#this book also made me think a lot about how easy it is to lose everything and how hard it is to rebuild | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

babystrcandy · 7 months

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the lucky one (pt. 5) | jjk

summary: Growing up you only had one goal: beat Jeon Jungkook. Sometimes you'd win, other times you'd lose. Sometimes he'd lose, other times he'd win. But you'd both walk away from the match thinking the other was the lucky one.

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader rating/genre: 18+ Minors DNI | sports au, e2l/r2l, angst, fluff, smut word count: 27.7K chapter summary: You and Jungkook had always endured your lives, watching everyone else live theirs. It was time you helped each other learn how to finally breathe like real people. warnings/notes: typos probably, explicit language, jk and oc are the sun and moon 100%, hoseok i’m going to kiss you, karaoke..., yoonmin (i don’t ship them irl, don’t worry; all fictional and for plot purposes), panic attacks, poem referenced: mock orange by louise gluck a barbie dream house but all the dolls are kitchen knives by cassandra de alba, oc and jk are like so in love it’s not even funny anymore, oc in her mid-2521 na heedo era, she’s not doing too good, reporters are vultures, mention of king lear, i’m telling you they’re embarrassingly in love, unprotected soft sex like...soft-soft extra soft, mention of icarus/the fall of icarus, i think that’s it but if i missed anything please let me know, i hope you enjoy, my loves <3

chapter five: violet, roses are red, not blue ( ← previous | next → )

FIVE WAYS YOU CAN Help Someone With an Anxiety Disorder:

Validate Their Feelings by Letting Them Know It’s Okay Not to Be Okay

Don’t Tell Them to Calm Down

Encourage Them to Focus on Things They Can Change

Help Them to Help Themselves

Discourage the Use of Alcohol or Drugs to Cope With Anxiety

OK . . .

You blinked once. Twice. Then once more, trying to make sense of the words before your eyes.

The thing was: you’d dealt with anxiety before. Hell, you’d been taking to biting your nails until they bled for a while now. You knew how it felt to peel over the edge of a toilet and empty your stomach’s contents just before a game. But . . . you never knew how to handle it or how to deal with it in such abundant measures.

Why were you looking into it now one may ask? Easy. You didn’t care much about how much you could endure, because truth be told: you knew you could handle it. You knew it would pass and while it sucked, you knew it was something you could deal with. And besides, you could deal with a lot, so . . .

But . . .

There were certain things that made sense to you. While you knew you could deal with everything on your plate . . . and while . . . while you knew Jungkook could handle himself . . . for some reason, you just didn’t want him to have to.

It was an odd thing: realizing you’d rather deal with both your problems and his than let him suffer. You supposed that was what it meant to be friends, though . . . and well . . . you’d never really had any, so this was all new territory for you.

So ever since a few months ago when Jungkook told you about what happened to him just last year, you’d taken to the internet. You spent countless hours researching anxiety disorders, how to help, what to say, what to do, and on the off chance he had a panic attack near you, you’d taken to researching what to do then, too.

It made you feel a little stupid, yes, but you didn’t know how else to help. You didn’t want to make him feel . . . different for telling you, but you also . . . you didn’t want him to feel so alone anymore. (You’d even bought a book on it all (it only made you feel more clueless).

Now . . . you didn’t know much, but you hoped the research would do something. And perhaps it wasn’t too far off either. After all, you’d been helping Jungkook stay away from booze as much as possible, even deciding to stay sober with him and you thought it was helping some. But you knew the late night talks were what helped more. You didn’t know how to say this without sounding full of yourself, but you liked to think you were helping him.

That was what you truly wanted. To help him in ways you couldn’t help yourself. You could handle everything as long as he didn’t have to. That . . . that was what felt right to you.

So . . . five ways you can help someone with an anxiety disorder, you read again. You felt a little more than clueless. Still.

“Hey, Sunshine—“ Jungkook called for you, snapping you out of your own mind— “come look. It’s done.”

Blinking quickly, you clicked off your phone out of habit, realizing where you were. A tattoo parlor.

Yeah . . .

It was the weekend of the final tournaments. The win or lose all, and Yunis was up there right next to the big leagues. How? All because of Jungkook. These past few months you and him had been unbeatable. Sure, you’d lost a few, but . . . more often than not, the two of you would end a match with grins on your faces moments before you jumped into his arms and just let yourself . . . celebrate with him.

That was how it had been. You and Jungkook against the world. And to be honest, you quite liked it that way. (Granted, after your little outburst, your teammates had stopped talking about Jungkook altogether and started to . . . almost but not really but also kind of . . . respect him more (except Wooshik, but whatever). That made things a whole lot better, but it was still just you and him and you were sure it would be for the rest of the season.)

Anyway . . . you were getting off-topic.

The point was: it was almost the weekend of the final tournaments and Yunis was staying at some hotel somewhere in Ulsan. And well, while you and Jungkook were watching some movie in his hotel room, he got an idea. He wanted a new tattoo. For good luck, he’d claimed, and you . . . you hadn’t gotten a tattoo since that one mistake of one. But somehow, someway, Jungkook had managed to drag you out of the hotel and into the nearest tattoo shop he could find on the GPS.

Which landed you there: sitting in the waiting area while Jungkook went first. (He wanted it to be a surprise. That was what he told you, which you thought was a little silly, but whatever.)

And then it would be your turn.

Actually . . .

You turned to face Jungkook, taking in the dopey grin he had spread across his face while he peeked at you through the door leading to the tattooing room. It was your turn.

“Hmm?” you hummed in questioning.

Jungkook shook his head. “Come look,” he repeated as he gestured for you to follow him. “And then I’ve got a couple ideas for yours. Don’t let me forget. And don’t pretend to forget. Got it?”

You rolled your eyes with a huff, but nevertheless, followed after him, shutting the door behind you. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of the artist, but, well, you had never been good at greeting people, so what should’ve been a small greeting wave, turned into you just staring at him with some kind of . . . smile on your face. And when you realized that was so not the way to go, you turned your attention back to Jungkook, grabbing onto the loop of his jeans as he led you to the mirror on the other side of the room.

Jungkook glanced to where you clung onto him, raising his brows as he looked between your face and your hand. “Good?”

You blinked. Then realized what you were doing. Then well . . . you cleared your throat and attempted to tear your hand from his body, but before you could, his fingers curled around your wrist. And without a second glance, Jungkook guided your hand back to him, allowing it to slip into his back pocket.

All you could do was stare at the back of his head in shock. His dark hair was long now. Longer than it had ever been, to the point it could only be tied back with a hair tie or it’d be in his face all day, which was his go-to most days considering the days were long and hot. And somehow, he looked more like himself like that. He seemed to smile more, too, and you always managed to smile back even when you least expected it.

But you couldn’t help it. He was just . . . well . . .

(Sometimes he made you wonder if you should really find your friend this attractive but you ignored that most days.)

Whatever . . . the point was: you had trouble wrapping your head around his touch; around the fact that while he wasn’t exactly yours, he didn’t mind your hands on him at any time. No one had ever liked your touch this much. You had always been too cold; too harsh; too rough, but around him, you felt like your touch was almost . . . soft.

And that was what always shocked you.

“Are you drooling?” Jungkook asked, snapping you out of your own head.

Only then did you realize you had been staring at him for quite a while now, and well, he would always tease you about that. Because he was . . . Jungkook.

Your brows scrunched together. “What?”

But he didn’t bother to repeat his question. No, instead, he took his thumb and swiped at your bottom lip, inspecting it in thought. “Yep, just as I thought—“ he jutted his thumb toward you— “drool.”

Glaring, you stepped closer. “I don’t drool,” you nearly huffed.

“Mmm, that’s not what the evidence says.”

“It’s chapstick.”

“Really?”

“Really.” You glared a little harder. “Will you just show the tattoo?”

Jungkook only grinned.

And then, he turned his attention to his tattooed arm, slowly pulling up the sleeve of his shirt. Your eyes stayed trained on his arm the entire time, expecting some sort of skull or something stupid, but instead . . . no . . . as he pulled up his sleeve, he revealed a vine of some sort of blue flowers traveling from the empty space left on his lower forearm to his hand, covered by a saniderm wrap.

“What flower’s that?” you questioned, eyes still trained on the fresh tattoo as you carefully brought your hand to his arm.

“Morning glories,” he hummed while he watched you slowly turn his arm to get the full view. “My mom says they’re a pain. They grow everywhere like weeds. Once you plant one, that’s it, she says. They grow like wildfire. A nuisance.” He laughed softly. “Figured it fit.”

“It’s pretty,” you murmured with a small smile. “Fits the rest.” You tilted your head to the side a little. “Kinda looks like the snake is wrapping around it.”

Jungkook nodded. “Cool, right?”

It was. It actually really was.

“It’s nice,” you settled with instead, feigning disinterest.

But Jungkook knew you well. “Admit it,” he pushed on, leaning toward you. “Admit you’re impressed.”

Nearly rolling your eyes, you finally huffed, “Yes, fine, it’s actually cool, Kook.”

“So I’ve impressed you?”

“Well, considering I thought you were going to get a dick, yes, I suppose I’m impressed,” you muttered with a small shrug.

Jungkook snorted. “Well.”

Oh god. No, he didn’t.

Furrowing your brows, you pegged the question, “Please tell me you did not get a dick and balls tattooed on you.”

His face screwed up as he tilted his head to the side in thought. “Well . . . “

“Kook.”

Pursing his lips into a cute pout, he offered you his other hand, showing off his fingers. And there on his ring finger was the number three, and on his middle was a sideways U. Meaning, yes, Jeon Jungkook did, in fact, get a small yet visible yet inconspicuous yet not that inconspicuous at all, penis tattooed on his fingers. And no, no, you were not surprised.

“Really?” you deadpanned.

Jungkook shrugged. “Whoops.”

“As long as you don’t think this is a matching tattoo kind of thing,” you started off with your finger pointing directly into his chest. “Because, I’m telling you right now, Jungkook, I am not getting a dick tattooed on my body.”

And Jungkook only snorted, shaking his head. “No, god, I’m stupid, not an idiot. I have my designs in my bag.”

Designs? Your brows twitched. He spent that much time on this? But—

But Jungkook was already one step ahead of you, walking from you toward where his bag lay on the ground beside the tattoo chair. He rummaged through its contents until he clasped his hand around a small sketchbook before he took it out and reapproached you, already flipping through it.

Flip, flip, flip . . . and flip, until . . . he paused on a page and slowly offered it toward you with an almost shy (?) look on his face. Jungkook, shy? You almost didn’t believe it, but still, you took the sketchbook from him without another word, letting your eyes take in the sketch before your eyes.

It was another flower. Well, a stem with a few flowers. Yellow this time. And a little different from Jungkook’s. Perhaps it was a little more peculiar.

“It’s an evening primrose,” Jungkook began while your eyes stayed trained on the sketch, still analyzing it. “My mom used to have them in our garden back home. They, uh, only bloom at night. I remember every night we’d watch them. They’d do this little shake and—“ he laughed, softly at first, then a little louder— “my mom would say it was like they were yawning.”

You traced your fingertips over the sketch, remembering your own little memories of the silly flowers. That was why you remembered them. They were your mom’s favorite. She used to plant like five batches each spring and force you to come outside and watch them with her, and yes, you said force because you had always been a disagreeable child. But still, every night, you watched them.

“They’re my mom’s favorite,” you voiced aloud with a small smile playing on your lips.

“Yeah,” he hummed under his breath. “My mom said she gives her a bundle every year for her birthday.”

Glancing up, you nearly beamed. “Really?”

He nodded. “Really.”

“I guess they’d be proud of us, hmm?” you murmured, searching his face. When you realized what you’d said, you quickly cleared your throat. “For becoming chummy, you know?”

His brows twitched. “Yeah . . . I guess they would.”

A beat of silence.

Then . . . Jungkook cleared his throat, shaking his head of his thoughts as his eyes turned back to the sketch. “Anyway, uh, they remind me of home, so I thought maybe they’d do the same for you,” he allowed himself to say in a hushed tone. “But, I mean, there’s others. The drawing’s kinda shit, so—“

“I like it,” you cut him off as you held the sketchbook closer to you. “I’ll—“ you shrugged— “I’ll get it.”

Jungkook’s brows nearly shot up to his hairline. “Really?”

You only nodded. “Why not? It’s cool. It means something I think, so yeah, fuck it, I’ll get it. Besides—“ you flicked his nose— “the sketch is not half bad. You didn’t tell me you could draw.”

“That’s because I can’t.”

“Bullshit.”

“OK—“ he agreed with a shrug— “hand me the tattoo gun. I can give you a Jungkook original.”

Narrowing your eyes, you couldn’t help but purse your lips into an unamused grimace. “No, thanks, I’ll end up walking out with testicles drawn on my forehead,” you muttered with just a little bite in your words.

And that got him. Jungkook laughed, his eyes crinkling first before a grin broke out onto his face. All the while, he playfully ruffled your hair, gesturing for you to sit down in the chair a second later. And you let it happen, a small dopey smile on your face.

(And you almost realized that while Jungkook had been smiling more lately, you, too, had never smiled so much in your life. You supposed you had him to thank for that . . .

Supposedly.)

It wasn’t your reflection which caught your attention in the mirror. No, rather, what your eyes had landed on was the fresh tattoo of an evening primrose placed in the center of your sternum. It was almost similar to Jungkook’s, yet different just like the two of you, and the funny thing about it was . . . it kept managing to bring a small, almost unnoticeable smile to your face.

“What’s got you smiling?” you heard from behind you as Jungkook appeared in the doorway of the hotel room’s bathroom (completely shirtless, might you add).

“Oh, nothing—“ you shrugged as you reached for a comb (totally not just pretending to untangle the ends of your hair), while maintaining eye contact with him in the mirror— “just the fact you whined and whined about how much pain your arm was in for like, what? An hour after?” Turning slowly to face him, you puffed out your bottom lip into a pout. “Such a pussy.”

His brows raised—a look of challenge. “Yeah?”

A beat of silence.

Another shrug was your only response.

Jungkook fought off a grin, crossing his arms. “I’m a . . . pussy?” Pushing off the doorway, he took a step toward you, head cocked to the side slightly. “Hmm?”

Mirroring him, you crossed your arms over your chest. “That’s what I said.”

“Oh, is that what you said?” he mused, mocking your voice.

And before you could even protest or drop your jaw in shock, he was in front of you. He caged you in, leaning his hands on the counter behind you. One more inch and his nose would be touching yours, but you didn’t dare close that gap.

“You’re such a child,” you hissed in a hushed tone as if his proximity had made the room that much smaller and you that much more exposed.

“Mmm, am I?” he mused, his eyes trailing over your features with such languid strokes, you wondered how you ever handled his gaze before.

You raised your head ever so slightly.

To which, obviously, Jungkook found amusing. With that small, toothy, almost endearing smile on his face, he closed the gap, his nose brushing yours. “Kiss me then,” he murmured, pressing closer, just enough to brush his lips against yours in a feathering touch.

And you began to wonder how on earth you ended up becoming putty in his hands. “What if I bite you instead?” you murmured, but despite your words, you leaned into his touch.

Resting his forehead against yours, he hummed, “Well, I wouldn’t be opposed to that either.”

You felt yourself grin. “Good.”

The only response you received was his lips pressing against yours. You leaned closer, pleasantly sighing into the kiss as a grin tipped onto his face. His hands tickled your sides, lightly dancing across your skin before settling on your rib cage just below the crescents of your breasts.

(Perhaps you forgot to mention that you were entirely topless . . .

What? It was uncomfortable with the fresh tattoo.

Whatever.)

And well honestly, you couldn’t resist not having him close. So what if it bothered your tattoo? He felt better than any pain relief.

Quickly, you found yourself tangling your hands in his dark, grown-out hair as you pulled him close enough to have your bare chest pressed against his. It made you feel close . . . closer than you had ever felt with anyone . . . closer than you had ever let yourself. His grip tightened on you instantly, his hands squeezing your sides once more before he gently sucked your bottom lip under the grasp of his teeth.

It only deepened from there. You melted into him, allowing him to meld his tongue against yours. The act squeezed a soft sigh out of you, to which Jungkook couldn’t contain himself. He smiled widely against your lips, and then his arms were around your thighs, lifting you up onto the sink counter. And once you were supported by the countertop, he stepped in between your parted legs as his hands found your face, gently caressing your jaw while he all but sucked on your tongue like he had done so many times before.

“Stop trying to eat my face,” you chuckled against his lips, still kissing him back while your arms wrapped around his neck.

He shook his head, but the small grin you felt against your lips gave him away. “Stop turning me on then,” he murmured back. “It’s just not fair, Daisy baby.”

Daisy baby. That was a new one.

Your brows twitched without your permission as your eyes traced his features. More specifically, your gaze fixed on his lips, watching as he tongued his lip ring—a habit he had accumulated over the years you supposed.

It made it harder to focus on anything except him. And for the second time that night, you wondered how on earth you ended up being at his mercy time and time again.

It just felt so unlike you. So different. So new. So . . . unfamiliar.

Did you like it?

You questioned yourself over and over again these past months. It felt like something you shouldn’t be able to feel. Really . . . it just made you wonder and wonder and wonder.

Until . . . Yes, you decided. Oddly enough, yes, you did like it. You quite liked feeling like this.

But what exactly was this?

. . . Your eyes met his, and your gaze softened instantly. You had no idea what this was. No idea . . .

Jungkook caught onto the look which crossed your face and leaned forward, burying his face into the crook of your neck. “What’s got you lookin’ like that?” he sighed against your skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses anywhere he could.

And your eyes fluttered shut as you melted into his touch. “Nothing,” you hummed, angling your neck to give him more access to your body. “I just—“

But a knock at the door halted the words from leaving your tongue.

The two of you paused.

A beat of silence.

Another knock came.

Jungkook pulled back and your eyes met, confusion passing between the two of you.

Who could be knocking at the door at this hour? Especially Jungkook’s? (Because, really, after the whole meltdown you had at dinner after the first tournament . . . everyone had steered clear of the two of you. So you wondered once more . . . who could be at the door?)

No words were exchanged between the two of you, Jungkook only took the step into the hall, and peered through the peephole on the door. You watched in silence as he stared a second too long, his posture stiff before he sighed and disappeared back into the room. And well, in utter confusion, you hopped down from the counter, following after him only to find he had put on a tee and grabbed another, moments before he handed that very shirt to you with a tight-lipped smile.

“Who is it?” you whispered, your voice hushed as you put on the shirt he’d handed you, covering your bare chest.

Jungkook tongued his inner cheek, but before you could even press the question, his face softened. A small, stiff smile met his lips as he reached out and caressed your chin with his pointer, while his thumb brushed your bottom lip. “Keep your claws in,” he murmured, that small smile still on his face as if he thought that alone would be enough to ease your wandering mind.

“What—“

But he was already gone.

His touch left you and you watched as he approached the door, while you followed slowly behind. The door was swinging open the next second, revealing—

Oh. You blinked in shock.

In the doorway stood Hoseok, whose back was facing you at that very moment while he talked to . . . Seulki?

Huh?

Tilting your head in confusion, you caught Seulki’s wide dark eyes. Her eyes widened further at the sight of you two as she quickly smacked Hoseok’s shoulder and pointed behind him. The action caused Hoseok to immediately shut his mouth as he slowly turned around, his lips down-turned into an awkward expression as his gaze darted between you and Jungkook.

Furrowing your brows, you sent him a look.

Hoseok blinked back in response. Seulki nervously waved before trying to pass it off as her attempting to scratch the back of her head. And Jungkook . . . well . . . he was the one to clear his throat, putting an end to the silence. (You, however, caught onto the fact that his eyes remained glued to his feet the entire time.)

That . . . that made you step forward, until you stood beside Jungkook, crossing your arms over your chest as you leaned against the door frame. “Something wrong?” you questioned the two of them, keeping a close eye.

Hoseok opened his mouth, hesitating slightly. “Uh—“

“We were looking for you guys,” Seulki cut in with a wide smile on her face. “So it’s good that you’re both—“ she glanced at Hoseok, starting to fidget with her hands as she cleared her throat— “here. Hoseok?”

Hoseok eyed her, a tad startled before he nodded in agreement. “Right, yeah,” he hummed with a clap of his hands. “We were gonna meet up with some friends from college in Busan for karaoke. They’re just . . . they’re coming to the final tournaments and we thought ‘why not, let’s go out’.” He laughed . . . awkwardly if you might add. “Anyway . . . We’ve got two extra train tickets. Could be yours . . . ?”

Quirking a brow, you glanced between them. “How much?”

A perplexed look crossed both their faces. But it was Seulki who spoke up first. “What?” she mumbled, slightly puffing out her bottom lip into a small pout—something she happened to do a lot that you’d caught onto. “Nothing. We just . . . “

As her words trailed off, Hoseok picked up where she left off. In fact, he took it a step further. “We . . . “ He quickly shut his mouth, shaking his head at his thoughts before he raised his head once more, eyes now locked on Jungkook rather than hiding from him. It didn’t matter if Jungkook didn’t look him in the eye, it seemed Hoseok had something to get off his chest as he took a literal instead of metaphorical step toward him. “I . . . I feel bad . . . for how we treated you. I assumed things. I never asked you. I never thought to. I should’ve gotten to know you before listening to anything Wooshik had to say. I misjudged you. For that, and everything else . . . I’m—“ he touched a hand to his chest before he gestured toward Seulki— “we are sorry.”

And while his words lingered in the air, you hadn’t realized that the stiffness in your muscles had slowly loosened and your gaze was now set solely on Jungkook. How could it not be?

With a careful glance, you took in Jungkook’s demeanor. It was clear he, too, was taking in Hoseok’s words. His head was still lowered, his eyes trained on his feet, but they kept moving in rapid motions as if he were fighting with himself to not look up. And all you could think was: look up . . . please, please look up.

You hadn’t expected it when you first saw them in the doorway, but you weren’t an idiot. Hoseok and Seulki had come here to make amends. They had come here to admit their wrongs. You couldn’t be angry with that . . . not when you had seen just how happy Jungkook had been the first time he’d been able to . . . see someone.

If he looked up . . . then that would mean he would be OK. If he looked up . . . then maybe he could breathe a little easier. And truly . . . as odd as it sounded . . . all you wanted was for him to be . . . happy.

If Jungkook looked up . . . all of that could be possible.

“Look—“ Hoseok began again, nearly reaching out to pat Jungkook on the shoulder, but he stopped himself before he made contact— “Uh . . . you don’t seem like a bad guy . . . so I was wondering if we could all hang out like teams are supposed to, you know? Not just to apologize . . . but to . . . be friends, I suppose, is what I mean . . . “

You swallowed hard, fighting with yourself not to speak for him. Look up, Jungkook, you repeated over and over again in your head, watching him with careful eyes. Look up. Please . . . please . . .

Another beat of silence, more painful than the last.

Then . . .

. . . Jungkook raised his head, and his eyes met Hoseok’s, and you knew what his answer would be.

In no way, shape, or form could you comprehend how you managed to make it to some random karaoke bar in the middle of Busan around, like, two in the morning. Hell, you didn’t even remember hopping onto the midnight train to get to the city in the first place, but there you were, dressed in whatever the fuck you could find in your suitcase that wasn’t a badminton uniform, and you were sitting next to one of Hoseok’s friends (Namjoon, you thought his name was.)

And while Namjoon managed to impress you with his choice in cologne, he had been talking your ear off for the past half hour and you couldn’t think straight for the entirety of the time he’d been telling you about well . . . you honestly had no idea what he was talking about. In truth, you couldn’t really hear much . . . because your mind was elsewhere. Because, because, because for the last half hour that Namjoon had been at your side, your eyes had been on Jungkook.

Now . . . you knew how that sounded, but you had a reason. You see, Jungkook wasn’t alone either. He had been sat next to another one of Hoseok’s friends (let’s call him Yoongi and hope you got that right) . . . and he was like . . . looking at him. No, no, like . . . he was looking him in the eyes . . . that is why you couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t stop trying to eavesdrop, couldn’t stop just . . . just . . . just whatever!

Was it embarrassing to say you were proud of him?

But . . . you were . . .

As much as you hadn’t wanted to admit it, he’d become the only person you’d ever been this close to in your life. He’d once told you you were the only one he could see . . . the only one he wasn’t afraid of to look in the eyes, and now . . . in just a few hours, he’d allowed himself to hear people, see them, interact with them beyond the restrictions he’d put on himself the entirety of his contract with Yunis.

And the little thing that made you feel all that more warm, was the attentive, genuine smile on his face as he nodded along to whatever Yoongi was saying. That . . . that made a smile of your own touch your lips as you took in the scene.

“You agree?” you heard from beside you, Namjoon’s voice startling only slightly enough to have you abruptly whipping your head in his direction with a confused expression on your face.

You blinked, furrowing your brows. “Hmm?” you hummed in a questioning tone as you snuck a glance back at Jungkook, only to find . . . oh . . . only to find him lazily shifting his gaze from Yoongi to you with an amused smirk on his face. (Great, so he had seen you looking at him. Great. That he’ll really get you later on with.) “Do I agree—what?”

Slowly, you forced yourself to tear your eyes from Jungkook and finally face Namjoon, who seemed to be oblivious to everything else. You weren’t even really sure if he had heard your question or if he were too busy inside his own head, questioning himself. But it didn’t matter either way, because . . . the music cut out, Hoseok and Seulki’s voices died down, followed by their out of breath laughter, and then:

“Alright, who’s next?” Hoseok called out, offering up the microphone.

Immediately, Yoongi shook his head, leaning back to indulge in his drink rather than the question at hand. And no one else could get another word in before, Seulki and Hoseok had caught onto this little act, only they didn’t exactly . . . go for him. No, rather, Seulki, specifically, all but jumped toward Jungkook. “I vote Jungkookie goes!” she declared as she leaned forward to dangle the microphone in front of his face.

“Agreed! Jungkook-ah, onstage now!” Hoseok exclaimed, closing the distance to Jungkook before he wrapped a hand around his arm, urging him to stand to his feet and take over the spotlight.

(Clearly . . . something you hadn’t mentioned . . . everyone but you and Jungkook were . . . perhaps maybe a little bit or a lot or yeah, yeah, yeah . . . they were drunk. (So you could see how . . . this had happened.))

And Jungkook all but turned cherry-cheeked. “No, no, I can’t,” he laughed it off, trying to wave them away. “I’m a horrible singer, really.”

Lie.

He once sang for your elementary school’s talent show . . . you know . . .

But the others persisted, whining and whining and blah blah blah—

. . . Five minutes later, no doubt, Jungkook finally gave in with a playful groan. He took the microphone from Seulki, slowly making his way to the center of the room you guys had booked, and then you noticed something . . . his eyes had only been on you the entire time. And suddenly, you began to wonder what that meant, wrapping your arms around yourself as your brows raised in question.

Until:

“Listen,” Jungkook began, a half-grin sliding onto his face as he maintained eye-contact with you, “I’ll sing . . . but I need my sidekick.”

Raising your brows, you knew you’d kill him for that later. But still you didn’t move. All you could do was shake your head, because no, no, no you did not want to sing in front of anyone.

“OK. OK,” Jungkook nodded slowly to himself, but you knew him better than that. He had something planned. And you could just tell by the way he began to walk toward the system in order to plug in the song that was somehow someway on his mind. Then, he turned back around, both microphones in his hands, his eyes solely on you with a mischievous glint in them as the first seconds of the song began to blast through the speakers.

Squinting your eyes in skepticism, you watched him.

He only sent you a knowing grin.

And you suddenly had a feeling you knew exactly what he had put on.

“ . . . She ain’t got no money,” Jungkook began, trying his best to sing, but his grin kept growing and growing just as your face fell and fell and fell. “Her clothes are kind of funny. Her hair is kinda wild and free. Oh, but—”

You nearly smacked a hand to your face.

“—Love grows where my Rosemary goes,” he continued, beginning to bob his head now to the music. “And nobody knows but me.” Clearing his throat over the music, you knew you were in for it. “Come on, Rosemary, on your feet. Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go, because! Love grows where my Rosemary goes! And nobody knows like—Come on!—me!”

And finally . . . finally after being hounded and hounded, you unstuck yourself from your seat, your eyes solely on him as if it were just the two of you against everything, and then you took the microphone from his hand, and you knew you’d sealed your fate. Shaking your head at him, you playfully rolled your eyes moments before you glanced at the screen, checking where you were in the song.

Great, you thought. Fuck . . . OK. Clearing your throat again, this was your Hell. “I’m a lucky fella,” you began, your voice nearly tone-deaf, and certainly agony to the ears. “And I’ve just got to tell her that I love her endlessly.”

“Oh, because!” Jungkook jumped in, bumping you with his elbow. “Love grows where my Rosemary goes, and nobody knows like me!”

Snorting once, you continued for him, “There's something about her hand holding mine. It's a feeling that's fine,” you hummed along, realizing that perhaps . . . this . . . was . . . fun. And slowly, so slowly, you didn’t even realize you were doing it . . . you had begun to dance along, following Jungkook’s lead. “And I just gotta say—”

“Hey! She’s really got a magical spell and it's working so well that I can't get away,” he drawled out, perhaps carrying out his words a tad too much, but there was something about the smile on his face while he did it that you didn’t care.

That was when you really lost it. Perhaps lost it was the wrong word, but that was when you really stopped caring if there were other people in the room, about keeping up your image or whatever. It just felt like it was you and Jungkook and the music.

And before you knew it, the song had ended, cheers came from Hoseok’s friends, but your eyes were solely on Jungkook. They had never really left him, because this was the song you’d sang at the talent show in elementary. It was also the song you had been too afraid to sing alone . . . because you were perhaps maybe not a shy child, but an antisocial one. And Jungkook . . . Jungkook had offered to sing with you. He’d never wanted to be in the talent show, but you . . . you always wanted the spotlight, and so, it was because of him that you were able to have it that day. Otherwise you probably would’ve spent the entire night crying in the school’s bathroom because you couldn’t force yourself on stage. And he . . . he had saved you back then.

It seemed he always was . . .

That made a smile slowly grow on your face, but before it could form into a toothy grin, cheers erupted throughout the room. Eyes widening, you glanced toward the noise, realizing it was not just the two of you but rather the two of you and . . . them.

But this them didn’t feel malicious as it had in the past. No, in fact, before you could even blink, Seulki was already jumping toward you, jumping up and down while she beamed about how that had to be one of her all time favorite songs. And Jungkook . . . well . . . Hoseok had reached him in seconds, clasping a hand on his shoulder as he went on and on about how he had no idea he had such a voice, asking if he’s taken lessons, and blah blah blah . . . all the while everyone else shouted requests at the two of you, hooting for an encore.

It . . . well . . . to say the least, it managed to bring that smile back onto your face, and finally you let yourself look away from Jungkook, knowing you could trust the others with him, and suddenly all you could see was Seulki. You’d never had many friends. Perhaps competition or surface people, but a little part of you saw Yurim, your college doubles partner and probably the closest you’d ever had to a friend, in Seulki.

Except unlike all those years ago . . . this time you embraced Seulki with a hand on her shoulder and a warm smile touching your face as you finally let yourself tell her the little story of how the song came to be for you. Now, yes, she was drunk out of her mind and would probably forget about all of this tomorrow, but you didn’t care.

It felt . . . nice . . . to talk to people like . . . this. And—And this feeling when you did . . . Oh what was that feeling called? Like, like warmth but better, perhaps innocent?

Were you . . . happy?

And then . . . you began to wonder . . . was this what it felt like to have . . . friends? Were you allowed to feel like this? Like . . . like you were happy?

In that moment, you glanced back at Jungkook for a brief second just as he did the same. Your eyes met, and you knew he felt the same. And then: relief, relief, relief . . .

A beat of silence.

In it more relief.

Beat.

Beat . . .

But . . . like all things . . . balance. A knock on the door ripped that blissful beat of relief from your grasp. Brows furrowing, you slowly turned to see a blurry shadow just behind the door, indicating that someone was . . . asking for permission to come in? But . . . who? As far as you knew everyone who was there was supposed to be there.

You wondered and wondered, trying to tilt your head to see if you could make it out. And then you heard them call his name, but you didn’t believe it at first. You didn’t quite hear it. Seulki was jumping beside you, and you could have sworn you heard Yoongi announce that it was probably his partner at the door.

And then as Yoongi slowly walked toward the door, opening it to greet the man with this adoring look in his eyes, your heart plummeted to your stomach. Instantly, your eyes snapped to Jungkook, and you saw the entire world crumble before you. You tried to reach him but Seulki was still holding onto you, and you couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t speak, you couldn’t move, you couldn’t do anything but stare and watch as the world fell and fell and fell, leaving you with no way to put it back together.

Amongst the chaos, your eyes fluttered back toward the door and you heard his name once more. Jimin, you could have sworn Hoseok had called out, and you knew this was reality.

Like an old ghost, Jimin had appeared at the door, almost unrecognizable from the boy you remembered in college. His hair now honey blonde, his cheeks full and almost rosy, with this way about him that just screamed he was different now. It made you wonder how different he was now than a year ago when Jungkook left his past behind him.

Breathing carefully, everyone’s attention was on Jimin, but you caught sight of it first. Jimin’s eyes scanned the room and then . . . then they met yours. Your heart stopped again and you could have sworn his mirrored yours. His eyes widened only slightly, until they shifted just to the right of you, and you watched in silence as his lips parted, his brows twitching upward.

That was weird.

You would have expected him to meet the sight of Jungkook with anger . . . but the only expression on Jimin’s face was that of pain . . . perhaps . . . yearning . . . ? For something . . . ?

And finally, you allowed yourself to glance back at Jungkook, and you began to wonder if it truly were possible to die of a broken heart.

Jungkook stood stagnant, unmoving without even a single rise and fall of his chest. No, instead, his hand was clasped over his chest as if he were in physical pain, but he still didn’t move. Until he did.

Before you could reach him, Jungkook was off. He made a B-line for the door, pushing past everyone while they were distracted by Jimin’s appearance.

And you were a step behind him.

“Kook, where you going?” you briefly heard Hoseok call to Jungkook. “Jimin’s got to show you his vocals, man. He’ll give you a run for your money.”

But Jungkook wasn’t reachable. “I—um—restroom,” he barely strained out and then he was gone, slipping out the door and out of your sight.

You tried to keep up, desperately pushing past the others as you reached the door as well, but a hand on your upper arm stopped you in your tracks. Your eyes flicked from the hand on your arm to the face of the person it belonged to.

Jimin . . . he was the one who had stopped you. Of course.

But you had never been easily swayed. You quickly ripped your arm out of his grasp, and left without a look back. But it was no use. The hallway was empty. Jungkook was gone.

So what? You’d find him. You had to.

Without another thought, you didn’t even wait to hear the door close behind you as you began to stalk down the hall, but a voice called out to you.

“Hey, hey, wait,” the voice pleaded.

But you knew this voice well. You knew Jimin well, and you didn’t care what he had to say, not when Jungkook was missing.

Attempting to make another run for it, you put one foot in front of the other, only to be pulled back. Jimin wrapped a hand around your upper arm, pulling you into him and turning you to face him all at once. And you saw that hurt expression once again, but you didn’t care, you didn’t care, you didn’t care! Jungkook was out there and he was alone and you needed him to know you were never leaving his side again.

So fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. You didn’t care!

Desperately, you tried to peel his hand from your arm, but his words halted you in your tracks.

“Is he OK?” Jimin quietly asked, his voice barely above a whisper, almost as if he were ashamed of his own words.

Taking a step back, you could only shake your head at him. “Are you fucking serious?” you all but hissed, the words burning on your tongue as you finally ripped your arm out of his grasp. “Now you care? Now you want to act like—“ Your words were ripped from your lips, unable to finish the sentence. Instead, another shake of your head came. “You’re fucking unbelievable . . . Of course he’s not OK. He hasn’t been for a while, and you would know that if you hadn’t—“

The words died on your tongue, and Jimin watched. While your eyes betrayed you, watering slightly, Jimin looked as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes. His gaze darted across your face, his brows raised in concern (?) while he watched as you fought against the floodgates, trying to bite back the tears in your eyes and the lump in your throat.

And finally, you were able to force out the words: “He’s not OK. He’s really—“ you quickly exhaled— “really not.”

A beat of silence.

You swallowed that lump in your throat while a look of realization crossed Jimin’s face. It was funny . . . he looked completely different now than he did years ago . . . or maybe it was the look he wore. It was something you had never seen on him before.

But you really didn’t care.

Sucking in a breath, you cleared your throat and began to back away. “And he needs me so I have to—“

But Jimin cut you off. “So he told you?” he asked almost a little too hesitantly as he took a step toward you.

Nodding, you swallowed hard. “Yes.”

His brows raised. “You guys are . . . good?”

“Yes,” you muttered, nodding again. “He’s—We’re friends.”

Jimin blinked. “Oh.”

“What?”

“I just . . . I didn’t see that coming . . . “

“Well—“ you bit your inner cheek— “it did.”

Another beat of silence.

Then: Jimin took a step back. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, almost too under his breath to even hear. “I didn’t expect that he’d be here. I haven’t seen him in . . . in a year. I didn’t even think he was . . . I didn’t think he was like that.”

Oh . . .

Don’t say it.

Don’t say—

Don’t—

But you couldn’t help but bite out, “No thanks to you.”

Jimin pinched his brows together. “What? What do you mean?”

You just had to say it . . .

“Nothing—“ clearing your throat, you realized just where your loud mouth had landed you— “just . . . I have to go, alright?”

With one final look at the man before you—a man you once knew that now barely resembled the one you’d known—you walked past him, eyes trained solely on what was before you. Jungkook was the only thing on your mind. Finding him was the only thing you cared about. Leaving the past behind was easy when you knew he was waiting for you somewhere up ahead.

But a hand wrapped around your forearm, halting you in your tracks. Your eyes widened as you heard Jimin speak, but you couldn’t quite make out what he was saying until you glanced over your shoulder, your eyes meeting his words head-on.

“Look . . . look, I know,” he had said, an almost desperate expression plaguing his face. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly before he sucked in a sharp breath. “I know. Trust me. I do.” Exhale.

Slowly, your brows scrunched together as you pried his hand off your arm. “Know what?” you questioned, your voice a slightly accusatory tone while you cocked your head to the side, eyeing him with skepticism.

A moment’s silence passed before he searched your eyes. What he was searching for, you couldn’t quite make out, but he kept searching and searching and searching until his brows twitched upward, an almost pained expression fueling his face. And then: “I know it wasn’t Kook’s fault,” he confessed, his voice soft and quiet as if he were ashamed of his own words. “What happened between him and Tae. I knew it wasn’t his fault.”

Instantly, your heart dropped.

He knew. He knew and he still let this happen.

You wanted to scream. At him. At everything. At nothing.

But you stayed frozen, your mind spiraling and spiraling.

“I tried to get them to see that, too, but . . . Kook had always been our glue, not me,” he nearly whispered, harshly pointing at his chest almost as if he were trying to punish or rather condemn himself. “Tae and I would get into arguments over stupid shit all the time, and Kook would always be there to get us to see eye-to-eye. I didn’t know how to help them. I’m not good at that; he was.”

And then you saw it: you saw the past in his eyes. Slowly, it unraveled, and you watched as the three of them practiced day in and day out while you glared at them across the field back in college. You remembered being angry, but you hadn’t known why, and now . . . now you realized you had been envious of the fact that they were . . . friends. While you had none, they had each other.

To see the three of them in completely separate places now . . . made your head spin and spin and spin. Never once did you think they’d do anything without each other, and now . . . now you were watching the past crumble through Jimin’s sad eyes.

It was almost as if you could see the moment they went their separate ways. Kook alone. Jimin and Taehyung together . . . but . . . distant . . .

The distance was clear on Jimin’s face, and when he spoke, he spoke with a certain type of nostalgia that you knew all too well. “I knew what I had to do,” he continued, those sad eyes of his not leaving yours. “I chose Tae. I would’ve chosen them both, but I couldn’t . . . so I stayed by Tae’s side. I knew how they both felt. I knew that I could play neutral all I wanted, but Kook was gonna leave and I had to either go with him or stay with Tae.” He shook his head as he chewed on his inner cheek. “And I couldn’t let Tae go through this alone . . . and—and there wasn’t enough time to fix what happened between them, but I thought Kook would be OK. I would’ve fought harder if I knew—”

His words cut off, getting tangled around his tongue as the lump in his throat rose higher and higher. There was no way to tell when it’d finally choke him. What would happen then?

“He was just always so . . . fine,” Jimin whispered more to himself than to you, shrugging his shoulders as if he couldn’t believe it. “I thought he’d be OK. I thought he’d ignore all of this and win that medal we all dreamed of . . . but then he left the team and Wooshik . . he told me where he ended up.” He shook his head once more, his eyes now trained on the wall behind you, tears still glossing over and threatening to spill. “I didn’t think he was . . . struggling. I just thought he was hiding. I didn’t realize he was . . . “

“Well . . . I guess we all have our own ways of dealing with . . . guilt,” you heard yourself spit out before you could stop the words from flowing. You didn’t know why, you just . . . you just . . . you were just so angry. But at him? That you weren’t sure or.

It seemed Jimin was as shocked by your words as you were. His eyes met yours once again, blinking quickly, causing a few tears to slip down his cheeks. He quickly wiped them away, shaking his head in the process. “Don’t do this,” he muttered under his breath.

But you almost couldn’t control it. You were more parts anger than anything else, and there he was, the perfect subject to take it out on. Putting up a fight was useless, your mind was on autopilot. “Tae’s at home bedridden I assume and you’re here? On a date?” you hissed out through gritted teeth. “Mmm, I don’t know . . . sounds—”

“Don’t,” Jimin quickly cut you off, mirroring your anger. “You of all people don’t get to judge me.”

You raised your brows. “Why not?”

“You—“ he shoved an accusatory finger your way— “left him too once.”

And just like that, his words pierced your chest, making the anger spread into your bloodstream. “That’s different,” you bit out, eyes now shamefully trained on the ground.

“Is it?”

Scoffing, you shook your head. “Don’t turn this around. You—”

But Jimin wasn’t having it. “He loved you, you know?” he spat like the words had burned his throat.

The world stopped.

A beat of silence.

Two beats.

Another.

. . . You could have sworn your heart thud in your chest. But . . . but that could’ve been your breath catching in your throat.

And then you heard it: your own shocked voice. “What?” you all but gasped out, taking a subconscious step back.

Jimin furrowed his brows as if . . . confused (?) by your reaction. “He loved you,” he went on, keeping a watchful eye on your face. “I don’t know why or how considering you were such a horrible person the entirety of college . . . but he stuck by you. I’ve never seen anyone love somebody that much. Hell, I didn’t think it was real, and I couldn’t understand why . . . but he loved you, and when you pulled that shit on him; when you left, me and Tae saw it. He didn’t talk to anyone for months.”

He loved you? He . . .

“He slowly came back, and a year later I thought he was fine. I thought he was finally over you, but . . . “ Jimin wet his lips— “I guess some old habits never die.”

Jungkook loved . . . you? In college he—But, no! He thought you guys had been friends. You were the one who had hated him, and he had thought of you as a friend. There was no love there. No, no there couldn’t be. He did not love you. He couldn’t have. No. No . . . No!

“And now you’re here . . . defending him . . . and I just can’t wrap my head around it,” Jimin finished off, his words more stable now. Then, slowly but surely, he nodded as if he had made peace with his thoughts. “But I get it. We all make our own choices. You made yours, but you . . . you don’t get to stand here now after everything and judge me when you left him in the dark for years. I made my choices, and I regret them most days, but it is what it is. You of all people should know that.”

But if he had loved you, then . . . had you broken his heart?

You knew you’d done quite a lot of damage on him, but you hadn’t considered that you’d broken . . . the very thing you’d come to grow so fond of. Because truly, over the past months, you’d come to know him more than you knew yourself, and you realized he’d always had this softness about him. He’d always had a good heart. That was what you had come to admire most about him. And if Jimin was right, that meant you had hurt that very part of him.

If he was telling the truth, you had done so much more damage to Jungkook than you had thought. Perhaps it had been you who had ruined him.

That . . . that made your rage boil. “I do,” you ended up biting out, your voice harsher than it had ever been as your rage boiled and boiled, nearly bubbling and spilling everywhere. “I regret every mistake I’ve ever made and I know hurting him is at the top of the list, but you knew that, too, and you still repeated what I did wrong. Why didn’t you go back for him? Why didn’t you, I don’t fucking know, try?! Why didn’t you fucking try?! Huh?!”

Those words left your lips and before you knew it, you were face to face with Jimin, not even two inches apart. Your breathing was ragged and you could feel your rage burning through your bloodstream, turning it to rot, surely burning through your skin.

Had it reached your heart?

“Why didn’t you try?” Jimin mumbled, the anger gone from his eyes as he took in your expression. And his words . . . this wasn’t a question. He wasn’t asking why you hadn’t tried to help Jungkook back then, no . . . he was reminding you that you hadn’t tried for a reason.

Admit it or not, you hadn’t let him in because you hated yourself. And making yourself hate him, blame him, was easier than admitting you didn’t want to live with the person you had become.

That was why you hadn’t tried—you were exhausted with yourself, with everything.

And only then did it hit you. As those final words left your lips, you realized why you were so fueled with anger. You realized why you had chosen Jimin as your punching bag, and you realized what you had done.

Because, really, you weren’t angry with him. No, you were angry with yourself. It was like he had said . . . you had left Jungkook once, too.

Looking at Jimin was like looking in the mirror. What he had done to Jungkook was nothing close to what you had done to him. So being angry at him . . . hurting him was an excuse to ignore who you were really angry with: . . . yourself.

And finally, Jimin spoke for the both of you. “Because . . . I was exhausted,” he mumbled through a heavy exhale. “You don’t get it . . . I’ve stayed by Tae’s side for a year, and I’d do it again and again, but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t a part of me that doesn’t blame him, too.”

Wetting your lips, you took a step back, your anger slowly turning to guilt. This wasn’t his fault. Why did you blow up on him like that? Fuck.

Hating him wouldn’t make you hate yourself less . . .

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“After the incident, it was like he just disappeared,” Jimin went on, his voice equal parts solemn and guilty. “Badminton was his dream. I think Tae loved it the most out of all of us, and just like that, it was gone. And without it, he just faded away. I don’t even think he blames Kook. He’s just . . . gone. It’s like he’s been on autopilot for the better half of a year.”

Fuck. Jimin wasn’t to blame. Just like Jungkook, this entire situation was just one big mess. No one was to blame. Fuck, no one was to blame, and yet . . . you were sure they all blamed themselves.

How could you have been so blinded by rage you hadn’t noticed this before?

“And I . . . I have had to live for the both of us,” he confessed, finally raising his head to meet your watchful gaze. “I knew what I was getting into, and I did it because I care for him, but I didn’t realize . . . I didn’t realize that . . . you can be there for someone as much as you want but there comes a time when caring for someone makes you stop caring about yourself.” His brows twitched only once, but the action carried a world of pain. “Tae is my best friend. They both were, and I . . . I didn’t just lose Jungkook that day. I had to live for Tae, and in doing so, I stopped living for myself.”

I stopped living for myself. Closing your eyes, you were only reminded how wrong you had been. The three of them were all in pain, refusing to admit it. They all blamed themselves, you were sure of it.

But no one was to blame.

No one.

Still, you stayed silent, keeping these thoughts to yourself. Your eyes fluttered back open, and it was as if you were staring the past in the face once again. And god, did it have such a guilty conscience.

“I know it’s wrong, but there will always be a part of me that resents him for it,” Jimin went on, sighing as his words left his lips. “And he—” he gestured back to the karaoke room; back to where Yoongi still resided— “is the only reason I didn’t lose myself. He is the only reason I can fucking breathe just for a second . . . so that is why I’m here. I don’t care if it’s selfish. He’s my sliver of happiness, which is why . . . “ he wet his lips, staring at you as if you were a reflection of his own past “ . . . which is why I don’t blame Jungkook for the things he did for you back then. So . . . I don’t blame you either but . . . but I guess what I’m trying to say is . . . I know what I did. I will always regret it and I will always wish I could turn back time and make it all go away, but I can’t.”

Which is why I don’t blame Jungkook for the things he did for you back then, you repeated in your head once more. Was Jimin right? Had Jungkook truly loved you?

And then, one more final question popped into your head: Did he still?

“Min?”

The singular name brought you and Jimin out of your little bubble. The two of you turned your heads in the direction of the sound, finding Yoongi had peeked his head out of the karaoke room. His dark eyes shifted between you and his boyfriend, a skeptical look plastered across his face.

“Everything’s fine,” Jimin replied with a tight smile.

That was when you saw it—the way Yoongi’s face softened instantly with just a couple of words from Jimin. You recognized that look. You’d seen that very expression reach Jungkook’s face time after time again in the past months you’d spent getting to know each other more and more and . . .

Wait . . .

Wait, wait . . . you recognized that look, but in a deeper way, in a visceral way. Yes, you’d seen Jungkook wear it many times, but . . . you could have sworn you’d seen it somewhere else, too. You could have sworn you’d catch glimpses of it on your own face when you’d walk past a mirror or catch your reflection in a puddle. And you’d always catch sight of it when . . . Jungkook was up ahead or behind or near.

Yes, that was it. You’d seen that expression on your own face when Jungkook was involved. But . . . did that mean?

No, no . . . no. Stop it. You couldn’t think about what this meant or that meant or this or that and those and them or whatever! No.

Right now . . . right now you had to focus. Jungkook had run off and you . . . you needed to find him, but—

Your gaze fixated on Jimin once again. What happened back then . . . He wasn’t to blame. No one was. They, all three of them, were in pain, blaming themselves and yet too scared to face it. None of them would dare to either. But it was so clear that Jungkook missed Taehyung and Jimin as well. And now . . . now it was clear just how much Jimin missed the both of them . . .

And well, you could do something about that. Perhaps then this guilt would leave you alone. Perhaps then things could be set right. Maybe then things could be the way they were supposed to be before life got in the way.

The answer was clear, and you couldn’t stop yourself. “Jimin,” you began, clearing your throat and interrupting the conversation between him and his boyfriend. Once his eyes were on you, with a clearing of your throat, you continued. “I’m sorry . . . for blowing up on you. I didn’t realize that—nevermind—just . . . Jungkook . . . he misses you . . . and Tae. I can see that. He’s . . . He doesn’t hate you, you know? He blames himself, yes, but he’s not angry with either of you. I think he just wants you guys back . . . so . . . if there’s any way . . . ask Hoseok for my number.” You paused for only a second to swallow. “You shouldn’t have to live with regrets.”

A beat of silence followed your words once again, almost as if it were mocking you. But instead of turning your words to shit, Jimin welcomed the silence. He embraced it as a small smile lifted onto his lips. And then . . . then he nodded.

It was a silent agreement, but it was good enough for you.

This could be it.

A new leaf.

For him.

For Jungkook.

For Jungkook, you affirmed, and with that thought, you nodded back. “It was nice to meet you, Yoongi,” you mumbled genuinely, before your eyes shifted back to Jimin once again. Another nod from you. “Jimin. Tell Hoseok that Kook and I went to eat, yeah? We’ll see him at practice tomorrow.”

“Hey—“ Jimin piped up before you could leave— “remember to live for yourself, too, yeah?”

And you nodded back with a smile.

The world fell away piece by piece as you turned from them, their faces still glued to the back of your mind, but you couldn’t waste any more time. As it was, your anger had already bubbled over and burned enough bridges that night to waste a lifetime. You should’ve kept your cool. You should’ve tried to see everything from a bigger picture, but this rage trapped inside you seemed to be bigger than you knew how to control. Sure, it had subsided now . . . but only because . . . because that was what was right.

You didn’t know how to explain it, but . . . Jungkook had become someone important to you, perhaps the most important in your life. You’d never felt that before. You never thought you’d be able to care about someone this much before, but . . . you did, and that was enough to put away that anger boiling deep inside you just enough to do right . . . for him.

Did that make you crazy? Maybe . . . maybe it did, but there wasn’t much in you to care about things like that. All you wanted was to find him. If you found him, everything would be alright. It would. You swore it would.

Your feet didn’t feel like your own as you raced down the halls of the karaoke bar. The lights had begun to blur together in your vision, creating mixes of blue and purple racing in your peripheral. You’d even looked into room after room, disturbing group after group, solely searching for him.

Until . . . with your heart pounding in your chest, your breathing uneven, and a relentless shiver shaking throughout your body, through the muted colorful lights, you caught sight of a man’s figure crouched down in a corner of the building. His hands were covering his ears, his face hidden in his knees as he breathed heavily, but he was there. You’d found him. Instantly, your muscles relaxed. Exhale.

You’d found him. “Ju—” but you quickly cut yourself off before you could draw any attention to yourself.

Think. You had to think. You couldn’t approach him like you normally would. You couldn’t go in all thorns and nails on a chalkboard. This was different. This was what you had read about. What you realized you had never been good at—comfort.

How could you comfort? You had never been nurturing. Hell, you’d read something once that told you some women just weren’t meant to be mothers, and you knew you were one of them. You knew you couldn’t didn’t know how to be . . . soft.

But you had to try. For him . . .

And then you remembered:

Five Ways You Can Help Someone With an Anxiety Disorder:

Validate Their Feelings by Letting Them Know It’s Okay Not to Be Okay

Don’t Tell Them to Calm Down

Encourage Them to Focus on Things They Can Change

Help Them to Help Themselves

Discourage the Use of Alcohol or Drugs to Cope With Anxiety

But . . . but . . . fuck! How was that supposed to help you now? Let them know it’s OK not to be OK. OK . . . You swallowed hard. You could do that. Focus on things they can change. OK, OK. You could do that, too.

Hesitantly, you took a step forward.

But shit! You paused, halting in your movements. What if that didn’t work? What if you didn’t do it right? What if it only made it worse? What if you only made him worse?

Just . . . just . . . fuck, OK! Just—

“Kookie,” you heard yourself say clearly before you knew you had even opened your mouth.

In response, his breathing stopped but he didn’t raise his head to meet your gaze. Instead . . . “It’s OK. Just go back . . . “ he muttered out, just loud enough for you to hear, but he still wouldn’t meet your eyes. “I’m OK.”

I’m OK. You swallowed hard. No . . . no, he wasn’t, and unlike all those years ago, you were not going to leave him behind. Not now. Never again.

It didn’t take another second for you to cross the distance to him before you sank to your knees right in front of him, reminding yourself not to startle him. “I’m here,” was all you said, fighting against everything harsh and rough in you, trying desperately to be soft.

The thing was: people could tell you countless amounts of things on how to help someone, but . . . you’d never get it. You weren’t good at it. You couldn’t do that, be that. You knew him, too. He wasn’t textbook like all the things you’d read up on. You assumed no one was . . . so . . . you’d like to add one more to the list: ask him how you could help.

“What—” you inhaled sharply— “What do you need me to do?”

Still, Jungkook would not meet your eyes, but he didn’t need to. You saw his body shift. You saw him process your words. And you knew he wasn’t going to hide from you. “Just—” he all but choked out— “ground me. Put your arms. Squeeze . . . hard.”

And just like that, you acted quickly. You didn’t waste any time as you scooted behind him, wrapping your arms around his figure, locking him into your body, and squeezing as he’d instructed. Resting your cheek on his back, you continued hugging his body to yours, listening to his heartbeat as you did so. Squeezing your eyes shut, you begged for this to help him, but the beat of his racing heart met your ears like a drum.

It wasn’t enough. You had to keep going.

“OK, OK, what else?” you asked him, your voice clear and calm . . . and soft.

But the beat of his heart was the only thing you heard.

Ground him. You squeezed harder. “You’re here with me. I’ve got you. You’re safe. Speak to me, Koo,” you all but begged.

“Tell me something,” he mumbled, and you nearly exhaled in relief. “Please, say anything.”

Nodding quickly, you tried to scrounge up something, anything. “OK, um, um,” you stuttered out, racking your brain over and over again, until finally . . . “Do you remember when we were kids and my parents rented that cabin for the summer? You had this fake tattoo of a dragon that you really really wanted to put on your arm right—“ you grabbed his forearm, pressing your thumb into a spot— “here, but I wanted everything you had so I just had to have the tattoo. I whined and whined until you finally let me have it. And yet, in the end, my mom forgot to take off the plastic so neither of us ended up with the damn tattoo and we were both pissed.” Smiling against his back, you readjusted your grip on him, holding him closer than before, perhaps so close your souls could almost touch. “Your mom made us hold hands until we got over it.”

And with a small smile on your face, you heard it . . .

His heart rate had started to slow, his breathing becoming more controlled as he tried his hardest to breathe in deep and exhale long. Was it? Was it working? OK. OK. Speak more. Speak—

“Yeah, and you wouldn’t stop crying, meanwhile, I won that thing in a raffle,” he interrupted before you could rack your brain for another memory.

Wetting your lips, you replied, “But it worked, didn’t it?” Your eyes danced around the room, the memory almost as clear as day. The smile on your face grew. “We were sitting by the fire, getting way too messy with those s’mores you swore you knew how to make.”

“We camped outside the entire night,” Jungkook mumbled under his breath, his shoulders shaking slightly as a small laugh escaped him.

“Yeah, until you almost pissed your pants because you thought you heard a bear,” you remarked, the smile on your face too wide to contain.

“Hey!” he quipped back as his hand fell to your arm. “I was like nine.”

In shock, you watched as Jungkook slowly raised his hands to cover your arms, hugging them to his chest. Then, you rested your ear against his chest, and you realized his heartbeat had returned almost to normal . . . and . . . and . . . his breathing had calmed. And then you saw it, a drop of . . . something had wet his shirt where your cheek laid . . . and you realized . . . you were crying.

Was this softness that you felt? Or weakness?

The truth was: you didn’t care. Not now.

Quickly, you wiped your damp cheeks on your shoulder and sniffled. “Scaredy cat,” you mumbled with a soft laugh.

Jungkook breathed out a laugh through his nose. “Brat,” he hummed as he squeezed your forearm.

A beat of silence met the two of you then. You nestled closer, holding him until he finally gave you the go-ahead that he was alright. You’d stay there all night if you had to. And he welcomed this with open arms, holding you as close as he could in his position, and just letting things . . . be, it seemed.

Until, finally, after what seemed like hours, he whispered against your forearm, “I’m sorry.”

And you couldn’t help yourself. Your brows pinched together, confusion revisiting you as you asked, “For what?”

“You don’t need this,” was his only answer.

Another beat of silence.

And then: “You’ll always be unhappy when it comes to me.”

Squeezing your eyes shut, your only response was to hug him tighter. Fuck.

It is not the moon, I tell you. It is these flowers lighting the yard.

As the night droned on, writings upon writings popped into your head as you tried to make sense of this, of tonight, of everything; one, in particular, visited you too frequently to be ignored; one that you had held onto for years now. You supposed it was a silly thing—realizing just how many poems you had trapped in your head, but you had three years of isolation, three years of loneliness, three years where you only read and read and read. Those three years . . . poems had been all you had.

You supposed it would always end this way.

I hate them. I hate them as I hate sex, the man’s mouth sealing my mouth, the man’s paralyzing body—

And like the poem stated, these words remained true to you. You hated many things, perhaps too much. In those three years, you had grown to hate another’s touch, perhaps because you craved it so viscerally. But . . . the scent of mock orange wasn’t in the form of a man for you. To you . . . the scent of mock orange smelled a lot like a badminton racket.

and the cry that always escapes, the low, humiliating premise of union—

Perhaps you had grown to hate badminton. You hadn’t even realized it, but . . . looking back at it now . . . you had done everything to be someone . . . to be the best, and you had wanted that. You had really wanted that. Sometimes you thought it was the only thing that would ever make you happy, but . . .

But . . .

In my mind tonight I hear the question and pursuing answer fused in one sound that mounts and mounts and then is split into the old selves, the tired antagonisms. Do you see? We were made fools of. And the scent of mock orange drifts through the window.

But perhaps . . . like growing pains . . . a part of you had outgrown badminton. Could this be real? Could you really have outgrown the one thing you had ever loved? And if you truly had . . . what did that mean for you now?

How can I rest? How can I be content when there is still that odor in the world?

That odor.

That damned odor of mock orange blossoms.

. . . You had smelt them the day of the incident. The stench had followed you to the hospital, crawling under your skin and resting there for the months to follow. They hadn't even bloomed then, yet you still smelt them every time you breathed. When your heart felt less heavy and your mind was clearer than the day before, when it became month after month after month, the scent finally rid itself from your senses. And you thought you might have actually been allowed to rest without that odor in the world.

But as another month melted into the next, and you tried to get back onto your feet again, the scent of mock orange drifted back into your life. You, of course, ignored this, eager to get back on your feet. You’d been able to take a few steps, which eased the ache you had been carrying around for the past few months. You knew it was stupid to imagine you could actually be healed after a few months, but you didn’t care. You just wanted to walk again . . . maybe run . . . maybe play again with a racket in your hand.

It was nice—being able to dream for a few minutes.

But it did only last for a short time. Soon you being you had gotten too cocky in your progress. You wanted to try longer walks. You wanted to see if you could run.

Then as you ignored the warning signs from your parents, from your doctors, from your nurses, the second they allowed you out on the hospital courtyard, you took off, attempting to run. But . . . before you knew it, something snapped and . . . you were tumbling to the ground, crying in pain.

And just like that . . . the scent of mock orange drifted in and remained in the air.

You remembered just laying there after that, contemplating just how much this would set you back as the nurses hurried you back to your room to be examined. You wondered if you had fucked yourself entirely. You wondered if this was it and you would never be able to play or even walk again. You wondered what that made you now. You might as well have not even been a person anymore, because back then . . . badminton had been all that you had. Back then, if you weren’t the best; if you weren’t someone great, then you were nothing.

And yes, you knew you had never been particularly interesting, but you never thought you were . . . nothing. The scent of mock orange tainting the air reminded you of the truth—without badminton, you might as well have been no one.

As you were escorted back to your room, examined, and left to rest, you laid there, the scent of mock orange being your sole company, and you realized you hated them. You hated those stupid, putrid flowers as you hated feeling . . . less. You hated them as you hated yourself.

Guilt might have been your ghost, but the scent of mock orange was your shadow.

How could you rest? How could you be content when there was still that odor in the world?

You were sure you never would.

And truly . . . how could you rest? If you were constantly trying to be better and better? When would you finally be the best? Could you be? No . . . no, you knew you couldn’t, but then who were you?

Who were you without . . . badminton?

That was the question on your mind as you flicked at your ramyeon with your chopsticks. You supposed like the mock orange blossoms, your coming-of-age escapades did not deliver the fruits of its promise. Becoming someone was all you had ever wanted out of life. You wanted glory. You wanted greatness. And yet . . . why did the thought of badminton slowly and slowly start to turn into this . . . dark thing? Why was it that when badminton was involved . . . bad things happened?

Now, you didn’t believe in signs and you surely wouldn’t start now . . . but it became evident that you had been made a fool of, wishing on a shooting star that was on its last breath. The scent of mock orange would drift in every time, reminding you that you would never reach that greatness again no matter how many times you tried.

And that should’ve filled you with rage . . . jealousy . . . pain . . . but . . . you didn’t feel any of that. What you felt, at its core, was a gentle ache in your chest; the same kind of ache which came with nostalgia.

You just couldn’t stop thinking of it. Actually . . . you hadn’t stopped thinking about that scent of mock orange since you saw Jimin earlier that night. He’d told you Taehyung had loved badminton the most . . . he told you he was a ghost of himself now because of what he lost. And then you began to think of what had happened to you . . .

Those three years . . .

All you had ever thought about was getting back to the person you used to be. That was all you had cared about, and when you finally won that first game all those months ago . . . you had felt that same joy that you had always felt after a win. Except . . . this was different, you realized.

Remembering the win now, the image of you smashing the birdie down onto the court wasn’t what came to mind first. No, you remembered that day; you remembered the thrill of the win, but the image that came to mind first was Jungkook smiling down at you moments before you sprung into his arms.

Jungkook was what you remembered that day, not the look on the other team’s faces when you took home that winning title. And then you realized what you had been trying to ignore ever since you let your walls come down layer by layer: perhaps . . . perhaps there was more to life than badminton.

In the months you had let Jungkook in, you’d lived more than you had in your entire life. You’d laughed more, smiled more, felt more. You’d felt yourself be more.

The scent of mock orange never visited you when he was around. It was like he was the real thing. You weren’t even sure if that made any sense. But . . . but . . . if you couldn’t smell those damned phony flowers, then perhaps Jungkook had taken their place. By chance . . . did he smell like an orange blossom? Without mocking, without malice, without trickery? Was he . . . real?

There was just something about the world that Jungkook had shown you that had a way of making everything just . . . mute. It was like before he’d shown you life through his eyes, everything had been loud, intense, brutal. And then . . . there he was, a bright smile on his face and the words ‘trust me’ leaving his lips as he held out his hand for you to take.

And you took it every time.

The scent of mock orange blossoms was left behind. And you began to wonder if just as you had outgrown your hatred for Jungkook . . . had you outgrown this visceral urge to hold a racket in your calloused hand?

Glancing down, you took in the image of your hand. The calluses were still there, the small cuts from accidental injuries, the bitten nails . . . they were all still there. Did they still fit around the base of a racket as they had three years ago?

You blinked, flexing your hand. Whatever, you decided. It would be tomorrow’s problem. (But we all know how good you were about . . . not . . . getting in over your head (so like, give yourself five minutes and you’d be thinking about it again).)

Whatever. Whatever. Whatever.

Anyway.

Focus on the present.

Yes, that was the plan. You nodded at your thoughts as you blinked, forcing yourself back to the present.

The scent of mock orange blossoms still lingered in the air as you tried grounding yourself to reality. Ignoring them was the best you could do. Because right now, you were supposed to be present, aware, and solid. You were supposed to be Jungkook’s shoulder to lean on after what he had endured at the karaoke bar. You were supposed to know what to do . . . but you didn’t know anything. You just . . . you just wanted him to be alright . . .

And all you could focus on was the fact that the two of you hadn’t spoken since you held him about—

You checked your phone.

—an hour and a half ago.

It had been quiet between the two of you ever since. It had been even quieter the second you stepped inside the nearest convenience store. (Who knew how long ago that was.)

The convenience store was perhaps too quiet now. The two of you had bought some instant ramyeon—one spicy, one mild and sat at the nearest tables outlooking the streets of Busan. Many people had walked back and forth, going about their night (well . . . now early morning), but not once had either of you decided to make little guesses about their lives as you had done many times before. No instead . . . Jungkook was silent. And you were too.

But . . . you didn’t like the silence; not like . . . this. Slowly, with that thought plaguing your mind, you turned your head toward him.

Jungkook sat beside you, his head lowered slightly as he stared blankly out the window. He hadn’t touched his ramyeon once, which was evident as his chopsticks were all too clean without any stain or color. He just kept staring out the window, following those who walked by with his eyes all the while his tongue toyed with his lip ring.

It was obvious why he was stuck in this limbo. Sure, of course it was all too obvious, but that didn’t make it any easier. Knowing why he was stuck like this wouldn’t do anything to . . . help.

And suddenly you were reminded of what Jimin had told you that night. Remember to live for yourself, too, he’d said before you left him. He’d told you it was impossible to live for two, but . . . why? Why couldn’t you? Why couldn’t you at least . . . help? You supposed the problem in that was the fact that you had no idea how to help, and that scared you more than you’d liked to admit.

You just . . . you just wanted him to be OK . . .

“You gonna eat that?” you heard yourself ask him before you knew what you were even saying.

Jungkook turned to you instantly with an almost shocked expression on his face as if he couldn’t remember where he was or who he was, but his eyes still shined with recognition as if he could still recognize you despite it all. He blinked slowly, eyes drifting over your face, and then . . . then he slowly started to relax. His shoulders slumped slightly as the stiff muscles in his face loosened. And once he returned to the present, his eyes drifted from your questioning expression to the ramyeon in front of him . . . and then he was shoving a huge bite into his mouth all the while maintaining eye contact with you while he chewed.

You shot him a blank look, because you knew what he was doing—avoiding the inevitable by trying to make light of the situation. “I wasn’t going to force-feed it to you, you know?” you ended up mumbling as you continued to watch him chew, half making sure he ate all of it and half not sure where to rest your gaze.

“Don’t look at me like that then,” Jungkook muttered, his words muffled from the food in his mouth.

“Like what?” you questioned as you leaned closer to him, analyzing the crease between his furrowed brows.

His eyes shifted to the ground ever so slightly before he turned back to meet your gaze. “Like you pity me or something,” he huffed, jutting out his bottom lip into a pout as he averted his gaze to his bowl of ramyeon.

And you couldn’t help but let the corners of your mouth perk up into a small smile. He was still the boy you remembered when you were kids. He hadn’t changed too much. He was still . . . him. Only now, you had grown to appreciate how he was unlike in the past. Now . . . when he flashed you that pout, you wasted no time in waving him off with a small sigh.

“Oh, Jungkookie,” you all but mused as you grabbed a napkin from the table, “sometimes it’s like you’re still that whiny little kid I grew up with.” You brought the napkin to his lips, gently dabbing. “You really haven’t changed at all, you know?”

With his eyes flicking from the napkin to your face, he timidly licked his lips and mumbled, “I was not whiny.”

You breathed a small, barely audible laugh. “Mmm, if it helps you sleep at night,” you hummed with a small shrug as your hand, now discarding the napkin, reached his face once again, except this time, you barely thought about your next move. Instead, you let your hand drift to his hair gently curling the long, dark strands behind his ear.

And he just stared at you, his dark eyes warm and gentle as they always had been. His brows twitched as you alternated between playing with his earrings and toying with the longest strands of his hair. He almost seemed . . . at peace, and you wondered if this could be considered a moment of happiness?

Perhaps . . .

It was moments like this that you wondered how the sick smell of mock orange blossoms had ever ruined your life.

But like the poem described . . . the smell wasn’t something to be forgotten. It eventually seeped back in. And just as Jungkook had almost allowed himself to sink into your touch, his eyes turned back to the window where he caught a glimpse of his reflection.

It was almost soul-crushing how fast his face fell.

Jungkook took one last look at his reflection, shaking his head slightly as he averted his gaze to the table and clenched his jaw. "Fuck,” he whispered out, his voice hoarse, “this is so fucking annoying. Everything feels so off. I just . . . “ His words tangled around his tongue as he dropped his head to his hands. “Everyone always looks at me like I'm some fucking problem. Like if they get to my core, they can fix me. But I can't be fucking fixed. I fucked up. I ruined my best friend’s life. I don't deserve to be fixed."

And suddenly it was as if you were twelve years old again, seeing your mother cry for the first time and not knowing what to do or what to say. You had grown up that way—not being able to comfort. It had always been who you were. You’d never known what to do to . . . help.

Yes, you could follow the directions of some online article and you could ask and ask and ask how to help him, but would it ever be enough? And what if he said he was fine when he was so clearly not? What then? How were you supposed to help then?

God, you wished you knew the answers.

“You’re not broken, Koo,” you started with, your voice just as small as how you felt in that moment.

“What if I am?” he mumbled into his hands. Slowly, he raised his head, and for another time that night, you faced that crushed look on his face. For another time that night, you saw the things he had been dealing with all on his own. You saw him. “What if I . . . ?”

And then you realized: you didn’t know how to comfort, but you did know how to bear things well. You knew how to crumble up the pain of not being good enough. You knew how to deal with a dream being crushed. You knew how to just . . . deal, and if Jungkook needed help, you could carry the load for him.

So, swallowing your own emotions bubbling up in your throat, you began slowly, "I know I can’t say . . . anything. I know that no matter what I do it's not gonna' make you feel better, because shit doesn't work that way. I'm not some fuckin' hero. I know that. You just need to know that I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm never leaving your side." Nodding your head, you could feel your eyes burning again. But you didn’t care. The world could see you cry for him and only him and you’d accept it with a heavy heart.

A beat of silence followed your confession.

The world exhaled.

You inhaled as you rested your hand on top of his moments before you began again, "You're—I care about you. . . and—and that means that no matter what time it is, if you feel like you're gonna do something to yourself, then you call me. We can go throw shit off a bridge or—or punch dummies. You need to scream? Then we can go scream until our lungs bleed, okay? Whatever. It doesn't matter. Just—" you squeezed his hand as your heart pulsed in pain in your chest— "You're not alone."

Though the expression on his face didn’t lift, Jungkook accepted your hand, taking it within his grasp to intertwine your fingers together with his. “It’s been months . . . and I still feel like this . . . “ he trailed off, gently shaking his head as he turned back to his reflection in the window.

Instantly, your free hand found his cheek, slowly turning his head so his eyes would only face yours. “I don’t think healing is . . . linear,” you admitted softly. “If I think about it . . . it took me years to be able to play again. Mental shit has to be like that too, right?”

His eyes fluttered shut under your touch. “I don’t know,” he softly sighed as his other hand reached to rest over the one you had caressing his cheek. “I’m just tired of feeling like this.” He swallowed thickly. “I just . . . it’s like . . . I watch everyone else live their lives while I endure mine. And—And I don't know what to do. Sometimes everything just gets so intense, and it just happens. It's like it's some fucked up kind of instinct. Trust me, I wish I could feel something other than this, but I don't feel anything. It's all fucking numb." He nearly dropped your hand, but you clung on tighter, refusing to let him slip through your fingers. "I don't fucking know what I feel. I just . . . I feel like a fucking ghost."

And for the second time that night, you watched the once never-bothered Jungkook reveal another layer of himself to you.

I feel like a fucking ghost, rang in your ears again.

Jungkook squeezed his eyes tight and slowly . . . a single tear trickled from the corner of his eye down the side of his nose.

I feel like a fucking ghost, once more, and you knew the words which would leave your lips before you even had the chance to think.

"Haunt me, then," you found yourself breathing out in a hushed whisper as your thumb caught his fallen tear, wiping it away with ease.

His eyes cracked open, a shocked expression crawling onto his face. "What?” he barely got out as he searched your eyes for anything that would tell him you hadn’t meant to say . . . that.

But you had.

Haunt me, you’d told him, and you knew you’d meant it. The words didn’t have to cross your mind for you to know what you spoke was the truth.

Haunt me.

Give it to me, and breathe.

That is what you had wanted to say. That is what you had meant. You could only hope he knew you were telling the truth.

Tilting your head to the side, you breathed out the air in your lungs. "I told you before, and I meant it,” you began in a gentle tone. “I'll carry the weight for you. All of the pain, the anger, the hatred . . . all of it . . . I will carry it all. Give it all to me, and I will find a way to deal with it." Squeezing his hand once again, you offered up a small smile. "You're not alone anymore, Kook. You do not have to deal with all your shit on your own. You've got me, and you can hate me, you can push me away, you can leave me stranded with no way home . . . but I promise you, I'm not going anywhere."

His brows twitched. “I can’t do that. You’ve got too much to think about.”

You shrugged with a roll of your eyes as you dropped your hand to your intertwined ones. “Like what? I’ve never thought a day in my life. Barely passed college with a 2.7,” you hummed, your voice a little more chipper now as you tried to keep his eyes on you and coax a smile out of him. “I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“The games,” he muttered with a small sniffle. “You’re shit at multitasking.”

That time, you did smile wider. There he was. “I can manage,” you mused as you leaned into him, nudging him with your elbow. “How about let’s go feed the fish by our hotel after practice tomorrow, hmm? To relax? Yeah?”

And then . . . you could have sworn he nodded. Maybe it was to himself or maybe it was to you, but you knew what it meant. You would accept a nod.

“You gonna eat that?” he asked a second later, gesturing to the half-eaten bowl of ramyeon in front of you.

And you knew he would be OK by your side. You would make sure of it. (You were the older one after all.)

So with a small smile still on your face, you detached your hands from his and reached for your bowl, scooting it toward him. Quietly, he took it from you and began to devour what you had left.

Yeah . . . he was still the same kid you knew growing up. And that . . . that was enough to make your heart feel warm.

It made you wonder if you could ever be . . . warm . . . like him. Unlike this cold, hollow shell you were so used to. Was that even written in your books?

Wetting your lips, your eyes fell to your lap, only to be met with the image of Jungkook’s hand resting on your thigh, secured under the holes in your ripped jeans. It seemed without you noticing, Jungkook had absentmindedly reached for you, toying with the strings adorning the rips in your jeans, only to end up nestled underneath in an attempt to feel your skin against his.

It was sweet. Innocent.

It made you feel warm, yet again, yes. But it also made you feel . . . fuck . . . what was that word?

And that was when you realized something . . .

“You’re wrong, you know?” you ended up muttering out before your brain could catch up with your impulse.

Jungkook hummed, eyeing you. His eyes were still slightly puffy, causing your heart to swell in your chest.

How could he ever think he deserved this?

Wetting your lips, you confessed, “I’m a better person because of you. How could I ever be unhappy with that?”

Jungkook blinked, clearly shocked. Then, he began to toy with his lip ring before he sucked in a sharp inhale and nearly whispered, “All I want . . . is for you to be happy.”

And you couldn’t help but smile. It was warm. It was innocent. It was because of him. “Would you look at that?” you mused in a quiet voice. “Looks like we just came to an agreement.”

The corners of his lips twitched ever so slightly as he nodded once before the two of you resumed your late-night slash early-morning meal. He finished your food for you, and you watched, making sure he ate it all, all the while, the words, I’m a better person because of you rang throughout the air.

I’m a better person because of you.

How could I ever be unhappy with that?

And you knew you meant every word.

The scent of mock orange blossoms couldn’t reach you now.

Not here.

Not with him.

When you were a kid, every Barbie doll your mother ever bought you would end up scalped and decapitated. Now . . . morbid . . . you knew. You weren’t exactly sure why you resorted to . . . that, but playing with dolls just always meant ripping their heads off. You supposed it was kind of symbolic now.

Maybe you were jealous that their lives were perfect and yours was . . . meh. Or maybe you really just really hated dolls.

You supposed there had always been a certain sickness to you; a certain uneasiness that came with being a preteen girl. You were told sweet sixteen was when the claws came out, but you began to question if yours had grown in long before then. Maybe you had been born like . . . this or maybe everyone just felt this way and spent most of their lives hiding it, because if not . . .

. . . it felt like life was just some sick joke that you hadn’t clued in on yet.

Perhaps that was why you had become so keen on poetry: it said what you feared only you felt.

Because really, you used to use pages out of books to fasten a joint in a pinch, too, and now it physically hurt to imagine ever even tearing a page.

But words felt more comforting now. Sure, a racket felt like it fit into you like a hook in an eye, but now . . . now it felt just a tad more awkward than it had in the past. Words . . . words could never disappoint you, you decided long ago when they had been all that you had had.

There’s something soft in me—

You remembered reading long ago.

—we killed it and it’s rotting.

And maybe it was silly. Maybe it was dramatic, but words made things feel better. It made the world less scary. It made looking at Jungkook and wondering what this feeling in your chest was . . . not so scary. It made things . . . better.

So, you’d read, and you’d overanalyze, and you’d spend your time too wrapped up in words because it made everything that much bearable. Because it made the fact that your claws didn’t come in at sixteen so much easier to swallow; it made the fact that there was nothing soft about you alright.

Because maybe there had been something soft about you long ago. Or maybe you had killed it; maybe you had taken the softness and traded it for survival, only to discover all the rot inside of you that you had been trying to ignore for years now.

Had the fire gotten a hold of you even back then?

Is that why you no longer feared it? Because there was nothing left to fear? Did all this rot mean you were no different from a hit deer off the highway?

. . .

Whatever.

It didn’t mean much, right?

There were no birds coming to feast on your rotting corpse like the deer you wondered if you resembled. Nothing had come to consume your body as the world had consumed your soul. You were just there . . .

With a sigh, you clicked off your phone, disregarding the poem as you shoved it all away into the back of the pocket of your athletic shorts. And as you stood there, you slowly glanced up only to meet the image of Jungkook walking toward you, a half-smile on his tired face with a duffel bag over his shoulder and a racket in his hand. You hadn’t seen him since you woke up that morning, quickly dressed and told him you’d meet him at the center after your run. And there he was, his hair in a small ponytail with a grin on his face at the sight of you. (You tried to ignore the urge to meet him halfway. (Also ignoring this . . . weird feeling blooming in your chest the second you saw him.))

“Well, it seems the sun’s decided to come out after all,” were the first words out of his mouth as he drew closer. And only then did you realize the day was dreary, filled with dark clouds and humid spring air.

Tearing your eyes from the clouds above, your gaze landed on Jungkook just as he stopped before you, setting his duffel bag on the pavement beside you. He wasted no time either, poking your abdomen with his racket. “Bad day already?” he questioned, tilting his head to the side in thought.

Sighing, you shook your head. “No, just . . . thinking.”

“Well, stop, it’s aging you,” he lightly scolded.

You squinted your eyes into a glare. “You’re on one today.”

And well . . . all he did was wink. Of course.

Now . . . you knew how this looked. Just last night you and him were up into the early morning nursing each other’s wounds and now it seemed like it hadn’t even happened, but there was a reason for that. The two of you knew each other. He appreciated that you didn’t make it a big thing. You were always going to be there for him; that much was obvious by now given your history with each other. But if there was one thing the two of you both hated, it was being treated as if you were as fragile as glass. So for now . . . last night was a little secret between the two of you, and right now . . . right now you both had to get your heads in the game for the finals tomorrow.

So there . . . that was that. At least that was how it was for you. You were sure it was the same for him, but it wasn’t like you could think about that right now either. Right now you had to think of the tournament as draining as it felt to even acknowledge it.

But just as you were about to move past it all and grab your own duffle bag from the ground, Jungkook halted you with a hand on your wrist. Your eyes immediately snapped to his.

“You sure you’re good?” he questioned once more, his eyes wider now, more concerned than before.

(There’s something soft in me—

But you couldn’t burden him now. Not after what he went through last night. Because you knew him, and you knew he’d do anything to make things right for you . . . even if it meant ignoring his own troubles. And well, despite what you liked to claim, you couldn’t bear to do that to him.

—we killed it and it’s rotting.)

So instead, you blurted out: “Just stressed, you know?”

His brows pinched together slightly, but he didn’t press it further. “Right . . . “

And that was that. You didn’t let another word pass between the two of you as you picked up both your duffel bag and his and began to walk toward the training center. Jungkook, of course, fought you the entire way, trying to grab the duffel bags from your hands, but you insisted, tsking at him as he tried to outsmart you (as if he ever could).

While he repeatedly tried to snatch at least one bag from your grasp, your eyes were training on the scene in front of you. And it was only when the two of you turned the corner, now facing the center head-on, that you realized maybe the dark clouds had been a sign telling you to turn back; to stay inside; to practice somewhere else. Jungkook, on the other hand, was preoccupied, as, in your shock, he managed to snatch both duffel bags from your grasp. And he was mighty proud of himself too until he heard what you had seen . . . and slowly the grin fell from his lips as he turned to face the scene.

Because before the two of you, crowding in front of the training center were reporters on top of reporters with their big flashy cameras and notepads, and . . . behind them, spray painted across the building was your name . . . with the words ‘is a traitor’ too big not to notice.

There’s something soft in me—

we killed it and it’s rotting.

It happened in slow motion. The reporters caught sight of the two of you, and that was it. They were racing toward you in seconds, all screaming this and that, trying to get a story, and all you could do was stare in a state of confusion and shock as if you were waiting for a car to pop out of nowhere and hit you.

Off the highway like another deer.

You’d never seen something like it. Sure, you’d seen this stuff in movies, but never in real life, never because of . . . you. There had been articles published when you fell out of the badminton scene three years ago, but never something like this. Never something like this. Fuck, even the interview you’d done as a team were never like . . . this.

Off the highway like another girl.

What was . . . this?

It was bad. You knew it was bad, but you couldn’t hear anything. You could see Jungkook growing angry beside you, pushing the reporters back as he said . . . something . . . but you couldn’t quite make out what it was. You couldn’t hear it. You couldn’t hear anything.

You should have known better. You should've known there was a chance something bad would happen. Because like always, when you got that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach, when the dark clouds came out and the air felt wet but chilly but humid . . . something bad always happened. But you hadn't thought that the world would be so cruel, especially the day before the end.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to—

You felt the world caving in on you. You felt small. Small and disgusting. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to run, but you couldn't. Your mind had been the only thing to stay alert. Just run, you thought. Run. Run. Fucking run.

But you couldn't. You wanted to but the camera kept flashing and the reporters kept yelling and yelling and yelling and all you could make out was that everyone hated you. Suddenly, it was three years ago and everyone was pretending to be nice to you, then bitching about you behind your back. Suddenly, you were falling. Your hip was hurting. You were screaming and nobody cared. Nobody cared. Nobody—and then you were pushing everyone away again. Suddenly, you were alone again. And then you felt it. You felt it all, and then . . . then you couldn't breathe.

I can't breathe. You tried gasping for air, but it never stuck in your lungs. I can't breathe. You could have sworn this was what drowning felt like as your breaths came out quicker and quicker. Oh, my God, I can't fucking breathe.

You needed air. You needed to run.

Your eyes darted to the training center, and you knew what you had to do. You forced your legs to move as you tried to make it to the center. You’d be inside in a minute; you just needed a second. One second and you could breathe again.

But before you could even really move to make it, a hand was on your shoulder, and it wasn’t who you thought it’d be. No, it wasn’t a comforting touch; it was the touch of a reporter trying to make you stay in place just for you to answer their question. There was no making it out of this.

Glancing up, your eyes met the reporter’s and then you finally heard the words you’d been drowning out all morning: “Are the bribing rumors true?”

All air escaped your lungs. Bribing? You? “What?” you weakly asked (you’d never sounded like this before in your life, and yet . . . ).

But before anything else could escalate, Jungkook was stepping in front of you. His body blocked yours from the reporters, his hand carefully resting on your hip as he tucked you behind him while he mumbled, “Don’t bother—”

“What—” you blurted out before you could stop yourself— “What rumors?”

You just . . . you wanted to know. Bribing? All you’d ever done in your career was try to be the best. You’d put blood and tears and sweat and everything into badminton, and this . . . this was how it repaid you. You’d fucked up your leg for it; fucked up your life; fucked up everything just to hold a fucking racket in your hand and now they wanted to say that you bribed your way into . . . into what? Success? You wanted to know the truth. You wanted to know.

But no one bothered giving you an answer. It was just question after question, confusing you more and more, and all you could come to the conclusion was the fact that the whole world must have thought you were as horrible as a person as you feared you were.

So, the final person asked, “Do you have anything to say?”

And all you could fathom was: “I—” you swallowed hard— “I . . . don’t care.”

That was it.

I don’t care, you’d said even though you did, because you always had. You cared too much. Too fucking much. And you were too much. And this was too much. And just . . . just . . .

You didn’t bother thinking further. Your mind went blank as you tore yourself from the scene. Dropping your racket to the ground, you took a step backward.

. . . And then you were gone.

Run, you’d told yourself, and finally, you listened.

And as you ran, you realized, things were easy for you when you could ignore them. If you spent your time worrying about everyone else, then there would be no more time left to worry about yourself. You supposed that was an issue on its own, but that was how you survived.

A burnt child loves the fire. Yes, and you did. You loved it because it meant you’d have one more reason to survive. Survive enough and you wouldn’t have to deal with the aftermath. Just keep surviving the fire. That . . . that was what you were good at.

But you didn’t know how to deal with . . . this.

This wasn’t a fire. Far from it.

It was almost as if you were stuck at the bottom of a lake, your foot trapped under a rock, unable to get to the surface. And no matter how hard you fought to unsheath yourself, you stayed trapped at the bottom, water threatening to clog your air pipes.

And the thing they don’t tell you about drowning: it only takes forty seconds.

Forty seconds turned into minutes then an hour, and you began to wonder how long you had been left at the bottom of that lake. How long until the water finally reached your lungs?

It was about half an hour ago when you’d finally found the pond just outside the hotel your team was staying in, that you’d finally searched up whatever the fuck had gotten you in so much shit.

Yunis Doubles Player Accused of Bribing Referee to Make Nationals, was the headline. Apparently, an anonymous inside source had come forward and claimed that you’d not only bribed your way into winning each tournament for your team, but on top of that, you were also taking whatever drug to help with your fucked leg.

And get this . . . apparently it was because once you won finals, you’d go on to sign for Russia, leaving Korea behind, essentially making yourself a traitor. So there it was. In less than a day, you were a traitor, a drug abuser, and a cheat. Because apparently, that was true.

Whatever . . . it didn’t matter anyway. Even though it wasn’t true, the media had made it so, so it was by default. And as if badminton hadn’t already been feeling like a chore, your love for it lessened and lessened into . . . this hate.

That was what you felt: hate. Had you become hatred now?

Had you become a ghost, too? . . . Had you always been? . . .

“Don’t do it. You’ve got so much to live for,” you heard a voice say in a joking manner behind you just as you tossed another rock into the large pond below your dangling feet. (The voice had startled you all the same, nearing skyrocketing the rock out of your grasp, but we don’t dwell on that.)

Still . . .

. . . you didn’t jump. There was no need to. Startled or not, there was no need to fear. You knew that voice, and it only ever filled you with comfort, nothing else.

So instead of answering, you dropped your head in shame, eyes on the koi fish swimming idly through the water below you as your hands tightened around the edge of the rickety bridge.

Jungkook had found you. Somehow he always managed to make his way back to you, no matter how many times you pushed him away.

(It used to be annoying. Now it was just . . . well . . . it was something else now. It had grown into something . . . more . . .)

His footsteps grew closer. He was behind you now. Close, yet still so very distant.

Silence for only a beat more.

And then, he spoke.

“I was trying to find an excuse to come find you,” he murmured, his words unexpecting of a response as he sat down beside you, dangling his feet over the edge of the bridge.

And you . . . you stayed still, peeking at him through the corner of your eye. Sure enough, he was real, and he was sitting there dressed in his athletic clothes, some of his hair pulled back into a ponytail, while he held in his hands two pieces of . . . bread (?).

Your brows scrunched in confusion. “Bread was your excuse?” you questioned, your voice quiet.

Jungkook glanced between you and the bread, then back at you until he settled on the bread, tapping a finger to the loaves. “Ah . . . right . . . well . . . buy one, get one free,” he curtly explained. His eyes drifted back to you, then, as he wet his lips and sighed. “You talked about wanting to feed the fish.” Add in a shrug. “Thought this might be where I’d find you . . . so—“ a clearing of his throat— “Just—Are you OK?”

And you couldn’t help it. You took him up on his offer, silently grabbing a loaf of bread from his hands and resting it on your lap. Your eyes followed it the entire way, watching as your hand began to rip a small piece from the corner. “I think,” you finally replied to his question just as you tossed the piece of bread into the water. “I can’t force people to believe me. So—” pausing for a second, you watched as two koi fought over the piece of bread— “whatever, right?”

Jungkook plucked a piece of the bread off, but instead of throwing it to the fish, he plopped it into his mouth, chewing in contemplation. “You were always the best player,” he mumbled through the mouthful. Plucking off another piece, he waved it in your direction, gesturing to you. “They can’t take that away.”

Maybe it was the sentiment or maybe it was how he’d begun to eat the bread he brought solely to feed the fish, but you couldn’t help but fight off a smile. Because when times were like this, you felt fine; you felt . . . almost good, but when you were out there neck-and-neck, trying to hit the birdie again and again, you felt . . . off.

It made you realize that one: badminton didn’t feel like it used to and two: you weren’t entirely sure that the accusation itself was the reason behind your anger. Because maybe it was easier to be angry or sad. It always had been.

But as you ripped off another piece of bread to throw to the fish, it hit you. You weren’t exactly hard to figure out you’d like to think, so really, put two and two together and you get one burnt-out badminton player looking for an excuse to quit.

Fuck.

It really was that, wasn’t it?

You didn’t want it to be. You didn’t want to believe it either because badminton was your life. There was no without. Like a hook in an eye. Hook in eye. Hook in eye. Hook in eye. You couldn’t escape it.

But now . . . after years and years of trying to get back to that same person you were before the accident, you’d ignored just how draining it had begun to feel to practice and practice and try and try and . . . try. You mistook it for physical fatigue; for healing from your injury. You didn’t once think that your disinterest may have been because you had grown further and further apart from a racket in your hand and the sound of the court squeaking under your shoes. And when that reporter asked you if you’d cheated to get back in the game . . . you’d taken that chance to run away; to ruin it for yourself once more . . . and this time not for the sake of self-sabotage but perhaps . . . conservation.

So you began to ask yourself the same question that had been haunting you for a while now: how well did badminton still fit into you? You’d thought about it last night. You thought about it a million times before, refusing to acknowledge it, and now . . .

Then you found yourself turning to Jungkook. “What—” you sucked in a quick breath— “What made you want to play badminton? . . . In the beginning . . . “

Setting the bread aside, he leaned forward, resting his forearm against the lower part of the railing. “I’m not really sure,” he mumbled as he rested his cheek against his forearm. “It was just . . . easy for me. I liked being good at things.”

“But . . . “ (you had begun to toy with the bread instead of tossing it to the fish) “ . . . why did you love it?”

A few beats of silence.

Beat.

Then, Jungkook spoke: “The people, I think,” he finally said in a calm, collected tone, adding in a shrug at the end of his sentence. “I never really cared about being someone special; I just when I played, I always played with friends. It was fun. I think when I look back on it, it wasn’t badminton that I loved, it was the people. My friends . . . coaches . . . “ his eyes flashed to meet yours, “. . . you.” And he maintained eye contact. “It was the only time I ever felt happy, and when I grew up . . . when badminton felt more like a game of loss . . . it lost its magic. I wasn’t a kid anymore. Everyone had grown up and I was still there, on that court. . . . It wasn’t fun anymore . . . “

Oh.

Because, truly, you’d felt the same. Well . . . perhaps a tad different. Badminton had been fun for you because you always won. It was the only time you felt . . . special, good . . . worth . . . something. And when you lost it all, you felt like nothing upon nothing upon shit. So when you finally gained it all back, it was almost as if with each win, that magic Jungkook spoke up washed away bit by bit. Winning wasn’t fun anymore; it was being with him that made it worth . . . something.

But could winning itself ever have the same effect as it did years ago? Would you ever crave it so violently again?

“Do you think it could ever be fun again?” you voiced your thoughts aloud, hesitant as if admitting this aloud was some kind of sin.

“Maybe,” Jungkook muttered with another shrug. His attention was drawn on the fish now, his round, brown eyes following them as they swam to and fro. “But—” he breathed in heavily— “if I had it my way . . . I’d go back home and help run my parents’ shop.” There was that smile creeping up on his face again at the mention of home. “And if I really had it my way, I’d be thirteen again and I’d never grow up. I’d be small and happy and I’d never have to leave home again. That is what I truly want; to be that kid again . . . but for right now . . . I think I’d settle with just going home, knowing my mom’s special dish is waiting for me.”

Home.

He spoke of it so fondly, and you began to wonder if you’d ever loved it as much as he did. Now, you knew you did. Your parents were good, kind people. They were good parents. You loved them, missed them, but home had never been something that you’d acknowledged if that made any sense. You were just always looking forward to the future and who you’d become. You supposed you never stopped to take in the lines drawn onto the bathroom wall labeling your height year after year. You supposed you never stopped to catch sight of the way your mom would shave off the skin of the apple because she knew you didn’t like getting it in your teeth. You supposed you never thought of home as home because you always knew it’d be there, and now . . . now it was far far away and you were so so small, no longer great and big, and looking forward to the future.

It made you wonder if this feeling deep inside you had something to do with missing this home Jungkook spoke of. And then you began to agree that, yes, yes you would very much like to be small again, coming home from badminton practice to the smell of your mother’s cooking and your father’s tunes playing on the CD player.

Perhaps . . . perhaps you wished you were little again, too. And perhaps you wished you could start over, this time with badminton as more of a love than a state of survival . . . and maybe then you’d know more of this . . . home.

“Kook . . . “ you began, eyes darting from fish to fish as your thoughts raced, “if I admit something . . . do you promise not to judge?”

Jungkook hummed moments before he reached out to tuck your hair behind your ear. “What’s on your mind, hmm?” he mused, nudging you with his elbow as if telling you to go on.

Another few beats of silence. (It was odd how it kept lurking over your shoulder like a vice.)

And then: wetting your lips, you swallowed the weird feeling in your throat, finding it hard to get these words out for some reason. And then . . . when you were sure the silence had begun to eat at your flesh, you opened your mouth to voice your thoughts. “What if . . . what if I don’t love badminton anymore?” you mumbled, your voice nearly inaudible as you heard your words echo in your head again and again. But just like Pandora’s box, once they were spoken, you couldn’t shove them back down. Your words just kept flowing. “I mean . . . I’m—I’m twenty-five years old. All I’ve ever known is badminton. I ruined my life for it. I wasted three years trying to get it back and . . . and . . . and what if I did it for nothing? I wasted my entire life trying to be the best at something that I don’t even like anymore. What am I supposed to do if—if I don’t want it anymore?”

There.

Right there.

There was the truth you’d been hiding from for so long, and it was laid out in front of you, staring back at you.

What if you had wasted your entire life trying to be the best at something you didn’t even like anymore?

It wasn’t even like you wanted an answer from him either. You just needed to say it. You just needed to admit that perhaps you and Jungkook were more similar than either of you had ever thought.

And did that . . . did that give you relief? To be understood in this way?

“I just—“ you blurted out, still trapped inside your head— “It’s like you said. I just . . . maybe I just want to go home. I don’t . . . I don’t want to go to the Olympics or—or anything. I don’t want to be who I was. I just . . . I don’t know if I care to be . . . that anymore.”

A beat of—wait—no, unlike you thought, no silence entered your space. No, instead, Jungkook didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, baby—” he sighed, his voice like honey moments before you felt a warm hand cup your cheek— “you haven’t changed one bit either. Don’t you know? Violet, roses are red, not blue.” Your eyes met. His filled with understanding, while yours stained in shock. And then . . . then he tapped his thumb against the corner of your mouth, and offered up a small smile. “Where’s your smile? Hmm?”

Instantly, you sucked in a sharp breath as your eyes fluttered ever so slightly, taken off guard by his words. You wet your lips, trying to form any kind of sentence, but nothing ever came. Until you realized something . . . this feeling . . . it wasn’t something you were used to . . . but it was something you’d heard of . . . and it was . . . soft.

You’d never held something like that. You’d never owned something like that either. You’d never been it. You’d always just been machine parts and badminton plays. Strategies upon strategies. Always thinking and thinking and thinking and never just . . . being . . . feeling . . .

Until . . .

. . . until him.

And you had no idea how to handle that.

“I’m so scared,” you heard yourself whisper before you realized it was you who was speaking.

Jungkook furrowed his brows as his eyes trailed across your face before he wiped his thumb across your cheek, then dropped his hand to yours. Only then did you realize you had been crying. Not sobbing or anything close, but a few tears had slipped past, and there he was again wiping them away like it was normal; like it was OK.

“Why are you scared?” he questioned softly as he squeezed your hand.

“Because,” you muttered out with a confused shrug. Hell, you didn’t even really know. You just knew . . . you just knew that: “I’m only still here . . . on this team . . . because of you. I think . . . I think what I like about badminton is . . . you. You’ve made it worth something when it’d lost all meaning to me. And . . . and . . . I think what scares me the most is that . . . is that you’ve made me . . . soft . . . and I can’t tell if I hate that or if I . . . if I’m grateful.” Quickly, you wet your chapped lips. “I’ve had good things in my life. I’ve had success and victory and fame . . . but it all felt like it came with a price. You know? Win a competition and you feel great but what about the next one? It was always just a constant race . . . but being around you . . . it doesn’t feel like I have to win anything. I feel softer and—and it doesn’t even come with a catch. It’s free.” Your eyes searched his. “Am I even allowed to have something like that when I should be obsessing over winning this championship?”

Jungkook leaned closer, taking your hand into both of his as he held it close to his chest similar to how you’d hold a teddy when you were a child. And then . . . he spoke, and you couldn’t believe your ears, wondering if this was the same man you knew when you were young. “Have all of me,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours as if he wanted you to know he meant this within his soul. “Take my bones and build yourself a home. They’re worn, sure, but I like to think they’re pretty sturdy . . . so . . . take them.” His eyes searched yours deeper. “Take all of me if you have to. Take all of me . . . ”

Blinking slowly, you shot him a look, a small, shocked smile creeping onto your face as you let a sliver of a laugh out before you knew it. “That’s disgusting,” you scolded him, shaking your head at his words, but you couldn’t help but find some sentiment in them. Maybe it was the morbidity to you, but no one had ever said such things to you . . . and you found yourself holding these words close to your chest just as Jungkook held your hand close to his.

He smiled back, too. “Good. I knew it’d make you laugh,” he murmured softly, and you knew this, too. It was him after all. He’d do anything to get a laugh out of you, and you began to realize that it had always been that way. (Perhaps you should’ve spent your childhood laughing more than scowling at him.) But it seemed he didn’t mind as he began to rub his thumb back and forth against your knuckles, his smile slowly fading into a solemn expression. And then: “You asked me to haunt you, but you’re the one who haunts me.”

You swallowed hard.

You’re the one who haunts me.

Oh . . .

And then you began to wonder: was Jimin right? He loved you, he had told you. And suddenly, you realized that if this were still true . . . it didn’t bother you. You’d accept it even. But what did that mean for you?

You swallowed hard once again.

“You said I make you feel real again,” he continued on, making you forget your own thoughts as you watched his head tilt to the side in thought, ever so slightly. “I’ve thought about it. I don’t want to haunt you. I don’t want to poison your softness. I want to make you keep feeling real and soft and . . . you. And . . . and well . . . you make me want to be real again. You–you make me want to be a person, to be something, to make something of the person I am. I don’t want to end up like your King Weir—”

“Lear,” you felt yourself whisper so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. All you could do was stare at him and stare and stare and . . .

“I don’t want to be him,” Jungkook restated. A small pause followed as those warm brown eyes you’d come to be fond of searched yours like you were the only two people left on the planet. “I don’t want to be nothing . . . and you’ve reminded me of that.” Wetting his lips, he reached for your other hand, now holding both your hands in his, his thumbs running across your knuckles. “So I was wondering—” he maintained eye contact, while he gave a quick squeeze to your hands— “if maybe instead . . . well . . . I want you to help me live . . . no haunting necessary.”

I want you to help me live.

It echoed in your ears.

I want you to help me live.

I want you to—

Did he know that he’d given you a whole new reason to keep living? Did he know that when you thought of him, you realized you had another reason to live? Didn’t he realize that it was him? That caring for him had made you a better person?

But Jungkook took your silence as a sign of rejection, so before you could slap yourself up the side of the head, he nearly retreated, quickly muttering out an apology for being . . . weird. Only, this was now and not then, and you were you, and well, you quickly reached for his hands, pulling them into your lap. His eyes followed your movements, clearly taken off guard, but you didn’t let him dwell on it too long.

“How about—” you began, running your thumb across the tattoos dotting his fingers— “let’s take care of each other?”

Jungkook blinked once. Then twice. Then . . . then his brows twitched in longing? Understanding? Or . . . oh what was that word?

Whatever.

It didn’t matter. What mattered was his answer. And you already knew it before you’d spoken those words.

OK, he nodded.

OK, he smiled.

OK, your eyes seemed to glisten back.

OK.

There was a time in your life, where every night you’d have the same nightmare. Over and over again, you’d be trapped in this room with no windows, no doors, just darkness. And in the middle of the room would be you, or rather a version of you, strapped to a chair, with flames slowly licking up your legs, scorching your skin. But you wouldn’t feel any pain, because it wasn’t actually you. Sure, it looked like you, but . . . you were on the other side of the room, watching with wide eyes as you heard yourself scream and beg to be released from the shackles.

The flames wouldn’t touch you there. They were around, yes. They were burning holes into your clothes, yes, but you couldn’t feel it. All you could do was sit and watch as this variant of yourself burned alive right before your eyes.

And as if watching yourself be scorched alive wasn’t bad enough, there would be this point in the dream where you, no, she, no . . . it . . . would speak to you. Through the flames, it would hiss and whisper that it was your fault.

It was your fault, and you’d know what it meant.

But, No! you’d scream back. Because, no, no, no, this couldn’t be your fault. You couldn’t have been the one to ruin yourself. That would just be so, so, so . . . well . . . it would be too much.

(You knew now that it was just one big accident. Sure, trying not to blame yourself for it now was hard, but you’d learned in the past few months. It hadn’t been your fault. It hadn’t been his either.)

But back then . . . back then the incident loomed over your shoulder like a ghost.

You were getting ahead of yourself again, but . . . but the dream, no . . . the nightmare always started and ended the same. You stuck in a burning room, left to watch yourself burn and burn and burn as you, she, it, whatever (!) screamed and screamed, its voice growing louder with each, it was your fault!

And with the last shift of blame, the fire would finally set in. The red, hot flames that had left blisters and boils on your skin would begin to itch, then sting, and then consume you until all you felt was pain, pain, pain.

Then it would be your screams which filled the room.

Only when the pain would begin to shift, your back ripping with agony as this pair of . . . wings (?) split from the wounds, would you think you’d been saved. Because just as those wings had appeared, on the other side of the room, so had a door. And perhaps, perhaps then you could escape the burning room; fly out of there and save yourself.

That was always your first thought: survive, and you would always head for the door without a second thought. It was only when you’d hear the other you’s screams that this immense amount of guilt would hit you, because there you were, able to save yourself but not without leaving a piece of you behind to burn to ash.

. . . You never turned around to give yourself one last glance either. Instead, you always counted to three before you stepped off from the ledge, trusting that what was behind the bright light coming from the door would surely save you. And every time as you realized you were falling and falling, the heat would leave your senses and all you’d be able to feel was wind in your hair and the smell of salt water. You were no longer in the burning room. You were free.

With the opening of your eyes, you would be in the sky, your wings carrying you. And for a moment, you would believe that you truly were free; free from the incident, free from your guilt, free from everything.

Until the wind no longer felt refreshing and the vague smell of burning wood could be sensed; until you finally glanced back at what you had left behind, only to realize the wings you had been gifted were not made of feathers and bone at all, but rather wax, and under the Sun’s embrace . . . they had begun to melt . . .

You’d spare yourself the details of stating what happened next, but the story was simple. Think Icarus. Just like Icarus, every time, your wings would melt and you’d hit the sea below you, shortly drowning but never dying. No, every time you’d get a bit closer to death . . . but you’d wake up just before you succumbed to it.

And every time you’d wake in a fright, sweat coating your body as you panted and panted, trying to figure out if you could still feel the fire on your skin or the water in your lungs. And every time you’d wake wondering if that was why you craved the fire so viscerally; if that was why you felt like you were drowning from time to time.

But . . . that dream, that nightmare . . . well . . . you hadn’t had it for a couple weeks or maybe months (?) now. It used to be something that you just considered part of your routine; something that you just had to deal with. But ever since you and Jungkook had begun this little thing you guys had going on where you’d sleep next to each other almost every night, you hadn’t been having any dreams.

You didn’t quite understand it. You just knew that the nightmares had stopped . . . and maybe you had him to thank for that (just a little bit).

Slowly, you brought yourself out of your mind, planting yourself in reality once again as you were reminded that you and Jungkook had gone back to his hotel room after you got in a few hours practice after well . . . after your little . . . mishap. You’d showered and washed your hair, brushed your teeth, and blah blah blah. You were already tucked into bed, waiting for Jungkook to finish up brushing his teeth so the two of you could watch something to fall asleep to. (He was slow . . . of course (brushing his teeth while listening to a playlist at max volume)). And you, you were beginning to doze off, lost in your mind as you thought of the peaceful sleep you had awaiting you (partially thanks to him yeah (!) you knew . . . whatever).

Still, you couldn’t help but roll over in bed, your eyes quickly catching a glimpse of him in the mirror just outside the bathroom. And well, you couldn’t help but laugh just a little as you watched him dance to the music playing from his phone, haphazardly brushing his teeth along to the beat. (You couldn’t wait until he hopped into bed next to you and you could finally get close enough to feel his heartbeat against your cheek (not that you would admit that out loud. . . right?)).

“I can see your asscrack,” you called out across the room, laughing slightly because duh you were lying but you couldn’t help but tease him. (Plus . . . maybe a part of you missed him being beside you (you wanted him to hurry up, could you blame yourself?!).)

“Nuh-uh—” he gurgled out through the copious amount of toothpaste in his mouth— “not falling for that again. You’re full of shit.”

You couldn’t help but laugh again, falling back against the bed, the back of your head now laying in the center of the pillow. One, two, three, you counted the swirls in the ceiling. It was literally like watching paint dry having to entertain yourself until he was done. It was an odd thing, wasn’t it? Liking someone’s company that much?

God . . . what had you turned into?

“Do you sleep with your eyes open?” you heard Jungkook ask from beside you just as the bed dipped and he crawled under the covers, no shirt and only in his boxers (as usual).

Ignoring the pitter-patter of your heart, you turned to face him, your eyes immediately trailing across his features. “You tell me,” you hummed, quickly rolling onto your side so your entire body was facing him.

“Probably,” he mumbled as he settled into the bed, propping up the pillow to support his head. “Dunno though. I try not to look at you too much.”

Your jaw dropped. Then a scoff. And you didn’t waste any time, reaching forward to twist his nipple . . . hard.

Instantly, he caved in on himself, clutching his chest as he whined, “Ow. Not cool, baby.”

You threatened to do it again, your hand outstretched.

But he waved a metaphorical white flag in surrender. “OK. OK. I’m kidding. I’m kidding,” he all but begged, twisting away from you.

Falling back against the bed once again, you avoided his eyes. “That’s what I thought,” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest as you faked your displeasure with him.

Jungkook only found this amusing, soothing a hand over his chest before he shifted closer to you, his tattooed arm thrown over your waist as he pulled you into him. It took him no time to bury his face into the crook of your neck, nuzzling his nose just under your sweet spot. “Mmm, don’t be mad,” he mumbled against your skin, slowly kissing his way up to your ear. “You really are the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” A kiss to your cheek. Then a squeeze to your side as he brought you closer and closer and closer until you were sure the two of you were intertwined. “You always have been, you know?”

Slowly, as confusion and shock twisted onto your features, you turned your head so you were nose to nose. “Don’t be silly,” you whispered as one of your hands found its way into his long hair. “I know you were kidding, you don’t have to overkill it.”

Listen, listen, listen . . . you knew you weren’t god awful, but every girl feels like they’re not good enough. It’s built into us, so sometimes it comes as a shock when someone is so . . . so forward. It wasn’t like people just went around saying ‘oh, you’re the prettiest girl ever duh!’ like duh! Obviously! So . . .

But Jungkook always managed to surprise you. Always.

And just as you were about to close your eyes, thinking this was over and the two of you were going to actually get some sleep, he surprised you once more. “You know . . . “ he began, his voice low and quiet, almost as if he were fighting with himself to say his next words . . . “I spent the entirety of the sixth grade learning every flower I could just so I’d have something to tease you about,.”

“What?” you all but snorted as you threw your leg over his hip. “That’s insane.”

“Well, I had to get your attention somehow,” he mused, while his hand had begun to trace letters or random doodles on your back.

Scrunching your brows together, you asked, “What are you talking about?”

“You’re so dense. Pretty, but—” he tapped a finger to your forehead— “hollow.”

Instantly, you shot him a look. “You wanna talk?”

He only laughed.

A beat of warm silence. You traced his bottom lip with your thumb, toying with the piercing. He nipped at your thumb. Another beat. He pressed a kiss to your thumb. One more beat, then . . .

“I had a crush on you, idiot,” he confessed against your thumb in the dead of night.

This time you actually did snort, moving your thumb to rest on his chin. “What? I was all braces and forehead acne,” you went on, remembering who you were and how you were and all the little things that you wished had been different about yourself back then. “A crush, JK? Be serious.”

“Hey, hey, I’m not a liar,” he quickly rushed over, humorously defending his honor. “I had a crush on you. Seriously. Why do you think I tried to impress you all the time.”

Your smile nearly faded. (And Jimin’s words revisited you (you pushed them away).)

He wasn’t kidding.

But . . .

“Impress me? You spent our entire childhood showing off how much better you were at everything than I was,” you said, confusion and everything in between laced in your words. Because, truly, what? “That was like our . . . thing as much as it disgusts me to admit.”

His brows raised ever so slightly. “What?”

Oh no.

No, he wasn’t kidding. He actually did have a crush on you. But that meant . . . that meant the whole reason you had hated him growing up was over . . . nothing. He had never meant to start anything. He was just . . . he was trying to impress you and not . . . one-up you.

He wanted you to like him back . . .

So then you had—oh, no!

“Wait,” you cut your own thoughts off with a gasp. “Oh my fucking god, are you serious? Kook, I thought you were just trying to be an asshole.”

Jungkook pulled back. “No, what the—” his words died on his tongue as it all dawned on him. “Is that why you thought I hated you?”

“Yes! Obviously!”

“Oh, shit . . . “

And then . . . as if this couldn’t get any more on-brand for the two of you, Jungkook had begun to laugh. Quietly at first, then his hand was slapping against his face as he cackled, his shoulders even so much as shaking. He was full-on laughing. Laughing.

“Why are you laughing?” you exclaimed, squeezing his shoulder

“Because! You hated my guts for like fifteen years and it’s all because you took my sixth-grade flirting as an insult!” he bursted out through small laughs. “You—” he embraced you, his hand cupping your cheek as his eyes searched yours— “are something else.”

“Well . . . it’s technically your fault,” you responded with a quick click of your tongue.

His brows twitched upward. “Oh, is it technically my fault?” he asked while trying to fight the half-grin tipping onto his lips.

“Obviously.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, thinking for only a second before: “At least you’re pretty.”

In response, your mouth fell open slightly. “I will bite the tip of your penis off.”

“Mmm, kinky,” he remarked as he nudged your nose with his.

Scrunching your nose, you tsked, “Ew.”

“Come on, baby,” Jungkook mockingly whined, pouting as much as he possibly could. “No cold shoulder. Gives me the chills.”

But you were having too much fun with this to give it up now. “You had a crush on me,” you all but gagged as you turned your nose up (once again ignoring Jimin’s words . . . ). “Disgusting.”

“Is it?” he questioned in amusement, moments before his lips were on your exposed jaw.

“Mmm.”

Jungkook gently bit your cheek. “I think you’re the one with the crush,” he mused, his lips trailing down to your neck again, this time hovering just over your sweet spot.

“Oh, please,” you scoffed, trying your absolute hardest not to show how affected you were by just his lips grazing your skin. But one gentle kiss to your sweet spot, and you could feel your heart skyrocket to your throat as you all but choked in a breath. It was just that . . . he had this effect on you. (Fuck, did he ever . . . )

“Begging now, are you?” he remarked before leaving another kiss here and then there and the oh, you guessed it, just on the corner of your mouth but not on your lips, of course.

And all you could do was admit you were weak when it came to him, and just give in. Which was, of course, what you did as a soft groan escaped your lips and you turned your head to face him once again. “Would you get over your ego and kiss me?” you deadpanned, all but pouting at him.

That almost got him immediately. His eyes flicked to your lips, then your eyes, then to your lips once again before one of those cocky grins plastered across his face. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, his voice like silk.

That was the last response you received before his lips grazed yours. Gentle at first was his touch, like a feather on skin, but as he nudged your nose with his, he finally closed the space between you two, pressing his lips against yours in a soft kiss. You leaned closer, pleasantly sighing into the kiss as you nipped at his bottom lip. A grin tipped onto his face before he dipped in for more, running his tongue along the crease of your lips. You complied quickly, hands tangling in his long, dark hair as you pulled him closer and melded his tongue with yours. He inhaled sharply through his nose as his grip tightened on you instantly, his hand sliding up your thigh, squeezing your hip before it snuck under the hem of your shirt (or rather his old college badminton tee that he had grown out of by now (which meant it was yours by default . . . duh).

A soft mix between a gasp and a quiet moan escaped your lips when you felt the coolness of his hand graze the swell of your breast, palming it. He grinned into the kiss, circling his thumb around your nipple, knowing damn well that it would get to you and have your skin blazing in seconds.

That was just the thing—he knew how your body worked. More . . . he knew how you worked and perhaps that was why he had figured out how to pleasure you.

Still, you tugged on his hair in annoyance, huffing slightly and pouting perhaps just a tad, which you knew he found endearing. That was the thing, too . . . you knew how he worked as well. He snickered against your lips, proving your thoughts to yourself just moments before he pulled you closer and began sucking on your bottom lip as his thumb pressed down on your puckered nipple, tweaking the bud. You hummed softly in response, grinding your underwear-clothed core against his muscular thigh.

He stilled under your touch for a mere second before his hands gripped your waist as he pulled you down onto his thigh, moving with you while you grinded against him. “Making a mess, pretty girl,” he murmured against your lips as he moved to lightly kiss your neck. His hand was at your shirt again in an instant, fisting it and pulling it up over your breasts.

“You’re such a guy,” you nearly moaned out, your hands now on his shoulders as his head dipped to your breasts, catching a nipple in his mouth all the while he flexed his thigh against your core. He didn’t stop there either. He softly hummed against your skin as he released your nipple long enough to kiss it just moments before taking it into his mouth again, swirling his tongue around the bud and sucking hard. And you couldn't help it, you jerked against him, throwing your head into the pillow as a loud moan sounded from the back of your throat.

“So you agree—” he mumbled as he still flicked his tongue over and over again over the abused bud— “you like that about me?”

Before you could even answer, his hand had gone from your waist and now tangled in your hair, holding the back of your neck. That was moments before his lips detached from your puckered bud and reattached to your lips. His other hand worked quickly, too, as he slid his thigh out from underneath you and swung your leg over his hip, his hardened length now pressed against your aching core.

“Maybe I do a little,” you whispered with a small grin playing on your puffy lips as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer.

He grinned back. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured back, kissing you quickly before you could respond.

And his comment was long forgotten as he grinded his bulge into your heat, stimulating both you and him. It was intoxicating. No, he . . . he was.

He was so intoxicating, you couldn’t help but whine out, “Take them off, please.” Your fingers were at his boxers, tracing the elastic band as you all but whimpered against his lips. You just wanted him, him, him. All of him.

“Eager?” he mused as his thumb dug into your hip. (You knew this was eating at him just as much as it was eating at you. It always did.)

“Please, Kookie. Can’t take it,” you whined further, all but straight-up riding him to scratch the ache inside you. “Need it so bad. Killin’ me.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, and he didn’t waste another second either. “Love you like this.” His own whines filled the air as the two of you struggled to tear off his boxers, your underwear quickly following after as both the undergarments eventually became lost under the covers. But neither of you cared.

It was a quick descent after that. You couldn’t help but grind your core over his hard length, the sound of your wet arousal evident even over the hum of the air conditioner. The two of you never did this. You’d always done foreplay after foreplay after foreplay, finding it thrilling to tease each other, but right now . . . right now all you wanted was him inside you. You wanted him as close as possible, and it seemed he wanted the same, the both of you unable to think or do anything other than grind against each other.

Only then when you couldn’t take the throb between your legs anymore did he press a single kiss to the corner of your mouth before you felt him slowly enter you, inch by inch sinking into your cunt. Your eyes fluttered closed as your mouth parted and your head tilted back while you basked in the fullness which came along with his cock sliding snugly against your tight walls. Your breath hitched in your throat just as you felt him bottom out, your core taking him all the way until the hilt.

The next second, you were wrapping your legs around him, locking them together in an attempt to get him even deeper. Your eyes fluttered open next, meeting his gaze instantly as he stared down at you with his brows pinched in pleasure and those big, round eyes of his blown out . . . but was this lust that he gazed at you with? His gaze appeared different, almost warmer, almost softer, almost too soft to touch . . . to have . . . to hold. He looked too pretty like this. Definitely too pretty for you to handle.

It didn’t help when the following words out of his mouth were: "You're always so fucking tight.”

And then he began to move, not breaking eye contact once. No, his eyes watched yours as his cock pumped in and out of your wet heat. His breath hit your face, and you could almost feel his heartbeat against your chest, syncing with yours as the two of you stared into what you could only describe as each other’s souls.

It was odd, too, because while whatever this feeling was blooming in your chest scared you, you couldn’t look away. You couldn’t turn from him. You just wanted him, him, him. Always him. You feared that if you did turn away, when you glanced back he wouldn’t be there anymore. And that perhaps scared you more than anything: losing him.

But there he was. He was always right there . . .

Almost as if he could hear your thoughts, his grasp on you tightened, his cock sinking deliciously deeper if it were even possible. The pressure in your lower stomach was becoming too much as it bloomed and bloomed, twisting and turning in a pleasurable ache. You bit your bottom lip, turning your head to the side as your breathing became more uneven by the second, but not once did you dare look away. No, you watched each and every twitch of his brow, every shaky breath, every flutter of his eyelashes, and you relished in it, soaking it all in.

It became clear to you that you couldn’t look away even if you tried.

And it seemed neither could he . . .

"Why are you looking at me like that?" you rasped out, trying to swallow your spit.

Jungkook nudged your nose with his. "Like what?"

You swallowed, this time harder (Jimin’s words revisited you once again). “I can’t say . . . “

His brows twitched this time. “How could I not?”

How could I not? And you knew what he meant, just as he had known what was playing on your mind. How could I not?

And then he was kissing you again, taking you by utter surprise. Sure, the two of you had had sex over and over again and each time felt a little different from the other, but this . . . this was like the beginning yet the present all at once. It was like you could feel all of him in just this kiss; like you could see his past and he could see yours and neither of you had thought about running once.

It was soft. So was his hand as he brushed through your hair as he kissed you, tracing your hairline, your cheek, your jaw, then your neck as if he were trying to map out your features.

(You couldn’t help but melt under his touch.)

Why was his kiss always the softest thing you had ever known?

Then . . . amidst your soft moans and carnal sounds, he pulled back, his eyes finding yours again. He glanced between the two of you where your bodies met, brows rising in marvel as he released a small sigh before rolling his hips against yours again and again. And then . . . then, he grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers together as his gaze met yours once again and he whispered so quietly, almost too quiet you wouldn’t have heard it if you hadn’t been so close, “I don’t even know where you end and I begin.”

And you knew instantly he didn’t just mean where your body met his. No, this was deeper, and you realized he could feel that this time was different, too.

Swallowing hard, you fluttered your eyes in almost a state of shock as you stayed silent. But you didn’t need to speak. No, you took his words, and you held them close, and then you were holding him. Take my bones and build yourself a home, he’d told you, but no, no, you wouldn’t put him through that. He could take yours. He could take all of you. You would give yourself to him.

Fuck, you would give all of yourself to him. Only him. Him, him, him.

“Wanna see your face, baby,” he murmured as he brushed your hair out of your flushed face. “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. My pretty girl.”

And you knew that was it.

With one final kiss, you let him know all this, allowing him to take the lead once more. Everything pulsed as he picked up a sensual pace, hitting your sweet spot over and over again as his thumb snuck between your legs, skillfully working against your swollen clit while you chased the coil. It tightened and tightened, rings of pleasure hissing in your ears. His thumb quickened its pace, and then the coil snapped, your release crashing over you. All you could do was surrender to it, tilting your head back into the pillow as your hips raised while your hands squeezed his toned arms. All the while, Jungkook continued the long drags of his cock against your walls, dragging out your orgasm for as long as he could.

“Wanna stay like this,” he confessed, his thrusts growing slower and slower, unsteadier and unsteadier as he nearly whimpered into your neck. “Love this so fuckin’ much. Being with you—fuck. You make me feel so good, baby. So good.”

“I’d let you,” you mumbled against the shell of his ear, your voice a little too hoarse as you were still coming down from your high. “I’d let you do . . . all the time . . . I want—” you were delirious at this point and you knew it, too— “Want you always.”

Your words barely even registered in your brain as pleasure and that blooming feeling in your chest consumed you. It wasn’t long before you found yourself lifting his head so your lips could slot against his. And he graciously accepted your offer, consuming you just as the feeling had done.

The two of you wasted no time in escalating from gentle kissing, allowing you to further calm down from your high before your cunt was throbbing once more. And . . . before his cock had begun to feel too fucking hard inside you, nearly twitching for release as it begged for your addictive touch.

You let yourself get wrapped up in him for a little longer, too, never wanting to stop. Your hands were on him again as you tangled your fingers in his hair and pulled. This time a loud, deep groan came from his lips, and you knew you had him. He gave another groan of submission when you tugged again, his thrusts barely cohesive now. He was close, and you reveled in this, wishing to bring him to ecstasy. With that thought on your mind, you devilishly reached over his muscular ass, fingers quickly finding his perineum and pressing into it, massaging the sensitive spot.

He was sheathed deeper inside you before either of you could breathe, the two of you too wrapped up in each other to move positions. You just wanted to feel each other again and again and again, because for some reason . . . this time was different.

Different and yet all the same. That was how it had always been with Jungkook.

And you couldn’t quite put a word to the feeling, until . . .

“Will you cum inside me?” you whispered, your voice hoarse as you omitted a soft moan under your breath. “Please. I need more.” Swallowing hard, you finally met his gaze, and instantly, you couldn’t look away. There was just . . . something . . . there. “I need you.” Your brows furrowed as you soaked in your own words while you searched his eyes.

Slowly, with another roll of his hips, he sank lower, his abdomen grazing against yours so he could be close enough to brush his lips with yours but not that close to kiss you. But you . . . you couldn’t be without his touch, and found yourself tilting your head to press your lips against his, finally finding that something you had been searching for in his eyes.

And then . . . then it hit you.

“I need you,” you heard yourself whisper before you knew the words had left your mouth. “I need you, Koo.”

I need you, you’d whispered, and you began to realize . . . you knew what you felt for him wasn’t what you’d feel for a friend. Because you did need him . . . in more ways than you’d like to admit.

And that scared the shit out of you.

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wandussyfantasy · 7 months

Note

Hey buddy

I have a request for Leigh Shaw and GN! Reader w peepee :)

Reader and Leigh have been a friends with benefits type of thing. Leigh also made it clear about no feelings since she wasn't over losing matt and she just needed a distraction. It isn't until she hears that Y/N has been going on a date with Becca, another widow from grief group.

Leigh then confronts reader about it and she realises in that moment that she has feelings for them which she tells them and then walks away. Ghosting them until they confront her at her home while Amy and Jules are out. They tell her how she has ruined their growing relationship with Becca by making them realise that they have always felt the same. Resulting in Leigh bringing them in for a passionate kiss and reader then asking if they can take her on a date.

Thank you awesome dude.

Love Me or Leave Me

Summary: You and Leigh have a special arrangement that gets disrupted when she finds out that you have been dating her friend, Becca.

Pairings: Leigh Shaw x NB!AMAB!Reader

Word Count: 6,749

WARNINGS:

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT READ & DO NOT INTERACT!!!

smut, gn!reader amab, powerbottom!leigh, fingering, dirty talk, fluff, agnst, car hookup, fantasies, teasing, foreplay, and creampie.

𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓. 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

“‘What is grief, if not love persevering?’” The nerdy grief counselor reads out to the group from his notebook. “How can we relate this line to ourselves and our own experiences with grief?”

You sigh and look over to see that Leigh is just as unimpressed as you are with the new counselor. The one that usually led this group had to move to another state and so the organization has been trying to find a replacement. Unfortunately, the only people volunteering their time to help people with loss either haven’t experienced it themselves or are fresh out of college with psychology degrees they have no clue what to do with. You clear your throat and scratch behind your ear before you fake a phone call and leave the group. “I am so sorry, it’s my mother,” you excuse yourself as some regulars in the group try not to snicker. You walk out to your car and without much thought, you move it to a more secluded spot in the dark parking lot and swipe through a dating app as you wait.

Leigh knocks on your window a few minutes later. “I thought you wanted to give this guy a chance,” she says as she climbs on your lap.

“I did, until he started quoting a comic book character,” you kiss her to trigger the physical response you needed in order to feel something other than the annoyance and the pain of your loss. She is grinding against your bulge to help you harden. It doesn't take you long, it's been almost a full week since the last time the two of you have met up for this since you went on a short trip with your friends. “You look very pretty in this dress by the way,” you compliment her as you dip your fingers in her panties to rub her clitoris.

“Shut up,” she says, she thinks you only like it because of the easy access you'll have to her. But then again, that's why she chose to wear the dress in the first place. Leigh wasn't much for wearing dresses unless there was an occasion. Her mom was curious as she left the house and although this is the time Leigh normally attended the group, she began to wonder if her daughter was using that as a cover now and hoped that she was going on a date. You kiss as much of her exposed skin as you can while you finger Leigh and as much as she is enjoying the way your fingers know how to move, that's not what she is looking to penetrate her. She pulls your head up from her chest and kisses you hard. “Fuck me already,” she whispers impatiently.

“Alright,” you say as you unzip your pants and pull out your dick. “So bossy,” you grumble as you penetrate her. “But fuck, I’m not complaining,” you grunt as soon as her warm walls envelope your thick cock. Leigh holds onto the seat as she rides you until she realizes that something is missing.

“You have a condom on right?” She asks through breaths as she continues to move her body up and down on your lap.

“Uh,” you try to figure out the best way to tell her that you don't have one on and the best way at the moment as your brain is clouded with lust is, “No.”

She doesn't stop moving as she hits you upside your head. “Why not?!”

“You told me to fuck you already. It's not a big deal, I'll pull out. Oooh this feels so good.” You say as you continue to meet your hips with hers. You start to kiss her body and get even more turned on when you realize she doesn't actually mind that you're fucking her raw.

“Do you use them when you go on dates?” She asks as she slows down. Pregnancy wasn't her concern. She doesn't want to contract anything, she's gone this long without ever getting anything, she wants to continue that streak.

“No,” you start out plainly just to mess with. This time she stops moving completely and looks at you with wide eyes. You break into a smile. “I don't sleep with my dates. It's only been you since we started this arrangement. I'm clean, I promise. I got tested weeks ago.”

Leigh sighs as she wraps her arms around the back of the seat. You move your hands from her thighs to her ass. “Don’t scare me like that again, it's not funny.” She moves her hips in a small circle motion and you moan as you tip your head back as you promise not to do that again. With your neck exposed to her, Leigh does something she never really does. She leans in and starts to softly kiss your neck until she reaches a spot that depending on the shirt you'll be wearing after this, may or may not hide the mark she is about to leave.

As you feel her sucking on your skin you start to pound into her as you're getting so close to finishing. “How close are you?” You ask as you pick up the pace.

“Almost… almost there,” she pants out as she grips onto you.

“Where should I…?” you ask as you feel the build up of your impending climax. The answer that Leigh almost gives, surprises her and puts her over the edge as she imagines the way it would feel like to have your cock pulsing inside of her, filling her up with your semen. It's been so long since she's felt that. It was a surprisingly extremely rare occasion with her husband. Since he didn't want kids and was on and off depression medication they rarely had sex without a condom and even if they did, he almost never came because the medicine made it difficult for him. As she orgasms her walls clench around you almost as if they were trying to milk you. Her body is tempted to feel your release in full as she has felt you cum inside of her a few times with the condom on. But she wasn't going to feel it tonight. She pulls herself off of your cock, impressed that you held off your release and she grabs a napkin from the passenger's seat, you typically ate something on the way to the meetings. She covers the tip of your penis and uses her other hand on the base to help you cum. You groan as you empty into her hand.

“I'll see you later,” she kisses your cheek and exits your car.

Later that month, Leigh is meeting with Becca for tea before Leigh’s next class. The young widow is still teaching at her mother's women's health studio and Becca attends a class when she can to stay fit and stay connected with Leigh. The two have grown closer as Leigh finally started to let people in, slowly but surely, and Becca has learned to respect Leigh's need for space.

“So, I've been seeing someone,” Becca starts as she stirs her tea slowly with an anxious smirk as she tries to contain her excitement.

“Really?” Leigh is surprised, she didn't know that Becca was dating.

“Yeah,” Becca starts and waits for Leigh to press for more information and once she does, Becca's act falls apart as she spills all of her secrets. “So, you know Y/n, from group? That guy that lost his mom? He's also in some indie band that in my opinion is totally underrated and-”

“Isn’t Y/n nonbinary?” Leigh cuts Becca off, she didn't like it when people misgendered others, especially not when it's you.

“Yes! Oh shit, did I say 'he'? Damnit,” she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I'm still learning this whole gender and pronouns thing. Anyway it's Y/n. We've been on a few dates lately and I think it could turn into something. That's if I don't screw it up. Ugh, I hope I don't. I really like him- them! I like them.” Becca hangs her head. “I swear, I'm not doing this on purpose.”

Leigh remains quiet as she processes this information. She had your tongue inside of her just this morning when she accidentally broke a rule and spent the night at your place. Now she's finding out that you're dating her friend? “It’s fine, I think. I don't know. My sister knows more about it than I do. She says that some people don't mind the mess ups as long as you respect their preferences and don't use the wrong pronouns intentionally.” Leigh says to comfort the girl sitting across from her, giving herself a hard time.

“Ok,” Becca relaxes her shoulders. “But um yeah, what do you think? Is it bad that I'm going out with them? I mean, yeah, we sort of met at the group but we didn't start talking until we matched on a dating app. I completely didn't recognize them on their profile until we met in person.” Leigh asks if you recognized her on the app and Becca laughs. “They did! They said that's why they felt comfortable asking me out like an hour after we matched and they thought I recognized them too. We had a laugh about it. They're really great, I think the two of you would get along if you wanted more friends.”

Leigh plasters on a fake smile as she tries to ignore the pain this conversation is causing her. She cannot believe that you started to date Becca without telling her when you knew the two of them are friends. “How long have you been going out?”

“Oh we’ve been going on what he calls 'intentional dates' once a week every week this month but we hang out all of the time. Except when either of us is busy, which they tend to be. But it's okay, they send me cute messages when we're apart. We haven't been physical yet though, we kiss a lot but when I try to make it more, he stops anything from happening. Oh no, you don't think he might be gay do you?” She has a hand over her chest as she worries about what the lack of a physical connection could mean.

Leigh shakes her head as she sips her tea. “No, I'm sure they're trying to be respectful. I mean, your husband died while serving in the military and they have a band that hardly anyone has ever heard of. It can be intimidating,” she reassures her friend while subtly correcting her. Leigh wonders how often Becca messes up when it comes to how you identify. Leigh never fucks that up and doesn't know how people do. Right now, she can't even figure out what you see in this girl. Sure, Leigh knows you're dating around. But as far as she knew, they were meaningless dates that never got anywhere. She didn't consider what it would be like if you actually found someone that you were interested in. Leigh picks up her phone and sends a risky photo she has been debating for sometime on whether or not she should ever send it to you and adds the message, I need you tonight.

“You are so right, Leigh. They don’t know about how bad my marriage was before my husband died. Maybe I should make the first move!” Becca suggests and that sends images to Leigh’s head that upsets her. She doesn’t want to share you with her. She doesn’t want to share you with anyone. Especially since the two of you have been talking about maybe having more sex without a condom. She wanted to feel you coming inside of her but now she can’t have that if you’re seeing someone exclusively. She probably can’t have you at all if you continue to date Becca. Then Becca gets a message and her grin disappears. “Awe bummer, they canceled our date for tonight,” she frowns.

“Oh no, did they say why?” Leigh sips her tea as she poorly hides her enjoyment.

“Yeah, they have band practice. They’re going to let me know when they can reschedule.” She sets her phone on the table. “You don’t think they might be pulling away because they’re intimidated by my dead husband right?”

Leigh shakes her head, “Becca, you’re overthinking it. Have they ever given you reason to worry they’re not being truthful?”

“No,” Becca says as she thinks about it for a moment. “Well, other than the mark he had on our first date. It was like right here and I thought it was a hickey but he said he got it when wrestling with one of their bandmates.”

Leigh clenches her jaw as she remembers making that mark. How could you lie to her friend like that? To someone who is so trusting and sees the best in people. Then she gets a reply from you stating that you’re free tonight and will make dinner so they have something to eat after. The both of you know it’s against the rules to share a meal so close to having sex. Since the arrangement was friends with benefits, it wasn’t against the rules to share a meal and they have shared many friendly meals. She has even had you over for a meal with her mom and sister a few times. But when it was shared after having sex at night, it left the option of her falling asleep and spending the night again. Which she already did last night. After the first time that happened and she woke up comfortable and in your arms, she freaked out and didn't talk to you for two weeks and that's when it became a rule. It has only happened a couple times since but you always make sure you're up before she is.

Leigh knows she's breaking many rules with that picture and request, and she knows that you know it as well. The fact that you don't seem to mind it at all gives Leigh a warm feeling inside. She is the person you would rather spend your time with. “What’s that smile for? Do you have a hot date tonight?” Becca asks as she finishes her tea.

“What?” Leigh breaks from her thoughts and drops her smile. “No, I just, no. Um look at the time, we better get to the studio. I'm the instructor, I can't be late to my own class.” Leigh gathers her things and Becca follows as she gets ready to leave as well.

When Leigh arrives at your apartment, she is wearing the sexiest outfit she could find in her sister's closet. Jules was more than happy to lend the outfit and bit her tongue in asking too many questions, she was having fun dressing her sister up. It was another rule broken. Never dress up for sex. It's just sex, come as you are. She was starting to worry that she has broken too many rules by now. No more than one meeting within 48-hours. No sleepovers, unless absolutely necessary. No nudes. No meals together after sex. No jealousy. No preventing the other from getting into a relationship, unless absolutely necessary. No feelings, just sex. But the look you have when you open that door says it all. You don't care about the rules anymore. She wonders if you ever have.

Leigh greets you with a kiss, it's slow and deep. Unusual to the heated rushed ones you're used to. But you don't mind the change. “I have to say, that picture was quite the surprise,” you start as you guide her to the bedroom.

“So was your tongue this morning,” Leigh says as she bites her lip. “I thought you deserved a gift as a thank you.”

You hum, “Well, I didn't need one but it is very appreciated.” You walk her towards the bed with your hands on her hips. “You look stunning tonight, you rule breaker,” you have your lips on her neck as the two of you fall on the bed.

Leigh lets out a soft giggle in acknowledgement. “You noticed?”

“Of course I noticed, you practically gave me an exam on the rules before the first time we slept together. Well… technically the second time. The first time was an oopsy that got us to the rules.” You lightly remind her as you continue to kiss her body. You love her tastes and her sounds and the way she knows your body like no one ever has before. “What drove you to this?”

“Don't worry about it, let's just focus on making each other feel good,” Leigh says as she reaches between the two of you to stroke your cock. You don't argue or question her. You rock your hips into her hand until you have to pull away from her to undress. Leigh rises from the bed as you sit next to her and start pulling your pants down. Once your shirt is off, Leigh stands in front of you and when you're not paying attention to her she lifts your chin with her finger. “Watch me,” she says as she kisses your lips.

You are surprised by her again. Leigh starts to do a little strip tease for you. Pulling her clothing off slower than she ever has before. The way she sways her body around and removes the clothing is unpracticed and a little goofy but you don't laugh, you sit there and stroke your penis as you watch her. You lick your lips as you think about being inside of her again. There isn't anything else on your mind but being with Leigh right now.

However, Leigh is stressing herself out. She can't tell if you're enjoying her little routine or if you think she is being ridiculous. She rushes the ending of her little performance, thinking what Becca might do in this situation. She isn't sure, she doesn't know if Becca would be a slow and patient lover or a fast paced “let's get this over with” lover. Maybe she has kinks and fetishes. Maybe she's vanilla… Leigh can be pretty vanilla. Did you like that? Did you find her boring? Is that why you continue to date even though you have a sexual relationship with her? “Fuck, that was hot,” you whisper as she presses her naked body to yours, breaking her from her spiraling thoughts. You crawl back further on the bed, pulling her with you, and lean against the headboard. “I should have woken you up with a morning cunnilingus ages ago if this is the thanks I would've gotten,” you kiss her and Leigh smiles for a second until she reminds herself why she is acting this way.

Leigh is on a mission to make you see that you don't need Becca when you have her. No feelings. The rules echo in her head. This is just sex and friendship, nothing more. She tries to remind herself. At the moment she can't figure out how she ended up in this arrangement in the first place. Maybe it was something to do with that thing Becca mentioned to her about being touch starved. Maybe it was finding out that Matt had an emotional affair with his colleague. She could blame the arrangement on being a young widow and not wanting to give her heart to someone yet. Gosh she was a broken record lately. No wonder you were looking for something or more so someone more stable.

Your lips bring her back to the moment as you travel her body. “You’re so beautiful,” the compliment warns her heart, you don't normally compliment her so much. And under different circumstances, she might have left and not called you for a week but she loves how soft you're being with her right now. She hadn't realized how sweet you are until the thought of losing you started to become a reality.

“Let’s take it slow tonight,” she whispers as she lets go of the manic energy she came in with.

“Okay,” you caress her cheek as you agree. She leans into your touch as you do. You move your fingers under her chin and guide her into a slow kiss. She melts against you as your lips move together. You swiftly move the two of you so that you're on top of her. “Lay on your stomach,” you say. Leigh makes a face. “Just trust me.”

“Alright,” she flips onto her stomach and pulls the pillows under her arms to prop herself up comfortably. The mattress creeks as you leave the bed to retrieve the massage oil and Leigh lifts her head up. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to give you a massage,” you say as you return with the oil. You straddle her legs, your cock laying against her soft bottom, rubbing the oil on your hands before you start to spread it in her back. You are slow and careful with where you apply pressure. Leigh has never been given a massage as part of sex before and she wasn't sure how she felt about it yet. She couldn't deny that it felt good though, you really seemed to know what you were doing. As you rub her shoulders, you start to kiss her neck and as you move your hands lower, your lips and body follow.

You take a moment to rub and massage her butt cheeks then move onto her thighs. She started to hum as her body was a little sore from the classes she had to teach earlier. Leigh hadn't realized how much she needed this massage until she had your magic hands on her. Then as you're rubbing the back of her thigh, she feels your tongue inside of her and she lifts her head up again in surprise. She had gotten so lost in the other sensations that she forgot for a moment what the two of you were doing.

You only move your tongue inside of her for a minute or two before you return your focus to the massage. “Lay on your back now,” you say as you are now standing in front of the bed. Leigh flips over again, relaxing into the mattress in a way she never has before. You grab her left foot and start kneading it with your thumbs, following it with circular motions. Leigh wasn't someone that liked her feet touched in a sexual context but it's been forever since she's had a foot massage and the way you were doing it surprisingly wasn't turning her off. She's grateful when you don't kiss her feet.

You grab the towel you had brought with you and wipe the excess oil off of your hands. You crawl your way back up Leigh's body, stopping for a moment to kiss her pussy. You trace patterns on her skin with your tongue that send chills up her spine. She worries that it's about her too much and that she isn't doing anything to pleasure you but her thoughts leave her mind again as you latch your mouth on her breast with your fingers inside of her. She moves her hands from her sides to touch you as you continue to make her feel everything. She starts with running her fingers through your hair. It was longer than when she met you since you wanted to grow it out this year. She wasn't sure how this length would look on you but as it's grown, she hasn't had a single complaint. Then as your mouth moves across her chest, her hands move down your back. She can't massage you nearly as well as you had done for her but she does what she can and you appreciate the effort.

When you're done paying attention to her breasts, you pull your fingers out of Leigh. You trace her lips with the coated fingertips until you dip them in her mouth and she licks them clean. Your dick twitches at the sight. You kiss her on the mouth as you line yourself up at her entrance. You move the head of your penis up and down between her wet folds to prolong the action and then you reach for the condom on the nightstand.

“No,” Leigh stops you as she covers your hand with hers. “I don't want anything between us tonight,” she says. Always wear a condom, no matter what.

You nod, “Okay.”

You press into her entrance slowly and it's like she's feeling you for the first time. Like really feeling you. Not just riding you to get her climax. This isn't a drunken decision like the actual first time. This isn't just something that the two of you are doing to pass the time. This is real. The two of you are making love. This isn't fucking. This isn't just sex. It's slow and intimate and passionate. It's something that she wants for as long as she can have you. Leigh doesn't want to lose you to some other girl.

As the two of you make love, she decides that she isn't going to be afraid anymore. She is going to tell you how she feels about this arrangement and she hopes that you'll feel the same. As she gets closer to her climax her mind is wiped clean, not a thought haunts her as she chants, “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” over and over again. Anticipating her walls squeezing your penis so close to your own orgasm, you start to pull away from her, planning on having her finish on your mouth. But Leigh has other plans as you pull away, she locks her legs around your back, keeping you inside of her.

“Leigh, I won’t be able to hold off,” you warn her.

She kisses your mouth, “It’s okay, I want you inside.” Her words trigger the two of you to share the most euphoric orgasms either of you has ever had in your lives. You've never released inside of someone without a condom before and the feeling was like nothing you've ever experienced before. As for Leigh, she is enjoying every pulse of your penis as you empty your balls into her.

“Fuck, Leigh. What's gotten into you?” You pant out the question with a laugh as the two of you calm down. Once you start to soften, you pull out and roll next to her. Leigh is quick to roll on top of you, laying against your chest as you catch your breath.

“Nothing, just a thank you,” she replies as she snuggles against you. Holding you as close as she can. No cuddles or snuggles or any physical touch unless it's related to sex. Leigh tries to get her brain working again so she can tell you how she feels but she's also enjoying being in your presence and relaxing in the moment.

Unfortunately, there isn't a lot of time before your phone starts going off. You grab it from the nightstand and sigh with a frown. “I’m sorry, Leigh. I have to take this.” You kiss her on the lips while you pull away from her. Leigh wraps herself in your blanket as she watches you leave the room. You hop on one foot at a time as you put your basketball ball shorts on and answer the phone. “Hey cutie, what's up? Yeah, it's going great. Yeah, I'm sorry I couldn't tonight. But maybe we can do something tomorrow night?” You say as you walk away.

Leigh scoffs, she couldn't believe what she was overhearing. You had just came inside of her and you were making plans with Becca. Bubbly, positive, happy, pretty Becca. Not complicated and upfront with her feelings, Becca. Perfect widow, Becca. She gets out of the bed as she becomes blind with rage. She feels so used. Clearly breaking the rules wasn't enough to keep your attention. You still wanted her and not Leigh.

She angrily grabs her clothes off of the floor and when you return she is almost fully dressed. “What's wrong, Leigh?” You say as you notice how upset she is.

“You!” she snaps.

“What?” Leigh storms past you and you follow her. “Leigh, talk to me, please.” You try to get ahead of her before she can get to the door but the apartment is small and she has it swung open before you can push it closed. “Leigh, please, tell me what I did wrong!” You beg as you continue to chase her. It didn't make any sense, she was holding onto you. She let you cum inside of her. She sent you that picture. She was so happy five seconds ago. It couldn't have been the call, you've taken them a couple times before. One time she even answered the phone for you and sucked you off while you chatted with the girl. This doesn't make any sense.

“You had to start dating my best friend! Didn't you? What? One widow wasn't enough to have on your roster? You had to have two?” She shouts as she spins in front of you.

“Oh shit,” you stand there dumbly as you realize she knows about Becca. “Leigh, I'm sorry. I didn't think it would be a big deal. And best friend? Really?” She narrows her eyes at you.

“So not the point,” she starts through gritted teeth as she stops and spins to look at you, “she is still my friend. That's so low of you to put in this position!”

“Shit,” you shut your eyes as you understand where she's coming from now. “Leigh, please, come inside and let's talk about this.”

“Are you going to stop seeing her?”

“What?”

“It’s a simple yes or no question. Are you going to stop seeing Becca?” She asks again.

“I don't know,” you deflate. “Becca is the first person, other than you, who seems to get me. We connect well and she's sweet and considerate and goofy and if I'm honest, I kind of like hanging out with her. It's not easy dating these days.”

“Do you want to get serious with her?” Leigh asks.

You haven't really given it much thought. You were just enjoying your time with Becca right now. In a similar way you were enjoying your time with Leigh. “I don't know,” you shrug. “Maybe? But what do you care?”

“What do I care? Do you really think I'm so heartless?” Leigh says back. “I care because I’m in love with you! You fucking idiot!” Leigh freezes and her angry expression drops as her blood runs cold in her body. She doesn't give you a moment to respond or even process. Leigh gets in her car and leaves. This time, you don't chase after her.

Leigh knew she wanted an exclusive relationship but she didn't know how deep her feelings ran. Is she ready to be in love with someone? She isn't sure. Not after the rollercoaster that was Matt and his secrets. You and her were a secret and you kept it so well. Can she even trust you? Do you trust her?

Her phone ringing snaps her out of her thoughts for a second. She knows it's you. She can't answer. This is not an easy situation by any means and she needs to distance herself from you. Figure out how she really feels and maybe you will do the same. There's a chance she could lose you for good. Lose you to Becca. But that could be a good thing for both of you.

Your phone calls don't stop for the rest of the night. The next day it's text messages and the day after, it's nothing. You finally go silent and Leigh is both relieved and terrified. She has no idea what you're thinking right now. She has no idea how you feel. She cannot believe she said those words to you. What was she thinking? She wasn't.

The next week she receives a few messages from you, asking to talk, but she never responds. Leigh isolates herself from everyone she knows just in case you try to go to them to get to her. She doesn't hang out with Becca because she cannot stand to hear how great things are between the two of you. Or how horrible things are. Either way, she doesn't want to know. When her mom and Jules try to ask her what's wrong, she avoids the subject and they figure that she's having another “Matt episode” and they leave her be.

Leigh decides to visit her husband's grave and think about the life they could have had. Would she be in his arms right now while he thought of another woman? Would he have left her for this woman? Or was it a crush that would have faded? Would he ever come around to the idea of kids? Or would that have been their breaking point? Did they get married too young? Did they move too fast? She has so many unanswered questions about their relationship, and he isn't here to help her figure them out. Not that him being here would have been much help. There are so many questions surrounding you and instead of talking to you, she's hoping that ghosting you will keep you away.

Another week goes by and this time she doesn't hear from you at all. More silence. But there is no peace in it. She can't keep going like this. She wants to call you but she's scared. At least this way, the only person that gets hurt is her. You and Becca can be living happily ever after with each other and she will try to find something simple and easy. The weekend that her mom is away at a retreat and Jules is spending the night at her current girlfriends house, Leigh invites Drew to go out. She drinks and dances and flirts until she finds someone to go home with. It gets hot and heavy and she sloppily makes out with this person, trying to get their clothes off. Except, it doesn't go past the intense kissing because she breaks down into tears. She falls apart in the strangers apartment and they are nice enough to allow her the space to let it out. She ends up passing out there and they let Leigh sleep it off in their bed and they move to the coach. They drop her off at her house early the next morning.

“Leigh,” your voice is broken and you wake to her slamming the car door shut. Leigh’s face is a mess from sleeping and crying in her makeup but that's not what you're thinking when you set your eyes on her. You startle her as she climbs the porch steps. “Oh,” you say as you put two and two together. Leigh's hair and outfit are all out of sorts and you remember seeing her like that after a night with you. “Okay then, I'm clearly wasting my time here,” you rise and stretch your stiff limbs, sore from sleeping next to the front door, and wipe yourself off. “I’m sorry, I'll leave you alone.”

Leigh watches you in shock, you're standing in front of her. You're a mess and you're here. She has images in her head of what you would look like by now. Clean and happy and waking up to a nice warm breakfast with Becca. Not here. Not waiting for her all night. “What are you doing here?” The words come out harder than intended and she wants to rewind but it's too late.

You scoff, “Making a fool of myself, clearly.” You start to walk away but Leigh reaches for your wrist to stop you and you do. It's been far too long without her touch and even this little bit is more than enough to get you to fall apart.

“I’m sorry, I panicked,” she says in a small voice with her head down. You sigh as you fight against your better judgment. She has a hold on you that you didn't realize was there until you almost lost it. Or maybe you have lost it. You don't know yet. “I’m not good at this. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do.”

You aren't sure if she means that she's not good at ending things or if she's not good at fixing them. You look over at your car and think about the night you ended things with Becca. You still weren't certain if you felt the same way about Leigh or if you had those feelings for Becca so you had to see for yourself. You continued to talk with her after the whole thing with Leigh but you kept your distance. Then you finally took her on a date, ready to end the night in bed with her but throughout the evening you noticed how you had to force yourself to continue a conversation or even pay attention to one of her stories. It was natural with Leigh. When you tried to sneak a taste of her food she got weird and territorial about it, surprisingly Leigh never did. Whatever you thought you had with Becca before Leigh's confession was gone and you realized that the only person you wanted to be with was Leigh. So when you dropped Becca off at her apartment and she tried to kiss you, you stopped her and told her that you had a complicated thing with someone else and that you couldn't continue with Becca anymore. She took it very hard. She was in tears and she couldn't believe that you had strung her along the way you did. You tried to tell her it wasn't like that but it didn't do any good. It was hard to end things with her but it was what was best for the both of you.

Now you have to work it out with Leigh. Well, either you work it out or you have to let her go. “Just talk to me, Leigh. You tell me that you love me and then you run away. I've been worried sick for weeks and you wouldn't talk to me!” You pull your wrist out of her grasp and pace between her and the front door. Pulling on your already messy hair. “Then I come here and wait all night for you to let me in and you're off fucking someone else!” You stop in front of Leigh with red eyes and tears at the brim. “Am I stupid for being here?”

“No,” Leigh says as a wave of sadness hits her. Her lips quiver and she drops her shoes to grab your shirt to pull you close to her. “No, you're not stupid. I'm so sorry,” you let her lean against you, but you don't wrap your arms around her yet. Leigh sighs, happy to feel you again. “Gosh, I've missed you,” she whispers into your chest. “I didn't have sex with that person. I tried to but I didn't want to. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have ghosted you. I should have stayed. I'm sorry. Is it too late?” She pulls back enough to look at you.

Looking in her eyes, she is being sincere and vulnerable and you've never fallen for anyone harder than you are right now. You know that things won't always be easy with Leigh. But she is worth it. You wrap your arms around her and bring her into a warm embrace. You feel your heartbeat against you and it heals the cracks in your heart. “No, it's not too late.” You hold her. “But I do think we need to start over.”

“Okay, yeah,” she nods and sniffles. “Whatever you want. I'll do it. I just want to be with you,” she holds you tighter.

“I just want to be with you,” you say as you step back and pull her into a passionate kiss. It didn’t matter to you that she had a bad morning breath with a hint of whatever alcohol she consumed the night before. And your morning breath didn’t affect her either. In fact, she wanted more of you. But you pull away before she can deepen the kiss and rest your forehead against hers. “Will you let me take you out on a proper date, Leigh Shaw?”

“Yes, I will,” the two of you kiss again.

The End.

#smut #leigh shaw #leigh shaw smut #leigh shaw x reader #leigh shaw x you

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queenlucythevaliant · 18 days

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Okay, here we go. Rating literary allusions in Taylor Swift songs:

The Outside: "I tried to take the road less traveled by /but nothing seems to work the first few times/am I right?"--Starting off pretty well! She tried to take the road less traveled by, but it didn't make any difference. 8/10

Love Story: Whole song allusion to Romeo and Juliet-- All those 2008 jokes about Taylor not having read R&J weren't funny then and they aren't funny now. It's a fun, satisfying subversion. However, I am going to dock points for the fact that Romeo and Juliet aren't a prince and princess, just rich. 7/10

Love Story: "You were Romeo/I was a scarlet letter"--Is the Juliet character in "Love Story" being publicly shamed? Did she do something scandalous? There are zero other lines in this song to suggest that she did, and a fair amount of evidence that she didn't. This allusion confuses rather than clarifies and tbh this is the one people should've made fun of in 2008. 2/10

New Romantics: "We show off our different scarlet letters/ trust me, mine is better" --Hooray! She figured out what the book is about! This is a beautifully executed allusion, where "scarlet letters" represents a mark of something shameful which, in a fun subversion, is being shown off with pride. Fits the song really well. Most improved award, 11/10

Getaway Car: "It was the best of times, the worst of crimes" (A Tale of Two Cities) -- Goes in the category of "fun wordplay, but doesn't really mean anything deeper" 5/10

This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things: "Feeling so Gatsby for that whole year" --This is a perfectly serviceable allusion, but not a super interesting one. Sub "Gatsby" out with "nostalgic" and the song wouldn't change at all. She could've done a lot more with the reference, given the subject matter of the song. 6/10

cardigan: "I knew you/tried to change the ending/Peter losing Wendy" -- This works! You get a sense of Betty losing her innocence and choosing to leave James and of it being inevitable somehow. Plus, it imbues the song with a lovely fairy tale quality. 10/10

illicit affairs: "take the road less traveled by/tell yourself you can always stop" -- To take the road less traveled by is to do something risky, unpopular, or unfamiliar, not just to take a route through town where you won't run into people. Not totally egregious, but the regression from Debut is disappointing. 4/10

invisible string: "and isn't it just so pretty to think/ that all along there was some/ invisible string tying you to me."(The Sun Also Rises)--Ugggggh. Okay, so "Isn't it pretty to think so?" is this sad, tired, ironic note in The Sun Also Rises. Brett tells Jake, "We could have had a damned good time together" and Jake says "Isn't it pretty to think so?" because their whole situationship was never going to work. It's not a positive thing; it's pure, bitter Lost Generation irony. Completely out-of-place in a song about how two people we're supposed to believe will actually work as a couple. This one drives me nuts, and I don't even like Hemingway. 0/10

happiness: "I hope she'll be a beautiful fool/ who takes my spot next to you" (Gatsby)--Saying this about an ex's future SO is so... off. Like, the reason why Daisy hopes her daughter will be a beautiful fool is because it's easy. The two situations have nothing to do with one another, and not in an interesting way. 1/10

The Albatross: whole song allusion to "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," but most notably "She's the albatross/ she is here to destroy you"--The albatross in the Rime is a good omen. The Mariner shoots is for no reason, and the albatross's death is the ostensible source of bad fortune. I wrote a whole separate post on this here. That said, culturally "albatross=bad omen" is common enough, so whatever. 3/10

I Hate It Here: "I will go to secret gardens in my mind/ people need a key to get to/ the only one is mine" -- I like this one a lot. Exactly the right vibe for the song, trying to escape something miserable by going somewhere pleasant. The key is a nice touch. Poor Archibald. 10/10

The Prophecy: "I got cursed like Eve got bitten" --No Taylor, that's not what happened. Famously, Eve was the biter in that situation. 0/10

Cassandra: whole song allusion -- correct me if I'm wrong (I haven't actually read the Illiad), but my understanding is that Cassandra died fairly far into the Trojan war, and not by burning. 4/10

#this probably isn't exhausive lol #but it's what i've got off the top of my head #this was weirdly cathartic to write #you guys know i adore taylor swift but literary allusions have always been my biggest nitpick with her #i would just like to send her to an English class or gently help her out or something idk #tay tay #i'm aware that i'm not addressing Peter off ttpd but that song is such a nothingburger that i really can't be bothered #pontifications and creations #literature makes us more human

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gwenllian-in-the-abbey · 3 months

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What do you think of book&show!Rhaenyra as characters? And who do you like more?

Hi anon! I've been turning this one over in my mind since you sent it, because I wanted to give it some thought (and anyone who is sick of reading show critical stuff, just skip this one. I don't hate the show, I just think it's interesting and fun to dig a bit deeper). What it comes down to for me is that while book!Rhaenyra is fun, I wish the show had been braver with their depiction of Rhaenyra.

While book!Rhaenyra's motivations are not particularly complex, I feel like I understand her better than show!Rhaenyra. She hasn't heard a prophesy, nor does she feel any real responsibility toward the kingdom to make her second guess the war; her father had made her heir and that was that. Anyone who disagrees can go ahead and die. Her motivations are not particularly noble or self-sacrificing. If anything, it's the opposite. Book!Rhaenyra loves the finer things in life, she's headstrong, and a bit of a mean girl. She goes after what she wants unapologetically, lies through her teeth and never backs down. Book!Rhaenyra never weighs the consequences of her actions, she is vengeful and reactive. She is given terms which would allow her to keep Dragonstone in perpetuity, and unlike her show counterpart, she doesn't even consider them. She says no outright, even before Luke is killed, and replies to tell Aegon that, "I shall have my crown or I shall have his head." And while surely she values the lives of her sons, you get the sense that she never even considers the danger this war puts them in because losing isn't even an option for her. She's going to win because of course she is. And as a reader, you never question her motivations really because, whether you agree with her or not, it is easy to understand that she is fueled by a self-righteous conviction that she will be taking what she feels belongs to her, and woe be to anyone who gets in her way.

Show!Rhaenyra, on the other hand, is more thoughtful. We see this when she's crying at half-dead Viserys' bedside telling him that being heir is a burden, and we see it when she truly considers Otto's peace offer, when she tears up to see the page that Alicent saved from their girlhood. We see it in how she talks to her sons and in the way she apologizes to Alicent at the dinner table. She seems to have some concept of what is at stake, and understands that the throne is a tremendous burden and responsibility, and that the lives of her people are in her hands, and moreover that she does have the option of backing down. When she considers the peace offer, she very clearly states that the prophesy means that she has a responsibility to keep the realm stable, and maybe it is not the best thing for the realm is to throw it into civil war in order to sit the throne at all costs. But all of this, the added sense of awareness of the enormity of the the responsibility and the desire to do right by the realm, while they make her an easier person to support, also makes a lot of her actions that much harder to understand.

One of my main nitpicks with the show as a whole is that the actions of the book characters do not always fit the personalities of the show characters, and so the characterization seems inconsistent. Rhaenyra is aware of the gravity of her position, she learns about the prophesy and the threat to the realm, and then proceeds to have three bastard children (and this is a problem, because it jeopardizes her position. If she gets caught or Corlys/Laenor change their minds and disavow those kids, it's over for her). We have things like Rhaenyra asking for Aemond to be "sharply questioned," which comes from the book, when the episode before she was offering up a dragon and a Jace/Helaena engagement (a show invention, and even though it's not a great deal for the greens if you give it some thought, it reads to the audience as a peace offering). Or you have her telling Daemon she needs his help to fight the greens, and there's this whole conversation about making their enemies believe they're the kind of people who will kill to protect Rhaenyra's claim, but then in episode 8 they have this attempt at reconciliation between Alicent and Rhaenyra and in episode 10 Rhaenyra is going on about how Daemon has "gone to madness, gone to his war." She's seriously entertaining Otto's peace offer (which never happened in the book) while sending her sons off to muster support.

F&B has pretty thin characterization, but what is there comes mostly from the characters' actions and their dialogue. To create a consistent character, the writers needed to start there and ask, what kind of person would say these things and do these things, rather than taking the character they conceived, and trying to shoehorn canon events into that characterization. And the thing is, the show could have created a more fleshed out version of book!Rhaenyra and still made her sympathetic. Take Shiv Roy from Succession, for instance. Shiv is someone who is a victim of misogyny, but also undeniably not the best choice for CEO (neither, of course, are any of her brothers). She's overprivileged and not nearly as experienced or as smart as she thinks she is, she gets in her own way, and in trying to be "one of the boys," she consistently overshoots and alienates actual allies. But she's also a victim of misogyny-- she is expected to provide a woman's touch to delicate matters, but is expected to be as ruthless and cutthroat as the men. Her fuckup brothers are given endless second chances, but Shiv has no such leeway. The specter of motherhood hangs over her constantly-- once she becomes a mother, she will be cast out from the world of men, an asterisk beside her name. And show!Rhaenyra does lean into this a bit (think of Rhaenyra's boobs leaking in the small council, her being stuck giving birth at the moment when leadership is needed in episode 10), but it doesn't commit to the darker side of this. It is not brave enough to make Rhaenyra a bad person as well as a victim.

The thing about Succession is that the show never asked us to view Shiv as good, or as a better choice than her brothers. It didn't even ask us to find her particularly sympathetic, although I certainly do find Shiv sympathetic in some ways. She has a genuine love for her family that makes the moments when she betrays them even more bittersweet, and we can understand her as a pretty bad person while still understanding the ways in which patriarchy screwed her over. In fact, in some ways it was refreshing to see that a woman could be privileged, ruthless and occasionally cruel and still get fucked over (this article is a good breakdown of Shiv-- now imagine a Rhaenyra in this mold!). But central to the difference between HotD and Succession is that Succession doesn't ask us to view the "throne" as a force of good, nor the position as a force of change. The CEO position in Succession is pretty explicitly toxic. Roman refers to the company itself explicitly as a cage. The audience is meant to understand that the person who "wins" is going to be more miserable and more morally compromised as a result. And the Iron Throne is similar. It's a throne made of literal swords! The closer you get to it, the more cursed and compromised you become. But so far, HotD not only insists on casting Rhaenyra as a protagonist, with the addition of the prophesy and the vision of the white hart, winning the throne becomes something she must do for the greater good, her claim something she has been righteously chosen to uphold. And if winning the throne is righteous, then the throne itself must be righteous too. And that's a framing that I don't think can hold up through the Dance, but I fear that the show may have backed itself into a corner by casting Rhaenyra as the correct choice, which inherently frames the throne as something she is right to fight for, no matter the cost to the people, her family, or herself.

#asks #hotd critical #hotd vs succession #rhaenyra targaryen #shiv roy

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clonerightsagenda · 9 days

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Could you please recommend some sources or would you be able to give a summary on how swordfighting would work in spacesuits? I'm doing book research, am trying to figure out how it would differ and ended up browsing your space tags for facts.

Ok, first of all, I absolutely love that people are coming to me for weird space scenarios now. That being said, I don't know anything about swordfighting. So I will give you some thoughts from the space perspective, and perhaps some people with swordplay experience can chime in.

First of all, what's important to remember is that spacesuits are pressurized. They're not as pressurized as shuttles and stations, which means you have to breathe pure O2 or sit in a less pressurized airlock for a while so you don't get the bends on your spacewalk, but they're still somewhat pressurized. That makes it very hard to bend the joints. Spacewalking is a workout - many astronauts take Ibuprofen beforehand. It also wrecks your hands and nails - one astronaut even removed their nails before they could fall off. Finger dexterity goes way down. Your range of motion is limited, as is your field of vision - you've got your helmet visor, but good luck turning your head over your shoulder. It's also quite easy to overheat, and if you build up sweat and condensation in your visor, there's no way to clear it off.

Overall, I'll be honest - I struggle to see people successfully swordfighting in modern spacesuits. Visibility is bad. They're too stiff and clumsy. You'd lose your grip on the sword and it would go spinning into the void, and possibly you rip off some fingernails at the same time.

But fear not! Something that's been in the works for a while is what MIT calls the Biosuit. The idea here is a skintight compression garment that provides the same pressure as a traditional spacesuit but with less bulk and more mobility. It even looks a bit like fencing gear! If you're writing a book where space swordfighting is a thing, I'd say go with a spacefuture where they have suits like this. Preferably made out of fabric that's very resistant to slashing and stabbing. Even so, given the dangers of a suit rupture or getting knocked into the void, I'd think getting into a fight outside a ship or station would be an act of last resort.

Inside a pressurized station or vessel where you're not going to drop your sword and never see it again, blades make a lot more sense - you don't want to hit a gas line or ignite the atmosphere! Your biggest concern at that point would be the laws of motion. If you hit someone with force, you might go flying backward. I imagine that would change the kind of blocks and strikes you use, but again, I know nothing about swordplay. An entirely new school of zero G swordfighting might develop? There's some room to play around!

#terrible space facts

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vbecker10 · 1 year

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My Best Friend...

Part 2 of 2 (Part 1 here)

Pairing: Loki x plus size female reader (y/n)

Warnings: angst (of course), self depreciating thoughts, feeling inadequate, issues with self image, low self worth... but I promise lots of fluff - let me know if I forgot anything 💚

Summary: What you thought would be a relaxing girls night quickly turns into an interrogation by Nat and Wanda about your non-existent relationship with Loki. After denying you are anything other then friends for as long as you can, you finally tell them how you really feel about him... and why you know he will never feel the same. The night goes from bad to worse when you realize Loki overheard you talking to them and you try to hide from him.

A/N: I know I promised this would be all fluff but you should know not to listen to me lol also... I know this part got really long, I didn't want to make it three parts though

Tag List: A lot of people asked to be tagged in the second part of this which is amazing but I'm not sure if you want to be tagged in my other Loki fics as well so please let me know 💚

Dividers by: @harlequin-hangout

You leave the common room in a hurry and head down one long hallway then another. Stopping short at the end of the hall, you realize in your haste to get away from Loki and your friends, you've gone in the wrong direction. Instead of going towards the elevators so you could make your escape from the Tower, you found yourself at the library. You curse under your breath and wonder how you could be this careless. Turning around slowly, you know the only way to get to the elevators is to go back the way you came.

Your phone vibrates as you stand in front of the tall door, deciding if you should go in and try to hide here for the night or go back and risk running into Nat and Wanda or worse, Loki. Checking your phone, you see 10 new messages in your group chat as well as a missed call from both Wanda and Nat. Your finger hovers over the chat but you don't open it, you know they are worried about you but you can't talk to anyone right now. You just want to pretend the whole night never happened.

Turning off your phone, you take a deep breath then push open the door to the library. Wandering slowly through the large room, you make your way up one aisle of books and down another. You try not to think of how much the space reminds you of Loki but it is nearly impossible to keep him out of your thoughts. You make your way towards the back of the library, the part that reminds you of him the most. When you reach the last aisle you can't help but pause, remembering the last time you were here with him.

One day last week, Loki and you had made plans to get takeout and watch the final few episodes of a TV show you had both become overly invested in. He hadn't responded to your text about what he wanted to order so you went to his room but he wasn't there. You smiled to yourself, knowing exactly where he would be hiding as you headed down to the library. He would spend hours reading in the furthest corner with a cup of tea forgotten about but kept warm by his magic. Everyone on the team knew he was not to be interrupted when he was there, it was his escape after a difficult mission or a disagreement with his brother. This rule didn't apply to you however, Loki had made it clear to you that you were always welcome.

When you found him, he was sitting on the end of one of the couches reading a thick leather bound book. It was easy to see how lost he was in the story, his eyes shifted back and forth as he read the words quickly before turning the page. You leaned against one of the shelves watching him silently, not wanting to disturb him. After a few moments, he looked up and saw you waiting for him. He closed the book and apologized for losing track of time, he had meant to reply to your message but he wanted to finish the chapter he was reading.

You laughed, "How many chapters ago was that?"

He opened the book again and began to flip backwards, closing it with a smirk, "Six."

You moved to sit next to him then you picked up the book from where he had set it on the table. "What's it about?" you asked curiously as you looked at the foreign words on the pages.

When he finished telling you about the book you were hooked and quickly asked if he could help you find a copy in English you could read. His face fell slightly at your request and he responded, "Unfortunately, it is one that I brought from my personal library on Asgard." He paused, noticing how disappointed you looked. After a moment he smiled and said, "I could read it to you if you'd like."

You shake the memory away, Loki is supposed to start reading the story to you tomorrow but that might never happen now. Your heart begins to pound in your chest as you hear the door to the library slowly open and close with a light thud. Staying completely still and silent, you wait for someone to speak but instead you hear heavy footsteps and know instantly they don't belong to Nat or Wanda, it's Loki.

"Y/N, are you in here?" he calls out from the front of the library.

At first you don't respond, hoping he will go away but then you hear him coming closer. You walk backwards until your back hits a wall and you slide down so you are sitting against it. You hear him come to a stop a few aisles from you and at first you are unsure what he is doing. You bite your lip anxiously but then you hear your own voice, it's your voicemail message. He groans in frustration as he hangs up without leaving a message. His footsteps begin again, still coming closer as he makes his way down the next aisle.

"Y/N?" he tries again, you can hear the concern in his voice while he looks for you. "I know you didn't leave the Tower," he says and you curse yourself again for having made a wrong turn.

"Please... just go away Loki," you finally respond and his movement stops.

"Can we talk?" he asks over the shelves of books. You shake your head even though you know he can't see you. "I just need to know you are ok," he says.

"I'm fine," you answer with a sniffle as you wipe your eyes. You hadn't realized you had begun crying again.

He sighs, "I don't need to be the God of Lies to know that isn't true." He waits to see if you will answer and when you don't he starts to walk towards you again.

His footsteps become louder and slower when he reaches the aisle you are hiding in. He doesn't say anything and you don't look up, still hoping he will leave but you know now he won't. Instead you feel him sit next to you on the ground and gently place one arm around you, his hand slowly moving up and down your upper arm. You can't help but lean into him, allowing him to pull you closer.

Your mind wanders back to the only time you had ever hugged Loki in the six months you've known each other. A few days after you had begun talking everyday he had to leave for a mission and was gone for a little over a week. The data retrieval mission was ultimately labeled a success despite the intel being outdated and Loki getting injured. Thankfully, it was a shallow wound and he healed before the jet landed at the compound but that didn't stop you from worrying about him. You hadn't meant to hug him but the minute you saw him, you ran up to him and wrapped your arms around him tightly, telling him you were glad he was back. For an agonizingly long second, he didn't hug you back and you thought you had done something wrong but then his tall frame relaxed and he leaned down to hug you back. You could have stayed like that forever, closing your eyes as you pressed your cheek to his chest. Suddenly his phone began to ring and his hand left your back so he could talk to whichever woman he was supposed to see that weekend. As soon as he answered the call, you let go of him and walked quietly to your office, not looking back to see if he noticed you had gone.

Your memory caused you to shift uncomfortably and Loki loosened the gentle hold he had of you, allowing you to pull away. You look away from him and say again, "I'm fine, you don't have to stay."

"You are not fine and I'm not leaving," he says in a soothing voice as he touches your cheek lightly, wiping away your tears. "We can talk or we can sit here in silence all night, it is up to you," he tells you and you nod at the choices.

You sniffle and clear your throat before asking, "How... how much did you hear Loki?"

He rubs his hands together slowly, a gesture you know he only does when he is anxious, "I heard Wanda bring up Exhibit B and... I'm sorry I know I should have left, I did not plan on interrupting your girls night but I was curious." Your mouth falls open in disbelief, you had hoped he only heard the end of your rant about being in love with him, but he had heard almost everything the three of you talked about. You sit in silence next to him, not sure what to say so he continues. "Rogers and I completed our mission early and I only went to the common room to let you know I was back. I wanted to see you for just a moment, I've missed you so much the last two days," he says.

You look up at him, your mind trying to register what he had said. Loki had never told you he missed you before, even when he had been away on longer missions.

"I have to admit, I thought it was a bit silly that Natasha and Wanda were so adamant that we were dating in secret because-" he starts to explain.

"Because you would obviously never date me," you interrupt him without thinking. "Because you wouldn't want to be with someone who looked like me," you say as you cross your arms over your chest and look down. "I know, you only date tall, skinny, beautiful women and I am not one of them, it was pathetic of me to even pretend you might be vaguely interested in me."

"No, Y/N, that's not why," he says firmly but he can tell you aren't listening to him. "Please, look at me love."

The pet name is almost too much for you at the moment, you get up from the floor as quickly as you can without saying a word. You take a few steps away from him but stop when you feel his fingers close around your wrist. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry I ever said anything," you whisper as you look at the ground. "I should have just kept my stupid feelings to myself, I've ruined everything."

Loki pulls on your wrist slightly causing you to turn towards him as he walks closer to you. He stands directly in front of you, his other hand strokes your cheek then follows your jawline until he can gently lift your chin. You look up at him and he smiles in return then suddenly your heart begins to race as you realize Loki is closing the distance between your lips and his. He kisses you softly, his hand never leaving your chin while his other hand lets go of your wrist and settles on your lower back.

When his lips leave yours, you look up at him in utter shock and he chuckles lightly, "Can I speak now?" All you can do is nod as you search for words. "The reason I thought it was silly, is because if we were dating," he says with a smirk, "I would never keep it a secret. I would want everyone to know that you are mine and I am yours." You stare at him still not able to form a proper sentence.

"Do you know why I never go on dates anymore?" he asks after a moment of silence passes between you.

You shrug, finally able to speak again as he removes his hand from your chin but not your back, "Not really, it was right after we started hanging out. We never talked about it but... I just assumed you were tired of Steve and Tony telling you to slow down before you slept with every woman in New York City or because Fury would get really angry when your dates ended up in the tabloids."

"I would need to value the opinion of the three of them if either of those were the real reason," he says and you look at him confused.

"I'm not sure why then," you admit.

"I stopped going out because I had no need of them, I found someone I wanted to be with for more than just one night," he tells you. "Do you remember the first night we spent time together, just the two of us?" You nod and he smiles. "Gods, you were so adorably nervous when you asked me if I wanted to watch a movie with you. I never told you this but I was looking forward to it so much, I forgot to cancel my date that night. I had several very angry text messages when I finally checked my phone the next morning."

Before you can stop yourself you ask, "Wait, you want me to believe that you were so excited to watch a movie with me, you literally forgot to text a super model back?"

He corrects you, "I'm not sure if that one was a model or an actress, they all blurred together after a while and I honestly couldn't tell you the name of the movie we watched either." He pauses, taking note of your growing confusion. "Y/N, I had been wanting to get to know you outside of our few work interactions since you started at SHIELD and when you asked me to spend time with you, I was thrilled but also a bit shocked."

You look down at your shoes and whisper, "Nat dared me."

"She what?" he asks.

"Nat knew I had a crush on you so she dared me to talk to you more," you tell him. "She suggested we watch a movie but I told her you would be busy with more interesting things and there was no way you would ever agree to it... but then you did and I kinda panicked. I almost didn't show up for the movie but Nat practically dragged me to the common room. I'm glad she did though, cause otherwise we never would have gotten to be friends," you say with a laugh but your smile fades when you see he isn't smiling back. "Loki?" you ask.

"I've wanted to be more than your friend for so long Y/N but no matter how hard I try, you never let me in. Even something as simple as wanting to give you a compliment. You would come back with a sarcastic comment or a self-deprecating joke to bring yourself down. I don't like how you talk about yourself, love," he says.

"That's my defense mechanism," you tell him. "I- I thought you were just a shameless flirt because of the stories I've heard from Thor and the fact that you call everyone darling. When you say I'm beautiful or perfect I just- I would make jokes to remind myself that I wasn't either of those things and it was just your personality."

"But you are Y/N both of those things and more," he tells you and you can feel a blush creep across your cheeks. "Calling women darling is nothing more than an old habit," he touches your warm cheeks and you look up at him. "You are the only one I call love," he reminds you with a smile.

You can't help but giggle at the pet name he uses so frequently with you, "I had noticed that but I thought-"

"Stop," he says softly. "No more excuses," he urges and you nod.

"Y/N", he says seriously, "You are everything I have ever wanted. I love that I can spend hours on end talking to you or we can simply sit together and read in comfortable silence. It makes me feel lucky to know you worry about me when I am on missions and you are here, waiting for me to return. We have so many similar interests but you still manage to teach me new things constantly. I can't tell you how much I enjoy seeing this city with you every weekend and I wish I could bring you to see Asgard one day. I want to spend every minute I can with you," he pauses to chuckle lightly, "That's part of why I insist on you staying the night so often. I sleep better when you are the last person I see at night and the first person I see in the morning. You are caring and quirky, intelligent, sweet and you are perfect."

You stand in front of Loki in silence as your heart feels like it is about to explode with excitement. You smile from ear to ear, having never in your wildest dreams thought this was possible.

He puts his arms around you and pulls you flush against him. "I cannot believe you thought something as trivial as your weight would keep me from falling in love with you," he says.

You can't help but shrug, "I guess it sounds kinda silly when you say it like that."

He smiles, one hand firmly on your lower back while his other hand runs up and down your arm lightly. You look up at him, your arms around his waist. "I want to date you Y/N," he says simply.

"I would really, really like that," you tell him and he laughs at how excited you sound. He leans down to kiss you again and this time you kiss him back. When he breaks the kiss, his fingers gently follow the chain of your necklace until he is holding the charm in his hand.

"This is very pretty, my love, but I would like to make one small adjustment to it. Would you mind?" he asks and you nod, curious to see what he will do to it.

He closes his fingers around the small gold flower and a green glow spreads over his knuckles. When he opens his hand a few seconds later, the clear stone that was in the center of the flower is now a deep emerald green, the same shade as Loki's cape. You smile and say, "Green is my favorite color."

He chuckles, "I know, it's one of the many things I love about you." You kiss his cheek and thank him, he knew you had wanted the necklace with a green stone but the artist had sold out of those before you could buy one.

You take Loki's hand and bite your lip, "Um, so it's pretty late."

He smiles, "It is."

"Should I stay with you tonight?" you ask Loki.

"I think that would be a fantastic idea," he answers.

The two of you walk quietly through the Tower, back to his room still holding hands tightly. He opens the door to his apartment and lets you walk in first. As soon as he closes the door he puts one arm around your waist and pulls you close to him again. He leans down to kiss you then suddenly he picks you up. You giggle in surprise and put your arms around his neck as he carries you through the living room towards his bedroom, his lips never leaving yours. He walks towards the bed then turns so he can fall onto it backwards with you on top of him.

As soon as his back hits the mattress you pull back from the kiss and instinctively try to move off of him. He lets go of you with one arm but keeps the other around you loosely. He moves your hair behind your ear and is concerned by your sudden change in expression.

"Have I done something wrong? We can stop, I didn't mean to go too far," he says in a worried tone.

"No, no, it's nothing you did," you say as you look away from him. "It's just... I'm too big to be on top of you like this. My ex used to complain about it, he said I was too heavy and-"

Loki kisses your cheek softly, stopping you mid-sentence. He makes sure you are looking into his eyes and he smiles. "Y/N... I carried you here," he says. "And I laid down first so I would be under you."

You blink slowly as you look at him beneath you, "You did."

"Which means..." he starts, hoping you will finish his thought.

"Which means... you don't think I'm too heavy?" you ask slowly.

"My love, I don't know many things about your ex but I do know that he never deserved you if that is how he spoke to you," he says. "You don't need to worry about that pathetic mortal anymore. You belong to a... how did you put it? Ah yes, a freaking prince and a god," he laughs a bit and you can't help but smile when he says you belong to him. "You know, I think I might have a talk with my brother about having my official title adjusted."

You giggle and bury your face in the crook of his neck, finally relaxing and allowing your body to settle onto Loki's. He hugs you tightly and whispers, "I need you to remember something for me Y/N, I don't love you because of your body or in spite of it, I love you wholly and completely, every part of you because you are perfect." You nod, taking in his words as he runs his fingers through your hair. "I will not let anyone speak ill of my queen," he tilts your chin so you are looking at him, "And that includes you. I want you to tell me if these ugly thoughts return to that beautiful mind of yours."

"I promise," you tell him quietly and he guides your lips back to his.

"We should probably get some sleep," Loki says and you agree. "Should I sleep on the couch or..." he pauses. You don't move from where you are laying and mumble with your eyes closed. "I have no idea what you said," he laughs.

"I want to cuddle," you say clearer, picking your head up a bit.

"Cuddles it is," he agrees with a smile.

The two of you get under the covers after quickly putting on clothes to sleep in. Loki lays on his back and you curl up with your head on his chest again, listening to his heartbeat as you close your eyes.

He kisses the top of your head while his fingers trace small circles on your back. "You know," he says quietly, "There is something else Nat and Wanda were right about.

"Hmm?" you mumble, barely listening to him as you drift off to sleep.

"Well, it does seem silly for you to keep paying rent on your apartment when you could just live here with me," he says.

You sit up just as he shuts the light off. "Goodnight love," he says with a smirk.

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skywlker-sluvtt · 1 year

Note

Thinkin bout how those extra midichlorians prolly made anakin extra horny and also so easy to make horny

Like he'd shove u against the wall just cus he needs to stick his dick in someone so bad. He lays his eyes on u boom pp hard he just thinks about anything remotely sexy boom pp hard.

And he can't even deal with it by himself all the time sometimes he's stuck there jerking off trying to come but he can't and he is so horny he feels like he's about to burst. He tries every trick in the book, even toys but it just doesn't work all the time so he is just stuck there with his aching cock

UGHGUHGHGHGHG

nah because it's lowkey so hot i feel like it'd be really fun to just tease him about it and make him jizz his pants.

such an aotc ani thing btw. if yall were both jedi he'd totally be into begging you to hide in storage closets with him for a quickie or beg you for a blow job because you got him all worked up. he'd lose his shit if you just pressed him up against the wall and rubbed his cock through his thick robes whispering dirty things in his ear. calling him a dumb little whore.

"you're such a stupid little thing. meant to be the most powerful jedi in the galaxy and you can't even keep it in your fucking pants. pathetic."

he gets off so damn hard from being degraded like that. he just whimpers and whines rutting his cock against your hand until he creams his fucking pants. you just give him a coy smile and leave him to clean himself up. he's all embarrassed and everything. so he should be aotc anakin's such a little cunt.

rots ani is a different story. by then he's a lot more sexually demanding and kinda turns the tables so to speak. he'd definitely make more of an attempt to do it himself but when he can't anakin just has to grab you and pin you against the nearest surface for a quick fuck. this time he's the one doing all the dirty talk.

"kriff, you feel so good n tight. that's it my precious slut, my dirty little cum dump taking me so well"

"you're so good to me taking me where ever I need you. such a pretty thing"

omfg daddy chill

happening on the daily cuz we know dude is always horny <3

#GOING FERAL #anakin skywalker #anakin x reader #anakin skywalker smut #ani wani #aotc anakin #rots anakin #star wars smut #anakin fic #thanks for the ask bby

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brf-rumortrackinganon · 3 months

Text

Endgame: The Book Report

So here it is. It kinda goes off the rails towards the end. That's the problem with having to drink through this: it's very easy to lose your train of thought, so you end up rambling.

As always, the TL;DR first. I'm goign to use headings and subheadings in the report below for easier skimming.

There aren't many new revelations, but there's still a bombshell.

It's not as bad as Finding Freedom but it's still not good.

Scobie definitely holds a grudge for the way he was treated after Finding Freedom published.

The hypocrisy is unreal.

Scobie and the Sussexes don't understand how business works.

An important conversation on race gets lost.

Rage against the machine and media

Not many new revelations, but there's still a bombshell.

There isn't a whole lot that's new. Most of the book (maybe 75%/80%) is things we already know about because they were covered extensively by the media when it happened.

Sources. He never names names, so the whole thing is written based on anonymous sources and it doesn't seem reliable. Not to mention, some of the sources read like it might be the same person, but Scobie is treating them as different people so it looks like he has a ton of sources. It suggests, to me, that he doesn't have the kind of access he claims to (which is probably true. There was a leak a couple months ago by one of the royal reporters that Scobie once called them begging for contacts and sources because no one was talking to him) and he's scrambling to cover it up.

Piers Morgan. Scobie confirms that Piers is close to Camilla. They grew up near each other and have fond memories of their hometown that they’ve connected over. There’s a 10-year age gap between them so it’s more like they have people/experiences in common than they played together. Scobie is careful not to say that he thinks Camilla gives information to Piers but he makes it clear that Piers’s loyalty has not gone unrecognized by Camilla.

The Bee, The Wasp, and The Fly. Harry's villains in Spare, which he nicknamed so he wouldn't be sued could speak more openly about them. I remember a lot of guessing about who these were but I can't recall if anyone confirmed their names. Well, Scobie does.

The Bee is Edward Young, whom Harry hates because “Young abused his gatekeeping power, gaslighting him when it came to passing along important messages about his lawsuits to the media, and then prohibiting access to his grandmother when Harry needed her the most, all under the guise of ‘protecting the sovereign’.” Harry and Scobie also believe that Young truly loathed Meghan and “was slow to help find patronages and active roles” for her after the wedding. “Sources say he ‘dithered’ for eight months before nudging Queen Elizabeth II to appoint Meghan as the royal patron for the National Theatre.” (So Meghan is incapable of doing her own work to find suitable charities and patronages? So much for hitting the ground running like she claimed.)

The Wasp is Clive Alderton. He's Charles's crony.

The Fly is Simon Case, whom Harry sees as the cause for his and William’s relationship breaking. In Harry’s perspective, Case made moves that prioritized William’s role as heir without consideration for Harry. Some of Case’s actions felt like they were made to promote William at Harry’s expense (for instance, Harry believes Case pushed British media to attack the Sussexes over their travel by private flight and organized the Cambridges’ commercial Flybe flight to Balmoral with the express purpose of being able to tip off the press).

Rota System. Scobie describes how the rota works. It is the most complete explanation of how the rota works that I can recall reading in royal books and I can't see them being very happy he pulled the curtain back. (More on this in the 'Media' section further down.)

Courtiers - Scobie explains that in the palace lexicon, a courtier is “a press official or private secretary who manages and offers advice to working royals, strategizes engagements, and releases information.” These are Diana’s “men in gray suits.”

The bombshell - Scobie implies that Harry accused Christian Jones of either hacking his and Meghan’s phones/office(s) and feeding information to Dan Wootton at The Sun or facilitating access for Wootton/The Sun to hack their phones/offices, leading to Wootton’s Megxit scoops.

Scobie doesn’t say that specifically and he’s careful to paint Harry with sympathy but it’s there between the lines. After describing what happened, Scobie writes that Harry was surprised by the Palace’s response, that they were angry at him, not Jones, and that they had arranged a lawyer for Jones (which is, to me, the first subtle hint that Harry wasn’t just complaining and had actually made some kind of accusation). Scobie goes further to say that the Palace interpreted Harry’s complaints as a threat to sue so they lowered the boom and then Harry realized how badly he fucked up so he did the classic “you’re overreacting, that’s not what I said.”

The timeline is a little unclear but from Scobie’s writing, Harry’s “report” to higher authorities of his concerns about Jones and The Sun happened in April 2020 after “starting” in January 2020 at the Sandringham Summit when Harry apparently spoke to William about this. Now, this is where I get a little “be fucking for real.” Let’s be clear: the Megxit statement was Harry announcing his intent to quit and the Sandringham Summit was the BRF saying “we accept your resignation, your last day is X” (which ended up being March 9th, the Commonwealth Service). Which means that by the time April rolled around and Harry made this “report,” he was no longer an employee of the firm; he was, for all intent and purpose, a disgruntled ex-employee with a grudge. Of course the Palace is going to come down hard on him, because they’re going to protect the person who is still there working for them.

Harry (and Scobie) seem to believe that this “report” of his concerns with The Sun is directly connected to the palace’s decision in July 2020 to cut off all the financial support he and Meghan were still getting from the Crown, including the official private security that Charles was paying for. (This is the second subtle hint that his “report” was actually some kind of accusation or threat.) Maybe there is a correlation, maybe there isn’t. But at the end of the day, Harry fucked around and Harry found out.

(Christian Jones comes up again in the Media section.)

It's not as bad as Finding Freedom, but it's still not good.

Finding Freedom. One of the things everyone roasted Scobie on was all the merching, name-dropping and brand promotion that was in Finding Freedom. He must have learned his lesson because there’s very little of this. In that regard, Endgame isn’t as obnoxious to read.

The Crown. Scobie mentions The Crown a few times and talks about a couple of plot points. It only happens three or four times, but it’s a definite clue that his audience is the casual royal watcher here only for the drama. It’s hard to take him (or anyone, really) serious when he’s compelled to base the veracity of something happening on whether, or how, The Crown covered it.

Editing and fact-checking. The editing (grammar, punctuation, etc.) isn’t as bad as in Spare, but Scobie and his team definitely have some mistakes. Someone on that team doesn’t know how to write a list, so there’s a lot of strange clauses and phrases.

With the fact-checking, there are a few glaring errors that close followers/watchers of the royal family will pick up. The most egregious one is this sentence:

During a conversation just hours after the September 19, 2022, funeral of Prince Philip, Harry confronted his father and brother about why nothing was done on Meghan’s behalf.

Philip’s funeral was April 17, 2021, and we know there was a Harry-Charles-William confrontation afterwards. The Queen’s funeral was September 19, 2022, and no one reported a Harry-Charles-William confrontation afterwards, so I don’t think it happened there. (Also William wasn’t talking to Harry by September 2022 - Scobie makes it painfully clear that William was both refusing to see Harry and refusing to take his calls.)

However, if you google Prince Philip’s funeral, you get this:

The truth is that Philip’s funeral was on April 17, 2021. But Philip wasn’t actually buried (i.e., placed in his final resting place) then. That had to wait until The Queen’s funeral, and it was widely announced at the time that he would wait. The Queen and Prince Philip were both interred together on the evening of September 19, 2022, in a private family-only service.

So that’s some very lazy fact-checking. It's Internet 101: Verify, verify, verify.

Other similar instances:

Scobie’s description of The Queen’s return home to London: "Five days into the ten-day period of national mourning, King Charles and Camilla, Queen Consort, received the coffin at RAF Northolt, on the western outskirts of London. It was there the royal family handed over her body to the public she served--Her Majesty then lay in state until the day of her funeral." (Charles and Camilla weren’t at RAF Northolt. They received the coffin at Buckingham Palace - remember, Scobie? When you got the only photograph of the moment because Meghan tipped you off?, and the family didn’t “hand over” The Queen until the following day, Day Six.) (Here’s the livestream from RAF Northolt; go to 25:07 for a view of the receiving party).

Scobie writes that Sara Latham was working for the Sussexes in Summer 2018, but she wasn’t hired until March 2019. (The specific quote is in the Meghan’s Lapdog section below.)

Scobie writes that William “automatically became the Prince of Wales--the Duke of Cornwall in England and the Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew in Scotland” on the Queen’s death and Charles’s accession. William got the Duke of Cornwall and the rest on Charles’s accession. Charles had to bestow Prince of Wales on him.

The second instance of fact-checking that jumps out is Scobie’s own fact-checking on misinformation about Harry and Meghan, yet he perpetuates it against other members of the royal family. Here’s an example. Scobie discusses how News of the World published stories about Harry's drug use as a teenager but then goes on to say:

While Harry has admitted to spending many nights at Highgrove getting high and drunkenly falling into trouble at a local pub in Wiltshire, the story failed to mention that this rebellious time in his life was partly the result of Charles leaving him alone at his country mansion for a majority of the summer in 2002.

But then Scobie gives only partial stories for other royals, conveniently leaving out the pieces that nullify his argument:

It's impossible to forget the time Kensington Palace issued an official statement in defense of Kate after a plastic surgeon had suggested to a newspaper that she, then the Duchess of Cambridge, had 'baby Botox' injections to reduce wrinkles.

and

And who can forget when [Edward and Sophie] was sent to Antigua and Barbados, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, and Saint Lucia just one month after William and Kate's flop Caribbean tour?

and

“There is even a rumor (one that, surprisingly, sources have confirmed) that Charles likes to have someone squeeze exactly one inch of toothpaste onto his toothbrush for him ahead of his bedtime routine.”

The truth is that KP only took action about Kate's baby Botox claims because the surgeon was using her image to promote his practice. And the way Scobie describes the then-Wessex tour of the Caribbean, he means for us to think it was an apology tour after the terribly-received Cambridge tour, but that is not at all the case: the Cambridge tour and the Wessex tour were both announced on the same day, in the same press release. And yes, Charles did once have someone toothpaste his toothbrush, but only when he had a broken arm/wrist and couldn’t do it himself.

Citations. Let me ask you a quick question first. When you read a nonfiction book like this, you expect the author to cite their sources in the text, right? You want the footnotes and the endnotes so you can look up where things are coming from, right? Well, not Scobie! He lumps his sources and citations together in a “credits” section at the end of the book. If you want to know what a source says or which article he’s referencing, good luck. For me, this is terrible practice because it obscures and obfuscates the strength of his work. It calls a lot of questions about the accuracy of his reporting that he can’t properly attribute his quotes, sources, or reference materials and makes the possibility that his entire book is the same handful of anonymous sources more likely.

Strange interludes. Throughout the book, there are strange interludes of, well, history lessons. There are sections on Charles II and William IV, sections about Hamlet and Beckett, and Scobie even discusses Lucy Worlsey’s book on Georgian courtiers (YOU KEEP LUCY WORLSEY OUT OF YOUR MOUTH **Will Smith slap**). I see what he’s doing - he’s trying to connect the issues in the modern House of Windsor with other periods of institutional stability - but it doesn’t really work. It’s awkward. In some places it works better than others, like the piece about Worlsey’s courtiers goes easily with Scobie’s discussion of Charles’s courtiers. But to bring up William IV only to point out how Charles is older than him? It’s clunky.

What exactly is this book? I don’t know. Sometimes it’s a cultural interpretation of the modern House of Windsor in the new Carolean age through the lens of media relations.

Sometimes it’s Scobie’s memoir. He puts himself in the middle of these stories a lot, to the point where it’s like 50% his personal recollection and 50% commentary. We get it, man. You have a fabulous job with access to the kinds of people and events the rest of us can only dream about it. But it’s not about you. It’s about the people around you. Take yourself out of it.

Sometimes it’s an investigative journalism-like expose. It reminds me a lot of the works by the muckrakers, who were working hard to expose corruption and implement reform. There are sections of the book that feels preachy, where Scobie is writing about his ideas for how the palace’s relationship with the media need to change or how their stance on race relations could modernize, and when it’s not accepted or taken seriously, you can feel his anger seeping off the page that no one’s listening to him.

And sometimes it reads as if it’s been ghostwritten by Meghan and Harry themselves. There are some stories, some quotes, some details–especially post-Megxit–that could only come from them, or people very close to them in California. And you know, given how intensely private Harry and Meghan are, they absolutely consented to those stories being part of Scobie’s book. Scobie tries hard to cover those tracks but it leaks through. Here are some of those quotes/sections:

The next morning, after a further Palace update warned that her doctors were 'concerned for Her Majesty's health and have recommended she remain under medical supervision,’ an insider messaged me to say, 'It's not looking good.' For a multitude of reasons, I hoped the warning would turn out to be false. Arriving at ABC News' offices that Thursday afternoon, I received a text from someone very close to the family. As I caught my breath in the elevator of the Disney-owned building, 'A Spoonful of Sugar' was playing quietly in the background, making a surreal moment even more so. 'Please don't say anything yet, but I think it's happened,' they wrote. I responded with a follow-up, checking that I understood their message correctly. No doubt trying to get confirmation of their own, the source--someone whose word I had come to trust over recent years--didn't reply.

and

[Princess Michael] later apologized for the indiscretion (though never directly to Meghan), but according to sources, the princess still shrugs and wrinkles her lip when the subject comes up. 'I don't think she particularly cared,' a senior royal source told me.

(how would Scobie know she never apologized directly to Meghan?)

and

As the morning sun rises over Santa Barbara, bathing the steep Santa Ynez Mountains, and the Pacific Ocean sparkles with California's trademark glow, the sprawling Sussex compound in the wealthy enclave of Montecito is already popping. With Meghan already preparing a family breakfast in the kitchen, Prince Harry is busy getting the couple's children, Prince Archie and Princess Lilibet, ready for nursery school and toddler playgroup, respectively. Despite the staff on hand to help during the daytime, when Harry and Meghan shift into work mode, the Sussexes keep their mornings as time 'for the family only,' said a source--no staff.

and

The Sussexes' team received correspondence from Buckingham Palace's Keeper of the Privy Purse Sir Michael John Stevens, who informed Harry and Meghan that, as they were no longer working royals or based in Britain, they needed to give up the keys to their royal rental, Frogmore Cottage. Although there were reports to the contrary some months later, I spoke to a source close to the couple on the day they were informed, and there was a clear feeling of shock and disappointment as the news sunk in.

Kate. How Scobie writes of Kate reveals that he may not be as close to the Waleses as he claims:

And now, like Diana, she, too, is the Princess of Wales. It’s a title that carries a huge and extremely important legacy, but sources close to the royal (who, for those wondering, ‘is just as happy being called Kate as she is Catherine’) say she is surprisingly ‘unfazed’ by her new destination.

I’m specifically talking about why he calls her Kate versus Catherine. (And I have issues with “surprisingly ‘unfazed’” too.) Yes, everyone knows that at one point, she was called Kate. But it’s been made very clear that she prefers to be called Catherine. She introduces herself as Catherine. William and the family calls her Catherine. She signs her letters, cards, and tweets as Catherine. She asked her own friends and her own family to call her Catherine. Nobody calls her Kate except the public, and I feel pretty confident in saying that the “call me Kate or Catherine” message was explicitly intended for the general public, because she isn’t going to be all ‘ahem, my name is CATHERINE’ to fourteen-year-old Jennifer who’s so excited to see her, and the press decided to lump themselves into that category because their SEO is tied to ‘Kate.’

But what I’ve noticed is that people in the traditional press are starting to call her Catherine, especially those that write books. The shift seems to have begun when The Queen passed and Kate became The Princess of Wales.

So for Scobie to happily call her Kate and justify it with ‘well she said it’s OK!’ when she very clearly prefers Catherine makes him more uncredible. He can call Meghan by her preferred name. Why can’t he call Kate ‘Catherine’ because she prefers it?

(As for “surprisingly unfazed” - listen. The woman took William back seventeen years ago KNOWING that this was her future. That’s 4 years “pre-engaged” and almost 13 years of marriage, and you’re telling me you’re shocked, just SHOCKED, that she was prepared to be the Princess of Wales? Scobie, please.)

Scobie holds a HUGE grudge about the way he was treated after Finding Freedom.

He’s not Meghan’s lapdog! Much of the criticism Scobie endured from Finding Freedom were allegations of how close he was to Meghan. He denies, denies, denies all through Endgame, and those statements are dripping with scorn and derision. He absolutely hates that people don’t take him seriously because of a perceived connection to Meghan:

The papers would often refer to me, incorrectly, as Harry and Meghan's 'pal,' another lie largely created to delegitimize the details I was sharing from sources close to the couple that often went against narratives that tabloids were reporting.

He goes to great lengths to tell us and make sure we know that he is not close with Harry and Meghan, that he is close to their communication aides/staff. That may or may not be true, but it certainly does not help his case when he keeps saying things like:

During the peak of [Meghan's racism on-slaught and Scobie's social media pile-on] in late summer 2018, I received a call that I thought was from the couple's head of communications at the time, Sara Latham. We had been texting back and forth about an upcoming royal engagement. 'Hi, Omid!' a female voice chirped. It was different to Latham's northwestern American accent. 'It's Meghan.' I put my iced coffee down, not quite sure if the call was a prank. 'We saw your name keep coming up on the phone...and I just wanted to say high, see how you're doing.' Sara had mentioned to her that I was dealing with my own online harassment and threats.

and

When the couple left their children in California with Meghan's mother, Doria Ragland, and a nanny to visit the United Kingdom and Germany for five days of engagements in September 2022, neither knew that the quick-fire trip would result in a two-week return to royal drama. Neither did I. During this visit, I joined some of their engagements and watched as Meghan gave a speech to teenagers and young adults at the One Young World summit in Manchester.

and

That summer, Christian Jones--who remained at Kensington Palace to oversee all the Cambridges' media efforts--messaged me out of the blue to say it would no longer be appropriate to socialize. Another aide later told me that William had requested this. As we approached 2020, I felt the growing strains on my working relationship with Kensington Palace, who were also much more guarded when it came to their own communication with the Sussex team at Buckingham Palace. I was still invited to the private briefings and announcements but, two months after returning from an October tour with the Sussexes in southern Africa, one of William's aides revealed that William felt 'uncomfortable' with my relationship with the Sussex team.

He’s so close to the Sussexes that Meghan has personally spoken to him, that he was invited to cover their fauxyal tour in September 2022, and William himself is uncomfortable with the access he has to Harry and Meghan. And he doesn’t see how or why people may think he’s in Meghan’s pocket?

It’s very clear that Scobie thinks of himself to be a consummate journalism professional, a neutral third-party whose only loyalty is to truth and fact. According to himself, he can report a Cambridge/Wales versus Sussex issue fairly, accurately, and evenly, but the way he describes certain events taking place tells us that part of his dislike for William is because William never gave Scobie the opportunity to prove it; William, or William’s team, saw Scobie getting closer to the Sussexes and nipped his “both sides of the fence” strategy in the bud. This, I suspect, is why he’s so offended when people accuse him of being close to Meghan and Harry - because by being so closely linked to the Sussexes, he lost preferential treatment from the Cambridges and that absolutely reflects poorly on him.

Lost access. Scobie is very transparent and very clear that he lost sources and access to Kensington Palace several times because of his “loyalty” to the Sussexes, most especially after Finding Freedom published:

Owing to a unique pool of sources and a refusal to follow the crowd, I quickly became a trusted confidante for many in and around the younger family--a true insider. But all that changed in late 2020 after the publication of my first book, Finding Freedom, about Harry and Meghan's whirlwind journey in, and out of, the House of Windsor...The fear of damaging revelations scared the family and angered powerful Palace operatives, and it also put a mark on my back...I'm still in the mix, but let's just say I'm no longer the journalist who some in the family, or the more royalist-leaning correspondents, are thrilled to see at engagements. Having moved away from playing the Palace game of give-and-take to maintain access, I am now a perceived source of trouble for the institution.

While he’s mostly bitter that Finding Freedom cost him sources and affiliation, he also sees it as a badge of honor, arrogantly boasting:

I am now a perceived source of trouble for the institution. Why? Because I know--and share--too much. For four years, some of the most damaging in Windsor history, I witnessed the full scope of the deceptions, malice, and defensive posturing of an unstable family business and an institution in decline. I saw how far they would go to save their own skin, the deep corrosion at the heart of the royal establishment, and I've witnessed the human damage done because of it."

and

Parts of this book will burn my bridges for good. But to tell the full story, there’s no holding back. Not anymore. We’re in the endgame. (Isn’t this the same speech Ironman gives in Avengers: Endgame?)

The hypocrisy is unreal.

Overly sympathetic to the Sussexes. We all knew that Endgame would be clearly biased in favor of the Sussexes since that’s where Scobie has drawn battle lines, but the extent to which he gives Harry grace and sympathy is beyond astounding and, at times, beggars belief.

For instance, one of the constant lines throughout the book is how frequently Harry keeps trying to reach out to Charles and William to have “conversations.” In Scobie’s world, Harry is completely absolved of anything he may or may not have done to upset Charles and anger William, that the lack of relationship between Charles/William and Harry is completely on Charles and William because Harry is always communicating, always reaching out, always wants to talk, always available for a call. Scobie makes it clear that Harry (and Meghan) expect apologies and accountability. But where is Harry and Meghan taking accountability and making apologies for what they did? There’s a fundamental inability for any of them on “Team Sussex” to realize that if they truly desire a conversation and apologies, then they need to apologize first; doing so would make it clear to Charles and William that they’re serious about resolving these issues.

Except I think they know that. The way Scobie phrases some of this seems to hint that the Sussexes know being able to have this conversation means they need to take accountability for their own behavior/actions and apologize to Charles and William. But they won’t because they thrive on the attention and drama that making these demands every quarter brings them. It’s the only way they have been able to reliably and consistently stay in the news.

And one of the more infuriating comments Scobie makes is this one:

One is left to wonder if William of Anglesey or William the air ambulance pilot would have left his sibling out in the cold in the same way.

Why is the broken brotherhood all on William? Why is it exclusively related to William coming to terms with his status in the family? Why isn’t there equal accountability on Harry, who takes such pride and ownership in being a soldier, who’s talked about the guilt of having to leave my guys behind? If William of Anglesey or William the Air Ambulance Pilot wouldn’t leave Harry out in the cold, then Scobie needs to equally ask: Would Captain Harry Wales have abandoned his brother and left him behind?

Bias against William and Kate. We also knew that Endgame would be a smear job against William and Kate. Scobie doesn’t let us down. He delights in pointing out how awful William is to be thinking about a future without Charles (forgetting that Charles did the same thing to The Queen, and also when The Queen was much younger than Charles is now). He’s thrilled to paint William as a ruthless bully in the way he manages his staff and how his staff is equally ruthless in the way they engage/interact with other staffs, especially in communications and media relations.

What surprised me is that Scobie isn’t as venomous as he usually is in his coverage of her, which often is rooted in the relationship between Kate and Meghan. He does get his digs in, don’t get me wrong:

He calls her workshy and lazy without saying the words directly: “Where other senior royals are out and about several times a week…Kate has long maintained a smaller work schedule that helped her check off the required royal boxes while saving time for her roles as a mother and wife.”

He reinforces the “Carole is the master schemer” rumor: “Carole saw that the pretty and grounded Kate was ready to carry the family name further to the top…The Middleton strategy involved more than just aristocratic affectation–Carole calculatingly placed Kate right at the center of young Prince William’s world….Carole set things up, and Kate took it the rest of the way.”

He mentions the “plastic princess designed to breed” article.

He says that Kate’s Hold Still project was the same thing as Meghan’s Hubb Community cookbook. (On the surface they are similar, yes, but Meghan slapped her name on the cookbook and took credit for everything whereas Kate was involved with the Hold Still book from Day One with the initial contest and took credit only for the actual introduction she wrote, letting the community own the actual content.)

He brings up the unfriendliness with Meghan: “She spent more time talking about Meghan than talking to her…Kate has jokingly shivered when Meghan’s name has come up around her”.

And of course, it's not a smear job until the Rose rumors are addressed. Don't worry. They're here too.

There’s plenty more where this comes from, but Scobie’s overall portrayal of Kate is that he sees her as a victim to the palace machinery who survived on the basis of being willing to submit fully to the “palace personality makeover.” She has succeeded where Meghan, Diana, and Sarah failed because she was willing to be trained (why, Scobie claims, The Queen liked her) and she had William’s protection to keep the monarchy from corrupting her. It’s an interesting spin that I didn’t expect from Scobie, but he takes it too far with a metaphor that the Palace has stifled her individuality:

"Here's the thing about [the weeping blue cedar Kate planted at an event in 2019]: It's naturally slow-growing and requires adequate space for its sculptural branches and cascading needles. But if there is too much pruning, or the space around it is too restricted, the tree ends up taking on an odd shape and loses the character that made it so special in the first place."

Because in blaming it all on the Palace, Scobie conveniently leaves out any accountability for himself or the press in the way they treated, and have, at times, mocked Kate, such as:

Some journalists who have been approached by publishers to author biographies about the Princess of Wales have turned down the chance. 'I'd barely be able to do a chapter, let alone an entire book,' one joked to me. (Even so, a Kate book would sell like gangbusters. Missed opportunity if you ask me.)

and

[M]ainstream coverage of Kate in the British papers is overwhelmingly positive, often bordering on infantilizing the princess, with articles marveling at her ability to perform the simplest of tasks (think enthusiastic reporting about kicking a soccer ball or flipping a pancake or how amazing it is that she can assume a perfect 'princess pose' in photographs).

Scobie seems unable to realize that the reason Kate has retreated “further into” the palace machinery is because the press keeps pushing her into it. She has kept her individuality and her personality and her “Kate”-ness, but it’s reserved only for those close to her and only for the general public that genuinely cares for her. The “palace persona” that Scobie sees her in is the elevated version of herself she presents to the press. And why wouldn't she let them see who she really is? They mock her and belittle her any chance they get!

The hypocrisy, overall. It’s just exhausting. Scobie plays everyone against each other, sometimes even contradicting his own stories.

We can be ageist but not racist - discriminating against Lady Susan Hussey is okay because she’s eighty years old and that disqualifies her from public service.

It’s okay for Harry to complain but not William or Charles.

It’s okay for people to not know who the Earl and Countess of Wessex are but everyone in the whole damn world must know who Oprah is.

It’s okay for Charles to plan his future but not William.

It’s okay for Charles to own six properties but William can’t have three.

It’s okay for Harry to use the media to settle grievances, but not Charles.

It’s okay for Charles to show leadership, but not William.

It’s okay for the Dutch royals to let scholarly research on their role in the slave trade determine how, where, and when they apologize for their colonialism but the BRF needs to apologize and make reparations immediately.

It’s okay for Meghan to have help at home and prioritize family time, but not Kate.

It’s okay for Harry to cash in on Diana’s memory but not anyone else, and certainly not William.

It’s okay for the Queen to take lots of time off because she works a lot but not Kate, who doesn’t work because she has children. (Is raising children not work?)

It’s okay for the Queen to avoid talking to the media, but not Kate.

It’s okay for the Sussexes to have preferred reporters but not the Cambridges/Waleses.

It’s okay to tackle misinformation about Harry, not anyone else.

It’s okay for Charles to upstage the Queen/his parent but not for William to upstage the King/his parent.

It’s okay for Harry to blindside his family announcing things to the media first, but not anyone else.

Scobie and the Sussexes have no idea how actual business works.

So many times I thought “tell me you don’t know about the corporate world without telling me you don’t know about the corporate world.”

The biggest giveaway that they have no idea how businesses operate is this mutually-held idea that change must be immediate and must begin as soon as someone thinks of it. There’s no regard for policy, no regard for process, no regard for procedures, no regard for research, no regard for any kind of preparation to make it a lasting, effective success.

Here’s an example, from Scobie:

But it would be hasty to unreservedly believe that real change is on the horizon for the wider royal establishments just yet. In 2023, it was reported that 9.7 percent of employees in Buckingham Palace were from ethnic minority backgrounds (up from 9.6 percent the previous year) and Kensington Palace employed 16.3 percent (up from 13.6 percent). The numbers appear to be ticking up in the right direction, but a closer look at the senior staffers around royal family members reveal a predominantly white lineup (exclusively, in the case of communications team members and private secretaries at William and Kate's household). It depressingly shows that the majority of non-white employees are at junior levels or working in more service industry-type positions.

This reads like Scobie’s expectation is for the Palace to fire their existing teams and replace them exclusively with diversity hires - but even that isn’t an effective solution because everyone would just scream “it doesn’t mean anything! It’s just for the PR!” The kind of institutional change Scobie is demanding actually takes a lot of time to implement, more than the few days he thinks it should. They have to wait for vacancies to open up or, if they’re going to create a new position, then it’s even more complicated:

Where in your budget is the money coming from to be able to pay the new person their salary and benefits? What project isn’t going to happen? What program is going to get canceled?

What exactly are they going to do? If you’re taking X duties from Jane, then what is Jane going to do now?

Where are they going to sit? What kind of technology do they need? What kind of resources, access, passwords, keys?

What’s the priority for this staffing need? What aren’t you going to do because you’re going to do this hire instead? What position isn’t going to get filled? What project isn’t going to get done?

Should the palace be hiring more diversely? Yes, absolutely. But it’s going to take time. It’s not going to change very much in one year. But what can change in one year is the recruitment strategy behind hiring, and that’s something that Scobie could actually get answers on. Are they still recruiting from the usual places or have they diversified and branched out? Are they doing blind hiring (where they remove all the personally identifying information like race, gender, name, education)? Are they recruiting from the Commonwealth realms? And this is what someone like Scobie should be asking the BRF to uphold their accountability.

Here’s another example:

Naturally, as paid members of the team, household staff for each of the three offices look out for the royals they represent. This is where 'briefings' get complicated, because while the aides are all working to prop up the Crown, they owe nothing to the family members they don't report to.

Um…does Scobie not know that he’s described every single organization and every single job? Everyone at the company works to support the company but you only owe results to the people you report to. Does he not see this at his own magazines or has he freelanced for so long he doesn’t remember what a “real” job is like?

Family businesses. Harry, Meghan, and Scobie cannot see the firm as a business. They look at and perceive everything through the lens of ‘family.’ This is, probably, the biggest “lightbulb” moment I had in reading Endgame. Harry and Meghan don’t understand, or they don’t care to understand, that there’s a family side to the monarchy and that there’s a business side to the monarchy. Everything they have done, they’ve done through the family side, hoping to leverage their personal relationships for change and action, when it was really a matter for the business side.

And all of their problems with William, with the courtiers, with how things are done, is because they viewed the monarchy as “family first, family always” when everyone else understood, fundamentally, that there’s a time for family and a time for business. And what’s interesting is that William and Kate - forasmuch as they prioritize their own family (scaled back diaries and long breaks overlapping with the kids’ school holidays), they also prioritize the monarchy and the business side of it. They show up when it matters: they do the ceremonies, they do the walkabouts, they do the small talk, they promote the work and the people and the culture of Britain.

Here are some quotes from Scobie illustrating how he, and the Sussexes, think “family only”:

Over time, William increasingly complained about Meghan to aides and family members. He didn't like how opinionated she was, how she spoke to his staff, and how much of her Markle family dramas were in the press. 'William shifted away from acting like a brother and became more like someone only focused [on the Crown]," a source close to the Sussexes said.

and

Charles vanished into the sacred Crown's engulfing orbit, leaving William to face the royal family's new chapter and the institution's increasing demands without his brother close by, the one person in the world who can empathize with all that's in store for him.

and

During the days ahead, Harry and Meghan kept a low profile, praying the press wouldn't turn their attention to them but remain rightfully focused on the loss of a beloved monarch. 'There was an incredible sense of sadness,' said a family source. 'For them, the Queen was one of their last strong links to the family. She always made them feel welcome. Without her...it will never be the same.

And this is in addition to Harry expecting to keep the perks of monarchy as “just” a family member that I mentioned in the “bombshell” section. He really thought he could have his life, “career,” and family fully subsidized by the business profit because he’s the CEO’s son/grandson. He’s so gobsmacked in July 2020 to realize that not everyone sees the monarchy as “family first, family always” that it literally breaks him. All of his lawsuits and all of his fighting since then has been trying to force the BRF to remodel themselves into his vision of “family first, family always” so he can get his perks back without having to work another day in his life.

An important conversation on race gets lost.

I know that race and race relations can be painful to talk about, but this is incredibly important. I don’t want to wade in too deep into it because these are conversations that aren’t easy to have through screens.

The monarchy, the institution, needs to change to be more conscientious of the power dynamics at play between an aristocratic white family who made their money on the backs of labor, land, and servants and a fast-changing world demanding more and more accountability. Charles's endorsement of the research project that the University of Manchester and the Historical Royal Palaces is a good start, as Scobie also recognizes, but there needs to be more and they can't just wipe their hands off when the report gets published saying "We did our piece. What's next?" There needs to be more and I hope there is more.

Scobie makes a lot of good, important points in his discussion (like it's not enough for the BRF to remove offensive pieces of art or contextualize their collections and they can't hold these discussions behind closed doors and that the public/the Commonwealth realms deserve to have a say in what happens next). But he also makes a few points that seem to indicate he doesn’t fully understand just how complicated race relations are, particularly when it comes to their intersection with politics. Scobie seems to think that the royal family, including the monarch (The Queen at the time), should disregard the “don’t get involved in politics” principle on a case-by-case basis to be able to speak out and support communities suffering injustice and inequality. It’s a fine line to tow; at what point is something “worthy” enough of the royal family to speak out? And how is something judged “worthier” than another to warrant royal intervention? And why has the press nominated themselves to judge that line, instead of, you know, the actual public the monarchy serves?

Probably the most disappointing thing about this section is how misplaced it feels in comparison to the overall book and message. 90% of the book is about media relations; Scobie's relationships with communications staffers, the relationship the palace has with the media, the dynamics at play between aides, principals, and the media. And then there’s a chapter on race. It's as misfitting as the chapter on Andrew (which largely just serves only to let Scobie remind everyone of the Epstein affiliations because Charles seems to be sweeping it under the rug). And that is horrific for Scobie to do; the palace's inability, or unwillingness, to recognize their role in a near-global racial disparity should not, cannot, and must not be equivalent to Andrew's scandals.

Purely from an editorial standpoint, this chapter would have been much stronger, much more compelling, and probably more thought-provoking if it was a standalone essay or part of a larger work that specifically examined racial and ethnic diversity in modern institutions of power or modern monarchies. I think Scobie shoots himself in the foot a little if his goal is to have a conversation and introduce reform by burying it in a book about media and communications.

I do hope Scobie considers writing more on this. In fact, I think if he did do a larger and more critical piece about diversity, he might be able to earn back some of the professional credit he’s lost by becoming so closely affiliated with the Sussexes.

Rage against the machine and the media

(It kind of goes off the rails here. Apologies in advance.)

Royal rota system. So there are two rota/pool systems. One is for broadcast/television reporters. One is for the newspaper/print reporters. “Royal rota” as it’s used in the royal-watching community popularly refers to the newspaper pool.

The rota is a system where members take turns reporting back to the larger group all the information (and gossip - Scobie makes it very clear that the royal reporters absolutely engage in gossip as much as we do) from royal engagements where open coverage isn’t possible or when a larger group isn’t necessary (i.e., “boring”). The smaller rota pool is one print reporter, one television camera/broadcaster, a couple of photographers, and someone from the Press Association. This smaller group travels “inside” with the royal while everyone else waits outside in a designated press pen for arrivals and departures.

There are 10 print publications that participate in the rota. Only established British national papers are allowed. There have been occasional exceptions for the London Evening Standard and Hello. No Commonwealth publications, no foreign publications (albeit one exception), and no digital publications/media sites are permitted to join.

The exception to the “no foreign publications” rule is US media. Americans are not officially part of the rota but in about 2010ish, the rota invited two US-based reporters (Scobie and one other person) to unofficially join the rota on a honorary basis. They were given access to the pool reporting notes and could join the rota’s press pen at engagements, which had priority access. This changed in 2017 with Meghan’s arrival, because with Meghan came more US media. The new American reporters complained to the rota’s oversight officials on grounds of fairness (i.e., Scobie and the other guy were getting more information and more access than all the other Americans) and the decision was made to take them off the rota.

And just who made that decision? Who’s in charge of the rota? Drumroll please…

The Daily Mail. Rebecca English, specifically.

But how it comes across in the book is that Scobie believes, bitterly and scornfully, that he was demoted from the rota because of his closeness to the Sussexes, and specifically Meghan. It really isn’t looking good for his denial that he treats Meghan “objectively.” He says that English told him he was pulled from the rota because he had become, largely, an American television news reporter and in classic Sussex whataboutism, Scobie says she “conveniently ignor[ed] my role as royal editor for Harper’s Bazaar.” Well, Scobie, you seem to be conveniently ignoring that Harper’s Bazaar is an American publication which further disqualifies you. That’s quite the entitlement.

The rota is overseen by the News Media Association. They appoint press “captains” - there’s two, one for the everyday and one for overseas tours - who manage assignments, the rotation, and ensures that everyone is getting the reports. Rebecca English has been the captain for thirteen years, which Scobie sees as a “monopoly.” Valentine Low, of The Times, is the overseas tour captain.

And that, to me, sheds a little bit more light on Harry’s vendetta against The Daily Mail. He hates that they “control” the rota and how firmly enmeshed the rota (i.e. The Daily Mail, in Harry’s mind) is with Palace operations. Harry says in Spare (which Scobie helpfully reproduces): “I'd had it with the royal rota, both the individuals and the system, which was more outdated than the horse and cart...It discouraged fair competition, engendered cronyism, and encouraged a small mob of hacks to feel entitled.”

Scobie feels the same way, and while he’s a bit more polite about it, he is equally as bitter:

Restricted access for Commonwealth outlets, digital news organizations, or US publications (the latter being relevant to a newly installed American duchess in the House of Windsor) didn't make much sense to man of us. With the support of two senior Palace aides, I wrote a letter to relevant senior individuals at Buckingham palace about why it was important to have an additional position in the rota--one that could at least be shared by the aforementioned groups. Harry, I was told, was also keen to back the effort. But it quickly hit a dead end. Rather than decide themselves, palace aides called in [Rebecca] English and The Times' royal correspondent Valentine Low, the rota's overseas tour captain (who was admittedly far less bothered about petty politics and mostly attempted to be fair in this less-involved role), for a meeting. English told them that letting 'others' in would be unacceptable. 'To be honest the rota is just a headache none of us want to deal with. It's easier to just leave it as it is,' a senior courtier said with a shrug over coffee with me. Yet another case of institutional fear and blinkered acceptance of the status quo when it comes to the media.

Scobie’s entire focus is on restoring his access to the rota. It’s not unlike Harry’s entire focus of media reform being on positive press coverage.

Speaking of Harry, Scobie immediately drops another revelation, one that directly played into Megxit:

Harry and Meghan, who were having their own conversations about the same issue, were then told that if they wanted to break away from the rota system and give other journalists access to their work, they would have to foot the bill for their own engagements. The list for their reasons to leave was getting longer by the month.

Concern about cronyism, outdated tools because ‘status quo’, and a refusal to modernize are legitimate complaints, absolutely. It would be far more beneficial if the rota system was overhauled completely to reflect today’s diverse media environment. (Not to mention, adding some spots for Commonwealth and realm publications could very well have an impact on the kind of coverage being reported back home.) But once again, Harry’s entitlement leaps off the page here.

He is such a penny-pincher that he couldn’t put up his own money to institute the kind of change he wanted to see. It wasn’t his responsibility, you see. His job is to make demands, but it’s up to everyone else around him to do the actual work, to pay for his ideas, to implement the change he desires. And circling back to the “Harry has no idea how a business works” theme from earlier, this betrays what Harry thinks “business” or “work” is. Harry thinks “work” is just showing up at the appointed time, reading the provided script, sharing a genius idea or two, shaking hands, and returns in 3 months expecting to see 10 years of progress on his genius idea so he can take all the credit. Harry absolutely is not capable of comprehending exactly how much happens behind the scenes to make his idea reality. It’s no wonder why Invictus Games is sinking like the Titanic. It’s no wonder why Archewell has plateaued. No one is interested in buffing up Harry’s ego anymore. No one is interested in implementing his ideas because he refuses to help or contribute.

But you know who does? William. William has an idea or William wants to see a change, William puts his head down and does the work to recruit the people, give direction, and find the funding. When the press start spreading lies or misinformation, William doesn't just sit there and complain at people to protect him. He uses his own resources to fix the problem, which Scobie (and Harry) perceive as the problem: William as heir has more power than Harry does to protect his wife. That's not what's happening. What's happening is that William doesn't take 'no' for an answer and he works the business till he gets what he wants. Harry gets told 'no' and he tries to manipulate the family to get what he wants...but the family can't do anything.

At the end of the day, it has nothing to do with power, or money, or status, or resources, and what William has that Harry doesn't. It’s that the Cambridges/Waleses are willing and able to do the work themselves. They put their money where their mouth is while Harry and Meghan prefer to buy knockoff athletic competitions and ice cream trucks that they can slap their name on and reap glory.

And Harry is so short-sighted. There would have been absolutely zero harm in abandoning the royal rota for one week or one month, paying out of pocket for press coverage with the “specialist media”, “grassroots media organizations and young, emerging journalists” and seeing what happened? If the experiment failed, then that gives him legitimate grounds to complain that the rota blacklisted him and more people would be sympathetic to the cause. But if the experiment was a success? Oh, man, it would’ve been the modern equivalent to Lord Altrincham’s recommendations to The Queen and Harry could have coasted on that for the rest of his life. Well, woulda, coulda, shoulda. Now William will be the one to reform the press when the time comes, all because Harry freaked out at “do it yourself.”

(Which is pretty ironic, if you ask me. He and Meghan are so desperate for this ‘changemaker’ label yet when they were presented with the opportunity to do just that–albeit at their own expense–they bailed. How dare you -- spend my money on other people?! Meghan couldn’t have clutched Diana’s pearls any tighter.)

Palace relationships. I’ve said it in a few other places here, but Scobie’s book is largely about the relationships between the palaces and the media. There’s nothing really new here and it’s mostly an opportunity for Scobie to brag about how close he is to certain people and how much access he has for his reporting.

Scobie absolutely hates the team at Kensington Palace and the deeper into the book you read, the more it becomes apparent that he isn’t targeting William and Kate as much as he’s targeting the communications team that works for them. Christian Jones and Jason Knauf, to be more specific. Scobie doesn’t like how readily they appeared to do William’s bidding, how fiercely the palace protected them when Harry (and Scobie, remember, he likes to put himself in the middle of everything) called it out, and how freely they seemed to work the press for amiable coverage of William and Kate:

My proof of Kensington Palace's schemes at work wasn't just in the newspaper coverage. I also had close working relationships with Buckingham Palace aides and people on Harry and Meghan's team. Back in 2019, one of the Sussexes' main communication aides felt strongly that William's staff, led by press secretary Christian Jones, crossed a line with the mental health stories. One of the couple's team called me the moment the 'William's concerns for Harry' front pages dropped. 'It's pretty disgusting that they would pull out the mental health card for this...None of them care for his health,' the aide said. As Harry later shared, 'They were happy to lie to protect my brother. They were never willing to tell the truth to protect us.' This wasn't Christian Jones's first rodeo, and he was just one of many at Kensington Palace who engaged in these tactics. William's private secretary Simon Case and communications secretary-turned-senior-advisor Jason Knauf also shared details with preferred reporters to quell rumors about the broken relationship between the Cambridges and the Sussexes. When William and Kate went to see Harry and Meghan after the birth of Archie, Jones made calls to a Mirror reporter and me to share an exclusive--the couple had just minutes ago stopped by for a special visit. 'It's a great story that shows that the the relationship isn't as bad as everyone makes out,' he said. 'It was really sweet.' What he failed to mention, as I later found out from Sussex sources, was that the couple's lukewarm drive-by lasted less than twenty minutes.

(Also, in what universe do the parents of a newborn baby want visitors and guests to stay for hours on end? Twenty minutes to check in on the new parents, deliver some food or a gift, and give the baby a cuddle sounds like an appropriate amount of time for visitors to be there.)

Scobie further goes on to describe how he thinks it’s hypocritical of William to be so manipulative and treacherous in how he uses the media to improve his reputation, particularly at Harry’s expense, because this is exactly what Charles and Camilla did to him and he had hated it. Scobie’s overall message seems to be that the more power William gets, the less “William” he is and the more “Palace” he becomes (similar to the argument he makes of Kate), and the more “Palace” he becomes, the more ruthless his communications team gets.

I mean, Scobie even goes so far as to say that William has gone so far into the Palace machinery that he's abandoned and discredited his mother in accordance with the preferred script:

The differences in the brothers' statements are stark. Both expressed understandable outrage over Bashir's duplicity and the BBC's moral and professional failures. But while Harry stopped to acknowledge and honor Diana's strengths, despite the whole faisco, William reinforced the counternarrative that his mother was paranoid at the time. While there is no duobt that William's rebuke came from a place of love, sources sexplained he was also keen to toe the company line without any concessions to what his mother said during the interview itself. To write his statement, William turned to a number of aides within the royal household, including former private secretary Simon Case, who had left a month earlier for his new role as cabinet secretary for then prime minister Boris Johnson. He embraced the institution's version that, because Diana was duped, the interview was null and void as a result--even if wha she said was completely in line with what she had previously expressed in Morton's book. By disparaging Bashir's trick and by extension the entire interview, William ended up discrediting a large part of his mother's own story. To make his points, he did not remind the public that his mother was candid and truthful, despite Bashir's dirty work, but, instead, maintaned the royal version that she was emotionally fragile and thus easily manipulated, and therefore her claims are not to be trusted.

Or maybe, Scobie, this is William’s own personal experience and recollection of his own mother. It’s well known that William had a very different relationship with Diana than Harry did, such that he already understood at the tender age of fourteen, just how complicated her life was and how complex a person was. And, t was recently revealed that William did actual work to understand who his mother actually was as a person, warts and all. He spoke with his family and with her friends and came to know Diana The Person, whereas Harry has only entrenched himself in his twelve-year-old “My mummy is better than yours” fantasy.

Both versions of Diana – William’s reality that she was a complicated and complex person and Harry’s reality that she was a beloved idol – can be true. But to dismiss William’s truth as “Palace bullshit” because it doesn’t match the popular narrative as told by Harry is, frankly, poppycock.

Welp, that was a huge train derailment. Getting back to the point: Scobie doesn’t like Jones because of Jones’s relationship with Wootton and his readiness to speak William’s truth at Harry’s expense. (Which is also hypocritical because Scobie spends all of Endgame speaking Harry’s truth at William’s expense.) And Scobie thinks it is unethical for Jones to be openly friendly with Wootton.

But here’s the catch. When he was being interviewed for the job in 2019, Jones disclosed his friendship and working relationship to both Simon Case and William. Yet William still hired him anyway. And with that little nugget, it becomes very clear very quickly what one of Harry’s issues is: he’s butthurt he didn’t get to know of the pre-existing relationship between Jones and Wootton and wasn’t asked to weigh in on whether he should be hired.

Now, for Knauf. Well, I’ll let Scobie tell you himself how much he hates him.

Knauf continued to work in his role as chief executive of William and Kate's foundation for a few more months before stepping down to join the board of the foundation for William's Earthshot Prize. As a loyal aide, he stuck by William through it all, from helping brief the press long after his communications role ended, leading the bullying allegations against Meghan, and joining forces with the Mail in court. Unsurprisingly, a year later, King Charles included him on his list of those to receive the honorable title of lieutenant of the Royal Victorian Order for his 'personal service to the monarchy.' Notably, this high honor is chosen by the royal family and not the government, and it was his pal the Prince of Wales who performed the investiture on May 10, 2023, at Windsor Castle. Knauf--a man who went above and beyond to protect the royal family's relationship with a British tabloid--emerged from this fiasco as a titled hero, the personification of duty above all. His dangerous dalliance with the media in the courtroom is all part of a job description you won't find on his LinkedIn profile and a soon-to-be forgotten footnote in a celebrated career.

Scobie’s angry that Knauf waded in on Meghan’s copyright lawsuit with the Daily Mail. After all, he didn’t have to come forward and there was no official request for his evidence or any palace evidence in her lawsuit. But he did, because “it was [William’s] opportunity to watch the institution strike back after Harry and Meghan went so public with private details about the Firm.”

So everything goes back to the all-powerful William and his newfound power to use the palace’s relationship with friendly press to suppress, control, and humiliate others.

Paradigm Shift. After the discussion on the royal rota, probably the most fascinating part of Scobie’s criticism of the media is something he glosses over: the paradigm shift as a result of the information revolution that changed palace strategies with public relations and communications. In the span of about 50 years, the BRF went from one centralized Palace staff to three companies of Palace staff. They went from one single royal brand using ten newspapers to nine competing royal brands using national newspapers, foreign publications, digital media, and special interest groups and two ghosts (Diana and The Queen) whose legacies shape the 21st century.

I don’t know about you, but I’d rather read that book than 300+ pages of background for Harry’s lawsuits.

Rehabilitating Harry. Scobie reveals the plan for how to rehabilitate Harry if/when the time comes: it's Operation PB, Mark Bolland's creation to rehabilitate Camilla for the public to (eventually) accept her as Charles's Queen.

A parting gift for making it all the way through: my very favorite quote.

Just five years ago, the thought of the Windsors becoming equal citizens without privileged status seemed unreal to most, but now that future doesn't seem as far-fetched. Harry and Meghan have already fled to real life, and, by the looks of it, they're not hurting for either money or status.

You sure about that, Scobie? You sure that Harry and Meghan aren’t hurting of money or status? Harry just flew 20 hours round-trip for a 12-minute meeting with his father to make sure his inheritance was still solid after offending everyone and burning all the bridges.

#brf #endgame #omid scobie

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