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philmonjohn · 2 months ago

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A Call to the Children of the Global South: The System That Made My Father Disown Me

I didn’t write this living testimony for virality. I wrote it because silence almost killed me. Because truth, even when ignored by algorithms, remembers how to survive. If this resonated with you — even quietly — share it with someone else who’s still trying to name their Fracture. That’s how we outlive the system. - Philmon John, May 2025

THE FRACTURE Several months ago, when I, a South-Asian American man, turned 35, my father disowned me.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t cry. He simply stopped calling me his son.

My father is a Brown, MAGA-aligned conservative Christian pastor, born in Kerala, India, and now living in the United States. His rejection wasn’t provoked by any breach of trust or familial responsibility, but by my coming out as queer and bisexual — and by my deliberate move away from a version of Christianity shaped more by colonial rule than compassion.

I became blasphemy made flesh.

My mother and sister, equally immersed in religious conservatism, followed suit. Most of my extended family — conservative Indian Christians — responded with quiet complicity. I became an exile in my own lineage, cast out from a network that once celebrated me as the Mootha Makkan, the Malayalam term for “eldest son”.

This break didn’t occur in isolation. It was the culmination of years of internal questioning and ideological transformation.

I was raised with warmth and structure, but also under the weight of rigid theology. My parents cycled through different churches in pursuit of doctrinal purity. In that environment, my queerness had no safe harbor. It had to be hidden, managed, controlled — forced into secrecy.

Literal, cherry-popping closets.

Even my childhood discipline was carved straight from scripture — “spare the rod, spoil the child” was not metaphor but mandate. I was hit for defiance, for curiosity, for emotional honesty. Control was synonymous with love. The theology: obedience over empathy. Is it sad I would rather now have had a beating from my father, than his silence?

I would’ve taken the rod — at least it acknowledged me.

Instead, Daddy looks through me.

THE INHERITANCE And I obeyed. For a time, I rose through the ranks of the church. I led worship. I played guitar in the worship band. I wasn’t just a believer — I was a builder of belief, a conductor of chorus, a jester of jubilee and Sunday morning joy — all while masking a private ache I could not yet articulate.

In the last five years, I began methodically deconstructing the ideological scaffolding I had inherited. I examined the mechanisms of theology, patriarchy, and colonial imposition — and the specific burdens placed upon firstborn sons of immigrant families. Who defines our roles? Who benefits from our silence? Why is this happening to me?

These questions consistently pointed toward the dominant global structure: wealthy white patriarchal supremacy. Rooted in European imperialism and sustained by centuries of religious and cultural colonization, this system fractures not only societies but the deeply intimate architecture of family.

What my family experienced is not unlike what the United States of America continues to experience — a slow, painful reckoning with a foundational ideology of white, heteronormative, Christian patriarchal dominance.

My family comes from Kerala, home to one of the oldest Christian communities in the world. But the Christianity I inherited was not indigenous. It was filtered through the moral codes of Portuguese priests and British missionaries and the discipline of Victorian culture. Christ was not presented as a radical Middle Eastern teacher but as a sanitized figure — pale, passive, and Western.

In this theology, Christ is symbolic. Paul is the system. Doctrine exists to reinforce patriarchy, to police desire, to ensure control. When I embraced a theology rooted in love, empathy, and justice — the ethics I believe Jesus actually lived — I was met not with discussion, but dismissal.

To my family, my identity wasn’t authenticity. It was apostasy.

THE RECKONING In 2020, the ground shifted.

I turned the triple decade — 30 — as the COVID-19 pandemic erupted.

Remote work slowed life down, and I had space to think deeply.

That year, the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and countless others triggered a national and personal reckoning.

I turned to K-LOVE, the Christian radio station I grew up with, hoping to hear words of solidarity, truth, or even mourning. Instead, there was silence. No mention of racial justice. No prayers for the dead. Just songs about personal salvation, void of historical context or social responsibility.

As Geraldine Heng argues in The Invention of Race in the European Middle Ages, race was not merely a modern invention void of scientific basis — it was already taking shape in medieval Europe, where Christianity was used to sanctify, encode, and sell racial hierarchies as divine order and social technology.

As Ademọ́la, also known as Ogbeni Demola, once said: “The white man built his heaven on your land and pointed yours to the sky.” That brain-powered perceptive clarity — distilled in a single line — stays with me every day.

With professional routines interrupted and spiritual ties frayed, I immersed myself in scholarship. I entered what I now see as a period of epistemic reconstruction. I read widely — revolutionaries, poets, sociologists, historians, mathematicians, theologians, cultural critics, and the unflinching truth-tellers who name what empire tries to erase.

I first turned to the voices who now live only in memory: Bhagat Singh, James Baldwin, Frantz Fanon, bell hooks, Octavia Butler, Gloria Anzaldúa, and Vine Deloria Jr. Each carried the weight of revolution, tenderness, and truth — from anti-colonial struggle to queer theory to Indigenous reclamation.

I then reached for the veteran thought leaders still shaping the world, starting with Noam Chomsky, Naomi Klein, Shashi Tharoor, Eduardo Bonilla-Silva, Susan Visvanathan, Geraldine Heng, George Gheverghese Joseph, J. Sakai, Vijay Prashad, Vilna Bashi Treitler, Claire Jean Kim, and Arundhati Roy — voices who dismantle the illusions of empire through history, mathematics, linguistics, and racial theory.

In the present, I absorbed insights from a new generation of public intellectuals and cultural critics: Ta-Nehisi Coates, Jared Yates Sexton, Cathy Park Hong, Ibram X. Kendi, Nikole Hannah-Jones, Heather McGhee, Mehdi Hasan, Adrienne Keene, Keri Leigh Merritt, Vincent Bevins, Sarah Kendzior, Ayesha A. Siddiqi, Wajahat Ali, W. Kamau Bell, Mary Trump, & John Oliver. Together, they form a constellation of clarity — thinkers who gave me language for grief, strategy for resistance, and above all, a framework for empathy rooted in history, not abstraction.

I also turned to the thinkers shaping today’s cultural and political discourse. I dreamt of the world blueprinted by Bhaskar Sunkara in his revolutionary The Socialist Manifesto and plunged into Jacobin’s blistering critiques of capitalism. The Atlantic’s longform journalism kept me tethered to a truth-seeking tradition. The Guardian stood out for its global scale and reach, offering progressive, longform storytelling that speaks to both local injustices and systemic inequalities across the world. And Roman Krznaric’s Empathy: Why It Matters, and How to Get It helped crystallize my core belief:

Be a good human. Practice empathy.

That’s the playbook, America. Practice empathy. Do that — and teach accurate, critically reflective history — and we have the chance to truly become the greatest democracy the world has ever seen.

And this empathy must extend to all — especially to trans people. In India, the Hijra community — trans and intersex folk who have existed visibly for thousands of years — embody a sacred third gender long before the West had language for it. But they are not alone. Across the colonized world, the empire erased a sacred third space: the Muxe of Zapotec culture, the Bakla of the Philippines, the Fa’afafine of Samoa, the Two-Spirit nations of Turtle Island, the Māhū of Hawaiʻi, the Sworn Virgins of the Balkans — each of these communities held space outside Western gender binaries, rooted in care, ceremony, and spirit. Some align with what we today call trans or intersex, while others exist entirely outside Western definitions. Colonization reframed them as deviants.

And still, we must remember this: trans people are not new. Our respect for them must be as ancient as their existence.

THE RESISTANCE As I examined the dynamics of coloniality, racial capitalism, and Western empire, I realized just how deeply imperial power had shaped my family, our values, and our spiritual language. The empire didn’t just occupy land — it rewrote moral codes. It restructured the family.

I learned how Irish, Italian, Greek, Hungarian, and Albanian immigrants were initially excluded from whiteness in America. Over time, many adopted and embraced whiteness as strategic economic and social protection — and in doing so, embraced anti-Blackness and patriarchal hierarchies to maintain their newfound status. Today, many European-hyphenated Americans defend systems that once excluded them.

And over time, some Asian-Americans have followed the very same racial template.

At 33 — the age Jesus is believed to have died — I laid my childhood faith to rest. In its place rose something rooted in clarity, not doctrine.

I didn’t walk away from religion into cynicism or nihilism. I stepped into a humanist, justice-centered worldview. A system grounded in reason, evidence, and above all, empathy. A belief in people over dogma. In community over conformity.

I didn’t lose faith. I redefined it.

I left the pasture of institutional faith, not for chaos, but for an ethical wilderness — a space lacking divine command but filled with moral clarity. A place built on personal responsibility and universal dignity.

This is where I stand today.

To those with similar histories: if your roots trace back to Africa, South Asia, Southeast Asia, Central Asia, East Asia, the Middle East, Latin America, the Caribbean, Oceania, or to Indigenous and marginalized communities within the Global North — you are a Child of the Global South. Even in the Global North, your experience carries the weight of displaced geography, the quiet grief of colonial trauma, and a genealogy forged by the system of empire. Your pain is political. Your silence is inherited. You are not invisible. They buried you without a funeral. They mourned not your death, but your deviation from design. However, we are not dead. We are just no longer theirs.

White supremacy endures by fracturing us. It manufactures tensions between communities of color by design — placing Asian businesses in Black communities without infrastructure and opportunities for BIPOC folk to share and benefit from the economic engine. Central to this strategy is the model minority myth, crafted during the Cold War to present Asian-Americans as obedient, self-reliant, and successful — not to celebrate them, but to invalidate Black resistance and justify structural racism. It’s a myth that fosters anti-Blackness in Asian communities and xenophobia in Black ones, while shielding white supremacy from critique. These divisions are not cultural accidents; they’re colonial blueprints.

And these blueprints stretch across oceans and continents and time.

In colonial South Africa, Mohandas Gandhi — still shaped by British racial hierarchies — distanced Indians from Black Africans, calling them “kaffirs” and demanding separate facilities. In Uganda, the British installed South Asians as a merchant middle class between colonizers and native Africans, breeding distrust. When Idi Amin expelled 80,000 Asians in 1972, it was a violent backlash to a racial hierarchy seeded by empire. These fractures — between Black and Asian, colonized and sub-colonized — are the legacy of white patriarchal supremacy.

Divide, distract, and dominate.

We must resist being weaponized against each other.

Every Asian-American must read Minor Feelings by Cathy Park Hong. Every high schooler in America must read and discuss Jared Yates Sexton.

Study the systems. Name them. Disarm them.

Because unless we become and remain united, the status quo — one that serves wealthy cisgender, heterosexual, white Christian men — will remain intact.

This is A Call to the Children of the Global South. And An Invitation to the Children of the Global North: Stop the infighting. Study and interrogate the systems. Reject the design.

To those in media, publishing, and the arts: postcolonial narratives are not cultural sidebars. They are central to national healing. They preserve memory, restore dignity, and confront whitewashed histories.

If you want work that matters — support art that pushes past trauma into structural critique.

Greenlight truth. Platform memory. Choose courage over comfort.

Postcolonial stories should be the norm — not niche art.

Jordan Peele’s Get Out was a cinematic breakthrough — razor-sharp and genre-defying — in its exposure of white supremacy’s quiet machinery: liberal smiles, performative allyship, and the pacification of dissent through assimilation. The Sunken Place is not just a metaphor for silenced Black consciousness — it’s the empire’s preferred position for the marginalized: visible, exploited, but unheard.

A system that offers the illusion of inclusion, weaponizing identity as control.

Ken Levine’s BioShock Infinite exposed white supremacy through a dystopian, fictional but historically grounded lens - depicting the religious justification of Black enslavement, Indigenous erasure, and genocidal nationalism in a floating, evangelical empire.

David Simon’s The Wire exposed the institutional decay of law enforcement, education, and the legal system - revealing how systemic failure, not individual morality, drives urban collapse.

Jesse Armstrong’s Succession traced the architecture of empire through family - showing how media empires weaponize racism, propaganda, and manufactured outrage to generate profit and secure generational wealth.

Ava DuVernay's Origin unearths caste and race as twin blueprints of white supremacy - linking Dalit oppression in India to the subjugation of Black Americans. Adapted from Isabel Wilkerson's Caste, it dismantles the myth of isolated injustice, revealing a global system meticulously engineered to rank human worth - and the radical act of naming the system.

Ryan Coogler’s Sinners — a revelatory, critically and commercially successful film about Afro-Asian resistance in 1930s Mississippi — exposes the hunger for speculative narratives grounded in historical truth.

Across the Spider-Verse gave us Pavitr Prabhakar - a Brown superhero who wasn't nerdy or celibate, as Western media typically portrayed the South-Asian man, but cool, smart, athletic, with great hair, in love, and proudly anti-colonial. He called out the British for stealing and keeping Indian artifacts… in a Spider-Man movie. That moment was history reclaimed.

A glitch in the wealthy white patriarchal matrix.

Dev Patel’s Monkey Man is a visceral fable of vengeance and resistance, where the brutality of caste, corruption, and religious nationalism collide. Amid this chaos, the film uplifts the Hijra community who stand not only as victims, but as warriors against systemic violence. Their alliance reframes queerness not as deviance, but as defiance — ultimately confronting the machinery of empire with what it fears most: a system-breaking empathy it cannot contain.

The vitriolic backlash from white male gamers and fandoms isn’t about quality — it’s about losing default status in stories. Everyone else has had to empathize with majority white male protagonists for decades. Diverse representation in media isn’t a threat to art — it’s a threat to white supremacy. It’s not just a mirror held up to the globe — it’s a refusal to let one worldview define it.

Hollywood, gaming studios, and the gatekeepers of entertainment — if you want to reclaim artistic integrity and still make money doing it, we need art that remembers, resists, and reclaims — stories that name the machine and short-circuit its lies. The world is ready. So am I.

Today, efforts like Project 2025, the Heritage Foundation, and the Federalist Society are not merely policy shops — they are ideological engines: built to roll back civil rights, impose authoritarian values, and erase uncomfortable truths. They represent a hyper-concentrated form of white supremacy, rooted in unresolved Civil War grievances and the failures of Reconstruction.

Miraculously, or perhaps, blessed with intellectual curiosity and natural empathy, through all of this, my wife — a compassionate, steadfast partner and a Christian woman — has remained by my side. She has witnessed my transformation with both love and complexity. While our bond is rooted in deep respect and shared values, our spiritual landscapes have diverged. Her faith brings her solace; mine has evolved into something more secular, grounded in justice and humanism. We’ve navigated that tension with care — proof that love can stretch across differing beliefs, even as the echoes of religious conditioning still ripple through our lives.

I am proud of her increasing intellectual curiosity and her willingness to accept me for who I am now, even if I wasn’t ready to accept myself when we met.

But our marriage has defied the splintering that white supremacy specifically creates: hyper-capitalist, hyper-individualistic, fractured families and societies.

As Children of the Global South — descendants of peoples who survived enslavement, colonization, and erasure — we carry within us the urgent need for stories that do not turn away from history, but confront it with unflinching truth.

In the pain of losing my family, I found a deeper purpose: to tell this story — and my own — any way I can. A sudden rush of empathy, pity, and love struck me: My parents’ and sister’s rejection was not theirs alone — it was a lingering Fracture left by colonization and global exploitation, tearing apart families across generations. As Children of the Global South, we still carry those wounds.

Make no mistake: white supremacy leaves wounds — because it is the system. And unless it is dismantled, both the Global South and North — and their collective Children — will remain trapped in a dance choreographed by empire — built to divide, exploit, and erase. Any vision of democracy, in America, will remain a fragile illusion — if not an outright mythology — built on a conceptually false foundation: white supremacy itself.

A cruel, heartbreaking legacy of erasure — passed down through empire — indoctrinating God-fearing Brown fathers to erase their godless, queer Brown sons. Preaching shame as scripture. Teaching silence as survival.

I reject that inheritance.

Empathy as praxis is how we reject that inheritance. In a world engineered to divide, it rebuilds connection, disarms supremacy, and charts a path forward. If humanity is to survive — let alone heal — empathy must become our collective discipline.

And perhaps what cut even deeper for my father — beyond my queerness — was that I no longer validated his role as a pastor. In stepping away from the faith he had built his life upon, I wasn’t just rejecting a belief system. I was, in his eyes, nullifying his life’s work. For a man shaped by empire, ordained by colonial Christianity, and burdened with the role of moral gatekeeper, my departure from his manufactured worldview may have landed as personal failure. But it wasn’t. It was never about wanting to hurt him. I love my father. I love my mother. I love my sister. It was never about them — it was about the system that taught them love was conditional, acceptance required obedience, and dissent unforgivable. That kind of pain is real — but its source is systemic. I still want to be Mootha Makkan — not by obedience, but by truth. By love without condition. Not through erasure, but by living fully in the open. Not in their image, but in mine.

Yet, and yes, I also carry the wound — but I also carry the will to heal it.

THE CALL I believe in empathy. I believe in memory. I believe the Children of the Global South are not broken. We are not rejected. We are awakening.

Children of the Global North: join us. We are not your enemies. We are your present and future collaborators, business & creative partners, lovers, and kin. We are building something new — something ancient yet reawakened, a pursuit of empathy, and a reckoning with history that refuses to forget.

If this story resonated with you, kindly share it, spread the word and please comment. I’d love to hear from you. Your voice, your memory, your Fracture — it matters here.

You are not alone. All are welcome.

Thank you so, so much for your time in reading my story.

You can also email me directly: vinesvenus at protonmail.com I'll be writing more on Medium as well: https://medium.com/@vinesvenus/a-call-to-the-children-of-the-global-south-the-system-that-made-my-father-disown-me-fecad6c0b862

#queer #exvangelical #global south #colonialism #religious trauma #deconstruction #lgbtqia #longform essay #history #queer history #queer community #queer pride #mental health #agnostic #ex christian #atheist #empathy in praxis #empathy

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thealchemistbae · 1 month ago

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How to Make F*ck You Money Using Your 8th House💸

Let's talk about F you money...the kind of money that buys freedom, power, peace, and the ability to say "no" without guilt. The kind of money that screams main character energy. And guess what? Your 8th house holds the key.

The 8H in astrology rules over shared resources, passive income, investments, inheritance, $ex work, shadow work, transformation, power dynamics, and yes...BIG MONEY. Think generational wealth, not just what's in your checking account.

Disclaimer: This post is for entertainment purposes only.

thealchemistbae © do not copy, redistribute, or edit my content.

If you enjoyed this post, you can leave me a tip via PayPal at [email protected] or via Venmo @goddessguapa. Thank you.

Step 1: What Sign is on Your 8th House Cusp?

This shows the vibe of how you handle money from others, investments, and power. Here's the tea:

Aries -> You get big money by taking bold risks, being first, and having a boss b*tch attitude. Crypto? Only if you're first. Entrepreneurship? Yes ma'am.

Taurus -> You attract wealth through luxury, patience, and beauty. Real estate, slow investments, sugar baby vibes. Rich auntie/uncle energy.

Gemini -> You get paid to talk, think, or write. Digital assets, intellectual property, courses, or content that keeps paying you forever.

Cancer -> Wealth from family, real estate, and emotional labor. Generational wealth, healing work, or investing in homey assets.

Leo -> Fame, visibility, and charisma = money. Your presence alone is profitable. Passive income through fans, royalties, and performance.

Virgo -> You monetize your skills, routines, and healing abilities. Systems, services, editing, health and wellness work, and digital products.

Libra -> You attract wealth through beauty, relationships, and luxury. Partnerships, sugar daddies, aesthetic businesses, or passive fashion income.

Scorpio -> Powerhouse. You were born for F you money. Wealth through mystery, sex work, investments, and deep transformation. You can flip pain into profit.

Sagittarius -> Money through teaching, publishing, and going global. Travel content, spiritual coaching, or international biz? Goldmine.

Capricorn -> You build wealth over time. Passive income from systems, institutions, or your own empire. Think CEO bag.

Aquarius -> You make money through innovation and being ahead of your time. Tech, astrology, community platforms. Viral = income.

Pisces: Dreamy dollars. You remake money in mysterious or spiritual ways. Art, music, dreams, healing, even OnlyFans.

Step 2: What Planets Are in Your 8th House? (Your Superpowers)

Each planet here tells you how you make that boss-level, passive, transformative money.

Sun: Your power and identity are tied to your ability to accumulate and manage wealth. You're meant to live off royalties or investments. Your legacy pays your bills.

Moon: You intuitively attract wealth. Cyclical income. You can profit from nurturing, healing, or female dominated spaces. Wealth may come through family or emotional work.

Mercury: You write, speak, or strategize your way to money. Stock tips, intellectual property, or sharing taboo knowledge. You make $$$ from secrets.

Venus: You're literally made to attract luxury and resources. Sugar baby potential, creative investments, passive income from beauty or love-based businesses.

Mars: You hustle for that money. Sex work, bold business moves, and aggressive investing can be major wins. You thrive in high stakes financial spaces.

Jupiter: F*ck you money is your birthright. You naturally expand and attract wealth often through spiritual wisdom, teaching, or blessings from others.

Saturn: You build wealth slowly, but it's unshakeable. Passive income through discipline, real estate, legacy building, or authority in your field.

Uranus: Sudden windfalls, viral moments, and unconventional income streams. You were born to break the rules and still get paid. Internet wealth = chef's kiss.

Neptune: Spiritual, artistic, or mystery money. Think music royalties, dreams turned into passive profit or even hidden/inherited wealth. Trust your intuition.

Pluto: You're a financial powerhouse. You attract wealth through transformation, shadow work, or high stakes environments. Sex, death, taxes? You run it.

North Node: Your destiny is to become wealthy through other people's money, deep transformation, or taboo topics. Follow the path of power.

South Node: You've already mastered wealth in a past life; now you're learning to share it or evolve past it. Don't cling to scarcity.

Chiron: You've been wounded by money, sex, or power...but healing these wounds makes you RICH. You can guide others through their darkness and get paid for it.

Your 8th house is your wealth witch zone. It's not your salary...it's what keeps the money coming while you sleep. Use your placements to tap into wealth that's bigger than you, tied to transformation, and often a lil taboo.

You don't just make F you money; you embody it.

Want a custom money astro reading? Slide in my DMs for prices.

Subscribe to Patreon: ⬇️⬇️

#astrology #astro observations #astro community #thealchemistbae #birth chart #horoscope #astrology for beginners #natal chart #astro notes #money astrology #8th house

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lifeofprosperity · 2 years ago

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Explain to me why some people are rich but most are poor and what do I need to do to become wealthy

The distribution of wealth in society is influenced by a complex interplay of factors, and there isn’t a single explanation that applies universally. However, I can provide you with a general overview of some of the factors that contribute to this phenomenon: Income Inequality: Income inequality arises from differences in earnings. Factors such as education, skills, job opportunities, and luck…

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sunarryn · 3 months ago

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DP X Marvel #19

Pepper Potts prided herself on her ability to adapt. She’d survived Tony Stark’s post-cave existentialism, Stark Expo 2010, the entirety of the Avengers Initiative, and several global cataclysms. But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared her for the day she received a glowing scroll via flaming raven at 3 a.m. It exploded into glitter and legal jargon the second she touched it.

The Temporal Child Reassignment Authority—TCRA for short, like an IRS from hell with better penmanship—had declared her the legal guardian of four de-aged minors, all results of an “interdimensional ghost war and subsequent reality collapse.” The document even included a family tree, pointing out her half-sister Maddie Fenton as their maternal parent. The kicker? Three of the children were meta-class ecto-beings. And the fourth was an “anomalous prodigy with cognitive potential exceeding known human thresholds.”

Pepper blinked at the words, reread them, and poured herself the strongest wine she owned.

By the time she finished the bottle, her living room shimmered with unnatural frost, and a swirling green portal opened with the subtlety of a chainsaw. Out stumbled four children—if one could use such a soft word for what appeared to be three weapons of mass destruction and a tiny, furious psychologist in the making.

Jazz was nine years old, with blazing red hair in a ponytail so tight it looked like a weapon. Her eyes scanned the room with military precision. She was holding a notebook, already scribbling down assessments.

Dan, aged seven, had black-and-white hair that flickered between forms, red eyes glowing faintly, and a permanent scowl that screamed war criminal in a booster seat. His tiny boot crushed a Stark Industries coaster underfoot.

Danny, five, looked like an overcaffeinated sugar cube in a “Ghostbusters are Bigots” shirt. He levitated six inches off the ground, phasing through the coffee table like it offended him personally.

And Dani—dear sweet baby Dani—was three, wore a tutu over her jumpsuit, and was gnawing on a Stark tech screwdriver like a teething raptor. It sparked. She giggled.

Pepper stared.

Tony wandered in wearing Iron Man pajama pants and blinked at the chaos.

“Huh. Why do I suddenly feel like a dad?”

Pepper stood up and handed him the scroll.

Ten minutes later, Tony was grinning like a proud, chaotic uncle who just realized he’d inherited a feral army. “Oh, I love them.”

“I want to kill Maddie,” Pepper muttered. “I want to re-kill her if she’s already dead. I don’t care. I will unearth her soul and yell.”

Jazz looked up from her notes. “Statistically, yelling is ineffective when dealing with narcissistic sociopaths with academic degrees. But I can write up an interrogation protocol if you give me twenty minutes and a war room.”

Tony looked at her like she was a gift from God. “Pepper. She’s a baby you.”

“She’s a terrifying baby me.”

“I love her.”

Dan crossed his arms, floating ominously. “I’m only here because they said I can’t go back to the timeline where I killed everyone.”

Dani beamed. “I like juice!”

Danny phased up to the ceiling fan. “Does this house have ghost-repellent death lasers like the last one? I hate those.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You got hit by ghost-repellent death lasers?”

Pepper was already dialing every Avenger in existence. “Tony. Tony, their parents worked with the GIW.”

“The what?”

Jazz narrowed her eyes. “The Ghost Investigation Ward. They are basically interdimensional fascists who want to wipe out all ghosts and hybrid anomalies. Also, they tried to vivisect us.”

Tony blinked. “Vivisect?”

“Scalpels, restraints, anti-ecto shackles, and a man named Agent O who smells like ham and crime,” Jazz said flatly.

“I’m going to kill someone,” Pepper muttered, pacing. “I’m going to launch an HR-approved war.”

Dani blinked. “Are we allowed to bite?”

“No,” Pepper said.

“Yes,” Tony said at the same time.

Dani cheered.

By the time Natasha arrived, Dani was in the air vents, Danny had short-circuited the AI, Dan was brooding in the fireplace like a Dickensian ghost of vengeance, and Jazz was lecturing FRIDAY on ethical protocol failure.

Natasha stood in the entryway, staring, her eyes wide with either horror or admiration.

“Pepper. Did you birth little Widows?”

“No,” Pepper said tightly. “They’re Maddie’s kids. Maddie’s. As in, I share DNA with them and now legally own them. Apparently.”

Jazz tilted her head. “Ms. Romanoff. I’ve analyzed your fight patterns from Battle of New York and determined you have unresolved trauma related to institutional betrayal. Would you like to unpack that?”

Tony leaned over. “She’s nine.”

“She scares me,” Natasha whispered.

Bucky showed up next and read the full report Jazz had printed out for him, complete with footnotes, photos, and color-coded trauma timelines.

The super soldier sat down, dead-eyed. “I just had a Hydra flashback from a PowerPoint.”

Jazz gave him a lollipop. “That’s a common symptom. I recommend candy and validation.”

Dan muttered something about weak mortals and floated upside down through a wall.

“I like him,” Bucky said faintly.

Steve walked in, saw Dan breathing ectoplasmic fire at the neighbor’s cat, and noped back out.

Wanda arrived and blinked at Jazz, whose psychic aura flared like a dying star every time she got emotional.

They stared at each other for a long time.

“I sense wrath,” Wanda said.

Jazz nodded. “I contain multitudes.”

Pepper was halfway through arranging a legal drone strike on the GIW when Rhodey FaceTimed her. “Hey, uh, why is CNN reporting that four tiny gods have occupied New York and turned the Stark Tower into a haunted war bunker?”

“They’re children,” Pepper said.

Tony poked his head into frame. “Children who can melt tanks.”

Danny flew by holding the Iron Man helmet upside down like a bowl of cereal.

“Dani just set the couch on fire,” Pepper added, dead-eyed.

Rhodey blinked. “I’ll bring extinguishers.”

The thing about children, Pepper had learned, is that they operate entirely on vibes, sugar, and trauma. And these four had plenty of all three. Jazz was terrifyingly competent, and within a week had formed an inter-Avengers child committee, wrote a new AI ethics guideline, and had Bruce Banner signing waivers just to talk to her.

Dan blew up a parking meter because it “looked at him wrong.”

Danny asked Tony if they could build an ecto-bazooka together and promised not to use it on Steve “unless Steve said ghosts weren’t real again.”

Dani tried to use her powers to possess a Roomba and ride it into battle.

Pepper walked in on all four of them forming a pact to “annihilate GIW headquarters” with something called Operation Ghost Buster Buster.

Tony approved instantly.

Pepper did not.

“Pepper,” Tony said. “We have kids now.”

“We have war orphans now.”

“They’re adorable!”

“They’re armed.”

“They’re basically Avengers Junior.”

Dani crashed through the ceiling riding a ghost dragon she “found in the laundry room.”

“I changed my mind,” Pepper muttered. “They’re perfect.”

Pepper flew to Amity Park a week later, dressed in corporate armor and rage. She walked into the Fenton household with Natasha, Bucky, and a glowing legal team of literal demons (Tony’s idea) and found Maddie and Jack cheerfully explaining how ecto-dissection worked on “halflings.”

When Maddie smiled and said, “It’s science, dear,” Pepper threw her coffee in Maddie’s face.

Tony had to hold her back while Bucky dismantled the Fenton portal and Natasha found enough surveillance footage to convict them of several counts of attempted child murder.

Jazz watched the entire thing from the jet via livestream, calmly taking notes.

“Pepper’s my favorite aunt,” she said.

Dan nodded. “She has potential.”

Danny was asleep on Tony’s shoulder, clutching a ghost plushie.

Dani was drawing herself riding a unicorn with a flame thrower.

The Avengers voted unanimously to make the kids honorary members. Jazz requested clearance access to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s trauma archives and got it. Dan received therapy. Danny built a ghost-safe treehouse. Dani declared herself queen of the Stark kitchen and banned kale.

Pepper watched them play in the yard one day and finally exhaled.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” she whispered.

Tony grinned. “You’re doing fine.”

Jazz ran by wielding a dagger made of solidified ghost energy.

Danny chased her screaming something about shared custody of the Lunchables.

Dan floated overhead like a sullen storm cloud.

Dani cackled, flying past them on her Roomba dragon.

“I need wine,” Pepper muttered.

Tony kissed her cheek. “I’ll buy you a vineyard.”

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tanadrin · 2 years ago

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There is an obvious objection to evolutionary models which assume that our strongest social ties are based on close biological kinship: many humans just don’t like their families very much. And this appears to be just as true of present- day hunter-gatherers as anybody else. Many seem to find the prospect of living their entire lives surrounded by close relatives so unpleasant that they will travel very long distances just to get away from them. New work on the demography of modern hunter-gatherers — drawing statistical comparisons from a global sample of cases, ranging from the Hadza in Tanzania to the Australian Martu? — shows that residential groups turn out not to be made up of biological kin at all; and the burgeoning field of human genomics is beginning to suggest a similar picture for ancient hunter-gatherers as well, all the way back to the Pleistocene. While modern Martu, for instance, might speak of themselves as if they were all descended from some common totemic ancestor, it turns out that primary biological kin actually make up less than 10 per cent of the total membership of any given residential group. Most participants are drawn from a much wider pool who do not share close genetic relationships, whose origins are scattered over very large territories, and who may not even have grown up speaking the same languages. Anyone recognized to be Martu is a potential member of any Martu band, and the same turns out to be true of the Hadza, BaYaka, !Kung San, and so on. The truly adventurous, meanwhile, can often contrive to abandon their own larger group entirely. This is all the more surprising in places like Australia, where there tend to be very elaborate kinship systems in which almost all social arrangements are ostensibly organized around genealogical descent from totemic ancestors. It would seem, then, that kinship in such cases is really a kind of metaphor for social attachments, in much the same way we’d say ‘all men are brothers’ when trying to express internationalism (even if we can’t stand our actual brother and haven’t spoken to him for years). What’s more, the shared metaphor often extended over very long distances, as we’ve seen with the way that Turtle or Bear clans once existed across North America, or moiety systems across Australia. This made it a relatively simple matter for anyone disenchanted with their immediate biological kin to travel very long distances and still find a welcome.

love the idea that humans avoiding their annoying family by moving hundreds of miles away is part of our ancient evolutionary inheritance

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97linelover · 5 months ago

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Cafe near the base - Jjk

summary: having a small little café near the army base was nothing special, but what if one day a special someone walks in?

content: Idol Jungkook x non Idol reader, fight,angst, happy end,fluff, drama, café setting, fight mentions, discussions

a/n: something about Military Jungkook makes me uuugghhh... I want him.

Y/N wiped her hands on her apron, the smell of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the faint hum of chatter in her cozy café. Nestled near the outskirts of the city, just a short distance from the military base, her café had become a quiet retreat for soldiers and locals alike. She had inherited the place from her late grandfather, who always said, “A warm cup can heal a cold soul.” It was her sanctuary—and, unknowingly, about to become someone else’s.

The bell above the door jingled, signaling a new customer. Y/N glanced up from the counter to see a young man in a plain black hoodie, his dark hair falling over his eyes. He moved with quiet confidence, but there was something unassuming about him that made her immediately feel at ease.

“Welcome,” she said with a small smile. “What can I get you?”

The man looked at the menu board for a moment before responding in a deep, smooth voice. “Just an Americano, please.”

“Coming right up.”

She set to work, glancing at him briefly. He was undeniably handsome, but she didn’t recognize him. To her, he was just another soldier from the base—someone seeking a moment of peace away from their rigorous routines.

He took a seat by the window, his gaze wandering outside. The way he seemed lost in thought piqued her curiosity, but she didn’t want to intrude. When she brought him his coffee, he looked up and offered a faint smile.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“You’re welcome. First time here?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Just transferred to the base recently. Thought I’d explore the area.”

“Well, welcome to the neighborhood,” she replied warmly. “This place might not look like much, but I promise we have the best coffee around.”

He chuckled, and for a moment, Y/N thought she saw a flash of something—relief? Gratitude?—in his eyes.

“I can tell,” he said, taking a sip. “It’s good.”

From that day, he started coming in regularly. Sometimes he’d sit and read, other times he’d sketch in a small notebook he always carried. He introduced himself simply as Jungkook, and Y/N didn’t pry further. He seemed to enjoy the anonymity her café offered, and she liked the calm presence he brought.

As weeks passed, their conversations grew longer. They talked about everything from their favorite childhood memories to dreams they hadn’t yet chased. Y/N found herself drawn to him—not just his looks, but the quiet depth he carried, like he was hiding a world she couldn’t quite see.

One evening, as the café neared closing time, Jungkook stayed behind to help her clean up. They worked side by side in comfortable silence until he suddenly spoke.

“Do you ever feel like… you want to escape your own life for a while?”

Y/N paused, the question catching her off guard. “I think everyone feels that way sometimes. Why? Do you?”

He hesitated, his eyes searching hers. “Maybe... There’s a lot of pressure in my… job. Sometimes it feels like I can’t breathe.”

Y/N frowned, her heart aching at the vulnerability in his voice. “You can always breathe here,” she said gently.

Jungkook smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks, Y/N. That means more than you know.”

What Y/N didn’t know was that the man sweeping her café floor and laughing at her terrible jokes was none other than Jeon Jungkook—the world-famous singer from BTS. The military transfer was a cover for his enlistment, and her café had become his refuge from the spotlight.

As they grew closer, Jungkook found himself torn. He wanted to tell her the truth, but he feared it would change everything. For once, someone saw him as just Jungkook—not the global sensation, not the idol, but a person. And he wasn’t ready to let that go.

One late afternoon, as the golden light spilled through the windows, Y/N handed him a steaming cup of coffee. “You’re kind of mysterious, you know that?” she teased.

“Am I?” he asked, his lips quirking into a small grin.

“Yeah. But I like it. Makes me want to figure you out.”

Jungkook’s chest tightened. He realized then that he’d found something rare in Y/N: a connection untouched by fame or expectations. But the longer he kept his secret, the more he feared what would happen when she discovered who he really was.

For now, he chose to savor the moments—the sound of her laughter, the warmth of her smile, the way her presence made him feel like he could finally breathe.

Over the weeks, Y/N and Jungkook fell into an easy rhythm. Morning coffee runs turned into lingering afternoons, and eventually, late evenings spent talking until the stars dotted the sky. Jungkook began helping her in the café when it got busy, claiming he enjoyed the distraction. Y/N didn’t protest—she liked having him there.

What started as casual conversations about coffee or books had evolved into something much deeper. She found herself laughing more, smiling wider, and looking forward to every moment they spent together. Jungkook’s presence felt like a warm embrace, and though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, there was something about him that made her feel safe.

One Saturday, as the sun dipped behind the mountains near the base, Jungkook arrived at the café with a friend. The man was shorter, with a bright smile that could light up the room and a laugh that seemed to ripple effortlessly through the air.

“Y/N, this is Jimin,” Jungkook introduced him, looking both amused and slightly exasperated as Jimin practically ran up to her.

“Hi!” Jimin greeted warmly. “I’ve heard so much about you. I just had to see this café that Jungkook never stops talking about.”

Y/N blushed under his cheerful gaze, glancing at Jungkook, who rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “Oh, really? I hope it lives up to the hype.”

“It already does,” Jimin said, spinning in a slow circle to take it all in. “I mean, the smell of coffee, the cozy vibe—it’s perfect. No wonder he’s always here.”

“Jimin,” Jungkook muttered, clearly embarrassed, though Y/N noticed the soft fondness in his tone.

The three of them ended up sitting at one of the corner tables after closing. Jimin’s infectious energy filled the room as he teased Jungkook and made Y/N laugh until her stomach hurt. It was the first time she’d seen Jungkook so relaxed, his usual quietness giving way to bursts of laughter and playful jabs at Jimin.

As the evening stretched on, Jimin leaned toward Y/N and said with a wink, “You’ve got no idea how much this guy talks about you at the base. It’s kind of sickening, honestly.”

“Jimin!” Jungkook groaned, his face turning red as Y/N’s eyes widened.

“Oh, come on, Kook,” Jimin said with a laugh. “You’re practically glowing every time you come back from this place.”

Y/N couldn’t help but smile, her heart fluttering. She glanced at Jungkook, who avoided her gaze but couldn’t hide the small, shy smile playing on his lips.

After Jimin left, the two of them stood outside the café under the clear night sky. The air was crisp, and the stars shimmered brightly overhead.

“I’m sorry about Jimin,” Jungkook said, his voice low. “He… has no filter.”

“Don’t apologize,” Y/N said softly, leaning against the doorframe. “I like him. He’s funny. And… he seems to care about you a lot.”

Jungkook nodded, his gaze fixed on the ground. After a moment, he looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers. “Y/N, I—” He hesitated, then shook his head. “Never mind.”

“What is it?” she asked, stepping closer.

He looked at her for a long moment, as if searching for something in her expression. “Nothing. I just… I’m glad I met you.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the sincerity in his voice. “Me too.”

The days turned into weeks, and their connection deepened. Jungkook and Y/N spent more time together, sharing stolen moments in the quiet of the café or walking along the trails near the base. Jimin occasionally joined them, his playful energy balancing the quiet intensity between Y/N and Jungkook.

Still, she remained unaware of who Jungkook truly was. He’d mastered the art of blending in—wearing simple clothes, keeping a low profile, and avoiding anything that might reveal his identity. But with every passing day, his secret weighed heavier on him.

One evening, as they sat on a bench overlooking the city lights, Y/N leaned her head on Jungkook’s shoulder. “You know,” she said, her voice soft, “I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re kind, thoughtful, and…” She paused, smiling. “Mysterious.”

Jungkook chuckled, though it lacked his usual lightness. “Mysterious, huh?”

She nodded. “It’s like you’re carrying this big secret. But I don’t mind. I just… I hope you trust me enough to tell me someday.”

He stiffened slightly but quickly relaxed. “I do trust you, Y/N. More than you know.”

For now, he told himself, he could hold onto this. Hold onto her. Because in her eyes, he wasn’t Jungkook the superstar. He was just Jungkook—a man falling hopelessly in love.

When he walked through the door that evening, her heart skipped, as it always did. Jungkook wore his usual black hoodie, his hair slightly messy, and that small, shy smile she had come to adore.

“Hey,” he greeted softly, leaning on the counter. “You okay? You look… distracted.”

Y/N swallowed hard, wiping her hands on her apron before meeting his gaze. “Jungkook, can we talk? Really talk?”

His smile faltered slightly, and she noticed the flicker of concern in his eyes. “Yeah, of course. What’s going on?”

She motioned toward one of the booths in the corner, and he followed her, sitting across from her as she fidgeted with her hands. The words caught in her throat, but she forced herself to push through.

“Jungkook,” she began, her voice trembling, “I don’t know how else to say this, so I’ll just… say it. I’ve fallen for you. I care about you—so much more than I thought possible.”

His eyes widened slightly, and she pressed on before she lost her nerve.

“You’re kind, thoughtful, and you’ve become such a big part of my life. I don’t know what you’re hiding, and I don’t need to know. I just know that I—” Her voice cracked, but she managed to whisper, “I love you.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Jungkook looked down at the table, his hands clenched into fists. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, Y/N thought he might say something. But he didn’t. Instead, he stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor.

“Jungkook?” she asked, her voice breaking.

“I—” He shook his head, avoiding her gaze. “I can’t do this, Y/N. I’m sorry.”

Her heart shattered at his words. “What do you mean? Did I… do something wrong?”

“No.” His voice was strained, his hands trembling as he shoved them into his pockets. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re… perfect. But this—us—it can’t happen.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she stood, desperate to understand. “Why? If you feel the same way, why are you pushing me away?”

He looked at her then, his eyes filled with pain. “Because I’m not who you think I am. I can’t give you the life you deserve. And if you knew the truth about me, you’d understand why this has to end.”

“Then tell me,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. “Whatever it is, we can figure it out together.”

But he just shook his head, stepping back toward the door. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I can’t.”

And with that, he walked out, leaving her standing there, tears streaming down her face as the door jingled shut behind him.

For days, Jungkook didn’t come to the café. Y/N tried to focus on her work, but the emptiness he left behind was unbearable. She replayed their conversation over and over in her mind, trying to make sense of it.

What was he hiding? Why couldn’t he trust her?

Jungkook, meanwhile, was drowning in his own turmoil. He stayed on base, avoiding everyone, even Jimin. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face—the way she looked at him, her voice when she said she loved him.

He loved her too. He had from the very beginning. But how could he tell her? How could he burden her with the truth? He wasn’t just a soldier stationed at the base. He was Jeon Jungkook, a global superstar whose every move was scrutinized. His life wasn’t his own, and if Y/N knew the truth, her life wouldn’t be hers either.

“You’re an idiot,” Jimin said one evening, barging into Jungkook’s room without knocking.

Jungkook sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. “Don’t start, Jimin.”

“No, I will start,” Jimin snapped, crossing his arms. “You love her, don’t you?”

Jungkook didn’t answer, but the look on his face said enough.

“Then why are you doing this to her? To yourself?”

“Because I’m protecting her!” Jungkook shouted, standing abruptly. “If she knew who I really was, everything would change. She wouldn’t look at me the same way. And even if she did, the world wouldn’t leave her alone. They’d dig into her life, follow her everywhere—she deserves better than that.”

Jimin softened, his expression turning sympathetic. “But don’t you think she should be the one to decide that? You’re not protecting her, Jungkook. You’re just running away.”

Jungkook didn’t respond, his chest heaving as he stared at the floor.

Jimin sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re in love with her. And I can tell she’s in love with you. You have something rare, Jungkook. Don’t throw it away because you’re scared.”

But fear was all Jungkook felt. Fear of losing her, fear of hurting her, fear of what the truth might do to the fragile happiness they’d found together.

So he stayed away, even as his heart broke a little more with every passing day.

Jungkook stood outside the café, staring at the familiar wooden door with its chipped paint and small “Open” sign hanging in the window. It was evening, the golden light spilling across the cobblestone street, and the faint scent of coffee lingered in the air.

But the door wouldn’t open.

He’d been coming here every day for the past week, hoping to see her. Every time, he found it locked—or worse, saw the flicker of movement inside as Y/N disappeared into the back, ignoring him completely. She was shutting him out, and he couldn’t blame her.

Jungkook exhaled deeply, his hands tightening into fists. He had no right to feel hurt, not after what he’d done. But the pain in his chest was suffocating. He had never realized how much the café, her smile, and the warmth she brought into his life had meant to him—until he’d lost it all.

That night he had walked away from her, thinking it was the right thing to do. He thought he was protecting her from the chaos of his world. But instead, he had shattered her trust and his own heart.

Inside the café, Y/N leaned against the back door, her hands trembling. She had seen him through the window, standing there like he always did, his dark eyes scanning the room as if he might find her. But she couldn’t face him—not after everything.

How dare he come back after breaking her heart? After leaving her standing there, vulnerable and exposed, as if her feelings meant nothing to him?

She wiped away an angry tear and straightened, forcing herself to focus on cleaning up. She had work to do, and she wasn’t going to let him distract her again.

But even as she moved around the café, stacking chairs and wiping tables, her mind kept drifting back to him. She hated how much she still missed him, how much she still loved him despite everything.

And she hated herself for the part of her that wished he would explain—give her a reason, any reason, to believe that what they’d had wasn’t a lie.

Jungkook stayed outside for hours, leaning against the wall across the street, watching as the lights in the café dimmed one by one. He wanted to knock, to beg her to let him in, but every time he stepped closer, he hesitated.

He thought about her laugh, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about her dreams. He thought about the quiet moments they had shared, the way she had made him feel like he wasn’t Jeon Jungkook, the idol, but just Jungkook—the man.

But now, he was just a stranger to her.

As the last light went out, he whispered into the empty night, “I’m so sorry, Y/N."

But one rainy afternoon, as she stood behind the counter, wiping down mugs, there was a knock at the door. She glanced up and immediately froze.

It was Jungkook.

He stood there, soaked from the rain, his hoodie clinging to him. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his eyes were red, as if he hadn’t slept. He looked… broken.

“Y/N,” he called through the glass, his voice muffled but desperate. “Please. Just hear me out.”

She stared at him, her heart pounding. For a moment, she almost considered unlocking the door. But then she remembered the pain of him walking away, the emptiness he had left behind.

So she shook her head, turned the sign to “Closed,” and walked to the back, leaving him standing in the rain.

Weeks had passed since Jungkook had stood outside her café, silently pleading for her to let him in. Y/N had kept her distance, her heart wrapped in the protective walls she had built. But no matter how hard she tried to move on, her thoughts always returned to him. His smile, his quiet warmth, the way he had made her feel seen.

One evening, as she closed the café, there was a knock on the door. She froze, expecting to see him again, but this time it wasn’t the rain-soaked figure she had grown used to. It was Jimin.

“Y/N,” he said gently, stepping inside when she hesitated. “Please don’t shut me out too.”

She sighed, setting down the towel she’d been holding. “What do you want, Jimin?”

“I came to speak for him. I know you don’t want to see him, but he’s…” He hesitated, his usually playful demeanor replaced with sincerity. “He’s a mess, Y/N. He’s been hurting, and it’s all because of you.”

“Because of me?” she snapped, anger bubbling to the surface. “He left me, Jimin. He broke my heart.”

“I know,” Jimin said softly, stepping closer. “But do you know why?”

She opened her mouth to retort but stopped. The truth was, she didn’t. He had never given her the answer she deserved.

Jimin smiled sadly. “He’s been scared, Y/N. Not of you, but of himself. Of his world and what it might do to you if you knew who he really was. But he loves you—more than I think he’s ever loved anyone.”

Her heart twisted painfully at his words, and Jimin placed a folded note on the counter. “He asked me to give you this. If you’re ready to listen, meet him tonight.”

She stared at the note long after Jimin had left, her hands trembling as she opened it.

It was simple:

“The park by the hill. 8 PM. Please give me one last chance to show you how much you mean to me. – Jungkook”

Y/N arrived at the park just as the sun was setting, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold. She spotted Jungkook waiting beneath a streetlamp, his hands in his pockets, his gaze distant.

When he saw her, his breath hitched. For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t come. But there she was, standing in front of him, more beautiful than ever.

“Y/N,” he breathed, stepping closer. “Thank you for coming.”

She crossed her arms, trying to mask the whirlwind of emotions she felt. “You said you had something to say. So say it.”

Jungkook nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “I’ve been a coward,” he admitted. “I pushed you away because I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought I was protecting you, but all I did was hurt you.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she held them back. “Why, Jungkook? Why did you leave?”

He hesitated, then reached for her hand. “Because I’m not who you think I am,” he said softly. “I’m not just a soldier. I’m…” He took a deep breath, his voice trembling. “I’m Jeon Jungkook. From BTS.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion. “BTS? The band?”

He nodded, his heart racing. “That’s me. That’s my life. I thought if you knew, it would ruin everything. I didn’t want the attention, the cameras, the chaos, to touch you. But in trying to keep you safe, I lost the one thing that mattered most—us.”

Y/N stared at him, the weight of his confession sinking in. Slowly, she shook her head. “You think I care about any of that?”

He blinked, stunned by her words.

“I don’t care who you are or what you do,” she continued, her voice steady. “I fell in love with you, Jungkook. The man who laughs at my bad jokes, who helps me wipe tables, who makes me feel like I matter. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Jungkook’s heart swelled, and before he could stop himself, he pulled her into his arms. “I love you, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’ve loved you from the moment I stepped into your café. I’m so sorry for pushing you away.”

As the first drops of rain began to fall, Y/N looked up at him, her tears mixing with the soft drizzle. “Then don’t push me away again.”

He smiled, his hand cupping her cheek as he leaned down, their lips meeting in a kiss that felt like the world had stopped spinning. The rain poured around them, but neither of them cared.

They danced under the streetlamp, soaked but laughing, their hearts finally beating in sync. They kissed again and again, neither wanting the night to end.

For the first time, Jungkook wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t hiding. He was simply a man in love, and for the first time in a long time, he felt free.

And Y/N, standing there in his arms, knew that no matter what came next, they would face it together.

The day of Jungkook’s discharge came with clear blue skies and the kind of warmth that hinted at the arrival of spring. The military base was bustling with activity—friends, family, and fans gathered to celebrate the soldiers returning to civilian life. Y/N stood at a distance, hidden near the edge of the park overlooking the base.

She couldn’t get closer, not with the security stationed everywhere. The crowd of people hoping to catch a glimpse of Jungkook was overwhelming, and Y/N knew she didn’t belong there. She wasn’t a part of his world—not the world that demanded the constant flashing of cameras and the protective presence of bodyguards.

Still, she couldn’t help but watch.

From afar, she saw him standing tall in his uniform, surrounded by his bandmates and a sea of fans. His smile was bright, his hand raised in a wave, but she knew him well enough to see the weariness behind it.

Y/N’s heart swelled with pride as she took it all in. He had worked so hard, given so much of himself, and she loved him for every part of it. But she also felt the ache—the deep, quiet pain of knowing she couldn’t be there beside him.

As the ceremony wrapped up and the crowd began to disperse, she turned to leave, her chest tight. She had seen enough. She had come to support him, even if it was from a distance.

But just as she stepped away, a familiar voice called out.

“Y/N!”

She froze, her breath hitching. When she turned, there he was—Jungkook, running toward her, his uniform slightly wrinkled and his hair falling messily over his forehead.

“Jungkook, what are you doing?” she asked, glancing nervously at the base behind him. “Aren’t you supposed to be with your team? With the fans?”

“They can wait,” he said, stopping in front of her, slightly out of breath. “You can’t.”

Her eyes widened as he reached for her hands, his grip firm but trembling. “I saw you standing there, Y/N. I knew you’d come.”

“I couldn’t stay away,” she admitted softly. “I’m so proud of you, Jungkook. But… this isn’t my place. I don’t belong here.”

His face fell, and he shook his head. “Don’t say that. You belong with me.”

She bit her lip, her eyes searching his. “Do I? Jungkook, look at your life. Look at everything that comes with it. I don’t know if I can—”

He cut her off, his voice low and filled with pain. “I know. That’s why I need to tell you something.”

Her stomach twisted as he let go of her hands, stepping back slightly.

“I love you, Y/N. I always will. But my life—it’s not easy. It’s cameras, schedules, people watching my every move. It’s exhausting, and it’s lonely, and it’s not fair to you.”

Tears filled her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “So what are you saying, Jungkook?”

He swallowed hard, his own eyes glistening. “I’m saying I can’t drag you into this. I can’t ask you to give up your peace, your freedom, for a life that will never feel truly yours.”

Her heart broke at his words, but deep down, she understood. She had seen the way his world operated, the constant pressure and scrutiny. It wasn’t the quiet life they had shared at the café, the one that had felt so natural, so right.

“So this is it?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

He stepped closer, cupping her face with his hands. “If I could choose any life, Y/N, it would be with you. But I can’t change who I am, and I won’t let my life ruin yours.”

The tears spilled over as she nodded, her hands resting on his. “I hate this, but… I understand.”

They stood there for what felt like an eternity, the weight of their unspoken love hanging heavy in the air. Finally, Jungkook leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.

“You’ve made me happier than I ever thought I could be,” he whispered. “Thank you for everything.”

She closed her eyes, committing the feel of his touch to memory. “And you’ve made me feel more alive than I ever thought possible.”

As he pulled away, their gazes locked one last time. Then, without another word, he turned and walked back toward the base, his shoulders heavy with the weight of what he was leaving behind.

Y/N watched him go, her heart breaking with every step he took. But she stayed strong, knowing that sometimes, love meant letting go—even when it was the hardest thing in the world.

And as the sun set behind the mountains, she whispered into the quiet air, “Goodbye, Jungkook. I’ll always love you.”

It had been two years since Y/N had left the small café near the military base behind, two years since she had last seen Jungkook. In that time, she had built a new life for herself, pouring her heart into her dream of opening a café in Seoul.

Her new café, The Golden Bean, had quickly become a neighborhood favorite. It was cozy, tucked between tall buildings, with large windows that let in the sunlight. She loved it here—the bustling streets of Seoul, the friendly locals who had become regulars, and the sense of pride she felt every time someone complimented her coffee or her pastries.

But there were moments when her mind would wander back to him. Jungkook. The boy with the soft eyes and the tender smile who had stolen her heart. She had watched him grow from afar, his career reaching new heights. His face was on billboards, his voice on every radio station. He was bigger than ever, and yet he still felt like the boy she had danced with in the rain.

One quiet afternoon, Y/N decided to close the café early and take a walk through the nearby park. The air was crisp, the sun warm on her face as she strolled beneath the cherry blossom trees, their petals fluttering down like soft snow.

She was lost in thought, admiring the beauty around her, when she heard the sound of fast footsteps and the heavy breathing of someone running. Before she could react, a Dobermann came bounding toward her, its tongue lolling and tail wagging.

“Whoa, hey there!” she laughed, crouching down as the dog nearly toppled her over. The dog’s fur was soft beneath her hands, and its dark brown eyes sparkled with mischief as it licked her cheek.

She giggled, rubbing its ears. “You’re a friendly one, aren’t you?”

“Bam! Stop it!”

The familiar voice froze her in place. Slowly, Y/N looked up, her heart pounding.

There he was.

Jungkook stood a few feet away, his dark hair slightly messy, wearing a simple hoodie and joggers. His chest rose and fell as he caught his breath, his wide eyes fixed on her.

“Y/N?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her hands fell away from Bam as she straightened, her breath catching. “Jungkook…”

For a moment, neither of them moved, the world around them fading into the background. It felt like time had stopped, like the universe had conspired to bring them together again.

“I—I didn’t expect to see you here,” he stammered, stepping closer.

“Me neither,” she said, her voice soft. She glanced down at the dog. “Bam’s yours?”

He nodded, smiling nervously. “Yeah, he’s my boy. He got loose during our run. Sorry if he bothered you.”

She shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “He didn’t. He’s sweet.”

Jungkook’s gaze softened, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other, the years of distance melting away. Finally, he broke the silence.

“How are you?” he asked, his voice gentle.

“I’m… good,” she said, and it wasn’t a lie. “I opened a café here in Seoul.”

His eyes lit up with pride. “That’s amazing, Y/N. I always knew you’d do it.”

She felt a pang in her chest at his words, the warmth of his support washing over her. “And you… You’ve been doing incredible things. I’ve seen you everywhere.”

Jungkook’s smile faltered slightly, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, it’s been… a lot. But it doesn’t feel as good as it should.”

“Why not?”

He hesitated, then met her eyes, his voice raw. “Because you weren’t there to share it with me.”

Her breath hitched, her heart pounding as his words hung in the air.

“Y/N,” he continued, stepping closer. “I thought I was doing the right thing by letting you go, by keeping you away from my crazy life. But not a day has gone by where I haven’t missed you. Seeing you here, now—it feels like fate.”

She stared at him, her emotions swirling in her chest. “Jungkook, your life is so different from mine. It’s—”

“I don’t care,” he said firmly, cutting her off. “I’ve had all the success I could ever dream of, but none of it means anything without you. I’ve learned that the hard way.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she looked at him, his expression filled with a vulnerability she hadn’t seen before.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you.”

Her heart felt like it might burst. Slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing against his. “I’ve missed you, Jungkook. So much.”

He took her hand, his grip warm and steady. “Then let me prove to you that we can make this work. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just… don’t walk away again.”

She smiled through her tears, nodding as she stepped closer. “I won’t.”

As the cherry blossoms fell around them, Jungkook pulled her into his arms, holding her as if he’d never let go again. Bam barked happily, circling around them as they laughed through their tears.

And in that moment, beneath the trees and the open sky, it felt like everything had fallen into place—like they had found their way back to where they were always meant to be.

#kpop #jungkook #jk #jungkook angst #love #happy #ff #au #jungkook x reader #jungkook au #bts #bts au

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dreamersparacosm · 5 months ago

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jeon jungkook - loves me, loves me not (part one)

warnings ; alcohol consumption, rich asshole!jk and girlboss!reader, not any crazy warnings yet just wait till part 2 lovers

request ; linked here.

prompt ; in which two childhood best friends fake a relationship for the public eye, but after one rule-breaking kiss, neither of them can pretend anymore.

note ; WELLLLLL i may have turned this into a two part series. im a sucker for rich dudes what can i say?? 😩 also you need to listen to LES by childish gambino while reading. its a vibe

The first time you met Jeon Jungkook, you were just a child — an heir to immense wealth, brought to the event by your parents. It was a gateway to what your future would look like.

Jungkook, all wide eyes and restless energy, sat in the corner, utterly bored as everyone’s parents spoke in hushed, businesslike tones. Then you arrived, small in stature but brimming with confidence, your sharp eyes scanning the room as though you owned it already at the mere age of 11.

"Who are you?" Jungkook had asked in a childish tone, completely unimpressed.

You lifted your chin, your voice unwavering. "Your worst nightmare if you get in my way."

He had smirked, intrigued. No one ever spoke to him like that.

From that day forward, you two were inseparable.

Your families had long been bound by business; partners in an empire spanning luxury hotels, high fashion, and global investments. Your parents met at Harvard University in America, and flew back home to Korea to build an empire. They met Jungkook’s parents at a gala while they were pregnant with you, his mother pregnant with him, and they built a dynasty with their names attached since then. Privilege had shaped you both, but you had forged vastly different paths within its gilded cage.

Jungkook leaned into his arrogance, aware that the world bent easily to his will. Charismatic, cocky, effortlessly charming, he rarely had to try too hard. People either feared him or adored him.

You, on the other hand, refused to be defined by your wealth. Ambitious and relentless, you were determined to carve out your own legacy, not simply inherit one. Where Jungkook was reckless, you were disciplined. Where he smirked, you rolled your eyes. Your friendship had always been a battlefield of wit and will, a relentless push and pull that neither of you could resist.

But despite the teasing, the taunts, the fiery clashes, there was one unshakable truth: you always had each other’s backs.

Now, as adults, your worlds are more entwined than ever. Your names dominate the same headlines, your presence expected at the same glittering galas.

Your life is a carefully constructed empire of ambition. You are relentless, a force in boardrooms and high-rise offices, your name more than just an inheritance but a brand in its own right. Your days are filled with power moves and negotiations that leave men twice your age scrambling to keep up. You’ve worked tirelessly to be more than just a daughter of wealth; you are a woman who commands it.

Jungkook lives as though the world is his playground. He floats through life effortlessly, draped in luxury, his days blending into a haze of overpriced cars, designer watches, and champagne-soaked nights. He spends frivolously, moving through clubs and women with the same ease he always has, never needing to work because his name alone carries weight.

He mocks your long work hours; you roll your eyes at his recklessness. He drags you to parties when you’ve spent too much time behind a desk, and you remind him of responsibilities he’d rather ignore.

Sometimes it felt like he was put on this planet to piss you off. But when you start to think like that, you remind yourself of how much better life is with him in it.

Your phone buzzes on your desk, the name flashing across the screen making you groan.

“Mom, I’m in the middle of something," you say, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Aigo, do you even know what’s happening? Have you seen the news?" your mother’s voice is sharp, frustration laced in every syllable. "Jungkook! He’s done it again. Another scandal, another mess, and guess who’s getting dragged into it? Our family! Do you know how bad this looks for your father’s business?"

You exhale, glancing out the floor-to-ceiling windows of your office. Seoul stretches out before you, endless and glittering, but right now, all you can focus on is the impending headache forming behind your eyes.

"What did he do this time?" you ask, already bracing yourself.

"Pictures! At some club, with some idol. I think her name is Jennie! He’s so careless! Your father’s investors are already whispering. They’re asking if our family is associated with such recklessness. This is not just about Jungkook anymore, this is about our entire name. You need to do something. Talk to him. Fix this."

Why does it always come down to you?

You rub your temples, suppressing the urge to let out a frustrated groan. "I’ll handle it."

"You better, because if this continues, even his name won’t be enough to protect him."

The call ends, and you stare at your phone for a long moment before tossing it onto your desk. Of course he’s made another mess. And of course, it’s up to you to clean it up.

With a resigned sigh, you grab your coat and reach for your car keys. If Jungkook thinks he’s getting out of this unscathed, he’s in for a rude awakening.

For the longest time, you had put up with Jungkook’s antics as his designated best friend and life consultant, but as time stretches, you grow less and less fond of his wrongdoings. You spend most of your time locked in your office, and the amount of time you’re spending driving over to his home in Korea’s elite neighborhood, you would rather be signing the acquisition paperwork you needed to finalize.

You step into Jungkook’s penthouse, and the stench of alcohol and cigarette smoke greets you before you even lay eyes on the disaster. The place is a warzone; empty liquor bottles and glasses scattered across the marble countertops, random jackets thrown over furniture, and a faint bass still pulsing from the sound system like the remnants of last night refuse to die.

And there he is, lounging on his massive couch like he owns the world, adorned in an expensive sweatshirt and sweatpants, one arm draped over the backrest, the other holding his phone as he scrolls mindlessly.

He barely looks up when you walk in. "Took you long enough."

You let out a sharp breath, tossing your coat onto a chair. "Are you serious, Jungkook? Have you even looked outside? Do you have any idea what kind of mess you’ve made this time?"

He finally lifts his gaze, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Good morning to you too."

"Don’t start with me." You cross your arms, eyes burning into him. "Do you even realize how bad this is? My mother just called me, livid, because apparently your little scandal is making investors nervous. They’re pulling back. The media is tearing you apart. And for some reason, I’m the one who has to deal with it. Again."

Jungkook exhales lazily, setting his phone down. "God, you’re dramatic." He pats the empty space next to him. "Come sit. Have a drink. Relax."

You stare at him incredulously. "Relax? That’s your plan? Just ignore everything and hope it goes away?"

"Pretty much. It usually does."

You scoff, running a hand through your hair. "You’re impossible."

"But you still came."

You narrow your eyes. "Because someone has to keep you from completely ruining yourself."

Jungkook tilts his head, watching you carefully. "See, that’s what I love about you. You always come running, no matter how much you complain about it."

You roll your eyes. "Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here because my family’s name is tied to yours, and I’m not about to let you drag us down with you."

"Right. Of course. It’s all about business with you, isn’t it?" He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You’ve spent so much time building your empire, making a name for yourself, proving to the world that you’re more than just some rich heiress. But at the end of the day, you’re still here, cleaning up after me. Doesn’t that tell you something?"

You exhale sharply, refusing to let his words get to you. "Yeah. It tells me you’re an overgrown man-child who refuses to take responsibility for anything."

He chuckles, low and amused. "You say that, but you’d miss me if I changed."

"Try me."

Jungkook smiles, leaning back against the couch. "Alright. I’ll handle it."

You raise a brow. "Oh, really? And how exactly do you plan to do that?"

"I’ll make a few calls, talk to my PR team, smooth things over. Maybe even issue a statement if I’m feeling generous."

You cross your arms, unimpressed. These words have been uttered before. "You should’ve done that the second this scandal broke."

"You’re right," he says. "But then I wouldn’t have gotten to see you storm in here all pissed off. It’s kind of hot."

You throw a pillow at him. "Grow up."

He catches it effortlessly, laughter dancing in his eyes. "Where’s the fun in that?"

You shake your head, exasperated, but you don’t leave. And he doesn’t ask you to. Because this is how it always goes — you, trying to fix him. Him, making it impossible.

The next day, you savor the rare luxury of a slow morning. The scent of fresh coffee fills your apartment as you stretch on your couch, sinking into the plush cushions. Weekends like this, where you aren’t running between meetings, negotiating deals, or cleaning up someone else’s mess, are rare. And after last night, you desperately need this.

After you had made Jungkook swear up and down he would draft the most pleasant, professional PR statement, he — as he always does — poured you your favorite glass of red wine and let you spill about your workday. You had told him all about your new intern who messed up the documents that had taken 30 hours of negotiation, and how you’re pretty sure your coworkers are hooking up. And he listened, like he always does, shit-eating grin on his face as he continued to pour your wine whenever it got dangerously low.

Your temples still throb slightly, a dull reminder of the whiskey Jungkook had so easily convinced you to drink after you finished your wine. And because dealing with him always leaves you wound up, you’d treated yourself to a massage in the wee hours of the morning, determined to indulge in the quiet.

But then your phone rings and all previous hopes of relaxation float off into the distance.

You sigh heavily, reaching for it on the coffee table. "Mom? What is it?"

"Turn on the news. Now."

Your heart drops at the urgency in her voice. Fumbling for the remote, you flip to the news channel, and the moment the screen comes to life, your stomach falls to the floor.

Jungkook’s face is everywhere. Headlines flashing across the screen, speculation, outrage, blurred photos of whatever he’s done this time. You don’t even need to hear the words to know it’s bad.

Panic surges through you. You hang up on your mother halfway through her sentence and start calling him, your fingers shaking slightly as you press his contact. One ring. Two. Three. Voicemail.

"Come on, Jungkook. Pick up."

You try again. And again. Nothing.

A text notification pops up. For a brief second, relief floods through you — until you see the sender.

Jungkook’s mother.

Can you come over?

Your stomach knots. Jungkook’s mother has always been like another mother to you, endlessly patient despite the chaos her son brings. If she’s reaching out to you instead of handling this herself, then whatever’s happening is worse than you thought.

She never calls for you unless she believes you’re the only one who can get through to him.

Grabbing your coat, you head for the door, your heart pounding in your chest.

You definitely drive too fast through the streets, but a speeding ticket is the last thing on your list of priorities.

Your hands grip the wheel tightly, heart pounding against your ribs as you weave through traffic, nearly running a red light in your haste. The image of Jungkook’s face on the news, the guilt in his eyes frozen in that grainy picture; it makes something inside you burn.

By the time you reach his family’s estate, your tires screech slightly as you pull up. You barely register the grand entrance, the pristine gardens, the awning that usually stands as a symbol of power. All you see is the group waiting for you in the foyer.

Your mother. Your father. Jungkook’s mother, her eyes tired yet warm as always. His father, expression tense with disappointment.

And then there’s Jungkook.

Sitting on one of the plush chairs, hands clasped between his knees, head bowed slightly. He looks guilty as hell. Like a kid who’s just been caught doing something unforgivable. Like that time when he ripped your Barbie’s heads off and your mother dragged him by his shirt to the corner.

His father is the first to speak. "What the hell were you thinking? Do you even understand the damage you’ve done?"

"Again," your mother adds. "Every time we think you’ll finally grow up—"

"I know," Jungkook mumbles. "I screwed up."

His mother sighs, shaking her head before turning to you. "Thank you for coming so quickly. I know it’s always you cleaning up his mess, and I don’t take that for granted."

She steps closer, placing a gentle hand on your arm. "You represent us all so well. More than he ever does. I don’t know what we’d do without you."

You swallow hard. You want to yell at Jungkook, to demand what the hell he was thinking, to let out the frustration you’ve been holding in since the moment you saw the news. But something about the way he sits there, quiet and chastised, makes you hold back.

Because for once, he already looks like he’s paying the price.

You stand there, heart pounding, until Jungkook’s mother finally clears her throat. The tension in the room is undeniably thick, each person waiting for the inevitable lecture to continue, but instead, she smooths her hands over her skirt and speaks.

“I have an idea.”

Jungkook’s head snaps up. “That’s never a good thing.”

You fold your arms. “I already hate it.”

His mother ignores both of you. “What if.. the two of you started dating?”

Silence. A deafening silence that echoes throughout the entire mansion.

“WHAT?”

You and Jungkook both blurt it out at the exact same time, turning to each other in absolute disbelief.

Jungkook’s brows shoot up. “That has to be a joke.”

“It’s a terrible joke,” you let out a sharp laugh.

His mother shakes her head. “I’m serious.”

You take a step back, hands raised as if you need to physically push the idea away. “Absolutely not.”

Your mother sighs dramatically. “Don’t be so hasty—”

“I don’t date,” you interrupt. “Especially not him.”

Jungkook scoffs. “Excuse me?”

You turn to him, deadpanning. “You heard me.”

He places a hand over his chest with faux offense. “Okay, rude. Like I’d want to date you either.”

You narrow your eyes. “Perfect. Glad we’re on the same page.”

“Children, please,” your mother interjects. “Just listen for a second.”

Jungkook’s mother steps forward, her expression earnest. “Listen. Jungkook’s reputation is in shambles right now. The media sees him as reckless, irresponsible, a scandal waiting to happen. But you…” she gestures to you. “You’re respected, hardworking, an absolute force in the business world. People admire you.”

Your mother nods. “If the two of you were together, it would shift public perception. Instead of reckless playboy Jungkook, they’d see a man who’s maturing, stabilizing, taking things seriously. And for you, it would solidify your position even more. People love a power couple.”

Jungkook crosses his arms skeptically. “So what? You want us to parade around, hold hands, pretend to be in love?”

“Exactly,” his mother says without hesitation.

You shake your head indignantly. “No way.”

Jungkook makes a face. “Yeah, no thanks.”

Both of your mothers exchange glances before speaking at the same time.

“Please.”

You exhale sharply. “You’re asking me to fake date Jungkook. Do you know how insane that sounds?”

Jungkook gestures at himself. “Do you know how exhausting that sounds?”

Your mother gives you a pleading look. “Sweetheart, you’ve been handling things for him anyway. This would just be a more… official way of doing it.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I can fix his PR without pretending to be in love with him.”

Jungkook grins. “See? She can fix me without dating me.”

Your mother glares. “You, Jeon Jungkook, are not helping.”

His mother steps in again, softer this time. “Look, I know it’s a big ask. But it would be temporary. A few months at most. Long enough to change the narrative, help him get back on track. And you know the press would eat it up.”

You glance at Jungkook, who looks just as unconvinced as you feel. “And if we say no?”

“Then we keep dealing with scandals. Investors will keep pulling out. The media will keep spinning stories, and eventually, it won’t just affect Jungkook. It’ll affect all of us,” your mother sighs.

You despise this. Hate that it makes sense. Hate that there’s already a part of you weighing the pros and cons.

Jungkook groans, dragging a hand down his face. “This is ridiculous.”

“Just think about it,” your mother’s tone is low but firm. Sounds a little like when you were eight and you overheard her on a business call.

You exhale, crossing your arms. "Okay, but what’s in it for me?"

Your mother doesn’t miss a beat. "You hate when suitors reach out to you. If you’re ‘dating’ Jungkook, you’ll be off the market. No more annoying proposals, no more distractions. You can focus entirely on your work."

You pause. That… is actually a good point. Your business demands your full attention, and the last thing you need is your parents trying to push you into a real relationship.

Jungkook narrows his eyes at you, as if waiting for you to explode again.

But instead, you shrug and say, "Fine. I’ll do it. But only for three months. After that, he’s on his own."

Jungkook’s mouth falls open. "Wait, what? That’s it? You’re just agreeing?"

His mother beams. "Oh, thank you, sweetheart! This means so much."

Jungkook throws his hands up. "Do I not get a say in this?!"

"No," the entire room answers at once.

His mother and yours immediately start making calls, talking excitedly about drafting contracts and managing the media. Within minutes, they’ve disappeared into another room, their voices blending into a flurry of planning.

Now you’re alone with Jungkook, which would be completely and totally fine, however, you just agreed to fake date him, so words aren’t tumbling out of your mouth as easily as you hope.

He groans, rubbing his temples. "This is insane."

"Ohhh, it’s about to get even better." You tilt your head at him.

He looks at you wearily. "What does that mean?"

You pull out your phone, open your notes app, and start typing. "If we’re doing this, I’m setting my own rules."

He lets out a long sigh. "Why am I not surprised by this?"

"Rule one: No kissing."

Jungkook scoffs. "Duh."

"Rule two: No touching unless we’re in public. I don’t need you getting any ideas."

He smirks. "Oh please, like I’d even want to."

You ignore him, typing away. "Rule three: Two dates per month, in beautiful, expensive places. We need to sell this relationship properly."

“Fine,” he agrees but not without a roll of his eyes first.

"And finally, a press conference. You need to publicly fix your wrongdoings."

He throws his head back. "You sound like my mom. No, worse — you sound like a business consultant."

You laugh, shoving your phone back into your pocket. "Shut up, idiot. This is the best deal you’re ever going to get."

He groans again but ultimately leans back in surrender. "Three months. Then I’m free."

"Three months."

Neither of you says it, but you both feel the insurmountable weight of something shifting. You push that feeling to the back of your brain, somewhere so far you’re certain it’s long gone, and just smile at him. It’s three months.

You can do three months in your sleep.

Over the next week, the media explodes with news of your relationship. Headline after headline announces the unexpected pairing, complete with curated photographs and speculative articles. Your parents do not play when it comes to PR — within minutes of signing their spun-up contract, the story is everywhere.

Your coworkers congratulate you, some with genuine excitement, others with teasing smirks since you’re never seen dating. You take it all in stride, smiling through it, brushing off questions.

The day of the press conference comes to your delight. The one you had to repeatedly beg Jungkook to do despite it being part of both yours and your parents’ contract.

Dressed impeccably, you make your way to Jungkook’s dressing room, pushing open the door to find him seated in front of a mirror, his hands loosely clasped in his lap. His usual cocky demeanor is absent, replaced by tension in his shoulders.

“You look like you’re about to throw up,” you comment, leaning against the doorframe.

Jungkook glances at you through the mirror, exhaling a small laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little,” you admit, stepping closer. “It’s just a press conference. You’ve done a hundred of these.”

“Yeah, but never like this.” He rolls his shoulders, glancing at the neatly tailored suit he’s wearing. “My dad’s investors are going to be watching every move I make.”

You tilt your head, considering him. It’s rare to see him anything less than completely self-assured.

“You’ll be fine,” you say, voice steady. At least one of you feels confident, and that’s all that matters. “You know what to say, and I’ll be right there. Just stick to the plan.”

Jungkook finally looks up at you, his dark eyes meeting yours in the mirror. There’s something in his gaze that you recognize as… vulnerability. Hmph.

“You always know what to say,” he murmurs, and for a brief second, the gratitude in his voice takes your breath away.

Your heart stutters, but you snap yourself out of it before it shows. Clearing your throat, you step back. “Of course. Someone has to keep you from embarrassing yourself.”

He smirks then, some of his usual arrogance returning. “Guess I’m lucky it’s you.”

You roll your eyes but can’t quite fight the small smile tugging at your lips. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

Jungkook exhales once more, steadies himself, then stands, ready to face the cameras with you by his side.

The press conference is a battlefield — a sea of flashing cameras, rapid-fire questions, and the sharp scrutiny of investors who smell blood in the water.

Jungkook sits beside his father, posture straight but a little too rigid. You stand behind him, arms crossed, observing the way his fingers tap impatiently against his suit pants, the subtle clench of his jaw each time a question cuts too deep. He’s keeping his composure, answering with as much confidence as he can muster, but you can see the way pressure wraps around him like a noose, tightening with every expectation placed upon him.

And you hate it. Despite your nuanced relationship, you don’t want him to drown under the unforgiving eyes.

“Mr. Jeon,” an older investor speaks up, adjusting his glasses. “Given your past recklessness, how do you plan to ensure that your future actions don’t reflect poorly on your family’s legacy?”

Jungkook leans forward, his tone smooth but tense. “I understand the concerns—”

Another voice cuts him off. “Do you? Because the headlines say otherwise. Your name has been a liability, and the market confidence in your family’s company has wavered because of it.”

Jungkook swallows, opens his mouth, but you don’t wait for him to respond.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you step forward, your hand reaching for his.

The moment your fingers slip into his, he stills. Every eye snaps to you as you take the mic from the table in front of him. There’s a pause, a collective breath held as the reporters adjust their focus. You meet their curiosity with a calm, unwavering gaze.

“With all due respect,” you begin, “Jungkook’s past actions do not define his future. The point of this press conference is to address concerns, not dwell on any mistakes that have already been apologized for. The Jeon family has taken the necessary steps to ensure that confidence in their legacy remains strong. If you have questions regarding our future strategies, we’d be happy to answer them. But if you’re here only to scrutinize, then you might want to consider redirecting your energy into more productive discussions.”

The room settles with that. There’s a moment of silence, then hushed murmurs of reluctant approval. Some of the more aggressive investors exchange glances, but no one immediately fires back. You feel Jungkook’s stare on you the entire time, his fingers still laced with yours, warm and steady and slightly sweaty.

“As for the future,” you continue, “Jungkook and I will be working closely together to ensure that not only is his reputation rebuilt, but that he continues to contribute meaningfully to his family’s business.”

A reporter clears his throat. “So, you truly believe in him?”

Your lips quirk, eyes flickering to Jungkook for the briefest second. “I wouldn’t be standing here if I didn’t.”

As the final question dies down, you release the mic onto the table. You turn slightly enough to see the look in Jungkook’s eyes, something caught between awe and adoration.

Then, his fingers tighten around yours.

A silent thank you.

Your heart stumbles. Stupid heart. He’s your best friend. Don’t be weird.

His father clears his throat and stands, taking over the conversation, thanking the press for attending. The tension dissipates, the pressure eases, and just like that, the worst is over.

Jungkook exhales next to you, his grip on your hand lingering for a second longer before he finally lets go.

But the warmth of him stays.

The restaurant is one of the finest in Seoul, with dark wood interiors and golden chandeliers casting a warm glow over the entrance. Cameras outside flash like fireworks, capturing every moment as you step out of the sleek black car Jungkook had insisted on driving tonight.

It’s date night, first one slated in your made-up contract. Despite it being fake, you had somehow found yourself standing in your closet for a few hours, picking out your finest, doing your hair… like it was real.

You had told yourself it’s just for appearances.

He steps around to open your car door, a smirk tugging upon his lips. “Damn,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over your figure appreciatively. “You look hot.”

You roll your eyes, smoothing your dress as you rise to your full height. “Rule number two,” you remind him coolly. “No touching unless in public.”

Jungkook shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I wasn’t touching,” he points out. “Just stating the obvious.”

You arch a brow. “Let’s just get through this without you embarrassing me.”

“Embarrass you?” He gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “I am a delight to be around.”

Before you can respond, the flash of cameras reminds you why you’re here. With a smile you practiced in the mirror for ten minutes, you slip your hand into the crook of his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin through the expensive fabric of his button-down. He glances down at you before leading you toward the entrance.

The restaurant inside is quieter, the soft murmur of conversation replacing the chaos outside. A waiter leads you to a private table near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. The view is breathtaking, but you hardly have time to appreciate it before Jungkook pulls out your chair for you.

“You’re really laying it on thick tonight,” you murmur as you sit, eyeing him suspiciously.

He winks as he takes his seat across from you. “Gotta make it believable, right?”

You hum in response, unfolding your napkin and placing it on your lap. The waiter returns with a bottle of wine, and Jungkook gestures for him to pour. You watch as he swirls the deep red liquid in his glass before taking a slow sip, his eyes never leaving yours. For a moment, you forget to breathe.

“So,” he says, leaning back against his chair. “Tell me, how does it feel to be off the market?”

You scoff, taking a sip of your own wine. “Relieved, honestly. I can finally focus on work without my mother trying to set me up with every chaebol heir in Korea.”

Jungkook smirks. “Ah, so I’m just a glorified shield. Good to know.”

“You’re not just a shield,” you say sweetly. “You’re also a nightmare that I have to clean up.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Remind me again why I agreed to this?”

“You didn’t,” you remind him. “Everyone just told you to shut up.”

His laughter is genuine this time. “Right. How could I forget?”

The city lights flicker beyond you, the candle between you casting shadows across his sharp features. He’s beautiful like this when he’s relaxed, unguarded, just Jungkook. It terrifies you how easy it is to forget that this is all pretend.

“Are you nervous?” you ask suddenly, breaking the silence.

He tilts his head. “About what?”

“The rest of this,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “The fake dating. The public scrutiny. Keeping up the act.”

Jungkook exhales, running a hand through his dark hair. “No,” he admits. “Not with you.”

Your breath halts, but you force yourself to laugh, shaking your head. “That’s because I’m doing all the work.”

“Maybe.” He grins. “Or maybe you just make it easy.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you take another sip of wine, willing your heart to stay steady.

This is just pretend. Another job to handle. So why does it feel like the lines are already starting to blur?

The night stretches on, filled with laughter and far more wine than you intended to drink. The candle between you flickers, casting golden light over Jungkook’s features, softening the sharp lines of his jaw. You never noticed how incredibly sculpted it is.

“You know,” Jungkook muses, swirling the last of his wine in his glass. “I think this might be the best date I’ve ever been on.”

You snort, setting your empty glass down. “That’s because it’s not real.”

He leans in, resting his chin on his palm. “Nah, I just have terrible taste in dates.”

You shake your head, laughing. “That sounds more accurate.”

By the time you step outside, the cool night air rushes against your flushed skin. The restaurant’s glow spills onto the sidewalk, illuminating the swarm of photographers waiting beyond the bushes. Their cameras are relentless, flashing like lightning, voices blending into an indecipherable chorus of questions and shouts.

Jungkook places a hand on the small of your back, guiding you forward. “Smile, sweetheart,” he murmurs, amusement laced in his tone. “Wouldn’t want them thinking we’re miserable.”

You roll your eyes but oblige, pasting on a smile. The wine makes everything feel lighter — your steps, your head, the way your body angles toward Jungkook without thought.

And then, what only happens in your worst nightmares occurs.

The heel of your shoe catches on the uneven pavement, and suddenly the world tilts. Your breath catches as gravity pulls you forward, but before you can even process the impending disaster, Jungkook moves.

Strong hands catch you instantly, arms firm around your waist as he steadies you. Your hands instinctively grasp his biceps and you feel the solid strength beneath his top. Your heart hammers against your ribs, breath uneven as you look up at him.

His face is closer than it should be, eyes gleaming beneath the city lights. His hold is steady. Just as your lips part to say something, he speaks first.

“I got you,” he murmurs.

Before you can react, before your brain can catch up with your racing heart, he leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek.

The world erupts around you.

Cameras go wild, shutters clicking furiously, flashes exploding in bursts of white. The reporters shout louder, excitement palpable.

But all you can focus on is the warmth lingering where his lips met your skin, the way your fingers curl against his sleeves, the dizzying rush in your veins.

You force out a breath, steadying yourself as he pulls back, a cocky smirk playing on his lips. “You good?”

No. Absolutely not.

But you school your features into what you hope resembles composure, letting out a small laugh as you step back. “Fine. Just… watch where I step next time.”

He chuckles, throwing an arm around your shoulders as he leads you toward the waiting car. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll always catch you.”

You believe him.

Seoul’s crisp autumn air carries the scent of street food as you and Jungkook stroll through the bustling shopping district. Neon signs flashing above you, the distant sound of buskers playing love songs on the corner. It’s another date — one that doesn’t even need to happen, but these outings have become routine.

It’s not weird, you tell yourself. You’re best friends. You’ve always been best friends. So what if your heart skips when he sends you a text about meeting up? So what if these dates are starting to feel more like… dates?

Inside a boutique, you browse the racks, fingers skimming over dresses and skirts. Jungkook is beside you, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat, watching with mild interest as you hold up a sleek black dress against yourself.

“You should try it on,” he says.

You smirk. “Trying to live vicariously through me, Jeon?”

His lips split into a massive grin. “Maybe. Gotta make sure my girlfriend looks good.”

You roll your eyes at the title, but before you can retort, a stranger approaches. He’s well-dressed, confident, and flashing you a smile with way too much teeth.

“Hey,” the guy starts. “I don’t usually do this, but I saw you from across the store and had to come over.”

Jungkook’s posture shifts immediately. His casual stance turns taut, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watches the guy extend his hand to you.

“I’m Minho,” the stranger continues, “and I’d love to take you out sometime.”

Before you can answer, a strong arm snakes around your waist, pulling you firmly against Jungkook’s side. His body heat seeps into you, and the scent of his cologne wraps around your nostrils.

“She’s taken,” Jungkook’s voice drops an octave. He punctuates the statement by running his hand down your arm, fingers tracing your wrist before lacing them with yours.

Minho blinks, clearly taken aback. His eyes dart between you and Jungkook. “Oh. I didn’t realize—”

“You realize now,” Jungkook cuts in, cocking his head with a smirk. “Thanks for stopping by, though.”

Minho offers up a curt nod before turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd. The moment he’s gone, you exhale, only to realize you’re still wrapped in Jungkook’s hold. His hand lingers on your waist, his fingers still intertwined with yours.

Your heart is beating a hundred miles a minute.

Jungkook must notice, because when he looks down at you, amusement flickers in his gaze. “Why do you look like you just ran a marathon?”

You glare at him, attempting to extract yourself, but he tightens his grip a tad more. His thumb strokes over the back of your hand.

“Shut up,” you retort, feeling heat creep up your neck.

His smirk widens. “Are you flustered?”

“No.”

“You are.” He pauses, clearly deep in thought. Once his last two brain cells finally align on their next accusation, he speaks. “Was it the touching?”

You scoff, shoving him away. “Please. As if you could ever have that effect on me.”

He lets you go with a chuckle. It’s pretty clear you’re grasping at straws now.

And maybe, he already knows the real answer to his question.

He must know the answer, or some kind of cheat code, because when you go to check out for your dress, he doesn’t even let you try and pull out your wallet, only lightly nudges you to move over so he can shove his AMEX into the card reader. And it’s not like you don’t have money — in fact, you like to think you have more than him — but the gesture leaves your mouth dry.

Two months into the dating contract, and everything is going suspiciously well. You’re thinking any moment now, Ashton Kutcher is going to pop out and say Punk’d! and kill your entire family. The public adores you both, the headlines are filled with nothing but praise, and your parents practically beam every time they see you together. It’s almost too perfect. Almost.

This particular night, you’re seated at an upscale restaurant with Jungkook and both sets of parents, cameras flashing outside as photographers eagerly capture your entrance. The restaurant is dimly lit, the clinking of fine china and low murmurs of the elite forming the perfect background to your evening.

You’re in the middle of explaining your latest business venture when Jungkook, ever the dedicated “boyfriend,” picks up the bottle of wine and tilts it over your glass, filling it up.

“Wow, so gentlemanly,” you murmur dryly, watching as he sets the bottle down.

He smirks, leaning in slightly. “I do what I can for my beloved girlfriend.”

Your father chuckles approvingly while Jungkook’s mother clasps her hands together. “You two really do look good together.”

Jungkook doesn’t miss a second. He lifts your hand from your lap, intertwining his fingers with yours as he looks at you with a sickeningly sweet gaze. “We are good together, aren’t we, jagi?”

Your fingers twitch in his grasp. You resist the urge to kick him under the table.

“Of course,” you say, words laced with warning. “The best fake relationship I’ve ever been in.”

His parents don’t catch the sarcasm, but Jungkook does. “That’s because I’m the best fake boyfriend. So attentive, so charming…” His thumb strokes the back of your hand absently, and you swear your pulse betrays you for a split second.

Your mother, entirely oblivious to the silent battle, leans forward. “Sweetheart, tell them about that project you’re working on.”

Right. Business. Focus.

You clear your throat, ignoring the warmth seeping into your skin where Jungkook still holds you. “So I’ve been developing a new expansion for—”

“Isn’t she amazing?” Jungkook interrupts, turning to your parents with a proud expression. “I mean, I always knew she was brilliant, but the way she balances everything? Truly inspiring.”

Your jaw nearly drops. This man is laying it on thick tonight. You give him a sharp look, but he just winks at you. Your brain screams at you get a grip.

His father nods approvingly. “It’s good to see you supporting her, Jungkook.”

“Oh, I support her in everything.” His voice drops so that only you can hear the playful lilt in it. “Even her very, very convincing eye rolls.”

You take a sip of your wine, masking the flustered feeling creeping up your spine.

Jungkook turns into you slightly, “Careful, jagiya. You almost look like you’re enjoying this.”

You grip your glass tighter. Stupid heart.

Then, as if testing your limits, his fingers trail down your spine until they rest at the small of your back. You nearly choke on your wine. His touch is light, sends a shiver racing through you. He draws lazy circles against the fabric of your dress, an absentminded motion that feels anything but casual.

You stiffen, willing yourself to focus on the conversation still happening around you, but the warmth of his hand lingers like an ember threatening to catch fire. Your skin tingles under his touch, and it’s infuriating the way your body betrays you with the slightest brush of his fingers.

Your mother is still talking, oblivious to your inner turmoil, but Jungkook’s eyes flicker to yours. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

You clear your throat, sitting up straighter. “Anyway, as I was saying—”

Jungkook’s hand presses firmly against your back, the heat of his palm spreading and anchoring you there. His fingers trace an idle path lower, and your breath ceases all function.

You snap your head toward him, eyes narrowing in alarm. He only raises a brow as if he’s not systematically unraveling you one touch at a time.

“You okay?” he asks, feigning concern, his thumb brushing the base of your spine now.

No. You are not okay. You are dangerously close to forgetting that this entire thing is fake.

You inhale sharply, forcing a tight smile. “Perfectly fine.”

Jungkook leans in a fraction closer, enough that you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Good. Because I’d hate to think my affectionate boyfriend duties are making you nervous.”

Dinner stretches late into the night, laughter spilling over wine glasses. The restaurant hums with the kind of luxury only the elite can afford. Your parents, Jungkook’s parents, even Jungkook himself, are all in high spirits, a perfect picture of unity for the watching world.

By the time you all step out into the Seoul night, the paparazzi are still lurking, cameras flashing like fireflies. Jungkook’s hand has remained as a constant; it rests lightly on your lower back, guiding you toward the waiting car confidently. It’s an easy, natural touch, one that should mean nothing after years of friendship. But it sets off a restless feeling in your chest.

You slip into the sleek black car, Jungkook right beside you. The partition is up, driver waiting for direction. You clear your throat, forcing yourself to look anywhere but at the man beside you.

“Take Jungkook home,” you instruct. Like this is just another business meeting wrapping up. Which, by all means, it is.

Jungkook turns to you, “What, you’re not coming? I thought we were having fun.”

“We were,” you say, adjusting the hem of your dress as if that will steady you. “Now the night is over.”

He leans back against the seat, stretching his legs out, “You used to come over all the time. We’d stay up, watch bad movies, make fun of my ridiculous wine collection.”

“That was before.” You say. Before he started slipping a hand around your waist in public. Before his touch on your skin made you overthink. Before you found your heart reacting to things it never should.

“Before what?” He smirks as he leans closer still, so close his breath traces across your skin. “Before you became hopelessly in love with me?”

You scoff. “Before this whole PR stunt. Keep dreaming. Plus, I have work in the morning,”

It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either.

Jungkook hums as if considering that answer. The car slips into the streets, city lights painting fleeting shadows across his face. His fingers drum idly against the seat between you before, ever so lightly, they drift onto your thigh.

It’s barely a touch, an accidental brush that could be ignored if it weren’t for the heat it leaves behind. A featherlight ghosting of fingertips, enough pressure to make you hyper-aware of every inch of space between you which is suddenly not enough.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to swallow the lump in your throat as Jungkook’s hand lifts up for a moment, and though the car’s breeze gently grazes your legs, it’s definitely not the chill that’s making you shiver.

His hand moves, fingers ghosting along the hem of your dress, just above your knee. “I think you’re avoiding me,” he murmurs.

“I think you’re imagining things.”

Lately, it feels like all you do is imagine things about him, but you refuse to confess it.

“Am I?” His fingers trace indistinguishable patterns on your thigh now, his touch barely there.

You exhale sharply, ignoring the way your pulse jumps. “Jungkook, I swear—”

“You swear what?” His eyes flick between you and your lips. He’s enjoying this too much. “You’ll throw me out of the car?”

You slump back in your seat. No use in arguing with him.

“What’s wrong?” he murmurs,“You seem… tense.”

You swallow down the heat crawling up your throat and shoot him a glare. “You’re drunk.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Then get the fuck out of my car.”

Jungkook chuckles before finally pulling his hand away. “Alright, alright. No need to kick me out like I’m some one night stand.”

“You’re right,” you say, feigning thoughtfulness. “They probably get more affection.”

He clutches his chest dramatically. “Ouch. You wound me.”

The car rolls to a stop in front of his building. The chauffeur gets out, opening the door for him, but Jungkook doesn’t move immediately. He turns to you one last time, studying you.

“Goodnight, princess,” he mutters, and the pet name has your stomach performing cartwheels.

Before you can respond, he’s gone, stepping into the night with that confident stride, leaving you alone with nothing but the warmth that lingers on your thigh and a heart that’s suddenly beating too fast.

Little do you know, Jungkook’s heart is doing the exact same thing.

As the car pulls away, you press your fingers to your temples. Stupid wine. Stupid Jungkook. And most of all, stupid heart.

The gala is extravagant, even by your family’s standards. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling, the soft hum of a string quartet weaving through the air as waiters in crisp black-and-white attire glide through the room, offering champagne on silver trays. It’s an event that gives you deja vu; you’ve attended these a hundred times before, a display of power and influence disguised as philanthropy.

And yet, tonight feels different.

Maybe it’s the way Jungkook keeps his hand on the small of your back, a silent reassurance as he leans in to whisper snarky comments about the other guests, making you laugh behind your champagne glass. Or, maybe it’s the way he introduces you to business partners with a smooth, easy confidence, the words "my girlfriend" slipping from his lips so effortlessly it makes your stomach turn.

“Ah, so this is the woman who finally tamed you,” one older gentleman chuckles, clapping Jungkook on the shoulder.

Jungkook grins, turning his head to you with an expression so natural and fond that it completely catches you off guard. "Tamed is a strong word. She just likes bossing me around."

You roll your eyes, forcing yourself to play along. "Someone has to keep him in line."

Their laughter blends into the room, and for a moment, you let yourself bask in the warmth of it. The way his parents watch you both with quiet approval, your mother beaming with pride, your father nodding in satisfaction. It’s everything they wanted from this arrangement. Everything they envisioned when they convinced you to go along with it.

Then why does it feel like something more?

“You okay?” Jungkook murmurs, his voice low enough for only you to hear as he guides you away from the crowd, his hand never leaving you. “You look… spaced out.”

You blink, shaking yourself out of your thoughts. “Yeah, just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

You scoff, nudging him with your elbow, but he just chuckles, pulling you a fraction closer. The warmth of his palm through the fabric of your dress makes your pulse skip.

Two weeks. That’s all that’s left of this.

You need to be relieved. This was always temporary. A contract. A performance. But the idea of it ending, of losing this version of him, of losing this version of yourself, makes your chest fold in on itself.

Jungkook doesn’t seem to notice your inner turmoil. Or if he does, he doesn’t say anything. He watches you with a lazy smile, twirling a loose strand of your hair around his finger.

“You know, for someone who claims to hate public displays of affection, you sure don’t mind it now,” you tease, raising an eyebrow at his constant touches.

His lips curl into a smirk. "Can you blame me? You look hot tonight."

Your breath hitches, but you mask it with a roll of your eyes. "Jungkook."

“What? I’m just saying. If this is all coming to an end, I might as well enjoy it.”

The way he says it, so offhand, so unserious stings more than it should. Because it is ending. And while he seems perfectly fine with that, you’re the one struggling to keep your emotions in check.

You force a laugh, tilting your head at him. "Don’t get too comfortable. Two more weeks and you’re back to being just my pain-in-the-ass best friend."

Jungkook hums, but there’s something unreadable in his gaze. It makes your stomach twist.

“Yeah,” he says softly, thumb grazing your spine absentmindedly. “Two more weeks.”

For the first time since this whole thing started, you wonder if you’re the only one dreading the end.

Stupid, stupid heart.

masterlist + request

#jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook smut #bts #bts jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook fanfic #bts fanfic #bts x reader

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mariacallous · 6 months ago

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In 2024, wealth concentration rose to an all-time high. According to Forbes’ Billionaires List, not only are there more billionaires than ever—2,781—but those billionaires are also richer than ever, with an aggregate worth of $14.2 trillion. This is a trend that looks set to continue unabated. A recent report from the financial data company Altrata estimated that about 1.2 million individuals who are worth more than $5 million will pass on a collective wealth of almost $31 trillion over the next decade.

Discontentment and concern over the consequences of extreme wealth in our society is growing. Senator Bernie Sanders, for instance, stated that the “obscene level of income and wealth inequality in America is a profoundly moral issue.” In a joint op-ed for CNN in 2023, Democratic congresswoman Barbara Lee and Disney heiress Abigail Disney wrote that “extreme wealth inequality is a threat to our economy and democracy.” In 2024, when the board of Tesla put to vote a $56 billion pay package for Elon Musk, some major shareholders voted against it, declaring that such a compensation level was “absurd” and “ridiculous.”

In 2025, the fight against rising wealth inequality will be high on the political agenda. In July 2024, the G20—the world’s 20 biggest economies—agreed to work on a proposal by Brazil to introduce a new global “billionaire tax” that would levy a 2 percent tax on assets worth more than $1 billion. This would raise an estimated $250 billion a year. While this specific proposal was not endorsed in the Rio declaration, the G20 countries agreed that the super rich should be taxed more.

Progressive politicians won’t be the only ones trying to address this problem. In 2025, millionaires themselves will increasingly mobilize and put pressure on political leaders. One such movement is Patriotic Millionaires, a nonpartisan group of multimillionaires who are already publicly campaigning and privately lobbying the American Congress for a guaranteed living wage for all, a fair tax system, and the protection of equal representation. “Millionaires and large corporations—who have benefited most from our country’s assets—should pay a larger percentage of the tab for running the country,” reads their value statement. Members include Abigail Disney, former BlackRock executive Morris Pearl, legal scholar Lawrence Lessig, screenwriter Norman Lear, and investor Lawrence Benenson.

Another example is TaxMeNow, a lobby group founded in 2021 by young multimillionaires in Germany, Austria, and Switzerland which also advocates for higher wealth taxation. Its most famous member is the 32-year old Marlene Engelhorn, descendant of Friedrich Engelhorn, founder of German pharma giant BASF. She recently set up a council made up of 50 randomly selected Austrian citizens to decide what should happen to her €25 million inheritance. “I have inherited a fortune, and therefore power, without having done anything for it,” she said in a statement. “If politicians don’t do their job and redistribute, then I have to redistribute my wealth myself.”

Earlier this year, Patriotic Millionaires, TaxMeNow, Oxfam, and another activist group called Millionaires For Humanity formed a coalition called Proud to Pay More, and addressed a letter to global leaders during the annual gathering of the World Economic Forum in Davos. Signed by hundreds of high-net-worth individuals—including heiress Valerie Rockefeller, actor Simon Pegg, and filmmaker Richard Curtis—the letter stated: “We all know that ‘trickle down economics’ has not translated into reality. Instead it has given us stagnating wages, crumbling infrastructure, failing public services, and destabilized the very institution of democracy.” It concluded: “We ask you to take this necessary and inevitable step before it’s too late. Make your countries proud. Tax extreme wealth.” In 2025, thanks to the nascent movement of activist millionaires, these calls will grow even louder.

#it's nice to think about but it's not going to happen anytime soon #not with this congress and president

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liberalsarecool · 3 months ago

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It's self explaining. Tariffs are going to hurt everyone. We are an interconnected global econony. We are not nepo babies who inherited their dad's real estate and run everything like a transactional money-laundering mobster landlord.

Hurting everyone is how narcissists avenge their shame. First Felon wants to destroy everything and everyone who held him accountable.

#tariffs

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hamilton-here · 1 month ago

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𝒰𝓃𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓃 𝑅𝓊𝓁𝑒𝓈

Authors Note: Hey everyone! I wanted to write a rivalry of some sort between the teams, so I hope you like this. Lots of love xx

Summary: The daughter of Red Bull’s team principal and Lewis Hamilton fall into a secret romance that risks rivalries, media chaos and family fallout all for love.

Warnings: mild sexual content, age-gap, mild language

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The world of Formula 1 had always been a battleground. The speed, the precision, the raw hunger to be first it all collided into one of the most high-stakes environments in global sport.

But for you, the daughter of Christian Horner, team principal of Red Bull Racing, it had always been more than just the race. It was about legacy. About control. About the unrelenting pressure of being born into the fire rather than choosing to walk through it.

From the moment you were old enough to understand the difference between soft and hard compound tyres, you knew your life was destined to revolve around motorsport not because it was your passion, but because it was expected.

Your last name wasn’t just a name it was a brand, a symbol of Red Bull’s grit and calculated dominance. And being Christian Horner’s daughter came with rules. Boundaries. Expectations so deeply ingrained they felt like law.

The most ironclad of those unspoken rules? Never speak to Toto Wolff let alone entertain anything or anyone associated with Mercedes.

Toto and your father had a rivalry so bitter it felt almost Shakespearean. Every press conference turned into a subtle war of words, a performance of thinly veiled contempt.

Their disagreements weren't always televised, but you'd seen enough tense meetings behind hospitality unit doors, red-faced shouting matches over regulation loopholes, and that one memorable argument at Silverstone where your father had stormed out, muttering that he wouldn’t “waste another breath on that corporate bastard.”

As a child, you didn’t understand why it mattered so much. Why every time a silver car overtook a Red Bull on track, your father’s jaw would tighten, and his voice would drop.

Why Toto’s name was always said like a curse word. But as you got older, you understood the deeper truth: this wasn’t just about racing. It was personal.

And you were caught in the middle of it.

Now, at twenty-six, the burden had never felt heavier.

Your father had begun talking more seriously about grooming you for a greater role within the team “PR first, maybe, then management. Just like Susie Wolff used to be, but for the right team,” he joked, with an edge in his voice. You smiled, but your stomach twisted. You didn’t want a life defined by rivalries you hadn’t chosen.

You loved Formula 1 truly but on your own terms. You admired the technology, the finesse, the community that thrived behind the scenes. But you wanted to choose your place in it. Not have it assigned to you like an inherited seat in a car you never asked to drive.

That’s why, on that particular race weekend in Monaco the crown jewel of the F1 calendar you found yourself wandering a little too close to the Mercedes garage. You weren’t supposed to be there, of course. Just passing by you told yourself. But curiosity tugged at you.

And then you saw him.

Lewis Hamilton.

He was just stepping out of the garage, helmet in hand, suit half unzipped, revealing the branded fireproof undershirt clinging to his chest.

He walked with that unmistakable ease, the confidence of a man who knew exactly who he was not just a seven-time world champion, but a symbol of poise and persistence in a world that had often tried to box him in.

He passed by the engineers with a nod, his braids pulled back neatly, sunglasses perched low on his nose. And then, somehow, his eyes met yours.

It was no longer background noise. No longer fans chattering or mechanics working or engines howling. For a heartbeat maybe longer, it was just you and him.

You froze, blinking in disbelief. He looked straight at you, as if he'd been expecting to see you there all along. His smile was warm, genuine, and laced with something more curious… a spark. Not flirtatious, not bold just...interested.

And in that moment, everything shifted.

The paddock you’d walked through a hundred times before suddenly felt different. Brighter. Warmer. And not because of the Mediterranean sun. But because of him.

Your pulse quickened. Heat flushed beneath your skin. You tried to look away you should have looked away but you didn’t. Couldn’t.

He offered a small nod of acknowledgment, subtle, but purposeful. And then he was gone walking down the path, chatting with Angela, disappearing into the Mercedes motorhome.

But the moment stayed.

And you knew, deep in your chest, that something inside you had changed.

You didn’t know yet that that brief encounter would unravel the tightly wound world you lived in. That it would pull you into something dangerous, something exhilarating. That it would challenge everything you thought you stood for.

You didn’t know that the smile Lewis Hamilton gave you so simple, so soft would be the beginning of a secret that could shatter the paddock.

But you felt it.

Like a warning.

Or maybe a promise.

It started innocently enough. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself in the beginning. A passing hello at a post-race gala. A casual exchange of words in the VIP lounge of a luxury paddock suite. He’d always keep it light with playful glances, soft smirks, the kind of flirtation that could be dismissed if anyone saw.

But it never was just that. Not really.

The first real conversation happened at a sponsor’s dinner in Milan. You were seated a few tables apart, but during the mingling that followed, you found yourselves standing near the same corner, pretending to admire the same oversized art piece none of you really cared about.

“Did you know the artist was once banned from this gallery for lighting a sculpture on fire?” Lewis had said, his voice low, edged with amusement.

You turned, raising a brow. “No, but that sounds about right for this sport. Always a bit dramatic.”

He grinned. “And competitive.”

“Dangerously so,” you replied, your voice soft. He tilted his head, like he was reading between the lines. Maybe he was.

From that point on, it became a dance whispered conversations behind velvet curtains, stolen moments behind hospitality doors, late-night texts that made you smile in the dark while lying in your hotel bed, phone screen illuminating a world you were trying desperately to keep hidden.

A world that felt like yours.

You kept telling yourself that it was harmless. That a conversation wasn’t betrayal. That a smile across a crowded press room wasn’t a line crossed. But deep down, you knew the truth this was no longer innocent.

And neither were your feelings for him.

Lewis was everything you thought he’d be. Charismatic, confident, with that quiet, magnetic charm that pulled people in. But what you hadn’t expected was the softness behind it all. The humanity. The thoughtfulness that lingered in his words, the way he listened — really listened to every answer you gave him.

There was no ego, no bravado. He wasn’t trying to impress you. He was just trying to know you.

And the more he did, the more he peeled away the layers not just yours, but his own.

You learned things that never made it to the cameras or the interviews.

His doubts. His exhaustion. His moments of feeling like the world had placed him on a pedestal he never asked for. And in return, you gave him your own truths the weight of growing up in a world where your choices were shaped by power and legacy, not desire. Where your name opened doors but also chained you to expectations you never agreed to.

You told him about the pressure of being your father’s daughter. About the way the paddock looked at you like a fixture, not a person. He never judged. Never interrupted. He just listened, his gaze steady and kind, like he understood every word without needing you to explain further.

And then, one night Monaco again, always Monaco you found yourselves alone on a quiet balcony during the afterparty.

The music pulsed behind the glass doors, soft bass reverberating through the walls. Laughter and clinking glasses filled the air inside, but out here it was just the two of you, cocooned in shadow. The city lights glittered below like fallen stars, the harbour shimmering in the distance.

You were leaning against the railing, arms bare in your sleeveless gown, the night air cool against your skin. You felt him approach before you even saw him the way the air shifted, charged and thick with something unspoken.

He came to stand beside you, his tailored jacket open, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. The scent of him clean, warm, unmistakably him wrapped around you like a secret.

“I never thought I’d be talking to the daughter of my biggest rival,” he said, voice low and velvet-smooth, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.

You turned toward him, your heart skipping at the sight of that half-smile. “I could say the same about you,” you murmured, keeping your voice light, but there was a tremor in it. “My father would have a fit if he knew I was talking to you.”

Lewis chuckled, and the sound melted something inside you. “Good thing we’re not telling him then.”

He looked at you, really looked like he was memorising your face in this light, in this moment. “You know I don’t like following the rules anyway.”

There it was. That shiver again. A current of electricity that danced over your skin whenever he looked at you like that like you weren’t part of this world that had always sought to define you. Like you were simply you.

You exhaled, quietly, as if trying to steady the storm rising in your chest.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you whispered, but you didn’t move away.

“No,” he agreed. “But I want to.”

His voice was lower now. Rougher. And his hand, slow and deliberate, brushed against yours on the railing. Barely a touch featherlight but it felt like a match had been lit.

The city below continued on, unaware. But for you, time had stopped.

And in that pause that breath between decision and desire you leaned in, just slightly. Just enough.

And Lewis met you there.

The kiss was soft at first. Cautious. Testing. But the moment your lips met, it deepened into something inevitable. His hand cupped your cheek, warm and grounding. Your fingers tangled in the lapel of his jacket, pulling him closer.

You didn’t think about the consequences. Or your father. Or the media.

All you could think about was how right it felt. How everything in your life – the weight, the pressure, the legacy disappeared when you were with him.

You broke apart just long enough to breathe.

“You know this will complicate everything,” you said, your voice barely a whisper against his lips.

He smiled not his public smile, not the one cameras loved. But the real one. The one meant only for you.

“I’m not afraid of complicated,” he said. “Not if it means I get to be with you.”

And just like that, the line was crossed.

And you didn’t want to go back. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

As the weeks passed, your secret relationship with Lewis grew into something far deeper than either of you had anticipated.

What began as curiosity and chemistry had quietly unraveled into a connection that neither time nor rivalry could easily sever. It was a flame you tried to hide behind closed doors, but it burned brighter with every encounter.

Late-night texts became your lifeline tucked beneath your pillow after lights out, buzzing softly with messages that made your heart race. “Land safely?” he’d send after a late flight. Or “Wish you were here,” from a hotel room in Monaco when you couldn’t travel with him.

You’d reply in whispers under the covers, your fingers dancing across your screen in the dark, smiling like a teenager with a crush only this was no crush.

It was stolen glances at race weekends, the kind that lasted just a second too long. Eyes meeting across the paddock, his lips twitching in a subtle smile while your father stood just metres away, oblivious.

Sometimes he’d brush past you in the corridors between hospitality suites, his fingers lightly grazing your hand in a fleeting touch no one else could see. You lived in fragments tiny collisions of longing in a world that was never meant to let you fall for each other.

You met where you could wherever there were shadows and privacy. Hotel suites booked under different names. Discreet drives with tinted windows.

Once, after a race in Singapore, he flew you on a private jet to his next stop, the lights of the city falling away as the sky darkened and you curled up beside him on the leather seat, his arm around you as you whispered stories neither of you had ever told another soul.

He never made you feel like a secret, even when you were one.

What surprised you most was that it wasn’t just physical. Not really. There was desire, yes - a magnetic pull that neither of you could deny. But what truly bound you to Lewis was how seen he made you feel.

In the quiet, private moments between races, when the world stopped spinning, he showed you pieces of himself that no press conference or post-race interview ever could.

One night in Paris, wrapped in the sheets of a hotel bed after hours of talking and tangled limbs, Lewis had stared at the ceiling and said quietly, “You know, there are days where I walk out onto the grid, and it feels like I’m completely alone.”

You turned toward him, watching his profile in the dim light. “But you’re surrounded by people. Fans. Media. The team…”

He sighed, eyes distant. “That’s the thing. I’m never alone physically. But sometimes I still feel like no one really knows me. Not the brand. Not the champion. Just me.”

You reached out and slid your fingers between his. “I know you.”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, he looked almost vulnerable. Like that small sentence meant more to him than trophies ever could.

In turn, you found yourself opening up to him in ways you never had with anyone else. You told him about the weight of your last name. What it was like to walk through the paddock and feel like you were always being measured not just as Christian Horner’s daughter, but as a woman in a sport that still viewed you as ornamental unless you proved otherwise.

“I get these looks,” you confessed one night while sharing a quiet dinner in a candlelit booth in a back alley restaurant in Rome. “From the engineers. The sponsors. Like I’m just a decoration. And my father doesn’t see it. He thinks I should be grateful to be part of his world.”

Lewis leaned in, resting his hand over yours. “You don’t belong to his world. You belong to your own.”

You blinked back the sudden emotion in your throat, because no one had ever said that to you before. Not your family. Not your colleagues. Not even your friends. But he did and he meant it.

Even in your most hidden moments, when you lay curled in his arms in the dim light of a suite somewhere in New York, Abu Dhabi, or London, Lewis never treated you like a secret. You weren’t an escape. You were home. And he became that for you, too.

There were times you’d lie awake at night beside him, tracing the tattoos on his arm with your fingers while he dozed beside you, the slow rhythm of his breathing anchoring you.

You’d memorise the curve of his shoulder, the way his lips parted slightly in sleep and wonder how something that felt so right could be so wrong to the world around you.

Because outside those walls, everything was different.

Your father still tore into Mercedes every chance he got. Toto Wolff’s cold fury flared in every interview and Christian Horner was just as quick to fan the flames.

You’d hear their voices bitter and biting echoing through the media, slinging barbs at one another while you quietly sat on the sidelines, hiding the fact that you were slipping further in love with the one person who could ruin everything.

And yet, you didn’t want to stop.

Not when Lewis made you feel understood in a way no one else did.

Not when the sound of his voice, the safety of his arms, the truth in his eyes, had become your calm in the chaos.

What started as a secret was now your sanctuary.

And every day, you found yourself sinking deeper into it even knowing the fallout that might come.

Because loving Lewis wasn’t just a rebellion.

It was a revelation.

One night, after a particularly explosive press conference the kind that had journalists buzzing and social media ablaze you found yourself pacing the penthouse suite of a luxury hotel, heart pounding, hands trembling.

Your father and Toto had just gone head-to-head in front of the cameras, their voices sharp, their words venomous.

It was supposed to be about team strategy, about upgrades and pace. But somehow, as it always did these days, the press twisted their questions just enough to suggest something personal. About Mercedes and Red Bull. About you and Lewis.

It was subtle, but it was there a whispered rumour turned into a media feeding frenzy. Every glance between you and Lewis, every moment you spent near the paddock he walked in, had been photographed, dissected, speculated on. You felt like a live wire, exposed and fraying at the edges.

Now, the only place that felt safe was here inside this dimly lit suite above the city, wrapped in silence, waiting for him.

The door clicked softly behind you.

You turned.

Lewis stepped in, his movements quiet but deliberate, his presence grounding you in an instant. He didn’t say anything at first just took you in, the tension in your posture, the way your arms were crossed tightly over your chest as you stared out the glass wall at the glittering skyline.

He dropped his keys on the console and walked toward you. “You okay?” he asked, his voice low and warm, as if he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it from you anyway.

You didn’t answer right away. You felt the weight of everything pressing down on your shoulders your father’s fury, the reporters' questions, the endless hiding. You swallowed hard.

“I hate this,” you finally whispered, your voice cracking as you blinked back tears. “I hate the secrecy. I hate lying to everyone. I hate pretending like this like we don’t exist.”

Lewis reached for your hand gently, lacing his fingers through yours. His thumb brushed softly over your skin, grounding you in the moment. “I know,” he murmured. “I hate it too.”

He stepped closer, his free hand brushing a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “But I’d rather have a thousand secret nights with you than a lifetime without them.”

Your eyes met his. There was something raw in them tonight something more vulnerable than usual. A softness that warred with the storm you both lived in. You could see the strain behind his eyes, the exhaustion of playing roles, of keeping up appearances.

His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. “I can’t stop thinking about you. About us. About what it would be like if the world just didn’t matter for once.”

He moved closer, his hands settling on your waist, fingers splayed gently against your sides as he guided you toward him. The air between you shifted, heavy with unsaid truths and barely restrained longing. You could feel his breath on your skin, warm and steady.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispered. “But I need you to know I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you tell me to.”

And you didn’t want to. Not tonight. Not ever.

When his lips met yours, it was slow at first tentative, careful, like the two of you were still learning how to exist in this fragile in-between.

But as soon as your lips moved against his, as soon as you tasted him, something inside you snapped. The kiss deepened, grew hungrier. Your hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into the soft cotton of his shirt as you pulled him closer, needing to feel him, needing to know that he was real.

Lewis groaned softly against your mouth, his hands roaming your back, tracing the dip of your spine like he’d memorised every curve of you.

You broke apart for air, panting, your lips swollen, heart pounding. “Lewis,” you breathed, “we can’t people will find out. My father, the media it’s too dangerous.”

But he shook his head, his expression fierce, unwavering. “I don’t care anymore,” he said, voice hoarse. “Let them find out. Let them talk. I’m done pretending like you’re not the most important thing in my life.”

His words pierced through you, melting every last wall you had built between you and this man. You cupped his face, your thumbs brushing along his jaw, remembering the way he looked at you like you were something holy, something rare.

“I want you,” he said again, softer now. “All of you. No more hiding. Not tonight.”

Your lips met again, this time with no hesitation. It was all heat and hunger and need. You tasted his desire, felt it in the way his hands slid under the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly as his fingers trailed fire across your skin.

He lifted the fabric over your head, discarding it to the floor, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, almost reverently. “Do you know that?”

You couldn’t speak. You could only reach for him, tugging at his shirt, needing him closer, needing more. You kissed him again, your hands roaming over the hard lines of his chest, feeling the way he trembled under your touch.

Clothes fell away like secrets piece by piece, until there was nothing between you but breath and skin and years of longing finally unleashed.

Lewis guided you back toward the bed, his lips never leaving yours. He laid you down with a gentleness that contradicted the fire in his touch, his body settling between yours as he kissed down your neck, your collarbone, every inch of skin he could reach. Each kiss was a promise. Each touch, a declaration.

When he finally paused, hovering above you, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours, he asked the question that made your heart stop:

“Are you sure?”

His voice was barely a whisper. His eyes searched yours, vulnerable and full of love real, honest, earth-shattering love.

And in that moment, everything else faded away.

There was no Red Bull. No Mercedes. No media. No fathers or rivalries or reputations.

There was only this.

You nodded, your fingers threading through his curls as you whispered, “Yes. I’ve never been more sure.”

And when he kissed you again, it wasn’t just passion.

It was surrender.

It was love.

You nodded, your hands moving to his chest, feeling the strength beneath his clothes, the warmth of his skin. "Yes," you breathed. "I’m sure."

There was no hesitation after that. Lewis kissed you again not the tentative, careful kiss from before, but something deeper. Something desperate. His lips moved against yours with a fervour that sent shivers down your spine, his hands threading through your hair, anchoring you to him like he was afraid you might vanish. And you kissed him back just as fiercely, clinging to him as though he were the only solid thing in a world that kept trying to tear you apart.

The urgency between you intensified. His hands explored your body reverently, almost as if he were trying to memorise every curve, every inch of skin, every tremble beneath his fingertips. He guided you backward, the two of you stumbling toward the bed, laughing breathlessly between kisses when you nearly tripped on the plush edge of the rug. The moment was so achingly tender it broke something open in you.

Clothes were discarded in quiet desperation not rushed, not careless, but with the aching patience of two people who had waited far too long for this. His shirt came off first, revealing the toned, tattooed skin beneath that you’d seen only in flashes before in paddock glimpses, magazine photos, stolen moments. But here, now, it was all yours to touch.

Your fingers traced the familiar ink over his chest, lingering over each design like it told a story. He watched you the entire time, eyes dark with affection, with desire, with awe. He wasn’t rushing you. He never did. He waited until you were ready, until you reached for him and when you did, when you pulled him closer, skin to skin, it felt like coming home.

The bed sheets tangled around your bodies as he hovered above you, his lips pressing slow, tender kisses along your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder. Each kiss felt like a vow not loud or boastful, but silent and steady. A promise that whatever this was, whatever storm waited outside that room, you’d face it together.

And yet, even in the quiet intimacy of that moment, fear hung in the corners of your mind.

Because this was dangerous. So, so dangerous.

Every stolen moment, every touch, every whisper could unravel your lives if discovered. You knew it. He knew it. The truth of your relationship the secret you both carried could destroy your bond with your father, tear apart the fragile peace between two rival teams, and ignite a media circus that neither of you would walk away from unscathed.

But none of that mattered right now.

Because his hands were on your waist, and your fingers were in his hair, and he was kissing you like he was drowning, and you were air.

You let yourself fall not recklessly, but willingly. Completely.

The intimacy between you wasn’t hurried. It was slow and purposeful, unspoken in the way you moved together like you’d done this a thousand times in another life. You touched each other with reverence, kissed with a hunger born not of lust but of need, the need to be seen, to be understood, to be loved without condition or consequence.

And Lewis loved you in a way that made you believe it was possible.

His hands trembled slightly as he held you, not from nerves, but from emotion from the overwhelming truth of finally being able to hold you like this, freely, if only for one night. You could feel the vulnerability in every movement, every whispered word against your skin. He wasn’t hiding behind charm or media-trained confidence now. This was him, raw and real and utterly yours.

When it was over, neither of you spoke. You lay tangled together in the low light of the room, your head on his chest, his arm curled tightly around your shoulders. His other hand moved slowly along your back, tracing mindless patterns as your breath slowed and synced with his.

“I don’t want this to end,” you whispered into the quiet.

He kissed the top of your head, his voice barely audible. “Then it won’t.”

But you both knew the truth. Morning would come. The world would return.

There would be team briefings, press questions, your father’s sharp eyes and the relentless pressure of keeping your secret intact. There would be cameras waiting, headlines written, assumptions made.

But right now, in this room, in this bed the rest of the world didn’t exist.

You turned your face toward his, brushing your lips against his jaw. “I’m scared,” you admitted. “Not of being with you but of losing everything because of it.”

He looked down at you, cupping your cheek in his hand. “Then let’s make it worth the risk,” he murmured. “Let’s make us the thing we fight for.”

You pressed your forehead to his, your fingers slipping between his. And for the first time in weeks, the weight on your chest felt a little lighter.

Because no matter what happened next no matter how hard things got you knew you weren’t facing it alone.

You had each other.

And tonight that was enough. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It was only a matter of time before someone found out.

You’d always known it, deep down that the secret you and Lewis shared wasn’t sustainable. That the soft moments in the shadows, the kisses stolen behind trailers, the late-night rendezvous in locked hotel rooms none of it could remain hidden forever. But still, when it happened, the reality hit harder than either of you had expected.

The photo was simple, almost innocent a single kiss in a quiet corner of the paddock. Your hand on his chest. His lips brushing against yours, gentle and unguarded, the kind of moment you thought no one had seen. But someone had a photographer with a long lens and an instinct for scandal.

By morning, the image was everywhere.

Headlines screamed from every corner of the internet:

“PADDOCK ROMANCE: LEWIS HAMILTON SPOTTED KISSING RED BULL TEAM PRINCIPAL’S DAUGHTER”

“MERCEDES AND RED BULL’S BIGGEST SECRET EXPOSED”

“LOVE IN THE FAST LANE – OR CAREER SUICIDE?”

The fallout was immediate and vicious.

Christian Horner was on you within the hour.

He didn’t knock. He didn’t pause. He slammed the door of the motorhome open and stood there, red-faced and trembling with fury. You barely had time to stand before his voice exploded through the small space like a bomb.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

You flinched at the venom in his voice. You’d seen your father angry before at drivers, at mechanics, even at reporters but never like this. Never directed at you.

“You’re dating him?” he spat, each word like a slap. “Him? The enemy? The man who has humiliated this team, year after year? The man who has kept us off the top of the podium?”

“It’s not like that,” you tried, your voice shaking. “Dad, please—”

“No.” He raised a hand sharply, cutting you off. “Do you have any idea what this does to our credibility? To your reputation? To mine?”

Tears stung your eyes, but you held your ground. “I love him.”

The words slipped out before you could take them back. Quiet. Honest. Devastating.

Your father froze for a moment, as if the sentence had stunned him. And then, his shoulders dropped but not in defeat. In disbelief. In something darker.

“You’ve ruined everything,” he whispered, his voice suddenly hoarse. “I brought you into this world. Into this paddock. You grew up surrounded by this team, this dream. And now, you’re throwing it all away for him?”

“I didn’t plan this,” you said, your voice breaking. “It just happened.”

Christian shook his head slowly, as if he didn’t recognise the person in front of him. “You’re betraying everything I’ve built.”

Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The echo lingered longer than the confrontation itself, leaving you alone, numb, and breathless.

But you weren’t the only one facing the storm.

On the other side of the paddock, things were no better.

Toto Wolff stood in front of Lewis, barely containing his fury. The team’s hospitality unit buzzed with tension. Engineers pretended not to listen, but their silence said it all they were hearing every word.

“This is a disgrace, Lewis,” Toto snapped. “You’ve jeopardised everything - everything we’ve worked for. You’ve crossed a line.”

Lewis didn’t flinch. He stood tall, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“I didn’t betray the team,” he said, voice even. “I fell in love.”

Toto scoffed, turning away for a second like he needed space to cool the heat rising in his chest. “Love?” he repeated, almost mockingly. “Do you think love excuses recklessness? You know what this looks like to the board? To our sponsors? You handed Red Bull ammunition on a silver platter.”

Lewis stepped forward then, his voice firmer. “What matters is her. Not the politics. Not the optics. Her.”

Toto’s eyes narrowed. “And if it costs you your seat? Your reputation? Are you willing to lose everything for this girl?”

Lewis didn’t hesitate. “I’m not losing her.”

There was a pause a long, tense moment where the two men stood, the weight of legacy and loyalty pressing between them like steel. And then, slowly, Toto stepped back, his face unreadable.

“This isn’t over,” he said coldly, then walked away.

Back in your room, you sat curled on the edge of the couch, your phone buzzing nonstop texts from friends, PR statements flooding your inbox, news articles piling up by the second. You couldn’t bring yourself to open any of them.

Then there was a knock.

You didn’t need to ask who it was. You already knew.

Lewis stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. He crossed the room in three strides and pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, protectively, like he was trying to shield you from the rest of the world.

“I’m here,” he murmured against your hair. “I’ve got you.”

You clung to him, burying your face in his chest as the dam finally broke and the tears came fast, hot, and helpless.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whispered. “My dad hates me. Everyone’s talking. I feel like I’ve lost everything.”

Lewis tilted your chin gently, forcing you to meet his eyes. “You haven’t lost me.”

And somehow, in the middle of the chaos that was enough to help you breathe again. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The media went into a frenzy.

You knew the photo would make waves, but no one not even you had anticipated the scale of the storm. It wasn’t just a headline or a scandalous blip in a news cycle. It was an explosion. It was everywhere.

“Racing’s Forbidden Romance: Horner’s Daughter and Mercedes’ Champion Exposed”

“Star-Crossed in the Paddock: Hamilton’s Secret Love Affair”

“Red Bull vs. Mercedes Just Got Personal”

Pundits speculated. Fans took sides. Social media became a battlefield your name trending for all the wrong reasons. Every movement you made was analysed, every silence picked apart. You couldn’t so much as walk to catering without a camera flashing in your face or someone whispering behind your back.

And the worst part? No matter how hard you tried to stay out of the spotlight, it seemed impossible. Your private life had been wrenched into the open dissected, sensationalised, and stripped of any dignity.

Your phone buzzed constantly:

“Comment on the rumours?”

“Is this relationship real or just a distraction?”

“How does your father feel about you betraying Red Bull?”

You stopped answering. You stopped looking. But even silence became a headline.

“Her Silence Speaks Volumes: Is Horner’s Daughter Regretting Her Romance?”

In the paddock, you were no longer just your father’s daughter. You were his girlfriend. Lewis Hamilton’s girlfriend. The scandal of the season. The distraction. The drama. The enemy within.

Your father barely looked at you now. Your former friends in the Red Bull garage whispered and avoided your gaze. Some of them unfollowed you on social media. The divide was sharp, cruel, and constant.

But through it all, Lewis never wavered.

He was your anchor. Your safe place. In hotel rooms behind drawn curtains, in quiet car rides between events, in stolen seconds between interviews he made you feel like yourself again. When the world felt like it was burning around you, he held you closer, kissed your forehead, and whispered, “We’ll get through this. Together.”

And you clung to that. Clung to him.

Then came that day.

You’d just stepped out of the paddock hospitality unit when the swarm descended a wall of reporters, microphones shoved in your face, voices shouting over one another.

“Is it true?”

“Have you spoken to your father?”

“Is Lewis just using you?”

“Do you realise what you’re doing to both teams?”

Your heart pounded. Your hands shook. But just as the panic was rising in your chest, Lewis appeared beside you. Calm. Steady. He took your hand, threading his fingers through yours, and turned to face the press.

You looked at him, and he nodded once giving you the space if you wanted to speak, but showing he’d be right there if you didn’t.

Your throat tightened. But then you looked at the wall of cameras, the endless flashing lights, and something in you snapped into focus. You were done being a headline. Done letting other people tell your story.

So, you stepped forward, your hand still tight in Lewis’s, and raised your chin.

“We’re together,” you said, your voice steady even as your heart thundered in your chest. “And we’re not going to hide anymore.”

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Reporters jostled for better shots. The flashes were blinding now, the chaos deafening. But for the first time in weeks, you felt… free.

You looked to your left and saw the soft, proud look in Lewis’s eyeslike you’d just told the world the truth he’d been aching to shout for weeks.

He squeezed your hand gently, grounding you. It was a silent promise, clear as day.

You’re not alone in this.

He turned to the reporters, calm but firm.

“We love each other,” he said, his voice carrying over the noise like thunder. “We’re not here to play games. We’re not here to fuel some rivalry narrative. We’re two people who found something real and we’re not going to apologise for that.”

There was no more denying it. No more hiding in shadows or ducking around corners.

The two of you stood there, hand in hand, while the media storm raged but for the first time, it didn’t matter. Because this time, you weren’t afraid. You weren’t ashamed.

You were together.

And that made everything else feel a little easier to bear.

It took time longer than you thought, longer than your heart sometimes felt it could endure but eventually, the noise quieted.

The media, always hungry for scandal, slowly turned their attention elsewhere. A new controversy emerged in another sport, a celebrity breakup, a political scandal. And just like that, your story slipped from front pages to the middle of the pack, and eventually, to the archives.

You could breathe again.

It didn’t happen overnight. At first, everywhere you went felt like walking on glass. Journalists still asked sly questions. Some fans booed. There were snide comments in interviews, cold shoulders in paddock halls. There were days you questioned if it had all been a mistake not your love for Lewis, never that, but whether the two of you could ever truly exist in the spotlight without being reduced to clickbait.

But through it all, Lewis never once faltered.

He stood beside you through every cold glance, every backhanded comment, every uncomfortable silence. He held your hand tighter when the cameras rolled. He brushed a kiss to your temple before you stepped into a swarm of reporters. He looked at you really looked at you — like the world outside didn’t exist. And in those moments, you believed him when he said it would all be okay.

As the season rolled on, the story began to shift. People started to see what you’d both known all along: that this wasn’t some passing fling or an act of rebellion. This was real. This was love built through late nights, hard conversations, and quiet moments when no one else was watching.

Even your father stubborn, fiercely protective, and still carrying the weight of Red Bull’s legacy on his back began to change.

Christian never said the words, not directly. He never offered an apology or admitted he might’ve overreacted. But there were small signs. The way he stopped bristling when your phone buzzed, and he saw Lewis’s name. The way he no longer avoided your gaze when Lewis’s name came up in briefings. And the day he sat silently in the back of a Mercedes hospitality tent, sunglasses on, arms crossed but watching the race by your side something in you healed.

It wasn’t perfect. Maybe it never would be. But it was something.

And then came that race one of the biggest on the calendar. The grandstands were packed, the atmosphere electric. You’d slipped into your seat on the Mercedes pit wall; nerves coiled in your stomach like wire as you watched the final laps unfold.

Lewis had driven like a man possessed. Brilliant. Calculated. Relentless. Every corner, every overtaking move, felt like poetry like he wasn’t just racing for points anymore, but for something more. For you.

When he crossed the finish line, the world erupted.

Victory.

Cheers rang out through the paddock. The Mercedes garage exploded in celebration. Engineers high-fived, mechanics shouted, and you - you just sat there for a moment, breathless, the roar around you fading to a quiet hum.

Because up on that podium, champagne dripping from his fire suit, trophy raised high above his head was him. And when the crowd chanted his name, Lewis turned, his eyes sweeping the sea of people until they landed on you.

He smiled.

Not the smile for cameras, not the one reserved for sponsors or photo ops.

It was yours.

Soft. Private. Radiant with a kind of pride that only the two of you understood.

In that moment, the months of chaos, of whispers and slammed doors and broken loyalties they all felt worth it. Because love, true love, was never meant to be easy. It was meant to be fought for.

And you had. Both of you.

You weren’t just the daughter of a rival team principal anymore. You weren’t a scandal. You weren’t a pawn in a rivalry between two titans of Formula One.

You were his - his partner, his peace, his person.

And nothing not media storms, not rival teams, not even the weight of your father’s disapproval could take that away from you.

As the national anthem played, Lewis glanced back at you once more. His hand briefly touched his heart, a subtle gesture just for you. You stood there, a small smile playing on your lips, tears blurring your vision, knowing with absolute certainty:

This was just the beginning.

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thealchemistbae · 3 months ago

Text

Asteroid Mony (7782) Persona Chart 🤑

Disclaimer: This post is for entertainment purposes only.

If you enjoyed this post, you can leave me a tip via PayPal at [email protected] or via Venmo @goddessguapa. Thank you.

Let's breakdown the houses in your Mony (7782) Persona Chart. Each house represents a different area of your financial life. This chart tells a story of your money personality behind the scenes. Think of this as your subconscious $$$ blueprint:

💸1H -> Your money aura: This is how your financial energy shows up to the world. Do people naturally see you as wealthy, abundant, or financially smart? This house is your money image. If Mony, Venus, or Jupiter are here? You're giving rich b*tch energy on sight.

💸2H -> How you earn: Classic money house. This is your natural way of making money, your self-worth, and how secure you feel. Planets here show your talents and what brings you financial comfort. Heavy hitters here = money comes through personal effort, business, beauty, or voice-related skills.

💸3H -> Money through communication: Here, money flows through content, writing, speaking, teaching, social media, or networking. If you've got Mony or Venus here? Your words can literally be spells that attract cash. Monetize that voice!

💸4H -> Money & home: This is "homegrown money" energy. You might make money through family, real estate, home business, or comfort driven work (think interior design, food, healing). Emotional security = financial security. Also, generational wealth could show up here.

💸5H -> Luxury, pleasure & creative cash: Money through fun, beauty, creativity, romance, kids, or entertainment. This is sugar baby energy, artist/creator money, or passive income through playful self-expression. You're meant to enjoy your bag here; not work too hard for it.

💸6H -> Daily grind & service: Money through jobs, health, organization, or being of service. Influencers with Mony here often make $$$ through routines, wellness, or being super detail oriented. Hustle queen vibes but don't forget to rest.

💸7H -> Partnerships & money: Money flows through connections. Could be a wealthy partner, business collab, or luxury relationships. If Venus, Juno, or Mony are here, you were built for divine union & financial alignment. Also good for contract work or client-based income.

💸8H -> Big baller energy: This is passive income, investments, shared money, sugar daddies, inheritance, transformation through finances, or hidden wealth. It's mysterious and intense. Big "rich through rebirth" vibes. If you've got Pluto or Mony here? Financial power = shadow work + boss moves.

💸9H -> Money through expansion: This is abundance through travel, teaching, spirituality, publishing, or going global. You might make money abroad, through higher education, or online courses. Think big. You're not meant to stay small financially.

💸10H -> Your boss era: Career success, fame, reputation, and legacy income. If you have Mony, Venus, or Jupiter here, you're literally meant to be seen and paid for it. CEO energy. Public recognition = money magnet. You could become rich for just being yourself.

💸11H -> Online & community wealth: Money from social media, networking, groups, fans, brand deals, or the collective. It's futuristic wealth. Build an audience, launch a product, or monetize your vibe. You were born to have a financial following.

💸12H -> Spiritual & subconscious wealth: This is hidden income, spiritual money gifts, or past life abundance. You may have to overcome internal blocks, but once you do ...divine money flow. Dreamy wealth, donations, healing work, or passive income through surrender.

✨PRO tip: If you find Mony, Venus, Jupiter, Part of Fortune, or North Node in any of these houses...pay attention! That's a major financial hot spot.

Here are some placements you can look out for:

💰: Mony in Cancer 2° 9H -> You're meant to make money by pouring your heart into your higher calling. You may attract abundance through soulful storytelling, international connections, or being a spiritual guide, educator, or content creator. Travel to heal. Speak to teach. Monetize your meaning. Big divine purpose payout energy.

💰: Sun trine Moon -> This is the ultimate flow between your internal needs and external self-expression. You attract wealth and success effortlessly when you're aligned with your true desires. Your energy is magnetic, and you know how to shine with both confidence and emotional depth.

💰: Sun conjunct Mony (exact at 12° Taurus) -> Your identity is intertwined with your financial purpose. You were born to secure the bag. This aspect = magnetic manifestor energy. People with this have an aura of abundance and always bounce back even after financial L's. The Universe likes to fund your purpose.

💰: Venus square Mony -> Luxury taste meets lessons in value. You may have to learn how to not overspend or get too attached to aesthetic validation. Money might come and go until you start investing in yourself first rather than buying for external approval. But once mastered? You become a rich baddie with budgeting skills.

💰: Moon trine/sextile Mony -> Intuitive money maker, emotionally aligned abundance.

💰: Venus trine/conjunct Mony -> Beauty = money, effortless attraction of wealth.

💰: Jupiter trine/conjunct Mony -> Luck + big $$$ manifestations.

💰: Mercury square Mony -> Potential money blocks through mindset or communication, but once cleared, major financial glow up.

💰: NN Cancer 10H -> Legacy-building through emotional intelligence and nurturing success.

💰: Mars or Jupiter 8H -> Investments, passive income, high earning potential through other people's resources.

💰: NN in 10H/11H -> Fated success and wealth through purpose and public life.

💰: Mony trine Jupiter in Capricorn 10H (18°) -> Success magnet! This person expands their wealth the more they step into their public persona. Being seen as an expert or authority literally opens financial floodgates. You're meant to go big. CEO vibes only. Your reputation = $$$

💰: Mony in Taurus 2H -> You embody luxury and attract money through aesthetics, beauty, consistency, and owning your value. You're destined to build wealth through your personal talents. That bag is slow but stable. You don't just want money, you want wealth.

💰: Aries Rising -> You chase the bag fast and head on. You're bold, competitive, and not afraid to ask for what you're worth. Your money comes when you initiate, lead, or start something solo. Business owner energy. You don't wait for permission; you charge forward and cash checks.

💰: Gemini Rising -> You talk the money in. Social butterfly with 6+ income streams. Content creator, brand ambassador, or communicator bag. When you're authentic and constantly learning, money follows. You're witty, adaptable, and people listen when you speak.

💰: Leo Rising -> Main character in your money story. You magnetize wealth when you're seen, celebrated, and confident AF. Think: influencer bags, creative entrepreneurship, and big LEO energy that says, "I know I'm worth it." Your radiance is profitable so don't dim for anyone.

💰: Libra Rising -> You attract luxury partnerships, aesthetics, and passive income through your connections. People literally want to spoil you. Money is magnetic when you lean into elegance, beauty, and charm. High-end creative entrepreneur energy. Look good, live well, get paid.

💰: Capricorn Rising -> Built for legacy wealth. Your aura screams CEO or mogul. You come off as responsible, grounded, and hella ambitious. People trust you with leadership, long term goals, and big money moves. You're not in it for the quick bag; you're building an empire.

💰: Mony square/opposite Saturn -> Money feels blocked, delayed, or tied to intense feelings of unworthiness. You might feel like you have to work 10X harder just to get a little. But this placement also builds long term wealth after lessons are learned.

💰: Mony square Moon/IC -> Emotional instability or family struggles deeply affect your financial habits. Money = safety, and when you don't feel safe, your money reflects that. Inner child work is MAJOR here.

💰: Mony 12H -> Hidden wealth...but also hidden money blocks. You may not feel "seen" financially, or you self-sabotage unknowingly. BUT spiritual work, subconscious reprogramming, and surrender can flip this into a secret millionaire placement.

💰: Mony Retrograde -> Internal money journey, lessons around belief & fear.

💰: NN in 2H/8H/10H -> You came here to evolve into wealth consciousness. This life is about claiming your worth, receiving abundance, and building a legacy. Especially strong in Taurus, Leo, Capricorn, or Cancer.

💰: Part of Fortune in 2H/8H/10H -> Your natural luck is tied to wealth, legacy and high visibility. These placements usually bring financial abundance when you're aligned with your soul's calling and confident in your talents.

Bonus Billionaire Indicators

Stellium in the 2H/8H/10H -> More than 3 placements here? You're literally built to focus on money, resources, power, and public legacy.

Trines between Earth & Water placements in money houses -> Earth signs = tangible wealth. Water signs = intuition and emotional intelligence. Together = money flow meets money instinct.

Mony, Jupiter, or Venus at 0°/15°/29° (critical degrees) -> Powerhouse money karma. These degrees intensify whatever they touch and in money astrology, that's a green flag for big financial breakthroughs.

Let me know if y'all want a Part 2 OR I'll give 1 lucky person a Mony Persona Chart reading 🤑

If you enjoyed this post, you can leave me a tip via PayPal at [email protected] or via Venmo @goddessguapa. Thank you.

#astrology #astro observations #astro community #thealchemistbae #birth chart #horoscope #astrology for beginners #natal chart #astro notes #money astrology #mony asteroid #mony persona chart #persona charts #persona chart

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