?” He takes a breath and then presses his lips together.

“I shouldn’t.”

“I know. But will you?” After a beat, he does, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours, moving his hands to your face as he deepens it.

It’s not a hard kiss, but rough around the edges, your noses pressed together, mouths seeking contact even as you pull apart for breath. He kisses like he needs it, tastes like bourbon, feels like heaven; it’s steamy, wet, makes your chest heave and your pussy throb. When he walks you backward, gently presses your body against your desk, you hop up onto it easily and pull him closer, between your spread knees.

“Aaron,” you sigh over his lips, and his hands move to your thighs, pushing up your dress so he can get closer to you. You glide your fingers through his hair, plant a hand on the desk, then feel something tip over, hear the soft sound of paper sliding over the edge.

Aaron looks down, picks up a lavender envelope; he holds it up with a question in his eye and an enamored look on his face.

“‘From the desk of…’ You had personalized stationery at eighteen?” His mouth is a little red from the kiss still, and he’s teasing you, perfect; you smile, can’t believe this is happening.

“I liked to write to my congressman… and Ruth Bader Ginsburg,” you pant. He chuckles, kisses you a little softer than before, then moves down your throat, sweeps his tongue over your pulse. “Mmm. Right there.”

He pauses to look up at you, hair mussed from your fingers, and you push his jacket off his shoulders; he shifts to full height, helps you take it off, and you drape it over your desk chair, work the knot of his tie loose.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks as your fingers slip down the front of his shirt, freeing his buttons. You unclasp his belt, open his pants, and stretch up for a kiss, touching his face; you nod when you pull back.

“Absolutely. Are you?” He nods too, all serious eyebrows you want to kiss, mouth you want back on yours, on your throat, anywhere.

“Absolutely.” You step down off the desk, run your hands over his arms, then kick off your shoes and walk over to the door, close and lock it; when you pass him again, you guide him to the bed and sit in his lap, clutch at his shoulders and kiss him with as much desperation as he showed you before. There’s a lot of heavy breathing, sighing, moans from you both, and if just kissing is this good, you can’t imagine what he’ll be like inside of you.

When you can find it in yourself to stop kissing him, you pull back and climb out of his lap, present the back of your dress so he can ease down the zipper. He pushes it off, large, warm hands gliding over your body until it hits the floor in a heap unbecoming of the designer label. Your mother would lose her mind.

“You are incredibly beautiful,” Aaron says as he moves his hands to your hips, sliding your panties down and leaning in to press his lips to your stomach. You sigh, press a hand to the back of his head while his mouth explores you where you’re soft and sensitive. You’d like it lower, but there may not be time for that tonight. “What do you want with an old man like me?”

“None of that.” You sweep your hands over his shoulders, sink down onto his lap again, and his hands fall to your bare hips, squeezing you softly; you close your eyes for a moment, so overwhelmed by just the simplest touch. “Like you said: I feel a connection.” Your fingers move to push his shirt open, to lift his undershirt so you can get your hands on bare skin and soft body and hair. He groans, and you kiss him, deep and slow, hands moving to take off both shirts and add them to his jacket on your chair. You take a deep breath, reach out to touch his cheek. “Connect with me.”

He takes your hand, brings your palm to his mouth and kisses it, then drags it down so your fingers slide over his lips; you swallow hard, can feel wetness pooling between your legs, so you slide off of him and onto the bed—however sexy it may be to leave your mark on him, you do both have to return to the party at some point.

Sitting up beside him, you touch his body, ease his pants and boxers down; he takes them off along with his shoes, and you pull the comforter out from under you, push it to the side, let yourself lay back and bask in the look and feel of him as he settles between your knees, leans in for a kiss.

It’s even more intense than before, somehow, his thighs against yours, strong arms supporting him, and you drag your nails lightly up his body, tip your head back and sigh when his lips trail from the base of your throat to your jaw.

He moves a hand low, rubs his fingers between your lips and presses one finger inside you, slowly glides it in and out so you’re moaning, sighing his name.

“That feels so good,” you breathe, and he moves his mouth to yours again, soft and wet, the slide of his tongue sinfully delicious. He adds a second finger, earns more gasping moans, then a third; with the help of a capable thumb stroking over your clit, you come, and he kisses the praise right out of your mouth and then pushes inside you.

His mouth doesn’t leave yours, keeps you close as he thrusts inside, gradually lowering his weight onto you until you feel him everywhere: chest soft against yours, stomachs pressing together as you both work your hips, as your hands grasp his back to keep him close, heavy. Connected.

“You’re perfect. You feel incredible, baby,” he speaks against your lips in a rare moment apart, and you hitch your knees up higher, press the heels of your feet against his ass.

You thought he looked turned on before, but now he looks like he’s being consumed by it, like he wants to thrust deeper into you, make a home in your body and never leave; you would be more than okay with that, to spend the next two weeks beneath him, holding him close, sharing breath and sweat and pleasure so complete it changes you profoundly.

He moves a hand behind your head, cradles it, and sucks wet kisses against your throat—nothing so deep as to leave a mark, but that doesn’t mean you’re not panting, whimpering, begging for more.

“Aaron. Hmm, oh. You’re so gorgeous, I—everything about you.” He pulls away from your neck, peers down at you, and you’re sure you’re a sight to behold in your desperation; your palms smooth down his back, to his sides, and you hug him close, squeeze him hard when he comes, panting your name against your throat and pumping roughly inside.

You meet his every thrust, dig your nails into his hips, and he leans forward, covers your mouth with his and grinds against you until your second blissful orgasm shudders through your limbs. You clench tight around him, moan, then slowly sag back against the mattress, more thoroughly satisfied than you’ve ever been in your life.

He shifts, half on top of you and half off, his kisses gradually slowing, his hands sweeping over your shoulders, your face, your arms. When you’re calm, content, you sigh, kiss his hands and cheeks and lips; you’re warm, and you curl around him, overheated skin on skin, and never want to leave.

“Mmm,” he rumbles against your shoulder, mouthing at it, and you sigh, scrape your nails through his hair.

“Mm hmm. Think I can die happy now,” you murmur, and he shifts up to look at you, a smile curving softly from the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t die on me, now.” You smile too, scoot closer for slow kisses. You’re both happy to lay there, quietly kissing, but eventually it’s clear you need to return to the party in order to avoid suspicion—not that you think anyone would ever guess what just occurred.

You dress side by side, turning to have him fix your zipper, reaching up to help him with his tie. When you’re both technically decent enough to head downstairs, you plan to give him a head start, but the two of you get caught up in one more deeply sensual kiss that almost makes you want to just say screw it and take his clothes off again. He can tell, has the barest hint of a smirk on his face when the kiss breaks, and he punctuates it with a soft press of lips before walking out the door.

With your spare few minutes, you look around the room—and at your rumpled, frilly, lavender bed, on which you just had super hot sex with one of your dad’s friends, it’s still kind of sinking in—and wonder what the rest of your vacation could possibly bring that could top this night. At breakfast the next morning, you find out.

You and your parents are discussing the party, who got too drunk to function, who left with the wrong wife, which of your dad’s friend’s sons you got along with most, and then he drops the bomb on you.

“And see, honey, I told you talking to Aaron would be beneficial.” You choke on a bite of scrambled eggs, try to wash it down with a sip of juice; your mom pats you on the back until the moment passes.

“What?” you ask, voice barely a squeak. You clear your throat and try again. “What about Aaron, dad?” He flips the newspaper he’s holding to the next page and peers over it at you.

“I told you talking to Aaron would be beneficial. Before he left last night, he told me all about the internship—it’s nice of him to set it up for the two weeks you’re here, so you can get some experience under your belt.” You briefly think about your experience under Aaron’s belt, but it’s really not the time.

He really set you up with an internship—one he knows you aren’t interested in—based on the offhand comment you’d made about squeezing it into your two week vacation. You’d be kind of irritated at him for making the plans on your behalf, but if it means the next two weeks are anything like last night, he’s going to make it well worth your while.

The internship excites both of your parents, and your mom declares it a girls day, takes you out for some new clothes, since you didn’t bring any workwear, for a manicure and pedicure and then drinks. She talks about what a great opportunity this will be for you, and you don’t have the heart—or maybe you just don’t care anymore—to argue about what great opportunities you’ve already made possible for yourself.

Sunday is for relaxing, and not internally panicking about seeing Aaron again. Friday night was incredible, but you didn’t think it would turn into anything, considering he is your dad’s friend, and you’re only here for a couple weeks.

You have to hand it to him, though: if he enjoyed himself as much as you did, and this internship is his way of getting to spend more time with you, he has managed to do what you haven’t been able for twenty-nine years—find a way to please your parents while finally pleasing yourself. Monday morning, you show up at the BAU office to receive a photo ID badge and fill out some paperwork. You don’t actually get to meet anyone from the BAU until after lunch, and when you do, Aaron is nowhere to be seen.

“Hi, I’m looking for Unit Chief Hotchner?” you say to a fair-skinned woman with long blonde hair and a kind smile. “I’m interning for the next couple weeks.” There is a man with her, Black, tall, bald, with very expressive eyebrows; the eyebrows don’t look like they think very highly of you.

“You’re an intern? A little old, aren’t you?” After a beat, his face breaks into a smile, and you roll your eyes, huff a laugh.

“Charmer. Yes, I’m definitely too old to be an intern; do you have overbearing parents by chance?” He raises his hands, palms up, and takes a step back.

“No, but enough said.” The blonde woman laughs, and he nods in your direction. “I’m Derek Morgan, this is JJ Jareau. Come with me, I’ll take you to Hotch.”

You thank him, follow as he leads you across the room and up some stairs.

“So what’s he like, Agent Hotchner?” you ask, wanting someone else’s opinion of Aaron as a boss, a coworker—anything other than the one night stand that wasn’t. You really know so little about him.

“He’s a good guy; smart, fair, great at what he does. A little tightly wound; could stand to live a little.” He looks back at you with a grin. “He’ll probably remind you a little of your dad.”

God. It almost makes you throw up in your mouth a little.

“You know, I doubt it, but thanks for the warning.” He knocks on a closed door at the end of the hall, and a moment later, Aaron answers it. His expression doesn’t change as Derek introduces you, and when he walks away with a friendly pat on your shoulder, Aaron gestures you in. He closes the door behind you and looks carefully over your face.

“Hi,” he says, and you see that hint of a smirk on his face again. You take a moment to appraise the room—there’s a window with blinds that are closed, a desk and chairs, bookcases, a printer, more windows on the far side, a loveseat. You look back at Aaron with a raised brow.

“Hi. What am I doing here?” His expression gets serious, like he can’t tell if you’re pleased or upset with him for the surprise. You sit down on the loveseat, set your bag down, and he sits down next to you.

“I know you wanted to get your father off your back, and you did say if I could squeeze an internship into two weeks that you’d be interested.” You smile a little, because you did say that. “I thought it might be nice to see you a little more, too. You’re under no obligation to stay,” he assures you, briefly looking down, and then he takes your hand. “But surely there are worse ways to spend your vacation?”

You give him an uncertain look, like you’re really trying to decide what you’d like to do, and then you push up your skirt and swiftly straddle his thighs, press your hands against his shoulders. His mouth falls open a little, and you lean in to catch it with yours.

“I have been thinking about you all weekend,” he mutters into the kiss, wraps his arms around your back. “Have you thought about me?”

“Only every night.” He groans at your words, lets his head fall back a little, and you press your lips to the column of his throat, nip softly with your teeth. “Every morning. Every minute.” You bite at the shell of his ear, kiss it, card your fingers through his hair. “Do I have an actual job to do here?” You pull back, and he raises his eyebrows; you can’t help the grin that takes over your expression. “Because if not, I’m going to focus on making this the best two weeks of your life.”

He pulls you in for another kiss, a little rougher than before, deeper, and you tug on his hair, pant against his cheek when you separate.

“In that case, no. You don’t have a job to do here.” You tilt your head, and he smiles a little. “I'm the boss, I make the rules.” That kind of thing has never done it for you before, but you have to admit it’s making you feel some type of way right now. You sweep your hands inside his jacket, squeeze his sides.

“Mmm, yes you do. Hey, do you think there’s enough room for me to fit under your desk?” He wets his lips, and you climb off of him, walk around to check it out for yourself, bending over his desk in your tight black skirt to peek beneath it. You look up to see Aaron is not shy about taking in the view, and you grin. “Spacious.”

He walks toward you, and when he’s closer, his eyes look dark with need; his hands look like they ache to reach out and touch. You step forward, let yourself be caged in against the desk by his arms, and you arch your back a little, open his belt slowly.

“I didn’t set this up so you would feel obligated to do this.” You sigh, lean up to catch his lips in a soft kiss.

“I know you didn’t. But if I want to?” You tug down his zipper, slip your hand inside his underwear, feel him hot and stiff in your palm. “And you want to?” He nods tightly and you kiss him again, squeeze him softly, sweep your tongue between his lips. “Then let’s.”

You take a step back, push his chair far enough out of the way that you can crawl under the desk, come up on your knees; he exhales deeply, then sinks down into his chair, stretches his long legs so they rest on either side of your body, holds his pants open for you. You look up at him, hope he sees how ridiculously eager you are to do this, and you take his dick out, stroke it a couple times, and cover it with your mouth.

“My god,” he sighs, head resting back against his seat. You hold him with both hands, suck deep and wet, moan a little when he spreads his legs further apart. “Your mouth feels so good, baby. Does this make you wet?” You pull off, move one hand to slide up his stomach, clutch his shirt there.

“Very, but I’m patient. Want to make you come.” He wets his lips, sighs, and you dip your head, lick up the length of him before sucking him back down.

He is all perfect, desperate noises, soft grunts and moans, gently palming your head as he gets closer, and you’re pretty sure he’s about to get off when there’s a knock at the door. He mutters a curse, and you squeeze his stomach, determined to make him come in the next five seconds. He looks like he’s going to lose his mind.

“Just a minute,” he manages, his voice strained, and he puts his hands on your arms, but you stroke and suck him quickly, actually sigh in relief when he spills in your mouth; your only regret is that he couldn’t be louder.

As soon as he’s through coming, you duck under the desk to wipe your mouth, and he hurries to fix his fly, to close his belt. There’s another knock, and he exhales, calls for whoever is on the other side to come in.

He accidentally bangs his knee off the desk, winces, and you lean back against it, panting, your heart racing.

“Aaron!”

Your eyes snap closed. What are the actual chances of this? You don’t know enough about karma to have an opinion on it, but you come to the sudden realization that you must have done something wrong in a past life.

“Hey, what are you doing in our neck of the woods?” Aaron asks, managing to sound like he is in fact not talking to the father of the woman who just swallowed his come.

“Looking for my little girl, of course. Had to see what she was getting up to on her first day at the FBI.”

“She’s actually… downstairs. In the mailroom. Interns start at the bottom and work their way up.” You stifle a laugh, because despite your compromising position, that’s kind of funny.

“Oh, okay. Agent Morgan thought she was up here, but I guess she must have snuck by him. Would you tell her I stopped by?”

“Absolutely. She’ll be happy to hear it,” he says, and you think you might be out of the woods, but you hear your dad’s voice again.

“Hey I almost forgot to mention: Monday Night Football tonight, got a bunch of guys coming over to watch the game. You interested?”

“You know, that would be great. You can text me the details. Thanks for the invitation.”

“Sure, of course. I really appreciate you taking care of my girl.” You have to bite your lip this time, and Aaron taps his foot against your hip.

“It’s my pleasure. She’s really wonderful. You should be proud.”

“I am. I’ll text you the details,” he says, and then the door closes and Aaron pulls back, looks down at you beneath the desk. You kind of just stare at each other for a minute.

“Close call?” you say with a shrug, and he helps you to your feet, then lifts you up and sets your ass on the edge of his desk. He grabs your face for a messy kiss, and you cling to him, breathless when he pulls back.

“What does it say about me that I’m turned on again?” he asks, and you shake your head, pull him close for another kiss.

“I don’t know, but I’m really turned on, too. Can you—” That’s as far as you get before he strides over to the door, flips the lock, and comes back to push your skirt up, tug your panties down to your knees so quickly it makes you gasp. He gets on his knees slowly, looks up at your face, and puts his hands on your hips, takes a few deep, thorough licks of your pussy. “Oh, my god.” You put your hand on the back of his head, drop your ass harder against the desk and press your other palm against it for support.

He is as enthusiastic as you were for him, slipping his tongue between your lips, gliding rhythmically over your opening but not pressing in, the tease. It feels insanely good, so much but not quite enough.

“Aaron. Oh, mmm—please. Please.” You sigh, dig your fingers into his hair, and he puts his hands under your ass and tilts you back on the desk, dives lower to start thrusting inside you with his tongue. “Yes, yeah, right there,” you murmur, and you rock your hips a little; your hand slips, sending you further back on the desk so that you’re almost laying back on it, and it makes you feel so deliciously dirty that you groan, grab at the collar of his jacket at the back of his neck.

“You okay?” he asks, pulling back to look up at you, and you nod, frantic; he licks his lips, lifts your legs and puts them over his shoulders, then dips down to stroke his tongue inside you, to press a finger inside alongside it.

“Holy—oh, yes.” You toss your head back, whine, and come around his finger while his tongue flicks in and out until you’re left breathless, spent.

You press yourself up to sitting, and Aaron stands, kisses you deeply, hands on your face while you’re still slick on his tongue. After a couple of minutes, he helps you get cleaned and straightened up, his kisses soft presses of lips this time.

“I should try to get some work done,” he says, but he doesn’t sound like he wants to; after that, you can’t really blame him.

“That’s okay; I brought my laptop, so I can work on some stuff too, if you don’t mind.” He doesn’t of course, and you get set up at the other end of his desk. You’re both plugging away at your work when you’re reminded of something from earlier; you close the lid of your computer and look over at Aaron, head tilted. “I didn’t take you for someone who likes football.” He smiles, taps his pen against his chin.

“I don’t. But I figured you’ll be there.” You smile back.

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Maybe I’ll see if my old cheerleading uniform still fits—you know, just to go with the theme.” You open your computer back up, but the look on Aaron’s face out of the corner of your eye is very, very promising. “Mmh, that feels good,” you murmur, one hand on Aaron’s shoulder and the other on his thigh; he is propped up against your pillows, massaging your bare breast and your clit while you roll your hips in his lap. Your cheerleading skirt fits, mostly, but you couldn’t zip it all the way; still, it’s the only thing you’re wearing, and you can’t deny the whole situation is so hot it hurts.

“You feel so incredible. Taking me so well.” He can’t kiss you in this position, and you can tell he wants to—you really want him to—so you feel a little like a tease as you work your ass and thighs atop him. “You know you’re beautiful, but I can’t stop saying it. You’re perfect, baby—in this little skirt?” He moves the hand from your breast to your hip under the skirt, squeezes you there. “So sexy. Do you remember any cheers for me?”

You groan, roll your eyes.

“Not worth the orgasm to embarrass myself,” you say, and he lifts his hips, slams up into you hard. “Mmh. Okay, almost worth the orgasm, but not going to do it.” He lifts an eyebrow, pumps his hips up again.

“Really? Not even if I…” He lunges forward, lifting you out of his lap and making you laugh, then maneuvers you onto your stomach, gets on his knees behind you, flips up the skirt.

“God, Aaron,” you sigh, and he presses his thighs right up against your ass, slides inside, pumps slow and steady while squeezing your cheeks, pulling you back toward him. Your fingers dig into the stupid, frilly bedspread, which will probably turn you on for the rest of your life, now, and you move back against his thrusts, moan.

“Worth it now?” he asks, filling you so completely, and you pant, hum.

“Wouldn’t you rather I just moan your name?” He leans forward at that, hands planted up under your arms, and leans in to speak into your ear; the way he’s pressed against you, the angle is perfect, and you’re right on the edge when his lips brush your throat.

“Yeah, why don’t you do that instead.” It takes about two seconds for you to come, and you aren’t shy about it, let his name fall from your lips in an endless string of praise. He hammers against your ass, the roughest he’s been—and god, does it feel good—then comes inside you murmuring your name.

He pulls out, rolls you over, and you finally kiss, make it count; it’s like the first night, how you can’t get enough of each other, messy, desperate, curling tongues and soft, eager lips, but you know you can’t keep it up forever, because his presence downstairs will be missed much sooner than Friday’s party.

You help him get dressed—in jeans and a blue polo, maybe the only time in your life a polo has made you wet—and then throw on a t-shirt and jeans of your own, head downstairs. You detour for the kitchen to grab a couple beers while he heads into the living room, and then you plop down next to him on the couch and hand him one like you weren’t just defiling your childhood bedroom yet again.

“There you are,” your dad says when he registers your presence—it’s impossible to get him to look away from the tv when a good game is on. “So how was your first day at the office? Think you’re going to like it there?”

“Yeah, I don’t know why I was resistant for so long.” You shift, put your leg under your butt, and take a sip of your beer. “It’s not going to be a career for me, but I have a really good feeling about the next two weeks.”

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[bitchesgetriches]

Hi bitches, I'm a bit nervous to ask this but I'm being genuine I promise. I don't want you to think I'm some biggoted old fool.

Could you please help me understand how sex work isn't exploitative? I hear a lot of people saying "it's just the same as normal work, it's better than my job at Amazon/target/wherever and no one is calling that work exploitative" or "well you wouldn't do YOUR job if you didn't have to either" but like, checkout work IS hella exploitative??? Most work IS hella bullshit that only exists to feed the capitalist machine. I DO fight for a world where work is a choice. I understand why The Right would love onlyfans, but why is The Left lining up to defend it?

Sex work - especially things like onlyfans - is overwhelmingly done by the poor or as a way to escape poverty ("I was being paid shit in my previous job, now I can afford an apartment" is something I hear a lot). But in doing so it transfers all the risks to them, it's essentially turning sex work into the gig/hustle economy, isn't it? You end up on a zero hour contract with no union, health, benefit, maternity protection, in a job that can be hella dangerous and have serious emotional repercussions and requires huge emotional labour and/or disconnect and I don't really understand why we're just cheering this along?

I don't object on moral grounds. Sex is sex. Consenting adults do what you want. People are well within their moral and legal rights to choose to sell sex, (or the emotional labour that comes with it), or photos, or whatever they want - just like they are free to go work for target. I absolutely understand the need to - and support - decriminalisation of sex work, the need to make it safe and secure for sex workers, but I just can't see why ~the world at large~ sees huge numbers of young 18 year old women being herded and encouraged into joining Onlyfans - in several cases with people saying "can't wait for you to turn 18 so you can have an OF" so the patriarchy can pay £3-4 a month to see their tits and people cheer this along? One or two get rich, I'm sure, but who is getting REALLY rich? It's the old white men that own onlyfans and take a 20% cut, as always. It's the patriarchy working as it always has. Allowing one or two women to succeed while holding the rest down for exploitation. Except now it's mixing with the worst bits of 21st C capitalism, too. Surely all OnlyFans is is Uber for Sex work, using the gig economy to de-unionise and isolate workers, strip them of benefits, make them into independent contractors and profit off them?

Sure, it's a step up from kidnapping girls from Romania to have them do porn, but is that really the bar? Can we maybe just stop for a second and imagine a world where rich white men don't get richer off the emotional and physical labour of women? Where the other available work options aren't so shit that a zero-hour career with no employment protections, a limited lifespan, in a dangerous industry doesnt look like heaven in comparison? Sure, you can work for three years, sell your emotional labour, and pay for college. But why are we cheering that instead of asking why this has to happen in the first place? We're fiddling around the edges of the system, giving it a makeover, and rebadging it "female empowerment" instead of actually changing anything fundamental. Poor women sell sex. A few are allowed to break out. Men get to leer at naked women for pennies a year. Rich men get richer. Plus ça change. Not even to mention that because of the ~emotional~ connection that onlyfans gives beyond porn, we're embedding the idea that women are "money in, girlfriend out" machines. I know several girls that won't even *talk* to men in any situation without a minimum $50 fee. And apparently the fact we also have a crisis of men so lonely they're willing to pay this isn't a problem either? Where's our luxury communism dreams bitches?

Bitches, I trust you. What am I missing?

I don’t think you’re a bigoted old fool. Nor a prude! I think you’re incredibly enlightened about the dangers of unfettered capitalism and labor exploitation.

Almost all of the issues you highlight about exploitative sex work can be said about exploitative labor in any industry. Poor people taking shitty jobs that don’t pay enough and enrich capitalist, patriarchal corporate overlords? That happens all over the world in industries from meat packing to clothing sweat shops to, yes, sex work. The exploitation of a person’s body for labor is an ethical stain on our culture at large. It’s why we’re so in favor of labor rights advances including a higher minimum wage, unions, and humane work environments. 

Raising the Minimum Wage Would Make Our Lives Better 

Are Unions Good or Bad? 

Coronavirus Reveals America’s Pre-existing Conditions, Part 1: Healthcare, Housing, and Labor Rights 

Sex work is not unique in that it opens desperate and poor people up to labor exploitation. It’s not even uniquely dangerous to the bodies of workers--John Oliver did a bit on the US meat packing industry recently that made me faint with body horror. 

So we agree that labor exploitation is bad. And it’s something that we should work towards ending in every industry. But I can see why some people would view exploitative sex work to be a different kind of bad. Because sex is sensitive! It can be used to punish and hurt. See revenge porn and the way synonyms for “sex worker” are stigmatized and used as insults throughout society. 

Now, a few clarifications. When I refer to sex work, I’m not just talking about cam work on OnlyFans. There are lots of other outlets for many different kinds of sex work. And I’m also not just talking about women sex workers. People of all gender identities and sexualities do sex work, and we should advocate for fair labor practices and safety for all of them. I am firmly pro- decriminalizing sex work so that the industry can be made safe, regulated, and destigmatized in an effort to reduce exploitation. I want sex workers to have the power of collective bargaining! I want them to be protected by law enforcement and our justice system, instead of targeted by it! I want them to pay taxes and have the privileges associated with all tax paying workers! I want them to have the power and protection of a regulatory industry that will purge abusive and violent clients from their field!

I also disagree with the characterization that choosing sex work freely, even out of desperation, is a “step up from kidnapping a girl from Romania to have them do porn.” Human trafficking is not sex work. It’s slavery and torture. Even when the choice is between making $7.25 an hour working at WalMart and making $7.25 as a cam girl, there’s still a choice involved, even if it’s a shitty one. There’s consent. Trafficking victims have no choice, no consent, only violence. 

I honestly don’t want to start a debate here. We’re all on the same page that labor exploitation is bad. So I’ll just end with this: not all sex work is inherently exploitative. Which I guess is your real question!

I’ve mentioned before that I have friends who are former sex workers. Specifically strippers and a specialty dominatrix. As with any job, they had their ups and downs, their good nights and bad nights. But they all agree that they freely chose the work not out of desperation or a lack of other options. And they even enjoyed the work in some cases. If someone prefers sex work, thrives in giving that emotional labor to others, I’m not going to judge and I’m certainly not going to tell them they’re being exploited. It would frankly be insulting, condescending, to tell someone that their choice of work (when it truly is a choice) is bad for them. 

It’s a fine line, but the line does exist. Sex work CAN BE exploitative. But it is not inherently exploitative, as far as I’m concerned. 

[vivithefolle]

You said something about Hermione being “that white feminist” (and so you don’t think a black actress would fit in the reboot). What do you mean?

First off, why I headcanon Hermione as white!

Next off, let’s look at S.P.E.W.:

"How dare you!" said Ron, in mock outrage. "We've been working like house-elves here!"

Hermione raised her eyebrows.

"It's just an expression," said Ron hastily. - Goblet of Fire, chapter 14

So Ron uses a rather racist… speciesist? Expression, then quickly amends when he sees Hermione’s reaction. That is good. This shows that even if he uses the expression, he can recognize it’s problematic.

And now for S.P.E.W….

She brandished the sheaf of parchment at them.

"I've been researching it thoroughly in the library. Elf enslavement goes back centuries. I can't believe no one's done anything about it before now. "

"Hermione - open your ears," said Ron loudly. "They. Like. It. They like being enslaved!"

"Our short-term aims," said Hermione, speaking even more loudly than Ron, and acting as though she hadn't heard a word, "are to secure house-elves fair wages and working conditions. Our long-term aims include changing the law about non-wand use, and trying to get an elf into the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, because they're shockingly underrepresented." - Goblet of Fire, chapter 14

Okay, yeah, that’s not on, Ron. Nobody likes being enslaved, ever. He’s only met one house-elf, and she didn’t seem very happy with being enslaved - but she seemed to despise freedom a lot more.

Meanwhile Hermione is on the warpath and is showing that she did research her stuff, although…

trying to get an elf into the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, because they're shockingly underrepresented

Very good! That’s excellent, a very good goal indeed. Only house-elves would know how to treat other house-elves better. …………. though, um, Hermione, haven’t you noticed that your, erm… organization for the right of house-elves… seems to also shockingly underrepresent house-elves?

But hey! At least she’s trying. She may want to look into actually talking to house-elves rather than trusting the stuff wizards have been writing about them, but…

"Listen, have you ever been down in the kitchens, Hermione?"

"No, of course not," said Hermione curtly, "I hardly think students are supposed to -"

"Well, we have," said George, indicating Fred, "loads of times, to nick food. And we've met them, and they're happy. They think they've got the best job in the world -"

"That's because they're uneducated and brainwashed!" Hermione began hotly, but her next few words were drowned out by the sudden whooshing noise from overhead, which announced the arrival of the post owls. - Goblet of Fire, chapter 15

And

A light rain had started to fall by midafternoon; it was very cozy sitting by the fire, listening to the gentle patter of the drops on the window, watching Hagrid darning his socks and arguing with Hermione about house-elves - for he flatly refused to join S. P. E. W. when she showed him her badges.

"It'd be doin' 'em an unkindness, Hermione," he said gravely, threading a massive bone needle with thick yellow yarn. "It's in their nature ter look after humans, that's what they like, see? Yeh'd be makin' 'em unhappy ter take away their work, an' insutin' 'em if yeh tried ter pay 'em. "

"But Harry set Dobby free, and he was over the moon about it!" said Hermione. "And we heard he's asking for wages now!"

"Yeah, well, yeh get weirdos in every breed. I'm not sayin' there isn't the odd elf who'd take freedom, but yeh'll never persuade most of 'em ter do it - no, nothin' doin', Hermione. "

Hermione looked very cross indeed and stuffed her box of badges back into her cloak pocket. - Goblet of Fire, chapter 15

… aaaaaand here we come to the problem with Hermione. Once she has an idea in her head, she won’t let go of it.

Fred and George have actually met the house-elves. Then Hagrid, our resident expert in Magical Creatures explains that house-elves seem to have a different view of their job than humans do.

Okay, but that’s what we’re told the house-elves are like. What are they actually like? Let’s go find our proof!

"Hermione!" said Ron, cottoning on. "You're trying to rope us into that spew stuff again!"

"No, no, I'm not!" she said hastily. "And it's not spew, Ron -"

"Changed the name, have you?" said Ron, frowning at her. "What are we now, then, the House-Elf Liberation Front? I'm not barging into that kitchen and trying to make them stop work, I'm not doing it -"

"I'm not asking you to!" Hermione said impatiently. "I came down here just now, to talk to them all, and I found - oh come on, Harry, I want to show you!" - Goblet of Fire, chapter 21

(I just want to point out that Ron has managed to find a better name than SPEW for Hermione’s organization in just a throwaway bit of brilliance. House-Elf Liberation Front spells HELF. H-ELF. House-ELF. Ron is brilliant and I will not have anyone say otherwise.)

So, Ron doesn’t want to “barge into” the kitchen to “try to make them stop work”, it doesn’t say anything about why he doesn’t want to do that, but Ron doesn’t seem to want to go inside the kitchen. Probably doesn’t want to disturb the elves.

And Hermione has finally learned that she’d be much better at this activism thing if only she actually talked to the people she’s activism-ing for! Good on her! And what she wants to show Harry is Dobby, for those who tried to make it into a Harmione moment.

"Would Harry Potter like a cup of tea?" [Dobby] squeaked loudly, over Winky's sobs.

"Er - yeah, okay," said Harry.

Instantly, about six house-elves came trotting up behind him, bearing a large silver tray laden with a teapot, cups for Harry, Ron, and Hermione, a milk jug, and a large plate of biscuits.

"Good service!" Ron said, in an impressed voice. Hermione frowned at him, but the elves all looked delighted; they bowed very low and retreated. - Goblet of Fire, chapter 21

So, Hermione isn’t happy with Ron, but the elves… the elves are certainly happy. Heh. :’) And hell, Ron has just given them a genuine compliment, he wasn’t being condescending or disrespectful.

And now…

Dobby beamed very brightly, and happy tears welled in his eyes again.

"And Professor Dumbledore says he will pay Dobby, sir, if Dobby wants paying! And so Dobby is a free elf, sir, and Dobby gets a Galleon a week and one day off a month!"

"That's not very much!" Hermione shouted indignantly from the floor, over Winky's continued screaming and fist-beating.

"Professor Dumbledore offered Dobby ten Galleons a week, and weekends off," said Dobby, suddenly giving a little shiver, as though the prospect of so much leisure and riches were frightening, "but Dobby beat him down, miss. . . Dobby likes freedom, miss, but he isn't wanting too much, miss, he likes work better." - Goblet of Fire, chapter 21

Ten Galleons a week and weekends off!! That’s big. I’m pretty sure Arthur Weasley doesn’t earn ten Galleons a week. And Dobby refused to take it! Dobby would rather work than be “free” in the sense Hermione thinks of it!

There is absolutely Blue And Orange Morality at play here! The house-elves do not work the way humans do! They are different in terms of culture and beliefs.

"Can't house-elves speak their minds about their masters, then?" Harry asked.

"Oh no, sir, no," said Dobby, looking suddenly serious. "'Tis part of the house-elf's enslavement, sir. We keeps their secrets and our silence, sir. We upholds the family's honor, and we never speaks ill of them - though Professor Dumbledore told Dobby he does not insist upon this. Professor Dumbledore said we is free to - to -"

Dobby looked suddenly nervous and beckoned Harry closer. Harry bent forward. Dobby whispered, "He said we is free to call him a - a barmy old codger if we likes, sir!"

Dobby gave a frightened sort of giggle.

"But Dobby is not wanting to, Harry Potter," he said, talking normally again, and shaking his head so that his ears flapped. "Dobby likes Professor Dumbledore very much, sir, and is proud to keep his secrets and our silence for him." - Goblet of Fire, chapter 21

So, Dobby does speak of it as enslavement, but in the same way he seems to not mind it very much if it concerns Dumbledore. Mostly because Dumbledore doesn’t actually force Dobby to uphold the full contract.

It’s again Blue And Orange Morality. Even if a secret could be very harmful, it’s a matter of pride for house-elves to never betray them. Dobby wanted to flee the Malfoy family because they were going to harm Harry, and Dobby liked Harry more than the Malfoys, which was why he went out of his way to help him and risked disgrace.

Ah, and what had the other house-elves had to say about Dobby’s behaviour?

"Dobby has traveled the country for two whole years, sir, trying to find work!" Dobby squeaked. "But Dobby hasn't found work, sir, because Dobby wants paying now!"

The house-elves all around the kitchen, who had been listening and watching with interest, all looked away at these words, as though Dobby had said something rude and embarrassing. Hermione, however, said, "Good for you, Dobby!"

"Thank you, miss!" said Dobby, grinning toothily at her. "But most wizards doesn't want a house-elf who wants paying, miss. 'That's not the point of a house-elf,' they says, and they slammed the door in Dobby's face! Dobby likes work, but he wants to wear clothes and he wants to be paid. Harry Potter. . . Dobby likes being free!"

The Hogwarts house-elves had now started edging away from Dobby, as though he were carrying something contagious. Winky, however, remained where she was, though there was a definite increase in the volume other crying. - Goblet of Fire, chapter 21

Yeah, Dobby is the only one who wants and enjoys freedom. And even then...

Dobby likes freedom, miss, but he isn't wanting too much, miss, he likes work better.

Is it insane? To a human it would be, but to a house-elf it’s probably normal. And who are we to declare that house-elves are brainwashed because they think differently from what a human thinks?

The problem is that we’re never given a clear answer. Are house-elves brainwashed or is it truly the way they are? Do house-elves need humans to survive or have humans forced them to become like this? How can we know? No answer is ever provided!

And let’s see how S.P.E.W. ends in GOF:

Winky's eyelids drooped and suddenly, without warning, she slid off her stool into the hearth, snoring loudly. The empty bottle of butterbeer rolled away across the stone-flagged floor. Half a dozen house-elves came hurrying forward, looking disgusted. One of them picked up the bottle; the others covered Winky with a large checked tablecloth and tucked the ends in neatly, hiding her from view.

"We is sorry you had to see that, sirs and miss!" squeaked a nearby elf, shaking his head and looking very ashamed. "We is hoping you will not judge us all by Winky, sirs and miss!"

"She's unhappy!" said Hermione, exasperated. "Why don't you try and cheer her up instead of covering her up?"

"Begging your pardon, miss," said the house-elf, bowing deeply again, "but house-elves has no right to be unhappy when there is work to be done and masters to be served. "

"Oh for heavens sake!" Hermione cried. "Listen to me, all of you! You've got just as much right as wizards to be unhappy! You've got the right to wages and holidays and proper clothes, you don't have to do everything you're told - look at Dobby!"

"Miss will please keep Dobby out of this," Dobby mumbled, looking scared. The cheery smiles had vanished from the faces of the house-elves around the kitchen. They were suddenly looking at Hermione as though she were mad and dangerous.

"We has your extra food!" squeaked an elf at Harry's elbow, and he shoved a large ham, a dozen cakes, and some fruit into Harry's arms. "Good-bye!"

The house-elves crowded around Harry, Ron, and Hermione and began shunting them out of the kitchen, many little hands pushing in the smalls of their backs.

"Thank you for the socks, Harry Potter!" Dobby called miserably from the hearth, where he was standing next to the lumpy tablecloth that was Winky.

"You couldn't keep your mouth shut, could you, Hermione?" said Ron angrily as the kitchen door slammed shut behind them. "They won't want us visiting them now! We could've tried to get more stuff out of Winky about Crouch!"

"Oh as if you care about that!" scoffed Hermione. "You only like coming down here for the food!"

It was an irritable sort of day after that. Harry got so tired of Ron and Hermione sniping at each other over their homework in the common room that he took Sirius's food up to the Owlery that evening on his own. - Goblet of Fire, chapter 28

Typical Harry, he tunes out the argument between Ron and Hermione. Ron probably didn’t like Hermione saying he only likes the elves for the food.

But look at Dobby, indeed. Dobby wants nothing to do with Hermione’s SPEW. Dobby doesn’t want to be the poster boy for house-elf freedom. Dobby wants to do his own thing and not be bothered for it.

No more to see in GOF after this. Moving on to OOTP.

'What in the name of Merlin are you doing?' said Ron, watching her as though fearful for her sanity.

'They're hats for house-elves,' she said briskly, now stuffing her books back into her bag. 'I did them over the summer. I'm a really slow knitter without magic but now I'm back at school I should be able to make lots more.'

'You're leaving out hats for the house-elves?' said Ron slowly. 'And you're covering them up with rubbish first?'

'Yes,' said Hermione defiantly, swinging her bag on to her back.

That's not on,' said Ron angrily. 'You're trying to trick them into picking up the hats. You're setting them free when they might not want to be free.'

'Of course they want to be free!' said Hermione at once, though her face was turning pink. 'Don't you dare touch those hats, Ron!'

She turned on her heel and left. Ron waited until she had disappeared through the door to the girls' dormitories, then cleared the rubbish off the woolly hats.

'They should at least see what they're picking up,' he said firmly. - Order of the Phoenix, chapter 13

Thank God for Ron.

I highlighted the “her face was turning pink” part because this highlights that Hermione is actually aware that she is tricking the elves. Ron says it and Hermione knows it’s true. But… the end justifies the means, to Hermione. Rather Slytherin of her in fact.

Meanwhile Ron is outraged on behalf of the elves. While Hermione wants to make the decision for them, Ron wants them to see and be able to make the choice themselves. And no, this isn’t OOC. This is Hermione’s qualities, her good heart and drive, becoming flaws, like qualities are often prone to do. Just like flaws can turn into qualities too. Peter Pettigrew was a coward but it sure saved his life, didn’t it?

'Winky is still drinking lots, sir,' [Dobby] said sadly, his enormous round green eyes, large as tennis balls, downcast. 'She still does not care for clothes, Harry Potter. Nor do the other house-elves. None of them will clean Gryffindor Tower any more, not with the hats and socks hidden everywhere, they finds them insulting, sir. Dobby does it all himself, sir, but Dobby does not mind, sir, for he always hopes to meet Harry Potter and tonight, sir, he has got his wish!' Dobby sank into a deep bow again." - Order of the Phoenix, chapter 18

And it turns out Hermione’s efforts are doing more harm than good. Dobby now has to clean Gryff tower all by himself! House-elves have strong magic, but still it has to be rough on him. Ron is proved right by the canon text. Ron understands elves better than Hermione does, because Hermione is trying to apply her human reasoning and morality to them, while Ron is more of a “live-and-let-live” kind of person.

To give you a comparison: Hermione is that person who insists that two men together can’t have “proper” sex but she’s not judging not at all but still you have to admit you can’t find the same fulfillment in another man as with a woman but she’s not homophobic, it’s just- While Ron is maybe weirded out at first, but then he shrugs and says “yeah ok whatever works for you”.

They were so busy that Hermione had even stopped knitting elf hats and was fretting that she was down to her last three. 'All those poor elves I haven't set free yet, having to stay here over Christmas because there aren't enough hats!' Harry, who had not had the heart to tell her that Dobby was taking everything she made, bent lower over his History of Magic essay. - Order of the Phoenix, chapter 21

Uuuuuuggggggghhhhh and this is where I start getting mad…

How can people say that Hermione actually cares about house-elves? “Having to stay here over Christmas”? Yeah, have you noticed how miserable they were in the Hogwarts kitchens? How awful it is that they’re not outside in the freezing cold, without shelter, without food, in a place they love, employed by a man who doesn’t consider them slaves! Poor little house-elves who are stuck at Hogwarts rather than in the loving care of a family like the Malfoys!

Hermione cares more about saving the house-elves than she cares about the house-elves themselves! Hermione seems to care more about being the house-elves’ saviour than about doing what is right by the elves!

Ah and Harry of course, lies by omission because he doesn’t want to get involved. Typical Harry I’d say.

Oh sure, he “doesn’t have the heart to tell her”, oh, how romantic, he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings, but wouldn’t it hurt YOUR feelings that you spent countless afternoons doing something you thought was making a difference only to discover one day that it really never accomplished anything, or would you rather be put out of your misery fast by a friend telling you how it is? I dunno which one you’d pick but I’d rather take the second one. It may hurt on the moment but at least I’m not working on a pointless endeavour anymore.

(Find the whole essay at Quora here)

So. This is Hermione’s first foray into social justice. So of course she’ll fuck it up.

But she’s fucking it up pretty royally, by speaking over the very people she’s trying to represent, by trying to impose her values over theirs and trying to tell them her values are the “better’ ones (yes Hermione is a colonialist) and, worst of all: she seems to be doing it for herself.

All those poor elves I haven't set free yet 

I. I. I haven’t set them free. I am the saviour of house-elves, for I alone have noticed their terrible plight. I, Hermione the Enlightened, am special and will save an entire species from slavery, and I will be recognized by all in History!

Let’s also remember that Hermione is Muggleborn, so the fandom fawning over her “tolerance” and “progressism” is... um. Kinda pointless. Because it’s not exceptional for Hermione to believe that “slavery is bad”. Most countries have banned slavery. It’s not an amazing thing. All the other Muggleborns probably think the same thing. (That is without taking into account that house-elves are a wholeass different species of sentient beings, capable of making decisions and able to decide for themselves what to do.)

Anyway, that’s it. Hermione is Doing Activism Wrong, which is pretty much expected since she’s barely 15-16. But I’ve seen too many folks praise her for the way she went about helping the elves, which is certifiably awful.

S.P.E.W. should be something to, say, help abused elves be freed from their masters. That would be a good thing, that would help the cause. Help the elves that want freedom achieve that freedom. But free ALL elves without even asking them their opinion, treat elves as though they’re humans when they plainly aren’t, they’re a whole-ass different species? Hell no.

[outerjjbx]

Ship: jjpope/mayward

Words: 1.5k (multichap, i’ll be posting the first chapter here and the rest on ao3)

Ao3 link: right here

Summary: library au. pope works at the library, and jj asks for help studying.

Pope likes his job.

He does, really. It’s just- frustrating, sometimes. The stupid teenagers; the mountains of books the owner makes him stay behind to stack; that musty smell that makes him sneeze every three seconds. It can be okay, of course. He’s always loved books, and he’s always dreamed of working at a library. It just isn’t what he expected.

Between college, studying, and taking care of his dumbass roommate, he hardly has enough time for work. After the first week, the ‘wow-I-work-at-a-library-and-this-is-straight-out-of-a-romance-novel’ magic wore off, and was replaced with stress, dust, and piles of unsorted books. And, worst of all, other students from his school come in constantly, and all he can do is keep his head down and pray they don’t see him.

Pope, unfortunately, is not a very lucky person.

He’s just about ready to die when he hears his name get called by someone he definitely recognises. The blonde from his history class is sitting at a table in the corner, waving him over. Pope feels his stomach churn uncomfortably as he approaches, his hands growing sweaty as he take’s JJ’s appearance in. His eyelashes are highlighted by the sun, much like his hair, and his bruised knuckles are flexing as his fingers strum nervously against the table. Pope's mouth is dry. He fucking hates how attracted he is to this guy.

“Hey, P,” JJ smiles- all teeth, no eyes. Fake for the sake of charm. “I didn’t know you work here.”

Pope grimaces. “Enough with the nicknames, please.”

“Isn’t Pope already a nickname?” JJ grins, bringing a beaten up pen to his lips and leaning back in his chair. He lifts his foot up to the table to balance himself, the action striking the other’s blood cold.

“No feet on the table,” Pope almost-sneers, swiping at the blond’s boots. “You aren’t even reading anything. Why are you here?”

JJ holds a hand to his heart. “I’m totally reading.” He reaches across the table, picking up an old-looking textbook for their history class. “Studying, actually. Why don’t you join me?”

Pope narrows his eyes. “Seriously? Bye, JJ.”

“Wait!” the blond calls as Pope turns. “I need help studying, okay? I came here for some quiet, but I can’t concentrate. I just- I’m gonna fail midterms if I don’t get this done. I’m already behind in, like, a bajillion classes. Please, man.”

Pope pauses. “If you wanna pass, you should stop fucking around in class. I see you with John B in the back. You’re super annoying, by the way. Some of us are here to, like, get college degrees, so we can get jobs. We’re not all trust-fund sons here on Daddy’s money.”

“I’m not rich, if that’s what you’re implying,” JJ scoffs, looking almost offended.

Pope shakes his head. “No way you got here on a scholarship.”

“Okay, I won’t take any offence from that,” JJ says. “You make a fair point. The dean paid for my tuition. A special, 100% discount. Just for me.”

Pope furrows his eyebrows. “What, did you blackmail her? Did you sell her meth or something?”

“She’s my mom, dude. Chill,” JJ laughs.

Pope tries to ignore the way his stomach flutters when JJ laughs. “So you are rich,” he deadpans.

JJ rolls his eyes. “Nah, she just owes me. I grew up in North Carolina, in the Outer Banks. Right in the shitty part, like the lucky bastard I am.”

Pope can’t help the way that piques his interest. “Really? I grew up on the coast there, I visited the Outer Banks a few times.” He shuffles his feet, his posture relaxing by the tiniest degree. “How is your mom the dean here, though? She’s been at this school, for, like, decades.”

“Fifteen years, actually,” JJ corrects, pointing a finger. “Can you help me study now? I’ll put a good word in with my mom. Then you can, like, be at the top of all your classes and fulfil all your nerdy dreams. What do you even wanna be?”

“A mortician,” Pope replies. “I’m really into forensic scien-“

“A mortician?” JJ interrupts, a laugh strung along with his words. “What the fuck? That’s the grossest shit ever. I thought morticians were people who just, like, failed at being real-people doctors.”

Pope grits his teeth. “Dead people are real people. It’s a respectable and interesting science. You probably wanna be a MacDonald’s worker or something, anyway.”

“A MacDonald’s worker?” JJ scoffs, holding a hand to his chest “Pope, I’m offended! Am I not currently attending this prestigious university? The very same one that you attend?”

Pope raises his eyebrows, his head tilting downwards. “Yeah, but my mom isn’t the dean. I think we got in for vastly different reasons.”

“Vastly different- Pope! Why must you injure me so? My pride, it’s just… falling apart, at your very feet!” JJ exclaims, throwing his head back and rocking in his chair. He pauses, palm resting upwards on his forehead in a dramatic pose. “Will you pick it up for me? It’s just- it’s right over there. I don’t think I could manage.” He motions to the floor, where the sun highlights a soft rainfall of dust.

Pope scowls. “Fuck you, JJ. You can study by yourself.” He turns on his heel, his blood pumping unsteadily in his ears.

He hears a clatter behind him. “Wait, Pope! Shit, one second-” there’s another few crashes, sounds Pope doesn’t want to dignify with his eyes. “Pope, man, come on. Do me a favour.” JJ pauses, the library falling silent for one small, sweet moment. “Please?”

Pope presses his palms to his eyes and exhales sharply before turning around. “Why should I help you? You’re annoying, you’re rude, you don’t care about school-” he looks past JJ’s shoulder, where his chair is tipped over next to a pile of fallen books. “-and you’ve made a mess in my library, that I have to clean up.”

“I’ll clean that up. I promise.” As if to prove it, JJ takes a step back, without actually doing anything to fix the mess.

Pope blinks, unimpressed and growing more frustrated by the second. “Why do you even need help?”

JJ stares for a moment, eyes trailing along the shelf behind Pope’s head, as if avoiding his gaze. “I’m dyslexic.”

Pope nearly laughs. “So? Dysexic people can read. And study. I don’t see the problem.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t-” JJ pauses, motioning vaguely with his hand. “I didn’t, like, learn how to.”

Pope tilts his head. He’s trying his best to look condescending, but he’s afraid he’s failing miserably. “Your mother is the dean. The college has plenty of resources that can help you more than I can. Your old schools should have, too.”

“My old schools?” JJ repeats, eyebrows raised. “Pope, bro, you should know me well enough to know I never went there. And my mom doesn’t know, so I can’t use the ‘resources’ she apparently has anyway.”

Pope scoffs. “Your mom, the dean, doesn’t know that you’re dyslexic? Are you seriously making a learning disorder up just to annoy me?”

“I am not!” JJ exclaims, brow furrowing. A few strands of hair fall in front of his eyes, making Pope’s mouth go dry. “I was diagnosed in, like, the third grade. But my mom doesn’t know. And she can’t know.”

“Why not?” Pope asks. His voice catches, and he’s ready to drop dead if he doesn’t compose himself.

JJ waves his hand. “It doesn’t matter. But I have to pass if I wanna stay here. Can you just- help me out? Just this once?” He interlocks his fingers, twisting them uncomfortably, his purple knuckles flexing as his fingers twist. “I won’t bother you again. I promise.”

Pope considers running away for a moment. Just- running away. Turning on his heel and abandoning his responsibilities. But he’s getting paid minimum wage to be here, in this too-loud, too-messy, too-annoying library, and he’s worked hard for it. To be at this school, to be in this very building.

And JJ, the apparent son of the dean, wouldn’t be a bad person to get behind. Perhaps he’s annoying as he is blonde, and his eyes are prettier than they should be, and his stupid, worn-out boots make Pope want to stomp like a misbehaving child, but he’s the son of the dean, and Pope wouldn’t mind being on her good side.

“Will you put in a good word for me? To your mom?” he asks. He may as well take advantage of the opportunity.

JJ seems taken aback. “Yeah! Yeah, of course, of course. I’ll tell her all about you, put a good word in. And you’ll help me?”

Pope sighs. He clenches his teeth, jaw working as he hesitates to reply. After a considerable silence, he speaks. “Fine. But- don’t be annoying, okay? And stop rocking in your chair, you’ll break it.”

JJ grins, eyes sparkling, and runs a hand through his hair. “Great, man. I have my history book with me now, but if you’re still working I can, like, chill out. Or whatever.” He smiles, properly this time, like he’s been saving it until now.

Pope is definitely going to regret this.

[sunbutter-fem]

PLEASE HELP MY FRIEND!

Their partner and them are victims of racist and lesbophobic housing discrimination, and they need new housing by December 1st. They've haven't received enough through their GoFundMe, and they're going to need a whole lot more in the next two weeks. They even admitted to me that they're not asking for the actual amount they need! Today is their birthday (Nov 12th), so if you could please donate and/or share, it would help make their day a little bit better. 🌻

The GoFundMe reads:

"We are trying to raise funds so that we can pay both our rent for this month and our security deposit for our new place. We’re being evicted in the middle of a pandemic. The current 'eviction ban' only covers non-payment of rent cases, ours was a holdover tenancy case. Our landlord refused to let us renew our lease back in April sending us a notice to vacate when the ban was first put in place, and we were only temporarily shielded. Once certain criteria in the 'ban' expired this summer, she jumped at the chance to evict us as soon as September.

"We have endured a literal year of legal harassment from January 2020 to now December 2020 being discriminated against for having been an interracial gay couple. When we first moved in, I had a good impression from when I had lived in this same building, renting from the same person in 2016. According to the records from 2016 I paid rent late 5 of the 11 months that I lived here as a single white person. That is almost HALF the tenure. Not once did I ever see an eviction notice, sometimes I wasn’t even charged late fees, and I didn’t pay the ones that were applied. January 2020 happened to be the first time we paid rent late here and ever since then we have been served with monthly eviction court.

"During our stay here we have endured many environmental hazards like mushrooms growing from the carpet, mold in our walls and ceiling, rat feces in the laundry room, not to mention 2/4 stove coils do not work, oven is not functional, and there’s a roach infestation in the entire building. In September we noticed she delayed processing our rental payment, we paid on the 4th and she did not add it until two and a half weeks later. That same month we had literal sewage flow down our walls from the upstairs apartment.

"When I contacted the landlord she was condescending calling it a 'normal occurrence in a multi-unit building' adding the formal threat of eviction. The next day we had two notices on our door, then in October we had court where we made a deal to extend our stay and agree to be out by December 1st. Due to the fact we have no lease, we are expected to not just pay November’s rent here but also come up with the funds to afford a security deposit for the new place and of course the U-Haul. Geeisha was getting unemployment due to COVID closing restaurants, we were hoping to use those funds to move but our cat got sick during the last week of August , racking up a $2.5k+ bill. Geeisha has only recently been working two jobs with a potential third one in the upcoming week to try to come up with all of this money, but unfortunately I am disabled and cannot work."

"*Any* amount helps and your help is deeply appreciated. Thank you in advance!"

Even with all this, they're only asking for $500! (they definitely need more than that)

$245 / $500

They're currently a little under halfway to their goal.

Again, they can accept donations via any of the following:

GoFundMe: https://bit.ly/328VZA6

Geeisha’s Cashapp: $gvldenaoc

Geeisha's Venmo: @gvldenaoc

Geeisha's Paypal: gvldenaoc

Luna's Paypal: www.paypal.me/apoorwitch

Luna's Cashapp/Venmo: $spookysapphic

PLEASE SHARE even if you cannot donate.

[tinyboxxtink]

"Doppelganger" *Part 24*

Alright I REFUSE to make this story any longer, so the next chapter IS the finale, I swear to you.

This is just one more little loose end I wanted to throw in, maybe it'll come back around the epilogue. Who knows?! I know.

I would have started the "Wedding Day" here but I really wanted it to be it's own chapter, so this is kinda short and I'm not gonna lie if I have to I will make the last chapter 20 pages long to fit the ending in. That being said I have some stuff to do tomorrow night and work the next night so I may or may not split up writing the last chapter between those and post it late Sunday or Monday.

It's worth it I promise! I'll make it worth it.

Part 23

Finale!!

Tag List

@madamsnape921

@lolliepopsicle

@chasingeverybreakingwave

@milkshqke

@wanniiieeee

@word-scribbless

@gibbs274

@sassyada

@aprildecker-blog

@bookishfanfic

@stars-in-the-skies-world

@stars-trash-18

@omgsuperstarg

@objection-argumentative

-------

The next day Rafael asked you to come by his office once again, making you nervous. Especially when you showed up to the Mayor and a Lawyer to greet you along with Rafael.

“Pinguino,” Rafael smiled as he met you at the door with his arms open wide pulling you into a kiss.

“....More interviews?” You whispered as you eyed the two other men.

“Actually, they haven’t told me what they’re doing here yet,” Rafael whispered back as you both walked over to the men sitting at Rafael’s desk. Rafael pulled another chair around to his side so you could sit next to him. He had a feeling this would take a while.

“So...gentlemen,” Rafael cleared his throat. “What’s this about?”

“Well Barba it’s about your wedding,” The mayor replied.

“...Why am I not surprised..?” He shook his head with a laugh.

“Actually Mr. Barba I think you’ll find this visit different from others the mayor here has sprung on you thus far,” His lawyer answered.

“...And that would be because…?” Rafael raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Because Mr. Fenkell here says that I owe you financial compensation for all you’ve been doing for me,” The mayor replied rather gruffly as he crossed his arms like a petulant child being called into the principal’s office.

“...Excuse me?” Rafael looked at both of them with confusion.

“Well Mr. Barba, I’m surprised you haven’t either realized or brought up the fact that the situation that you’re in is called ‘quid pro quo’,” The lawyer explained.

“Yes I know what ‘quid pro quo’ is counselor, we went to the same law school,” Rafael snarked. “And I graduated with higher honors than you,”

“Barba I’m here trying to help you out, I don’t know why you’re lashing out at me,” The lawyer now crossed his arms.

“Baby,” You put a hand on his. “Just let the man talk,”

“Right,” He nodded reluctantly. “Go on,”

“Like I was saying,” Mr. Fenkell pulled out papers from his briefcase. “I assume you and your fiancée here have been going along with the Mayor’s requests for fear of losing your job, correct?”

“I mean, not mine per say,” Rafael shrugged. “THAT would be illegal,”

“Right,” Mr. Fenkell nodded. “But everything he’s done thus far involving you and your fiancé's likeness entitles you to royalties, and dues for services,”

“Well, that is true,” Rafael nodded. “I’ve been so preoccupied with everything else I haven’t even stopped to think--”

“Which is exactly why I’m here,” Mr. Fenkell cut him off. “I figured a competent lawyer like yourself would realize when all the dust settles, that you were indeed entitled to a sum of money, and would therefore sue the Mayor after the fact,”

“Wow, that’s a lot of assuming on your part sir,” You laughed softly. “You really think Rafael is that shit of a--”

“I mean he is right,” Rafael finished for you.

“...Or I’m just an idiot,” You muttered.

“No, baby you’re not an idiot,” Rafael took your hand. “But we are entitled--YOU are entitled for some kind of compensation for all that you’ve done for the mayor--for me,”

“I thought my compensation was getting to marry you,” You smiled sweetly.

“Aww,” Mr. Fenkell remarked, causing an eye roll from the mayor.

“Right so--” Mr. Fenkell began laying papers filled with legal jargon on the desk in front of you and Rafael.

“This contract states that once we settle on a number, you won’t try and collect more from the mayor with some random claim like ‘emotional distress’ during your wedding, or events thereafter due to all of this,”

“...Trauma?” You couldn’t help but laugh. “You think that after everything I went through, I would classify this as trauma?”

“I mean theoretically you could, Ms. Y/L/N,” He nodded. “The emotional stress of reliving your trauma and trying to plan a wedding while on display for the whole city must be taking a toll on you right now, is it not?”

“...Well it wasn’t until you said it like that,” You muttered.

“Dammit Maxwell I told you, they were perfectly fine with--” The mayor began to pitch a fit.

“Oh no no no,” Rafael wagged a finger at the mayor. “Just because she’s ignorant of the--”

“Excuse you?” You crossed your arms at Rafael’s condescending tone.

“I mean, just because she doesn’t realize or recognize the emotional stress she’s under doesn’t mean that she doesn’t have it, and doesn’t deserve compensation” He looked to you apologetically while he re-worded the statement. You gave him an approving nod.

“Right well this is what this is for--”

“And what kind of price tag have you put on my fiance's feelings, counselor?”

“Well if you’ll peruse the contract, counselor…” Mr. Fenkell pointed to the bottom of the paper.

“This contract blah blah blah, no further seeking monetary blah blah blah…” Rafael spoke out loud as he scanned the document. Then suddenly, his eyes widened and he stopped reading, looking at you then Mr. Fenkell then the Mayor.

“...A million dollars?” He raised his eyebrow, skeptical.

“...What?” You gasped.

“....Each,” He added with a smile as he handed you the paper. You didn’t know a lot of the words, but in plain black and white you read: “...In the form of one million dollars per plaintiff,”

“I’m sorry, WHAT?” You said louder than you intended, but that was insane.

“That’s insane,” You said out loud. “I don’t need that kind--”

“Baby,” Rafael stopped you and pulled you slightly away from the mayor and his lawyer. “I know that you get antsy when good things happen to you, but you deserve this,”

“For what?!” You hissed. “For taking a few photos? For letting a camera crew in a church? Rafael I just--”

“...But think of everything before that, carino,”

“What, Nevada? That--” You shook your head.

“Wasn’t your fault,” Rafael finished.

“...Well it wasn’t the mayor’s fault either, Raffi,” You nodded at the mayor.

“But he is exploiting you for it,” Rafael pointed out.

“....True,” You nodded.

“Excuse you two, but I--” The mayor began to rant again.

“And if I may add,” Mr. Fenkell jumped in. “While Mr. Barba was worried about his job, you also had reason to be worried about it as well. Being as he is your only means of support,”

“Right now,” You quickly added.

“....Right,” Mr. Fenkell gave you a side eye. “Currently,”

Clearly this douchebag thought what everyone else must be thinking. That you were just marrying Rafael for his money. So that you could be a ‘kept’ woman. Well, he was about to learn that was the furthest thing from the truth.

“Alright then,” You finally said. “Then I want my share to go to Rafael, if we’re going to be married it’s his anyway,”

“No no no no, Nuh-uh,” Rafael shook his head. “Your share is your share,”

“...But I don’t want you to think that I’ve got some... ‘escape money’,” You gave him a sad look.

“Escape money?” He laughed. “Baby I told you, I think the last thing I should be worried about is you leaving me,”

“....Also true,” You nodded with a soft smile. You sure as hell had not gotten this far working this hard to ‘get’ Rafael to just give him up. Ever.

“Okay then, do I tell you where I want the money to go or do I do it myself?” You asked Mr. Fenkell.

“...You already have plans for it?” Mr. Fenkell asked you. “...Didn’t you just say you didn’t want it? Why would you--”

“Just answer the question,” You said flatly.

“I mean Mr. Barba could just draw up the contracts and paperwork for you to transfer your funds wherever you--”

“But Mr. Barba is my husband, not my lawyer,” You cut him off. “...And I’d like to keep that way,” You looked over at who Rafael looked at you in confusion.

"Not Mixing business and pleasure," You smirked.

“Right,” Mr. Fenkell nodded as pulled out a legal pad and a pen. “Well I can make a list of where you want to divert the funds and we’ll go from there,”

“Okay,” You took a deep breath. “Well, first of all-- obviously,” You took Rafael’s hand. “I want to pay off the rest of my time at Julliard,”

“That’s unnecessary, carino--”

“Yeah I know you say that Rafael, but I was going there before I met you and it’s not your respon--”

“It’s already paid for, in full,” He spoke over you.

“...What?” You asked him with a breathy voice. When did he have time to do that?! WHY-wait.

“But I’m going to need an extra semester since I’m taking the rest of this one off,” You said softly as you glanced at the other two in shame. You still felt guilty about Rafael having to basically babysit you for the past few weeks.

“Yeah I figured that.” He nodded with a smile, stroking your cheek. “It’s all taken care of, carino,”

“...Alright fine then I want to pay it back,” You insisted.

“No,” He shook his head. “Absolutely not,”

“Rafael come on--”

“NO,” He repeated sternly. “I won’t take it,”

“....Alright, fine,” You rolled your eyes. “Then I want a chunk to go to abuela--”

“No I have them covered too,” He shook his head. “And they are definitely NOT your responsibility. And before you say next that you want it to go to Maria, she will never accept it. We're too proud of a people," He smiled teasingly.

“...Fine,” You sighed in frustration. “THEN I want a chunk of it to go to opening a drama center,” You crossed your arms and looked at Rafael. “Any objections to that, counselor?”

“...A drama center?” He looked at you curiously.

“Look,” You took both of his hands. “I know you couldn’t-- your mom didn’t want you---” You took another breath, trying to figure out exactly what to say. “...You had to give up your dream to take care of your family,”

“Carino…” He took your hand.

“And my parents, they spent all the money we had on dance lessons, acting lessons, all of it. On ME. Just so that I could live my dream,” You continued. “Kids should be able to dream their dreams without their parents having to worry about money to do so,”

“But...your dream, Y/N. You want to be on Broadway. How are you gonna fit--” He started to speak but you were nowhere near done with your speech.

“Baby my dream was selfish,” You shook your head. “I wanted to be famous for the wrong reasons. To be adored by the world, to be loved by everyone. But, now I know the only person’s love I care about, is yours,” You stroked his face.

“If I open this place then I can still use my talents as a teacher, helping kids like us. I told your mom that when I met you, you made me a better person, that you made me want to be better. I want that to be true. I need that to be true,” You finally finished with a small smile, tears lined Rafael’s eyes.

“You are the best person I know, mi amor,” He pushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “I think the center is a great idea,”

“Good,” You smiled. “And….I want to name it the Y/L/N-Barba Drama Center,”

“....Well obviously after you,” He nodded.

“No,” You shook your head. “After you. And my parents. Because if it wasn’t for them I wouldn’t have found you, and you gave me everything I’ve ever wanted,”

“I love you,” He beamed at you as he kissed you deeply.

“...And on that note,” You turned back to Mr. Fenkell who looked wildly uncomfortable by your little cutesy side conversation.

“I want the rest to be split between a savings account for me, and the other half into a trust,”

“A trust?” Mr. Fenkell asked as he wrote down your wishes.

“A trust for our children,” You smiled at Rafael. “My parents spent so much money so that I could live my dream. I think it’s only fair I do the same for them; especially when I have the means to do it,”

“See those redneck shithead Jersians have no idea what they’re talking about,” He pressed his forehead against yours. “You are not selfish, not at all,”

“Thanks to you,” You pressed your own forehead against his like a love head butt.

“....Okay, so is there anywhere else you’d like it to go, Ms. Y/N?” Mr. Fenkell said rather loudly, trying once again to remind you there were other people in the room. People who were not amused with your disgustingly cute conversations.

“Um, no I think that’s good,” You nodded.

“Split up mine the same way, Max,” Rafael added.

“Rafael you don’t need to--” You started to protest but he put a finger to your mouth.

“I have money,” He assured you. “I have enough money to take care of us for the rest of our lives. This money should go somewhere that represents the both of us, and our love,”

“Can we please for the love of God just end this, please?” The mayor groaned. “If I have to sit here and watch you word vomit your love all over this office, I might actually vomit,”

“Right,” Rafael rolled his eyes. “Well gentlemen you know where to find us,” He grabbed the pen and signed one of the contracts then handed it to you and you did the same.

“Now if you’ll excuse us we’re going to ‘love vomit’ all over each other now,” He smirked as he handed back the papers. Mr. Fenkell and The mayor nodded as they walked out.

“Well, what do you want to do now?” Rafael wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“As tempting as that sounds, I have another request mi amor,” You played with the hair on the back of his knuckles with a soft voice.

“Anything for you pinguino,”

“Well I mean, you have some pull over there,” You nodded outside towards the courthouse that was attached to the DA's office by a hallway.

“...Why, do you need parking tickets dismissed or something? Did I agree to marry a felon?” He teased you.

“No,” You giggled. “But I would like to skip the ‘name changing’ line,” You pulled him closer as his smile grew bigger.

“I don’t think that’s what they call it, but I appreciate the sentiment,” He kissed you as you both walked towards the door of his office and out into the lobby.

“We’ll be back, Tommy,” He told his assistant.

“Right sir,” He nodded.

“This way to the ‘name changing line’, pinguino,” He smirked as you walked down the hall towards the courthouse.

------

--An Hour Later--

You and Rafael walked out of the courthouse and down the steps hand in hand as you pulled the two papers from his hands. One was a marriage license, and one was a form that was filled with boring legal jargon but at the bottom was printed: “Legal Name: Mrs. Y/F/N Barba,” with your new signature on the dotted line.

“Mrs. Rafael Barba,” You smiled as you looked at the paper.

“Oh no no no,” Rafael shook his head with a laugh. “That sounds like you’re my property, pinguino,”

“True,” You nodded with a teasing smile.

“...So why the sudden urgency to change your name, carino?” He asked as you walked down the street hand in hand. “Not that I’m complaining. I'd be lying if I said just looking at your name with my last name makes me giddy,”

“Giddy?” You gave him a look.

“Yeah, I said it. Giddy,” He laughed.

“...I don’t know, it was something that my therapist said,” You shrugged.

“...And what did she say?” He asked you skeptically.

“She said,” You sighed and pulled Rafael out of the flow of traffic of people.

“She said that women who don’t take their husband's last names had one foot out the door of the marriage before even going in,” You looked up at him with soft eyes. “And I don’t want you to think that I am any less than 100% sure of my love for you, and the rest of our lives together,”

“Well, first of all I’d like to see her marriage to divorce ratios based on that assumption,” He rolled his eyes. “And second-- I appreciate the sentiment baby, I really do. Just as long as you did it for you, and not because your therapist guilted you into it,”

“She didn’t,” You assured him. “I did this for me. For us,”

“Well then Mrs. Barba,” He took your hand once again with a huge smile. “Let’s grab some dinner, shall we?” He asked in a melodramatic, fancy tone.

“We shall, Mr. Barba,” You answered in the same tone, making both of you giggle like school kids.

Now all that was left to do was actually get married!

[nypmphetsbastard]

Paradis Island ch2

Genre: slowburn fanfiction, college!au

Pairings: yelena x fem!oc

Summary: college becomes a whirlpool of new people and emotions once you meet a woman by the name of yelena manages to weasel her way into your once perfect life and tear down everything you ever thought to be true. together, she introduces you to new world she likes to call 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗱𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗱.

Warnings: angst, smut, hurt/comfort, struggles with religion, homophobia

A/N: reminder that this story is also posted on ao3 [NYMPHETSBASTARD]

————————

PIECK'S FRIENDS couldn't be described anything short of...odd. Porco didn't talk much and when he did it was always sarcasm slipping out of his tongue and multiple eye rolls. Hange was....a character. You had recently come to find out about their wild science obsession that they swore up and down wasn't an obsession, was the main part of their personality. They rambled about random scientific theories that were proven right, wrong, unidentifiable and theories they believed to be correct. It was interesting and gave you a new perceptive on a lot of things you haven't thought about before.

Hange tackled you into a hug and rocked the two of you back and forth on the sidewalk outside of the library. Porco both tried and failed trying to get them off you and with a sigh he just gave up.

"I'm gonna miss you so much! Thank you for listening to me!" They pulled away with a gasp, "We need to hang out again soon! I have so much to tell you about!" You laughed at their excitement

"Okay okay Hange, I think she gets it." Pieck chuckled lightly, Hange dismissively waved their hand at their dark haired friend and pushed up their satchel.

"Bye! It was nice meeting you!" Hange exclaimed, waving their arm around wildly and almost smacking Porco in the face, earning them a glare from the blonde.

"See ya." Porco waved, ignoring Hange's air talking towards you that said 'call me' with a fake phone in their hand.

Laughing at Hange being yanked away by Porco for taking too long, you turned back to Pieck as she linked her arm in yours.

"You're friends are interesting." You pointed out, Pieck giggled and nodded

"Yeah they're definitely different, but I prefer a couple of weirdos than a big group of fake friends." Nodding in understanding, you began to think back to your home town.

"I wouldn't know. I've never had many friends and the one friend I did have barley paid attention to me or my life so..." you mumbled, drifting off thinking about how sad your life actually was.

"Well don't worry, you're not missing out on much." Pieck nudged you, "I had a big group of friends in high school and the one thing I learned is that popular people are only popular for their looks, definitely not personality." You two laughed together, "The group ended up being problematic for a lot of reasons and the only ones left that were still close were me and Porco. Funny thing is, Hange used to be considered a huge nerd in our school and our group made fun of them but me and Porco hung out with them and for some reason we just..,couldn't shake em off. They love us and we love them, even they do have a little screws loose in the head."

You laughed her joke but couldn't help but think about yourself. Wishing you had friends that cared about you and talked about you like Pieck did even when you weren't around.

Noticing your frown, Pieck nudged you once more, "And now you're our friend" you smiled at her and nodded. The one question that had been itching at your for hours finally felt like enough as you looked down at your moving feet.

"So...what's the deal with...Yelena?" It felt almost sinful saying her name, Pieck's attention instantly turned to you at the mention of her name.

"What do you mean?"

"Like...are you guys friends or....? How did you become close?" You asked hesitantly, the fair skinned girl looked over at you with a raised eyebrow.

"Are you asking me how to get a date with Yelena?" Pieck questioned, you stopped in your tracks and looked at her with wide eyes.

"No no no no no, I-I'm not— I don't— my religion I-" you sputtered out nervously, Pieck's eyebrows came together at your random word vomit as she crossed her arms staring at you, "I mean! I'm fine with gay people I just— I'm not" your words were cut off by Pieck's soft angelic laugh.

"Relax, kid. I don't think you're homophobic but your questions were a little...off putting" She searched for the words to say and cringed at the one she came up with, you shook you head and sighed.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude."

"No it's fine. I'm not actually close with Yelena...in that way, I am in other ways but we're not really good with day to day conversations. That's Zeke's job. They've been friends since middle school I think and I guess it's stayed that way, don't know why but I guess history keeps friendship alive." She shrugged, you nodded and fished out your dorm room key out of your pocket, unlocking the door and bringing the two of you inside.

Honestly, you didn't understand why you felt such a pull towards Yelena. She was nothing short of intimidating, she wasn't short of anything actually. Her tall stature loomed over everybody in the room no matter how tall they believed they were, she was taller. Not only that, her dark colored sanpaku eyes made her already bored expressions look so blank yet so intimidating at the same time. She was an enigma to you. One you couldn't figure out.

"Shit, we don't have anything to drink." Pieck cursed, taking a look inside the mini fridge she had under her desk. Technically there wasn't enough space in the door to get an actual fridge so Pieck had just bought a mini fridge and insisted the two of you share it.

"I'll get some juice from the vending machine." You offered, Pieck let out a breath and gratefully took your offer.

"Here, buy me a cranberry juice, please?" You took the money Pieck handed you and nodded, sliding on some frog slippers and making your way own out of the dorm and towards the vending machine.

Truthfully? You had no idea where the vending machine was. A small glance towards it while walking past gave you idea enough that the machine existed, where? Well you'd have to figure that out. Trying to retrace your steps at any was hard enough given how short your memory was so you tried your best to think of the last time you crossed it. You probably looked crazy peaking over every corner you came across and looking up at the sky trying to remember but it was nearly one in the morning so you doubted anyone was just casually walking around for fun.

"Are you looking for something?" Asked a familiar voice from behind you, you whipped around and definitely did not make eye contact with whoever was in front of you. Your eyes slowly slid up till they landed on the two eyes you couldn't get out of your mind.

"Huh?" You choked out

"You're walking around like you don't know where you're going, are you looking for something?" She explained patiently, you blinked as the wheels in your head finally began turning.

"O-oh yeah, I am actually! Do you know where the vending machine is?" You asked despite your nervousness, the short haired girl looked at you with a blank face for a moment before she titled her head to the side and let her eyes fall behind you to the large vending machine that sat at the end of the open alleyway. Nearly heating up in embarrassment, you quietly thanked her and walked over to the large machine.

Your mind was so clouded with forcing yourself to not embarrass yourself while also trying to remember what drink Pieck asked you to get her that you didn't even notice the steps getting closer. Her steps got closer and closer till she walked around your crouched frame and leaned against the wall. You could barley look over at her, only catching the click of metal and the hiss of a lighter. Yelena snapped the metal lighter shut and looked over at you.

"You like cranberry juice?" She asked, pointing at the small bottle in your hand as a small smirk gracing her lips as she popped the cigarette in her mouth.

"Mmh? Oh no this isn't for me it's...it's for Pieck." You explained, Yelena simply nodded and continued taking a drag from the deadly paper wrapped nicotine. Deciding to finally make a move, you walked over to her and leaned against the wall as she'd done previously.

"Smoking is bad for you." You said bluntly, Yelena chuckled and blew the smoke out of her nose.

"I know." She stated simply.

It was a one word response, not much for a conversation but it didn't need to be. You were fine just staring at her while she stared right back, not a word being said. For once in your life, silence wasn't awkward or condescending. It was just...quiet. The kind of quiet you seeked in the middle of the night when your parents fought or when the day felt like too much, the kind of quiet you craved in the middle of an overcrowded area, the kind of quiet you longed for. You didn't mind the quiet. You didn't mind the quiet with her.

In your eyes is your humanity, the person you really are. There are times it gets lost, when you wear that facade, the facade of not caring about anyone or anything. But in that alleyway you stared into each other's souls. She said cheeky was good; she let you be yourself. You laughed so much, at times stopping because you knew a torrent of giggles would wake any scholars in nearby dorms. That's all you ever needed to connect to her in that moment, you and her, just eyes, no words. If you were mute your words and hushed giggled it would be all the same.

You bit your lip, trying to hold back to the unattractive snort that nearly made it out as Yelena chuckled at you,

"Hey, I'm serious! It was a very traumatizing experience." She joked, pushing your shoulder lightly

"And you just had to share that traumatic experience with me of all people?"

"Well, who else was I gonna tell the story of how I found a birthmark in the shape of Texas on Zeke's ass?" At that point you couldn't let it in and just begin laughing at her serious face, you looked away and leaned your head on your hand that rested on your knees as the two of you sat on the sidewalk.

"Literally anyone else! You have so many friends." You exclaimed. Yelena sighed and leaned back, holding herself up on one arm and running the other hand through her short blond hair.

"Not real friends. My 'friends' haven't laughed with me like this in...years." She revealed

"What about Zeke?" Just as the words slipped out, the blond woman's eyes widened as she side eyed you.

"Zeke? You think Zeke has any humors bone in his body?" Yelena asked incredulously, at that you truly snorted and let your head fall forward.

"Okay, okay, fair point." You agreed, lifting your head up just on time to see the woman letting her tongue slip out from her mouth and wet her pink lips, a silver shine of metal catching your eye in a quick second.

"You have a tongue piercing?" You asked curiously, besides the obvious silver septum piercing with horns pointing out the end, you never even noticed the metal piece in her mouth.

"Yeah" was all she said, dropping her hand between her man spread legs and looking at you with a head tilt.

"Can I see?" Yelena looked at you and smirked before leaning in closer

"Well you'd have to take your pants off for that." You blinked

"h-huh?" You stuttered, not expecting the answer. The blond chuckled at your nervous state and stood up in front of you, leaning down and grabbing your chin in her hand, her face getting closer to yours.

"You're an adorable little kitten, aren't you?" She whispered, you sat paralyzed as the two of you stared into each other's eyes once more, your eyes faltering down to her lips once more.

Sucking your teeth, you looked away from her sharp gaze and focused your attention on a random garbage bag a couple feet away from you .

"I have a name, you know?" You asked with a raised eyebrow, Yelena stood up at her full height and tucked her hands into her pockets looking down at you.

"Of course you do. See you around, kitten." Were her final words before she sauntered off, leaving you starstruck on the sidewalk.

You dropped your head backwards till it hit the soft plush bed you'd been craving the entire day. Falling asleep was one of the best parts of the day, there in the cozy blankets, snug and safe was where you could finally let go and let the world of dreams come to you in its dancing way. Let your mind rewind recent events and turn it into some weird ball of a mess that you would t even remember once the sun rose and your tired eyes blinked open.

Warm hands shrugged you somewhat roughly, effectively waking you up and not giving your mind enough time to catch up.

"Psst, it's time to wake up." Whispered a soft voice, you groaned and rubbed your eyes.

Once you adjusted to the natural lights beaming through the window, your mind finally processed Pieck running around your shared bedroom and dropping random clothes onto your bed hurriedly.

"What's going on?" You asked groggily

"You told me you have Professor Erwin first period, I had him last year and trust me you do not want to be late to his class, especially on the first day." She rushed out, handing you a random pair of sneakers as the wheels in your head finally began turning and you realized you had to get your ass out the door and to his classroom in 15 minutes.

"Oh fuck-" you cursed, throwing on the clothes Pieck had picked out for you and being stopped in your tracks by the short woman who shoved a croissant in your mouth and pushed you out of the dorm, not waiting to hear your mumble of gratitude from behind the piece of bread and butter.

Honestly, it hadn't processed how much Pieck for you beforehand until you made it to class and realized she'd packed your school laptop, a notebook and pencil in your bag as you made it to a random seat in Erwin's class just before he closed the door. You sent a prayer to the goddess known as Pieck Finger and immediately began immersing yourself into whatever came out of your professors mouth.

A small noise from behind you caused you to turn around and notice Hange sitting directly behind you with a wide smile. They waved excitedly at you but put their pen up to their lips as a way to tell you to be quiet. You smiled at them and turned back to focus to the lesson, making sure to write down anything that seemed slightly important. It was only after class that you felt you could finally breathe.

"Hey again!" Exclaimed a voice beside you, you looked over and smiled over at Hange.

"Hey Hange, what's up?"

"Nothing much, I woke up super early today and even got in a early jog before class."

"Pfft, cant relate. I woke up so later today by the time I even gained consciousness Pieck had already packed my bags, thrown a random outfit at me, put a croissant in my mouth and threw me out the door" you explained, Hange laughed and nodded.

"Yep, sounds like Pieck. She's just naturally like that, although I'm surprised she didn't wake you up earlier rather than just shoving you out the door." Hange observed, you shrugged.

"Oh well, at least I made it on time. I'm pretty sure Erwin was about two seconds from shoving the door in my face." The two of you laughed at the joke till you finally made it to a cross way.

"I gotta go but I'll see you later, okay?" Hange patted your shoulder and you nodded at their words, agreeing to meet up with them sometime after your classes.

Picking a random seat, you slumped down in your chair and began pulling out your laptop as the teacher started to set their things up as well. The warm hand in your cheek nearly lulled you into a slumber as the class dragged on for a while. After the 4th period, you could finally rest your head on your arms and lean against the desk as your teacher just rambled on about their life story, effectively dragging out the period even longer.

Finally, you lifted your head and rubbed the back of your neck as you made your way back to your dorm room. A mistake on your part to lay your head on a hard desk and ruin your posture even more, straining your neck in order to find a comfortable position. This tiredness didn't seem to pick up on the 'Do Not Disturb' sign at the handle of your door as you pushed your way into the room. Mistake.

The two bodies occupying the bed on the right jumped apart at the sound of the door opening but didn't turn around to face you.

"Can't you read?!" Shouted a familiar voice, your eyes adjusted to the darkness in the room and noticed Pieck laying under a mess of short blonde hair, her eyes not meeting yours until you spoke up.

"Oh shit...I- sorry" you stuttered out in a moment of shock, and only then did Pieck's brown eyes met yours. They widened significantly and pushed the blonde body off of them, revealing the same face you had been staring and blushing at the night before.

"Wait—!"

Now that was when you well and truly slammed the door shut and stepped back, not waiting to hear Pieck's response before immediately doing a 180 and started walking down the hallway. The squeak of a door behind you and the rush of steps trying to catch up to you was all you needed to hear to know that Pieck had run out after you.

She grabbed your arm and spinner you around, "Oh my god, I am so sorry! I forgot to tell you about the sign and—" she sputtered out

"Pieck it's fine! I'm not your mom, I can't stop you from having sex." your eyes lifted away from Pieck's, taking notice of Yelena who stood outside your dorm room door watching the interaction with the same blank expression she always wore. "But a warning would be very much appreciated next time." She sighed and pulled you into her arms.

"Of course, of course. I'm so sorry, it completely slipped my mind today." Pieck apologized profusely, while you wanted to be even a bit mad, you couldn't help but wrap your arms around her as well yet let your eyes fall back onto Yelena.

It was only now that you felt awful about last night, the moment you and Yelena shared made you feel like you had gone behind Pieck's back and made out with her girlfriend or something. You pulled away from the hug and adjusted the straps of your bag on your shoulders.

"Um you guys can...continue, I'm just gonna go." You said, motioning away awkwardly trying to hint at your new escape.

"No no no you don't have to, we could just find somewhere else to go, I don't wanna kick you out of your own room." Pieck insisted, regret flashing in her eyes at your words.

Subconsciously, your eyes went back to Yelena again. "No it's fine, I'm meeting up with Hange in the library anyway. You two...do what you do. I'll bring you back something to eat." You dismissed Pieck's suggestion, waving her off and turning around to make your way to the library, not turning your back once to see not only one but two eyes burning into the back of your skull.

Mistakes were all you seemed to be making today.

[joa-quin-phoe-nix-fan]

The Interview -Joaquin Phoenix FF

!TW! Emotional abuse, death mentioned, grief

The Interview

It was a very bad idea to drink the night before this interview. You knew it then and you also knew it as soon as you woke up that morning, so hungover you could barely distinguish your feet from your hands. “This is bad...” you mumble to yourself as you walk over to what you could only assume was your medicine cabinet, desperately trying to take some ibuprofen before the inevitable headache and nausea kicked in strong.

After a lot of fumbling and trying to shake pills out of a dental floss container for way too long you finally find the ibuprofen and take 2 with a swig of tap water. Then you walk over to your bedside table hoping that your last nights drunken self had remembered to put your phone there. ..you had remembered! Feeling a slight feeling of pride as your phone finally came into focus you turned it on. Although you had remembered to put your phone in the right place for once, you had sadly forgotten to plug it in. It wasn’t dead but you only had 15% left. “Ugh, I can relate...” you sighed as you plugged it in and looked at the time 9:45. Alright so- wait, 9:45?!? You only have 45 minutes to get to a place 30 minutes away by taxi, but that’s only if you somehow managed to immediately get a taxi as soon as you left your building. Which is practically impossible during tourist season. This means you only just have 15 minutes to get completely ready and, more importantly, get sober.

You do a strange mix of stumbling and running to your kitchen grabbing at anything to fill your stomach. You by some miracle manage to successfully make a (maybe slightly too full) bowl of milk and a cup of coffee. You chug the coffee, burning your tongue in the process and you cool it down by chugging your cereal. You look at your phone, 4 minutes have passed. You jump up off your chair and run blindly back to your bedroom stopping only to glance at your face in the mirror of your bathroom and cringe at the streaks of last nights makeup still on your face. Running into the bedroom you desperately look around for the outfit that you had prepared for today, you had kept it in the same spot for a week making sure that it wasn’t in the wash and unavailable to wear today. You look in the spot, now covered in underwear, a scarf and 3 unknown lipsticks probably exchanged in the womens restroom at the bar last night. Underneath it all...the deep green suit you had planned for today! Thank god!

You throw it on and run back to the bathroom, knocking over an array of furniture on the way, grabbing around for your makeup remover and a cotton pad. You desperately wipe at your eyes, not really caring if every bit is wiped off just wanting the giant streaks of sleep-covered makeup gone. You get most of it off, leaving only slight traces of eyeliner and mascara right in your lash-line and practically jump on your makeup bag, trying to check the time at the same time. Sadly your phone had run out of battery at some point while you were attacking your face. “Ah, fuck it!” you mutter as you just chuck it at your bag, thinking that you’ll just have to go without a phone today and that you’ll charge it later. With shaky hands you draw on your eyeliner as precisely as possible, at the end feeling proud that you only fucked it up twice and that they weren’t even that noticeable. You then run to the door, grabbing your bag, vaguely grabbing inside it to make sure you felt your money, your keys, your slightly crumpled resume and your dead phone and run out the door, hoping that there was a taxi just waiting out there. As expected, there wasn’t one. You have no choice but to wait. The minutes pass like hours until finally, just when you were about to give up and start running towards the nearest bus stop (which is 10 minutes away and is twice the journey time) a yellow taxi peeled around the corner at the highest speeds. You wave to it desperately and luckily it screeches to a stop. You climb in and almost yell the address at the driver, you didn’t want to be rude, you were just so desperate.

As soon as your body settled down in the back seat, you started to feel rather dizzy and like you were going to pass out. You try to breathe deep to calm yourself down but it just kinda makes you suddenly nauseous so you resolve to just looking out the window to distract yourself.

As you watch the people and cars zooming past you try to remember what your uncle told you when he said that he got you this interview. “The man who’s going to be interviewing you is named Joaquin Phoenix, you will address him as Mr. Phoenix. You need to tell him about your college, your high school, the two other jobs you’ve had, how long you’ve had them, the fact that you haven’t been fired or reprimanded in the 2 years that you have had those jobs. Don’t get too sappy or tell him about your possible eviction due to your now ex dropping financial support, that will probably just make him think that you’re making it all up because it all seems to sad and ridiculous to be true. He’ll think you’re just trying to work off of his sympathy and will probably not take it well.” You sigh, although you hated how strictly he said it, you knew it was true, and you need this job.

After you broke up with them, you lost everything. They had helped you with taxes, they helped move and put together all your furniture, they were there for you when your father passed away, in fact, they had been with you for the better part of four years. Losing that broke you, physically, mentally and financially. You weren’t mooching or anything, you had your two jobs to pay for most of the bills, and they had their job. They just always helped when you were a couple hundred short, one time even a whole thousand short. This happened practically every month, being a barista and waitress didn’t pay as much as you expected, but they never minded. They always payed the amount, but then they would guilt-trip you. Forcing you to do things that you didn’t want to do because of their false sense of you “owing them” due to how much time and money they had spent on you. Sometimes you weren’t in the mood to “mess around”, sometimes you were too socially anxious to go to a party, sometimes you were just busy with your two jobs to spend every second of your day with them, but they didn’t care. You owed them these things and if you said no, they would threaten to not help you pay next month, or guilt you by bringing up your dad’s death. Both hurt just as bad and they knew this. They wanted to make you get in trouble at work, by making you not go, so you’d lose your job and have to depend on them more but they never succeeded. Although they had manipulated you in so many other ways, they never affected your work ethic. You knew that you needed to be there every day and no matter how much they guilt-tripped you and sent you text after text, voicemail after voicemail, threat after threat, you stayed at work. Once you got home you would fight and fight and scream and cry, they would yell at you, then as soon as you yelled, made their voice calm and condescending, making you seem like you were crazy.

Sometimes, you would even believe it yourself, but 2 weeks, 14 hours and 25 minutes ago, you didn’t bend, you kicked them out and called your mother, uncle and oncle (the uncle on your mothers side was gay and married a french man that you called oncle because that’s uncle in French) and they stayed over that night, with you crying and sobbing, and with them supplying you with chocolate, vodka and no phone. Your mom kept your phone from you like she had done when you were a child, and you’re glad she did, you surely would’ve called them and gotten back together and gotten back to being manipulated.

Since then, your mother, uncle and oncle had been visiting you one by one, checking up on you, making sure you were doing alright. The first night that they hadn’t done this was last night, the night that you went out, got shitfaced, came home, got more shitfaced and destroyed the house. It was the worst night for them to not check up on you, but you didn’t blame them. It was getting old to them, or maybe they were busy, maybe they just thought you were already over it. You weren’t obviously.

You were so deep in thought that you barely heard the taxi driver say “we’re here.” He was patient but he definitely wanted to get paid sometime today so to grab your attention he raised his voice a tad “We’re here ma’am!” You snapped out of it and looked out the window, you were here. You blushed, embarrassed and hastily thanked the taxi driver, paid for the ride and ran out towards the tall silver building in to the left of the car. The quick jump from sitting to running, though, made you reel and you almost fell onto the pavement when you suddenly stopped in mid-air. It took a moment to realize that someone had grabbed you and held you up before you made your face a pavement-pancake. You looked up, it was a man with silver hair, he had a medium sized beard, quite close to his face, not clean-shaven but not a lumberjack beard. Somewhere between there. He wore a shirt, tie and zip-up sweater. Kinda strange but nice-looking. His eyes were a lovely bright green in the morning light but they were so light you at first thought that they were silver. He held you close, with genuine concern written all over his face. “Are you okay, Miss?” His voice was sweet and gravely, and you felt the vibration of his vocal cords run from his chest, through you like a warm shower, slow and comforting.

You had kinda zoned out for a second, and suddenly realized what had happened, what situation you were in and how embarrassing it was. Your face became hot and stung, like as if you had instantly gotten a sunburn. You tried to stand up but your legs did not seem to want to cooperate. Instead of planting on the ground, steady and firm, to support your body weight, your legs decided to just kinda flop about like fish out of water, desperately trying to find the ground. They finally did and you wobbled up, standing, facing him embarrassed out of your mind.

He was patient and held you tight in case you fell again, “It’s okay, I’m here.” Why did he have to say that? Tears welled up in your eyes and the urge to hug this stranger became overwhelming. “Are you okay? What happened?” He asked as the tears fell down your face, worried that he had said something wrong. You started sobbing now, “I’m-I’m fi-i-i-ine..” you said between sobs, “I...[sniff]...I just had a bad morning...[sob] and-and now...I’ve got a job interview here right now and...and...I need this job but...I-I can’t do it!” At this point you were both sitting in the ground in front of each other, him still holding you and listening. “Keep going, I’m here for you” He pressed on, trying to get you to talk more. For an hour you both sat there with this stranger, you telling him everything and him listening carefully. Not really giving any opinion of his own yet, just asking questions to make you tell him more, tell him about how you felt, what you did next, what you remembered in the moments. Slowly at first, you started to feel better. The more you talked, the less you cried, the less you cried, the more you noticed about this man and how handsome he was, he had a small line on his lip, it was hard to see at first through his moustache but you noticed. Maybe it was a scar? You also noticed his teeth as he asked questions, not straight but not completely crooked. Yellow, he was either a coffee drinker, a smoker or both. His fingers were tobacco-stained, he was a smoker. His eyes were perfectly lined with long lashes, giving another layer of beauty to this man’s face. The more you noticed, the more you wanted to know about him. Life went so slow and sweet with him.

You finished everything that you had to say, finally calm and content. He quietly turned his head and furrowed his brow, processing everything you said. He stayed this way for about 5 minutes. You didn’t mind though, it just meant you could simply watch him and forget everything else in life. After a while he spoke, slowly and carefully, choosing each word as if it was the most important decision of his life. “Wow...that is definitely a whole lot to go through in one lifetime. I understand what it’s like to lose someone, I lost both my father and my brother. My brother died of an overdose right in front of me and I lost my father to cancer in 2015. I have no idea what you will need to heal...but for me, I chose to create. I overworked myself at times, hurt the people I love, I came close to giving up at times, but I kept going. Lots of people tell you to never look back but...I find that looking back sometimes can help you heal. You need to look back to know where you came from. The important thing is to not do that forever, otherwise you’ll never move forwards. You seem to have been overworking yourself, both with your work and your relationship. The man, that you were going to have an interview with...he’s me.”

Your stomach dropped. You had completely forgotten about the interview. The words of your uncle repeated in your head. “Don’t get too sappy...that will probably just make him think that you’re making it all up...he’ll think you’re just trying to work off of his sympathy and will probably not take it well.” You instantly drop your gaze and lower your head, ashamed and unbelievably worried. “I’m so sorry Mr. Phoenix, I made it so you weren’t working. I told you everything about my life. I promise you it’s all true and I swear I didn’t try to play off of your sympathy...I had no idea you were...” You glanced up, meeting his gaze. He looked profoundly confused and not at all angry. You blushed beet red and looked down again in apology. You sat there for a couple minutes, tears forming again, blurring your vision. Then something slowly reached for your face. As the tears fell off your eyelashes and landed on your leg, you saw that it was his hand, he slowly placed his pointer finger under your chin and gently pushed your head upwards. You complied and lifted your head, completely ashamed and met his gaze again. What took you completely aback was, that he was smiling at you. “Miss Y/N...I never thought that. I actually was supposed to have time-off during the time of our interview but your uncle is very good at convincing people.” You both laughed at this, for it was indeed true “So I wasn’t kept from work. Finally, I’d be more surprised if your life story wasn’t true, I would say that you’re an amazing actress if that was the case. I know that everything you’ve said has been true, I could even tell that quite a bit was wrong as soon as I saw you left the taxi. It all made sense as soon as you said it.” You smiled at him. You had only just met him that day but you already felt so comfortable around him. Was this love at first sight?

“Well, now that we are properly acquainted, do you want my number so we can make another interview time or maybe even...to go get a coffee?” You blushed again, getting your phone out of your bag, forgetting that it had run out of battery. You cursed at yourself, you should’ve just let it charge. “I’m sorry, but my phone is out of battery...do you have a charger?” “No, I don’t on me...do you want to come over and charge it?” You nodded, unable to speak because you were so flustered and walked with him to his car, excited to see where this day would go.

PS Hey! This is my first FF! I hope whoever reads this likes it and if you want to request a fic or if you want to give tips on writing FFs I'll happily write any FF or take any advice.

[vanaera]

The Heart Holiday | Act 2 (1/2) | myg

Synopsis: Valentine’s Day is declared as an official holiday. However, private companies’ standards dictate it’s only for the people who are currently in a relationship. Unluckily for Y/N, she doesn’t have this year’s PRS’ (Proof of Relationship Status) “in a relationship” box ticked – the only ticket out she can have to enjoy one paid week of holiday leave away from her hellish job. And more unfortunately for Y/N, everyone around her is oh so conveniently currently committed in a relationship. Except for one person: Min Yoongi, Y/N’s biggest critic in every pitch meeting, the picky guy who always picks on her, and the most annoying jerk of the century. Desperate for that holiday leave, Y/N strikes Yoongi up with an offer: Fake date each other two weeks before February 14, just enough time for the Department of Relationship Management (DRM) to consider processing their PRSs. After Valentine’s Day, they will go back to their own ways and never speak about whatever that may happen during the plan. Good, plain, and simple. That is until, Yoongi uncharacteristically oh so enthusiastically agrees to Y/N’s offer, leaving her thinking that she may have bitten something too much more than she can chew.

Characters: Yoongi x Female Reader

AU/ Trope: Office AU (Creatives manager!myg x PA!reader), enemies to lovers, fake dating

Genre: fluff, angst, comedy (the triple t(h)reat)

Wordcount: 24k

Warnings: Just lots of cursing because of two characters who won’t stop fighting (PG-15 Rating)

A/N | I cut Act 2 into two parts because it has become enormously long. Expect the next part of Act 2 next week!

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               The irony did not escape Y/N that she’s wringing her hands non-stop since yesterday all because of a simple meeting. It’s not because Nancy Kim arranged it. She’s probably holding a champagne glass while yelling at room service in some posh hotel in Paris. No, Y/N is anxious not because of Nancy. Instead, it’s because of a meeting in a coffee shop with her supposed ticket-out from work: The Despicable Mean Yoongi.

               Y/N has handled every meeting she’s been invited to down to a T. Being Nancy’s PA for over two years and a half has done her good in learning how to manage the communication in a business setting among professionals who may more often than not, become unprofessional. Being Nancy’s PA means she has to be the boss’ human-filter for incoming human-bullshits. An investor wanted to pull out? Y/N can appease them with a quick but convincing rundown of Travel Loca’s steadying growth. The laptop suddenly hangs while Nancy is currently reporting to their business partners? Y/N knows some troubleshooting techniques to quickly get the gadget running again. The rich and flavorful coffee granules Nancy saves for important guests have run out right during a meeting with the said guests? Y/N has a speed of a 60-year old Asian grandma who can speed-walk through a 5 km marathon to make up for her legs’ lack of vertical length.  Y/N likes to believe she’s got the patience of a meditating monk, the wisdom of a quick-thinking electrician, and the perseverance and resilience of a cockroach. If universities had a bachelor in meetings program, Y/N would probably graduate summa cum laude, easily outshining her cum laude standing in BA Mass Communication.

               However, all of that goes down to drain the moment Y/N attended the same meeting as Min Yoongi for the very first time.

               It was a Thursday in March of 2019. Y/N’s not sure of the exact date. All she remembers is that it had to be a Thursday. That meeting was the wick that started the chain of her unfortunate Thursdays.

               Sure, Min Yoongi got on Y/N’s “off” side the moment she first met him in the new table set up beside hers. But even if Y/N thinks he’s one hell of an arrogant bastard, a 24/7 picky prick, and a condescending narcissist, Y/N still left a breathable room in her mind for Yoongi to disprove her assumptions.

               And Yoongi burned up that room into ash that Thursday meeting.

               “Since we’re done with the weekly reports of the Creatives and the Marketing, let’s go to the Writing Department,” Nancy leans back in her black swivel chair. She flips through the pages of the department’s report, sparing a glance once in a while to the department’s representative of the day, Lee Soojung.

               The rustle of the papers almost becomes the white noise in the tensely silent conference room. Nancy always had a stiff authoritarian aura that induces anyone to be constantly on their toes around her. Her intimidating effect on her employees doesn’t seem to wear off even if the latter had been in Travel Loca since day one. Soojung herself has been in the company one month after Travel Loca’s establishment. Yet, here she is, nervously biting on her lip as her feet shake under the table.

               Y/N’s glad Nancy’s chair isn’t set far back enough for her to see Soojung’s jittering legs, or else Nancy will go at the “confidence you should have in work in order to stay” sermon again. Y/N first heard that “speech” (it counts so because Nancy almost spoke for twenty-minutes straight) in her first two months in the company, during a meeting where Nancy spoke about Steven’s potential to have a higher position if he could be more confident. And just like Nancy’s words, Steven did indeed climb the hierarchy after being more confident in presenting his works. He’s now the head of the Creative’s Team and even someone Y/N can say Nancy has accountable respect for. Y/N learned a lot from that speech. But having Nancy repeat it again whenever she sees someone who’s insecure in talking about their work? It slowly loses its charm.

               Y/N loses her tight grip on her notebook. It’s understandable why everyone has their hackles raised high now. Nancy is currently judging one of their department’s progress and if something is not up to par, another excruciating hour of Nancy’s “speeches” is awaiting punishment. Except, Y/N knows Nancy. With her absorbed attention to the report, indicated by the longer time her eyes spend on the department’s drafts instead of Soojung, Y/N knows Nancy is satisfied with their work.

               Y/N leans back in her chair and releases a sigh. It’s been a while since she’s been in a meeting without Nancy scaring off an employee out of their wits. This momentary peace, however, is shattered when she feels a sharp poke on her shoulder.

               “Hey, what’s happening?”

               Y/N rolls her eyes. With an additional P.A., comes an additional table next to her station, an additional work tablet to coordinate with hers, and an additional seat in the conference room next to her. All of these would be okay to Y/N if the additional P.A. is not as much of a douche as Yoongi.

               Nevertheless, Y/N shifts in her seat to lean closer to Yoongi and whisper to his ear, “Nancy’s deliberating the Writing Department’s work.”

               Yoongi raises a brow, “Then why is Soojung shaking over there like a shivering dog kicked to the curb?”

              Y/N tries hard not to let her temper get the better of her. Yoongi’s only been in Travel Loca for one fucking week. How could he dare to describe his senior in such an insulting way? Y/N closes her eyes and says, “Because, Soojung is the representative of the department right now. And from what I’ve heard, most of the drafts were also written by her because most of her subordinates’ articles were too…raw for next month’s issue.

               Yoongi squints, “Soojung? As in Lee Soojung wrote most of them?”

               Y/N couldn’t understand why Yoongi is so perplexed as if he can’t believe what he just heard. Y/N cannot help but glare at him, “Yoongi, Soojung has been one of Travel Loca’s long-time writers. Of course, she’s already mastered the nitty-gritty of what Nancy wants for an issue. And look, Nancy is satisfied with her work. Otherwise, she would have already thrown their drafts across the table.”

               “Are you kidding me?” Yoongi whispers louder, “Have you read Soojung’s works? They all sound cardboard cut-outs of every travel magazine out there. Could be mistaken even as a feature in a newspaper instead of a magazine. Heck, they can’t even make me want to travel anywhere. They all sound like a scammer real estate agent except she’s telling me to unnecessarily spend a lot on plane tickets and hotel reservations and pretend to have a nice vacation when I know I most probably would not.”

               Y/N’s jaw drops, “Are you for real? You can’t just downgrade Soojung’s works! She wouldn’t stay this long here if Nancy didn’t find her works satisfactory. And look, even right now, Nancy is pretty much okay with it!”

               Yoongi tilts his head, “Nancy, Nancy, Nancy. Everything is about Nancy now, huh?”

               “Of course! Nancy is the boss! She gets to decide what’s okay or not for publishing!” Y/N rolls her eyes and finally lets out a scoff, “Why do you have to judge something that’s out of your expertise anyway? You don’t write. And I bet even if you try your best to, you can’t produce something better than even half of Soojung’s articles.”

               Yoongi lets out a humorless chuckle, “I don’t write because I don’t want to write. What about you? You act all-mighty judgmental of what articles are satisfactory or not. You even rant to Mina about writing a story you’ve been thinking about countless of times—especially the story about that Write and Backpack Trip Club you speak about again and again. And yet, you don’t even write anything all.”

               What the ever-living fucking audacity of this astounding jerk of an asshole—!

               “Okay, I like these drafts. Not the best we’ve had but pretty above passable for next month’s issue,” Nancy places the folder back on the table, “But, we’re quite short on stories. The Daily Pen reviewed our issues as promising but lacking a few stories to make our monthly themes more, quote-unquote ‘solid.’ And so, I’m thinking of expanding our usual count of nine to twelve stories for the next three months. Try to check if The Daily Pen’s suggestion may help increase our reader count as well as positive feedback from our reviewers. So,” Nancy places her clasped hands on the table, “does any of you have a story to share? Or any ideas? We can still rush the Writing Department for two or three more articles.”

               The room goes immediately silent. No one shakes their legs. No one taps their nails on the onyx conference table. No one skims through their reports. Everyone suddenly makes the floor-to-ceiling windows the most interesting object to stare at.

               Until the silence gets broken by Nancy herself.

               “Oh, Yoongi, what’s your story?”

               Y/N whips her head to her side. Yoongi is looking at her funny. She mouths ‘what the fuck are you trying to do?’ but Yoongi just smirks. He meets Nancy’s gaze, “I don’t have a story but I know someone who has: Y/N.”

               Everyone’s attention on the windows was now shifted to Y/N. Soojung shifts in her seat, feet no longer jittering, eyes curiously pinned on Y/N. The rest of her co-workers’ eyes are just pleading for her to give what Nancy likes to finally end this meeting. Y/N has never felt this much attention focused on her until her cum laude awarding in her graduation. Sure, having some attention felt nice. There are times when people really enjoy the spotlight, some even needing it—the pleasure of feeling being wanted and treated precious. But Y/N doesn’t want attention laced with risk—the risk of embarrassment, of disappointment, especially from someone Y/N has looked up to as her “writing idol” for years. But then, this could be an opportunity for her skills to get recognized by Nancy so she can finally leave her P.A. station and transfer her boxes to the Writing Department.  Y/N wrings her hands together before quickly placing them behind her back.

               “U-um, I have a s-story about the nine places broke college students usually go to for a backpacking trip.”

              “And what are these places?”

               “Um,” Y/N gulps, “mountains and hiking trails—N-no, I mean, places like unseen from the popular media, but places that may be popular to the locals. Like man-made hiking parks installed near the cliffy side of a mountain. ‘Cliffy’ because it looks like a cliff, but it’s not actually a cliff. It’s just a mountainside that’s steep enough to look like a cliff. A-and cool hangout places with aesthetically-pleasing but cheap restaurants. The-the-there are also beaches that usually have few visitors that don’t charge hefty on their entrance fee. T-they’re very affordable and I think we can do like a top-nine-ranking thing to make a recommendation list of these, as I know a few college orgs that have already created great itineraries—”

               “My bad, Nancy, I’m gonna take back what I said.”

               What just—Y/N turns to her right, to look at the man that’s suddenly cut her off, but Yoongi’s eyes are trained to Nancy as he says, “I don’t think Y/N has a story yet. I’m sorry, I’ve been mistaken.”

               “Apology accepted,” Nancy dismissively waves a hand. She turns her swivel chair back towards the conference table, “I’m glad you immediately stopped your co-P.A. before we get to hear her…story.”

               Y/N doesn’t remember much of what happened after that. She just slumped back on her seat, ears fading out the rest of her surroundings into white noise. When everyone has finally stood from their seats, their respective departments’ reports clutched in their hands, Y/N’s still unmoving on her seat. She could only give a tight smile as each representatives-of-the-day passed and gave her apologetic smiles. Even when Soojung neared her seat to give some reassurance, Y/N remained stone-still and just waved her off with a quick “It’s okay.” The hazy white noise only dissipates when Nancy stands up and taps Y/N’s shoulder, saying, “We’ve still got work to do.”

               Y/N nods and gathers her minutes and notebook before quickly following her boss. When she turns around to reach the lights switch, there’s no one left in the conference room. Yoongi has long left the room.

               Why did Yoongi recommend Y/N in the first place when he’s just gonna take back his recommendation? Is he just fucking around with her? To prove that she cannot write her own article? What did Y/N ever do to him, but internally judge him in her mind, to be publicly humiliated like this? Especially in front of Nancy! Y/N gets the answers to these questions in the two months that followed with the goddamned prick of a man lazing around her station: Yoongi hates her for no reason and he’s doing everything he can to sabotage her career. He proves this conclusion again and again as he messes up Y/N’s schedules for Nancy, refuses to coordinate like an immature prepubescent boy, and criticizes her for every story proposal, story idea, word choice, heck even pronunciation, in every pitch meeting Y/N attends.

               None of Y/N’s assumptions can ever be truer than her description of Min Yoongi: one hell of an arrogant bastard, a 24/7 picky prick, and a condescending narcissist who thinks he’s the only person viable for greatness just because he magically manages to not pay the consequences of his misdeeds.

               And today, Y/N jots down “unprofessionally late” to her list of descriptions for the man as she glances at her watch and deduces 15 minutes have passed since their agreed meeting time. Will Yoongi stand her up even after agreeing to her offer? Y/N doesn’t know and she’s starting to not care anymore. From the start, she knew going with this idea will only end up worse than bad. It’s always gonna end up worse than bad when it comes to Yoongi. Y/N’s no longer gonna be surprised. She has numerous dating apps installed on her phone for back-up plans anyway—

               “Hey, sorry I’m late,” Y/N looks up from her notebook and sees Yoongi pulling a chair in front of her.

               She stops wringing her hands.

DAY 1 – January 26; Sunday

               Y/N sips on her milkshake as she encircles the date on the calendar of her notebook, “So today’s January 26. This will mark the first day of our two weeks so we can make it to February 9, Sunday, the last day of PRS applications in the DRM.”

               Yoongi nods as he sips on his iced Americano.

               “And then—”

               “Wait, what does PRS mean again?”

               Y/N’s hand stills, “You seriously don’t know what PRS means?”

               “Obviously not, since I’m asking about it,” Yoongi deadpans, “I wouldn’t ask something I already know, you know? It’s not like me to be illogical—”

               “Okay, fine,” Y/N closes her eyes and purses her lips, “I will explain it as long as you shut up for just a minute and let me talk.”

              Yoongi tilts his head and Y/N takes it as his cue of agreement. She sighs as she flips a page on her notebook and writes “The Heart Holiday” on the header. “Okay, so you already know that The Heart Holiday guarantees anyone who’s in a relationship a work-free, full-paid vacation leave during the week of Valentines. This year, it’s gonna be from February 9 to 14. Now, to get the viability for that vacation leave, the DRM—Department of Relationship Management—"

              “You don’t have to tell me what DRM means. I already know that.”

              Y/N eyes Yoongi and blinks at him. Slowly. “Didn’t I tell you to let me talk for a minute? You’re asking me what’s with PRS and I’m giving you an answer right now.”

              “Sorry,” Yoongi mutters, far from being apologetic with his growing smirk on his face.

               Y/N closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, “Anyway, the DRM issues PRS or ‘Proof of Relationship Status.’ The PRS indicates your civil status.  Single, married, divorced, separated and widowed—the basics. What’s only new is the addition of “in a relationship” status, made effective by the DRM in 2015, the same year the department was established.  It was initially for the DRM to track the people’s progress in their love lives to better monitor any improvement in the country’s birth rates. Now it’s used for applications for the Heart Holiday.”

               “Seems like the government is desperate for everyone to make babies,” Yoongi snorts over his straw.

               “With a global declining birth rate and continuous decline of immigrants, of course, the government is gonna be desperate. Economic analysts say it’s because countries are afraid of risking their also-declining birth rates. But I think It’s got to do more with the growing discrimination of immigrants. Numerous blockheads of government officials are still holding onto the archaic nonsensical ‘conspiracy theory’ as the reason behind their irrational hatred of immigrants. Anyway,” Y/N draws a bullet below ‘PRS,’ “Everyone’s default PRS will be ‘single’ until they reach 18 and apply for a PRS-change to ‘in a relationship.’  As long as you’re 18 and above, you are viable for ‘in a relationship’ PRS-change.”

               Yoongi slices through his sandwich, “Why 18? Do only 18-and-above-year-olds have the right to be in a relationship?”

               Y/N sputters, “You seriously don’t know? Do you ever read any updates on our new laws?”

               “I told you,” Yoongi mumbles over his sandwich, “I don’t know that’s why I’m asking you. And, first off, you’re the one who tied me up in this deal. It’s only logical to ask about what I’m getting myself into before I fully commit to anything.”

               “‘Fu-fully commit’?” Y/N gawks, “So you’re not yet serious about this? You told me two days ago you’re in on my plan!”

               “Yeah, I am in your plan. I am in at the beginning of your plan. Not at the middle or end of it.”

               Y/N slams her hands on the table, “Then why the hell did you even agree to my offer if you’re not even serious in taking it seriously?!”

               “I agreed so I get to decide if I can make my exit before things get un-exit-able or if I can push through with your plan. Which is what I’m doing now. Weighing the pros and cons,” Yoongi leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, “Y/N, you need me in this plan. Not the other way around. So I get to have the upper hand here. And by the looks of it, this offer is starting to look exit-able.”

               Y/N tongues her cheek. She could feel red hot flames of rage tongue the confines of her throat. Min Yoongi cannot play her like this when she practically sacrificed her self-esteem and self-preservation when she proposed him this offer. He can’t just pull the “who needs who” card when he’s also going to benefit from this deal. Nevertheless, Y/N puts a lid on that rage before it can climb up and lap at her brain. She can’t let her temper get the better of her when she still needs Yoongi to fully commit to her plan. Think of this as delayed gratification, Y/N. It’s either suck up Yoongi’s bullshit and enjoy the holidays, or rejoice in calling him off but suffer Nancy’s workload during the holidays.

               Y/N sighs and continues on the diagram she was forming on her notebook while taking a bite from her pasta platter, “Going back, what was your question again?”

               “Why do only 18-year-olds and above get to have the ‘in a relationship’ PRS? What about 16-year-old high school couples? Are they not allowed to be in a relationship?”

               Y/N tries not to cringe at the nonsense of his question, “Minors are allowed to date—as long as it’s not a pedophilic relationship, of course. Just puppy love and all that. But they don’t get to have the PRS because they won’t even need it. PRS is only used for social security, healthcare benefits, and loan applications. Obviously, they’re not yet old enough to legally work to qualify for these applications. And also, education establishments are already ensured to have one week off during the Heart Holiday—including the school’s staff, whether or not they have ‘in a relationship’ ticked for that holiday.”

              “Hmm, then what happens in a PRS-change if you got married?”

              “The couple doesn’t have to go to DRM anymore for a PRS change. The DRM automatically changes it because the marriage certificate will go through them the same time it goes through the court. Whether a couple applied for ‘in a relationship’ before marrying each other, or if they didn’t, it doesn’t matter. DRM will automatically change their status from ‘in a relationship’ to ‘married’ or ‘single’ to ‘married.’ So when you have the PRS ‘married’ ticked, you’re automatically viable to avail the Heart Holiday, too, because you, by logic, are in a relationship if you’re already married.”

              Yoongi nods, “then what happens if you’re widowed, divorced, or separated?”

              “PRS-changes to ‘widowed’ and ‘divorced’ works the same way as ‘married.’ The DRM automatically changes them to these statuses when a death certificate is filed or divorce papers go through court. However, that means these status grant the people who have them no chance to avail the Heart Holiday anymore like single people. The DRM only recognizes people’s current—not recent— involvement in a relationship as the determining factor for the Heart Holiday’s benefits for ‘in a relationship’ PRS holders. With separated status, you need to go to DRM to apply the change of PRS from ‘married’ to ‘separated.’ Though this can be quite messy as DRM requires a lot of couples’ therapy for the couple before they can change the PRS. That’s why a lot of people suggest to just fake the annual interview of the DRM with your soon-to-be ex-partner for four years until you’re viable for the free divorce processing that comes only every four years in courts—or until you saved enough for an actual divorce.”

              “Why the hell does DRM fixate on separating couples and not on divorcing ones?” Yoongi frowns, “Are they blind? Both couples are breaking up their relationships. It’s the exact contrary to their goal of proliferating relationships.”

              “I know, right? It’s ridiculous,” Y/N shakes her head. “I’ve read a lot of critical essays against that separated and divorced PRS laws. And most of them say that DRM has no jurisdiction over divorce since money will be involved. That DRM wouldn’t attempt to hinder the cash flow to private law offices because of, you know, the government’s utter submission to large businesses and all that shit. Anyway, separated or widowed, you can apply for a PRS change to ‘in a relationship’ after six months. DRM states you need to heal first.”

              Y/N flips her notebook back onto the “Heart Holiday” page, “Now that I’ve educated you with the basics of PRS, let’s finally get down to what we will be doing.” Yoongi leans closer, setting his elbows on the wooden table. Y/N continues, “So, to change our ‘Single’ PRSs to ‘in a relationship,’ we need to have ten dates validated by DRM-approved establishments.”

              “Validated by what?”

              “DRM-approved establishments,” Y/N repeats, eyes turning into slits. “You don’t know date-site places have to go through the DRM? I get that you don’t know what PRS means. Just like how people use SIMs but don’t know they stand for ‘Subscriber Identity Module.’ I can also forgive you for the age technicalities of PRS since they were only updated last year. But for you not to know date sites—like this café—has to get approved by DRM first before it can stand as a business establishment? You’ve probably been single for a really looong time not to know this. Business requirements got changed the same time the DRM was established, Yoongi. Five years ago.”

              “I don’t know anything about this, okay? That’s why I’m asking you,” Yoongi also repeats. He sounds like a teacher reprimanding a student for asking a stupid question.

              Y/N smirks, “Oh, so it’s true then.”

              “What’s true?”

              The sight of utter confusion in Yoongi’s face makes Y/N smile to herself. She leans back in her chair, “Well…no one wants to date you.”

              “Excuse me,” Yoongi half-scoffs, half-sputters, “I’m single because I can’t find anyone worth losing some brain cells for.”

              “Ooh, says the man who I have seen eyeing Jeon Seoyeon beside my station for one whole year now but is too chicken to ask her out,” Y/N raises a brow. She tries not to make it look like she’s too enthralled to bring up this info. She wants to make Yoongi nervous she’s known about this Seoyeon thing for a while. However, she cannot help but let the smirk that’s been egging on her, grow on her face. Y/N doesn’t actually know anything about Seoyeon. She often forgets there’s also an employee stationed near her desk. It’s hard to recall a conversation she had with the business adviser that’s not work-related when there’s close to none. Y/N doesn’t even know if Soyeon has any associates she converses with other than her. Well to be fair, Nancy and work are enough to occupy Y/N’s focus for the day. She only knew something new about Soyeon when she hit up Mina last night for some counter-attack information on Yoongi. “A defense support should he piss me off,” as Y/N said.

              “Really?” Y/N’s eyes widen, “Yoongi actually has the heart to like someone in our office?”

              Mina nods, “I’m telling you right now. He’s into Seoyeon. From my cubicle, I’m sure I can see him definitely staring at Seoyeon. Break, lunch break, in-between working hours—it doesn’t matter. He just stands. And stares.”

              “How come you told me this only now?”

              “Because you don’t ask about Yoongi. You complain about him.” Y/N slaps her shoulder and Mina chuckles, “Fine, okay, I’ve only confirmed this last week when Jisoo sat with me and pointed out the same observation. You know I don’t just ask people about anybody should any drama arise about ‘Mina checking into everyone and scouring for some tea.’ I don’t want to be known ‘Mina the gossiper’ in the office. I’ve borne that title for 12 years in high school. I’m tired of that shit,” Mina waves off, “But you know?  After what Jisoo said, I know I had to ask. It’s not like only me and Jisoo have eyes. And that day proved it to me when everyone ‘round my cubicle said Yoongi’s indeed standing too long by your desk to look at someone beside your station—Seoyeon.” Mina grins, “you’ve finally got something on Yoongi, Y/N!”

              Hammurabi said “eye for an eye,” and so if someone pisses her off, Y/N should also piss them off. Yoongi’s been pissing her off for a while so it’s finally high-time Y/N also bare her canines.   Consulting Mina is definitely Y/N’s best decision so far ever since she thought about this shit-hole of a plan.

              “W-what?” Yoongi sputters, “I-I’m not into Seoyeon! I just find her…odd-looking for a civil lawyer. It’s weird to see Nancy have a business adviser. The Nancy Kim of all people? And Seoyeon, too! Especially with her rebellious vibe goin’ ‘round her multiple piercings and borderline appropriate-for-work punk outfits. She’s got her desk also awkwardly set up a foot from yours, making her look like a slave P.A. like you.”

              Y/N tries not to blow up at the red herring she just heard. She’s been arguing too long with Yoongi to know it’s his pathetic technique to change topics. Y/N’s not gonna skip on the chance card she used. “As if you don’t like her!”    

              Y/N scoffs, “I caught your eyes staring right beside my cubicle more than numerous times to put two and two together,” Y/N leans forward. She pins Yoongi with a stare, “Just admit you like her.”

              “I’m telling you I do not, okay?” Yoongi huffs, cheeks now growing pink under the lighting.

              “God, you obviously like her,” Y/N wheezes, “I finally confirmed something precious I can blackmail you with. Imagine everyone knowing ‘the great Min Yoongi’ is an immature prepubescent boy when it comes to girls he likes. Damn, do I have the fucking upper hand now, Min.”

              “You’ll only get to have that upper hand once you got your Valentine’s week canceled first,” Yoongi smirks, “Do I need to remind you I’m not yet fully in on your plan, sweetheart?”

              Y/N’s smile falls, “God, will you stop calling me that?”

              “No can do,” Yoongi patronizingly pouts at the syllable, “Not until you put down that douchey dictator-wannabe look on your face and just get down to the point before I could think of walking out right now.”

              “Okay, fine, Min,” Y/N sneers. She grabs her pen and writes on her notebook, this time, with much force that she’s sure Yoongi can hear from his place the squeaks of the ball-point pen on the paper, “SO AS I WAS SAYING, for your PRS to be changed to ‘in a relationship,’ DRM requires ten dates from their approved establishments. These establishments could be anything—a restaurant, an arcade, a cinema, a basketball game, a bar, an amusement park, etcetera. It’s indicated anyway in the establishment. You can see the pink and purple heart logo of the DRM in stickers on glass doors. Or in menus, like this,” Y/N pushes the café’s miniature menu-stand made of hardboard to Yoongi to show him the small print of the logo on its margin. “When a couple goes to that establishment for a date, they can ask for the shop to write them a document officializing their date. It’s called the date document. ‘This document confirms Park Junyoung and Lee Hwayoung have dated in our love-conducive establishment’ yaddah yaddah shit. Each approved establishment has a DRM seal. They press it on the document to validate their date. For example, look behind you.”

               Yoongi turns and looks at the young couple by the right end of the bar. The barista hands the two a pale pink envelope. The imprint of the heart-shaped logo of the DRM clearly engraved on the surface. The couple gives an appreciative smile to the barista before starting to head their way out.

               Yoongi turns back to Y/N, “So the envelopes must also be sealed?”

               “Yes, to ensure the couple won’t fake their dates.”

               “Then how do you know the first lines of these date documents?” Yoongi cocks a brow.

               “Because unlike you, I stay tuned to the local news and make sure I’m updated to law revisions. I can’t count on how many fingers the media has exposed DRM’s protocol-holes. Unlike someone out there who doesn’t know anything…,” Y/N looks at Yoongi. The man crosses his arms and gives her a bored look. Y/N looks back at her food and takes a bite from her platter, “Moving forward, aside from sealed 10 documents, a couple must also submit 10 printed accounts of the people around them that have witnessed their relationship. Unfortunately for us, we’re not self-employed. So we have to do the long way.”

              “Why? What’s the advantage of unemployed people?”

              “Self-employed people,” Y/N corrects. “They only need 10 accounts from any of their friends or family that have witnessed their relationship. Meanwhile, the DRM has overridden private company protocols and declared it is legally okay to date a co-worker. To ensure no one will abuse the benefits given by DRM to those in a relationship, private sectors agreed upon a standard for PRS-changes from single. Us employed are required to submit nine accounts from our co-workers, friends, or family, and one account from our supervisor, manager, or boss These accounts will be turned to the company’s HR Department to be analyzed. Then, they will be sealed in a magenta envelope with the DRM seal.” Y/N taps her pen on her notebook, “This special one account though depends on the company tradition. In Travel Loca, it is always Nancy who gets to write that one account. Even if Steven is the head of Creatives, or Mona is the supervisor of the marketing—it doesn’t matter. Nancy is the one who gets to write that account.”

              “But since Nancy is gone, that privilege is given to the next in the hierarchy—Ms. Teddy Park, the general supervisor,” Y/N looks at Yoongi, “This is where most of our fake dating comes into play.  Ms. Teddy is one hell of a hopeless romanticist.  Mina told me she has been continuously bugging Jisoo to sneak an HR confidential file and spill her some juicy office romance. And since it’s Valentines’, we’re gonna give Teddy what she wants.   Although it doesn’t take much to convince Teddy, we still can’t be too sure. Though I can bet most of our acting efforts will go for our co-workers. We only need eight more. I’ve already got Mina to cover one for us.”

              Yoongi hums and Y/N continues, “Lastly, after getting all of that, we go to the DRM for the final interview. They will ask us questions to counter-check the documents. We just need to act lovey-dovey and answer their questions as if we’ve known each other so, so well. When we pull it off, our PRSs are changed. Then, we can enjoy our work-free, full-paid Valentine’s week into the sunset.”

               Yoongi hums, “How are you so sure with this plan? How do you know we won’t mess up things? This is still a crime. We’re faking a fucking benefit.”

              “Oh, don’t be such a prude. Everyone does it.”

              “Are you sure ‘everyone’?”

              “Fine,” Y/N grits out, “everyone who is smart enough to study an easy-to-get benefit to know its loopholes.”

              “And you’re sure you know all the loopholes in this Heart Holiday program?”

              “Of course! Mina and I studied this for a whole year.” Y/N fixes her seat and clasps her hands together, “From the easiest places to get officialized dates to the last job’s boss rule on written accounts to the interrogation hacks at the DRM—we’ve got them all ironed out. Moreover, the DRM is lenient in approving PRS changes on the very last date of the February applications. We’re going to easily pass through! You don’t have to worry ‘bout getting caught! Look at us, Mina and I have been slipping by seamlessly for four years. Plus, we have Nancy off our backs this time so the accounts approval, the hardest of ‘em all, would be miraculously much easier to pull.”

              Yoongi nods. And then, silence ensues. Yoongi just blankly looks at Y/N. She purses her mouth and waits with bated breath. Hopefully, she did succeed convincing him to fully commit to her plan, right? He wouldn’t be in deep thought like this if he hasn’t taken into serious consideration the seamlessness of her plan, right? He’s just probably taking his time how to agree to her without sounding so appreciative of her because he’s Min Yoongi and Y/N knows he’d rather cut his arm than give her the credit she deserves—

              “So…you’ve been faking this benefit for four years?” Yoongi snickers, “My, I should have recorded this conversation. I just had a clear, clean-cut confession from a scammer.”

              “S-scam? Scammer?!” Y/N abruptly stands and Yoongi tries to pull her to sit back but Y/N only slaps his hand away, “You just fucking gone silent for a while to-to-to say that?! Are you an overgrown, ridiculous James Dean wanna-be rebel without a cause other than stupidity—who only picks on some words to make sense of everything?! You’re just like a boomer she-gossiper who only hears their friend’s child’s name and ‘engineer,’ in one sentence and she already expects that child to have a house and car when they’re only one year into the job while that hag’s been gossiping for over 36 years now and yet she still doesn’t have her own talk show!”

              Yoongi holds his hands up, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, chill, tiger. You don’t have to get so worked up—”

              “Who will not get worked up after getting accused of scamming?! When I didn’t even commit it! Yet!”

              “And right now you’re saying you’re willing to scam just to get that Valentine’s week off. How can I not accuse you when you just told me all that. In broad daylight. With many people passing by our table every second of the minute?”

              “I didn’t say I’m willing to scam,” Y/N says, irritably, “I’m just laying out the possibility that I might do it.”

              “Still doesn’t change the fact you’re a scammer.”

              “Yet,” Y/N corrects. “I can’t be someone I’ve never become yet.”

              “But you’re gonna go for it eventually, so you’re going to become a scammer, nonetheless,” Yoongi presses. “Why not grab the title already? It’ll cut you some slack from all the labeling-progress.”

              “You know what, you make so many hasty generalizations about everything as if you’ve got everything figured on your palm just by looking at something for one second,” Y/N says, narrowing her eyes at the man.

              “Just like you,” Yoongi tosses back, “You already generalized me as a coward man who can’t express himself like a prepubescent boy just because you saw me staring at something for like what, five minutes? You’re a real hypocrite, Y/N.”

              “I’m not a hypocrite because what I said is true! You like Seoyeon and you’re too much of a pussy to ask her out. If you’re not, then why are you here sitting down with me, of all people, to plan about faking having a significant other just in time for Valentine’s week?”

              Yoongi shuts his mouth and Y/N smiles, pleased with herself. Asking Mina for the Jeon Seoyeon card is definitely an ace move.

              “See? I’m right,” Y/N theatrically presses a hand on her temple, “Can we just cut to the bullshit and go on with the plan without having another unnecessary stupid argument breaking the flow? I can’t be always right all the time we argue or else my ego is gonna grow really big like that James Dean wanna-be manager of the Creatives Team.”

              Yoongi raises a middle finger. Y/N only laughs.

              “So, first things first,” Y/N flips her notebook onto the next page and writes on the paper, “So we can successfully fake our relationship, let’s get to know each other—”

              “But I already know you.”

              “No, you don’t,” Y/N snaps.

              “Yes, I do—wait,” Yoongi stops, “are you writing everything down on paper?”

              “Yes,” Y/N glares at him, “I’ve written ‘asshole,’ and ‘whiny prepubescent boy’ on your top descriptors.”

              “Then that confirms I do already know you.”

              “What do you mean?” Y/N asks, a mean scowl forming on her face.

              “It means that I know you,” Yoongi leans back on his seat and places his hands behind his neck. “You’re that kind of person who seriously writes every bit of her life as if not having something written down will cost her her life. Especially when it comes to plans. A plan is called a ‘plan’ for a reason, you know? Same as how humans can’t see their futures for a reason. But you still go and write every single thing you’re doing or about to do down to the littlest detail and when none of them works out in the sequence that you like, you start acting like it’s somebody else’s fault the world’s gonna end. See?” Yoongi suddenly leans forward and ghosts his hand over Y/N’s cheek. Y/N holds her breath, freezing up.

              Yoongi murmurs, “You’ve already got wrinkles on your face. And you’re just 25. I feel so sorry that your whole world revolves around being a P.A., that you start to P.A.-schedule your own life.”

              Y/N glowers and slaps Yoongi’s hand away. The man only laughs.

              “I write everything down because unlike you, I know how to commit to something and not fuck everything up—especially when it involves other’s lives. Of course, you wouldn’t understand this because you haven’t tried to actually put in the effort to make someone’s life easier—”

              “Hey, I’m putting in effort,” Yoongi interjects. “I’m committing to your plan right now.”

              “W-what?”

“I’m telling you, I’m fully in on your plan,” Yoongi closes his eyes and sighs, “Full blow. Beginning to end. Start to finish.”

              “You-you do? Are you really really sure—”

              “Look, if you’re suspicious, it’s fine. I could just totally leave now as I have more people to see this afternoon. It’s a weekend you know—”

              “Okay, fine! I’m happy you said that. Ecstatic. Peachy fucking keen. Totally. Thank you to the great, admirable Min Yoongi who just fucking saved the entire world,” Y/N rolls her eyes as she crosses her arm.

              “I like hearing that. Can you say that again?”

              “Only if you stop being a drama queen, cutting me off to say the most nonsensical stuff for one second and just listen to me so we can finally get the ball rolling.”

              “’Kay,” Yoongi makes an ‘okay’ sign with his hand and zips his lips. He grabs his iced Americano and takes a sip.

              Y/N internally releases a sigh of relief. She reaches for her notebook again. “As I was saying. We have to get to know each other so we know where to build on our fake relationship that would be believable to everyone. And the first way to get to know someone is through asking questions. So for my first question,” Y/N looks at Yoongi, “Other than your utter assholery to me, do you have a dark side?”

              “D-d-dark side?!” Yoongi sputters on his drink. Y/N distastefully eyes the trails of his drink that had made it down his chin but she makes no move to give him the stack of tissues that’s an inch from her elbow. Yoongi squints his eyes at her as he stands and grabs the tissues himself and places it on his side of the table. If he’s the slightest bit offended with Y/N wrinkling her nose at him, he makes it sure she knows it by rolling his eyes as he sits back down. Yoongi wipes the residues on his chin, “Out of all the questions to ask, why that?”

              “Because you get to know someone the best by knowing the versions of their selves that doesn’t make it out in the light of the day.”

              “That’s the reason why they’re called ‘dark sides’, you know. They’re not meant to be brought up in the public We’re in the public, Y/N—”

              “What’s your dark side, Min Yoongi?”

              “Fine,” Yoongi relents, “I have a dark humor. A humor so dark that whenever serious shits happen to me, I always laugh them off. So when I die right in the next second, say in a car accident, I got to laugh one last time right before my life ends. It’s my way saying ‘fuck you’ to life.”

              “Wow. I didn’t expect to hear something so dark like that,” Y/N mutters, “I was expecting you enjoying cracking everybody else’s mugs just like how you did to mine—Mina’s gift to me. In High School—last week.”

              “God, you do not really get over stuff do you?”

              “No, especially if it’s something so precious to me and someone just unceremoniously took it all away from me.”

              “Your mug’s still functional.”

              “It already has a crack on its lip!” Y/N shouts angrily. People turn to look at their table and their stinging stares wills Y/N to mumble “sorry.” She whips her head to Yoongi, “I’m still not over my mug, just so you know.”

              “I don’t know why it’s suddenly about your mug. You asked for my dark side. I gave you one.” Yoongi shrugs. He places down his drink and leans forward in his seat, “Now, Y/N, what’s your dark side?”

              “M-me?”

              “Yes, who else am I talking to?” Yoongi sarcastically snaps.

              “Well, I, uh...uh, dip my steak in mayo,” Y/N holds her chin up.

              “You dip your steak into what?” Yoongi chortles, “That’s your dark side?”

              “Yes, not everything has to do with morbid things and death, you know? Things don’t have to be dark to be deep,” Y/N informs.

              “Yeah, and unconventionally dipping your steak into mayo is deep.”

              “People find it abominable that I dip almost everything into any kind of mayo. That’s why it’s a dark side. And it makes me deep because dipping my food into mayo makes me happy and I’m not agoing to change that to fit into anyone’s expectations. All I’m saying is that I’m a happy person because I know what I want—”

              “Hi ma’am, sir,” a waiter hesitantly holds up a hand and gives a tight smile, as if to apologize for cutting in the conversation, “I see you’ve already cleared your plates. Would you want some dessert?”

              Y/N turns to her side and sees perspiration dotting the hairline of the waiter. He must have been standing way too long by their table that he had to cut the conversation so he can finally go back to the service crew area. Y/N gives an apologetic smile as she nods and helps the waiter clear their table.

              “Would you want some dessert, ma’am?” the waiter asks.

               “Yes! I would have some uh…” Y/N holds her chin as her eyes scan over to the miniature menu-stand. She remembers she’s craving something sweet today, probably to flush out all the bitterness on her tongue that Yoongi had easily unwelcomingly induced. However, she doesn’t know what it is. “Uhm, how about the peach mango parfait? No, that sounds too sweet. The choco chip oatmeal cookie, then? Sorry, not that, I just realized I don’t want to eat something too grainy today. The blueberry cheesecake? Wait, I changed my mind. It’s too expensive. I think I’ll have the apple pie instead—oh wait, no, I know—”

               “Can you just give us two slices of blueberry cheesecake? Thank you.” Yoongi hands a card toward the waiter. The waiter bows and goes to the counter. Within just a minute he returns and places two slices of blueberry cheesecake on their table. He hands back Yoongi’s card and leaves.

               Yoongi drives a fork down the soft pastry as he looks at Y/N, “Wow, you do know what you want.”

               Y/N scowls as she cuts her cake, “Today’s an outlier. I’m just pressured to suddenly make a decision, you know.”

               “Fine, fine, whatever you say,” Yoongi waves off.

               Y/N sets down her fork, “At least I’m a happy person. Unlike you.”

               “I’m a happy person, too,” Yoongi glares at her, “You, what, just generalized because I like dark humor and joking about death, I’m already an unhappy person? Who’s the one making hasty generalizations now?”

               “Who else but an unhappy person would want joke about death?”

               “Look, just because I talked about death doesn’t mean I’m a sad person.  I’m just saying, that in case life goes the wrong way, I’m going to at least enjoy it. Meanwhile, you’ll be left feeling unhappy because you’re too busy being,”  Yoongi quotes in the air, “‘happy’ with your plans to figure out the uncertainties of life.”

               “What’s with the quotation marks?” Y/N glowers, “You do not know me that much to know what I’m feeling. You don’t also get to say what I am feeling. Only I can do. And right now, I’m telling you  I am happy. You know what, maybe you should quit your job in the Creatives and transfer to a Judge’s office. You’ll know what it’s like to finally have a job that matches your expertise—judging people. It’s not like you’re even great in your current job.”

               “You say that with so much contempt. I thought you said you’re happy. From what I know, happy people don’t do that,” Yoongi smiles.

               Y/N glares at Yoongi. She closes her eyes and lets out a deep breath. “Can we move on to the next question?”

               “Okay, fine, my turn. What’s your take on enemies becoming lovers at the end of every rom-com film?”

               “W-what?” Y/N’s eyes shot up, “Are you for real now?”

               “What?”

               “How dare you hit on me?” Y/N scoffs, “You think this is a fucking rom-com film and we’re the enemies who’ll become lovers?! Great. Your head cannot even be much fucking bigger than it already is now.”

               “Wait, wait, wait, wait,” Yoongi wheezes, “What the hell are you saying? I’m just asking you what’s your take on enemies becoming lovers because I heard you last time talking with Mina that you love romcoms. You-you just assumed that I am, what, hitting on you? Just because we hate each other and I brought up the enemies-to-lovers trope? Those two things are not even related! Goddamn, maybe it’s you who should check your ego.”

               Y/N grits out, “How can I not assume? You just suddenly brought up a fucking romantic topic and right now, we’re in a romantic context. We’re ‘dating.’ In this café. Or how it’s supposed to be like. How then can I not relate those two together? And to answer the question, I think that enemies to lovers trope is complete bull-crap.”

               “How did you say so?”

               “You can’t just suddenly grow romantic interest in someone who hates your guts! Sure people say ‘love’ has four letters but so do ‘hate,’ that’s why the popular crap tag ‘you tend to love the person you hate’ is born. But ‘L’ is not ‘H’ and ‘O’ is not ‘A’ and the same goes for ‘V’ and ‘T.’ They’re both words that stand at the opposite spectrum.”

               “But they both end in ‘E.’”

               “So?” Y/N tilts her head, “they still don’t mean the same. ‘Live’ and ‘die’ both end in ‘E’ but they mean the opposite of each other. Just like ‘love’ and ‘hate.’

               “I’m just saying that ‘love’ and ‘hate’ must have, at least, some form of connection through the letter ‘E.’ Not a connection based on their literal orthographic appearance. Just like ‘live’ and ‘die’ share some similarities. They both had to do with life and people experiencing taking a breath—their first one and their last one.”

               “So, what then is this connection ‘love’ and ‘hate’ have with each other?”

               “They both had something to do with a person constantly drawn to a characteristic of another person. I find it both endearing and aggravating.”

               “Are you hearing yourself right now?” Y/N snorts, “‘Drawn to a characteristic’? Constantly? How can you be constantly drawn to something that you hate? That doesn’t make sense. When you hate something, you want to cut off any association you have with that thing or else you’ll be upset 24/7. That’s what healthy people do.”

               “But the fact that you recognize that something you want to cut away means there is some unique element that sticks out enough—if not everyday—whenever you see it. It sticks out because what you usually hate reflects something you also hate in yourself. Let’s say you love the loyalty of your friends to you. You’re drawn to that loyalty because it reflects your own value for loyalty, which, then, makes you love these people. And to be clear, when I say ‘love’ it doesn’t only mean romantically. It can also be the one found in friendships and family or even in things you do.”

               “You don’t have to clarify what ‘love’ is to me. I know what it is,” Y/N spits. “What do you take me for? Someone who skipped the Personal Development class of 10th grade? I fucking aced that class. First off, how can you be drawn to a characteristic you hate when all you ever want is for it to disappear? You can’t be drawn to something you wish to be gone! And, hate cannot exist in any form of love. Sure, you can get upset, frustrated, or angry at your mother, friend, or significant other. But you can’t hate them if you really love them.  When you hate something, you stay away from it. You avoid it. You hurt it. You want to see it suffer. And you don’t do any of these things to something you love. ‘Love’ not ‘loved.’ Because if you’re already in the past tense of that L-verb, then you can hate them all you want.”

               “You’re not getting my point,” Yoongi groans, “I’m saying there’s a connection.”

               “Well, I don’t get it.” Y/N crosses her arms.

               “Fine, let me make you an example. What do you hate?”

               “You.”

               “Wow, what a great start we have,” Yoongi chuckles. “Okay, so you hate me. What’s my characteristic that you hate most?”

               “Your humongous ego you can’t even fit in your head. You thinking you can get away with anything. You simplifying everything as if they’re so easy when it’s not. You thinking you’re always right. You being so highly regarded in the office when clearly, you don’t deserve it because your climb in the hierarchy was just out of pure luck. In short, you’re overrated. You—”

               “Okay, we have enough material to work on, thank you very much. So, from what I could see, you hate me because I have a better life than you.”

               “What the—you really do have a big fucking ego! So big that it also blinds your eyes from seeing the reality. You’re delusional, Yoongi!”

               “Okay, that’s a fallacy. A two actually. Ad hominem and hasty generalizations. Which had me thinking you’ve always been pulling these two in every bit of your argument, whenever you can—”

               “Just like you!”

               “Well, I’m not like you! I’m not someone whose life revolves around her boss so much that I’d let her treat me like a dog and have me running from the world’s end to end just to satisfy her fucking brat of a daughter. And yet at the end of the day, that dog still can’t understand maybe it’s her master and her not standing up for herself that’s the fucking problem. She barks up on the wrong tree and blames everyone else for her misery instead of fucking working on herself!”

               “So, I’m supposed to be that dog?”

               “Yes!”

               “So, I’m a dog now. I’m a fucking dog. I’m that fucking dog you just—you know what, you’ve already ridiculed me and my work again and again in the office. You didn’t have to do it here, where every single stranger just heard what I apparently am in my work,” Y/N stands up and gathers her notebooks and sling bag. “If you’re just going to ridicule everything about me and what I say during the duration of these ‘dates,’ then I will just have to find someone else who’s going to take me seriously. Goodbye, Yoongi,” Y/N gives one last flippant look at the man and then she walks off.

DAY 2 – January 27; Monday

              Mina drops her hands to her side. For the first time, she cannot bring herself to stand up and switch on her metal portable radio. It’s break right now. Kim Seokjin’s voice should already be filling the room of the Accounting Department. But all Mina hears is a pin-drop of silence followed by a heavy sigh.

              That is until a loud scream breaks from her throat.

              “Yoongi called you a what?!”

              Y/N stands up and immediately presses a hand over her friend’s mouth, “Shh! You don’t have to be so loud. I don’t want everyone to hear us—”

              Mina slaps away her friend’s hand, “How can you tell me to be silent?! Right now, when Yoongi just called you a dog!”

              “Geez, you don’t have to repeat it—”

              “And the worst thing is, you just walked out on him!”

              “What?”

              Mina huffs, “Y/N, you cannot just let a man call you a dog and get away with it. You should have screamed back that he’s a shrew’s dick! Not only is he a literal dick, he also has the smallest dick!”

              “Wait, why is this now about Yoongi’s dick?”

              “Y/N,” Mina claps her hands on her friend’s shoulders, “this is about Yoongi’s dick. He thinks he’s so big but he’s just a pesky, miniature pest. His dick represents his ego. So if you said he has a dick of a shrew, you’re metaphorically blowing off his ego. And to the public, his dick.”

              Y/N wriggles herself from Mina’s hold and puffs, “Mina, will you stop going on and on about Yoongi’s dick? I don’t wanna hear about it and for God’s sake, you’ve already got Mark’s—”

              “How can I not?! He just called you a dog! Not even a bitch!” Y/N winces but Mina continues, “Like, okay, literally he’s pertaining to a bitch because you’re a girl and he called you a dog. And that would have been more okay because calling a girl a ‘bitch’ can be a petty insult everyone knows means about how annoying a girl can be. But, a dog?! Y/N, he’s reducing you to an animal! A dog, Y/N, a dog! An animal!”

              “Will you stop saying Y/N and dog in one sentence?!” Y/N snaps, “I’m the one who should be furious! I’m the one who got called a dog!”

              Mina shuts up. She immediately pulls her hands back to her sides, “Sorry. It’s hard not to violently react when my bestfriend is getting humiliated like that. Publicly even.”

              Y/N sighs, “Yeah, I know. It’s just…repeating it again and again makes me want to tear up.”

              Mina holds Y/N’s hand, “I’m sorry.”

              “I’m sorry, too,” Y/N says, “I didn’t mean to blow up. It’s just—Min Yoongi has insulted me in more ways than one but not like this. God, I’ve never been this humiliated before in my life.”

              Mina sighs and closes her eyes, “I knew this would happen. I told you to not push through with this plan but you didn’t listen. God, I wish I didn’t bring up that Yoongi is single. Of course, I should have known the moment I said that option, your mind wouldn’t stop mulling over it. If I hadn’t brought that up, then maybe you wouldn’t have even gone into that goddamn cafe.”

              “Hey, Mina,” Y/N tilts her friend’s chin to face her, “this is not your fault. This is Yoongi’s fault. And yeah, I should have listened to you. But we’re here now. We can’t undo what’s already happened. At least, this is a learning experience for me not to go with my gut when I already knew from the get-go it will turn out badly.”

              Mina nods, “You’re right...But what about the Heart Holiday? Who will you go with now?”

              Y/N releases a frustrated sigh, “I honestly don’t know. I’ll probably have to resort to desperate measures again. If things come to worst, I will stand in front of shops and hold out flyers just like the convenience sampling I did in college.  I’ll settle for the first decent person I can find. Just anyone at this point, I’m fine. As long as it’s not Min Yoongi.”

              “Yeah, as long as it’s not Min Yoongi.”

                Except that is easier said than done.

              “Uhh, what are you doing?”

               Y/N looks up from her crouched position under the table of her desk, frozen in surprise. Except for her index which manages to sneak three more swipe right’s.

               Yoongi stands on his tip-toes, peering over the cubicle to get a better glimpse of the crouched woman. When he sees a profile picture of a foreign man on the phone, his eyes shoot up and meet Y/N’s.

               “Is that Tinder?”

               After insulting and humiliating her publicly, this is the first thing Yoongi says? He doesn’t have the nerve to even apologize? Y/N rolls her eyes as she slowly crawls back onto her seat, “Well, thank you for confirming your eyes work, dumbass.”

               “Nevermind,” Yoongi waves off,  “Come into the Creatives’ Office. Right now,” He turns his back to her and heads the opposite hallway. He glances back at her one more time. “Right now,” he repeats with a glare, before disappearing through the glass door.

               Y/N grumbles, picking up her notebook and pen. She just had her beloved station all to herself for five minutes only and now she’s going back to her own circle of hell, her temporary cubicle in the Creatives’ office. Unlike her previous encounters with Yoongi, Y/N didn’t expect that a temporary cubicle will not spike up her blood pressure to skyscraper-heights. Instead, that cubicle roasts her ass slowly as if she’s some rotisserie chicken.

              Y/N’s cubicle is set against the periwinkle-painted wall, directly in front of Yoongi’s desk. All would be normal like it usually is if the Creatives’ cubicles are actually cubicles. Their cubicles have their front boards built so low that they could be mistaken for standard office tables. Mina said they were like that since the Creatives’ monitors are so large that they would be impractical for standard-sized cubicles. And a gossip among the Accounting three years ago said Nancy has to cut some funds for the Creatives’ interior designing since their high-quality model of computers and cutting-edge apps are enough to compensate for it. Still, it’s not enough for Y/N to forgive this horrible choice of furniture when she has to sit in it and endure every millisecond of her work time seeing Yoongi’s stupid face.

              Y/N feels a prick on her ass when she sees Yoongi’s half-lidded eyes as he clicks through his templates, looking like work never stresses him out. There’s gas-stove-like heat on her eyelids as she sees Yoongi teach his subordinates their drafted designs with a proud smirk on his face as if he’s the only one capable of coming up with those designs that are already magazine-standardized. Y/N feels her eyes have been doused with searing oil whenever Yoongi meets her eyes and gets the audacity to give her a challenging stare. And when Yoongi fucking decides to wink at her, Y/N could feel her eyes completely and so painfully burst on-fire. All these four occurrences happen on a day-to-day basis, especially on days when Y/N came from her station, frazzled and haggard because of Nancy’s orders. Because of this threat-posing danger to her sanity, Y/N’s only reprieve is her old station. But it’s still not enough. Not when she only gets five minutes to sit on it before she gets thrust back into her circle of hell. Like, right now.

              Yoongi is staring at her. His lips are tightly sealed, his hand firm as it cups his jaw. His brows are scrunched and Y/N could have mistaken he’s angry had she not known Yoongi long enough to know it’s just his face being a daily bitch like he is. Y/N tilts her head but she gets nothing. Yoongi’s eyes remain unmoving on her figure. She blows out a sigh. What is up with him now? Why can’t he wipe that stupid look on his face? Y/N sets her elbow on her desk and cups her jaw too, mirroring the man. She glares at him. Still nothing. She raises a middle finger. Yoongi breaks from his stance and chuckles, shaking his head.

              What the fuck—

              Yoongi stands up from his cubicle. “Myungsoo, Dana, Yoona, and” he looks straight at her, “Y/N. Come to the meeting room ASAP. I have something to discuss.”

              Y/N makes a face as she drags her limbs away from her desk.

              “So, I gathered everyone here because of a new concept Steven and I thought over,” Yoongi opens a red portfolio. He slides it to the center of the table for everyone to see.

              It was a set of templates, all in the scheme of reds and pinks. Just like how Nancy pointed out in the Creative’s To-do improvements in the meeting two weeks ago. There are two to three columns designed in one page. The indentions and the justified alignment follow the traditional layout. What steers away from the formula is the awkward staggering cuts on the ending sentences, seemingly like downward staircases facing opposite each other. It creates circular bubble-like spaces lying in between the columns. And in these spaces stand human icons, one person per bubble, busily typing on their laptops or looking at their cellphones.

              “Steven and I decided it will be a good time to use this layout since this month is the time for DRM’s star program, The Heart Holiday, which addresses the country’s concerns about the decreasing birth-rate. Looks like there are no more babies because people don’t want to get into relationships these days,” Yoongi says, pointing to the solo human icons on the template. Y/N glances to her right and sees Myungsoo and Dana stifling a chuckle. Yoongi’s joke is not even funny, why are they laughing?

              “Anyway, Steven and I guessed it’s only appropriate to use the concept: no one wants to be intimate anymore, so everyone distances themselves from each other.” Yoongi flips the next page of the portfolio.

              The next article layouts have only two columns. It still has the staggered-staircases-forming-bubbles in the format. However, the reduction of the columns has brought these bubbles nearer to each other. Unlike the one-person-per-bubble format, there are now two to three people in the bubbles interacting with each other.

              “But even if it seems no one wants to be with anyone anymore,” Yoongi continues, “There is still hope for people to connect with each other. That’s why Steven and I thought it will be a good opportunity to combine this message in our magazine with the Heart Holiday-inspired theme. The memes about DRM’s PRS are also trending right now in every social media so this could make our magazine more relatable for people. Ms. Nancy has sent us the approved feature articles for inspiration. We can tell this February issue is themed around having fun whether you’re going to DRM-approved date sites with your significant other, or you’re going solo around these sites, treating yourself and all that. Hence, we thought this kind of layout will be the best one to visually execute this message,” Yoongi finishes. He looks at the people in the meeting room, “What do you think?”

              Myungsoo nods, “Yeah, I think that’s a great concept. Very timely.”

              “And the design, too,” Yoona adds, “This may catch our readers’ attention from the get-go because these bubbles are not the usual stuff we see in issues—print or online.”

              “Thanks for your inputs—Y/N, are you writing this down?”

              Y/N could suddenly feel everyone’s eyes on her. Yoongi really does love putting her on unneeded spotlights, no? She raises her head from her notebook and grumbles, “Of course.”

              “Good, then,” Yoongi turns back to his staff, “We haven’t sent these templates to Ms. Nancy yet. I’m just informing you beforehand should you have better suggestions. You know how Ms. Nancy hates installment submissions of our designs. As of now, we only have conceptualized templates for the feature articles. We still need to cover the templates for the profiles and the top ten pages. And most importantly, the cover page. I want you three to do some research and provide me interesting concepts for our subject and shoots. We have to submit a cohesive collection before Ms. Nancy’s return. So, would it be okay for you if you can send it to me by the end of the week?”

              All three give Yoongi an affirmative nod.

              “Okay, then,” Yoongi leans in his seat, “I would like you to formally meet Ms. Y/N L/N.”

              “But we already got introduced to her. A week ago, in fact,” Myungsoo warily glances at his right. Y/N tries not to shrink from the intimidating gaze he’s giving her. Wasn’t Myungsoo just afraid of her five days ago?

              “Yeah, I know,” Yoongi says, “but I think everyone has not fully understood her purpose here as I still see anxiousness in everyone’s faces whenever she goes around the office. Steven did not do much of a good job explaining it either since he’s been busy with the skeletal framework of our designs. And now, Nancy had just recently busied him with the interface of our site.  That’s why I’m here as second in command.” Yoongi stands up and nears Y/N. Y/N attempts to step back, away from his approaching figure. Yoongi prevents her from doing so by encircling an arm around her and firmly pats a hand on her right shoulder.

              The three Creatives staff sport bunched up brows.

              Unheeding from the confusion on their faces, Yoongi says, “Ms. Y/N L/N here, is Ms. Nancy’s eyes in the Creatives. Since Ms. Nancy is overseas and our last report in our meeting was not satisfactory for her, she sent in her P.A. to check on our progress and directly report to her. To counter-check our own reports to her and whatnot. Y/N’s not here to rat out anyone who’s sneaking a break or two when it’s not even break time,” Dana stiffens at that. Yoongi chuckles, “Don’t worry Dana, everyone already knows and Y/N hasn’t written a thing about you, right Y/N?” He looks at the woman under his arm and smiles.

              Y/N’s got her forehead scrunched together but she nods nevertheless, “Y-yes, I don’t report stuff ‘bout like that. Just the progress and drafts for the templates and designs and o-other suggestions. Yeah.” She unconsciously releases a shaky breath as she glances up at Yoongi who’s still smiling weirdly at her. Why does she feel like she’s being held hostage by the insufferable man?

               “Right,” Yoongi says, looking back at the three. “So, I would really appreciate it if you guys could walk-through Ms. Y/N around your research and concept-making, especially about the matters that concern the cover page.” Myungsoo opens his mouth to retort but Yoongi beats him, “Uh-uh, no objections. This is an order from your superior. A superior who cares about you all to protect you from getting blasted off this company by our dear Ms. Nancy,” Yoongi smiles.

               This must have quelled the three’s resistance, seeing their downcast faces. Yoongi grins, “I’m glad to know that you all agree with me, then. As it also would have been weird if otherwise. Especially when our sweet, adorable, cute Y/Nie has come here to help us.” Yoongi cups Y/N’s face and smiles, “Right, Y/Nie?”

               The confusion is back on the staff’s faces. This time, tenfold.

               “O….kay, I think I already get the memo,” Dana reaches for the door handle.

               “Y-yeah, me too,” Myungsoo seconds.

               “Thank you for the…briefing, Mr. Min. Have a good day,” Yoona bids as she pulls open the door and leaves. Soon enough, it’s just Y/N and Yoongi left inside the Creatives’ meeting room.

               Y/N tears herself immediately from Yoongi’s hold. She looks at him, furious, “What the fuck was that, Min?!”

               Yoongi places his hands in his pockets, “Me pretending I’m interested in you. My share of the deal. You know? Your plan.”

               “You think the deal is still up?! It’s long broken after your shit in the café yesterday!”

               “I’m not the only one who’s at fault,” Yoongi counters, “You called me overrated and an egotistic bastard.”

               “Well, you called me a dog!” Y/N throws her hands in the air. “A dog, Yoongi, a dog! What’s more humiliating than that?!”

               “I admit that’s a wrong move on my part. It’s uncalled for and I’m sorry,” Yoongi sighs. Y/N immediately feels her limbs loosen up. Did…Did Min Yoongi just apologize to her? The prideful, uncaring, asshole Min Yoongi just said ‘sorry’?—

              “But that still doesn’t justify why you’re on Tinder earlier,” Yoongi crosses his arms, “You’re still in the office and break well past over. It’s not even night time!”

              “What the—Why, am I allowed to use Tinder only at night?” Y/N gives him an incredulous look.

               “That’s not what I meant,” Yoongi says dryly, “I’m talking about you having to go to Tinder, seducing a partner with your sexual fantasies and what-not. In case you’re too shallow to know, you usually do those kinds of things at night.”

              Y/N glares at him, “So, you’re saying I have to go to Tinder to unleash my inner hoe and seduce potential partners? And it must be at night? Excuse you Min, I am highly capable of seducing anyone even off-screen!”

               “Uhh, no?” Yoongi says, tilting his head.

               Y/N’s forehead furrows, “What do you mean ‘no’?”

               “No. As in it’s impossible for you to seduce anyone, Y/N.”

               Y/N sticks her nose up, “How did you say so?”

               “Because you’re a stuck-up girl with a stick in her ass,” Yoongi informs, “No one finds that sexy.”

               “And what do people find sexy?” Y/N scoffs, “Conceited, demeaning bastards like you?”

               Yoongi drags a hand over his face, “This is going nowhere again. I don’t have time for this.”

               “And whose fault is it?” Y/N points at him, “You. You started it!”

               “No, you did,” Yoongi pins her with a glare “Who the hell swipes right on every random stranger on Tinder without care?! Much more in a professional setting?”

               “From what I know, you didn’t care about any professionalism at work, Min,” Y/N spits, taking a step towards the man, “You slept during working hours, Yoongi. Don’t you forget how you served me cold to Nancy when you missed Rosa’s call about her son’s first son’s birthday party!” Y/N seethes, “And why do you even care about whoever I swipe on Tinder?! It’s none of your business!”

               “Of course it is my business! I’m the one who you’re supposed to be dating. Not some other Tinder dude!”

               Silence. Not one muscle moves. Not even a breath comes out from between their lips. The air in the room goes colder. There seem to be imaginary frozen needles that have surrounded Y/N’s body after Yoongi’s outburst as she could feel the frigid cold starting to nip on her neck. Yoongi doesn’t seem any better as he stands still in front of her, eyes wide, mouth agape after his outburst. The excruciating tension stretches on as another second passes in this pin-drop silence.

               “W-what?” Y/N chokes out, the sound scratching from her throat, “Y-you think you’re supposed to be dating me? After everything that happened in the cafe, you think my offer is still up? You think, what, after you just called me a dog, I’d let you back in on my plan? And have you benefit from it?” Y/N scoffs.

               “Didn’t you hear what I said earlier? I already apologized!”

               Y/N snorts, “You think it’s that easy to let go for you to demand forgiveness for what you did? I didn’t know you’re also that entitled, Min! And for the record, I don’t need to date you. I can easily find anyone to be my boyfriend for the Valentines!”

                “Then tell me why you’re still swiping right on Tinder until now,” Yoongi counters. “Didn’t you think I would catch you in the meeting still furiously swiping right behind your notebook?” Y/N’s jaw goes slack as she looks away from him. Yoongi smirks. “From all those accounts you swiped right, there probably would have been one that matched with you, right? If you can so ‘easily find anyone to be your boyfriend’?” He takes one step forward to the woman. Y/N gulps, taking one step backward. “Tell me there’s someone else other than me who’s willing to do all these acting shits just to get you that paid vacation leave,” Yoongi takes another step forward, cornering Y/N in the blinds-covered glass wall, “If you can name someone else, I’d gladly let you swipe everyone and anyone to your heart’s content.”

               “Fine,” Y/N admits, “No one has matched with me. Yet,” she adds, daggers in her eyes. She wouldn’t succumb to him just because he’s in a more domineering position than her, hovering above her. “Of course, you’re the only one who’s willing to act out this dating shit with me because you’re gonna benefit from it, too. You out of all people going to deny that one week of paid vacation leave? That would be a miracle.”

               “Touche,” Yoongi chuckles.

               “That’s why, it’s also time for you to step back or else I’m filing a sexual harassment case against you.”

               “Okay, okay, geesh,” Yoongi holds up his hands as he backs away, chuckling. Y/N gives him an unamused look as she dusts off her blazer. God, how many days did the Creatives left their windows to gather dust? And Yoongi had to corner her there of all places—

               Y/N crosses her arms, eyes narrowed, “So, after all your…theatrics, what are you really implying, Min?”

               “I’m implying, let’s give it a go again,” Yoongi replies. Y/N cringes at him. Yoongi immediately defends himself, “Yeah, I know, it sounds like hell. You’re not the only one who’s going to suffer.”

              “As if. You suffering just like I do? I’m the one who’s gonna suffer more! Just by looking at you, I could feel my eyes burning as if I poured a gallon of muriatic acid on them.”

              Yoongi sighs, “I’m being serious here.”

              “So do I,” Y/N tilts her chin up.

              Yoongi gives her a stop-bullshitting-me look.

              Y/N sighs, “Fine, I will.”

              “So, as I was saying,” Yoongi continues, “Our act only has to go for two weeks. 13 days, exactly, since we’ve already wasted yesterday. All we have to do is compromise and not try to fray each other’s nerves too much. Just for two weeks. Then at least we can make this farce as less stressful as it can be for the sake of our mental health.”

               “Okay. How would we start then?”

               “Let’s go have a date later. After work.”

              “So this is your idea of a date?”

              “Stop complaining. I’m already the one paying.”

              Y/N grumbles an unintelligible disagreement over a stick-full of crispy fried chicken intestines. Yoongi glares at her as he takes another stick from the hot pot. He stuffs his cheek with more chicken intestines. He chomps on his food, obviously savoring the taste of the greasy street food. It would have been pleasing to the eyes if the sounds he is making are not akin to a horse wallowing chunks of grass.  It also doesn’t help that his sounds are only heightened by the loud, mindless chatter of passerby’s. Families arguing what food stall to go to next. Friends betting which game they can win. Children and babies crying for the jackpot humongous teddy bears of the obviously rigged stalls. And couples giving each other mushy looks while guzzling on street foods sold by stalls like the one they’re in. It’s a cacophony of all banal sounds from day-to-day life, amplified to the notch.

              Y/N glances up. The sky is dark but not much can be seen from the thick, dirty smog of the city. What only breaks the neverending stretch of pollution are the overhead lights. They are small oriental lamps tied up on wire cables, hanging across the streetlamp posts. Their pink, orange, and yellow hues substitute for the washed down constellations above the night sky. At least this is pretty.

              “Why? What’s your idea of a date?”

              Y/N snaps back to the man beside her. She’s brought back to the almost-deafening chitter-chatter background. “W-well, it’s definitely not like this!” She waves her stick around her, “It’s not this noisy, thi-this messy. We’re not even supposed to be eating this!”

              Yoongi raises a brow, “But it looks like you like eating chicken intestines. You had six sticks.”

              Y/N’s eyes widen. She buries her face in her scarf, “I have no choice. I’m hungry.”

              “Well, are you still hungry now?”

              “No,” Y/N munches on the last piece of her chicken intestines. She dunks the empty stick in her cup sitting on the bar of the stall.

              “That’s more than good then—Hey, are you done?” Yoongi turns to her. Y/N nods. She gives Yoongi some bills but he slaps her hand away and pays the stall vendor for their meals. “See? I fed you,” Yoongi snorts, “Why are you even complaining?”

              “A date is not just about feeding someone! O-or paying for someone before asking them if it’s okay to have their meals paid for them.”

              “But I told you I’m going to pay! You know, because of yesterday? Because apparently, my apology earlier is not enough for your demanding ass.”

              Y/N angrily stuffs her purse back into her satchel, “It’s still doesn’t justify why this ‘date’ is like this! This is not supposed to be this way!”

              “Aside from your elitist, romantic-sap delusions,” Yoongi looks at her, “what is a date supposed to be?”

              “I’m not an elitist or a romantic-sap!” Y/N exclaims, “And they’re not delusions! Anyone with at least one functioning brain cell could tell a date is supposed to have some ounce of privacy. Some inch of calm in the mood. At least through the music or the aesthetic of the place—not like a marketplace of a street event like this! And the food! They’re supposed to be at least served in plates! Did you not get an example when I asked you to meet me yesterday in a café?”

              “But the thing is, I’m not just anyone, sweetheart.”

              “Will you just stop—” Y/N falters when she feels a tug on her coat.

              “Hey, they have those fried flour-coated quail eggs! You want some?”

              Y/N doesn’t utter a word. Her perked eyes are enough for her to quickly follow the man to the brown food stall.

              Yoongi smirks, “What were you saying again? Did the eggs taste less delicious now they’re in cups?”

              Y/N dips one more egg in the sweet orange sauce before giving him a pointed look, “Shut up. This is an exception. I’m weak for this food since high school.”

              “Aren’t you weak for the intestines, too?” Yoongi snickers, “You ate eight sticks.”

               Y/N jabs at his side. Yoongi’s laugh breaks as he soothes over the spot. Y/N  triumphantly smiles, “I told you to shut up.”

               Yoongi frowns at her as he takes another egg from his cup.

               Y/N sighs as she places down her cup on the bar. She turns to Yoongi,               “Spill it.”

              “What?”

              “Why are you being so nice tonight? What are you plotting?”

               “This-This?” Yoongi sputters, “I am already being nice by being like this?”

               “Well, you’re the worst on a daily basis. Tonight, you’re ten percent less of worse.”

               Yoongi tilts his head, “How did you say so?”

               “Well,” Y/N shoves her hands in her pockets, “when I say some shit about you, you fight back. Like earlier. I blow up on you. You blow up on me. Now, you’re going for passive-aggressive. I can’t tell if you’re about to sneak up on me like the bitch you are or are you just weirdly sucking up to me.” Yoongi snorts. The sound makes Y/N’s ears heat up in a mix of embarrassment and irritation. “Why are you laughing, Min? It’s not a joke.”

               “It is a joke,” Yoongi breathes out in-between laughs, “You think I’m sucking up to you? Not in a million years, bitch! And what am I to sneak up on you for? As of now, you’re in the Creatives and I am somehow your superior. I don’t have to sneak up on you for anything.”

               Y/N huffs, “Then, what are you doing right now?”

               “It’s called compromise,” Yoongi informs, a proud smile growing on his face, “Human decency in another context. Didn’t you hear what I said earlier? If we can try, we can make this deal as less stressful as it can be.”

               “Yeah, I know,” Y/N deadpans.

               “And right now, this loud background is my insurance for tonight should we end up screaming at each other. No one is gonna hear everything and doubt us being a couple. So we can finally get that damned DRM date document.”

               “Why ‘finally’?” Y/N breaks from her reverie, brows raised in confusion, “Didn’t we have a date yesterday?”

               “Yeah we did have one,” Yoongi leans his elbow on the bar and turns to her, “But with you walking out and making such a grand exit, there’s no one in hell the manager is gonna hand me a document that’s supposed to verify two people had a great time in a date site.”

               Y/N hides her face beneath her scarf. She mumbles, “It shouldn’t have happened if you didn’t call me a dog.”

               “Yeah, I know,” Yoongi pops an egg into his mouth, finishing his cup, “but you called me names, too.” Y/N opens her mouth to retort but stops when Yoongi presses an index over her lips, “But they are just your go-to petty insults. And the end, calling you a dog is still an uncalled for low-blow. So now, I’m making us even by paying for your meals.”

               “Okay,” Y/N places her finished cup on the bar, “How would we get a document for today, then? Temporary stalls like this are not DRM-approved.”

               Yoongi smiles, “We just have to find some date-site-looking shop, then.”

               Y/N nods and she falls into silence next to Yoongi. Crowds continue to buzz past them, some people even bumping into their shoulders without an apology. And yet, not a word is still exchanged. The muted space between them is awkward and almost tensioned. From the back of her mind, Y/N could tell Yoongi wants to tell her something. His constant quick glances give him away. However, her expectations are always destroyed when he brings his eyes back on the street, staring straight ahead, away from hers. Y/N decides having an annoying chatterbox Yoongi is better than this silent Yoongi. This silent one seems like he’s secretly plotting her murder. Y/N shakes her head. Compromise, Y/N, compromise.

               “Hey, would you want to go in there?”

               Y/N whips her head, “W-what?”

               Yoongi points to his left, “Do you want to go to that shop? They’re selling some cute stuff.”

               Y/N follows Yoongi’s index. The shop standing on their left looks like Hello Kitty has puked all over it with pink sparkly unidentified stuff for years. Its name, “Adorable Paradise” is in glowing neon pink. It’s flashed by a huge LED  board fastened to the roof of the shop. The shop’s pink walls contrast the monotone grey and dirty white of the shops crammed beside it. Even from the outside, Y/N could already tell the majority, if not all, of their products are also barfed over by Hello Kitty. Pink teddy bears, pink phone cases, pink pillows, pink mini dresses—the list goes on. It’s a novelties store. But right now in Y/N’s eyes, it’s one big puddle of Hello Kitty’s barf. A paradise for all cheesy, cheap, cute finds that won’t even last long for a month.”

               “T-there?” Y/N turns to  Yoongi, a scoff forming on her lips. “You’re asking me if I want to go there? Well, I do not! I’m already 25, Yoongi. I’m no longer 15!”

               Yoongi gives her an incredulous look, “Why? Are fifteen-year-olds only allowed to that place?” He raises his hand and points to a couple going out of the shop, “See? Does that adult couple look like fifteen-year-olds to you?”

               “But, look at its name! ‘Adorable Paradise.’ Who the hell will not think this shop is for cringey teenagers?!”

               “Well, the DRM thinks not because it’s officially listed in one of their approved date sites.”

               Y/N’s eyes grow into large snow globes. She turns up her nose at him as she crosses her arms, “As if I could believe you. Just yesterday, you don’t know anything about DRM or the PRS.”

               “But now I know,” Yoongi argues, “I researched it.”

               “You? Research?” Y/N snorts, “That combination sounds awfully unbelievable.”

               “Hey, I do research,” Yoongi narrows his eyes at her, “I have to do it especially on things I know my sanity will be at stake. Like, right now,” Yoongi suddenly pulls Y/N’s wrist and runs toward the glass door of the shop, almost dragging Y/N’s body behind.

               “I.Told.You. Let. Go. Of. Me!” Y/N slaps Yoongi’s hand per syllable. Yoongi finally lets go when they enter the shop. Y/N caresses the non-existent marks on her wrist. She glowers at him, “You don’t have to drag me like that if you’re that dying to go in here, you know? You could have just told me you’re a hopeless romantic overgrown teenage boy.”

               Yoongi seems to have gone deaf over her words. He aimlessly wanders through the aisles of the shop, whistling a soft tune to himself. Y/N is ready to stomp her way all over to him and drag him out like how he did with her if Yoongi didn’t holler from the CD stand, “Hey! This song reminds me of you!”

               Y/N walks toward him. She peers at the CD case he’s holding. “UGLY – 2NE1.”

               Y/N glares at him. Yoongi laughs. She pushes him away as she goes to the other end of the stand, scanning through the CD cases. “Hah! This one’s for you!”

               Yoongi looks at the case, “Here’s a Quarter (Call Someone Who Cares) – Travis Tritt.” Yoongi smirks at her, “So, it’s gonna be like this, huh?” He rushes to the opposite end of the CD stand. “This one’s for you!” Yoongi flashes her the CD case, “I hate everything about you – Three Days Grace”

               Y/N angrily bites on her lip. She dives into her side of the stand, “Then you’re this—“Die in a Fire – The Living Tombstone”

               “You’re Pitiful – Weird Al”

               “Suck a Cheetah’s Dick – Wesley Willis”

               “You Need to Calm Down – Taylor Swift”

               “That’s What You Get – Paramore”

               “You’re not Old School. You’re Just Old – Swallowing Shit”

               “LOSER – Big Bang”

              “Grow Up – Paramore”

              “Fuck You – Lilly Allen”

              “F.U.R.B. (Fuck You Right Back) – Frankee”

               With no more songs to insult each other, Yoongi and Y/N continues on to the greeting cards.

               Yoongi turns to Y/N and points at his left, “You’re like this Mother’s day card. Its fake PNG background resonates you being such a scam.”

               Y/N points at her right, “Well, you’re like this Birthday card that somehow looks like a prayer card. You think so highly of yourself when you’re just some low-quality being.”

               “Hah!” Yoongi snorts, “Then you’re like this plain ass Thank You Card. Its abuse of Comic Sans is like your abuse of overused insults. Upgrade your insulting game, mate.”

               “Overused, huh? Then you’re this ‘Cousin, you deserve the best,’ card. Awfully useless to anyone.”

               “Hey! Cousins deserve a Hallmark card!”

               “Who the hell writes to their cousin?! It’s no longer the 1800’s!”

               “Well, obviously not you. You don’t have a heart to even appreciate your cousin.”

               “I do appreciate my cousin!” Y/N looks away, frowning, “But not through cards.”

               “Then how do you appreciate them?”

               “A birthday message on Facebook?”

               “That’s not enough! What, you just speak to them once a year?”

               “Yeah! Because not everyone has good relationship ties with their family, dumb-o.”

               Yoongi stops, “What? You’re not okay with your family?”

               “Are you deaf? Did you not hear what I said?” Y/N looks at him with a cold stare, “And why are you suddenly concerned?”

               “Well, it’s family? And families are supposed to be the people who should know you best, and thus understand you the best..?,” Yoongi finishes, eyes unsure. He looks like he’s trying to convince himself with his answer rather than Y/N.

               “Well, not my family,” Y/N turns away and heads for the other aisle, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Next topic.”

               “Okay,” Yoongi nods, following behind.

               The Adorable Paradise is a self-contradiction. There is nothing heavenly in the shop but its all-shades-of-pink LSD-inducing color scheme. The shop is a hodgepodge of all things imaginable. One stand has CDs and records, from mainstream pop to underground heavy metal, un-arranged in the racks. The other stand has greeting cards for all sorts of events. It is Y/N’s first time to find a card congratulating a person for surviving a day without killing their boss. Shelves line up the spaces above the stands, housing indoor plants of different species and vinyl records from the 70s to contemporaries. The bookstands lined in the center of the shop contain items from school supplies to cosmetic products. Accessories from head to toe are displayed in mannequins placed in all of the corners of the shop. The only thing passable for “adorable” is the shop’s collection of plushies, all resembling none of well-known cartoons or franchises. Although calling it so would be a stretch because there are outlandish ones like the magenta sunflower with a pentagram on its disk florets Y/N saw in the leftmost shelf.  It was as if the shop owner didn’t know what business it wants to have so they just threw everything sellable they know inside. It is almost impossible to know how the shop managed to house all these various products in such a small space. Especially, when there are corners that have products like—

               “Yoongi, look, they have the leaf village’s forehead protector!”

               “The leaf village what?”

               Y/N turns around, tying the headband around her head, “The Naruto headband!”

               Yoongi shrugs.

               Y/N’s eyes blow wide, “What do you mean ‘so what’? This is Naruto.”

               “Well, I haven’t watched it, so I don’t know what to feel.”

               “You haven’t watched Naruto?!”

               “Too many episodes.”

               “This is Naruto!”

               “Yes! I know it’s Naruto!” Yoongi exasperates, “You don’t have to repeat it again!”

               “Fine,” Y/N crosses her arms. “Then what did you watch growing up?” Yoongi looks up, deep in thought. Y/N smirks, “If you have nothing, then I can really say you’re asshole-ry can now be explained by the fact that you apparently have no childhood.”

               “Hey! I had my childhood! I remember it now. It’s Slam Dunk!”

               “The basketball anime?”

               “Yep.”

               “Does it involve ten episodes worth of flashback before they finally make a move?”

               “No. That’s just the trend now after Kuroko no Basket.”

               “Wait,” Y/N points at him, “Do you watch every single sports anime?”

               “No…Just when it’s about basketball.”

               “Oh my god,” Y/N dramatically covers her mouth in faux shock, “you’re such a stereotypical representative of the male species.”

               Yoongi gives her a half-unamused, half-confused look, “What do you mean with that?”

               “Nothing. Just you guys typically liking basketball 24/7 and making life everything about it.”

               “I do not make life everything about basketball,” Yoongi deadpans, “Have you ever heard me do that?”

               “…No. Okay, sorry, I got sidetracked again because of my annoyance with you,” Y/N faces the bookstand where she got her headband, “Anyway, since you mentioned you like Slam Dunk, I may have seen a Shohoku 10 jersey here—”

               “OH MY GOD, WHERE???” Yoongi runs next to her.

               Y/N turns around, quirking her brows, “I thought you don’t make your life about basketball? Why are you reacting like that?”

               “Hey, if you watched Slam Dunk, you’d know,” Yoongi informs. He takes a conscious step back and awkwardly adjusts the folded cuffs of his navy button-down.

               “Well, I haven’t watched it, so I don’t know.”

               “You haven’t watched Slam Dunk? How do you even know about the Shohoku 10 jersey?!”

               “I know that 10 jersey is important because Mina’s boyfriend gushes about it, too,” Y/N bites her lip then admits, “And also because the one wearing the next number, 11, is a very attractive man.”

               “You mean Kaede Rukawa?” Yoongi blows a frustrated sigh, “Oh my god, you have an awful taste. That character’s annoying as fuck.”

               “Hey—”

               Yoongi holds up a finger, “You don’t get to justify yourself. You said you haven’t watched Slam Dunk. Which by the way, how did you even know Rukawa is good-looking?”

               Y/N slaps Yoongi’s hand away, “Hah! You admit he’s also good-looking!”

               Yoongi narrows his eyes at her, “That’s not the point. Answer the question.”

               “Fine. I saw a drawing of him in a product ad for a Shohoku jersey Mina has added to her cart.”

               Yoongi’s jaw drops, “Then, you just decided then and there you like him?”

               “I didn’t say I like him! I said he’s attractive!”

               “But he’s such a jerk to Sakuragi! How is that attractive?!”

               “You know, this is going nowhere again,” Y/N mutters and heads for the cashier.

               Yoongi follows close behind, “Just so you know, you’ll immediately get disillusioned when you watch the anime.”

               “If you’d succeed in convincing me to do so,” Y/N taunts.

               “I’ll watch Naruto in exchange,” Yoongi places the jersey on the counter, next to the Naruto headband.

               Y/N looks at him, brows shot up her forehead, “Are you sure? That’s like 500 plus episodes of investment.”

               Yoongi smirks, “I’m sure. Then in exchange, you have to watch Slam Dunk.” He places out his hand, “Deal?”

               Y/N goes silent. After another second of thought, she clasps her hand around Yoongi’s and shakes it, “Deal.”

               “That would be $50,” the cashier awkwardly smiles.

               Y/N quickly opens her wallet, fishing for some bills—

               “Thank you for giving the exact amount, sir.”

               Y/N looks at Yoongi, “You already paid? But I’ve got my forehead protector in it. I need to pay.”

               “I told you,” Yoongi smiles, “I’m paying for today.”

               Y/N goes silent. This smile on the man’s face is weird. It’s not the taunting one he flashes at her whenever she’s in meetings, as if to remind her he’s waiting for her next mistake. Nor is it the insulting tilt of his lips he sends her whenever he catches sight of her frazzled form by Nancy’s door after accomplishing all her boss’ pile of tasks. This smile has an oddly, unnervingly nonexistent subtext. It has none of his usual malice, nor his hint of capriciousness. Just a plain smile Yoongi most definitely never sends her way and—

               “You two are so sweet!”

               Y/N breaks from her trance and looks at the cashier, “W-what?”

               The cashier takes a step from her desk, self-conscious now of her abrupt statement. She looks like she’s just turned about nineteen. Probably her first job that’s why she’s a nervous wreck in front of a customer. “I-I said you two a-are so sweet,” she stutters, “I-I’ve never seen a couple before with such che-chemistry with each other.”

               What? Chemistry? Y/N scoffs. Her and Yoongi? It’s more likely disastrous energy.  “We-re not—”

               “Oh yeah, people usually comment that about us,” Yoongi pulls Y/N to his side, an arm looped around her frame. He sends her a sickening, too-cheesy lovey-dovey eyes, “Right, my cutie peachy pie, Y/N?”

               Y/N gives him an incredulous look. Yoongi doesn’t pay her mind. He turns back to the cashier, “We probably oozed too much of the honeymoon phase, no? My girlfriend and I just started dating, you see. So I guess, all the sweet stuff are natural to come at the start.”

               “I don’t think the sweetness will only come at the start for you two, sir,” the cashier grins, “For one, you two look like you’ve been with each other for so long.”

               “Yeah,” Yoongi answers, chuckling, “So long that the establishment of DRM has caught up with us and almost pushed us to be together.”

               Y/N’s jaw drops. Yoongi did not just say that—

               “That’s why, we’re still kinda unofficial now. We haven’t changed our PRSs yet.”

               “Oh,” the cashier nods slowly.

               “So,” Yoongi leans closer to the counter, “Would you help me and my cutie peachy pie be as official as we can be by writing us a date document to officialize our date?”

               “O-of course, sir! No problem!” The cashier beams, “May I get your names please?”

              “L/N Y/N and Min Yoongi.”

              “Okay, I’ll be back soon” the cashier bows before she disappears into their staff’s backroom.

               Y/N immediately pulls Yoongi’s cuff sleeve, pulling him to lean toward her, “What the fuck, Min? Cutie peachy pie?!”

               “What the fuck, to you, too, peachy pie,” Yoongi returns in harsh whispers, a frown marring his face, “What were you thinking denying to the cashier we’re not a couple? You almost gave us away!”

               “It’s you who almost gave us away! You outright hinted we’re doing all these stuff just to get the holiday benefit! Were you not listening to me yesterday? You don’t have to go through all drama theatrics just to get the date document! You can just ask for it plain and simple! They’ll automatically get it—”

               “Sorry, I took so long,” The cashier enters the counter. Y/N and Yoongi immediately let go of each other. The cashier smiles at the couple, “Here’s your date document, Mr. Min and Ms. L/N. I wish you two the best of luck!”

               “Y-yeah, thank you,” Y/N awkwardly smiles as she receives the sealed pale pink envelope.

               When they make it outside the shop, Y/N finally bursts. “What the hell did you just do in there?”

               “Uhh, pretending to be your lover? Like you should, too? Because you’re the one who offered me this deal to acquire the Heart Holiday paid week? I don’t know, you decide,” Yoongi gives her a once over.

               Y/N closes her eyes and sighs, “Okay, I’m sorry I almost put us up to fail by denying we’re a couple. But, you can’t blame me. I’m still adjusting to having you as my fake boyfriend when you’re my worst enemy for years. It’s an illogical upgrade and I still need time to prepare myself.”

               “Well, you shouldn’t have agreed to have our date today when you’re not yet done being such a difficult person,” Yoongi spits. Y/N’s almost taken aback by the complete 180 change from the smiling Yoongi who’s telling her he’s willing to suffer 500 plus episodes in exchange for her watching Slam Dunk for him. But then, that must have just been him acting like the professional scam that he is. Reality must sink in. Right in front of her is the true Min Yoongi. The insufferable man who doesn’t think twice about criticizing her, even in a large public place.

               Aggravation starts to light up in Y/N’s throat. She turns to Yoongi, voice dripping with venom and disdain, “Well, forgive me for not being able to stomach dating you. Especially someone like you who’s awfully disgusting as your choices of pet names.”

               Yoongi looks at her in silence. He looks down at the paper bags in his hands. He unceremoniously hands her the smaller one. “If you cannot stomach me dating you, you shouldn’t have asked for my help in the first place.” Yoongi gives her one last unreadable look. He shakes his head and walks away, disappearing into the moving crowd.

              Y/N looks away, feet stuck on the pavement. The awful taste of shame is blocking her esophagus.

 DAY 3 – January 28; Tuesday      

               Yoongi is avoiding her, Y/N’s sure of it. When she sat in her desk in the Creatives, the man didn’t let his eyes sweep over her. He didn’t even address her blatant staring just like he usually does. When Y/N makes her round in their office, Yoongi coincidentally decides it’s the right time to take a bathroom break, obviously avoiding having Y/N pass him by in his cubicle. This is weird. Yoongi is not one to avoid Y/N. It is Y/N who avoids him. Yoongi is the pesky, picky jerk of a fly who won’t stop bugging her. It’s not supposed to be her who’s standing awkwardly whenever he’s near, trying to get the man’s attention.

              The morning was stressfully spent with her trying to play cat and mouse with Yoongi. Fortunately for Y/N, no one in the Creatives has noticed this aberrant change in her attitude. She’s sure she’s gonna succumb to the depths of the earth from embarrassment. Y/N’s relieved everyone already knows she hates Yoongi and vice versa to even attempt to speak to her about it. That is until the clock hits eleven and a no-filter co-worker with the name of Dana Lee comes to her.

               “Hey, what’s up with you and Yoongi?”

               Y/N looks up from her desk. Dana is leaning above her, concern and curiosity etched into her face. From the little time Y/N has spent in the Creatives, it was easy to tell Dana is one of the most extroverted people she has ever met in her life. Unafraid to sound too prying or gossipy, Dana just speaks what’s on her mind. Be it about Myungsoo being too patronizing on her or Steven being so closed-off as a leader, Dana freely talks about anything. What’s only weird though is she also manages to not step on any line. This is something Y/N is simultaneously frustrated by and envious of. No one gets to say anything that they want and play so safe all at the same time. Though right now, Y/N is mulling over if she got Dana wrong as what she’s asking from her is a little bit too unnerving for someone she has never exchanged a word with before.

               “What?”

               The petite blonde woman comfortably plops onto a chair next to her desk. Y/N didn’t notice she even dragged a chair with her. Dana leans an elbow on her desk, “Just yesterday, he was awfully close to you. Now, it looks like he can’t even bear to look at you.”

               “What are you talking about?” Y/N awkwardly chuckles, “We’re not close. We both can’t bear to look at each other.”

               “Then what did happen yesterday?” Dana’s eyes were piercing right into hers.

              “Umm, maybe he’s got…a fever? Fever always does things to people, you know?” Y/N nervously chuckles

               Dana hums, leaning back on her chair, “I don’t think calling someone adorable and sweet has something to do with fever. ”

               “It’s Min Yoongi, Dana,” Y/N flips through the pages of her notebook, “If he doesn’t have a fever, then he’s just plain weird. He always says ridiculous things.”

               “Not always. I don’t even remember hearing him giving compliments ever since he got in here.”

               Y/N whips her head towards her.

               Dana chuckles, “You two do have something weird going on, huh?” Y/N opens her mouth to retort but Dana cuts her chance by handing her a long manila folder. “Anyway, I’m here to give you these. Here are the templates I’ve researched that could work for this month’s profile pages.”

               “Why…are you giving me these?”

               “I just want to,” Dana shrugs, “Since you ‘re part of the Creatives now, I figured why not let you help me pick out what templates to use as inspiration for our own magazine. Since you work closely with Nancy, you should probably know some things she wants to see in our issues.”

              “But—”

              “And inside it is also a mini-guide about the jargons we use to help you better understand Steven’s reports before you report them yourself to Nancy.”

              “You…you did this for me?”

              “Honestly? No. This folder is a peace offering to you so you won’t report me taking too many breaks to Nancy,” Dana informs, smiling. She picks up the booklet, “And this mini-guide? Yoongi made it. He asked me to give it to you yesterday but I forgot.”

              “Oh.”

              “Yeah, that’s why I find it weird he’s treating you like air now when yesterday he’s adamant about telling us to treat you with utmost respect as a co-worker.” Dana claps a hand over her mouth, “Oh my god, does it sound rude? I’m sorry, I kinda gave us away that we’re really wary of you. Okay, I really gave us a way no, but at least you know now…right?”

              “It’s okay, Dana,” Y/N smiles, waving a dismissive hand.

              “Are you really though?”

              “Yes, I’m okay,” Y/N smiles wider, “Thank you for the folder again.”

              “…Okies. See ya later.”

               “I am NOT okay.”

               Mina turns her swivel chair to face her bestfriend. The soft melodies of her radio fill the Accounting Department. Everyone else has left their seats for lunch. Mina sets her jaw on her palm, “Why, did Yoongi do something again? I already told you not to involve him anymore in your plan but you’re still stubborn. Don’t tell me I didn’t see you yesterday getting off work with him and you coming home late yesterday. I may have just set out a midnight snack for you and resigned early to bed, but I have eyes, Y/N. I just didn’t say anything yesterday because it’s late and it’s too early in the morning earlier to bring up, but I know.”

               Y/N pushes her fork around the leftovers of her packed lunch in her container, “Yoongi was really pushy yesterday about making it up to me about the dog-thing in the café so I had no choice. He even told me to quit this Tinder gaming because I’m gonna run out of time if I were to wait for someone else to act with me. And although he paid for everything even if I insisted to share the bill, Yoongi still had us eat street foods and enter some weird-ass ka-doodle shop. Who the hell takes someone into those things for a date?! And okay, he was a bit decent yesterday to not blow up things out of proportion just like he always does. But! He still sent me this cringe-worthy smile that I have to see as something positive because it doesn’t look like his ‘I-will-end-you’ smiles he usually flashes at me and this certainly bothers me. And now,” Y/N blows out an irritated sigh, “I found out he even made me this guide about the Creatives’ jargon and terminologies I’ve been desperate for a week.”

               “So, what really happened? You won’t be this conflicted if it’s just about a non-malicious smile and a guide.”

               “First and foremost, I am NOT conflicted,” Y/N puts down her fork, “In my defense, Yoongi’s still a dumb bitch because he almost uttered in front of the cashier that we are only going in their shop for the date document like ‘hello, this girl and I are just tryna fake it ‘til we make it the heart holiday benefit.’ He even shamelessly got the stroke of ego to even call me ‘cutie peachy pie’ in front of the cashier and I am so not having any of that—”

               “The point, Y/N?”

               “Fine,” Y/N slumps down in her chair, “The night ended with me telling Yoongi I can’t stomach dating him because he’s disgusting as his choice of pet names.”

               Mina winces, “Oof, that kinda hurts.”

               “How does it hurt?” Y/N throws up her hands, “Does he expect me to just accept the disgusting idea of me dating him when I’ve practically dreamt of strangling him in his sleep for so many nights? Not earlier that day he was just dissing me with song titles!”

               “Y/N,” Mina rubs her temples, “Even if he dissed you with those song titles, they are still shallow. But calling someone disgusting to date? That hurts bad. It’s bad as his dog-thing. It hurts to be seen as someone so disgusting to be treated as a romantic partner, even if it’s all for show, you know? It’s like telling a person no one would ever want to be with them.”

               Y/N looks away.

              Mina sighs, “How is he doing now?”

               “Well,” Y/N picks on the seams of her cardigan, “I don’t really know. All I know he’s not his usual self because he won’t look at me. Our desks literally face each other and it seems like letting  himself even accidentally glance to me will give him some sort of virus.”

               “Then you did hurt him.”

               “Minaaa,” Y/N whines.

              “As much as I despise him for what he’s done to you in the past, this time you’re in the wrong, Y/N, and I’m not gonna tolerate it. He tried to make it up with you.”

              “Mina, you’re supposed to take my side and make me feel better!”

              “Well, you won’t feel any better until you apologize. You’re feeling like this because your guilt is eating on your nerves. You’re not helping yourself if you’re just gonna deny everything, Y/N.”

              Y/N wishes she hasn’t talked this out with Mina. If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t be awkwardly lingering around the Creatives’ room, waiting for Yoongi to finish his briefing with their artists. It’s already seven in the evening. By this time, Y/N could be probably running a hot bath in her home while scrolling around her Facebook to nonchalantly react to her friend’s achievements. It’s always how her night goes. Not like this—creeping like a stalker again for a man she hates. The glass door busts open. Y/N scrambles for a corner to hide. But it’s too late.

              “Oh, Y/N, what are you still doing here?” some guy asks. Y/N thinks his name is Jeff. ‘Jeff’ pushes up the slipping portfolios back in his elbow.

              “I think she forgot something,” Yoona suggests.

              “Uhh, n-no—”

              “Who is she?” a nineteen-year-old-looking boy asks. His buttondown fits his narrow shoulders awkwardly. He’s probably a new hire.

              “She’s Y/N L/N, Seojoon. Nancy’s P.A.,” Seojoon’s eyes grow three times larger than their usual size. Yoona continues, “Would you mind going back to check if Ms. L/N left something in the meeting room? We were there yesterday.”

              “You don’t have to—”

              “Of course no, Ms. Park!” Seojoon bows, grinning at Y/N.

              Yoona clasps a hand on Y/N’s shoulder, “You do not need to feel shy, Y/N. We are co-workers here.”

              “I am not—"

              “Ms. Park,” Seojoon hollers, “I don’t see anything here!”

              “Oh,” Yoona looks at Y/N, “then you’re probably waiting for Mr. Min.”

              “Mr. Min?” ‘Jeff’ sputters, almost letting go of his portfolios.

              “Yeah, Jeff, Mr. Min,” Yoona pats the man’s back, “Now go ahead and place the portfolios in my car. I’ll be the one to handle the box.”

              “N-no, Yoongi and I are not—”

              “Yes, Ms. Park.” Jeff bows. “Mr. Min..” He slowly nods at Y/N, “In the denial phase are we, huh?”

              Before Y/N could open her mouth and deny such repulsive remark, Yoona pops her head back into the office, “Seojoon! Come outside, Y/N didn’t leave anything.”

              Seojoon quickly steps out. Yoona gives Y/N a curt smile, “I don’t really fancy romantic relationships at work, but anyway, good luck with Mr. Min.”

              “We,” Y/N nervously chuckles, “We’re not—”

              “You don’t have to deny anymore Ms. L/N, we totally understand! I’m rooting for you and Mr. Min!” Seojoon grins. The two quickly leave and it’s just Y/N again in the quiet hallway.

              What just…happened? How do these people act like they long knew about her when she hasn’t even talked with them before?

              The door swings open again and Y/N jumps.

              “What are you doing here?”

              Y/N turns around. Yoongi is standing at the doorway, brows furrowed, hands on his black satchel. He looks like he doesn’t want to see her right now.

              Y/N’s eye twitches, “Obviously, I’m here to work. You know, past the eight to five work hours, to work on unfinished works I don’t really have.”

              Yoongi rolls his eyes, “Are you seriously being sarcastic right now?”

              “How could I not be when you’re acting like the biggest bitch alive?”

              Yoongi rubs a tired hand over his eyes, “Did you just wait here to start a fight? Because if you are, I’m already tired and I want to go home.” Yoongi steps aside and walks past her.

              What is wrong with him? Did he just walk out on her? When he’s the one who got all dramatic yesterday, acting like the victim when he also picked on her? Y/N holds up her chin. Fine, if he wants to act this way then so be it.

              But what about Nancy? The Heart Holliday?

              Y/N stops. She releases a long sigh. Why does she always end up fighting with him?

              Y/N runs out of the office, pushing the glass doors of Travel Loca wide open. At the end of the main hallway, she sees Yoongi entering the lift. Y/N leaves all thoughts and just sprints. She manages to stick a hand in the infinitesimal space before the metal doors completely close on her. The elevator dings and the doors start to open wide. Yoongi looks at her, eyes wide.

              “Look,” Y/N breathes out, entering the lift, “I know I’ve been an ass yesterday, but you can’t just pin everything on me like you always do. If you hadn’t dissed me with those CD titles, called me cutie peachy pie, and dumbly almost gave us out, I wouldn’t have—”

              “What are you really here for, Y/N?”

              The metal doors close again. Y/N closes her eyes, “Fuck, I’m sorry okay?! I didn’t mean to say those mean words to you. I was just frustrated and mad when you called me a difficult person and I guess I just blew up, okay?” Y/N looks at him, “I’m sorry.”

              “If you’re sorry, why are you still denying that we’re dating in front of my subordinates just now?”

              “You heard that?”

              “Of course,” Yoongi adjusts his bag on his shoulder, “Jeff has the loudest mouth in here and Seojoon is coming in close for that spot. It’s not hard for the two of them to announce what’s happening here to the next city.”

              Y/N self-consciously rubs her arm, “I’m not used to people crowding me like that and asking about that stuff, okay? I’m still adjusting to this…situation we have. I’m sorry, okay? I promise I won’t give us away again. I’m serious this time.”

              “Okay,” Yoongi quips.

              Y/N looks up at him, “Wait, you’re just going to let it go like that?”

              “Of course no,” Yoongi answers, smiling.

              The growing smile on Y/N’s face falls flat, “What do you mean, Yoongi?”

              “I want you to make it up to me.”

               Y/N’s jaw drops, “What?!”

               “When I did you wrong, I made it up to you. Now, it’s your turn,” Yoongi grins. Y/N crosses her arms. Yoongi’s smile grows, “Take it or I leave this deal.”

               Y/N bites her cheeks. She closes her eyes and sighs, “Fine.”

               “Good. Glad to know we’re on the same page,” Yoongi says, pressing the ‘P1’ button on the elevator just before the lift passes it.

               Y/N gawks at him, “When did you have a car?”

               “It’s not mine. Steven let me borrow his for today.” The doors open. Yoongi walks toward the gun-metal gray Ford on the far right and presses the remote open. He opens the driver’s side and looks at Y/N. “Why are you still standing there? Do you want me to open the door for you, sweetheart?”

               “Fuck you.”

               “I will open it if you want me to,” Yoongi chuckles, starting for the passenger side.

               “Shut up!” Y/N dashes to the passenger’s side, blocking Yoongi from pulling the door for her. Yoongi cackles.

               The ride was silent for a few minutes. Save for Yoongi who kept on bugging Y/N with the same question the moment they pulled out of Rockfort Building.

              “So,” Yoongi asks, “where are we really going?”

                Y/N has been muttering directions for a few minutes now, unrelenting to tell Yoongi the exact address. She figured to keep it a secret lest Yoongi make a scene once he knew where they’re going. But with Yoongi pestering her now like a five-year-old toddler, Y/N thinks she might have made the wrong decision. Y/N closes her eyes, “Shut up and just follow my directions.”

               “I won’t if you won’t tell me where you plan to take us. For all I know, you’ve contacted some hoodlums to ambush me in a dark alley.”

                Y/N turns to her side, letting her back face him.

                 Yoongi pokes her shoulder, “Y/NNNN—”     

               “Fine! Turn left at the 2nd stoplight and then a right at the 3rd stoplight. There’s a Burger King joint there. Satisfied?” Y/N glares at him.

               “You’re taking me to fast-food?” Yoongi dramatically places a hand over his chest, “I thought you said dates are supposed to be intimate and of high-quality.”

               “Well, when it comes to you, it’s a different case. Now, shut up.”

               The street was dark. Save for the brightly lit Burger King establishment. The white and yellow lighting inside the restaurant seems to bleed outside. They color the washed-out paint of the closed shops beside it. Some manage to spread onto the wet and cold pavement. The raven night sky further emphasizes the restaurant’s colors with no other lit building to compete with. There were street lamps, but their lights were not bright enough to register distinctly into one’s eyes. They all just looked like burnt-out stars.

               They seem to remind Y/N of the man next to her when they pulled up to the order reception area of the drive-thru.

               “Here’s your order, sir,” The crew staff hands Yoongi a huge paper bag, “Would you like to add anything more?”

               “Oh, yeah, um, do you have a document for like dates and—”

              “Oh no, don’t mind him,” Y/N clamps a hand over Yoongi’s mouth, “We don’t have anything else to add for now. But if we do, we’re gonna go inside to get them later. Thank you,” she smiles at the confused staff.

              When the windows roll up, Yoongi tears Y/N’s hand off his face. “What the fuck was that for?”

              Y/N scowls, “You’re being stupid for almost giving us away! Again!”

              “But I already followed what you said! You told me to just ask for the document plain and simple!”

              Y/N places a hand over her forehead, “That only works when you’ve already spent some time in a date-site enough to be considered as a date. How can Burger King know we’re having a date when we just pulled up and ordered at the drive-thru? If that is so, then they would have been distributing date documents so easily to every single car that passes by.”

              “How will we let them know, then?” Yoongi asks.

              “We park in their parking lot and stay there to eat. Where they can see us spending time with each other. Then we go inside and ask for the document.”

              “Then why did you even insist we go to a drive-thru if we’re gonna go out and enter the restaurant later anyway?” Yoongi throws up his hands, “We could have just dined-in and eat out like usual.”

              “Because I don’t want anyone to see us or else we’ll lose another opportunity to get a goddamn date document.”

              “How can you say we’ll lose another opportunity?”

              “Because I know we’re going to argue,” Y/N looks at Yoongi. His eyes are piercing hers and his brows are scrunched up. Y/N points at to him, “Look, your face is telling me you’re already about to start some shit up.” She reaches across the console and pokes his forehead with her index and middle finger to spread apart the man’s brows, “There, you look less like a dumb asshole now.”

              Yoongi slaps her hand away. Y/N snorts. Yoongi shoves the paper bag into her hand, “Just shut up and eat.”

              Ten minutes later and fingers coated with salt from the fries, Yoongi breaks the silence, “What were you looking at just before we got in the drive-thru? You seem very lost in it.”

              Y/N spares him a glance before going for another fry, “Obviously not you.”

              “I’m being serious.”

              “Okay, fine. The sky,” Y/N slumps deeper into her seat.

              “Wow,” Yoongi chuckles, “I never thought you were one of those aesthetic-obsessed girls of Pinterest.”

              “Where are you going with this? If you’re gonna insult me again, just so you know, I paid for tonight’s meal. Therefore, I’ve already made it up with you. And so, I am in no obligation to–”

              “I’m trying to initiate small talk,” Yoongi turns to her, smirking, “Now look who’s the one starting some shit up?”

              Y/N narrows her eyes at him.

              Yoongi snickers, “Can’t you just answer my question? I’m just trying to have a conversation without us screaming each other’s heads off. It’s getting pretty tiring.”

              Y/N looks down on the empty food wrapper on her lap. She closes her eyes and sighs, “Okay,  but don’t laugh at me. I’m really…into light set against skies. Street lamps, overhead lights in cables, lit up buildings—anything that is illuminated, as long as there are skies in the background. I like skies in general because looking at it feels like viewing a painting in a real classy museum for free. I like free stuff. But, I like skies more if the light that comes with it makes their whole picture entirely different from what it’s really supposed to be.”

              “Like what?”

              “Say for example,” Y/N leans nearer to Yoongi to point at the restaurant, “Burger King is the only brightly lit establishment here. And its bright use of primary colors on the building creates a greater contrast against the blackness of the sky. If you think about it more, Burger King kinda looks like an evil radioactive plant set in a post-apocalyptic world,” Y/N gives Yoongi a pointed look as she raises her hands, “Life’s been boring lately. I’m just trying to see things differently to entertain myself.”

              Yoongi looks at her, mouth agape.

              Y/N points at him, “I told you, don’t laugh. You asked for it. That’s my answer.”

              “I’m not trying to laugh,” Yoongi chuckles, “If it makes you feel any better, I’m into light fixtures.”

              “Light fixtures?”

              “Yeah.  Lamps, light bulbs, lighted chandeliers—anything that’s supposed to light up for interior designing. It’s not as special as your affinity for your light-in-the-skies. I just like light fixtures because, well, they’re pretty and practical. And I like interior designing. I could spend a lot of hours just walking around the home department in malls,” Yoongi turns toward her, “What else do you like?”

              Y/N’s eyes turn into slits, “Are we playing twenty questions right now?”

              “No. But if you want, we can.”

              “Fine. Okay…I like Naruto.”

              Yoongi gives Y/N a blank stare, “You already told me that yesterday.”

              “Yeah,” Y/N nods, “but I think you don’t get me yesterday. What I mean by ‘like’ is that I’m totally obsessed with that anime. And manga. All throughout elementary and high school, there’s not a day where I blabbered about Naruto. I can’t believe an anime can be so, so good. The plot is so well-done and the characters’ motivations and desires are fleshed out so good that they almost resemble real people. The story world is so concrete that I truly wished it existed so I can just go there whenever I want,” Y/N sighs, “Not to say Uchiha Sasuke is goddamn handsome.”

              “Now, I see.”

              “What?”

              Yoongi chortles, “You have a type.”

              Y/N frowns, “What do you mean with that?”

              Yoongi grins, “You like black-haired guys with poker faces and horrible personalities.”

              Y/N releases an offended scoff, “Ho-horrible? Sasuke is not horrible! He just had circumstances he cannot escape!”

              “Well, Kaede Rukawa is horrible.”

              “Are you seriously still fixated on my attraction to that guy?”

              “How can I not?” Yoongi exasperates, “He’s such a pretentious bitch to his teammates and he calls Sakuragi a ‘moron.’ Multiple times!”

              “Well, that’s the purpose of a character that acts antagonistically, you know?” Y/N informs, “They’re supposed to challenge the protagonist to further elevate conflict. And from what I know, he and Sakuragi eventually resorted to a friendly rivalry.”

              “Yeah, they did, but still, it doesn’t excuse his terrible attitude—Wait, how did you know about that? You said yesterday you’ve never watched Slam Dunk before.”

              Y/N flushes, “Well, I-I have hands, you know? And a brain. A little research about their high-five is not that much of a hassle.”

              “Wait, you researched that part with their high-five? Through what, fandom.com?” Y/N guiltily side-glances the side mirror. Yoongi tongues his cheek, “Wow. Just wow. Congratulations, you spoiled your own experience.”

              Y/N turns to him with a scowl on her face, “At least I tried to know a thing about Slam Dunk! What about you? Did you already start watching Naruto just like what you oh-so confidently declared yesterday?”

              Yoongi looks down, “…No.”

              “Hah!” Y/N points a finger at him, a triumphant smile on her face, “See? You’re just a big-talker Min Yoongi! You say a lot of shit but you can’t even do one of them!”

              “Hey! I said I will watch Naruto just yesterday! Did you expect me to start watching it as soon as possible? In case you don’t know, I’ve got lots of work to do thanks to Nancy. You talk as if you’re so great when you haven’t even watched Slam Dunk yourself!”

              “I’ll watch it, okay?! Happy, now?”

              “Very,” Yoongi gibes at her, “You better watch it because I’ve got to suffer through 500 plus episodes.”

              “Fine.”

              “Fine.”

              Silence settles over the car again. A minute or two passes with just the sound of food wrappers’ wrinkling and folding serving as the white noise along with the whir of the air con. Yoongi  leans forward and presses the on button of the car stereo. Post Malone and Swae Lee’s Sunflower fills the car.

               The song is in the second verse when Y/N decides to break the silence between them, “Do you…like this song?”

               “Yeah,” Yoongi smiles, “The heavy beats ironically compliment the soft melody so well. I find it…very unusual and oddly comforting.” Yoongi looks at her, “Do you, too?”

               “Yeah,” Y/N picks up the last fry in their paper container, “I’m not really into pop songs, especially popular ones. They tend to be all about shallow declarations of love or overused odes to sex and horniness because everyone knows sex sells. But this one is gonna be an exception. It just feels so…real.”

               “How so?”

               “Well, it’s all thanks to the sunflower metaphor. Sunflowers are very pretty and they last very long. But they’re also stressful to grow because they drain the other plants from receiving nutrients. That’s why they’re flowers that symbolize true love. The love that is sweet, but also draining. And the fact that you said the heavy beats compliment the soft melody is an audial language to further layer on the metaphor of the song.”

               Yoongi looks at her with a curious glint in his eyes, “How did you know these stuff?”

               “We-well, I learned some things about the flower language in a book about star-crossed soulmates I read a year ago. Do-don’t laugh. It’s a good book, okay.”

               “I’m not even laughing,” Yoongi chuckles.

               Y/N  gives him a pointed stare, “Well, you’re doing it now.”

               “Okay, okay,” Yoongi wheezes, “I’m not laughing.”

               “Sure.”

               “I’m serious,” Yoongi insists, now calm. “I just chuckled because I didn’t imagine you’re into that stuff.”

               “What stuff?”

               Yoongi smiles, “Cute stuff.”

               “Cu-cute?” Y/N gawks, “They’re not cute! That’s so downgrading—you know, just because this stuff talks about love, it doesn’t mean they value any less than other abstractions and values out there.”

               “That’s not what I meant. I’m talking about it being adorable.”

               “Adorable?”

               “You,” Yoongi purses his lips, “It’s adorable that you actually like this stuff. Stuff far from what you do at work. I thought your head is just filled with unpublished stories and worship chants for Nancy.”

               Y/N narrows her eyes at him. Yoongi guffaws. Sunflower ends and some pop song which Y/N doesn’t know starts to play. Y/N crosses her arms, “Let’s do the 20 Questions instead. Having a serious conversation with you is draining.”

               “Okay,” Yoongi chuckles, “How will we do it then?”

              “10 questions each.  Answerable by ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or whatever,” Y/N turns to Yoongi, “I’ll start. What’s your favorite color?”

               “Blue.”

               Y/N clicks her tongue, “Very typical.”

               “What about you?” Yoongi asks.

               “Yellow. What’s your favorite food?”

              “Lamb skewers. Especially the ones sold in the small diner near to my high school. What’s your favorite food?”

               Y/N whips her gaze away from him, “…Fried chicken intestines.”

               “Whoa,” Yoongi turns to her, eyes wide in amusement, “So I got you your favorite food right off the bat yesterday? I didn’t know it will be this easy. This is amazing.”

               Y/N pointedly looks at him, “Shut up. How many crushes did you ever have?”

               “W-what?”

               “Just answer it,” Y/N grits her teeth.

               “Fine,” Yoongi relents, “One.”

               “O-one?” Y/N sputters, “Oh my God. You’re a lovesick puppy.”

              Yoongi furrows his forehead, “What are you talking about?”

              Y/N covers her mouth in disbelief, “I can’t believe Jeon Seoyeon is your first crush at what age, 29? Oh my God, Yoongi.”

               “What?” Yoongi chokes out, “I-I’m not into her!”

               “Say that when you’re not blushing like hell then I’ll believe you,” Y/N smirks, “Next question.”

               “No, I do not have a crush on her!” Yoongi insists, “Where did you even get such ridiculous speculation?!”

               Y/N grins, “I’ll count that as a question. I got it from Mina”

               “What?!”

               “My turn to ask now, Min,” Y/N asserts, “What’s your first job?”

               “Video editor in an advertising firm. Small company,” Yoongi looks at her, “How many crushes did you have and what’s your first job?”

               “I’ll count that as two questions,” Y/N smiles. “Crushes? Three. One of them upgraded from that. First job? Well, I was a secretary in a news company. J&M.”

               “J&M?” Yoongi gapes, “That’s like, the top one news company in the country. I didn’t know you worked for them.”

              “Well, it’s horrible,” Y/N grimaces, “I hated every single minute I spent in there. Didn’t even know why I stayed there for two years. The days just,” Y/N sighs, waving a hand, “seems to pass like a blur.”

               “Two years? And the next two you spent in Travel Loca?” Yoongi hums, “What did you do when you were 21?”

               Y/N turns to him, fully facing him now, “I’m just going to tell you this for the sake of ending this ‘date’ as soon as possible. You don’t get to speak about this in the office, okay?.” Yoongi nods. Y/N closes her eyes, “Okay, I spent two years after graduation home studying and doing part-time. Even if I had Latin honors, the companies I wanted to apply in won’t accept me because apparently, I’m too young. I graduated from college when I was 19. Skipped two years in high school. My grades were enough to get me accelerated,” Y/N looks down at her hands, “It’s one of my achievements I’m really proud of. But…it ended up producing more cons than pros in the long run.”

               “Don’t say that,” Y/N looks up at Yoongi. Yoongi smiles, “That’s still an achievement worthy of being proud of, you know? Everyone wants to get out of high school as soon as they can. But not everyone gets to really do it.”

               Y/N gapes at him. Why is Min Yoongi suddenly giving her encouragement like this? Her, out of all people? From what she remembers, Yoongi is her biggest critic in the office. Whenever an opportunity opens for her making a mistake, Yoongi catches it and will definitely not pass up a chance to throw her criticisms or petty insults.  And now, he’s spouting comforting words?! Min Yoongi is anything but comforting!— Y/N looks away. It’s getting late. It’s just the long night taking a toll on them. She fixes their leftovers in their paper bag, “What are your most embarrassing moments? Do you have a pet? Favorite movie? Favorite song?”

               “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Yoongi holds a hand up, “Four questions in one go?”

               “Yes, four,” Y/N glances at him, then proceeds back to tidying up, “It’s getting late. We have to end the game soon.”

               “But you already know I have a pet, that’s cheating—”

               “It’s not cheating. We still get to ask 20 questions,” Y/N deadpans. “ You only have four questions left. I have two. Now, answer my questions, Min, because I want to go home.”

               Yoongi sighs, “Fine. I have a pet. A dog named Holly. Everyone knows—including you because there’s nothing else I post in my social media but him. Favorite movie is Minority Report. I like the twist in the end and it’s notion against predetermined futures even if the whole system in the story world is about determining crimes supposed to happen in the future. Favorite song has to be, uhh….anything made by Lorde. Love the calm in her rough and edged beats and the unadulterated honesty in her tracks. I have a lot of favorite songs but the first one that came to my mind when I want to play something again and again was her songs so that’s that. And, most embarrassing moment?” Yoongi eyes Y/N but she only continues to keep her gaze on her lap. He sighs, “Well, it has to be when I have to repeat years while studying. Two years in fact.”

              At this, Y/N glances at him. Yoongi pulls a straight smile, “I have to repeat one year in elementary because we moved houses in the middle of the school year because of a job offer. That’s alright though. Dad got a better job out of it and we lived more comfortably. But what hurt was when I have to repeat my fourth year. My thesis paper was okay. But…I flunked the defense big time. I can’t talk for shit back then. I mean, until now, I’m still having a hard time because I don’t really like hanging out with a lot of people. But past me was a real mess. Had a breakdown just right when it’s my turn with the panel. And you know how big of a deal thesis writing is to graduate Junior High. Because of that, my appeals were of course rejected by the board. So, I have to repeat that year again until I pass the thesis writing. It’s embarrassing that I get to see my batchmates graduate to senior high while I’m still stuck in junior high. In the very last year, of all years. It’s even more embarrassing to my family.”

               Y/N bites her lip. She leans nearer to Yoongi, “But, they still treated you..okay, right?”

               “I’ll count that as a question,” Yoongi sing-songs, winking at Y/N.

               Y/N frowns, “I’m being serious.”

               “Okay, okay,” Yoongi chuckles, raising his hands in surrender. “But it still means you only got one question left.”

               “It’s okay. I wanted to end my turn as soon as possible. Answer my question, Yoongi.”

               “Okay,” Yoongi smiles, “Well, my parents never told it in my face, but I know they still see it as a disappointing waste of one year. It’s a different case with my relatives though but it doesn’t matter much. What only matters is my family. We’re fine now. My parents look like they don’t mind anymore of what happened during high school.”

               “That’s good then,” a small smile forms on Y/N’s face.

               “Yeah,” Yoongi says, smiling wider.

              The two fall into silence as the music in the car changes. Abba’s Take a Chance on Me starts to play. When it reaches the chorus, Yoongi decides to break the awkwardness that has suddenly settled in the air, “What’s your last question, Y/N?”

              “O-oh,” Y/N  fiddles with her cardigan, “uh, well…Oh! I already told you my definition of a date, but you never told me yours. How would you like a date to be?”

              “It’s a secret,” Yoongi grins.

              “What?!” Y/N exclaims, “A secret?! Why would that be a secret?! Do you know we’re supposed to have more dates to seal the holiday vacation for sure? It would help a lot if we know how we each want our dates to go so we can deal with each other a lot less stressful than it already is!”

              “My answer is still ‘secret,’” Yoongi smiles smugly, crossing his arms. “Also, you already spent all your questions. It’s my turn from now on.”

              “Fine,” Y/N bites back, frown deepening when she hears Yoongi chuckle.

              “How many times have you dyed your hair?”

              “One,” Y/N gives him a challenging stare.

              “How many times have you traveled locally?”

               “Three.”

               “What’s your lucky number?”

               “Fourteen.”

               “What’s your number?”

               “01048648564—wait, no!”

               “Okay, thank you!” Yoongi pulls up his phone.

               “Wait, Yoongi!” Y/N tries to snatch his phone from his grip. Yoongi turns away, successfully clicking ‘add contact’ with a wide grin on his face.

               Yoongi tucks the phone back into his pants’ pocket. He peers over the car’s dashboard and gasps dramatically, “Oh, well look at that, it’s already getting late. My, my, 10:32 P.M.” He looks at Y/N, grinning widely, “We better get the date document so we can get going now, huh?”

               Y/N scowls at him. Yoongi snickers as he gets out of the car. It only takes five minutes before he goes back onto the parking lot, waving a pale pink envelope in the air.

               Yoongi pulls away from the parking lot, “So shall I now drive you home?”

               Y/N frowns as she looks away from him, focusing on the dark streets outside.

               “What’s your address, hmm?” Yoongi prods, a beaming smile still on his face.

              A beat passes. Y/N closes her eyes and sighs. “Drop me at the Village Estates. 27th Street, East Drive.”

               “Okay,” Yoongi chirps and keys in the address in the car’s navigator.

               The ride is silent with only the car music serving as the white noise. Y/N has lost track of the tracks that played in the speakers. She doesn’t tear her eyes away from the window for the entirety of the ride until Yoongi pulls in front of her apartment complex.

               “We’re here.”

               Y/N pushes the door open and wordlessly gets out of the car. She doesn’t wait on the pavement to see Yoongi off nor does she turns around to look at the man one last time. She just walks off. But before she gets inside the main entrance, she hears Yoongi holler behind her, “Tonight was fun, yeah, Y/N?”

               Y/N, still with her back turned to him, raises a hand to dismissively wave goodbye.

               “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then,” Yoongi laughs. Soon after, the street was silent again.

              Y/N arrives in a quiet flat. There are no re-runs of a show playing on the TV. There is also no clamor of the utensils in their kitchen. Only the light on their narrow entrance hall was left lit open. There’s also a bowl of porridge covered on the table. When Y/N rounds on Mina’s room, she finds her bestfriend peacefully snoring deep in her duvet. Y/N smiles. After cleaning up and running a quick bath, Y/N reaches an arm to turn off her bedside lamp only to realize this silence of the night is not for long. Because the moment Y/N lays her head on her pillow, her phone rings with a loud ‘ding!’

               Unknown Number: Just wanna let you know I got home safe. I had fun tonight. You’re already forgiven for yesterday, sweetheart 😉.

               Y/N groans and throws her phone onto the other side of the bed.

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Taglist | @fangirls94​ @ditttiii​ @chogiyeol-utopia​​

Disclaimer: The dark side banter in Day 1 was based on Rob Reiner’s (1989) When Harry Met Sally’s car scene! I just loved the characters’ chemistry so much! That being said, all scenes and references from the movie used in this story are the property of its respective owners.  The rest belongs to the author. This work is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N pt. 2 | Hi hons! Sorry this chapter came a little later than my original schedule. A lot has changed in the plot points of THH while I was outlining it. Hence, the supposed two-shot is now a series with five chapters! I didn’t expect my first series will be like this. It’s totally unexpected from my initial plans! Anyway, the Act 2 is supposed to comprise the whole 2nd act of the story. But as I was writing it, I noticed I’m already bordering the 35k wordcount (and I’m not yet near the end of the 2nd act asdfghjkl). So I decided to cut it into 2 parts so I may not overwhelm you with a gigantic word-vomit of a text post. I guess the cut was also a good device because the 2nd part of Act 2 is on a different tone from the 1st part.  Thank you for reading this 24k monstrosity and feel free to say what you think about this chapter! If you want to get added in the taglist, just hit me up in the PMs or Asks! I’ll be waiting there ~( > v < )~

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[allthefilmsiveseenforfree]

Dangerous Minds

Those of my readers who haven’t known me long may not know that I was once a corps member of Teach for America. I taught 10th and 11th grade English for about 5 weeks, then I was told on a Friday about my “involuntary transfer” to another school in the district, where I’d be teaching 7th and 8th grade English instead. I went from having about 110 students to about 190. My classroom had no books (textbook or otherwise), no pencils, no paper, no markers or chalk, but it DID have one of those folding lamps that come out of the ceiling at the dentist’s office. The kids had been in there for 5 weeks with a rotating roster of subs; they’d done no schoolwork of any kind. I was teaching in a very poor area of the city, and my students were predominantly Black and Hispanic. One of my 10th graders wrote his first personal essay about getting shot the previous year. I say all this to tell you that when Chad asked that I review Dangerous Minds, the 1995 adaptation starring Michelle Pfeiffer of the true story of Louanne Johnson’s experience teaching in inner city schools in California, I was prepared to laugh it off as a cringey, Lifetime-movie representation of my experience. Is that what I got? Well...

For the most part, what I got was a ball of anxiety in my chest. It’s well-worn territory, obviously. A teacher bonds with their students from the wrong side of the tracks, and ends up learning just as much from them as they learn from him/her. Usually poetry or music features heavily as a tool that can set the students free from the depressing circumstances of their lives. Depending on the rating, usually a student dies, and the teacher learns just how Important their job is, so they commit to it even harder even though it pays no money and garners no respect from the administration who just doesn’t “get it.” But these cliches and stereotypes and broad strokes exist because at their core, they’re true, and they make me anxious and uncomfortable and I can’t laugh at them or Michelle Pfeiffer being a Nice White Lady because I’m too busy being angry about the systems we put in place that straight up abandon so many kids, all in the name of white supremacy.

Some thoughts:

Oh we’re starting right off the BAT with “Gangsta’s Paradise.” Fantastic news. Two things I associate so strongly with this song is skating around the skating rink in 2nd grade and buying the Weird Al cassingle of “Amish Paradise” and wearing it out. 

Ooh, the score was composed and performed by Wendy & Lisa! Love that, you don’t see nearly as many film scores as you should composed by women.

God, the salary is $24,700 a year and Louanne acts as though that is appealing - I can’t tell if that’s because it was 1995 or because teacher salaries are so dismally low that this feels like a good salary?

This scene in which Louanne goes into her classroom for the first time and the kids are all shouting at her and getting in her face and sexually harassing her and throwing paper balls at her is giving me stress hives. 

Also her friend Griffith (George Dzundza) saying, “You wanna teach, so teach! All you gotta do is get their attention” is rather disingenuous. Trust me, you can have their attention, and still not be able to teach. 

I’m excited to see Sally-Can’t-Dance from Con Air as Raul (Renoly Santiago). He’s honestly fantastic in this, with a tough exterior but a sensitive and gooey inner sweet boy. All of the teens give pretty solid performances, but he’s a real standout.

I recognize this is based on a true story and Louanne Johnson’s lived experience, but I am not sure it’s wise for any teacher, regardless of grade or subject, to be teaching her students how to fight each other. Or taking them to dinner on what looks to outsiders like a date. I know some people have a problem with the bribery (giving her students candy for speaking up in class) but I have no problem with it - you get paid to do all the dumb stuff you don’t want to do at work, why shouldn’t kids be compensated for going to school if they don’t want to be there? External motivation goes a long way to building up internal motivation.

Mm I do love me some Courtney B. Vance, but he’s such a quiet, condescending ass in this. It’s a different vibe than I’m used to seeing in a principal in a movie like this. 

Ooh, Griffith grading papers and saying “What a fuckin’ idiot” is a real mood. 

“Since when has the Board of Education done anything for us? We barely get fuckin lunch” is legit. The lunches my students were served in summer school were some of the most horrifying things I’ve ever seen. One day it was spoiled milk, white bread, and pickles. And one of my students put his in a microwave that was hidden in the back of my classroom behind some dividers and left it for a week. And just so you know, as stomach-churningly awful as that sounds, the day I found “pickle man” as my student called him, isn’t even in my top 5 worst days teaching list. 

I like Griffith, and I’m glad Louanne has a friend, but frankly I’m not that interested in these interludes between them - they really feel like they slow down the momentum from the scenes of her in the classroom slowly earning the kids’ trust. The pacing is kind of a mess, because the most dynamic sections all revolve around the kids in the classroom, and I feel like that only makes up about a third of the movie. 

One thing I know for sure is you do not get in the middle of a fight between students. I have a friend who worked in the same district I did who interrupted a fight and got punched in the face because of it. And her principal blamed her. 

Oh wow the way the soundtrack picks up when Emilio finally engages in the class is some kinda cheesy. And it continues through the rest of the scene to a distracting degree. Oh Wendy and Lisa, I hoped for better. 

Can I just emphasize that to reach these kids, Louanne uses her experience as a LITERAL MARINE by demonstrating she can kick all their asses, and then she bribes them by paying for 25 kids to go to an amusement park for the entire day with her?

Also, even if they like and respect her now, I call bullshit at any scene in which ALL of  the kids are A) sitting in their seats or B) silent, and especially C) both. 

Um suddenly feeling some weird vibes with Louanne and Raul having a dinner date at this fancy restaurant by themselves. Also, the double standard here is pretty telling - there’s no way this scene makes the movie if Louanne had been a male teacher and Raul was a female student.

Wait wait wait, she’s also loaning Raul $200? Like, is this why I didn’t make it as a teacher? Because I wasn’t a former Marine taking students to amusement parks and fancy dinners and lending them money? I was 25 and could barely afford rent. Maybe teachers who have enough money to take care of themselves are better equipped to take care of others. Idk, I’m just spitballin here.

Oh “Gangsta’s Paradise” is happening again! We already heard the whole song over the opening credits but now it’s happening again about 3/4 way through. I mean this song is definitely the best thing about the film, so I get it, but it feels weird that they think we wouldn’t notice it playing to completion twice.

Michelle Pfeiffer is doing everything she can to make this movie feel less cheesy and more real. Like, you can tell she’s really trying with her performance. Of course, it’s not like the character is a huge challenge acting-wise, but she is definitely committed to the part and can walk the line of both accessible and tough. 

This scene where Louanne tells her class she is not going to be there next year, that what happened to Durell and Lionel and Callie and Emilio made her too sad to stay has not aged well at all. And it’s certainly true to life, and I say that as someone who did the same thing. It’s not something I’m proud of, but it’s a reality - the fact that I’m a nice white lady is exactly the reason that I can choose to leave when things get too hard. Just because the kids convince her to stay at the end in this very rushed “all’s well that ends well” way doesn’t sweep this scene under the rug, and it shouldn’t. 

Ope, “Gangsta’s Paradise” shows up one last time in the credits for good measure. 

Side note: after the film, I researched Louanne, and she’s still teaching, which honestly made me emotional (in a good way). And I’d like to point out the racist ass bullshit the studio and screenwriter Ronald Bass pulled by changing the poems the students read to Bob Dylan lyrics when Louanne originally used rap lyrics from popular artists in ‘89-’90 to teach the kids about poetry. 

Did I Cry? No, but I did get heartburn from anxiety flashbacks.

This genre of film is easy to mock and parody because it tells the same story and hits the same beats to the point that they’ve become cliche. Ultimately, the truth at the heart of the movie (which is the un-nuanced and candy-coated depiction of Johnson’s real memoir, My Posse Don’t Do Homework) is that high schoolers crave someone who will see them and validate them, someone who is willing to put in the effort. The quality of the package that truth is wrapped in varies, and this one certainly leans in hard on stereotypes that feel like cheat codes rather than any real illuminating depictions of living teenagers. But as cringey as it is to watch, maybe it’s not a bad thing to remember that all people - including those who are trapped in poverty and all the cruel injustices that entails - want to be seen and valued for who they really are. 

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[drunklander]

Drunj!Der Yells About Outlander

Thoughts on Ep. 507

OK QUICK QUESTION, OUTLANDER WRITERS, IF YOU’VE STILL BEEN CAPABLE OF MAKING EPISODES THIS GOOD THEN HOW THE FUCK DO YOU JUSTIFY MAKING *GESTURES AT THE LAST FEW SEASONS* ALL THAT SHIT?!

This is literally the first episode of Outlander in fucking *years* that I have liked and actually meant it. Like, I *wanted* to watch it again. I cannot remember the last time I’ve wanted to rewatch an episode rather than it feeling like “fandom homework.”

Their track record over the last few years has me worried this was a fluke. And they just accidentally did a good job, and we’ll be back to mediocrity next week. But...y’all. What if the show actually gets good again? You know, that thing we’ve been hoping would happen for 84 fucking years...

*attempts to keep expectations in check while simultaneously being excited to actually have positive feelings toward the show again*

(Now can we have a Claire-centric episode that isn’t about rape and/or the usual ye olde times violence against women?)

Nudity AND sexual content warnings at the start? It’s a quarantine miracle!

Am I the only one who isn’t so much a fan of the voiceovers?

Opening with Roger singing, and the title, made me rull skeptical of how much I’d like this episode. Glad he was just the B plot.

*mentally prepares for next week, because ugh, fuck that guy*

At least we won’t have singalongs anymore? *runs away*

The shots of the camp and stuff reminded me again how glad I am that this season feels much less claustrophobic overall than last year.

JAMIE IS HAVING A SUPER SOFT BIRTHDAY PARTY!

LOOKIT THESE SOFT AF FRASERS!

MY BABIES ARE SO ADORABLE AND CUDDLY AND KISSY AND SNUGGLY AND MAKING DICK JOKES!

Move over Marilyn. I have a new favorite version of Happy Birthday.

Now quick, sing it a second time. I need a very sexy hand washing timer.

Ok but two of the English soldiers have the same last names as two people I work with but don’t particularly like. Eeeep.

99 yellow cockades on the wall, 99 yellow cockades. Take one down pass it around, 99 yellow cockades on the wall!

Update, I’m still not interested in the Browns or Isiah. But I guess if they’re gonna do what they’re probs gonna do next year, they have to make the Browns’ beef with Jamie a bigger thing than one episode... Le sigh.

Omfg the scene with the Findlay boys. They’re so young! Jamie’s giving them advice! They’re gonna follow the advice! And it’s gonna be tragic af! Literally perfect choice, tbh.

Tryon is such a condescending douchecanoe. Just going full Javert here.

Why the fuck is Bree in Hillsborough, though? Besides, needing to be conveniently there for Plotty McPlotterson reasons.

The more they say Alamance, the more all I can think of is Salamence. Which is fitting considering what happens to fellow ‘mon Roger MacSeedot at the end of the episode.

A+ choice moving Jamie calling on Dougal to here rather than before the flaming dildo.

Especially given a certain piece of stunt casting...

“My professor said that some people consider this to be the spark of the American Revolution.” *stares in Boston*

“Ye say some people believe this is the spark. Couldn't the spark alight from somewhere else?” “Yes, it could. You know, in Boston. Where you grew up. Your professor in Cambridge can shove it.”

If Harvard wasn’t closed because of the ‘rona, I’d march down there and give that fictional professor from decades ago a piece of my mind.

They’re really putting a lot of faith in a fucking handkerchief. Don’t see how that could go wrong.

“Now go. Be ready for the morrow.” And then all the Regulators sit down around their fires and sing Drink with Me.

Yes, I’m still on the “this season is Les Mis fanfic” train.

Ok but Murtz was ready to die at Culloden for a cause he believed in *with* Jamie and now, after hearing what Roger has to say, he’s ready to die here for a cause he believes in *against* Jamie* AND I AM FULL OF FEELINGS ABOUT IT.

*yes, I know that Jamie’s not 100% into it and definitely isn’t actually on the side of Murtz’s enemy.

“You have farmers, with knives and pitchforks.” *queues up Turning*

How fucking far away was this creek though that it took all fucking night to get there? Now is not the time for a sleepover party, Roger.

PERSONAL SPACE BUBBLE, ROGER, PERSONAL SPACE BUBBLE!

At least he doesn’t fucking kiss her, but you are *such* a dumbass, Roger.

LOL @ DOUGAL 2.0

They do love them some stunt casting on this show, don’t they.

Ok but making Jamie wear a red coat is a great fucking choice. And I know I shit on Heughan a lot, but his face as Jamie puts it on shows literally every emotion and his entire history with the men who wear those coats without saying a word.

Ok but since they cast Graham McTavish as a bit of a joke, does this mean we aren’t going to be subjected to Roger and Buck’s adventures through time? Because omfg I hate that shit so much. I mean, it’d be on brand for the show to make us watch an abusive husband gallivant around as a buddy of one of the leads, but it wouldn’t be a good look.

Buck!Dougal must have one of the previous season’s wigs. Because what is that dead thing on his head, haha.

Ditto what I said about Heughan re: Caitriona’s face when she see’s Jamie in the coat.

I AM STILL TRASH FOR THE SOLDIER THING.

Also, this is a good example of book shit worked in. Not awkwardly shoehorned in like they usually do.

Kinda bummed that Nurse Marsali is out of action, but get why Bree’s there. Whatevs. Can we get more Nurse Marsali soon?

The Browns are super obvious about trying to kill the person they’ve told everyone they want to kill.

Also like fuck the Browns for breaking her magic needle, but Claire, girl, keep a better grip on that shit.

THE MOURNFUL VERSION OF THE JE SUIS PREST/PRESTONPANS MUSIC IS PUNCHING ME IN THE FEELS.

FUCK THE ENGLISH, TBH. THEN AND NOW.

Also, why the fuck didn’t JAMMF ditch the coat as soon as they went into the woods? Not the smartest idea to run around in a bright fucking target, buddy.

OMG IT’S SO PERFECT THAT ONE OF THE FINDLAY’S DID IT. War is awful. War is random. And having a fucking pretty much child following the advice of his commanding officer, thinking he’s protecting his Colonel, be the one to kill Murtz is just the most perfectly tragic choice.

“Dinna be afraid... It doesn’t hurt a bit to die.” *sobs in Voyager*

I love that it’s Jamie’s men, who are ostensibly fighting for the English, are the ones who help him with Murtagh. Because, after all, they’re loyal to their chief and new clan, not the crown.

OMG ALL OF THEIR FACES THOUGH! JAMIE WITH THE GRIEF AND DENIAL AND ANGER AND BARGAINING! CLAIRE WITH THE GRIEF AND ACCEPTANCE! BREE WITH THE GRIEF AND DEPRESSION!

(Maybe not depression with Bree, I was just trying to fit in all five stages of grief.)

I’m obviously super sad to be losing Murtz, but this does feel like a good way to end his arc. With the added bonus of putting Jamie on the path to join the Revolution in a few years.

I’M JUST GONNA MISS THAT CROTCHETY FUCKER SO MUCH, OK! *drinks wine straight from the bottle*

Jamie ripping Tryon a new one is...not smart. But it’s what we all wish we could yell at the fuckwad. So carry on, JAMMF.

He’s being very Beauchamp-esque with this rant.

“I’ve paid my debt... and I’m finished with my obligation to you and to the crown.” Is that how that works though?

“You may have your coat back, sir.” A Mood™

I’m glad Claire kept his little scrap of plaid.

Ngl, I loved the Claire and Murtz relationship more than the Jamie and Murtz one. I am very sad for Claire.

Oh man, they are trickily ending on a high note*. We may have lost Murtz, but at least we’re rid of Roger!

*YMMV, don’t @ me.

But alas, next episode starts the saga of Emo!Roger. You can tell he’s gonna be alive because they show his one hand slipped from the handcuff rope and up at his neck rope.

We’ll deal with that next time. For this week, I’m just so fucking glad I’m still able to love this show and feel actually feelings while watching it.

I’ve missed that. So fucking much.

[dwtsfun]

Dancing with the Stars Season 29 Week 4: Most Memorable Year, Dedication or Personal Story? Idk. I just write about this show.

We are doing rankings again this week. Maybe next week as well.

Anyway, the show started with a PSA type thing. I honestly didn’t pay attention to it. Tyra’s first look was great. That second one was...a choice. Now let’s get into this.

1. Skai and Alan- Skai is BACK! And let me tell you how nervous I was that Skai was never going to shake off the incident with her samba. And at the start of this dance, I could still see it in her eyes. But after the first few seconds, she settled into it and that’s where the magic really happened. Cameron was with her and helped her get through this dance. She blossomed and moved so beautifully. Her top line was actually the best part of the dance for me. I just loved it. She connected to it. I was totally encapsulated by it. The choreography was gorgeous. I cannot say enough good things about it. For me, that was a moment that I will remember forever.

2. Justina and Sasha- Justina is back too! I love that my top two from week 1 were back in top form this week. Justina had so much (controlled) energy and she killed this dance. Her hips were great. Her technique was actually pretty good. I had an issue with that really weird lift and some of the choreo felt kinda strange and stagnant. But, Justina killed it. I wish she would’ve gotten one more 9.

3. Johnny and Britt- Yep. Johnny definitely has it figured out. He’s not quite there just yet. But he’s not in his head nearly as much and all of the little things that kept throwing him off in huge ways have become minimal. Britt gave him some really challenging choreo and he handled it very well. I think the biggest issue for him is that he still has weird moments where his legs get from underneath his body. It only briefly throws things off, but in a dance like the jive, it is so easy to see. His feet were also problematic.

4. Kaitlyn and Artem- Kaitlyn did a really great job this week. In fact, I would say that even though this week was similar to the previous two in terms of the dance assigned and the feel of it, I think this was my favorite of hers. There were a lot of smaller technical things that I got to appreciate, like her turns and her arms. I actually think she may be the best technical dancer this season. I just want to see her handle a harder hitting Latin dance and see her range.

5. Nev and Jenna- Nev did a great job tonight. He had some nice hip action going in this rumba. His lines are really pretty. He’s a good dancer. I can’t say anything bad there. I can say that I felt like he didn’t really put much conviction behind his arms. I’m not saying that he needs to throw them in the air or be sharp with them or anything like that. What I’m saying is that it felt like he was marking the dance with his arms while full out dancing with the rest of his body. It was a strange contrast for me.

6. Jeannie and Brandon- This dance was extremely underscored in comparison with everything else tonight. I think that outside of the one stumble at the end, this was Jeannie’s best dance to date. She was in control. Her frame was actually pretty good. A lot of the issues from her Viennese waltz last week were fixed. Her footwork was also pretty clean. Had she been at this 21 alone, I could have accepted it. But she was better than the three other couples she tied with and better than the two that got one point better than her. That is where the issue lies with this score.

7. Vernon and Peta- So ranking the next set of couples is going to be difficult. But I think Vernon comes out on top. While I didn’t particularly care for his rumba this week, the improvement that I saw here is what the judges claimed they saw last week. He seemed way more comfortable with moving proportional to his size. I think he had the best hip action for a rumba that we have seen from anyone this season. Now what I want to see is better lines from him and for his hands to not be so flat and low energy. This is a Peta problem. It’s clear that she hasn’t really paid attention to that because it’s not a small miniscule issue. He literally throws his hands in the air and there’s no style or nothing with them. And it has been an issue since week 1. It needs to be fixed to take him to the next level.

8. Anne and Keo- I am actually sad that these two were eliminated tonight. This was Anne’s best dance of the season. She was super focused and was way more steady than I’ve ever seen. Keo gave her some really nice choreography. I think she suffered a bit from the costume though. It seemed to restrict her movements, especially in her arms. I just wish we had one more week with them. I think everything would have come together next week. But we don’t get to see that. Oh well.

9. AJ and Cheryl- I actually did not like this dance. I thought it was very messy. The choreography felt convoluted. AJ’s shoulders were doing a really weird thing where they were raised but slouching at the same time. I hated the holograms. I hated that the other guys were in white and he was in red. I just hated all of it. It was a good performance. But I didn’t like much else about it.

10. Monica and Val- So what I will say about this dance is that Monica is a technician. Her technique was pretty decent. I also thought her timing was good. However, she was stiff and boring. I’m not really sure how this got a 24 if I’m being perfectly honest. A 19 would have sufficed. Now I do appreciate how she got on Val. I’m not sure how or why he has gone this long without realizing that he can get extremely condescending and mean when talking to his partners and that he needs to chill out. It’s been an issue that we’ve seen since season 16. Maybe even earlier.

11. Nelly and Daniella- Okay, the positives first. Nelly really and fully committed to this dance. And they really went for it and were not safe. Now with that said, he had some issues here that need to be addressed. First, his footwork was messy. He also dances very flat footed and it made this dance look really stompy. His shaping was also off. He also needed more fluidity. It wasn’t my favorite dance of his, but I still saw the progress being made.

12. Chrishell and Gleb- Mm. Okay. So I will say that during the few bars that they did in hold, Chrishell looked great. The rest of it wasn’t that good to me. Chrishell needs to stregthen her core. That’s a problem. And Gleb needs to tighten up his choreography. They really didn’t have much content. Chrishell is improving but I fear we’re getting to a place where all of her potential is going to go unrealized because of her pro.

13. Jesse and Sharna- Mm. Okay. He was looser this week and he wasn’t as off with his timing. However, he was still off. And the dance was mid at best. I’m not sure what his votes are looking like, but to me, this was the worst dance of the night and I feel that he is the worst dancer left. I mean when I watched this all I could think about was Toni Braxton’s cha-cha to the same song and how much better it was than this.

So that’s it. Let me know your thoughts and I will talk to you all soon.

[beautifully-tuan]

3 - actually not sorry

Jinyoung x musical critic!reader a lil angst, kinda funny lol, fluff-ish Warning: cursing

Masterlist Part One    Part Two

 You had all your reasons to stay mad at Jinyoung for an entire week. He had called you a hypocritical bitch after all. You hated that he acted so petty about it, without even allowing you to speak and get your point across. Not that you had to justify yourself to him for doing your job anyway, but the man just couldn’t get that into his stubborn head. You could understand he was angry. Who wouldn’t get upset after reading such brutal words? But if only he’d given you a chance to speak and explain why you wrote them, maybe things wouldn’t have gone so bad. Is this karma, you thought to yourself.

  You were surprisingly sad about this whole situation, because you couldn’t help but think you and Jinyoung could’ve been something. You got along really well with each other, not just sexually but also conversationally, intellectually and emotionally. You pretty much valued the same things, and you felt like you had possibly missed out on something great. The fear of permanently losing Jinyoung before even actually having him was, most probably, your motivation to get over yourself after an entire week of wanting to strangle him. Whether you liked it or not, you had him under your skin.

 You came to the conclusion that a good old confrontation was the best way out of this sticky mess. You decided to talk to him once and for all and lay your cards on the table, so you could communicate like the grown and civilized adults that you were. But there was a problem: Jinyoung was acting like a child. He avoided you like plague whenever he could. And when he couldn’t – because he couldn’t act too weird in front of the clueless GOT7 members – he threw weird looks in your direction, responded dismissively to everything you’d say, and roasted you at any chance he got. The rest of the boys found it normal, thinking that Jinyoung was just comfortable enough around you to be his overly savage self. You were the only one who knew of his hatred towards you. He was making it even harder for you to find the will to talk to him.

 After a concert, you heard the boys talk about going out in the city with their manager for a visit, and you heard Jinyoung say he didn’t want to go because he was too tired. This was your best chance. You immediately went and locked yourself in your room, patiently waiting, until you heard a knock on your door.

 - “We’re heading out” Bambam said when you opened. “Wanna come with us?”

 - “Thanks but I can’t, I’m sorry. I got tons of work to finish and then I’m going straight to bed. Maybe another time.”

 - “Okay, no problem. Good luck then” he said sweetly before turning on his heels to leave.

 - “Oh, wait” you stopped him. “Are all of you guys going? I have an article to finish and I was hoping I could ask one of you some questions and get it done with. Anyone would do.”

 - “Ah yep, Jinyoung’s in his room. He’s too old to go out with us” Bambam joked.

 - “Great then I’ll go talk to the grandpa. Have fun out there.”

 - “Thanks, bye” he said and disappeared at the corner of the corridor.

 Now that you had the confirmation that Jinyoung was there alone, you armed yourself with courage and determination. When you arrived in front of his door, you took a deep breath and knocked.

 - “Who’s that?” he called.

 - “It’s me.”

 You heard him sigh from the other side of the door. For a split second, you thought he would ignore you. But apparently, he was smart enough to understand that you weren’t going to leave him alone. You heard his footsteps approaching. The second the door opened, not giving him the chance to dismiss you again, you immediately blurted out a “We need to talk” before walking past him and into his room.

 - “Go ahead, make yourself at home” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

 You gestured him to sit down on the bed and went to stand in front of him with your arms crossed. He stared at you, looking almost bored, waiting for you to say something.

 - “You want to talk, then talk. Is it about that sweet new article you uploaded?”

  That new article. The one where you showcased GOT7’s qualities and achievements. You had totally forgotten about it. At this point you almost wished it had never been published, not wanting to give Jinyoung the satisfaction of reading it. You didn’t write that article for him, but something about his amused expression hinted that he was convinced you did so.

 - “No, it’s not about that.”

 - “Okay, then are you going to apologize?”

 It’d only been one minute and you were already annoyed.

 - “No, I’m not.”

 Jinyoung raised his eyebrows, genuinely surprised that you hadn’t come to apologize.

 - “Why not?”

 - “Because I’m not sorry” you simply said with a shrug.

 He snorted in disbelief.

 - “Then why am I even listening to you?”

 You were internally boiling up, but you held on.

 - “Because I can explain everything.”

 - “Oh, so you can explain stuff but not apologize?”

 - “Will you stop being a jerk and listen to me?” you snapped, out of patience.

 Jinyoung rolled his eyes and, once again, you feared he would ask you to leave or say something mean again, but he didn’t. He urged you to speak, and so you did.

 You explained everything, not omitting a single detail. You told him that you wrote that article when you weren’t close to him or GOT7 yet. You told him that you only wrote about what you saw and your opinion on it, because that was your job. You saw that JYP Entertainment had too much control over GOT7, whom let that happen without protesting, which made them look like children under their company’s influence, at least from your point of view. You were paid to be honest, not to please the artists you were writing about. Yes, it was unfortunate that it took so long for things to reveal themselves as they truly were, but there was nothing you could do about it. You explained to Jinyoung that he had the right to be upset about it, but he also had to try and understand. You also made it clear that you didn’t write the second, more flattering article to seek forgiveness for him, but because it was the truth and it needed to come out.

 The entire time you spoke, Jinyoung had his arms resting on his thighs, hands intertwined, nodding his head every now and then. He seemed to listen carefully, but you just weren’t sure anymore. You never knew what to expect from this man: one minute he’s acting all petty and condescending, the other he’s serious and attentive. He kept you on your toes, and your heart was pounding in your chest the entire time.

 Once you’re finished, he doesn’t say anything, looking down, as if processing all the information you’d given. You sigh in relief, feeling a heavy weight being taken off your shoulders.  

 - “... I see” Jinyoung murmurs after a minute of silence.

 - “Yeah, so that’s why” you say, wiping your sweaty hands on your pants.

- “Cool” he says, a sweet smile on his face. “I guess you can go now.”

 Your jaw dropped.

 - “Is that it? Is that all you have to say?”

 - “What were you expecting? Make up sex?”

 - “No, you idiot” you said, fuming. “Don’t you have anything you wanna tell me? Something around the lines of ‘I’m Sorry’?”

 - “Why should I apologize when you refuse to?”

 - “Because you called me a bitch, Jinyoung.”

 - “And you called me a puppet.”

 - “I just told you I was only doing my job!” you practically screamed.

 - “You hurt my pride!” he deadpanned, just as loud.

 A fake, irritated laugh escaped you.

 - “That’s a ridiculous excuse.”

 - “Your ‘I was doing my job’ shit is just as funny to me” he pointed out.

 - “Well I’m not going to apologize, Jinyoung” you said stubbornly, crossing your arms on your chest with a little huff.

 - “Me neither” he replied, imitating your position.

 After a duel of looks that seemed to last forever, Jinyoung finally spoke out.

 - “Fine. Let’s settle on common ground: we both fucked up real bad, and we’re even now.”

 You wanted to voice out your disagreement and tell him that wasn’t fair, but you stopped yourself. It probably took him a lot to admit that he even fucked up. There was an effort from him. It wasn’t enough, but it was quite a progress, Also, you were tired of fighting. You just wanted him back in your life, somehow, anyhow.

 - “Okay. So are we good now?”

 - “We’re good” he nodded. “Now if you don’t mind, I want to sleep.”

 He stood up from the bed and proceeded in walking you out of his room. You sighed, highly doubting the sincerity of his words. He was dismissing you again, and you’d have done all of that for nothing. You followed him, confused and disappointed. Were you about to lose him for good this time? You really couldn’t tell anymore. You were ready to surrender and apologize right now if it meant he would stop being mad at you, but before you could speak, he stopped in his track and turned to you.

 - “It must’ve been stressful. Having all of that in your mind, enduring my vengeful behavior and then arguing and stuff.”

 You blinked, not seeing where he was trying to get.

 - “Yeah, it was... I guess. Why?”

 - “I don’t know” he shrugged. “I was thinking maybe we should go to the bar downstairs and have a drink before we sleep. So you can, you know, unwind.”

 You stared blankly at him for a second, puzzled. But then, something clicked in your brain and you smiled teasingly.

 - “Is this your own roundabout way of saying sorry? Is this a date?”

 - “Absolutely not, dear. You’re paying for your own drink” he said, walking back to put on his shoes.

  He had his back turned on you so you couldn’t see his face, but you could swear you saw his ears redden.

 - “Are you coming or not, before I tie these?” he asked, feigning impatience and gesturing towards his shoelaces.

 You shook your head. Jinyoung was literally hopeless. But oh well, that would only be another challenge for you. After making him beg, next step would be making him apologize. And with that, you followed him downstairs, reminding yourself to always refer to this night as your first date just to piss him off.

a/n: hello and thanks for reading the Not Sorry mini-series hehe 🖤 i hope you enjoyed the story, don’t hesitate to give me feedback, i appreciate it a lot! a special thanks to the person who requested this story, i enjoyed writing it so much. 🖤

[alarawriting]

Inktober 2020 #19 - Dizzy / Writeober 2020 #14 - Euphoria

There is a hole in the world.

You’ve known about it for years before you get to go. Oh, it certainly sounded interesting, but you were on a fixed income, and you weren’t well. Medicare pays all the doctor bills, but it doesn’t pay for the bus or the taxi to your appointments, and you were too tired all the time for adventures anyway.  An exciting vacation for you was a trip to Maryland or West Virginia to play slot machines at a casino. And you kept meaning to go, but the years slipped by, the way they do when you’re old, the unfair speeding up of the train as it approaches the final destination.

But your grandson – your youngest daughter’s boy, the one who loves science – won a trip as a prize in a science fair, with the caveat that he had to bring an adult, and his mother was going to be on a business trip then and his father was on deadline, so it had to be you. All expenses paid, a one day trip because no one likes to sleep over there and there’s no organized human settlements. Everything is camping rough. When you were a girl, the Girl Scouts didn’t teach camping the way the Boy Scouts did.  You won badges in sewing and making brownies and being a good friend, back in your day, and you learned something about camping but not nearly as much as your brother did, and it’s not like either of you ever had a chance to go out to the woods and live rough. So a one-day trip seems just right for you.

The flight is deeply irritating, like it always is. Your grandson gets singled out for special security, like a 14 year old boy accompanied by his grandmother is such a danger, and it’s so hard for you to take your shoes off and then put them back on without a bench to sit on to do it. At least they don’t question your oxygen tank the way they did on the last flight you took, when you went to Florida to see your childhood best friend and the security people acted like an oxygen tank was a potential bomb. In comparison, when you get to the Donut – the colloquial name for the gateway to the other world – there’s very little security, probably because no one can blow up a hole in the world. Blowing up the Donut would just temporarily set back humanity’s ability to control the gateway, it wouldn’t actually remove it, or stop travel for very long. And trips to the Donut aren’t nearly as crowded nowadays as they were when the thing was first built.

At the Donut, the security people ask you if you want to leave the oxygen tank behind. This is a really strange question. “I’m rather fond of breathing, actually,” you say, smiling, because your grandson is here so you really can’t say “What the fuck” like you want to.

The security guard who spoke smiles back at you. “I’m sure you do, ma’am,” she says. “Thing is, the other world has much higher oxygen concentration in the atmosphere. A lot of our visitors with oxygen tanks find that they don’t need them on the other side.”

You’d heard about that on one of your Internet mailing lists for the elderly, but frankly there is so much crap in there, you assumed this was nonsense too. Interesting to find out it’s true. But it doesn’t change anything right now. “Well, I don’t know if I’m going to need it or not, but if I find that I don’t, I can always pull my cannula out.”

“It’s a little difficult to pull a tank around over there. Not a lot of sidewalks.”

“We’re going to one of the touristy places,” your grandson Derek says, rolling his eyes. He’d wanted to go to one of the wild places over there, but you shot that down. Your joints, your muscles, and your oxygen tank are not up to traipsing through the wilderness.

“Well, it sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.” The phrase could have been sarcastic or condescending, but the security guard still sounds friendly. “Enjoy your trip!”

The Donut is in the middle of an airplane hangar, or something that looks a lot like it anyway. It’s just amazing how empty the room where the Donut sits is. An airplane hangar should be full of airplanes, but you see yards and yards of empty concrete all around the Donut, which is more or less in the center of the hangar. It’s not actually donut-shaped, it’s an arch, but an arch with enough bend to it on the sides that it looks like about two-thirds of a donut. A plastic flap door covers the opening, semi-opaque PVC strips. It hides the hole in the world from casual view.

The queue is rather more loosey-goosey than you usually expect a queue to be. Small groups of people chat, children run around, and it doesn’t seem like there’s really any rhyme or reason to it, but you all have tickets, and your tickets have numbers, and you’re being called in numerical order. When it’s your turn, you request your destination from the Donut operator. The operator has a keypad attached to the Donut. She pushes some buttons. “Enjoy your trip!” she says, and gestures that they can go forward.

Derek pushes through the plastic flaps first, running even though you just shouted, “Derek! No running!” You follow, pulling your oxygen tank.

On the other side, there’s a concrete pad in a forest clearing. Most of the forest clearing is packed dirt, or weird bluish ground-cover vine in long strands with plump leaves. Around the edges of the clearing, there’s a couple of Port-a-Potties, a few food vending stands – including one labeled “McDonalds @ NovaStella”, NovaStella being one of several names the new world is going by depending on who you ask – and a tour guide in the center of the clearing.

“Hi, everybody!” she says. She has dark brown skin and straight black hair, long and unbraided, falling straight down her back, and she’s wearing beige cargo shorts and a beige button-down short sleeve shirt. It makes her look like a character from the Jumanji franchise, or Indiana Jones. “I’m Sahana, and I’ll be your guide to Nova Stella today…”

But you’re hardly paying attention, because you can breathe.

It’s been, what, twenty years? You’ve had COPD so long you can’t quite remember what it felt like to draw a breath and feel like it really fills you with oxygen. Even with your tank, you’ve always felt short of breath; your arms and legs burn when you do anything even moderately strenuous, like climbing stairs. And there’s always a heaviness, a feeling like there’s a steady pressure on your chest, never absent.

Until now.

You take a deep breath. You feel light. You feel dizzy. You feel full of energy, like you could run a mile the way you did in your 20s, like you could sling boxes full of papers around and move out of your house all by yourself. It’s amazing, and it buoys you up, makes you euphoric as you haven’t felt since you first fell in love with your now-long-dead husband.

Testing, you remove the cannula from your nose, and breathe deeply through your nose. It feels good. Even without the extra oxygen from your tank, your chest is light and full and the muscles in your limbs don’t ache. You still don’t think you could jump – oxygen doesn’t fix your elderly joints, the worn cartilage caps between your bones and the overstretched tendons like the elastics on 20-year-old pants, stiff and unelastic now – but you could walk for hours. You could maybe even run. You could swim. How long has it been since you felt like you could swim? You do water aerobics all the time, but you never put your head under the water anymore because you can’t fill your lungs full enough.

“Excuse me,” you say to Sahana the tour guide. “Is there anywhere I can leave this?” You gesture at your oxygen tank. “I don’t think I’ll be needing it.”

“We have an emergency cart where we carry things like that, in case you turn out to need it later,” Sahana says. She gestures at a very long, tall, narrow cart made in segments, so it can turn corners, with two really big men, a white man with sandy hair and a man with light brown skin whose race is impossible to determine, standing by it, wearing the same uniform Sahana is. “Lots of people put jackets in there, or their cameras, or laptops, and a good number of people in your position do in fact store their oxygen tank in the cart just in case.”

“Thank you so much, dear,” you say. The big white man, all customer service smiles, takes your oxygen tank and puts it on the cart, and you breathe. And you breathe. And you breathe.

As you, your grandson, and everyone else in the party begin the hike through the forest, on the narrow trails carved by the company, Sahana advises you all to stay on the path. “We haven’t been able to test all the plants to make sure they’re all safe for human beings,” she says. “There’s always the possibility of having an allergic reaction to a chemical humans have never encountered before.”

You know that’s true. You read up on it before coming here, and you knew about what causes allergies anyway – you’re not a doctor or a nurse but you worked in medical billing for twenty years, and you pick things up. But part of you longs to go off the trail, to carve your own path through the thick and alien woods. Pick flowers no human has seen before. Climb trees and vines. With the air of this world in your lungs, you feel like you could do anything.

This won’t be the last trip. You know, now, that if you have to spend your children’s entire inheritance to be here as often as you can, you’ll do it. If there’s a job you can find that will support you in making these trips, you’ll take it. You’ll do whatever it takes to be here, where your breathing is easy and the scent of the world fills you with excitement and euphoria, where you feel young and near-invincible again.