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muniimyg · 8 months ago

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♡ 02: how you talk so sweet when you're doin' bad things

series m.list // taglist

note: ahh !!! thank u all for all the love with pt 1 :) drama begins in pt 3 !!! enj their good moments while it lasts (aka this pt) lmk what u think of their dynamic & if u have any predictions for whats to cum ;) HAHAH mwaaa

also !! happy birthday @jkslvsnella 🌟 thank u for always reading and loving my work 💛

warnings: mean!jk exposes oc (she's a virgin) ,, banter

the dim neon lights of the arcade cast a playful glow over the group as they gather by the bar. laughter and overlapping chatter fill the air, but jungkook’s eyes dart toward the entrance, scanning every face that walks in.

he blinks, trying to recenter himself.

why the fuck is he waiting for you?

“do you guys want to play a hoop shoot round?” yoongi suggests, leaning lazily against the counter. “loser buys the next round.”

the guys snicker but agree. without much discussion, they begin heading toward the games, but jungkook lingers behind, hesitating to speak.

there’s a weird feeling that stirs inside him.

he wants to stay and wait for you—wants everyone to stay and wait for you (though he knows how ridiculous that sounds).

his mouth opens, about to call them back, when—

“___!” jimin’s voice cuts through the noise. “over here! great timing!”

jungkook stiffens, tilting his head and clearing his throat as he notices you walking in.

you weave through the scattered crowd, waving casually to the group. your jacket hangs lazily off one shoulder, your hair is slightly windswept, and your lips are parted, like you’re already preparing some half-assed excuse.

“you’re late,” jungkook mutters, his tone sharp as you greet the others with warm hugs and him with a smug smile.

“no shit, mr. know-it-all,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes before awkwardly shifting closer to him for a quick, half-hearted hug.

he doesn’t even unfold his arms, patting your back stiffly—once, twice, three times.

“whatever.”

“didn’t know you took attendance. god, what don’t you do?”

“be late,” he quips, voice clipped.

you scoff, pulling away and swatting his chest. “nerdy of you, but whatever. we all have to accept our flaws one day. acknowledging them is the first step, or so they say.”

“it’s courtesy to show up on time,” he snaps, leaning casually against a nearby pinball machine. his eyes rake over you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he’s losing patience for. “figured you’d get lost or trip over your own feet.”

“oh, bite me,” you retort, stepping closer and crossing your arms. “maybe find something better to do than waiting for me, hmm? something better to do than—”

before you can finish, a rowdy group stumbles toward the air hockey table behind you, shoving their way through the already cramped space.

jungkook moves without thinking, his hands firm on your waist as he pulls you aside and switches places with you.

“move,” he says bluntly, his grip barely lingering before he steps away again.

you freeze, your words dying in your throat. the touch—the casual way he did it, the way his hands fit so naturally—throws you off. your heart stutters for reasons you can’t quite name.

“what are you—”

“you’re in the way,” he interrupts, already back to leaning against the pinball machine like nothing happened.

“shit, jungkook,” you manage, trying to sound unaffected. “you can’t just move me like that. i almost thought you cared about me.”

“would you rather get knocked into the air hockey table?” he says flatly. “didn’t think so.”

you narrow your eyes at him, brushing past whatever just passed between you.

“fine,” you say with exaggerated calm, stepping away. “thank you… i guess.”

“what was that?”

“i said what i said.”

“say it again.”

“no.”

“don’t make me beg for something i deserve,” he groans, his tone a mix of mock irritation and teasing.

you roll your eyes. “sure… i’ll say it again—for the right price.”

“oh?” his brow lifts, and he’s already following after you. “how much are you charging these days?”

you turn back to glare at him, making a face as he smirks.

what you don’t see, what no one else notices, is how closely jungkook walks behind you as you move through the crowd. his hand hesitates near your waist again before he drops it, settling instead for angling his body, subtly shielding you from the chaos of the arcade.

it’s instinctive, unconscious—a quiet sort of care that he’d never admit to. but it’s just how jungkook is when you aren’t looking.

the air buzzes with the sounds of arcade games—buzzers, dings, and conversation on top of conversation. by now, the group has gravitated towards the hoop-shoot machines, their competitive banter echoing as they took turns missing shots.

when nam joon’s ball bounces dramatically off the rim, nearly taking out jimin, they all collapse into laughter.

"okay, okay!" taehyung claps his hands. "before anyone gets concussed, let's take a group photo!"

everyone gathers in front of the machines, huddling close together. you find yourself standing beside jungkook, his towering figure crowding your space as the guys shuffle to fit into the frame.

“move in,” jin calls out, holding up his phone. “no dead space.”

before you can step away, taehyung and yoongi each grab one of your shoulders, pushing you into jungkook’s side. his arm brushes yours, and when you glance up, he’s already rolling his eyes.

"stop squirming," he mutters.

"stop breathing down my neck," you bite back, earning a stifled laugh from yoongi.

“not my fault you’re short as fuck.”

“what about me do you not have a problem with, nerd?”

just as jungkook is about to tell you off, hobi hits his stomach and hisses at him.

“shut the fuck up, smile, and—”

hobi bumps his hip with jungkook’s, causing him to lean closer to you. your head tilts and so does his. he clears his throat as he regains his balance. you continue to smile, pretending not to notice him looking at you.

as the group poses, jin snaps several photos before pulling the phone down to review the shots. as everyone leans in to check the screen, a chorus of teasing begins.

"aw, look at that!" taehyung says, his grin spreading like wildfire as he leans closer to the phone screen. "this is a moment for the scrapbook. you two look so cute together."

the corner of jimin’s mouth twitches as he leans over taehyung’s shoulder, squinting at the photo before letting out a dramatic gasp.

“wait, is this… is this our it couple debuting right here? how did we miss this? it’s always those fucking enemies to lovers stories that hit… this could be it. oh my god!"

yoongi, not one to miss a beat, smirks from the side.

“don't need to start. pretty sure the fanbase already exists.”

jin snorts. “don’t expose our late night conversations, bro. that’s our special bonding time.”

yoongi hisses at jin, smacking the back of his head for saying it so weird.

"someone call dispatch," nam joon adds, cackling. "they're going viral as we speak."

"you’re joking,” you groan, face already warming as the guys snicker. “stop acting like it’s some movie poster. it’s just a group picture and—look at that! jungkook is looking at me like i’m stinky.”

“you are stinky.” jungkook scoffs.

you shove him playfully. “shut up.”

“oh no, it’s definitely poster-worthy,” jimin chimes in, nudging jungkook’s arm as he grins like a proud parent. "you can practically feel the sparks flying. jungkook’s over there pretending to hate it, but look at his hand. hovering like it’s meant to be."

"right?” hobi quips. “look at the way he’s leaning into her—”

jungkook glares. “hyung, you pushed me—”

“—bro’s living the rom-com life and doesn’t even know it.” hobi finishes.

"yeah," yoongi deadpans, his lip curling in a mock-serious expression as he gestures vaguely at the photo. "what trope are you guys?”

"trope?" you snort, shooting a glance at Jungkook. “that’s going too far. i can’t be associated with him to that point. even angels like me have limits..”

"awh, don't ruin it," jimin teases. “you two look like you were made to stand next to each other. it’s fate, ___.”

"fate?" jungkook finally chimes in, his brow quirking as he scoffs. “more like bad luck. uglyass picture, by the way. jump-scare. trigger-warning. photoshop her out, please.”

his words are sharp, but the teasing rolls on, taehyung clapping jungkook on the back as he leans in closer.

“don’t fight it, man. just admit it—you’re glowing.”

“you’re drunk.” jungkook grumbles, crossing his arms.

but even as he tries to brush it off, you catch the way his jaw ticks, the way his ears turn a faint shade of red. it almost makes you want to keep the teasing going.

almost.

you stretch over and take a proper look.

your shoulders are pressed against jungkook’s, his hand awkwardly hovering near your back as if unsure where to put it. it’s ridiculous, but you decide to lean into the joke.

“awh,” you say, nudging him with a smirk. “wait. we do look cute together. look at you—nerdy boy finally getting close to the pretty girl. must be the highlight of your life.”

jungkook’s jaw tightens, and for a second, you think he might just let it slide. But then, his eyes narrow, and the smugness in his tone cuts deeper than you expect.

“yeah?” he says, his voice low and dripping with sarcasm. “because the pretty girl who’s still a virgin at twenty-four is such a catch, right? must be fun carrying the weight of no guy ever wanting that kind of pressure.”

the air stills.

“what?” jungkook asks, unsure of why everyone’s mood suddenly shifted. “guys, we don’t need to hold ___’s hand for this. her situationships aren’t real. no guy wants her and it’s because of all her fucking issues… so don’t tease me about shit like that. why would i want her? she’s too fucked up.”

your heart sinks as the laughter dies around you, the guys exchanging awkward glances. you force a tight smile, shrugging as if the jab didn’t just land in the worst way possible.

“ha… ha… yeah. sure. what he said,” you mutter, slipping out of the group without looking back.

you weave through the crowd, the din of the arcade becoming background noise to the rush of your thoughts. yoongi and nam joon sigh and excuse themselves to follow you.

“fuck,” taehyung groans at jungkook. “for a nerd, you aren’t that smart."

jungkook throws his head back.

"okay, fine. i went too far."

taehyung forces a laugh and pats jungkook's shoulder. "i just... i don't why do you always shit the bed when it comes to ___. would it kill you consider her feelings once in a while?"

"she started it—"

"we started it," taehyung corrects him. "you fuck it up and then we have to fix it. why can't we start it and you figure it out?"

"what's there to figure out?"

taehyung sighs.

"seriously, what's there to figure out?" jungkook repeats, his voice rough with frustration, though there’s a slight tension in his jaw, as if he’s trying to keep himself in check.

taehyung runs a hand through his hair like he’s had this conversation a million times before. “you overthink everything, man. just… talk to her. it’s not that hard.”

jungkook scoffs. "i talk to her."

"yeah right," taehyung shoots back, now leaning in closer, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of concern and exasperation. "she isn't gonna stick around forever... especially with all the shit you pull. is it that hard to show that you care for her? even just a little bit? you can even fake it for all we care... just... stop doing this. stop fucking it up."

jungkook opens his mouth to retort, but then he just...

doesn’t.

he falls silent, his gaze drifting over to where you’re standing, still laughing with yoongi, oblivious to the conversation happening behind her. his expression softens for a moment, but the tension doesn’t fully leave his shoulders.

“... i don’t know what to say to her,” jungkook mutters after a long pause, his voice quieter this time, almost vulnerable.

taehyung rolls his eyes, his voice taking on a teasing edge again.

"i'm not asking you to be perfect," taehyung says, his tone suddenly serious. "i just want you to try.”

jungkook's eyes narrow, but he doesn’t argue.

he knows taehyung’s right.

and the idea of trying—really trying—is both terrifying and somehow comforting. it’s just a matter of taking the first step.

"alright, alright. i get it." jungkook sighs, running a hand through his hair. "but if i mess it up again…"

“you will,” taehyung says with a grin, smacking him on the back. “and when you do, we’ll be here to clean up your mess.”

jungkook groans. "great. thanks. god, you guys are impossible."

taehyung just laughs, clapping him on the shoulder.

"that’s what friends are for."

“that one’s cute,” you say softly, pointing to a pastel plushie trapped inside the glass case. “but aren’t these things rigged?”

yoongi glances at the plushie, then back at you, offering a faint smile. “hello kitty? can’t you just buy it in store?”

“it’s different.”

“how so?”

“winning it is better. means more.”

he laughs at you. ruffling your hair, he asks; “think you can win it?”

“probably not,” you admit with a dry laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. “i suck at these things.”

unbeknownst to you, jungkook has followed, lingering a few steps behind.

he watches quietly as you and yoongi chat, his arms folded across his chest, his usual cocky posture softened just enough to give off a more contemplative vibe. his gaze shifts to the hello kitty plushie you pointed out, taking in every detail—the soft pastel fabric, the little bow.

his jaw tightens.

for a second, he looks almost… distant. something flickers across his face—a mix of regret, maybe? or determination? it’s hard to tell, and he’s quick to push the thought aside. he can’t figure out why this damn hello kitty plushie is bothering him, but it does.

his hands shift in his pockets, fingers brushing against the cool edges of his arcade card. the sound of you and yoongi laughing lightly as you move on to a different machine pulls him out of his trance.

he’s still standing there, staring at the claw machine, his mind reeling.

get it together, he tells himself. it's a stupid fucking hello kitty plushie.

but as the two of you move further away, jungkook finds his feet taking him toward the claw machine. his body moves on its own, a subtle, almost unconscious determination settling into his posture. he steps up to the machine, his heart thumping a little louder than usual.

with a quick flick of his wrist, he taps the arcade card to the screen, paying for a round. The soft beep of the machine filling the air is oddly satisfying. he glances at the claw, watches it shift slightly in the plastic case, and his mind sharpens. the whole world narrows down to this one moment—the claw, the plushie, and the stupid, ridiculous thought that maybe, just maybe, it would mean something.

he leans in a little closer to the machine, his focus narrowing as his fingers hover just over the controls. his chest tightens, just a little.

but there’s something about this—about trying—that feels...

new.

almost like he's playing for something that’s not just a game.

as the arcade starts to empty out, the night comes to an end.

the group begins to break into separate plans. some were heading out for more drinks, the usual late-night crowd craving more chaos, while others, like you and jungkook, were heading home. yoongi, standing beside you both, clapped jungkook on the shoulder and offered a casual “see you later,” his eyes lingering a moment too long on the tension that still hung between you two.

by now, jungkook had tried to apologize multiple times throughout the night. too many times to count—but each time, you’d brushed him off, walking away before he could finish his words.

it was the same pattern that had played out earlier, with him following close behind, trying to make up for whatever had gone wrong, but you’d always managed to slip out of his reach, words left unsaid and apologies unacknowledged.

as you stepped outside into the crisp night air, the glow of neon signs casting faint colors over the sidewalk, you took a deep breath. the cool wind ruffled your hair, and you tucked a stray strand behind your ear, eyes darting to the ground, avoiding jungkook’s gaze.

“my hinge crush of the week wants to meet up… so, bye!” jimin called out, adjusting his jacket as he moved toward the waiting uber.

the others offered their farewells, the air filled with laughs and promises to meet again soon.

jungkook is quiet, his eyes still on you, a knot of frustration building in his stomach.

as you’re about to turn away, he finally speaks. his voice is soft but firm.

“can i drive you home?”

you don’t even look at him, a slight shake of your head as you took a step back.

“i’m good. thanks for the offer.”

he takes a slow step forward, determination flashing in his eyes.

“shit, ___. come on, don’t be like that. it’s late. i’m not letting you walk home alone.”

“i’m fine,” you reassure him again, taking another step away. “they’re all gone. you can stop pretending you care—w-whoa—“

but as you turn to leave, the way you step gets caught on a loose patch of pavement, and before you can stop yourself, you stumble forward. your heart lurches in your chest as your body lurches toward the ground.

but a strong and steady hand grips your waist, pulling you back against a solid chest.

“fuck, watch your step—” jungkook mutters, his voice lower now, a hint of something you couldn’t quite place in it. his grip tightened just enough to keep you from stumbling again.

you freeze for a second, your breath catching as his fingers brushed against your side, his body warm against yours. the shock of his touch sent a strange shiver down your spine, but before you could react, his voice comes again, this time with a soft but unmistakable smirk.

“you’re all out of choices now.”

his words hang in the air as he takes your waist, gently but firmly guiding you toward his car. the playful edge in his voice made your stomach flip.

he doesn’t wait for a response.

he pulls you closer as you walk together.

you want to pull away.

you want to protest, but something about the way he holds you—steady, unwavering—makes it impossible to do anything but follow.

so, you give in.

you slide into the passenger seat of jungkook’s car, the leather cold against your legs as you settle in. the familiar scent of his cologne fills the small space, mixing with the faint scent of his car’s interior. before you can even close the door, jungkook is already moving to the driver’s side, slipping in next to you with practiced ease.

he turns the key, the engine rumbling to life, and immediately, he leans over to help you with your seatbelt. his hand brushes against yours, sending a strange flutter through your chest as his fingers fumble with the latch, and you try not to think too much about how gentle his touch is.

“thanks,” you mumble, turning your head toward the window, avoiding his gaze.

the tension between you two still lingers, thick and heavy, but neither of you says anything, and soon the quiet hum of the engine fills the air instead.

the drive starts out like most others, the city lights blinking past the windows as jungkook takes a turn, his hands steady on the wheel. but then, as the cool night air seeps in through the slightly cracked window, you suddenly feel the chill of the evening air hit your skin, a shiver running down your spine.

you don’t even have to say anything. without a word, jungkook pulls off his jacket, glancing over at you.

“you cold?” he asks, his voice low, almost concerned, but his eyes are still focused on the road.

before you can respond, his white jacket is draped over your shoulders like a blanket.

it’s warm, soft—still holding the faint trace of his warmth—and for a moment, you find yourself frozen, not sure whether you should pull it off or accept the comfort. but it’s his gesture, the way he’s silently taking care of you, and the faint thought that maybe he’s not such an ass after all, that makes you just pull the jacket tighter around yourself, not saying anything.

the silence stretches on, with only the sound of his car’s engine and the soft tunes filling the air, low music that drowns out everything else.

it’s a little uncomfortable.

a little too close.

and yet, somehow, you don’t mind it.

minutes pass, and you can’t help but notice how the buildings are getting fewer, how the city streets are slipping behind, and suddenly, it hits you—he’s not turning into your neighborhood.

“wait,” you finally speak up, your voice sounding strangely foreign in the quiet car. “you just passed my place.”

he doesn’t even glance over at you, just keeps driving, his eyes focused on the road ahead.

“i know.”

“then where are you going?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady, but a flicker of annoyance laces your tone. “jungkook, what the hell?”

“the only way for you to talk to me,” he says, his voice calm but with a touch of something else beneath it.

something you can’t quite place.

“what?” you blink, confusion clouding your thoughts. “this is considered kidnapping.”

jungkook chuckles, the sound low and almost playful.

“only way for you to talk to me, like i said.”

you narrow your eyes at him, a mix of frustration and something else building inside you.

“you’re seriously driving me around for what, exactly? to waste gas? to waste your time?”

“to wait for you.”

“oh my god,” you stress. “you and your fucking words.”

he smirks. “are they working?”

you gulp.

“come on, ___. act like a bitch all night, i don’t care… but you’re gonna talk to me.”

you’re quiet for a moment, staring out the window, watching the city blur past. the absurdity of the situation sinks in, but it’s also hard to ignore the fact that you’re starting to feel a strange sense of... comfort in his presence.

“fine,” you finally say, voice quiet but sharp. “what do you want me to say, huh? you’ve been apologizing all night and i’ve been brushing you off. you said what you said. it’s done.”

jungkook shifts in his seat, and for the first time, you notice how his grip tightens on the wheel, how his jaw clenches ever so slightly.

“keep talking.”

“i’m done.”

“no,” he insists. “i don’t care what you say… i just need you to talk to me, ___. that’s all.”

you don’t respond right away, not sure how to react to that admission, or if it’s even true. but the way his words hang in the air, the sincerity behind them, makes you want to crack open.

makes you want to say something—anything—but the walls are still up.

“do you want me to fuck you or something?”

your eyes widen and your throat goes dry.

what the fuck did he just say?

“excuse me?”

jungkook then pulls over, parking his car at some random street. his car lights and the lamppost nearby are the only light sources… but that doesn’t stop you from knowing how close he is to you. you don’t need much light—you feel it. you feel his presence.

“is that why your panties are in a twist? you need dick or something? you’ve been acting weird since you overheard me fucking—”

“i don’t want to know her name.”

jungkook blinks at you.

“... so you are bothered by her.”

you pause.

“n-no. no, i’m not. it’s just… weird. i don’t want to know because i don’t want to know.”

“okay,” jungkook nods. “can i know something then?”

you hesitate.

“do you forgive me yet? i… i fucked up. i’m sorry, __. seriously. that wasn’t cool of me.”

you take a breath in.

“i forgive you,” you admit. “but be honest with me. did you mean it?”

jungkook shakes his head profusely.

“no,” he confesses. “no, i didn’t mean it. i think it’s cute that you’re a virgin—”

“stop!” you cry, throwing your hands to cover your face. “shut up.”

he laughs, finding your panic a little cute.

“what? you never get horny?”

you drop your hands, completely dumbfounded at how this conversation has unfolded in a matter of minutes.

“i do,” you tell him.

“with what? with who?”

you tilt your head and squint at him.

“curious?”

“disgusted, actually.” he mocks you.

you can’t help but let out a laugh.

then, a silence falls upon you two.

but… it’s an okay kind. the kind where you two aren’t mad at each other and everything is truly lighthearted. it’s a rare kind of atmosphere for you two share.

the tension that had once been suffocating now feels more like a slow burn, simmering quietly in the space between you. it’s strange, this shift. but it’s also... comforting.

in a way, it’s like stepping onto solid ground after floating in the middle of an ocean for too long.

you glance over at jungkook, his profile soft in the dim light from the streetlamps. his fingers are gripping the steering wheel lightly, his knuckles slightly pale, like he’s trying to keep himself grounded too. he’s not saying anything, but his presence is loud. in some ways, that’s all you need.

that he’s here.

that you’re both here, together, after all the back and forth, all the words exchanged, the small cracks and the moments of silence.

the question comes out before you can stop it, and you almost want to take it back the second it leaves your mouth.

but you’re already committed.

"think i could do it?" you say, voice softer than you intended, more vulnerable than you meant.

jungkook shifts in his seat slightly, his eyes flicking toward you.

“do what?"

"get you to want me?"

for a split second, you think you’ve gone too far.

jungkook is quiet for a long time, and you can feel the weight of his gaze on you. he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. it’s like he’s weighing the question, figuring out if you mean it. if it’s just some fleeting thought, or if you’re really standing here, raw and honest, in the middle of it all.

and then he speaks, his voice low but steady, a hint of something in it that you can’t quite place.

“why would you want that?”

the question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you’re unsure of how to respond. but then you think about it, really think about it.

"i don’t know."

the vulnerability is almost too much, too raw.

it feels like every inch of you is laid bare, exposed in a way you weren’t sure you could handle. you stare at your hands, anything to avoid the intensity of his gaze, but it’s there, lingering in the quiet air between you. it fills the space, like you can feel every word left unsaid pressing against your chest.

jungkook doesn’t say anything right away, the silence stretching long enough that you start to wonder if maybe you said the wrong thing. maybe you pushed too far, too fast.

but then, he speaks.

"wanna find out?"

his voice is low, almost teasing, but there's something else there too—something that makes your heart skip a beat.

you glance up at him, your eyes meeting his again, and you realize in that moment that this is where it all comes together. the question, the hesitation, the rawness of it all.

he’s not pulling away, not like you expected.

he’s waiting…

for you.

#bts series #jk fic #jungkook e2l #jungkook frenemies #jungkook scenario #jungkook imagine #jungkook fanfic #jk x yn #bts x yn #jungkook x reader

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hongjoongspoetry · 3 months ago

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Sparks and Bruises | Song Mingi

🥊 Summary: In a world where everyone at the age of eighteen gets a metal meter implanted on their wrist that shows the amount of danger your soulmate is in. You and Mingi have known each other since high school, but went through a nasty fallout after his love for boxing turned into a dangerous gamble with his life as the price. Years later, you stumble over his injured form on the doorstep of your apartment building. Not having the heart to turn him away like all those years ago, you invite him inside with the intention to clean his wounds, but get a lot more than you bargained for.

🥊 Pairing(s): Underground boxer!Mingi x Real estate agent!Reader, brief Hongjoong x Seonghwa

🥊 Genres/Tropes: Soulmate AU, non-idol AU, second chance AU, fluff, exes to friends to lovers, angst (more than what I planned on)

🥊 Warnings/Tags: female reader, no use of (Y/N), reader is allergic to peanuts so go with it for the plot, brief description of bruises and cuts, explicit language, crying, kissing, car accident, pet names (love, sugar, sweets), mentioned hospital, flashbacks, not beta read

🥊 Wordcount: 12.5K

🥊 Author's Note: Click the image for a better resolution (Tumblr I hate you). I just got off work (it's like 10 pm here), so I'm super tired and can barely keep my eyes open. Anyway, this is the last instalment of the Cherry Blossom March Event and while I'm sad it's over, I'm also happy because now I can focus on finishing my other stories!! A big thank you to everyone who took the time out of their day to read, leave notes and comments on my works <3 Btw I am no real estate agent and everything you read in this fic is based on excessive research (which could very well be wrong).

This is all fiction and not meant to represent any idols involved in any way or form. This work is rated SFW, however it contains explicit scenes, not sexual content but descriptions of minor injuries as well as matures themes. Minors, please, read at your own risk and refrain from interacting or following my blog!

AO3 Masterpost Moodboard

The arrow inside the plate on your wrist, no bigger than a lighter, irregularly traveled back and forth, going from one end of the meter to the other. For some, it would be worrisome and concerning, but for you, it was the opposite. You had yet to meet your soulmate. The person responsible for the occasional spike in your soulometer — the metal chip showing how much danger your soulmate was in. A mandatory procedure ordered by the government a couple of decades ago, probably one of the dumbest things the rulers of the world ever implemented into society.

“We have thought it over and… We’ll sign the contract!”

You were startled as the couple attending your showing returned from their not-so-private discussion on the other side of the kitchen. The faceless person you were supposedly destined to be with — as much as a machine could decide your destiny — occupied your thoughts more often than not, even while at work.

You put on your million-dollar smile and clasped your hands together. “Perfect. Shall we set a date for you to sign the papers then?”

The couple was expecting and in need of a bigger place than their flat, which could barely fit the two of them. After many buts and ifs, the newly wed pair eagerly agreed and a date was set. You didn’t usually have showings late into the night, but considering the husband worked early mornings until late evenings, and the wife wanted him to be present, you made an exception. Money was money, after all, and you were always in need of it.

Declining their offer to drive you home, you bid the happy couple goodbye and locked up after yourself. The apartment wasn’t too far from your place and you didn't think it would be necessary to order a cab for a ten minute walk despite it being quite late. The stiletto heels you decided to wear that morning made it feel like thirty instead and you quickly regretted being a cheapskate. Why did you have to make your life more insufferable than it already was? You only needed the sky to open up and let a waterfall of rain seep down on Seoul. At least you were smart enough to wear pants and a turtleneck instead of a dress or skirt. Despite it being late March where flowers decorated the bland parks and the trees grew out their long-awaited hair again, it felt like the start of winter.

“This is what you get for listening to Iggy Azalea,” you hissed to yourself as a familiar burn spread through your pinky toes and the back of your feet.

A crazed laughter cut through the chilly air and you automatically reached for the phone in your purse. Setting the ringtone as your best friend’s giggle was a good idea when you were still in high school and just recently turned eighteen. It wasn’t as fun when you were a woman of twenty-something-something years old with an image to uphold and your face plastered on a few boards all through town with your phone number scribbled beneath in big, bold font followed by a text literally begging people to reach out. You swore to change it every time someone called, but the thought always got lost in the shuffle of your other hundred tasks waiting to be done.

You braced yourself for it to be another client calling in the dead of night, but it turned out to be one of your saved contacts. Swiping right and putting the phone up to your ear, you answered with a tired, “Hello.”

“Finally! She answers!”

“Some of us still have work, Hongjoong. Do you know how many times I had to apologize for my ringtone?”

The identical maniac laugh recorded into your phone years ago, erupted from the device and you rolled your eyes.

“And yet you never change it. After all these years, you still have my voice as your ringtone… That’s quite romantic.”

“Watch it or I’ll have a wild Park come for my head.”

“Seonghwa would never do that.” You let the line fall silent and Hongjoong could hear your pointed look on the other side. “Okay, he probably would. Where are you anyways?! I can hear cars in the background.”

So the bass boosted headphones hadn’t ruined his hearing yet. All those times he ignored you were on purpose then. Good to know.

“I’m on my way home from work. Had a showing a few minutes ago and it went well actually.”

Another voice accompanied Hongjoong on the other line, but you couldn’t quite make out the words.

“Seonghwa is scolding you for not calling one of us to drive you home and I have to agree with him, sprout. It’s not safe to be out this late.”

The nickname sent you down memory lane dating all the way back to middle school, when you and Hongjoong were the shortest kids in class but didn’t let that hinder you from showing off your talents and wits. Hongjoong a smart kid who excelled in everything from math to musical history while you burned everyone in debates, presentations, speeches, basically anything relate to public speaking. Hence your choice of profession.

“I know, but it really slipped my mind and it’s not even that far from my flat, I promise. Like I’m almost there, just a few more minutes. I can practically see the building lights from here.”

“Good. Stay with me on the call until you enter though. Now, let me tell you about this guy who tried to steal my laptop…”

If he could, Hongjoong would have talked for hours which was quite rare. The man was usually drained from being cooped up in his studio all day, running on zero sleep and five iced coffees. It was in fact how you became friends.

The kid with round chipmunk cheeks and a menacing smile approached the girl sitting in the back of the class, not making a peep. Hongjoong kicked up a conversation by complimenting the pink bows in your hair — a little detail none of your other classmates had noticed, let alone found them pretty — and offering you a peanut butter cookie that you sadly had to decline because of your allergies. Instead of ending the interaction at your meek thank you, Hongjoong took it as an official proposition of becoming friends. Seven year old Hongjong refused to go back to his seat and even nearly threw a tantrum in class, leaving the homeroom teacher with no other choice than to make you seatmates.

You and Hongjoong quickly became a duo. Wherever you went, he followed. It marked the start of a long lasting friendship you wouldn’t trade for the world.

“...Can you imagine that?! He grabbed my stuff and proceeded to lie straight to my face!”

You hummed into the phone at his rambling. A smile graced your face as you neared your apartment building, but disappeared quickly. Hongjoong’s voice became background noise as you slowed down. A figure dressed in all black and a hood thrown over their head sat at the doorsteps. Both arms planted on their knees and head shoved into the palms of their hands. The person was on the taller side and looked quite buff beneath the baggy clothes. You didn’t recognize them as one of your neighbours, but the swooping feeling in your stomach hinted on something else.

Not heeding Hongjoong’s previous warning of being cautious, you decided to approach the stranger. The clicking of your heels interrupted the peaceful silence of the night and the person immediately looked in your direction. Sharp and angry eyes met yours, and the furious spark swirling in them morphed into surprise. Your heart jumped in your throat as you recognized the person. Of all the people in the world, you certainly didn’t expect to find him at your doorstep.

“Hongjoong? I’ll have to call you back.”

“What? Why? What happened?”

“Nothing– Or well, something, but nothing dangerous– I’ll just call you back okay?”

“...You sure?”

“Yes, one hundred percent.”

“Okay. Talk to you later then.”

You quickly pressed the red button and lowered your phone. The man was still staring at you, the fear that his imagination was playing a trick on him lingering. That if he looked away, you’d disappear from his line of sight.

Sweat spread along your palms and your pulse was loud in your ears as you walked up to the man.

“Mingi?”

He scrambled up to his feet and took hold of the railing with one hand while the other pressed against his left rib and a surprised wince slipped through his lips.

“Long time no see, huh?”

Your eyes darted all over him. Red and blue blemishes covered almost the entire surface of his face and trickles of sweat ran down the side of his face. You didn’t want to think what hid beneath his clothes.

The last time you saw him was all the way back in high school. A scrawny boy with legs for days, but the coordination of a newborn foal and a smile that lit up your world. The man before you grew into his big features and lost the youthful look. The pointy nose and plump lips were still there, but accompanied by prominent cheekbones, a sharp jaw, a piercing gaze and a chiseled face that wasn’t the shape of a triangle. His hair, once black and short, was now a dark shade of brown and longer than ever, reaching below his nape and bangs falling over his brows. A lot in his appearance changed, but the cuts and bruises remained, pouring acid on your tongue.

Ignoring the bitterness pooling in your stomach, you decided to keep the conversation civil. A stark contrast to how your last encounter went.

”Are you… alright?”

“Yeah, no, I was on my way home, but just needed to sit down…”

You weren’t going to pry despite clearly seeing he was anything but alright. If he didn’t want to tell you, who were you to force him?

Offering him a light smile, you tried keeping the tone light. “What are the odds of you sitting on my doorstep, huh?”

“Yeah… How long has it been since…”

“Four? Five? Five years.”

Mingi whistled lowly and a silence occupied the street. Everyone decided to stay in as no cars or other people lingered around. You wouldn’t say it was uncomfortable, but it wasn’t pleasant either and you didn’t know what to do. Leaving him out in the cold wasn’t an option, but inviting him didn’t sound right either. After a long fight between your brain and heart, you decided to listen to the beating organ in your chest.

“Wanna… come up? To my apartment.”

Mingi looked up at you through his fringe and the soft roundness to his eyes teleported you back to high school. Keeping your composure, you hastily added on to the sentence.

“T-To, to clean up and maybe have something to eat?”

Had someone asked you five years ago what you’d say to Mingi if the opportunity presented itself, you surely wouldn’t have invited him to your home or offered him a free meal. The most he’d get out of you would be a one-finger salute. Fast forward one thousand eight hundred and twenty five days and Mingi was lent a helping hand instead. It was enough time for you to mature into a more rational woman who could, for better or for worse, put her feelings aside and think with her brain.

Mirrors surrounded the entire inside of the elevator, even on the doors, and you held back from laughing at the reflection. There couldn’t have been an odder pair than you two. Mingi, dressed in all black with colorful blotches decorating his intimidating face, and you, wearing designer from head to toe. Even your bags were opposites — his a dingy gym bag that was a thread away from falling apart and yours from the recent Louis Vuitton collection. It was quite a funny look, but not a bone in your body vibrated with glee.

As the elevator doors closed and the mechanism carried you up the many flights of stairs, the reality dawned upon you. A multitude of questions you hadn’t thought of before inviting Mingi inside popped up like mosquitoes during summer nights — annoying, but unavoidable. The poor attempt of convincing yourself it was just a kind gesture, a friend helping a friend, you couldn’t shoo away the nagging fact that nothing of your and Mingi’s past was platonic. Shame and guilt curled in the pit of your stomach. Knowing your soulmate was out there somewhere, probably waiting for you, while you were cozying up to a man who wasn’t meant to be yours in the first place was sickening.

The ding of your arrival sounded through the speakers and you quickly went first with Mingi hot on your heels. Unlocking your front door, you threw the keys in a bowl the shape of a fish — a housewarming gift from Hongjoong — and stripped your outerwear. It was first when you put your stuff aside that you realized Mingi was still standing by the door and hadn’t moved since crossing the threshold. The man was shamelessly taking in his surroundings and you wondered what he thought of your apartment. Was it to his liking? Did it suit you? Did he like it? Why did you care?

“Uhm, you can just hang your stuff here,” you gestured to the coat rack mounted to the wall, “while I get dinner ready.”

You didn’t wait around to see him subtly nod, instead you made an escape to the safety of your kitchen. It was weird having Mingi over. It was weird being civil to one another. The tension was still there since your last encounter, like static in the air that wouldn’t really go away. The soft pad of feet grew louder and you threw a look over your shoulder to see Mingi in the doorway, his bottom lip caught between his teeth and eyes darting all over the place. Aside from his appearance, it seemed that his habits hadn’t changed — good as bad — but it wasn’t your place to pry. Not anymore.

“Is it alright if I… wash up now?”

A heat crawled up your neck and attacked your cheeks. “Y–Yeah, of course!” You cleared your throat and continued, “The bathroom is on the left of the hallway and there are towels in the cupboard above the washing machine.”

Mingi nodded, but didn’t budge from his spot. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants and leaned against the doorframe to take on a relaxed posture, yet he looked anything but relaxed.

“I… I– Uhm, don’t… I kinda don’t have a spare set of clothes to change into…”

“Oh… Oh!”

“Yeah,” he inhaled sharply through his teeth, a low hiss escaping as he tried to ignore the stiff atmosphere.

“That’s alright! I think I have something you can use. Uhm, you can start washing up while I see what I can do.”

Rummaging through your closet for your brother’s clothes to lend Mingi wasn’t something you ever imagined doing in all your years of living, but here you were. Hunched over, searching like a madwoman for an extra hoodie and some basketball shorts or a pair of sweatpants that wouldn’t be too small on the giant currently occupying your bathroom. Your brother had been in your apartment a grand total of three times and by some stroke of luck, he’d left behind clothes he thought might come in handy for his next visit. Who knew they’d be useful for more than just that?

You didn’t find a hoodie, but you did spot a black compression shirt and a pair of matching sweatpants that would have to do. You just hoped they wouldn’t be too tight. To be on the safe side, you even snagged one of your brother’s boxers. It was one thing to share clothes and another thing to share underwear, but if you got to choose, you’d happily accept the fresh pair instead of reusing your sweaty undies. The choice was up to Mingi in the end. With the clothes neatly folded in your hands, you marched toward the bathroom and triple knocked on the door.

“Uh, I found some clothes you can use!”

The harsh drops of the shower abruptly stopped and you patiently waited for a response, but nothing came. You raised your hand, fingers balled into a fist, and as you swung it forward to knock again, the door suddenly opened. A cloud of steam escaped from the hot bathroom and Mingi’s very naked body appeared in the slight opening. His stomach was a perfect display of muscle, each of the six abs sculpted like marble. You would’ve ogled longer hadn’t the raspberry and plum colored blemishes covered a huge part of his toned skin. His hair dripped on the tiled floor and a white towel hung dangerously low on his hips. The warmth tickling your whole body evaporated into a numbing cold at the bruises. Swallowing nervously, you forced your eyes back up.

Mingi flicked his head sideways to move the wet strands from his face and his tongue darted out to lap at his dry lips, a motion you followed attentively. The raise of his brow, a silent question urging you to speak up, had you stumbling over your words.

“S–So, I... I, uh, found something you can… change into!”

The clothes were thrust harshly into his bare chest, and Mingi nearly dropped the towel in order to catch them. Before he could utter so much as a "thanks," you bolted back to the kitchen and whipped out leftovers from last night. Anything to keep you busy and distracted from the jaw-dropping image that refused to leave you alone. Mingi eventually joined you in the kitchen. He leaned against the counter beside the stove, where you guarded the kimchi stew from overheating, and crossed his arms over his chest. The already prominent muscles grew more defined beneath the tight fabric. It was difficult to ignore his gaze peering down at you, and you couldn’t decide if your cheeks flared from a natural bodily reaction or from the heat of the stove.

The circular table behind you was already set, with a pair of utensils and plates aligned opposite each other. You removed the pot and placed it in the center of the table, silently beckoning Mingi to take a seat. His hair was still wet, but not dripping and despite wearing clothes, you couldn’t muster up the courage to look him in the eyes. The late dinner was done in a deafening silence interrupted by the clink of utensils and lip smacking. Not able to bear the thickness in the air, you cleared your throat and asked the first thing to pop up in your mind.

“Um… do you... want me to treat your bruises?”

The confidence you spent years mastering and using in your daily life deflated like a dramatic balloon flying around the room until it fell limply on the floor. Mingi was mid shoving food into his mouth and froze as soon as the words reached his ears. His lips were parted enough for you to catch a glimpse of his slightly crooked front tooth and a wave of nostalgia hit you square in the nose. The man before you had changed so much, yet not at all.

Mingi took a bite of the kimchi and rice to buy himself time to think your proposal over. It wasn’t a bad shout as you did have experience treating his wounds considering you were the one tending to him back in high school. He slowly chewed and swallowed, and you were starting to regret ever opening your mouth.

“Sure,” he answered while giving his full attention to the bowl of stew before him and you couldn’t have been more relieved. He didn’t have to see the way you bit the inside of your cheek, tightly gripped your spoon or raised your brows to your hairline.

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence and for once, you didn’t care if it wrapped around your throat and suppressed the air from entering your lungs. This was all so surreal. There wasn’t a day where you thought you’d be eating left-over kimchi stew with your ex-boyfriend and then agree to treat his wounds — the thing that drove you apart all those years ago. The universe worked in a funny way. Instead of bringing you closer to your soulmate, it led you straight to the past.

Putting the bowls in the sink, you gestured for Mingi to return to the bathroom while you put away the dishes. It hadn’t dawned on you that by helping Mingi treat his wounds, you’d have to merge your personal bubbles into one and actually touch him, even if it was as much as a graze of your fingertips along his skin.

Rounding the corner of the hallway and stopping before the entrance to the bathroom with a medkit in your hands, you were caught off guard by the image before you. Mingi was seated on the toilet lid, hunched over with his forearms resting on his thighs. You could see the top of his head — something you rarely did back in high school — as he faced the tiled floor. A swoop in your stomach urged you to run your fingers through his strands, but the impulse was quickly shut down. You stepped into the bathroom with feigned confidence. Mingi looked up as your sock-clad feet came into view, your big toes wiggling nervously. You placed the kit on the sink and grabbed the things you needed, starting with alcohol wipes. There wasn’t much you could do about the colored bruises already turning an ugly shade of yellow and purple, but the few cuts — like the one on his bottom lip and around his eyebrows — were easier to treat.

“This may sting,” you whispered, shuffling closer to him.

Mingi parted his legs to give you better access to his face. You put a finger beneath his chin and tilted it upward before gently dabbing the wipe against his brow ridge. A hiss filled the bathroom, but you didn’t stop cleaning the wound. Despite not being in this situation since high school, when Mingi would get his ass beat in the boxing ring and show up at your door with new cuts adorning his face every other weekend, you still remembered all the steps of the treatment. They were etched into your spine and controlled your limbs without a strain.

Your lips were pressed into a thin line, your brows almost touching from how deeply furrowed they were and Mingi wanted to smooth out the skin between them, but did no such thing. Instead, he diverted his attention elsewhere and focused on your lips, which he’d argue was the worse choice of the two. Scooping a generous amount of ointment on a Q-tip, you dabbed it on the cut and finished it off with a small band-aid that smoothly blended in with his hue. You tried to put off treating his lips, but apparently even Mingi had a limit to how many punches to the face he could take, and you eventually had to bite the sour apple and just get it over with.

It had been silent since you warned him about the sting from the alcohol wipes, broken only by a few of his grunts and hisses. Yet, the silence never felt as loud as it did in that moment when you cupped his chin in your left hand and stared intently at his plump lips. A determined heat swirled in your eyes and Mingi couldn’t look away. It took everything in him not to instinctively bite down on his bottom lip or run his tongue over it.

“Relax your lips,” you said, brushing your thumb along the bottom row.

You didn’t realize what you had done until a second later and Mingi couldn’t chuckle at your appalled expression, as he was equally frozen in place. Both of you were left wide-eyed, mouths hanging open and brains going haywire. A pleading sparkle glimmered in his dark eyes, but you refused to give in, keeping your focus on his lips — lips that were so kissable. Warmth washed over you and there was nothing you wanted more than for the ground to swallow you whole. The weight of his burning eyes was too heavy for you to bear, so you tried to redirect the attention by doing the one thing you did best — talking.

“Are you still fighting?”

It seemed to do the trick as Mingi broke out of the captivating spell. In an exhausted tone, the one you’d hear between a couple constantly bickering and reaching their end, he breathed out your name.

“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

You hastily applied the ointment and retracted your hand, but Mingi was faster. He grabbed your wrist, his thumb landing on the soulometer in the quick act and an electric crackle burst where your skin connected. A beat or two passed before he decided to speak up.

“I am fighting, just not as much… I kinda feel bad for my soulmate.” The corner of his mouth pulled up in a faint smirk and a chuckle followed at his poor attempt of easing the awkward air.

Your heart dropped into your stomach and you didn’t think it was possible for it to go any further from there, but hearing the rest of his sentence proved you wrong. Before the hollow feeling could reflect on your face, you forced the corners of your lips up in a fabricated smile. An identical smile to the one caught in a multiple of billboards all over Seoul.

“I wish mine would do the same. They always seem to find themselves in some trouble.”

A thick gulp ventured down his throat and the shaking panic in his eyes morphed into a forced calm. “I’m sure if they knew you were this worried, they’d stop running headfirst into danger.”

Five years had passed since the soulometer was injected into your wrist, enough time for your soulmate to change their ways, to stop giving their other half constant fear every night. Yet, it wasn’t the distance or the lack of knowledge about each other’s lives that weighed on your heart. The true reason lay deeper — your soulmate simply didn’t care enough to stop or perhaps they lacked the means to break free from the dangerous path they’d chosen. It was never about being physically apart, but about the emotional distance — the helplessness of knowing that, despite everything, they continued to surround themselves with danger. You didn’t have the heart to confide in Mingi about it, to express the quiet ache you carried, because saying it aloud would mean admitting that the person you loved was still caught in a cycle they couldn’t escape, or didn’t want to.

Truthfully, Mingi was also the last person you wanted to confide in about the matter.

“I guess so.”

The brief and accidental encounter with Mingi was supposed to stay a long lost media in your brain, cluttered together with other minor memories. That was what you told yourself as Mingi left your apartment, sweaty clothes in a trash bag and belly full of warm leftovers. The version of him you remembered from all those years ago still lived on in your imagination, the bitter note of how everything ended, a constant reminder as to why the encounter should just be that — short, consistent and insignificant. As the morning sun peeked from between the high buildings and the dark sky bleed out to a baby blue hue, you’d return to your everyday life of selling apartments while the dishwasher rinsed the memory of what occurred in the space of your four walls.

The open PDF on the computer screen illuminated your face and the bazillion numbers would’ve been overwhelming if your mind wasn’t occupied by the thoughts of a certain man with feline-shaped eyes and annoyingly juicy lips. Whatever you did — drown yourself in work, spend time with Hongjoong and Seonghwa, try out the new restaurant in town — nothing was good enough to forget Song Mingi and that night. The situation just felt so right. A domestic reality you yearned for since you graduated high school and moved into your own flat. The wish to have someone by your side, to stuff your face in greasy food, stay up late at night and watch a plethora of rom-coms while cuddled up to them, and sleep until the sun was high in the sky. Mingi re-awakened those feelings you locked away in a chamber behind your heart.

A stack of papers fell on your desk with a thud and pulled you out of your wishful thinking. Jongho, your freakishly strong colleague, plopped down on a vacant plush sofa that was mainly there for clients to use while discussing potential deals.

“You excited to get drinks after work?” He asked, tugging on his perfectly made necktie.

You massaged your forehead, completely having forgotten about the collective outing you and your co-workers had every month. “Is that today?”

“Whoa, don’t tell me you, the most unforgettable person I know, forgot about our end-of-the-month-party!? Woo is gonna have a blast when I tell him!”

Jongho didn’t question your sudden loss of memory at first. The younger agent found the situation perfect for a round of teasing or perhaps even as future blackmail material. Concern flashed in his eyes when you made no attempt to defend your honor and instead buried the rest of your face in the palms of your hands.

“Hey… is everything… alright?”

“Yeah… No? I don’t know.”

Something was really wrong because you were never tired. In fact, Jongho had never seen you without a smile or a spring in your step. You were always collected, whether it was your clothes, hair or mood. Fire alarms went off in his head and plans be damned if he didn’t at least try to figure out what was going on. It was easier said than done, though, because he didn’t know how to approach the topic and ended up sitting there with his mouth parted like a fish out of water. The overthinking was starting to trigger a headache, so he settled on the simplest, but hopefully, most effective question he could think of.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No.” Your reply was instantaneous. “I need to not think about it.”

A mischievous gummy smile spread across his face. “You just signed yourself up for regret, my dear friend.”

As you were about to ask to elaborate, he cupped his hands around his mouth and called out for the biggest menace in the company.

“Wooyoung-ya!”

Albeit curious, the pair didn’t try to fish out context clues or the story behind your emotional state. Wooyoung lived up to Jongho’s promise of making you regret joining them for drinks and it didn't stop there. They both continuously visited your office throughout the rest of the shift. Wooyoung would nonchalantly enter the room as if he didn’t have anything up his sleeve, step up to the window and inspect the wilted plant burning up from being in the sunlight for too long, when he was actually throwing you curious glances from the corner of his eye. Then, before quickly taking his leave, he’d subtly slide you a packet of gummies and run as if his life depended on it. One would believe you were engaging in some shady transaction that would definitely make you both lose your real estate license.

Jongho was a different story. The youngest of the trio wasn’t good with his words, but the affection could be read through his actions. Although they were questionable. He, too, invaded your room in subtle fashion and touched everything that didn’t require human contact — your Sanrio figurines, picture frames, ornaments still up from Christmas. While it was annoying in the moment, their antics kept you from circling back to the one person who had made his grand return after five years of radio silence. Good thing you hadn’t planned on rekindling that flame ever again. But what was written in your calendar didn’t align with the universe.

The happy hour had ended a while ago, and while Jongho and Wooyoung made sure to get you home first, your stomach rumbled the second you stepped foot into the apartment. What better meal to have in a tipsy state than some ramen?

The trip to the corner shop was supposed to be quick and relaxing — a weak attempt to distract yourself from the headache blooming at the back of your head. Perhaps that was why you weren’t fully aware of your surroundings, stumbling into racks displaying different flavors of chips and accidentally knocking things out of place. You purposefully ignored the scorching gaze of the cashier and hastily moved to hide between the aisles. But what you didn’t expect was for another figure to round the opposite corner, causing you to bump headfirst into them. The ramen cups and energy drinks piled up in their basket tumbled to the floor, and you quickly crouched down to gather as many things as your arms would allow.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

The person didn’t say anything and you expected them to be very annoyed, but that wasn’t the case. The familiar face looking down at you with a tight-lipped smile caused you to freeze on the spot.

“Hey.” Mingi flared his fingers in what was supposed to resemble a wave, but it came off more awkward than intended.

A painful cramp fluttered at the back of your neck as the position wasn’t the most comfortable, your head craned uncomfortably as you looked up at him, the strain making it feel like it might snap at any moment. Yeah, the university wasn’t on your side.

“Here.”

He knelt down to be at your level, though it would never really match, and urged you to place the belongings in the basket. It was impossible to tear your eyes from him, but Mingi didn’t notice your stare as he gathered the unscattered snacks and drinks in the carrier. Once was a coincidence, twice is a pattern, you thought and swallowed thickly.

“Alright, let’s stand up.”

He rested his arm on his propped-up knee, while the other hand was held out for you to take. On a count of three, you both stood up simultaneously and your hand immediately returned to your side.

“What are you doing here?”

The question came off more like an interrogation than a casual inquiry and you winced at your loose tongue. Mingi didn’t seem to care though.

“Nothing much, just wanted a late night snack.” As if you didn’t understand, he grabbed one of the ten ramen cups in his basket and gently shook it. The contents rattling together and overpowering the whirring sound of the freezers. “What about you?”

“Ah, same here…”

Mingi glanced down at your empty hands and smacked his lips together, “Cool.”

“Yeah…”

The young cashier who couldn’t be older than a high school graduate nearly suffocated from the sudden thickness in the convenience store.

“Uhm, you gonna get anything?”

“What? Oh! Right! Let me just…” You trailed off and darted over to the refrigerators, grabbing the first thing that came into view.

You snagged a bag of shrimp chips on your way back too. Banana milk and shrimp chips, what a combination! The reasons for your late-night adventure had started with the craving for ramen, but somewhere between the aisle mishap and the distraction of other snacks, the noodles had been completely forgotten. In the meantime, Mingi moved over to the cashier register and patiently waited for the kid to scan his items.

You shuffled behind him and Mingi turned sideways, one of his brows cocked up. “Here, give me that.”

Before you could protest or dodge his advances, the items in your hands were stolen from beneath your nose and placed on the counter.

“Hey, no, I can pay for that.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Mingi–”

“I said don’t worry about it.” There was a certain finality to his tone that told you there was no point in further arguing. Mingi swiped his card as the cashier packed your things in two separate plastic bags.

Standing outside the Seven-Eleven, you stuffed your hands into the pockets of your coat, the handles of the bag clinging to your wrist. “You didn’t have to do that. I can pay for myself.”

Mingi’s breath escaped in a cloud of vapor, lingering in the cold air before it dissolved into the sky. The corner of his mouth lifted into a one-sided grin.

“I know.”

Never letting you pay for anything was just another addition to the long list of habits he still clung to since high school. Mingi really hadn’t changed, and you couldn’t deny the disappointment that settled in as you witnessed it.

“Good. Then I’m leaving now. Good night.” You turned on your heel and began walking in the direction of your home.

“W–Wait! Let me walk you home.”

You didn’t spare him a glance. “No need for that. This is one of the safest neighborhoods in Seoul, actually.”

Another ‘I know’ died on his lips. If anyone on this earth knew how out of danger you were, it would be Mingi.

“T–That’s good, but... it would help me sleep at night if I knew you got home safely.”

After all this time, you still had a hard time telling him no. Sighing, you shrugged your shoulders in defeat, your resistance crumbling despite yourself. “Fine, you can walk me home.”

The walk was short, but lasted longer than ever and you were regretting your choices of not standing your ground against him. You would never admit it out loud, but his dimpled smile and two moles were your greatest weakness and there was no way you’d ever win against them.

Mingi cleared his throat. “What have you been up to? You know, since high school.”

“Have you thought about what college to apply for?” Mingi asked and intertwined his fingers across his abdomen.

“I don’t know,” you told him truthfully.

You lay on the grass, staring up at the night sky. The black canvas was dotted with a million, billion stars, leaving no space untouched. It had been Mingi’s idea to go stargazing, but considering neither of you had a driver’s license or the energy to trek up a mountain in the middle of the night, you figured the view wouldn’t be any different from your backyard.

He turned to you and followed the outline of your profile. God, you were beautiful. “Really? How come?”

“I don’t know. I feel like there are so many options, like how will I know what’s good for me.”

“Whatever you choose, sugar, you’ll figure it out. You always do.” Now it was your turn to face him and he flashed you a reassuring smile.“Sometimes, the best choice is the one that feels right in the moment.”

“...Being with you feels right.”

Nothing could compare to back then. Sure, you experienced fleeting moments of happiness, but they didn’t last longer than the life of a snowflake. Did Mingi ask that to see if you were still stuck in the past? If your time together was the peak of your happiness? He didn’t get to do that. To slither his way into your heart and admire everything you had been through without him by your side.

“Nothing special. I’m a real estate agent, so I’ve been busy selling houses and apartments.”

“Nothing special my ass. That’s amazing. But what is expected of the smartest girl in our high school, huh? I always knew you’d achieve great things.”

Blood pooled beneath your cheeks, burning hotter than a fever of thirty-nine degrees, and you hated how, despite everything, he still turned you into a giddy high school girl who made eye contact with her crush. To be fair, it wasn’t too far from the truth and that was a scary realization on its own. All it took was a measly compliment and you turned to mush.

“What about you? What are you doing these days?”

A silence stretched between you far heavier than anything you had ever felt before. It was as if the question had torn through some fragile barrier, leaving him exposed. His eyes, once sharp and filled with glee, now seemed distant, as though searching for something lost. You could feel the weight of the pause, like a storm brewing in the space between you. What was he really doing these days? More importantly, what had he been doing all this time out of your reach?

“A little bit of everything. Anything I can get my hands on, really.”

“You didn’t study after high school?”

“You know school wasn’t my strongest suit. Stuffy classrooms and obnoxious teachers talking my ear off never got me anywhere, I mean, I barely passed high school. I was more comfortable with my hands in motion and figuring things out as I went. School was ever it for me. It always felt like I was waiting for something that never came.”

Mingi wasn’t wrong. Although he was a smart kid, staying awake studying until the dead of night and then working an underpaid nine-to-five job wasn’t for him. But you couldn’t shake away the bitterness of how he threw away the opportunity of a normal life with you for a bloody ring and a life of unpredictability. The punches he took in that world weren’t just physical — they hit somewhere deeper, somewhere you couldn’t reach. You had always wanted something more stable, something real to hold on to, but Mingi had chosen the chaos, the fight, over everything else. Perhaps that was why the universe decided not to tie your red string to his pinky, knowing it would hurt you more than his decision.

Coming to a stop outside your apartment, the memory of your first encounter after a few years still fresh in your mind.

“Like boxing?”

Mingi’s eyes softened, but he didn’t speak, his mouth pressing into a thin line. The silence between you both was heavy, filled with things unsaid. It was the kind of silence that made your heart ache, knowing that there was so much left unresolved between you, yet you couldn’t find the words to fix it.

“Good night, Mingi,” you finally said, taking a shaky breath as you turned back to your door again.

The finality in your tone hung in the air like a weight neither of you could lift. You didn’t look back as you reached for the door handle, but you knew Mingi was still there, standing in the same place, holding onto the same regrets.

Reaching your apartment, you flicked on the lights and quickly discarded your outerwear. You turned on the switches in every room and placed the bag of goods on the kitchen table.

Disappointment fueled every movement. Grabbing a pot from the lower cupboard, you filled it with water, not caring as it splashed everywhere. When you set it down on the stove, you didn’t bother being careful, letting it thud onto the surface. You waited — oh-so-patiently — for the water to reach its boiling point and shoved a hand into the plastic bag. The expected rustling of plastic and cold drinks didn’t come. Instead, you felt the hard, smooth texture of something else. Knitting your brows together, you took hold of the square object, no bigger than a container of pudding.

In your palm was a plastic box of peeled and cut oranges.

Your head rested on your folded arms, eyes cast on the baby-blue sky taunting you from behind the windows. It was a beautiful day. What a shame you were stuck in a room with thirty other kids and no air conditioning. Your homeroom teacher was late — an uncanny occurrence, considering she always emphasized the importance of being on time and never failed to follow through. Until today.

The door to the classroom slid open with a thud, but the class had yet to quiet down, and by that single reaction, you knew it wasn’t Ms. Choi who had entered. The previously loud chatter of your friend group turned into hushed whispers and skittish snickers that reached your ears, but you didn’t bother to see what had gotten them so giggly. It was probably Jihoon, the new boy in class, who effortlessly managed to twirl every girl around his finger with just a look. He wasn’t your type — you preferred them tall, lanky, and clumsy. Jihoon was on the shorter side and had muscles that seemed unnatural for a sixteen-year-old. Plus, you weren’t into soccer boys. No, your style was more martial arts.

A hand, twice the size of yours, appeared out of nowhere and placed a clementine — your favorite fruit — on your desk, just inches from your face. Your eyes widened, staring at the bright fruit in disbelief. Groggily, you pushed away from the comfortable spot against the desk, only to quickly notice the figure looming over you.

Song Mingi.

“You skipped lunch,” he stated nonchalantly, offering an explanation for the sudden appearance of the fruit.

The muffled squeals of your friends, combined with Mingi’s unexpected act of chivalry, sent heat rushing to your cheeks, leaving you flustered and unsure of how to react. Gift-giving and small acts of service weren’t foreign between you and Mingi. He always seemed to know your cravings, bringing you peeled fruit and sugary snacks without you ever having to ask. In return, you tended to his cuts, massaged the tension from his neck and shoulders after heavy training, and always seemed to find ways to care for him without words. But that was done in private, never in public. Especially not in front of your friends who were having a field day with his new revelation.

“Ah,” Mingi breathed out, picking up the orange once more.

Silently, he peeled off the thin skin, revealing the vibrant fruit hidden beneath. But he wasn’t done yet. With a casual movement, he stuffed the citrus-scented rind into the pocket of his school uniform before carefully removing the white pith wedged between the clementine’s segments. You didn’t like the white parts. His towering form caught the attention of the rest of the class and by now everyone intently watched the exchange.

The clementine looked bare now. He held out the fruit again, waiting for you to extend your hand, careful not to let it touch the surface of your desk. A yellowish stain colored his nails, a discoloration that wouldn't fade with just one wash, and the acidic smell lingered, even stronger now. It was the main reason you didn’t like peeling them in the first place.

Mingi, having heard your confession a few weeks ago, made it his mission to always give you peeled oranges. It warmed your chest to know he was keeping that promise.

Apparently, the universe wasn’t satisfied with your first and second encounters because the third one happened just a little less than a week later. You were meeting up with Hongjoong and Seonghwa at a nearby cafe to catch up on the hecticness of your lives — also known as gossip about your workplaces and bonding over the latest episode of When Life Gives You Tangerines. The name of the drama threw you down a steep hill of memories, but you stood up, dusted off your knees and trekked back up. You didn’t want to associate him with the family of fruit anymore.

The clock had just passed five-thirty AM and you were supposed to be there ten minutes ago. It didn’t help that you hit every red light possible. At least the weather was nice. Not a single cloud occupied the baby-blue sky and the spring breeze scattered butterfly kisses along your body. It could’ve been worse. You thought of gloomy clouds and cold rain, and immediately shuddered. Yeah, it definitely could’ve been worse.

The breath caught in your throat as a bus sped by, just a little over the limit. You exhaled in relief as it passed, but that relief was short-lived when you locked eyes with none other than Mingi on the other end of the sidewalk. It felt as if the universe were laughing in your face, throwing everything you didn’t want right at you. You’d take gloomy clouds and rainy weather over seeing Mingi again. The worst part was that it was a lie because even in the stormiest times, he managed to light up your surroundings, and the erratically beating heart in your chest served as your witness.

A black hoodie swallowed his towering frame and a pair of chunky headphones covered his head. You couldn’t see him that well, but you assumed the shining reflection around his collar was from his stacked necklaces. The cuts along his face had healed nicely — in fact, they were completely gone — and you wondered if your last encounter had anything to do with it or if he had just gotten better at dodging flying fists.

You always seemed to end things on a bitter note, yet you ignored the sourness on your taste buds and raised your hand in a small wave. He returned it with a tight-lipped smile and a subtle tug of his headphones, letting them rest around his neck instead. Mingi bit down on his bottom lip, seemingly contemplating something. Coming to terms with his thoughts, he raised a finger, wordlessly telling you to wait and threw a quick glance at the red light as if it would hurry up from a single look. Although you had every right to ignore him, you just couldn’t. You had always been weak when it came to him, never really able to tell him no and it appeared some things just never changed.

Mingi’s face lit up as the light turned to green. The man was so eager to cross the street — to get to you — that he didn’t bother checking both sides before walking out. Unlike the others, he missed the speeding vehicle zooming through multiple red lights and showing no signs of stopping. You felt it before you saw it. The spike in your left wrist, the rush of the arrow sky rocketing from zero to a hundred. Your legs moved on their own before you could form the first letter of his name. One moment you were rooted to the ground, eyes wide and mouth parted, and in the next you harshly collided with Mingi, hoping your spurt of strength was enough to knock him off balance and away from the dangerous metal chunk on wheels.

The world didn’t stop spinning, but time slowed down as Mingi fell backward. His hand came up to cradle your head, while the other slithered around your waist. Your own arms were pressed against his chest from the push you gave him. The landing was harsh, but Mingi took most of it as his back slammed against the pavement and your face became buried in the crook of his neck and shoulder. The passersby approached you with questions of worry and concern, their faces etched with confusion and anxiety at the entire situation. Everyone was a bit shaken up at the tragedy that could’ve been. Your body refused to cooperate and the only thing you could do was tangle your fingers into the material of his hoodie, clinging to it for dear life, trying to distinguish reality from imagination. How cruel — he had just returned to your life, only to almost be taken out of it again, permanently.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, his fingers massaging your scalp as the other hand scrunched up the back of your shirt.

A stutter of words slipped out, none of which Mingi could make sense of. He sat up, trying to get a better look at you, but you refused to part from the comfort of his chest. You didn’t need to see it to know your soulometer had calmed down — you felt it in every fiber of your being. Your soulmate was safe, and you were too, now that you were in the arms of a living, breathing Mingi.

“Please, sweets, I need to know if you’re alright.”

Desperation dripped from his voice like sticky honey falling from a dipper and it struck sharply in your core, bringing you back to the present.

“Okay,” you mumbled against his clothes, just loud enough for it to reach his ears and Mingi exhaled in relief. He pressed a kiss on your hairline and your heart fluttered at the domestic gesture.

A couple of strangers offered to call an ambulance, but Mingi waved them off, saying it wasn’t necessary and that no one was harmed — just a bit shaken up. He thanked them nonetheless and it did the trick as the crowd dissolved, the people returning to their everyday life, but with a story to slap down on the dinner table.

Mingi placed a palm beneath your left thigh as the other went around your waist to keep you sturdy as he got up from the pavement. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

It didn’t matter how much you wanted to tell him to let you down, that you could walk on your own and didn’t need a chaperone — the words wouldn’t roll off your paralyzed tongue. Feeling the stares of strangers burn into you, you hid your face in the crook of his neck and didn’t pull away until you were safely in your apartment. The entire journey home, you tried to wrap your head around the event: the near-death experience, your body taking over while your mind went slack, the sudden spike in your soulometer. You didn’t dare think about what would’ve happened if you hadn’t reached Mingi in time — if you were just a second too late, if you hadn’t noticed the car. A shiver ran down your spine, and you pressed your lips together to distract yourself from the tears threatening to soak Mingi’s hoodie.

You needed a distraction from the what-ifs, and you needed one pronto. Trying to focus on something other than Mingi being flattened by that stupid car, you racked your brain for something, anything else, when it suddenly hit you. In all the seven years you had your soulometer, it had never even grazed, let alone pushed hard against the other end of the scale.

Back inside your apartment, you plopped down on the sofa and dropped your head into your hands. A throbbing ache pulsed through every part of your head, and the constant buzzing of your phone wasn’t helping. You had an inkling of who it could’ve been, and as you fished it out of your bag, the hundreds of messages and missed calls from both Seonghwa and Hongjoong confirmed your suspicion. You sent them a reassuring text, apologizing for bailing on them and blaming it on your headache. Mingi was leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his chest, and his feet crossed at the ankles. His eyes never left your hunched form. He was waiting — for a call, a sign, something that would tell him when to reach your side and offer his help.

In another life, you’d be flustered — happy, ecstatic that he was there, worried for your well-being, wanting to make you feel better. But the nagging thought of the situation — too perfect to be a coincidence — wouldn’t let you go. What were the odds of your soulmate and Mingi both being exposed to danger at the same time? How was it that Mingi’s body was void of bruises just as your soulometer stopped acting up?

Licking your lips, you inhaled shakily and found Mingi’s gaze. The pull to be wrapped in his arms was strong, almost unbearable and you wondered if he felt it too. The need to run your fingers through his hair, to rest your forehead at the junction of his neck and shoulder while he soothingly rubbed circles in your back. The feelings were more intense than back in high school, now full of want and need that you couldn’t satisfy by being in his mere presence. However, you were willing to put it aside in exchange for your question marks to disappear and there was only one person who could give it to you.

Your voice was raspy and weak, breaking mid-sentence as the words struggled to escape. With every ounce of vulnerability, you asked him, “Are we soulmates?”

Mingi didn’t move for a moment. He looked to the side, his jaw clenching as he uncrossed his arms and gripped the edge of the counter. It was inevitable, really. The question was bound to come up sooner or later, and he wasn’t a fool. Mingi didn’t live in a bubble separate from his worries. They were woven into his everyday life, especially since you’d crossed paths again after all these years, with you at the center of them. The anxiety hovered around you like planets orbiting the sun — always there, needing you to survive, but never able to get too close. Mingi never stopped thinking about you. Since your high school graduation, he’d found himself more often than not lying awake in the dead of night, thoughts circling back to you — wondering how you were, what you were doing, if you were happy. You had to be. Mingi only ever brought you pain and hurt, something he loathed himself for. The lies and secrets were the main reason behind it all, but the icing on the cake was his devotion to boxing, which had long surpassed his love for you. At least, in your eyes, because that was what he had allowed you to see — what he wanted you to think. It would make the end of your relationship easier, giving him a lie to hold onto instead of the truth.

But Mingi was tired of lying. He didn’t plan to re-enter your life to keep the same pattern in motion. He wanted to start a-new and whether he deserved it or not was up for debate, but he was going to try. For you. For himself. For your relationship.

“Yes.”

Then it all just stopped. The beat of your heart filled the silence of the world. The flicker of emotions was instant and irregular — shifting from relief and happiness to disbelief and anger. You couldn’t form a single thought, much less say anything. What could one say in such a moment? Realising your first and only love was more than that and had slipped away. The never ending fear and regret of losing the sole good thing in your life washing out to nothing, leaving you empty. It was good and bad. A war broke out in your head, scrambling to come to an understanding, but the tear between the two sides was so grave it was starting to hurt. The relief of finding your soulmate clashed with the idea that he was right beneath your nose this entire time, purposefully avoiding you for who knows how long.

A sting burned behind your eyes followed by a heavy pressure. Your throat closed up and yet you managed to get your question out.

“How… How long have you known?”

Mingi heaved in a breath. The weight of the situation pressed harshly against his chest as he realized the bear trap he set up years ago was beneath his foot.

“A little after the start of our third year in high school… When you were rushed to the hospital.”

You remembered it like it was yesterday. Someone thought it would be a funny prank to leave an opened peanut-chocolate bar in your locker, completely disregarding the gravity of the situation. That was almost a month after his eighteenth birthday — the day his soulometer was permanently injected into his body. Out of those three years, you dated for one and a half, and the last stretch of your relationship was apparently built on secrets and lies because he knew.

He knew and didn’t tell you.

You rose from your seat, your expression shifting from disbelief to frustration. Your brows furrowed, and your lips were pressed tightly together in fury. Mingi had never seen you so angry — not even when some older kids were making fun of Hongjoong for his height or liking boys.

“Why? Why wouldn’t you tell me about it? Mingi, we broke up and you didn’t think to tell me we were, are soulmates?!”

Your voice jumped from a whisper to full-out yelling, loud enough for your neighbors above and below to indulge in the dramatics, and Mingi flinched at the sudden rise in volume. A fire spread from his core to the rest of his body, growing hotter and more intense with each passing second. Despite how familiar the sensation was, it wasn’t his. You were angry beyond salvaging and no amount of water could douse the flames.

Mingi’s chest tightened as the answer to your long-awaited question tumbled out of him. “Because you deserved a better soulmate!”

Like that, a weight lifted off his shoulders. There was a very long pause where you just stared at each other, both waiting for the other to speak.

“Excuse me?” It was meek, barely above a whisper as you spoke and a sharp, breaking sound echoed in Mingi’s heart, like porcelain shattering. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Mingi hesitated, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right words. You seized the opportunity to step in front of him. Unshed tears lined your waterline, one blink away from spilling over and kissing your burning cheeks. Mingi wasn’t any better. His eyes were glossed over and throat was dry. His fingers turned an alarming shade of white from gripping the counter, the veins in his hands more defined than ever.

“Why?”

“You weren’t happy with me…” Mingi’s voice cracked, tears welling in his eyes as he struggled to continue. “W–with me boxing… and I… I wasn’t ready to give up on that. I thought you d–deserved some happiness before you realized you were stuck with me f–forever.” His words came out choked, his chest heaving as the tears finally spilled over.

The salty tears extinguished the fire that had been brewing in you. What had felt like flames of hell now shrunk to nothing more than a spark, ready to fade. You reached out, your hands trembling slightly as you cupped his face, gently wiping away the tears that had fallen.

“You thought I wouldn’t choose you? Mingi, I was never asking you to give up on what you love. I just couldn’t stand seeing you put yourself in danger, not knowing if you’d come back to me… alive.” Your heart ached as the soulometer inside you throbbed painfully, a constant reminder of how deeply connected you two were.

Mingi had grown up in a boxing family. His father was a boxer, and his grandfathers on both sides were boxers too. It was only natural for the only child of the Song family to step into his relatives’ shoes and fall in love with the gruesome sport. However, it wasn’t the officiated matches or light sparring during training that had you worrying for Mingi. A little after Mingi turned eighteen, he realized that his talent could not only bring him medals, but money. A great sum of money, actually.

As the fortune started to come his way, you began to notice the change in him. He wasn’t just fighting for the thrill or the legacy anymore — it had become a business. The sport he had once loved, the sport that had connected him to his family, was now something more — something dangerous, something that had started to consume him. You watched as he took on bigger opponents, harsher training regimens and increasingly dangerous matches, all in pursuit of a prize that was slowly tearing away at the person you once knew.

You didn’t mean to put him in a tight spot, to choose between his first serious girlfriend and the illegal business that kept him independent. You also didn’t expect him to choose the latter. The decision stung more than you anticipated, the weight of it sinking in as you realized what it said about his priorities.

You were both young and foolish back then, believing the world was beneath your feet and that one wrong decision could crumble it all. Had you known you were bonded, tied together for all eternity, you would’ve approached him differently and you certainly never would’ve let him go.

“I didn’t know about the soulmate bond. I didn’t know you knew... and you still let me walk away. You were willing to let me go without telling me the truth? How could you think I’d leave you forever, knowing we were meant to be?”

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” he said, his voice breaking. “I–I swear, I wanted to tell you. So many times. Every time I’d walk past your posters or hear about you from our mutual friends, I’d be one click away from calling you, but…”

The apology hung in the air like a weight, thick with guilt and regret. His voice trembled, each word choked back by the raw emotion clawing at him. The tears streamed down his face, unchecked. He turned his face slightly, the side of his cheek brushing against your palm, as if trying to hide from the pain, but your touch remained steady. You held him there, gently, as his sorrow poured out.

“Don’t hold back, Mingi. I’m not going anywhere, not now, not tomorrow, not ever… So please, talk to me.”

His chest hitched as he struggled to breathe, the weight of the words, the silence and the years of unsaid things crashing over him. Mingi knew he owed you this. An explanation, a reason for his sudden pull back all those years ago. He heaved in a breath and allowed the truth to spill.

“I just… I couldn’t,” he whispered. “Every time, I’d think about it and then–then I’d back out. I thought it was better this way. I thought maybe you’d be better off without knowing… that I wasn’t good enough, that I’d only mess things up. Jongho said you were ha–happy and I didn’t want to ruh–ruin that. ”

“You could never–”

“But I would!” He didn’t mean to shout, but the frustration and sadness, locked up for so long, didn’t hesitate to seize the first opening it saw. “I was still fighting… I never stopped. It only got worse after… after we broke up. The money was good, but the loneliness,” his voice wavered, “the loneliness was unbearable. The only time I ever felt anything was when I saw your face... or when I got beaten to hell.”

Your eyes darted around his face. Jumping from his eyes and lips to his nose and cheeks as if seeking a pressure point that would make all of his suffering evaporate into thin air. Mingi avoided your gaze and you massaged the apple of his cheek to catch his attention again. You never intended for the downfall of your relationship to put its claws in his back and leave a wound so grave it couldn’t heal on its own. In fact, you were so caught up in your own emotions that you didn’t think to take a moment and wonder how it would affect him. The guilt festered in your bones like a leech refusing to let go.

“I never realized how much you were carrying… I thought I was the one who was struggling, but maybe we both were. I’m sorry, Mings.”

“No.”

He shook his head in disagreement and your hand fell from his face. The loss of warmth was close to painful and Mingi, not wanting to be apart from you any more than necessary, grabbed your hand and guided it down to his chest, placing your palm above his beating heart — the organ that pulsed in rhythm to your own. Your fingers twitch to grab his shirt, to claw out his heart and keep it in the safety of your hands. To shield it from hurt and pain and agony. You never wanted him to feel such anguish again and you certainly didn’t want to be the reason behind it either. It tore you from within and the emotion wasn’t even yours to begin with.

“It’s not your fault. It was never your fault.”

“Mingi–”

“Stop it. You know if I’d just listened to you, if I’d stopped getting involved in stupid shit, none of this would’ve happened. There’s no one to blame but me.”

Tears still rolled down his cheeks and clung onto his lashes, though his eyes were sharp and firm as if daring you to challenge his words. If there was one thing you’d learned during the few years you dated Mingi, it was that once his mind was made up, nothing could change it.

“We are both at fault, love.”

The pinched expression on his face crumbled at the familiar call of endearment. His mouth parted slightly, and a constellation twinkled in his eyes — a sight you had missed incredibly. A twinge of hope flickered to life — hope that you could once be again, despite his careless acts of selflessness. His focus shifted between your eyes and with shaking hands he gently cradled your face, his touch not lighter than a ticklish flutter of a butterfly’s wings. Your own hands found purchase on his waist, fingers looping through the pouch of his hoodie as you instinctively leaned into the gentle pressure of his caress.

Mingi wetted his lips and brows scrunched together in a pleading demeanor. Something was plaguing his mind again and you could feel the train of thought reach out and graze your own, as if wanting you to get a glimpse. It didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t pleasant either. It felt full, crowded.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, Mings?”

“…You.” He took another breath, steadying himself, his voice barely above a whisper. “Can I… May I… I want to kiss you.”

Perhaps you should’ve said no. Perhaps you should’ve ignored him sitting on the steps of your apartment. Perhaps you shouldn’t have let him back into your life at all. But the thought of telling him no — robbing yourself of the feel of Mingi’s lips against yours — burned like hot acid in your stomach. So you did the one thing you were best at when it came to him, you gave in to your heart's desire.

“Then kiss me.”

Mingi didn’t need to hear you say it twice before he pulled your face up to his, lips smashing together as a flood of emotions erupted with the kiss — the kind of feeling only a romantic gesture like this could bring. You rose onto your toes, your hands gripping his wrists as if to anchor yourself in the moment. A low rumble vibrated from the back of his throat and you pushed harder against him. The kiss was intoxicating, yet liberating at the same time. You swiped your tongue along his bottom lip and he wasted no time parting them for you. The heat between you both deepened and each moment felt like it stretched on forever, the world around you fading into the background. His fingers grazing the side of your face, pulled you impossibly closer, as if there was no space left for anything but this shared intimacy.

The pounding of your heart filled your ears, a frantic rhythm that matched the urgency of his touch. You were caught in the gravity of the moment, caught between the need for air and the undeniable pull to stay, to keep kissing him like nothing else mattered and nothing mattered. Just you and him.

You felt one of his hands slither down your spine, a trail of firecrackers following the wake of his fingertips and sending shivers down your body. You couldn’t pull away — not yet. Not when everything inside you was screaming for more. Mingi pushed you closer to him, chests touching and hips meeting in a delicious press, that radiated between you both, causing every nerve in your body to hum with anticipation.

It was the need for oxygen that eventually broke you apart before the heated situation could be taken to the bedroom, with you pushed against the soft sheets and your legs tangling together. Your chests rose and fell in synchrony, trying to steady the breath that had been stolen in the heat of the moment. A crackle of electricity snapped around the room, the atmosphere still charged with the energy of your kiss, but both of you knew you couldn’t rush past this — there was so much more to say, the fact that you were soulmates, for one.

Mingi rested his forehead against yours, his breath was warm against your skin, quick and shallow, mirroring your own racing pulse. His eyes searched yours with a mix of intensity and vulnerability. He whispered your name, as if unsure how to bridge the distance between the desire in his chest and the emotions that were beginning to surface.

“We are soulmates,” you whispered before he could say anything else. It was more of a statement, a wake-up call for you than a fact. Your gaze dropped to the strings of his hoodie, the intensity of his stare made your knees feel weak.

Mingi didn’t reply. He rubbed gentle circles over your blouse on your lower back, a relaxing motion. You didn’t need to hear him say the two worded apology, you felt it in his soft touches.

“It was you… every time my meter went up… it was you fighting.”

He nodded, a solemn smile gracing his swollen lips. “Yes.”

“...But it hasn’t… gone up since–”

“Since you found me outside your apartment,” he finished for you. “I stopped shortly after that. I– uh, I realized that I wanted you. Or, well, I always knew, but that… that confirmed it. Mmm, I knew, though, that if I wanted us to be together, I’d have to change– stop! I’d have to stop doing the thing that made me lose you in the first place.”

“So… what does that mean for us?”

“It means… that if you want me to, I’ll peel your oranges for the rest of our lives.”

You wiped a stray tear from his cheek. “Even the white bits?”

The corner of his lips curled up in a grin, giving a glimpse of his crooked front teeth, and his eyes lit up like the night sky in the countryside.

“Especially the white bits.”

#[🌸] cherry blossom march event #cromernet #song mingi x reader #song mingi #ateez x reader #ateez #song mingi fluff #song mingi fanfic #ateez fluff #ateez fanfic #soulmates #soulmate au #boxer mingi #fluff #romance #angst

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callalillywrites · 2 months ago

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Henry's Matchmaking Efforts

Written for @flufftober's Fluff Bingo. A3 - Craft Fair.

Spencer Reid Masterlist | Fluff Bingo Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Teacher!Reader

Word Count: 1747

Summary: Henry decides to use his school's craft fair to try and set up his favorite godfather, Spencer, with one of his favorite teachers. His ploy seems to work, too.

Warnings: mentioned illness; awkward Spencer and reader moments; sweet Reader; smitten Spencer; matchmaking menaces - Henry and Will; lmk if I missed any

A/N: This prompt was originally going to be Aaron Hotchner's, but a poll gave it to Spencer instead. I can't say I'm disappointed, either, as this turned out so cute and so fun to write especially with Henry playing his little matchmaking role.

I do not give permission to have my works copied, translated, reposted, or fed into an AI machine.

*****

"Uncle Spence, you made it," Henry shouted, his happiness apparent. He raced between the groups of people, easily dodging elbows and knees, in his pursuit of his destination. That happened to be one Spencer Reid, godfather extraordinaire.

Spencer couldn't help the smile that tugged across his lips, bending down and catching Henry in his arms. "I couldn't miss this when you invited me as sweetly as you did. Where's your mom?"

"Dad came with me. Mom's home with Michael. He's sick."

That pulled Spencer's previous smile into a frown for a moment.

Will, who'd been watching his son and his friend interact, stepped in. "Michael's fine. Just a little stomach bug going around school. Henry had it last week. He's fine to be here. We both are."

It was no secret how Spencer felt about germs, even those involving those he cared about.

Hearing that nothing serious was going on, Spencer allowed himself to relax. His attention returned to Henry as he asked, "So, what should we see first? I don't know that I've been to a craft fair like this one before. You'll have to show me how it's done. I don't want to miss anything."

Henry beamed at the idea of teaching Spencer something. His godfather was so smart, he knew, and it wasn't everyday that Spencer told someone he didn't know something. Knowing just the place they'd start, he grabbed Spencer's hand and tugged him forward.

No words were exchanged as Henry was on a mission, but a look of amusement passed between Spencer and Will.

Spencer didn't have a clue what Henry had in mind first, but he never would've considered the refreshment table set off to one side. Across the banner, he read the school's name that Henry attended. Compared to the other booths set up nearby, he didn't spy any type of signage broadcasting prices.

Henry called out a name, but Spencer couldn't quite make it out over the noise echoing through the large space. He hadn't thought to ever forget the sounds of a gym, and he hadn't really. Just that the memories had managed to fade at the edges a bit.

All Spencer knew was one moment Henry was holding his hand, and the next, he's watching Henry tugging someone from the booth until they stood in front of Spencer. Until you stood in front of him. You wore the sweetest smile Spencer could remember anyone ever wearing. When it flashed towards him, he almost forgot how to breathe. You were breathtaking.

"So, you're the famous Uncle Spence we hear so much about," you said, holding out your hand while also introducing yourself. You retracted your hand just as quickly, but your face never lost its smile. Settling for a small wave, you asked, "Are you enjoying the craft fair, Dr. Reid?"

Spencer's brain refused to work. You had him off-kilter with the knowledge you've shown in the few moments of time you've shared with him. How did you know he didn't like to touch others, especially strangers? How did you know he went by doctor rather than mister?

As if guessing his thoughts, you leaned a bit closer but not too close and said only loud enough for him to hear, "Henry talks about you a lot. We hear about your adventures every week. You're quite impressive. Henry tells us you're a real-life hero."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Spencer stammered.

His cheeks warmed at Henry's praise of him, but more so, at the way you continued to look at him. He could make out the open curiosity you had for him, but he couldn't tell if it was genuine interest one feels for another or if you were merely being polite for a student's sake. A part, bigger than he'd ever admit aloud, of him wanted it to be the former, but his experience almost assured it was the latter.

"Hm, I wouldn't discount yourself too much," you rebutted softly, your eyes leaving his face to inspect the rest of him. He really hoped you wouldn't find him lacking, grateful Hotch and Morgan weren't standing next to him. Will was more than enough to make enough comparisons. You must've liked what you saw because your smile never faltered though your attention shifted to Henry. "Wanna grab your uncle one of the cookies I promised to save just for him?"

Henry nodded and dashed behind the booth's large table.

Spencer could make out the containers from the store you'd bought the cookies. One of them held a couple leftovers that weren't available to others. The others had been set out around the table in a display meant to entice fair-goers until the supply had been depleted.

Henry raced back with the plastic package, handing it to you.

You popped it open and motioned for Spencer to take the cookies. "Only hands that might've grazed them were mine, and I wore gloves after washing my hands thoroughly. Can't be too careful nowadays."

The way you hadn't made him feel weird for his germaphobia endeared you to him all the more. It was the reason he didn't hesitate in picking up the cookies while murmuring his thanks. As politeness dictated, he took a bite and followed it up with, "There are really good."

"They're the best store-bought ones you can find," your eyes sparked with mischief as you added, "but you should really try the ones I bake sometime."

The cookie he'd been chewing lodged itself, causing him to choke.

Will came to his rescue, thumping his back until he could take in normal breaths again.

You, the sweet temptress you were, held out a small cup of lemonade from the booth you manned for the school. Your face had contorted into something more akin to someone feeling shame or apologetic of their actions as you murmured, "I didn't mean for that to sound the way it did. I mean, I do bake some great treats, but I'm not trying to insinuate anything. We are surrounded by families and little ones after all."

Spencer quickly shook his head. Even if he'd only met you, he knew enough from what Henry had told him to know you spoke the truth. Everything about you screamed how much you adored the kids, calling out to the ones you recognized. It didn't matter you held a conversation with him or any other adults that happened along. You had kind words for everyone that passed and encouragement for the few students helping you run the booth.

As if realizing he'd been monopolizing your time, he took a step back.

"I should let you get back to it," he said, grabbing up Henry's hand, "but maybe we can stop by again. See if you have anything left before we head out."

Your smile glowed once more as you nodded. "I'd really like that. Maybe you could tell me what about the booths I can't see, too. I've heard some good things, but I won't really get the chance to explore today."

"It's all weekend, isn't it?" Will asked, surprising both you and Spencer as he hadn't really said anything up until then.

You nodded.

Will continued, "Are you working the booth tomorrow?"

You shook your head.

At your answer, Will's grin came out as he eyed Spencer for a moment before turning back to you, "Then, maybe you and Spencer here could explore the fair together. That is if Spencer here wouldn't mind coming back and seeing it a second time. What do ya say, Spence?"

"Oh, I couldn't ask that of you. That would be too much," you protested, but Spencer was already saying, "Um, yeah, I could do that."

Will clapped. "Great. Now that's settled. Henry, why don't we let them sort themselves out, then we can pick Uncle Spence back up in say another few minutes?"

Henry quickly agreed, taking off for a booth not too far away. It held a bunch of crocheted plush animals that might appeal to his younger brother.

Will followed after him after shooting Spencer a wink and saying, "Don't bungle it now."

When the two of you were alone, you risked touching Spencer's sleeve. His gaze dropped to where your warmth seeped through his thin shirt before you hastily took it away again. He missed it as soon as you did. That surprised him the most.

"Please, don't think I was fishing. I wouldn't want to impose on what's surely limited time to yourself. You don't have to come back tomorrow if you don't want to."

"But what if I want to," Spencer said over your rambling.

It was enough to have you snapping your mouth shut in brief shock. It was also enough to have Spencer wondering if he'd somehow overstepped or misread your earlier possible interest in him.

Only when your smile blossomed once more did he breathe out a soft sigh.

"I'd really like that but only if you really and truly want to."

Spencer allowed his own smile to come out as he said, "I really want to."

The two of you might've continued to smile at each other if one of your students hadn't called out to you.

"I better get back to it, but please, stop by before you leave. We can exchange numbers, then we can secure plans for tomorrow after I'm done for the day." You took a step back toward the booth behind you, but you didn't get far before you added, "I really am glad I got the chance to meet you, Dr. Reid."

Spencer offered his own sentiments, watching as you backed up until you bumped the booth. He bit his lip lest his smile grow wider at how cute you were.

It took another minute before he, too, moved away, intent on catching up with Will and Henry. After all, he had a new job to scope out the best booths to show you tomorrow. Maybe even spend a few minutes considering his options to prolong his time with you tomorrow, including possible dinner plans.

Spencer had known Henry had a special reason to ask him to his school's annual craft fair, but he hadn't counted on you being that reason. He definitely hadn't considered how much you would end up affecting him or the turn of events that took place.

But, he couldn't say he regretted them as he spared a final glance at you and your booth.

Nope, no regrets at all.

#flufftober #fluffbingo #criminal minds #craft fair #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #fluff #meet cute #matchmaking #henry lamontagne #will lamontagne

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rooksamoris · 23 days ago

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💞 — 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐖

💞 — savanclaw as some campus romance tropes!!

💞 — featuring!! leona kingscholar, ruggie bucchi, jack howl!!

💞 — warnings: none!! fluff and shenanigans.

💞 — each one is a little over 140 words! this is an old series from my old account that im rewriting!!

heartslabyul, savanaclaw, octavinelle, scarabia, pomefiore, ignihyde, diasmonia, others.

🩷 — LEONA KINGSCHOLAR.

Leona Kingscholar is that guy you know is only attending your university because he is some wealthy prince. While you busted your ass to get accepted, he waved a few bills under some old guy's nose and now he is there. You try to ignore your anger until you both are partnered up for an assignment he does literally nothing, but still manages to mark high.

After that, you swear you will never speak with him again... that is until you get lost and find yourself in Spelldrive Field where a certain someone is training. He looks so good on that broom, determined and all. You did not even realize you were staring until some big eyed first-year shot the disc your way by accident and everyone turned to you. Including the lazy lion, who approaches in slow but captivating steps.

“Whatcha starin’ at, kidege (little bird in Swahili)?”

🩷 — RUGGIE BUCCHI.

Ruggie is that guy who knows when literally every deal is happening on campus, and he takes advantage of every free thing he can get. The school garden gives out produce on Fridays in the morning? He is there. The Philosophy department is having a lecture and offering snacks? He will be in the front row with a plate, though he could not find it in him to care less about Marx's theory of dialectical materialism. After sharing a class with him, you now realize how useful his knowledge is. You do a few favors for him and bam, you are the first person he will share important dates with since the school is shit at advertising. There had to be another reason for his continuous support...

“Hey, there’s a guest speaker coming next week. Trein said they’ll be serving coffee and donuts— oh, and energy drinks are half-price for finals.”

🩷 — JACK HOWL.

Jack is that guy you wish you were more like. Every morning when you are just crawling out of bed after your all-nighter, he is up returning from his workout at the campus gym. It is no wonder he looks so jacked all the time. You find yourself a bit intimidated and insecure by the fact that he is just so much more organized than you are, so you avoid embarrassment by avoiding him.

It was a cruel coincidence that the one time you have enough random change to use the vending machine, it eats your money and keeps your snack just barely hanging from the hook so seductively. Frowning, you begin shaking it up, but then it begins to lean towards you too much, “Oh, shi—”

Before you could be crushed, Jack comes behind you quickly and holds it up, “Careful,” he mutters. You are apologizing profusely as he uses his change to get you another snack.

©rooksamoris 2025. do not steal or translate my work!

support me on ko-fi!

#💖 — amoris writes #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #ruggie bucchi #ruggie bucchi x reader #jack howl #jack howl x reader #twst hcs

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abusivegymrat · 3 months ago

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Price x secretary reader - secretary mini series

warning: overworking, rushed shit writing

wc: 765

Price knows, oh he knows. Because, how are you done with 45 reports, 2 briefings, 3 admissions and 5 meetings in 8 hours, love? It makes no sense. He sees how his men’s eyes widen when you casually brag about how efficient you are, how you’re done with whatever that was thrown at you in no time. Before you came, he couldn’t finish half of what you did in two days. So, even though he’d never admit it, he’s sort of jealous.

He makes it a personal mission to see you squirming under the weight of work, the price of taking up this job with arms wide open. He wants you to feel what he feels for reasons he’s not sure of. Maybe he wants you to toughen up, to prepare you for the burden, for harder times. You work under him after all, and whether you're a soldier or not, you need conditioning to be working under his name. To be the best of the best.

He takes up more work than he ever has, attends more briefings in a week than he ever has in his life, and suddenly, everyone in the country wants to be a soldier. You start off mildly at first: just a couple hours more of work every week, a cup of coffee more, before it gets intense.

You receive five more emails when you’re not even done with one, the 1-10 report ratio is insane too. Hell, for the first time since you started, you’re running around on base and actually started using the coffee machine in your office instead of the public one because god damn. Your handwriting gets messier during meetings, and you’re the first to leave every room.

Whenever you sit in front of your computer, your fingers practically teleport over the keyboard. But whatever you do, every step further shoves you back 10 steps farther. And you’re pissed.

You have no idea he’s the one doing this to you, because you haven’t had time to check who forwarded you that email or bother asking the soldier who jammed all those papers into his hand and sent him to you. You never show it though, keep up the act of the perfect secretary, act like you got sleep the past 3 days, like you’re not living off of redbulls, coffee and oats like a fucking horse.

After a few weeks of this frenzy, it comes to a halt. Or so you think.

The meeting.

It totally slipped your mind.

You were taking a shower for the first time in god knows when. You were disgusting. It was quick, you swear, it took like twenty minutes. Then you went to take a five minute piss, and a 2 minute coffee break.

Or so you thought.

Your hand shoots up to you hair as you run it through, your eyelids twitch and your nostrils flare as you stare at your phone screen.

21:49.

The meeting was on 19:00.

And you’ve already missed two weeks of it past two Saturdays.

You are utterly, completely, fucked.

A part of you wants to go back to all those fucking emails and stick to all those fucking recruits’ throats and find out who’s making you suffer like this. But the rational part of you is already crawling back to work, soon your body follows.

The perfect. Little. Secretary.

A fire of ambition flares through you, your eyes narrow. They think this is funny? Oh you’re about to be hilarious.

From then on, everything was a blur as you somehow found yourself in a flow state that lasted forever, no breaks, no distractions. Just going back in time as you find yourself in the body of your university-student self. You’ve been through worse.

Time passes, as you grind yourself far beyond the state of exhaustion, your stubbornness getting the better of you. Merging with your body and soul, soon to be replaced by pride.

And to top it off? You conceal your dark under eyes, do the most sleek hairstyle, wear your cutest kitten heels and step into the prettiest pencil skirt you own; show up in the common room like it was nothing, smiling left and right, offering coffee to everyone.

Soap approaches you with a bright smile, rambling about how he hasn’t seen you around and missed seeing your pretty face and nice legs around base. He asks if you’re on a break.

You look straight into his eyes:

“I’m done, sergeant.”

You see Price flinch and his eyes widen.

You found the culprit.

But you also passed the test.

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scrapingby · 13 days ago

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Okay but what if G.U.N. sent Stone to work for Robotnik in the hope that they kill each other (or that at least one of them gets rid of the other)?

Every day Robotnik is working for them, he becomes more a danger dangerous. His expectations and demands are only growing more and more absurd and when he doesn't get his way? He lashes out. They have almost no leverage over them, since he knows the dirtiest secrets of every high ranking member of the organization. And the more dissatisfied he grows, the angrier he becomes. Which results in several dead/missing agents and and even more life's that are completely ruined.

Agent Stone was an exemplary agent. Creepily so. He always reached the mission objective, no matter how impossible they were. He seemed more machine than man at times, the way he followed even the most humiliating and dangerous orders to the letter. It freaked both colleagues and superiors out. And when they realized that both his mind and his memory were far too sharp, even for an agent of his rank, they panicked. Because he knew EVERYTHING. All those meetings he attended as bodyguard? He knew every single detail. A general had a barely noticeable allergic reaction to insects once in his presence? That general died surrounded by a horde of bees a week after inappropriately touching Stone. If Stone ever decides to turn against them, he has the knowledge and skill to destroy the entire organization. And already there are dead people turning up everywhere around him that were decidedly not part of missions.

G.U.N. knows that if they fail in an assassination attempt on either of these two, they will come after them. And there's a high chance G.U.N. won't be able to survive it.

So they assign Agent Stone to Dr. Robotnik.

They hope that they'll drive each other insane, that they'll decide to kill each other.

They should have considered what would happen if they took a liking to each other.

At least they are calmer now.

And if the price for that is having to watch them live out their weird bdsm fetishes?

It's price they are happy to pay (until they finally do turn their backs to G.U.N.)

#agent stone #dr robotnik #stobotnik

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mostlysignssomeportents · 3 months ago

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Reality-Based Communities

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in CHICAGO with PETER SAGAL next WEDNESDAY (Apr 2), and in BLOOMINGTON next FRIDAY (Apr 4). More tour dates here.

Remember the Global War on Terror? I know, it's been a minute. But there was a time when we were all meant to take terrorism – real terrorism, the knocking-down-buildings kind, not the being-mean-to-Teslas kind – seriously.

Back in the early oughts, I remember picking up a copy of the Financial Times in an airport lounge and flipping through it, and coming across an "advice to corporate management" column in which the question was, "Should I take out terrorism insurance for my business?" The columnist's answer: "The actual risk to your business of a terrorism-related disruption rounds to zero. However: a) your shareholders don't understand this, an b) your insurance company does. That means that you can buy a very large amount of terrorism insurance for a very small amount of money, making this a cheap price to pay to mollify your easily frightened investors."

I never forgot that little piece of writing. It was a powerful reminder that successful large-scale enterprises must attend to the world as it is, not as ideology dictates that it should be. This was – and is – a deeply heterodox position among the ideological defenders of capitalism, who continue to uphold Milton Friedman's maxim that:

Truly important and significant hypotheses will be found to have "assumptions" that are wildly inaccurate descriptive representations of reality, and, in general, the more significant the theory, the more unrealistic the assumptions (in this sense)

https://pluralistic.net/2025/02/17/caliper-ai/#racism-machine

These ideologues – who often cross over from boardrooms into governments – are with the GW Bush official who dismissed a journalist as a member of the "reality-based community":

When we act, we create our own reality. And while you're studying that reality—judiciously, as you will—we'll act again, creating other new realities, which you can study too, and that's how things will sort out. We're history's actors…and you, all of you, will be left to just study what we do.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reality-based_community

But ultimately, someone has to make investments and plans that take accord of the world as it is, the adversaries they face, the real and material emergencies unfolding around them. When the Pentagon announces that henceforth the climate emergency will take a prime place in its threat assessments and budgets, that's not "the military going woke" – it's the military joining the reality-based community:

https://www.defensenews.com/opinion/commentary/2021/10/26/the-pentagon-has-to-include-climate-risk-in-all-of-its-plans-and-budgets/

This explains the radical shear between the Wall Street Journal's editorial page – in which you'll learn that governments can't solve any problems and markets solve all problems (including the problem of governments) – and the news reporting within, in which the critical role of the state in regulating and fueling markets is acknowledged.

The tension between the right's ideologues in boardrooms and governments and the operational people in charge of keeping the machines running has only escalated since the War on Terror days. There's an important sense in which leftists – as materialists – are playing the same game as these operational managers of capitalism. Take Thomas Piketty, the socialist economist whose blockbuster 2013 book Capital in the 21st Century argued that rising inequality threatened capitalism itself:

https://memex.craphound.com/2014/06/24/thomas-pikettys-capital-in-the-21st-century/

By analyzing three centuries' worth of capital flows, Piketty showed that when inequality reached a certain tipping point, the result was societal upheaval that continued until so much capital had been destroyed that inequality was reduced (because everyone had been pauperized). Piketty appealed to capitalism's technocrats to institute redistributive programs. His point was that building hospitals and schools was ultimately cheaper than paying for the guard-labor you'd need to keep people from building guillotines outside the gates of your walled estate.

The rise and rise of surveillance tech, and its successors, such as lethal drones and offshore gulags, can be seen as a tacit acknowledgment of Piketty's thesis. By lowering the cost of guard labor, it might possible to stabilize a society with higher levels of inequality, by identifying and neutralizing the people who are radicalized by the system's unfairness before you get an outbreak of guillotines:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/08/13/better-to-have-loved/#less-lethals

But reality is stubborn. Capitalism's defenders can insist that society will continue to function while wages stagnate and greedflation stokes the cost of living crisis, but ultimately, the military can't afford to have a fighting force that's in hock to payday lender usurers who are tormenting their families with arm-breaker collection calls:

https://www.nakedcapitalism.com/2025/03/payday-loan-apps-cost-new-yorkers-500-million-plus-new-study-estimates.html

As Stein's Law – a bedrock of finance – has it, "anything that can't go on forever eventually stops." The ideologues of capitalism can insist that Luigi Mangione is a monster and an aberration, an armed freeloader who wants something for nothing. But privately, their own security forces are telling them otherwise.

Writing for The American Prospect, Daniel Boguslaw reports on a leaked intelligence dossier from the Connecticut regional intelligence center – a "fusion center" created as part of the War on Terror – wherein we learn that the American people sees Mangione as a modern Robin Hood:

https://prospect.org/justice/2025-03-27-intelligence-dossier-compares-luigi-mangione-robin-hood/

Many view Thompson as a symbolic representation of both as reports of insurance companies denying life sustaining medication coverage circulate online. It is not an unfair comparison to equate the current reaction toward Mangione to the reactions to Robin Hood, citizens may see Mangione’s alleged actions as an attack against a system designed to work against them.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1hM3IZbnzk_cMk7evX2Urnwh5zxhRHpD5/view

The Connecticut fusion center isn't the only part of capitalism's operational wing that's taking notice of this. Today, Ken Klippenstein reports on an FBI threat assessment about the "heightened threat to CEOs":

https://www.kenklippenstein.com/p/fbi-becomes-rent-a-cops-for-ceos

The report comes from the FBI's counter-terrorism wing, which (Klippenstein notes) is in the business of rooting out "pre-crime" – identifying people who haven't committed a crime and neutralizing them. As Klippenstein writes, Trump AG Pam Bondi and FBI Director Kash Patel have both vowed to treat anti-Tesla protests as acts of terror. That's the view from the top, but back on the front lines of the Connecticut fusion center, things are more reality-based:

[The public] may view the ensuing manhunt and subsequent arrest of Mangione as NYPD, and largely policing as a whole, as a tool that is willing to expend massive resources to protect the wealthy, while the average citizen is left to their own means for personal security.

Any good investor knows that anything that can't go on forever eventually stops. The only question is: will that halt is a controlled braking action, or a collision with reality's brick wall?

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/27/use-your-mentality/#face-up-to-reality

Image: Lee Haywood (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/leehaywood/4659575229/

CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/

#pluralistic #luigi mangione #thomas piketty #piketty #inequality #unitedhealthcare #late-stage capitalism #reality-based community #guillotine watch #climate #climate emergency #payday loans #gwot #steins law

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murmiss · 2 months ago

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Price's neglected daughter!Reader and kidnapper!Konig

Warning:Brief mention of kidnapping sleeping pills,swearing, possible mistakes in words, grammar. English is not my first language.I might have missed mistakes, don't be afraid to point them out to me.

Finally, everything fell into place and his daughter, his own blood, came home. The days without her seemed like hell, a meaningless confusion of days and weeks, empty and soulless moments of life. But now that Megan was back, nothing mattered. At first, when she first came home, Price insisted that she take an academic leave, but the girl was determined, and with her signature smile and the help of light words, she managed to convince her father to let her continue her studies. She knew the entire program perfectly, which sometimes confused the teachers - how could she know all this? But on the other hand, now she was fine, safe and sound.

When Megan showed up, rumors spread everywhere, and in the tiny town where they lived, calm times finally came. It was as if no one had thought about such basic things and inconsistencies as "why did Megan Price disappear and suddenly appear after almost two years? What happened to her? Where was she all this time?" Everyone seemed to be just happy that she was back.

It was as if Price had come back to life with her appearance.

Clubs, movies, melodramas, a trip out of town to an old family house by the lake? Hell, everything Megan wanted was done instantly with 100% dedication.

Is your phone acting up? No problem, we'll buy a new one, but we'll definitely install an app to track your location. Want a new dress? Order one, here's daddy's card. A party at the university? Oh no, daddy will worry and will wait for you at the university. A few words of concern enveloped Megan from all sides. Price was tracking her, the old lady next door was looking suspiciously at Megan's friend, and the salesperson at the store where Megan went every lunch to buy coffee and a candy bar from the machine, was wary of strange people who were looking at Meg.

It seemed that the entire tiny town had united and protected Megan Price from danger.

Price's colleagues were also the most defensive,

Simon became a loyal "dog" - when Price couldn't, Simon met Megan on his motorcycle. And it didn't matter that you were standing there too, that you also needed a ride home.

Gaz was tracking the location with his devices, Soap was damn busy buying expensive anatomy books, sweets or some complex and unusual wishes for Meg, meeting her after university, like the others.

And where were you? That's right, but on the same day. For some reason, from the very beginning, even your father's colleagues did not accept you, the old lady next door disliked you, considering you "the evil eye of the family", like when you were around, something went wrong with Megan.

So when you suddenly disappeared, changing places with the once missing Megan, no one paid attention. Not your father, not the neighbors, not even the teachers.

But after an indefinite amount of time, it was noticed, and it wasn't your father who noticed first, no. It was the institute. The semester was ending and the session was starting, everyone was taking exams, everything would be fine, but you still hadn't turned up. Then one of the teachers in charge of attendance turned to Megan, deciding to find out what the problem was.

Wednesday, the middle of the day, a woman, a brunette in her forties with a short haircut, dressed in a striped sweater, trousers with clearly ironed creases and patent leather shoes - Mrs. Rocks, stopped Meg, calling out to the girl in a respectful tone: "Miss Price".

Megan, hearing the voice of her philosophy teacher, was distracted, and with a smile turned around, stopping and answering: "Yes, Mrs. Rocks?"

The philosophy teacher came closer, sighing wearily from a week of paperwork. woman stared at her papers, reading the names carefully: "Harris, Bronton, Fox, oh, Price. Megan, I have a serious question for you..." Megan gasped, immediately embarrassed, her eyes still on Mrs. Rocks's speech. "The thing is, your little sister hasn't been around lately. She's had quite a few absences."

Megan sighs sadly, looks down at the floor and fidgets in one place, adjusting her backpack, saying with anxiety in her voice: "Oh, miss.. If only it were that simple.. My little sister is very ill, she is with her mother in Germany now.. We did not want to tell anyone, but it is very serious..". Woman looks up from the documents and looks at the young lady in front of her in surprise. Her heart squeezes at the thought of how hard it is for Megan and her family right now, and she, losing all sternness, replies: "I am very sorry, Miss Price.. I wish your family could get over this as soon as possible..". Woman pauses and after a few moments continues: "Your sister can send assignments by mail, e-mail. I think this will help her stay afloat for a while."

Megan smiles faintly and sincerely replies: "Thank you, Miss, your understanding is very valuable to us" and almost immediately, the girl reaches out to hug the philosophy teacher. This informal gesture was the final note of the game that Megan started. Woman, not expecting a hug, turned out to be damn upset and feeling the mother's protectiveness, the desire to help, hugged Meg back, repeating once again: "I sympathize with your family, Miss Price.."

It was already a dark night, little was clear, but you didn't want to ask questions. Chemistry, anatomy, histology and other subjects were exhausting and torturous, especially when they were difficult for you, so when Konig brought you to his house, you weren't even scared. Was he a friend of your father's? Yes, and that was enough.

The living room was quite dark, despite the light gray wallpaper. The furniture was dark, a black terry blanket was laid out on the wide sofa, and there were strange pictures of owls on the pillows. They were so stupid that you couldn't stand it, grabbed one of them and started squeezing it.

"Tea, coffee? Cherry juice, orange juice?" - you were interrupted by Konig's voice, who entered the living room, in his hands he was holding a gray plastic tray with plates of snacks. The first one, with a tiny red flower, had strawberry marshmallows, the blue flat plate had cookies with marshmallow layers, and the orange deep bowl had little fish cookies mixed in with wafers laid on top.

So delicious. Oh, your father never cared what you drank, like tea or something sweet you wanted.

"Is anyone else coming?" you ask, expecting to see his wife, maybe his girlfriend, or someone from Price's group, because the portion was too big.

"No, just us," he says, sitting down next to you, slowly, as if approaching a fawn that is about to break free and run away. Sitting down next to you, you notice his size again: he is big, an incredible mountain of muscle. He was nervously stroking his knee, holding his head up, he sat tensely, squinting at you and saying nothing. A fucking weird guy, oh well.

"Oh, yeah, right, what drink?" he immediately stands up, couch creaks under his weight, and he immediately turns to you

"tea," you interrupt, sighing tiredly and stretching out your leg, leaning back on the back of the couch and propping your head up with your hand, sitting sideways to him, stretched out like a doe.

He swallows nervously, not taking his eyes off you, but, having come to his senses, immediately heads to the kitchen. His gait was strange, his legs were shaking slightly, and his arms were dangling, as if they were separate. Before he finally disappeared, he glanced at your figure. You had already turned away, resting your head on your hands and looking boredly behind the sofa.

His palms were sweat, hands were shaking, and his head was spinning from just thinking. He took the teapot, the mug with lilies and splashed boiling water, mixing it with the tea leaves. Then he looked around again, checking where you were, and making sure that you had not moved from your place, sitting just as beautifully and perfectly, Konig reached for the sugar bowl, and damn! immediately knocking over the neighboring cans. "Fuck!" - curses flew from his lips. From nerves, he shook even more. Hearing a quiet question: "What happened?", Konig, stuttering, answers: "Everything is fine, Mein Engel." and again grabs the spoon and nervously stirs the sleeping pill, biting his lip.

"He's taking so long," flashes through your mind. You sigh tiredly and look down at your phone. "7:00 p.m." You damn well need to go home and you'll probably have to make do with cookies. You get to your feet, wanting to go home, to ask Konig to take you there, cursing under your breath - if your father notices, he'll scold you.

"Where are you going?" - a confused deep voice sounds nearby, you come to your senses almost instantly and look at him in confusion, saying: "I need to go home", to which Konig only laughs and, putting the mugs on the table, casually puts his hand on the small of your back. Light pressure is enough to make you sit back. At first you want to be indignant, but then you think again: your father wouldn't care, where are you rushing to? What are you even worried about?

"Guests shouldn't leave hungry" - he answers boldly, sitting down next to you again, this time more casually, the sofa creaks again and you jump slightly when the sofa springs from the Konig's weight.

"I thought my father would worry" - you answer, shrugging your shoulders and thoughts fly through your head about how damn stupid all this is. Konig laughs, and your cheeks flush with shame, as if he knew about your suffering, as if he was ridiculing your stupid thoughts about Price remembering you, especially now that Megan was found. You feel like a Dumbass.

You sigh for the umpteenth time, reach out and take the mug, bring it to your lips and take a small sip. The hot, sweet liquid runs down your throat, burning it, and a strange taste settles on your tongue. It must be some kind of specific, unusual tea. You look at Konig again. What a strange mask he has.

Konig smiles to himself, his hands are shaking, and his eyes are wide, as if looking into his very soul. He put on his usual hood, comfortable and hiding any strange facial expressions.

You feel relaxed, as if a heavy load fell off your shoulders in an instant. You immediately stretch your legs, reach for the tray and grab a cookie with marshmallow inside, put it in your mouth, biting off and smacking your lips with pleasure. For some reason it seemed five times tastier. You take another cookie, then a marshmallow, then you take a fish-shaped cookie and smile involuntarily.

"So funny" - you look at Konig, and he looks like stone, frozen in anticipation

For some reason you feel sleepy...

Third chapter is in progress, it will be more interesting there.I'm sorry that this chapter didn't come out for a long time.

If you need to be mentioned in the following chapters, write to me.,

@veryrawknees , @fightmebissh

Part one

#ghost cod #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty #captain price #gaz cod #john soap mactavish #soap cod #cod x reader #cod #konig call of duty #konig x you #konig x reader #cod angst #cod fanfic #price daughter #price x reader #soap x reader #kyle gaz x reader

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ira-scargeear · 1 month ago

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How much does your craft cost? And why "cost of supplies X2" formula is absolutely harmful for artists?

A lot of artists & artisans keep asking this question: how much should I charge for my craft?

There is a simple way to calculate the cost of the item: calculate the cost of supplies that went into it, and multiply by 2.

I can't track the origin of this idea, but I keep stumbling upon it in many craft groups - and I can't help, but cringe every time.

Why this formula is used by many? It's no secret for me. Many artsy people are not great with math and finances, so they cling to it because of its simplicity.

Why offering this formula to craft novices is a major disservice that may severely harm their approach?

Because each type of craft has its own financial accounting.

What actually should be calculated:

- The cost of supplies, including shipping to your location,

- The amount of time spent on the item, multiplied by the cost of your single working hour,

- The time spent on making photos of the item,

- The cost of packaging,

- The cost of time you spend on packaging and shipping the item.

These are easier to calculate.

Also there are costs that you spend every now and then, like monthly or even once in a several years, like:

- The time and cost of maintaining site (if any), Etsy, Pinterest, etc., and also social media presence,

- The cost of rent if you rent the space, or the cost of maintenance if you own it,

- The cost of electricity/water/etc. you spend while doing the job,

- The cost of tools used (sewing machine, 3D printer, scissors, hammers, glues, paints, photo gear, whatever), it's called amortization,

- The cost of courses, workshops, etc. you attend to improve your skills, or time&supplies you spend self-learning or experimenting.

I mentioned just the major ones, but it may vary from craft to craft greatly.

I suggest to calculate all that stuff for a single month. If it's some tool like a sewing machine that you know you'll be using for many years, I'd recommend to set its amortization time to 5 years (aka 60 months), so after that term, if the tool is still usable, you kinda use it for free. And you can add 1/60th of the cost of the tool to your monthly accounting.

And, knowing the cost of the monthly expenses and number of hours spent on all of your items during a month, you can calculate the percent of the cost that you should add on top of each item.

As you already know, I do doll stuff. To simplify the process, I count the cost of my working hours only, and then add a certain percent to the cost, that I calculated previously. It still may vary from item to item, but it all evens out in a long run.

As for the "cost of supplies x2" formula, let's see how it absolutely doesn't work for me.

Let's say I do faceups. I charge $150 per faceup. My supplies are:

- high quality Rembrandt pastels, Albrecht Duhrer watercolor pencils, acrylic varnish, ox gall and some brushes that were a noticeable investment, but will serve me not for 5 years, but for like 20 years ahead. Even the initial investment is completely covered within a single faceup.

- MSC. I don't overspray, so a single can lasts for at least 5 faceups. Definitely a spendable, but less than $5 per faceup.

- Cotton discs, cotton swabs, some toothpicks, nail polish remover, electricity, whatever else - definitely less than $5 again.

- 3M respirator mask with cartridges. Lasts for at least 5 years, is used for not only faceups but for many other tasks, its cost is almost non-noticeable.

So how much should I charge???

Obviously, I charge for skills mostly.

What if there is a developed market already, you calculated everything, and you see that people aren't ready to pay the honest price?

Then you should think twice if you want to sell your craft, or to move to other business. Or to admit you do it as a hobby and sell for whatever people are ready to pay you, and don't call it a business. And make sure people whom you sell your stuff are informed about the difference. Because skilled manual labor never should cost as little as mass produced items.

#art #crafts #commission #cost of craft #prices #finances for artists #finances for artisans

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lethalchiralium · 8 months ago

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Waiting Room | Happiness Series

a/n: yes, i’m posting twice in the same month! crazy lol (always thanking my lovely @as-is-above-so-below for editing)

warnings: mentions of kidnapping, medical stuff, injuries, simon spiraling

The ICU is bare at this time of night. There are no alarms for nurses to attend to, and the lights are dimmed. The doors shut, and meal trays were taken away hours ago. Triangle lights above the doors are filled in with red or green lights. The only sound in the corridor is of boots thumping against the floor.

Calloused hands gripped the nurse’s counter. Your name prattled quickly off his tongue with a question of where you were. A room named off, and he was already out of sight, running and escaping the nurse calling him to come back. When he reached your room, his hand didn’t tremble as it did the whole way to the hospital. He calmly and slowly pushed the door open.

All he saw was no bed, and John Price sitting on the couch below the window, hunched over and murmuring into the phone against his ear. He looked up and ended the call, standing quickly to walk towards him.

“Simon-”

“Where is she?”

“Still in surgery.”

“What the fuck happened?”

Price stiffened slightly, and the air between them suddenly stifled. Simon’s dry eyes stared him down, and Price could feel his failure crushing him. He promised to keep them safe and sound, yet here they were, barely thirty minutes into emergency surgery before your husband arrived.

“According to Laswell, she made them take Winnie to the park–her and Roach. She was home with Mel and König when they were ambushed.hey shot him, and took the girls.” He looked down at his phone, then pulled up the pictures of the damage to his front entrance–showing them to Simon. “…Your father took them to a cabin in the Lakes District witht he intention of selling her and Melody to traffickers, in a bid to exploit you for money.”

His heart began to race, hard, like a hammer against museum glass. Shattering it into his ribcage, the thumps of his lungs against his liver and spine like an out-of-control wave.

“She escaped with Melody, and uh… well.” Price swiped, and Simon was met with a caved-in face. But, he picked out the silvery scars on his father’s forehead from when he beat him himself, many years ago. “She beat the shit out of him.”

“Is he dead?”

“He is.”

Pride would be the word he was looking for, if not for how intense the injuries were to his father’s face. Your hands must be mush. “Good.”

“She was found in a valley. She tucked Melody in a dense fir tree; she has some scrapes and bruises, and was freezing to the touch, but we found her. She was calling for your wife.” Price slid the phone into his pocket, settling back on his heels. “Only reason we found them was because she was crying. She’s upstairs in the NICU; Laswell and Roach are there with Winnie, whenever you’re ready to see them.”

“Okay.”

Yet, he made no hurry to move from his spot, hovering in the center of the near-empty ICU room, the space left for your bed, the machines that would be attached to you, and the fear that would radiate off of you and permeate the silence like no other sound. Could he leave this spot to check on his children? Could he escape the betrayal he indirectly caused when he failed to protect you? Would he be able to pretend that he isn’t full of rage for his superiors, barring him from keeping his promise? But, should he be able to stay upset with Price, his closest friend, in finding and saving his wife and child?

Could, would, should. All words with no meaning without action.

Simon’s eyes met John’s, and a brief silence fell upon them.

“Go see the girls, Simon.”

There wasn’t even a moment of hesitation, “I can’t.”

John didn’t even breathe before speaking again, “Then stay. I will go sit with them.” He quickly ushered Simon into the chair he had occupied only moments before. Simon practically collapsed into it. His head in his hands, heart torn into shreds of silken fabric, drowning in a sea of despair. The thin plastic chair would do nothing to soothe his aching bones, his body a fresh arrival from London to base an hour ago. Never did he imagine he would have to rush home, in the midst of a panic attack over losing you the way he lost Grace, losing another unborn baby, and his infant. He didn’t dare pretend like he could hold this weight, the fear, the panic, the imagination of the sound of your screams.

There, in the white chair after thirty-six hours of being awake, he watched John leave him alone. And there, leaned over his knees, he let out whimpers that sounded much like the ones that escaped him as a child.

He didn’t wake again until he heard a collection of clicking. His arms tightened across his chest as he heard footsteps fade away. He rolled his head up before opening his eyes - all he saw was the hospital bed, and your figure covered by thick blankets, nodes pressed onto your forehead like thorns on a rose, a breathing tube taped to your chapped lips, and a level of calm on your face that he’d seen only a few times. The sound of the chair screeching across the floor, closer to the bed, closer to the iodine smell that permeated the room from you. His hand slipped under the warming blankets, lifting it to seek out your arm, gazing at the wrapping on your hand before he settled his own on the undamaged skin of your forearm. Covering you again, he silently thanked the nurse for keeping the bed rail tucked away. He leaned forward and settled his head against his arm - listening to the soft wheeze of the breathing machine.

His mind was void of words, but his tongue spoke from the root of his pain, just a gentle, “I failed you.”

In the dim light from above the bed, Simon’s thumb traced warm circles on your lukewarm skin, and he closed his eyes. He couldn’t remember before he left for the hospital, couldn’t remember the mission, only…emptiness. An overwhelming urge to vomit ichor into his lap as he sped through red lights. A softened part inside his stone-cold heart rotted, black like tar, gooey and burning every inch of his injured rib cage.

His lungs filling with warm breaths, fighting to ignore the iodine stench only found him asleep again, body hunched over as if to find some solace in protecting you now - when the void of his betrayal burned harsher than the dance of bourbon on his tongue.

Simon doesn’t greet your brother, and doesn’t dare move his temple from the blanket tucked beside his head, eyes glued to the TV in the dusty corner of the room. Below it hung a whiteboard detailing your name, age, gender, and nurses. Following that was a rotation with the times they would be by for checks, medication, replacing the cold blankets with warm ones, and moving you so bed sores don’t grow on your already fragile skin. The BBC show wasn’t anything interesting, not his favorite but something to do that wasn’t throwing up what little breakfast he had into the trash can.

He’d been visiting Mellie the morning before, brought in by Price after she was discharged. Her one-day hospital stay was officially over, and he had finally seen her - but guilt nestled in his esophagus as he pressed his nose into her scalp, her little body curled as far as it could into his chest. He would have been a better father to tend to her first, but the thought of losing you was more apocalyptic than he ever imagined. He couldn’t leave this room, could barely piss in the bathroom without the door open to keep an eye on you, and barely spoke to anyone who came in; whether it be a nurse or the task force, they were all given silence in exchange for their pleas for him to go home, take a shower, get a fresh set of clothes.

“You smell like shit, dude.”

Jake, your older brother, moved a chair beside Simon on his right, his hand gently patting your ankle as he sat. Your husband may have snapped at him if he wasn't absent from his mind. Simon was nestled in a deep corner of his consciousness, only pretending to be human for his friends and children as he rotted beside you.

He didn’t answer his brother-in-law, eyes flickering from character to character on the screen, as if that was a good-enough distraction from his painful thoughts.

“That Soap guy said you haven’t showered in four days. You smell like it, go take a shower.”

Simon huffed out a humorless chuckle. “Not leavin’ her.”

Jake paused for a moment, pensive for just a millisecond. “The bathroom is right there. Yes, she’s protected at all times with you here, but she’s safe when I’m here too. So go. I’m sure she wouldn’t want to smell your ass when she wakes up.”

“Fuck off, Jake.”

“You have to at least wipe down if I’m going to sit next to you. You reek.”

“Then don’t.”

“Not a chance, bud.”

A gentle but firm hand settled on Simon’s shoulder, and he barely reacted, only a rumble of disapproval from his throat. He wanted to wretch his shoulder backwards, get Jake’s hand off, scream at him, ask him what makes him think he’s right. Ask what made him think he truly knew the answer to Simon’s mistake, miscalculation, the broken promise that lay like glass at his feet. What makes him think that Simon could accept his help at all?

He would’ve fought his brother-in-law off if there was any point, but he had been sitting at your bedside for two days straight and you hadn’t woken up yet - even when they shined lights in your pupils, checked your wounded hand, adjusted nodes on your forehead, checked the back of your head. So Simon found himself standing, Jake’s hands ushering him to the bathroom, but he slammed his hand against the door when Jake tried to close it.

“Leave it open. Wanna see her.”

Jake didn’t make a sound, just gave an understanding nod. “Try to use the curtain. I’d like to avoid seeing your dick, and I’m sure the nurses would appreciate it.”

Simon doesn’t even remember keeping the curtain open, getting under the hot spray, and just… standing there. The water hit the crown of his head, spilling down and over his face, his chest, his stomach - his body ached from the lowest muscles in his calves to the tenderness nestled in the nape of his neck, yet he could feel nothing in between. No tremor of his lungs, no twitch in his bad knee, no rumble of his heartbeat. Even as the scalding water cascaded over his lips, eyes, and cheeks, he felt nothing. No prick in his eye to cry, as if he had already cried everything out and had nothing left to give.

There was nothing in this hospital room shower, just a shell of a man who wanted nothing more than to switch places with you.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Mess with her hair.”

The wrapping around your head was changed this morning, leaving more of your hair visible, and Jake was combing it with the shitty brush he bought down at the gift shop. “She always had a thing for her hair to be untangled. It bothered her a lot as a kid.” He set the brush down by your side, his fingers quickly remembering the braiding motion as he continued to speak softly, “Learned how to braid on her dolls so I could braid her hair for her. She didn’t like Mom or Dad doing it, only me.”

Simon rested his head on his arm again, watching the morning news. “Looks like shit.”

“I’m out of practice. Like you could do any better.”

“I have two daughters. I can do better.”

Jake could only half chuckle, almost lifeless. For a few moments, the only sounds were the breathing machine, the rustle of your hair, and footsteps approaching the door. Simon raised his head, watching over you like a hawk as the door creaked open; his hackles relaxed instantly as Winnie bounded in, followed by Price, who held Mellie. Simon was quick to sit back, allow his child to climb into his lap, and bury her face in his neck - he cradled Winnie close, kissing her hair and reclining back.

Her hair was in a messy ponytail, curls unruly and Simon felt acidic bile creep up his throat when she started crying.

She couldn’t say a word; neither could he, when he truly needed to. He needed to comfort his daughters, tell them that everything would be okay, that the doctors are taking care of Mama. He should be taking accountability with his children for failing to uphold his promises, yet, he kept his lips pressed to his eldest’s hair. His hand rubbed light circles on her shoulder blade, his eyes flickering to his brother-in-law and then his brother-in-arms. His infant was curled identically into Price’s chest, her little fists grabbing at the worn Metallica shirt, curls finger-brushed, onesie covered by a thick coat. Simon’s eyes fell back to you, the braid settled against your shoulder as Jake moved to the side, gently rubbing your bicep for a moment.

“You know, it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to take care of her hair,” Jake mumbled. Simon didn’t miss the tears that rimmed the man’s eyes.

Simon didn’t make a sound, listening to his daughter’s sniffling as Price spoke, “She’s been taking care of everyone but herself, and we will keep taking care of her.”

Winnie whimpered; Simon kissed her hair again, keeping her close for as long as she’d let him.

12:39 am. Simon could barely make the time out from across the room. The heel of his hand rubbed into his eye, and he flipped up his phone, squinting to see the date. Four days. Four days since you were rushed here, four days since he hasn’t left you alone. A sigh settled deep in his bones as he let his phone fall, his tingling hand gently rubbing your forearm before he leaned up, wiping his face. He flicked the crust from his eye away, turning to look at you before laying his head down again.

His eyes fluttered closed, his stomach churning just a little before he settled again. His chest weighed like a bell, his heart laying limp in the comfort of his cushioning lungs, his mind wandering, pondering whether he would ever see your eyes again-

He sat up instantly; your eyes were staring at him, wide, almost painful. The look made his stomach roar, his hackles raised, eyebrow furrowed, eyes full of tears and concern.

“Sweetheart, it’s me, it’s okay-”

An alarm blared from your heart monitor, and the call button you rapidly pressed with your less injured hand. Simon’s heart clenched as your tears mirrored his, and the sound of you choking on the breathing tube made his stomach acid toss like salad dressing. He stood, and you flinched; he knew what was happening. He scrambled away, found the switch for the blinding overhead light, and flipped it before he moved to you again. The flood of tears in his eyes made it hard to see you recognize him, but you did. You reached for him as the door burst open - making you jerk again, a whine-like cry escaping your throat.

You thought he was Lloyd.

Simon couldn’t blame you. He spent years breaking mirrors because he looked like his father, his abuser.

He stumbled back, his wrist to his nose as nurses flooded your bedside, his eyes never leaving you. The nurse closest to him helped remove the breathing tube while the other injected something into your IV, and the last furiously typed on the computer. Simon could only keep himself a few steps away, listening to the sound of your whimpers and watching your weak attempts to move away from the help. His nails met his teeth, the quick already bloodied as he had chewed them down two nights ago. The emptiness in his chest had surged as if it was a flood, knocking his respiratory system around like a ping-pong ball against his ribcage. He couldn’t breathe, his heart felt as if it was beating so fast that it would catch fire, the tears leaking into his mouth were like acid.

Of course, you would think he’s Lloyd, the man humorlessly chuckling in his clouded head. Simon looked so much like him that they could be considered brothers, not father and son.

A deep part of him knew this would happen. The one thing Simon fought the hardest to protect was an easy domino to fall, the most direct way to get Simon’s attention, hit him where it could and would hurt the most. He’s kneeling and bleeding, his heart pouring blood as he has to watch his wife cry out when a nurse even grazes her skin.

Simon would be lying if he said he could handle this.

He doesn’t get frustrated with you when you turn your face a little to the left when he brings the spoon to your lips. He put it back into the ceramic bowl as he softly sighed to himself. You’ve barely eaten all morning since they took out the breathing tube, visiting hours are almost starting and Jake would be here, asking a million questions that Simon would need to answer. If the best you could do was five half spoonfuls of broth, it would have to do. He pushed the rolling table away, moving the blankets farther up on your abdomen and tucking it close to your body. Your gaze felt like knives on him, he was barely strong enough to look at your face when the profound sense of guilt only seemed to take his words. He refused to be upset with you when your hand touched his, even though he felt like he needed to rip his skin off.

Your thumb brushed over his bruised knuckles as he kept his hand settled on your hip, staring at the minute gesture that meant so much before, but now… felt bitter. Simon would have thrown up again, recognizing the way your comfort now felt painful.

“You gotta eat more later.” He mumbled, hunched over your bed, wanting to rip his hand from yours but also needing it to stay there. “You need to sleep too, you have to be tired- Ow!”

He looked up at your face, ignoring the dark bruise on your throat, to see just a little smirk. You had pinched his hand, and he furrowed his brows, confused.

“Was that funny?”

A tiny movement like a nod, and he huffed out a flat laugh. His free hand raised a little, in your vision, before slowly moving to settle on your face. He hovered his thumb along the bruise on your cheekbone, his fingers cradled your jaw like porcelain. Your head only moved into him, eyes never moving from him. He wasn’t sure you’d ever be able to look at him like Simon again, after your reaction a couple hours ago. He wouldn’t blame you at all if you couldn’t. He wouldn’t blame you if you left him after this, take the girls and move far, far away from him and everything that came with him - enemies, lies, pain. He wasn’t even sure how safe you were now and that killed him, destroyed his sense of safety and replaced it with so much fear.

“Mel…ody.”

Simon snapped back into reality where your eyes were narrowed slightly staring at him, and he instantly answered. “She’s safe. Just some bruising, she’s home with Jake and Price and Soap.”

Relief washed over your face, your head settled back on the pillow as your gaze finally moved to the ceiling. It’s at times like this where he wished he struggled to know what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking. But, he could read you like an open book.

“You did good,” He spoke, your name escaping like the prayer he needed days ago, “Our baby is safe. Mellie’s okay.”

You pinched him again before you looked back at him, and he let his thumb lightly graze your bruise, you didn’t even flinch.

“New one’s okay too.”

A whine escaped your throat, tears instantly falling from your face as relief washed over it. He patted your hip.

“You did good, Mama. Did really fuckin’ good.”

#lethalchiralium #happiness series #lethal chiralium #simon ghost riley #simon riley #call of duty #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x wife!reader #simon riley x female reader #simon riley x f!reader #simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x female reader #simon ghost riley x wife!reader

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doeidawn · 7 months ago

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doeidawn's kinkmas day eight ❆ spanking

KINKMAS 2024 | PREVIOUS DAY | NEXT DAY

a little mishap at the company christmas party has you subjected to punishment—directly from the hand of your boss. 2.9k

❆ pairing: boss!price x assistant!fem!reader

❆ tags: MDNI/18+; inappropriate workplace conduct; slight dom/sub dynamic (use of "sir"); spanking (obviously); fingering

Working as the assistant to the head of one of the biggest companies in England invited stress that few could understand. Add in the hustle and bustle of the holiday season, and that stress increased tenfold. Then add in a Christmas party that said corporate head expects you to both organize and attend on top of your regular holiday duties, and the stress might give you a heart attack before the week ends.

It was a miracle that the whole thing managed to go as smoothly as it did. The decorations turned out good, everyone was pleasantly surprised by the secret Santa turnout, and the food was nice. Even the most introverted interns stopped by to chat. By all measures, it was a success. Which meant your boss would happily wear the success and (hopefully) give you a nice bonus for all the hard work.

Until the celebration started to wind down and you spilled nearly half of your wine onto him. Onto his very nice and no-doubt-expensive dress shirt—a white one, at that. You could hear the notice of termination being typed up as soon as you realized who you had bumped into.

Ever the charmer, he took it like a champ in front of the gaggle of people. Not for your own sake, you imagine; the man had to save face in front of his employees whether it was your fault or not. Still, that didn’t stop you from feeling positively mortified. Cursing yourself for even pouring a drink when you should’ve been making sure everything stayed perfect. So much for a little alcohol to alleviate the mountain of stress on your shoulders.

Everyone else seemed to forget about it rather quickly. And as the festivities died down and people started to filter out, there was no unwanted attention brought your way. But, seeing as the party was your responsibility in the first place, you knew you’d have to stay after and clean up. The few moments alone would’ve been nice…if only you truly were alone.

You couldn’t be mad at John for being a good boss. He stayed over nearly every damn day, worked later than most just to make sure things turned out right. He showed up to the office party because he cared about his employees. Surely you couldn’t damn him for that. But when he sidled past you with a quick “can I see you in my office real quick?” in your ear, you wished he were the careless type to leave early and forget that you even existed.

You wasted as much time as possible just to avoid seeing him. Mingled with every last person who hung around until they had no excuse left to stay. You tidied up counters and swept the floor best you could. You figured maybe you could walk someone to their car and get yourself out of a reprimand that way. Alas, you realized that it wouldn’t be a good look if the assistant didn’t fulfill all of her boss’s requests.

You stand outside the door to his office for a good minute, just staring at the wood before you. You’re fully prepared to be scolded. To be ridiculed and belittled and insulted. Not that John had ever done that before—he wasn’t the type to act that way—but you felt so worthless that you figured he might as well.

Mustering the last of your courage and a hint of apathy, you knock on the door. When you hear his voice invite you in, you hesitate before turning the knob and slinking in. It wasn’t a conscious choice to move slow; it was like you wanted to make yourself seem small and meek as if it’d convince him to take pity on you.

There he was at his desk, pushing a paper to the side in favor of looking your way. The blotch of red wine staining his shirt was painfully obvious. You silently prayed for whatever washing machine would get overworked trying to clean it out.

“You look terrified.” John’s voice cuts through the silence and nearly startles you. You hadn’t even realized how tense your shoulders were. “Everythin’ alright?”

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. “I…I dunno, sir. Is everything alright?”

“Just fine. The party was nice. Very well done.” He leans back in his chair and you cringe when more of that wine stain comes into view. It almost felt like he was taunting you with it. “Though I shouldn’t expect anythin’ less from you.”

You nod, more out of relief than agreement with his statement. Muttering a small “thank you”, you shift awkwardly on your feet. You expected a scolding, but he was pleasantly warm. There was no anger or upset in his eyes. He didn’t even seem disappointed.

“What’s wrong?”

The question is surprising, but it’s the tone of sincere curiosity that bewilders you. Not annoyance, or inconvenience. He wanted to know what was wrong, wholeheartedly. It takes you a minute to swallow your pride and give him a half-assed shrug.

“Nothing, sir. Just…stressed, is all.” It wasn’t a lie, but it was probably the mildest way to say you were frustrated and tense and angry and just about every other feasible human emotion.

John makes a sound at that. He shifts in his chair, inching it back from his desk. “‘Course you are. You poor thing…I’ve asked a lot of you lately, haven’t I?” You didn’t know if the smart thing was to agree or deny, but you wanted to sigh with relief that he finally seemed to notice. “That's not very fair of me, huh?”

Did he want you to agree? You decide not to chance it. Instead, you stare at your feet like they’ve become the most interesting thing in the world. Anything felt better than looking him in the eye right now.

“So, what do you do with all that stress? How d’you manage it, I mean?”

It was a miracle he thought you handled it at all. If you came off well-put together, it certainly didn’t reflect the worry that consumed your private life. “I…don’t, really. I just sort of deal with it, I suppose.”

He snorts, an amused shake of his head. “Well, that’s not very healthy, is it?” Definitely not. But he didn’t know the half of it. “Someone ought to help you manage that stress. I can’t have my assistant on edge all the time.”

Unless he planned on including therapy in your benefits, you didn’t see that working out any time soon. You give him a tight-lipped smile, awkwardly nodding along. Was this what he wanted to talk about..? Scolding you for being stressed was certainly preferable to bringing up your blunder at the party, but that didn’t mean you felt comfortable with it.

“C’mere,” he beckons you closer with a gesture and a cock of his head. You take a few hesitant steps towards his desk, but he grumbles and gestures again. “Closer. Get over here.”

You freeze for a moment before complying. Why John could possibly want you so close was unknown to you, and your slow steps betrayed your hesitance. You stopped when you stood just before him, mere inches away from his body. It wasn’t unlike him to get close—he seemed to like crowding you—but it felt different this time.

“Listen,” he starts, reaching out to rest a hand on your waist. “I need you at your best. Your job is very important, and I can’t accept anything less than perfect.” You don’t even notice the slight nod of your head. It was a reflexive response to agree with him, even if it meant agreeing to your own faults. His heavy palm slides down to your hip, squeezing you gently. “And if you don’t give me your best, consequences are in order.”

Your heart sinks. You expect him to dock your pay or pile on ten extra responsibilities to your work load—something that’ll make you feel even worse, no doubt. But when he looks up at you, there’s no sincerity or disappointment in his eyes. Instead, there’s something…eager. Almost like he’s excited when he starts to speak again.

“Seein’ as you’re my assistant, I think a heavy handed approach should suffice.” He squeezes your hip to further his emphasis as he leans forward. He’s so close you can feel his breath against your waist, his lips nearly brushing against you. “Somethin’ a little more personal.”

Oh.

You swallow thickly, your heart beating so hard you fear it might burst out of your chest. Too many emotions conflicted with each other—relief that he wasn’t angry, worried about the implications, excited that he’s propositioned you. It wasn’t rare that you got a little excited thinking about John. He was an attractive man, and the authority only added to the appeal.

HR be damned, you’d think yourself a fool if you never took the offer. “Whatever you think is best, sir.” You didn’t intend for your voice to sound so breathy and coy, but you didn’t fight it. You rest a hand on his shoulder, gripping his shirt tight when his hand suddenly moves to grope your ass.

“Oh, I know what’s best for my assistant." He leans back, his hands falling away from your body in a movement that almost makes you whine at the loss. He rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt before patting his thigh invitingly. “She needs bent over and taught about consequences, yeah?”

“Yeah.” The word comes out in a squeak before you can stop yourself. One last look in his eyes and you were ready to give him whatever he wanted.

Taking his implication as your instruction, you bend yourself over his lap, bracing your hands on his thigh once you’re in place. You can hear your own heartbeat, pounding in your head and mingling with every thought telling you this is a bad idea. But then you hear him groan and feel a heavy palm skirt along your back and every doubtful thought is drowned by something much more desperate.

“This is my favorite skirt of yours, you know that?” John mutters while splaying his thick fingers along your backside. Of course you knew he liked this one—he was never very subtle about it. It’s why you wore it to the party in the first place, only now you wish you’d wore something more flattering than a Christmas sweater to go with it.

He tugs your skirt up and over your ass without ceremony, scrunching it at your waist until you’re fully exposed. He runs a hand over your soft, pliant skin, squeezing just enough to see the fat spill over his fingers. You gasp at the rough touch but make no effort to move away. If anything, you find yourself arching into the needy movements.

Then, his hand pulls back and comes down in a sharp smack that takes your breath away. He groans again, watching your body recoil. “Yeah, this’ll do just fine.” He punctuates the thought with another spank. “We’ll see how many you can take before you learn your lesson.”

Another sharp smack of his palm makes you whine. You nod in agreement, but you don’t think he’s much concerned with your input at this point. Two more harsh spanks hit and you hiss when he runs his palm over the spot of impact. The dull sting already throbs under your flushed skin, aching more when he gropes your ass in a tight squeeze. The next spank draws a moan from your lips, the sharp impact sending an unexpected wave of pleasure directly between your legs.

John hooks a finger under the seam of your panties, pulling the fabric to expose more of your flushed skin. “You’re doin’ good, takin’ it well.”

You pause, waiting for a spank that never comes. “Thank you, sir,” you manage to stumble out.

Smack! You jerk at that, biting your lip to stifle a pathetic sound. “You know I’m not mad at you, right?” His movements are as soft as his voice, gently massaging the welt forming on your sensitive skin. “I can buy a hundred more shirts, but I can’t replace you. Certainly not when you’ve shown me how well you can take what I give you.” You whimper at the next sudden spank. “Such a good assistant for me, and I haven’t given you the break you deserve have I?”

You’re not quite sure what the right answer is, but you hesitantly shake your head. The next strike motivates you to verbalize your answer. “No, sir. I haven’t gotten a break.”

“You poor thing…” You barely notice the movement of his hand as it slides off of your battered skin. It’s not until he slides his fingers over the center of your panties that you react, gasping at the sudden (and much needed) pressure. You hadn’t even realized how wet you’d gotten, and judging by his excited groan, neither had he. “You need a break from all that stress, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Pulling the sodden fabric to the side, John exposes your wet cunt and hums in satisfaction when he sees the slick glistening on your sensitive flesh. He grabs you on either side, using his fingers to spread you apart. One hand pulls back to spank your ass a final time, and he watches you clench at the impact. Two thick fingers run up and down your slit, gathering your wet arousal, before prodding at your entrance.

He sinks in with a groan and the sudden fullness takes your breath away. You curse and arch your back, rocking your hips onto his fingers. Your nails dig into his thighs, but he doesn’t seem to pay it much attention. He buries his fingers to the knuckle before pumping them in and out in a steady pace that makes your knees weak.

“Christ, love, you are tense. This cunt’s fuckin’ squeezin’ me.” His fingers press deep on each thrust, curled and angled just right to make you push against his intrusion. “Is this what you needed? Someone to stuff this pussy full?”

You hum a soft “mm-hmm” and nod your head. But John isn’t satisfied with that; his free hand comes down in a sharp spank that forces a surprised yelp from your lips. “Fuck—yes, sir,” you sputter.

“Yeah, you just need a proper fuck to keep you goin’ huh?” His free hand moves to cup your jaw, tilting your head back until he could see your face. “Fuck, I’ll keep you late every day, bend you over my desk and fuck you as much as you need. Is that what you want?”

Hearing him say it was one thing, but seeing those filthy words come from your boss’s mouth made you clench around his fingers. “Yes…yes, sir,” you pant, eyes wide and pleading as you look up at him. “W-want you to fuck me.”

“Fuckin’ hell…”

Your head lolls forward when he releases your jaw. His hand fucks into you rougher, quick and sharp pumps that make you keen, almost like he’s too impatient to keep going slow. He bullies that sensitive spot inside you until you start to tense and quiver on his lap. His heavy palm brushes over your welted skin, kneading your ass just to hear the whimpers it draws from you.

You hold onto his thigh, nails digging into his pants as you try to hold yourself steady. “J-John, m’gonna…fuck…” It’s near impossible to squeak out the words with the constant pressure filling your cunt.

“I know, love. You’re gonna cum for your boss, aren’t you?”

“Mm-hmm—”

“Yeah, gonna soak my fuckin’ lap with it? Make another mess on me?”

It sounded filthy when he put it like that. And while getting reminded of your embarrassing blunder at the Christmas party was the last thing you wanted to think about right now, you couldn’t deny that it certainly motivated you to make another mess. Especially when he was so eager for this one.

You couldn’t even form the words to properly warn him. You were sure he could tell by the tight pull of your slick walls around his fingers that you were toppling over that edge fast. Between his encouragement and the perfect fit of his digits, he was coaxing out all of your pent-up energy. And it hit you hard.

You were a quivering, dripping mess on his lap. Gushing around his fingers, clenching tight like you were trying to suck him in deeper. Your knees were so weak you weren’t sure you could stand back up. John slid his fingers out and delivered one final spank to your flushed skin. You think he mutters a soft ‘good girl’, but you find it hard to hear him properly as you catch your breath.

Raising off of his lap, you adjust your clothes and pull your skirt back into its proper position. Your legs are weak and your ass stings with every movement. You aren’t sure whether to thank him or apologize—so you settle for neither. The silence sits heavy in the room as you trudge to the door to take your leave. You could worry about facing him next week when you were alone, in the comfort of your home, and thinking straight.

Then, you hear him call out your name as soon as your hand touches the doorknob. You turn just enough to see his figure in your peripheral. Still sat with his legs spread and his sleeves rolled up, but now with a rather obvious hand palming himself through his pants. If you had any less restraint, you might’ve walked yourself back over to him.

“I’ll see you Monday, yeah?” You nod at the sound of his gruff voice. “Do me a favor n’ wear that skirt again, sweetheart.”

You smile, mainly to yourself. “Yes, sir.”

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redfoxwritesstuff · 6 months ago

Text

Professional Kisses

Summary: The invitation to the exclusive Vee's New Year's Eve party told you you were wanted at the hottest party in all of Pride Ring. What it didn't tell you was why and if this was some sort of prank.

CW: way too many references to Stephen King's Carrie

You sat, looking at the invitation in your hand as if it would somehow change. The delivery had to be a mistake. There was no way the invitation wasn’t delivered to you in error. For the hundredth time, you picked up the envelope and checked the address on the front.

In perfect, neat lettering on the front of the heavy white envelope was your name and address. It was the same as the last hundred times you checked it. Somehow, that had to be a mistake. The glossy card reflected the dim light in your apartment dining room as you flipped it over, looking at the back for what surely was the two hundredth time.

Yep, it was still your name printed on the back followed by, “You are hereby invited to the Vee’s exclusive New Year’s Eve Party!”

You checked the envelope for the hundred and first time. Yep. Still your address. Still your name. The card in your hand still had your name, neatly printed in long swooping letters.

“This has to be a mistake.” The words died in the dingy apartment, lost with no one to hear them. It had to be a mistake, because what else could it be? There was no one that you could think of that would or could secure you an invitation to the hottest, most exclusive New Year’s Eve party in town.

The invitations came directly from the Vees. One of them had to have noticed you, wanted you to be there, and remembered your name well enough to actually send this to you.

Or, of course, it could be fraudulent. It could be a joke. Perhaps it was legit, but for less than honorable reasons. There was a chance that what you were going to be walking into was some fucked up Carrie situation.

Your boss, Vox, wasn’t the harshest man you ever worked for, but Velvette? It was easy to imagine Velvette inviting someone less than fashion forward to the party and dumping a vat of blood on them.

Hell, maybe Valentino was the architect of the invitation. While Velvette could have invited you to humiliate you, Valentino would have far darker reasons, surely. The reality was, if he was the source, you were looking at a far more strenuous way to be humiliated in front of a crowd.

“Fuck it, I’m going.” The empty apartment offered no commentary back, reassurance or warning.

You spent way too much time trying on dresses, most of which you couldn’t afford. After spending the days bringing reports to Vox, who said nothing about the invitation, you spent your evenings crisscrossing the city, VoxTek issued company boots splashing in the acid slush as you went.

You tried on dress after dress, discarding them just as quickly as you selected them. Most of the dresses had price tags far higher than what you could afford. The reality dawned on you that you’d be going into debt for a dress for this party.

Again, just not going floated across your mind. It was surely a joke anyway, or there was some other motive for your attendance. It would be better, easier to just save yourself the shame of going.

What even happened at the party? You knew it was a place to be and that the guest list was micro small for a Vee event. Every year there were pictures of the hosts and a few of the guests, but the rest of the party details were kept hush-hush.

“Fuck it.” With every cell in your body, you willed yourself to feel those two words in your soul as you pulled out the credit card you so badly didn’t want to use.

You could feel your heartbeat in your temples as you handed the card over. The interest rate was frankly offensively high. The payments for this dress were surely going to give you nightmares. It was a predatory interest rate, even for hell.

Regret filled you as the machine spat out the receipt. The imp keeping shop tucked it into the bag and wished you a hellish evening.

Oh, you would be having one, alright. Anxiety and regret clawed at you as you walked home. You could have taken a taxi or the bus, but you were unwilling to drop any more money today than you wanted. There was no way you’d be spending about ten dollars on bus fare or worse, seventy on a taxi.

Public transportation prices in Pentagram city were criminal, even for hell.

For three days after buying the dress, you packed it back into the fancy bag and carried it out of your apartment, down the many flights of stairs, and almost left the building with it. You wanted to return it. You needed to return it. You couldn’t afford it. You couldn’t afford to attend this stupid party where you were sure to be a part of the entertainment.

Against all of your better judgment, you wanted to attend the party. You wanted to indulge in the fantasy that Vox, your boss and one of the most successful men in all of hell regardless of class or social status, noticed you and wanted your company at his new year’s party.

It was asking a lot. Frankly, it was delusional. It was okay to be a little delusional, a little bit, at least that’s what you told yourself as you clipped the tag off the dress.

The light in your bedroom flickered, threatening to die. You had replaced the bulb recently, but for whatever reason; it seemed the fixture burned through them faster than you could afford to replace them.

For a moment, you stood, standing in just your panties in your bedroom, holding the dress. It cost almost as much as you paid for a month of rent and you were getting ready to put it on your body, cover it with a shitty coat and hope no acid slush splashed it before you got to the party.

“This is so fucking stupid,” you told your reflection as you stepped into the dress.

Smooth, silky fabric shimmered as you pulled it up your body. The dress seemed to have glitter somehow woven into the very threads and yet it was soft to the touch. You tied the straps around your neck.

Once the front of the dress hung, dangling between your breasts before spreading out at your hips where the fabric finally hugged your body. It felt like you’d pop your shoulder out of the socket as you reached behind you, fishing for the ends of the two cords.

“Fucking got you,” you cheered to the empty room as you snagged them.

Pulling them tight, the dress slowly pulled over your body. The front seemed to smoothe over your skin like butter. The caress of the cold fabric over sensitive skin sent a shiver down your spine.

Once the dress was tied in place, grabbed your heels- also new for the party- and started downstairs. Your car would be there in a few short minutes, assuming that wasn’t a part of the joke either.

You were shocked to find the sleek black car parked out front. The driver stood, wearing a neat back suit, waiting or you. As you stepped closer, you realized it was Tony, one of the sharks from Envy that worked for Vox.

“Do you know what I can expect?” you asked as he opened the door for you.

“Not a clue,” he said as you slipped into the back seat. “I don’t get invited to things like this with the boss.”

“Neither do I,” you whined as he shut the door.

You failed to relax in during the drive across the city. If anything, you only grew more anxious as the dingy city gave way to the polished, neat city streets of the entertainment and tech districts.

Okay, the car wasn’t a joke, but surely the rest of the invitation was. Something was surely wrong.

Your heart beat wildly as the car pulled up in front of Vee tower. You went here five to seven days a week, but never did you get out at the grand entrance. That was for the Vees and esteemed guests, especially while the red carpet was out.

“This can’t be right?” The words came out as a hiss as Tony opened the door for you. “This is wrong.”

“It’s not.” He rolled his eyes at you as he stood off to the side, offering his hand to aid you in getting out of the car. “All the party guests are coming in this way.”

“This is insane,” you whisper-yelled the words as you allowed him to assist you out. “This is some fairy tale ass shit.”

“It’s hell,” Tony whispered back as you stood, pulling the short hem of the dress down your legs. “There are no fairy tales.”

“I know,” you turned, taking a moment longer to speak to Tony before braving entering the tower. “I know.”

Cameras flashed as you walked down the long, red carpet toward the doors. There was no acid slush here. In anticipation of the event, the Vees had the ground cleared and dried. The Vees ensured that for their guests, there wouldn’t be a speck of acid to eat through thier fine shoes or clothes.

As you walked through the tower doors, you cringed and prepared for some vat of blood or acid or something to dump on you. Nothing happened. Seconds passed before you opened your eyes, finding the after hours receptionist looking at you from where she sat behind the desk, terribly bored.

“The elevator is to the left,” she said, pointing as if you were too dumb to know which way was left. Considering some citizens of hell, perhaps her gesture wasn’t wholly misplaced, but it offended you just the same. “Press P and it’ll take you to the top.”

You expected there to be more people in the lobby, but it was deserted. There was no one in the elevator as it took you up, higher and higher. You passed the floor you worked on and continued up. Never had you been as high in the tower as you were now, and yet the elevator kept going.

Looking out the window, the distance to the ground sent your stomach right into your throat. It was better to not look there; you decided as you stepped closer to the solid wall with the door.

You nearly stumbled into someone as you rushed out the moment the doors slid open. “I’m sorry, excuse me.”

“Doll!” Vox’s voice carried easily over the space as he stood from the couch.

Music was loud enough to remind you it was a party, but it was clearly a more intimate occasion. You had expected something more like what the clubs down in the city were holding.

People milled about, drinks in their hands. There was a hum of conversation as high-level executives, fashion designers and in demand porn stars in little groups, some instead dancing.

Looking up, you searched for the bucket of blood or paint or whatever it was that you were sure would dump on your head. This was when it happened, wasn’t it? When the girl who didn’t belong at the party walked through the doors, thinking for a second that maybe she belonged.

Nothing fell from the ceiling. There was no bucket hanging from some rafter. All that there was hanging from the ceiling were glittering snowflakes, reflecting spotlights of light out into the room.

“You made it.” Vox held his arms out in welcome as he crossed the remainder of the room.

“Of course,” you said, because there wasn’t a way possible for you to tell your boss that you almost didn’t come.

“You look,” Vox made a show of running his digitized eyes up and down your body, “Magnificent.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Your eyes again flicked up to the ceiling, waiting for some panel to open and a bucket to pour out.

“What are you looking for?” Vox tilted his screen up, peering at the ceiling himself.

“Nothing,” you answered quickly, allowing him to guide you deeper into the room.

Before you knew it, you were sitting next to Vox, on your third or fourth drink as the music floated through the air. You laughed at some joke that Vox said, though you wouldn’t remember it come morning.

“Are you enjoying the party?” Vox asked, leaning into you. The ice clanked in his glass as his hand shifted.

“I am,” you said, smiling softly at him. Vox had been attentive to you all night, rarely leaving you for more than a few minutes. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight,” Vox said, resting his large clawed hand on your knee.

“What happens at midnight?” Part of you was still waiting for that bucket of blood to show up, pour from the ceiling. Surely, you couldn’t honestly have all of Vox’s attention on you for a legitimate reason. The alcohol in your system had your tongue looser, and the words flowed easily from your lips. “Is that when the bucket comes out?”

“The bucket?” Vox laughed as he offered you his hand, pulling you from your seat.

“Yeah,” you couldn’t help the giggle that slipped from your lips as Vox pulled you into his arms. “The bucket in the ceiling.”

“You’re drunk,” Vox laughed as he danced with you, taking you closer and closer to the large windows that overlooked the city.

“I am.” Your laugh came louder now. “Is this where the bucket is?”

“What bucket?” Vox laughed as he checked the countdown projected on the wall.

“The one- like in the book.” You said as if that would answer Vox’s question better. “The one with the blood.”

“There’s no bucket of blood. Why would there be a bucket of blood?”

“Because,” your voice was light as you spun away from Vox, dress shimmering over your curves, light reflecting off where the slick fabric hugged the pebbled buds of your nipples and hugging your hips. “I don’t belong here.”

“You were invited, were you not?” Vox wrapped you in his arms as seconds ticked down, the final moments of the year running through his fingers like sand.

“I was.” You braved wrapping your arm around his neck, letting your body slither up against his. “But so was Carrie. It’s all a joke, isn’t it?”

“Cinderella didn’t belong at the ball either,” Vox countered. “That didn’t stop her from going and meeting her prince charming.”

Your brows furrowed. “Wasn’t she though? All the single young women could attend because the prince was looking for his princess to be.”

“Who says the prince of VoxTek isn’t looking for his princess?” Vox’s smile grew softer as he checked his internal clocks.

“You’re a prince now?” Oh, how Vox loved your smile and the musical sound of your laugh.

“If you’ll be my princess,” Vox answered, pulling you closer as the speakers announced the last few seconds of the year. “Will you be my princess?”

You nodded timidly as Vox, your boss and hell’s most eligible bachelor’s screen slowly descended on your lips. Static buzzed through your lips as you melted into the kiss.

“Happy New Year!” People called out around you. Party poppers exploded, sending confetti and streamers through the air. Outside, fireworks shot into the dark red skies of hell, lighting up the landscape in bright colors.

“Happy New Year,” Vox’s voice buzzed as his screen flashed slightly. “My princess.”

Join us at VoxTek for a Vox themed Hazbin Discord where we talk Vox, Hazbin, writing, reading, art and who knows what else. You may even catch some exclusive sneak peeks at upcoming fics from some of your favorite writers including the first page of the next chapter of MisD a day early!!

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