#sometimes i feel this way about king lear

[artemismatchalatte]

I have no idea what I'm going to do for NaNoWriMo this year. I feel very uninspired lately.

I just want to do well in my class and my energy has been low lately (season change on my new medicine, I'm guessing???). I need some energy because it's Shakespeare and I need to keep my grades up to stay in the honors society (no pressure lol).

Much More in the tags as per usual... :P

[babystrcandy]

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.

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.

Haunt me.

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.

Beat.

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 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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@hrts4kook , @taehyungs-chopsticks , @loomipee , @st3ft0n3s , @callmenada , @neg-l3ct , @dawn33 , @illegurlbangtan , @jeonsdetails , @rihabaxl , @yoongipost , @jjk1iscoming , @miumiugurl , @sadgirlroo , @lucwithbangtan , @iamsisuu , @shanelleeex , @beonim , @sherlynxx , @fairy1919 , @purplewhales , @bloopkook , @ggukcanim , @bloodline1632 , @jungkooksseuphoria , @tea4sykes , @mugiwaraelly , @darkuni63 , @jalexad , @lpgirl2324 , @fairy-jaykay , @h0tvillainap0logist , @stuffy16 , @keniicastillo , @yoongukie-ff , @seesawe , @chocolatesublimesoul , @yopjm , @jeonlovescoffee , @xmirvamx , @jk-190811 , @percyjacksonlovesannabethchase , @vminkookgf , @werxyz , @tornparts , @aprilspring , @kswr1d , @jimilter , @02010802 , @sunsetnamjin​ , @lonekittycat , @moonchild1 , @hanamgi , @yoongslast , @heronstairsxd @pointofviewyugyeom

[atla-milf-month]

ATLA MILF Month will happen in March 2025! This month will celebrate all the ATLA-verse moms and older women who... well, you know!

Click here to submit prompts! Click here to check the event guidelines! Do you have any questions? Do you want to be a mod? Please send us an ask.

Thank you for participating. We hope you enjoy the event!

More about the archetypes under the cut!

Taken from "Writing 101: All the Different Types of Characters in Literature".

Characters in a work of fiction can usually be grouped into archetypes. These archetypes have been categorized by Swiss psychologist Carl Jung, the American literary theorist Joseph Campbell, and generations of authors, screenwriters, and storytellers. Here are the 12 commonly discussed character archetypes:

1. The Lover: the romantic lead who’s guided by the heart. Their strengths include humanism, passion, and conviction. Their weaknesses include naivete and irrationality. Some famous lovers are Romeo, Juliet, and Scarlett O’Hara. 

2. The Hero: the protagonist who rises to meet a challenge and saves the day. Their strengths are courage, perseverance, and honor. Their weaknesses include overconfidence and hubris. Some famous heros are Achilles, Luke Skywalker, and Wonder Woman 

3. The Magician: a powerful figure who has harnessed the ways of the universe to achieve their goals. Their strengths may include omniscience, omnipotence, and discipline, while their weaknesses center on corruptibility and arrogance. Prospero, Gandalf, Morpheus, and Dumbledore are famous magician characters. 

4. The Outlaw: the rebel who won’t abide by society’s demands. The outlaw can be a bad guy, but not always. The outlaw’s strengths include independent thinking and skepticism. Their weaknesses may include self-involvement and criminality. Among the famous outlaws are Han Solo, Dean Moriarty, and Humbert Humbert. 

5. The Explorer: a character naturally driven to push boundaries and find what’s next. Their strengths: They are curious, driven, and motivated by self-improvement. They are weak in that they are restless, unreliable, and never satisfied. Famous explorers include Odysseus, Sal Paradise, and Huckleberry Finn. 

6. The Sage: a wise figure with knowledge for those who inquire. Strengths of the sage include wisdom, experience, and insight. In terms of weakness, the sage may be overly cautious and hesitant to actually join the action. A few famous sages: Athena, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Hannibal Lecter (an evil sage). 

7. The Innocent: a morally pure character, often a child, whose only intentions are good. Their strengths range from morality to kindness to sincerity. Their weaknesses start with being vulnerable, naive, and minimally skilled. Famous innocents are Tiny Tim, Lennie Small, Cio-Cio-San. 

8. The Creator: a motivated visionary who creates art or structures during the narrative. Their strengths include creativity, willpower, and conviction. Their weaknesses include self-involvement, single-mindedness, and lack of practical skills. Famous creators include Zeus, Dr. Emmett Brown, and Dr. Moreau. 

9. The Ruler: a character with legal or emotional power over others. The ruler’s strengths include omnipotence, status, and resources. Their weaknesses include aloofness, being disliked by others, and always seeming out of touch. Famous rulers include Creon, King Lear, and Huck Finn’s Aunt Sally. 

10. The Caregiver: a character who continually supports others and makes sacrifices on their behalf. Among their strengths, caregivers are honorable, selfless, and loyal. Among their weaknesses, they lack personal ambition or leadership. Sometimes they even lack self worth. Famous caregivers include Dolly Oblonsky, Calpurnia, and Samwell Tarly. 

11. The Everyman: a relatable character who feel recognizable from daily life. When it comes to strengths, they are grounded, salt-of-the-earth, and relatable. In terms of weaknesses, they typically lack special powers and are often unprepared for what’s to come. Famous everymen: Bilbo Baggins, Leopold Bloom, Leslie Knope. 

12. The Jester: an intentionally funny character who provides comic relief but may also speak important truths. Strengths include the ability to be funny, disarming, and insightful. Weaknesses include the capacity to be obnoxious and superficial. Famous jesters range from Sir John Falstaff to King Lear’s Fool to George’s parents in Seinfeld.

[mywingsareonwheels]

Was watching the RSC Shakespeare Live! (it's on iPlayer and it's great btw) thing again last night, and omggggg. Roger Allam doing one of the speeches from King Lear and breaking my fucking heart yet again in the process.

He STILL hasn't played Lear all the way through. And I think that's partly his own decision (he's talked about not being sure how he'd play the role yet, and how "hard" it is, but he's one of the best Shakespearean actors ever and). I. Aaaaaah.

We need his Lear. We need his Lear so much. I mean, this is an actor who made me feel some compassion for Duke Vincentio, Falstaff, and Prospero, all of whom are kind of dreadful, not by underplaying their nastier qualities, but by playing up their vulnerability and better moments as well. <3 He brings out every nuance possible in every role he plays. His Lear is likely to break us into tiny pieces and WE NEED IT.

(I'm not sure he's even been in Lear as yet!!! If we can't have his Lear then maybe we can at least have his Gloucester or Kent or Fool? Pretty please? Older Fools are a Thing sometimes and he can sing more than beautifully enough, my Gods.)

Anyway. Roger Allam as Lear. Needs to happen. If it's live theatre (which it should be) it needs to be filmed and broadcast everywhere. Needs an awesome rest of the cast, but then there are so many superb Shakespearean actors just now that shouldn't be too tricky. ;-)

[aredhels]

fanfic writer interview

thank you for tagging me @hobbitwrangler!!

How many works do you have on AO3? 40

What's your total AO3 word count? 106,905

Your top 5 stories by kudos/likes:

same mistakes till the morning breaks (tma, elias bouchard/reader)

you're my sunshine and I want you to know (hp, wolfstar)

i miss you, when the lights go out (choices: open heart, ethan ramsey/mc)

tempt my trouble (tma, elias bouchard/oc)

all of my love for you cuts me like barbed wire (the silm, maedhros/maglor)

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? i do! it sometimes takes me a bit but i want to reply to them to show how much i appreciate them

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending? at first i was gonna say this elimichael fic but i feel like it isn't the ending that is the sad part here but the whole damn fic lmao so uh maybe this aredhel/luthien fic because i rather love the blow the final line deals here lol

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending? this tooth-rottingly cute wolfstar fic for sure

Do you write crossovers? i haven't and it has never quite been my cup of tea but never say never

Have you ever received hate on a fic? not quite hate i guess but my first witch king tar-miriel fic did get an annoying condescending anon comment about how the timeline doesn't work which is the closest to what i've got

Do you write smut? If so, what kind? 90% of what i write is smut lol i like it when it's a bit angsty and emotionally repressed (or, like, emotionally slow burn although they fuck immediately lmao)

Have you ever had a fic stolen? not that i know of

Have you ever had a fic translated? yes! this russingon fic of mine was translated into russian a while ago which was a very cool experience because i do also know russian myself but def not enough to do the translating myself but it was soooo fun to read your own words translated into another language

Have you ever co-written a fic before? nope. idk if it would be something i'd even be into tbh

What's your all-time favorite ship? unfortunately i still think it is wolfstar, idk which other ship would've been with me for so long. like with tolkien i don't really have just one favourite ship lmao there are so many (ask me again in a year and i might say maemags though)

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will? i have soooo many half-finished scarlias aus and as much as i want to finish them all i feel like many of them won't. honorary mentions to the arranged marriage au and king lear au which are very galaxy brain of me

What are your writing strengths? short angsty with plenty of things unsaid and hidden between the lines that end with a punch in the gut

What are your writing weaknesses? transitions between scenes, descriptions too probably

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? complicated? sometimes it is a bit annoying when it gets excessive especially if it's real life languages but sometimes it does work in setting a tone and vibe, like for instance using bits and pieces of sindarin or quenya. ig it is just that it takes a lot of skill to do it in a way that isn't jarring.

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to? for fandoms i def want to dip in the x files (i mean i do have a silly self insert wip i might yeet into ao3 one day but, like, actual msr fic or something) and i feel like one day i'm gonna want to venture more into star wars too. and then for tolkien ships i haven't written all that much lotr stuff so maybe like try my hand at faramir fic at least

What's your favorite fic you've written? this is pretty interesting because when i started writing this for silm smut week not too long ago i had no idea this would became a favourite of mine but as it turns out i'm so proud of the way this luthien/daeron fic fleshed out and i adore the whole vibe and the picture i managed to paint there and i will forever be riding the high of getting a comment where it was described as "gothic" like wow goals

tumblr hates me whenever i try to tag more than like two people to things so i will only tag @tiesanjiaoshenanigans and ask anyone else who would like to do this do it and say i tagged you xx

[coldslaws]

Is it weird that I feel genuine pity and sorrow for the raising harmony Ghetsis?

I mean, this Zweilous was tied to his own wife's death, the one he can never forget or look past, the only one who made him feel complete, and she was ripped from him. He even wonders if he's doing the right thing, having second thoughts and guilts over everything he's done.

To be quite frank, I'd hate the thing too. If the only living thing left of my wife's legacy was the Pokemon of the man who most likely had a hand in the murder of my wife, who constantly exists to remind me of what was taken away from me, I'd hate it too.

This doesn't excuse what he's done at all, he still was an accomplice in the torture and treatment of Zweilous and it didn't deserve that at all, but fuck man. I feel bad, maybe I'm too sympathetic idk

honestly im lowkey really glad you feel that way cuz it's kinda what i was going for hehe. i was wondering just how many people would remember ghetsis's allusions to the fact that cordelia was killed ("rest assured retribution was had"), as opposed to dying of illness or accident, and ghetsis's hatred of zweilous and his trainer clearly go deeper than just ghetsis being a jackass. im not saying it was lear and zweilous to do it outright, i actually had different plans in mind, but the king lear & cordelia namesakes are definitely a deliberate story choice rather than just some names that were cool.. so you can say ghetsis still blames him for what happened too, whether or not lear was the one to kill her. lear still mistreated and controlled cordelia and made ghetsis's life hell. not to mention their subsequent "falling out" after cordelia passed, which i don't know if i'll ever get ghetsis to address in full ic, but obviously.. there's a story behind the fact that ghetsis now has his dragon and his castle. ("this place was fully built before it came into my possession" notice how he doesnt say he inherited or was gifted it LMAO)

but anyways, yeah, there's a reason why ghetsis was doing this to zweilous out of all pokemon in his vicinity. i think yall would have a much harder time even considering forgiving him if he had done it to like, a random pokemon off the street, or god forbid, z.. he chose the pokemon that actively participated in destroying his life, and even then he had second thoughts and wanted to just get rid of it. doesn't make it right at ALL, just because a man ruined your life doesn't mean you can torture that man's attack dog, and youre not a better person for having second thoughts about abusing said dog. even between his second thoughts, ghetsis was considering doing this "early evolution" trick again sometime, so make of that what you will.. and zweilous was just an animal being told what to do, not inherently malicious. but i wanted to portray a man doing something incredibly, incredibly hateful and detestable in the wake of grief and bitterness as opposed to just for shits or pursuit of power alone

maybe he wouldn't even be in this scenario rn if he'd just gotten therapy after cordelia. but he thinks he's in too deep to pull back now

[vaguely-concerned]

that last scene in fatal journey where nie huaisang has to support nie mingjue for him to keep upright, harrowhark's arc in harrow the ninth*, and the 'O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven/Keep me in temper: I would not be mad' line from king lear all break my heart in exactly the same way. that precise thread of the ultimate, hopeless vulnerability and confusion that's at the heart of madness -- of realizing in glimpses that you won't even realize how far you've drifted from yourself and that you don't know how to stop it, you can't stop it. that's such a core part of nie mingjue to me, and I don't feel like I've seen a lot of real discussion around it considering how central I think it is to his character.

*also like harrow, nie mingjue is both 'mad' (im mentally ill. I'm reclaiming it. sometimes that does feel like exactly the right word for it) and also like. severely haunted. by a sword even lmao. they've even got the 'crushing weight of shouldering the responsibility of their entire house given to them at way too early an age under horrifically traumatizing circumstances' same hat/same hat! thing going on here. omg. nie mingjue is like if harrow was a big sensitive jock who cries at the drop of a hat and harrow is like if nie mingjue was a small wet ratwoman who does bones and catholic guilt. but the core is basically the same. I can't believe I'm right about this.

[elysian-flame]

You can read any book you like. You can call yourself whatever you want, without seeking anyone’s approval. I've delved into timeless classics like King Lear, Romeo and Juliet, Othello, and Pride and Prejudice. And even after experiencing those literary masterpieces, I still pick up books that I find intriguing. I don't feel the need to ask for anyone’s opinion because there is something liberating in trusting your own judgment, in allowing your heart and curiosity to guide you.

There’s a profound beauty in embracing what you love without the weight of others’ opinions dragging you down. It’s about recognizing that life is not about conforming to standards set by others; it’s about listening to your inner voice. It's akin to the idea of living authentically when you are true to yourself, the need for external validation dissipates. In this freedom, you allow yourself to explore, to make choices, and to connect with things that resonate with you, even if you haven’t fully experienced them yet. ✨💫🌙

Consider the way, on social media platforms like Facebook, you can list hobbies that fascinate you. Perhaps you've never gone scuba diving, but the idea excites you. You don't have to wait until you've physically experienced it to claim it as something that sparks joy within you. This idea speaks to the core of human curiosity and desire. Sometimes, we feel connected to things we haven't yet lived, and that connection can be just as powerful as if we had. The mystery of what draws us to these unknowns is a key part of life there's a richness in allowing yourself to be pulled toward something just because it calls to you, even without full comprehension. ✨

Take love,❤️ for example. Love is an emotion that often defies logic. You might find yourself deeply in love with someone, even if they never reciprocate. The absence of their love doesn't invalidate yours. In fact, love, in its purest form, isn’t about receiving something in return; it’s about the act of loving itself. It’s about surrendering to the feeling, allowing yourself to be vulnerable, and embracing that connection, even if it remains one sided. You might never hear the words “I love you❤️” from them, but that doesn’t diminish the intensity or authenticity of what you feel. The heart knows what it desires, and often, it doesn’t need anyone else's confirmation to justify its choices.

This concept is similar to the experience of reading. You might have read just one book, yet declare that you love reading. Some might argue that you haven’t read enough to make that claim. But for you, that one book was enoughit ignited something within you. It opened a door to a new world, and in that moment, you discovered a passion. Whether others see it the same way doesn’t matter. When you love something or someone, you don’t ask for the approval of others. You don’t need to seek permission to feel. You simply do. Your love, your passion, is valid because it’s yours. It's a personal experience, one that cannot be quantified or explained by anyone but you. ✨

Think about it do you pause when you watch a beautiful sunset, 🌇 wondering if it meets someone else’s standards of beauty? No, you don’t. You let the colors of the sky, the soft fading of light, wash over you. You feel it in your soul. That’s how love is, how passions are. They don’t need to be dissected, analyzed, or understood by others. They simply need to be felt, and that feeling is where their power lies.✨✨✨

So why do we often find ourselves trying to solve every mystery, analyzing every experience, or dissecting the worth of everything we encounter? Not every book is going to resonate with everyone, but that doesn’t mean it lacks value. It simply wasn’t meant for you. We live in a world where everything is subject to judgment, but not every experience requires explanation. Some things are meant to remain a mystery, to be celebrated for their uniqueness. 💫A book, a passion, or even a person may not speak to you in the way it does to someone else, but that doesn’t make them any less worthy.

The idea of life as a celebration of experiences rather than a puzzle to be solved is one worth embracing. Every moment, every connection, every discovery carries its own meaning, even if we don’t fully understand it. Each book, like each person,🤌 has its own story to tell. Some may move us to tears, while others may leave us indifferent, but all of them are part of the rich tapestry that makes up our lives.

Consider movies, for instance. You might have a favorite film that stirs something deep within you, but when someone else watches it, they feel nothing. Does that mean your experience was invalid? Of course not. Your connection to that movie was personal, and the fact that it spoke to you is what makes it special. Just like with books, not every story will resonate with every reader, and that’s okay. The value lies in the experience, in what it meant to you.

Life, much like reading, is about embracing the mystery. You don’t need to have all the answers or understand every nuance to enjoy something. Whether it’s a hobby you’ve never tried, a book that left you speechless, or a love that remains unreturned, the beauty lies in the experience itself. There’s a richness in allowing yourself to be swept away by the things that move you, even if you can’t fully explain why. 💜

So, instead of trying to unravel every mystery, allow yourself to simply be. Let yourself experience the joy of discovery, the depth of emotion, and the beauty of life’s unpredictability. Books, love, and even the smallest interests are all part of the grand mystery of life. They connect us to something beyond ourselves, something we may never fully grasp but can always cherish.

Next time someone tells you that a book wasn’t for them, remember that it was still meaningful it just wasn’t for them. Life, much like a story, is meant to be lived, not judged. We celebrate its variety, its different rhythms and expressions, by embracing the unknown and reveling in the simple joy of feeling deeply.

-elsy🔥

❤️❤️❤️❤️

[hubrisbracket]

Hubris Bracket Side A Poll 5: Edward Kendal Sheridan Lionheart (Theater of Blood) vs SHODAN (System Shock)

Propaganda below (may contain spoilers)

Edward Kendal Sheridan Lionheart

Convinced he is the world's greatest Shakespearian actor despite being hated by critics, Lionheart was so sure he was going to be awarded Best Actor by the Critics' Circle that he had already risen to his feet to accept it before it was announced it was going to someone else. He then walked into the critics' meeting to demand they hand him the award as "the whole world knows that it is mine by right" (yes, he sometimes speaks in iambic pentameter even when not acting). They refuse and he attempts suicide by throwing himself into the Thames while holding the award (after reciting To Be Or Not To Be on the ledge). He survives, and then decides to murder the critics one by one in ways based on different Shakespeare plays before capturing the final surviving one and threatening him into handing over the award. However, the critic still refuses to give him the award, and Lionheart resorts to having his daughter present him with the award, then setting fire to the old theatre he's been using as his base when the cops arrive. His daughter is killed in the chaos, and her death absolutely destroys him--he climbs to the roof of the burning building, carrying her dead body and reciting quotes from King Lear, then falls to his death. He has everything--the ego, the dramatics, the tragic fate... despite the many many crimes he commits you can't help but feel sorry for him (at least I can't).

SHODAN

A rampant space station AI who declares herself god and starts building killer cyborgs and mutagenic viruses about it. Ultimately brought down because she is so obsessed with the deadly perfection of her creations that it never occurs to her to just depressurize the entire deck her nemesis is on.

[linc-karo-27]

I've been thinking (and watching the cutscenes for 6.55) I think that "it's Shakespearen" from the BAFTA Video is two ways:

He's talking about the language (most of FFXIV is sometimes using older English). Like what we think of when we think of Urianger and the weird "thus, thine" uses in the game. And partly some of the morality and political conflict does feel like that. or and the death for plot device.

But also: IF THIS HAS BEEN DONE WITH THE DAWNTRAIL SCRIPTS KNOWN TO THE CAST

Dawntrial has a bit of a hint of King Lear - from what we know so far.

spoilers below for King Lear by Shakespeare and 6.55:

So ignoring the Scion/Eorzea storylines for this. In King Lear (from the one time I watched it/ Wikipedia summary of it people coming from other lands isn't a thing/ the whole scion spitting up.

Wuk Lamat tells us she is one of four claimants to the throne; with her and her brother being 2 of them. But she also mentions Konana (one of the other contestants as implied) is "my second older brother" implying there's at least three children of the Dawn servant). One of these claimants is (according to Wuk) completely unsuitable to rule and is "war mongering" - and saw the fall of Garlemald as a land to conquer.

We (as outsiders) are also encouraged to help the contestants.

And here is the summary of everything from Fanfests (source: https://www.fanbyte.com/ffxiv/news/everything-we-know-about-ffxiv-dawntrail-s-story-so-far)

Meanwhile, the story of King Lear goes like this (according to Wikipedia: if I find a summary video on Youtube that will be below this) :

In old age a ruler divides his lands up between his children (could be how DT ends) and how power and control is how this competition is seen.

Some of this feels a bit familiar right? Like oddly familiar.

This is just something I thought of the other day. None of this is serious but would be very funny if close.

[skitter-kitter]

For the ask game, 3, 13, 16, 35, 39, 54, 66?

Fic writer asks

Describe the creative process of writing a chapter/fic

I usually come up with most of my fic ideas while listening to music and daydreaming. Usually I’m either struck with a specific scene I want to write (the intro scene of When A Flower Doesn’t Bloom for instance) or a title (Lear and the Immortality Clause). From there I talk to a friend and figure out a more concrete plot, then that night I start writing usually. Sometimes I don’t get to the writing stage though lol

what’s a common writing tip that you almost always follow?

Show don’t tell! I love showing characters’ emotions in their body language during key scenes. Like right now I’m writing a scene where the pov character doesn’t know what’s going on while everyone else is horrified but can’t tell them. So I’m showing their horror in the shake of their shoulders and the weakness of their voice and how they clutch to the pov character for support. It gives a lot more GRAVITY to what happened too!

How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Share one of them?

Is too many an answer..? I’ve got ten fic ideas I’m in the process of actively writing right now. Like a dozen I have interest in but no real motivation

What is one essential thing to remember when writing a villain? 

REAL STAKES. I think the most important part of a villain/general conflict is getting the feeling that if they aren’t stopped something will be LOST

Share a snippet from a WIP

A month ago, Rowan Falstelo had been a loving husband and the ideal father to his son.

Now, his wife was dead. She’d finally fallen to the illness that had been haunting her for years, leaving Rowan with all the broken pieces of his life her presence had once glued together. Now, his son was thousands of miles away, surrounded by strangers, and being warped into someone his father wouldn’t recognize. Now, he was alone in a castle with only a casket to keep him company.

Now, Rowan wasn’t a father, a husband, or even a person; now, he was nothing but a king. A king had to make the right decisions for his kingdom regardless of his own personal feelings.

His marriage to his wife had been one of selfishness, one that had come back to haunt him in a thousand ways.

If he had the choice, he’d hold Lear in his arms and never let him go. He’d make sure his little boy was safe and happy and no one could ever hurt him. If they were peasants, Rowan would tuck his child into bed, kiss him on the forehead, and know no one would ever want to hurt such a perfect angel.

But, they weren’t peasants.

They were royalty.

- from He Dreamed Of Paradise, a story where Lear runs away from his tutors with Hoopa as a kid

What’s your favorite part about the fanfiction writing process?

Honestly, editing! I love going through a finished fic and adding more details and more little lines that dig a bit deeper. It’s so relaxing

How do you deal with writing pressure (ie. pressure to update, negative comments, deadlines, etc.)?

Usually, I try to follow whatever makes me happiest in the moment so I don’t finish a lot of what I start. I haven’t ever really gotten negative comments, but I usually just bitch about them to my friends. And for deadlines I just never try to put deadlines on myself. I don’t know if that really answered the question so a more concise answer: I avoid it like the plague

[princesssarisa]

Character ask: Cordelia (King Lear)

Favorite thing about them: Her kindness, love, compassion, and forgiveness, which have rightly led many critics to describe her as Christ-like, combined with her pride, dignity, stubbornness, and courage that make her more than just a standard ingénue.

Least favorite thing about them: Hmm... Maybe "No cause, no cause." While I do like that she wholeheartedly forgives her father, it's another thing to imply that he did nothing wrong. He did! But then, to remind him of that fact probably wouldn't be wise in his frail mental condition, and when he's already so humbled and ashamed that he implies he's willing to let her kill him.

Three things I have in common with them:

*I'm very honest.

*I sometimes have trouble putting my feelings into words.

*I'm close to my father.

Three things I don't have in common with them:

*I've never been rejected by my father. (Though I have an irrational, autism-based fear that I might be rejected someday, by everyone I care about, which is probably why I have more trouble sympathizing with a daughter-rejecting character like Lear than I'm supposed to.)

*I don't have sisters.

*I'm not royalty.

Favorite line:

The speech that gets her banished:

"Good my lord,

You have begot me, bred me, and loved me:

I return those duties back as are right fit.

Obey you, love you, and most honour you.

Why have my sisters husbands, if they say

They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed,

That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry

Half my love with him, half my care and duty.

Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters,

To love my father all."

Her lament for Lear's suffering as she watches him sleep:

"O my dear father! Restoration hang

Thy medicine on my lips; and let this kiss

Repair those violent harms that my two sisters

Have in thy reverence made!...

Had you not been their father, these white flakes

Had challenged pity of them. Was this a face

To be opposed against the warring winds?

To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder?

In the most terrible and nimble stroke

Of quick, cross lightening? to watch - poor perdu! -

With this thin helm? Mine enemy's dog,

Though it had bit me, should have stood that night

Against my fire; and wast thou fain, poor father,

To hovel thee with swine, and rogues forlorn,

In short and musty straw? Alack, alack!

'Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once

Had not concluded all."

brOTP: Lear in their final scenes together, after he's humbled and realizes her love and goodness.

OTP: Her husband, the King of France.

nOTP: Lear, Goneril, or Regan.

Random headcanon: She's yet another character I can imagine as being on the autism spectrum. Her refusal to lie or to play a role to please others, her inability to express her deep love for her father in words, the seemingly cold and clinical talk of duty with which she attempts to express it, and her resistance to social expectations that contradict each other (i.e. that her father and king demands that she love him above all else, yet she knows that when she marries, her husband is supposed to come first) all make sense in this way. Especially because she implies that these aren't deliberate choices – she claims that she "cannot heave [her] heart into [her] mouth," that her tongue is less "rich" than the love within her, and that she "lacks the art" of dishonest flattery.

Unpopular opinion: I think her death is necessary. It's tragic, of course, but I don't find it agonizingly cruel and unfair. All the misery and bloodshed over the course of the play take place because of Lear's mistakes, so from a poetic standpoint, he can't live happily ever after with Cordelia the way he did in earlier versions. He needs to lose her and then die of grief (or of delusional joy as he hallucinates her reviving, depending on how you read his last lines). Of course I would never view the fates of real people in this way, only fictional characters; and I understand that in viewing her death this way, I'm treating her as something of a Woman in the Refrigerator, saying that she needs to be sacrificed for poetic justice on Lear. But Lear is the main character, and from the start Cordelia is defined by her relationship with him. So I can accept her death as a plot device to both figuratively and literally break Lear's heart, and I don't find it quite as upsetting as other people do.

Song I associate with them: None to speak of.

Favorite picture of them:

This painting by John Rogers Herbert.

This illustration by Arthur Rackham.

This painting by William Frederick Yeames.

This painting by Ford Madox Brown of her lament over the sleeping Lear.

This painting by James Barry of her death.

Anna Calder-Marshall mourned by Laurence Olivier as Lear in the 1983 TV Film. (Very interesting casting, because Calder-Marshall had played Cathy in the 1970 film version of Wuthering Heights, while Olivier had played Heathcliff in the classic 1939 version.)

Phoebe Fox at the Almeida Theatre, 2012.

Romola Garai with the Royal Shakespeare Company, 2007.

Natalie Simpson with the Royal Shakespeare Company, 2016.

Florence Pugh in the 2018 TV film.

[longitudinalwaveme]

Before the Storm: My Ambitious and Possibly Foolish Attempt to Write a Prequel to Shakespeare's King Lear

This play is a prequel of sorts to Shakespeare's King Lear, a play that I've always really enjoyed. I have no delusions about being able to match the original in terms of characterization, theme, tone, or writing style, as I am certainly not Shakespeare, but I hope that my exploration of a potential backstory to the events of the play is at least entertaining and enjoyable to other fans of the play.

The play is written in what is my best attempt at convincing Early Modern English. I've tried hard to match the grammar and word choice that would fit the period, but I'm sure I've made some slip-ups here and there. Feel free to correct any errors in the comments!

There will however be no blank verse in the play. I briefly attempted to write it, realized that I would be unable to balance plot, characterization, reasonably convincing Early Modern English, AND blank verse with any success, and chose to just write the dialogue in prose.

Most of the anachronisms seen here are the result of the fact that King Lear is set in what is supposed to be, based on his sources, a very ancient pre-Roman-Conquest England, but also has Dukes of Albany and Cornwall (Dukes, from what I understand, came to England during the Norman invasion, long after the Romans), apparently a St. Bethlehem hospital (Edgar mentions "Bedlam beggars" and the mental hospital in question wasn't established until the 1400s), Greek and Roman gods that obviously would not have been part of the pre-Roman conquest religious system of England, and one very medieval-to-Renaissance era court jester. The point is, I don't have the foggiest idea of when King Lear is actually supposed to be taking place beyond "probably sometime before the then-present of 1605-1607", and so just ended up setting my play in the same weird pagan-but-medieval-but-also-some-Renaissance time abyss we see in the original play. Feel free to call me out on any inappropriate post-Renaissance references or word choices though.

With that very long introduction out of the way, I hope you enjoy “Before the Storm”! 

Dramatis Personae

King Lear: The temperamental and autocratic ruler of an England that is trapped somewhere between 500 BC and 1605 AD. At 77, he’s already advanced in years, but acts like a man half his age. 

Maglanus, Duke of Albany: The son of a second son, he inherited his duchy unexpectedly and feels rather unprepared for the role. He’s meek and mild-mannered, but extremely wealthy and in possession of considerable political power. 21 years old.  

Henninus, Duke of Cornwall: An aggressive young firebrand; inherited the duchy upon the  death of his father. Although barely 17, he’s one of the most powerful men in the kingdom.

The Earl of Gloucester: One of Lear’s closest friends and advisors. He always tells Lear what he wants to hear and is a bit gullible, but he’s generally affable and well-liked. 72 years old. 

The Earl of Kent: Lear’s other closest advisor. He’s blunt and plain-spoken but always has good advice (when Lear opts to actually listen to it). 60 years old. 

Edgar: Gloucester’s eleven-year-old son. He’s cheerful and good-natured. Rarely seen without his pet dog. 

Edmund: Gloucester’s ten-year-old bastard son. He’s briefly been called home from his sojourn abroad so that he can attend the upcoming royal wedding. Quiet and observant. 

The Fool: An uncannily intelligent peasant boy of 13 years; recently hired by King Lear for his comedic skills and biting wit. He’s very fond of the Princess Cordelia. 

Princess Goneril: King Lear’s eldest daughter. She’s every bit as imposing and imperious as her father. Cold and calculating, Goneril is already an expert at the political game and plays it as ruthlessly as any man. She is 19 years old and her father is seeking a suitably wealthy and influential husband for her. 

Princess Regan: King Lear’s second daughter. Passionate and impulsive, she has her father’s temper. Woe betide anyone who angers her. She’s also engaged in a tempestuous love affair with Henninus. 16 years old. 

Princess Cordelia: King Lear’s youngest–and favorite–daughter. Sweet and good-natured, Cordelia is nevertheless every bit as strong-willed as her two older sisters. She doesn’t speak much, but when she does, it’s always something worth listening to. She spends a lot of time outside climbing trees on the castle grounds (much to the dismay of the ladies of the court). 13 years old. 

Lydia, the Dowager Duchess of Cornwall: The mother of Henninus; widowed when her son was quite young. Until fairly recently she governed in her son’s name. She’s immensely proud of her son. Aged 50.

Lady Martha: The mother of Maglanus, she’s still grieving the deaths of her brother-in-law, nephews, and husband. While pleased that her son has inherited such a lofty position, she is horrified by the fact that the King seeks to have her son marry his eldest daughter. Aged 47. 

Lords, ladies, knights, servants, messengers

Act 1

Scene 1: The Court of King Lear

Enter Lady Martha and the Dowager Duchess 

Lady Martha: Were he not our lord the King, I would swear that Lear is mad to govern his daughters thus! 

Duchess: ‘Tis true, lady. Could his wife the queen—Jove bless her soul!---see how he hath raised her daughters, she wouldst have some cause for weeping. 

Lady Martha: Then he hath mismanaged their care long? 

Duchess: Aye. 

Lady Martha: Wherefore hath he done so? 

Duchess: Our lord the King doted on his wife almost to idolatry. When she lay dying, he, half-mad from grief, grasped her small white hands in his and swore that he should never take another wife, for Jove had not created another woman such as she. His wisest and most cunning advisors and ministers, including my lord the Duke of Cornwall, urged him not to promise such a thing, for he was still without a male heir, but the King, ever sure in his own authority, refused. To his daughters he declared a kingdom for a dowry and inheritance in one, and thereby did the matter end. 

Lady Martha: Were there no ladies of the court who wouldst take on the honor of tutoring the princesses in the womanly arts? 

Duchess: There were, and ladies from the courts of France and Spain as well. But our lord the King would have none of it. His bloodline must needs possess the throne forever, so his daughters would be brought up to rule and to reign. Since their tenderest years, they have been taught languages and government and mathematics, history and tactics, by learned tutors just as though they were princes! 

Lady Martha: What of needlework, music, and dance? What of managing a household? Doth our lord the King not know that such things will be needful for his daughters when they must wed?

Duchess: He hath ever but little concerned himself with the duties of women, and so hath never had his daughters instructed in such matters. Methinks he hath truly forgotten that his wife’s daughters cannot be his sons. The Lady Cordelia dances and sings in a manner untrained, but that is all. 

Lady Martha: And thus at nineteen, the Lady Goneril is yet a stranger to the marriage bed. 

Duchess: Though that shall soon be rectified. Our Lord the King hath of late been weighing carefully all the nobles in the land to find simultaneously a lord for his daughter and a consort for his heir. 

Lady Martha: Who wouldst pledge their son in marriage to such a woman? ‘Twould be as though they married a king rather than a wife! 

Duchess: With a dowry of a kingdom, who wouldst not? Men as well as women can marry into greatness. 

Lady Martha: You say such only because your son is yet too young to wed. 

Duchess: He hath reached his majority and rules his estate in his own name. If he is old eno to rule, he is of an age to wife. 

Lady Martha: And you wouldst let his wife be a woman raised to be a king? A woman who barely remembers a mother’s touch and knows not the womanly virtues? 

Duchess: Gladly. The Lady Goneril hath no gentleness, but cunning and patience she hath, and that in abundance. And though she manages servants more as a prince than as a lady, she manages them well. She wouldst be a fair match for my hot-blooded son…which is indeed more than can be said for her sisters. 

Lady Martha: Then you wouldst not wish my Lord of Cornwall to marry them?

Duchess: No. The Lady Cordelia is as yet a year or two too young to wed, and even if she were older, a sense of propriety she hath not. She runs rampant through the castle grounds, climbing trees and playing at fencing just as if she were a lad, and she hath no sense of persons. She doth treat her father’s fool as though he were a nobleman’s son, and treats many a nobleman as though they were common thieves. And her father doth praise her for her “honesty”! 

Lady Martha: And the Lady Regan? 

Duchess: The Lady Regan is all storms and tempest. She hath not her elder sister’s intelligence or  self control, and, being raised almost as a prince, she has no thought to tame her tongue as a woman should. Nor does she have the childish charm that causes our lord the King to dote so on Cordelia. And yet in spite of that, somehow she hath learned to use her beauty as would a siren. Many a young nobleman hath lost his head to her charms. 

Lady Martha: The pity of it all is that they do have such charms. Had they been raised not as tigers wild but as ladies of the court, they should have made finer brides than even their mother ever did. But alas, now they are their father’s daughters alone. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 2: The King’s Gardens

Enter Lear’s three daughters. Cordelia starts to climb a tree.

Goneril: If our father the King desires a marriage of political advantages, ‘tis evident that he must needs do so by some other method than introducing me to all of the ladies of the court. He hath raised me as a ruler, not as the flower they wish their sons to wive. 

Regan: All the better then. What want we with a marriage of political advantages? I wouldst far rather a marriage to a handsome man. 

Goneril: Thou speak’st as a fool, sister. Knowest thou not that all royal marriages are political? Through my marriage, I shall strengthen our father’s power and my own withal. ‘Tis all I ever desired from such a union. 

Regan: What if our father the King marries thee off to a man of threescore years and ten? Or a man who beats thee? Wouldst thou still be accepting of a political marriage then? 

Goneril: Suppose I were not. Dost thou believe that our father the King wouldst abandon his plans to see me wed to that man? Never! He wouldst disinherit me for such disobedience! Better to go along with him while I am still in his house than to risk my fortune by defying him. I will have time enough to enforce my own will after I am wed. 

Regan: What of thy husband’s will? 

Goneril: Our father the King has made no overtures to foreign princes, so ‘tis reasonable to assume that he plans to give my hand to one of his dukes. As their only claim to royalty would be through our nuptials, I should have little to fear from the will of such a husband. 

Regan: Dost thou have no desire for a handsome husband? Or one who wouldst find thee beautiful? 

Goneril: Such physical attraction is fleeting, sister. ‘Tis fine for a dream, but no use for a marriage. No, I will be content to marry for power. Power lasts. Or dost thou forget thy history? 

Regan: ‘Tis dry. I have no head for it. 

Goneril: Lately, thou hast had no head for anything—save catching the eyes of the young noblemen who circle thee as a butterfly doth a flower. 

Regan: Canst thou blame me? Our father the King pays mind only to Cordelia when he is pleased, and only to thee when his rash mood is on. Me he sees never! Why shouldst I not get from a lover what our father the King doth not give?

Goneril: Attention from our father the King doth not risk thy reputation. Thou shalt not wive at all if the young men decide thou art too forward.

Regan: Lecture me no more! I am not a child. And thou certainly art not our mother—no matter how much thou pretend’st to be!

Pause. Cordelia climbs down from the tree.

Goneril: Then do as thou list, and on thy head be the consequences. But know this: our mother the Queen would despair to see thee behaving thus.

Regan: Thou dost say such every time that thou approve not of what I do. How dost thou know of what she wouldst favor? Thou wast a child of six when she did die.

Goneril: Three years older than were thou. 

Cordelia: Would our mother favor you arguing with one another? 

Regan: Speak’st thou not of our mother. ‘Tis thy fault she is dead!

Regan slaps Cordelia; Cordelia cries. 

Goneril: What meanest thou, upsetting the child thus? Our father the King-

Regan: Our father the King wouldst not notice if I threw myself off of the castle parapet! Why should he notice this? 

Goneril: Notice he shalt if his favorite child comes running to him in tears! 

Regan: He’ll notice that she is crying, and he will blame thee for allowing it to happen. Our father the King doth not notice me even to blame me. 

Goneril: And thou wouldst have our father the King punish me for thy inability to control thyself? 

Regan: That I wouldst! Mayhap his punishment will keep thy hands out of my affairs for a time! 

Exit Regan. 

Goneril: Child, dry thy tears. Thou are not hurt. 

Cordelia: Sniffle. I am hurt. And so, methinks, art thou. Thy face when Regan said that thou wouldst never be our mother said as much. Sniffle. 

Goneril: Thou dost see much for one so small. ‘Tis a pity thou hast not the knowledge to know when ‘tis not politic to tell others what thou dost see. 

Cordelia: Sniffle. Wouldst thou have me lie, sister? 

Goneril: I care not what thou dost. Thou dost have our father’s love. Thou hardly need’st mine–and I have none to give. 

Cordelia: If thou cared not what I did, thou shouldst not tell me what to do. Nor Regan neither. 

Goneril: Thou art a most persistent little creature. Very well then—the answer to thy query is yes. I would have thee lie. Thou wilt never last in the court of our father the King else. 

Cordelia: Our father the King praises me for my honesty. 

Goneril: Our father the King would praise thee for thy cleverness if thou didst lie and for thine inventiveness if thou didst steal the treasury! Thou art the last gift given him from our mother the Queen; he wouldst praise you for anything. 

Cordelia: From our mother’s painting thou art the very form and image of her. Why then doth he not praise thee? 

Goneril: Thou asketh above thy station, child. 

Cordelia: Thou answerest above thy station, sister. Or hast thou become the King our father? 

Goneril: Thy stubbornness will be the death of thee. Not everyone is so forgiving as I am with thee today. But if thou must have an answer to thy query, and it seems apparent that thou must, the King our father praises not me because he sees in me only a poor replica of our mother the Queen. 

Cordelia: Thou were but half my age when our mother died. 

Goneril: All the reason more for the King our father to find me wanting. 

Cordelia: I shall speak to the King our father. ‘Tis unfair for him to blame you for not being the Queen our Mother. 

Goneril: Fool child, thou shalt do nothing of the sort! 

Cordelia: Dost thou not want the praise of the King our father? 

Goneril: ‘Tis foolish to wish upon something that I shall get never. If thou dost ask him to favor me, he will say I put thee up to it, and blame me all the more. 

Cordelia: Surely the King our father would not���

Goneril: Thou hast no idea what the King our father will do! Why dost thou think that I am so desirous of escaping his house? 

Cordelia: If thou dost wish to escape the King our father, then why dost thou work so hard to expand his power? And why wouldst thou marry a man of his choosing? 

Goneril: I am the eldest child of the royal line. Power is mine by birth, and there is precious little that I will not sacrifice to get it.

Cordelia: Even thine own happiness? 

Goneril: Enough, child! I have not the time for endless questions. 

Cordelia: But—

Goneril: I am sure thou canst find companions more suitable to thy youth than I. Go to!

Exit Cordelia.

That child doth see too much of me. I like it not—and yet in her mind she doth compass far more than our riotous sister Regan. Had she less honesty and more art, she wouldst be a ruler indeed. 

Enter Maglanus, Duke of Albany

Albany: What a fine portrait must I make! My mother and travel to the royal court as consequence of mine inheritance, and the first action I take upon arrival is to become hopelessly lost! And I thought my castle was a labyrinth…

Goneril: Thou art not the first to be lost so. Who art thou, and whither art thou going? 

Albany: Maglanus—that is, the Duke. Of Albany, I mean. I prithee, forgive mine clumsiness in uttering. Who are you, gentle lady, and what do you here unchaperoned? 

Goneril: In troth, I have little reason to fear being alone. ‘Twould be a bold man who wouldst risk the wrath of my father the King by attempting to dishonor me. 

Albany: Forgive me, Princess. Had I known–

Goneril: Art new to court? 

Albany: Yes, your grace. 

Goneril: ‘Tis apparent in your hesitancy. Though I confess I do find it strange that a Duke of such a vast territory as Albany shouldst never have been to court. 

Albany: ‘Tis a title I have had not long; nor ever expected to have. 

Goneril: Then thou art not the son of the old Duke? 

Albany: No, he was mine uncle. And, as he had two sons of his own, I had no expectancy of the land. 

Goneril: How then hast thou inherited? 

Albany: Hast the castle not heard? 

Goneril: No. News from as far north as Albany doth travel slow. 

Albany: The castle of mine uncle was struck with a most dread disease, one that didst steal his life and the lives of both his sons. Since my father had died of infection a year before, the title fell on me. I should never have chosen to inherit anything thus.

Goneril: Thou art a strange man, then. Most would celebrate the power. 

Albany: I was not raised to it. The mantle sits ill upon my shoulders. 

Goneril: Marry, then thou art not the sort of man I wouldst have to wed. 

Albany: To wed, your grace? 

Goneril: My father the King seeks a husband for me amongst his noblemen. 

Albany: I am not the man who wouldst wish to wed you. (Pause) Not that you are not beautiful, your grace, but I feel out of sorts even as a Duke. To be a prince is something I desire not. 

Goneril: Thy meekness ill-fits a nobleman. 

Albany: ‘Tis true, your grace. And you are unusually bold for a lady. 

Goneril: My father the King wouldst have his heirs no other way. His scoldings, and mine instructors, drove from my bosom any semblance of timidity in my tenderest years. (Pause) Now to the point. Thou art lost. Where art thou trying to go? 

Albany: In truth, I know’st not. My lady mother told me to attend to the King while she didst join the ladies of the court. But where the King might be I had no thought, and in searching for him only misplaced myself. Hadst I not come upon you, your grace, I wouldst likely only have traveled still further afield. 

Goneril: Thou seek’st the King my father? 

Albany: Yes. Know’st you where he is, your grace? 

Goneril: I do, and I shall bring thee to him. (Pause) For what purpose dost thou wish to meet with him? 

Albany: His majesty must be informed that the duchy hath changed hands and that the title hath fallen upon new shoulders, your grace. Or so my lady mother said.

Goneril: Were I in thy place, I shouldst leave out mention of what thy lady mother said. The King my father hath but little tolerance for lack of confidence. 

Albany: I…find that not comforting. 

Goneril: Nor shouldst thou. My father the King is not a man with whom one shouldst trifle. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 3: The Court of King Lear

Enter King Lear, the Earl of Gloucester, the Earl of Kent, Knights, and Servants

King Lear: What meanest thou that our daughters please not the ladies of the court? 

Kent: Royal Lear, you have given to your daughters an education to rival princes powerful, but in the arts so prized of women, you have left them woeful ignorant. Because of this, reluctant the ladies are to allow their sons to take your daughters to wive. 

King Lear: Then none of them have accepted our offer of our eldest daughter’s hand in marriage? 

Kent: They have not, my good lord. 

King Lear: We offer a dowry of a kingdom! 

Kent: And, as the noblewomen see’t, a prince rather than a wife. 

King Lear: Would they have us raise our heirs to do naught but needlework and dance? 

Kent: My good lord, they wouldst have you see their sons as heirs.

King Lear: See that they shall never! Our royal blood, and the children of our Queen, will rule. It matters not that they are daughters; they are our heirs!  

Kent: So you have sworn, my good lord. 

King Lear: And we are firm. If the ladies of the court propose not a husband for our eldest daughter, we shall choose one for her ourselves! 

Gloucester: You will no doubt find it simple, my lord. The ladies of the court may’st despair of your daughters, but even the most powerful of your Dukes have eyes—and the Lady Goneril hath a rare beauty. 

Kent: And a rarer coldness. The Lady Goneril hath not the womanly charm that easily exciteth men’s desire. 

Gloucester: ‘Tis true–but men will o’erlook much greater flaws to lay hold of a kingdom. 

Enter Goneril and Albany. 

Goneril: (bows) My lord, the new Duke of Albany requests an audience with you. 

King Lear: The new Duke? 

Goneril: Aye, my lord. (To Albany) Thou hast the ear of my father the King. Speak.

Albany: (bows) I am Maglanus, your grace. M-mine uncle the Duke of Albany was carried away by a pestilence, and my cousins with him, and thus the duchy didst fall. Upon me, that is. I came to your highness’ court to give the news to you. 

King Lear: Hath Albany also a new Duchess?

Albany: No, your grace. I…I fear that I have not the confidence that doth draw women to men. 

King Lear: Thou art in the prime of vigorous manhood, and thou art lord of vast estates. Is this not enough to give thee confidence? 

Albany: No, your grace. Mine titles yet feel as naught but borrowed robes. I was brought up without expectation of them. 

King Lear: And yet now they are thine. Thou art the lord of thousands and the possessor of vast riches. Is this not so? 

Albany: ‘Tis so, my lord. 

Gloucester: My lord the Duke speaks true, your highness. The duchy of Albany is the wealthiest in your great kingdom. 

King Lear: Tell us, Albany, what dost thou think of matrimony? 

Albany: I am told ‘tis a source of fruitful alliances and honest companionship. But I am yet young and truly methinks I would make a poor husband. 

King Lear: And what think’st thou of our eldest daughter? ‘Tis apparent that thou hast met her. 

Albany: My lady is beautiful, and she doth have the speech and courage of a prince. There could be no better partner for a man of greatness, and I hope that you shall find such a man for her soon. 

King Lear: Methinks that we already have. 

Goneril: You have, my lord? 

King Lear: Yes, we have. This hath proved to be a most fortunate turn of events. 

Albany: Then I am dismissed, your grace?

King Lear: No, Albany. We have yet one more question for thee. 

Albany: I shall endeavor to answer it to your pleasure, your grace. 

King Lear: Wilt thou accept our eldest daughter’s hand in marriage? 

(Pause)

Albany: My lord—the crown is an honor I dream not of. 

King Lear: Modesty ill-suits a man of thy stature, Albany. Thou art young, and thou hast inherited one of the highest and wealthiest titles in the nation. A more suitable husband for our eldest daughter would be hard indeed to find. 

Albany: Your grace, I have not the temperament to wield such vast authority.

King Lear: Fear not. We have taken great pains to see that our eldest daughter can manage authority as well as any prince. Thou canst learn from her if needs be. 

Albany: A-are you sure that the Lady Goneril will agree to the match, your grace? 

Goneril: If my father the King wants to give thee my hand, ‘tis because our union will be a fruitful alliance. Thou wouldst not be my first choice for a husband, but if my lord would have us wed, it must be so. 

King Lear: For once, our daughter speaketh well. So what say’st thou, Albany? Wilt thou have our daughter? 

Albany: I…I…I….

Goneril: (to Albany) If thou dost refuse, my father the King will believe that thou dost insult him.

Albany: Y-yes, my lord. I’ll marry your daughter. 

Lear slaps Albany on the back heartily.

King Lear: Thou art welcome to our family, son. We shall formally announce thy wedding to our daughter in a fortnight! 

Exeunt. 

Scene 4: The Duke of Albany’s Castle

Enter Lady Martha and Albany

Lady Martha: Betrothed? And to the Lady Goneril? My son, what hast thou done? 

Albany: Believe me, mother, the idea was not mine. ‘Twas his majesty who did suggest the union. 

Lady Martha: I would not have thee matched to such a woman. What shouldst thou do with a prince for a wife? What shall I do with a tiger for a daughter? My son, thou canst not go through with this marriage! The very thought of it doth cleft my heart in twain! 

Albany: The King hath made already plans to announce our betrothal! If I do protest the match now, ‘tis possible that for dishonoring his daughter he will charge me with treason. 

Lady Martha: Why didst thou agree to the betrothal? 

Albany: To reject the lady’s hand would have been insult to her father the King! 

Lady Martha: And to accept it ‘twas an insult to thy mother! Why didst thou not request time to deliberate so as to have the time to discuss the matter with me? Even our Lord the King hath not the power to force thee to wive against thy will!

Albany: I prithee, lady mother, do not chide me. The King desired strongly the match, and did desire my answer at once. Who was I to refuse his majesty? 

Lady Martha: Thou art the Duke of Albany! Surely even our lord the King would not be so bold as to demand such a powerful nobleman wed his unmarriageable daughter! 

Albany: Unmarriageable? Interest in the crown and fame of a prince I have not, and verily I do wish that neither the crown nor the duchy had fallen on my unable shoulders, but the Lady Goneril hath intelligence and talent enough to be a fit wife to a man worthy of rule. She shall perhaps be Queen—

Lady Martha: And her husband nothing but a consort! Her father the King hath declared that she and her sisters will reign—not their husbands. Why else hath no man asked for her? 

Albany: Sure I cannot say. The lady is uncommon beautiful. 

Lady Martha: Ay, with the beauty of cold alabaster and stony marble! (Pause) Son, art thou in love with her? 

Albany: No, lady mother. But we are already betrothed. ‘Tis best that I learn to value her. Perhaps through that love shall grow. 

Lady Martha: She cannot love. Her father the King hath driven all such tenderness out of her! 

Albany: Then if not love, respect. (Pause) The betrothal cannot be undone, lady mother–for your sake. 

Lady Martha: For my sake? 

Albany: Should I refuse this marriage now, the King may have me banished or executed for my treason in breaking mine oath to marry his daughter. What then would become of you? Your husband and father are both dead, and I your only child. 

Lady Martha: My son, I am opposed to thy betrothal only because of the great love I bear you. I would not have thee sacrifice thine own happiness for my sake. 

Albany: Lady mother, I am duty-bound to honor and protect you as my mother, and to obey the King as my sovereign—just as I was bound to take on the responsibilities of a duke upon the death of mine uncle and cousins. Mine own happiness is still secondary to my responsibilities. Were’t not, I should be studying to become a priest yet. 

Lady Martha: Oh, my son—thou art ever too good for me. 

The two embrace.

Albany: You raised me, lady mother. My goodness is yours.

Lady Martha: Thy marriage hath my blessing. 

Albany: I thank you, lady mother. 

Lady Martha: I hope only that thy bride shalt not disdain thy gentle nature. Alas, ‘tis not a quality all women seek in men. 

Albany: The Lady Goneril hath seen much sternness in her father the King. Mayhap she shall appreciate some gentleness in a husband. 

Exeunt. 

Scene 5: The Court of King Lear

Enter Regan, followed by Henninus, Duke of Cornwall

Regan: Wilt thou still follow me, Henninus? I marvel’st that a man of thy stature doth spend his hours at the King my father’s court when he couldst be hunting on his own estate. 

Cornwall: Does your highness wish me gone? 

Regan: Not at all. Thou art a proper man—but in troth, I have my choice of handsome men. Art thou not discouraged by mine other suitors? 

Cornwall: Your other suitors? Art trying to win through jealousy one who already finds you a queen of women? 

Regan: Truly, sir, if thou dost doubt that I have the charm to attract a brace of suitors, I question if thou dost love me at all.

Cornwall: Is’t so, Princess? There are those who would challenge my desire for you? 

Regan: ‘Tis so, good sir. I am not my older sister—my father the King will have small trouble finding noble suitors for me. 

Cornwall: I wouldst not be so sure of that. 

Regan: Doth thou question my beauty, Henninus?

Cornwall: It is because of your beauty that your father shall have trouble finding suitors for you. Any man who hath an interest in your hand will have to go through me ere they meet your father the King. Few men are there who will risk combat with the Duke of Cornwall, and even fewer who shouldst ‘scape such an encounter sans serious injury. 

Regan: And thou wouldst do all this for my beauty? 

Cornwall: And more, princess. Why, for a kiss, I should happily stab my dearest friend. 

Regan: Leave the stabbing, good sir. Thy words have already won my lips. 

The two move to kiss, only for Goneril to enter and grab Regan by the arm. 

Goneril: What dost thou, sister? Think’st thou ‘tis meet for a princess of the realm to cavort as though a woman of ill repute? 

Cornwall: Your highness–

Goneril: And thou! Thou hast nerve indeed to treat the king’s daughter as a common whore! 

Regan: Sister, ‘twas only a kiss. 

Goneril: Only a kiss! In an empty corner of the castle, to a man thou art not betrothed to? Hast thou no brains in thy head? Should this rashness of thine become common knowledge, thy reputation wouldst be beyond all mending! 

Cornwall: Upon my title and my life, ‘twould have gone no further. Bold am I, your highness, but not mad. To misuse the daughter of the king is something even I wouldst dare not. 

Goneril: What title is that? I should like to know the identity of one so bold. 

Enter Cordelia.

Cornwall: Your highness, I am Henninus, Duke of Cornwall. Hast heard of my valor? 

Goneril: No, but I have heard of thine choler and the riotous lifestyle that thou dost lead. Thy mother the Dowager Duchess, for all she dotes on thee, doth despair of thy poor behavior. 

Cornwall: How dare you! Were you not a woman, royalty, and my sweet Regan’s sister, I would shed your blood for insulting my conduct so! 

Goneril: I am not thy mother, Henninus. Thou canst not fright me with thine words. 

Regan: Sister, let him alone! He hath been nothing but respectable with me. 

Goneril: Ay, and so he shall be—until he hath had his pleasure. See then how he treats you after!

Cornwall: Your highness, you wrong me! I do love your sister—and even if I did not, I’d not lose the chance at a crown by dishonoring the daughter of the king. 

Goneril: Love, indeed! 

Regan: Thou art but jealous! I have dozens of suitors. Thou hast but one, and he pays court to thee only to please our father the King. 

Goneril: Darest thou speak to me that way? 

Regan: I do! I have charged thee already, sister, to stay out of my business. Thou may’st have no life beyond being the King our father’s perfect heir for no reward, but thou hast no right to expect me to behave in the selfsame manner! 

Goneril: Haven’t I? Should thou destroy thine own reputation in such a way that the King our father will be unable to wed you well, ‘tis me whom he shall blame. As thou art my younger sister, he shall say that I should have checked thee, and ‘twill be on my shoulders that the punishment falls. It is ever thus, and I will not have it! 

Regan: I am doing nothing to destroy my reputation! Thou say’st as much only because Henninus doth love me, and no one loves thee! Thou cannot be happy unless I am miserable, and ‘tis unfair!

Regan starts crying. 

Cornwall: Don’t cry, sweet Regan. (To Goneril) For all you have your sister’s beauty, your highness, you’re more serpent than woman. No wonder your father the King likes you not as a daughter. 

Goneril: Serpent I may be, but at least I need not hide behind another to win an argument! What say’st thou to that, sister? 

Cordelia steps forward.

Cordelia: I should say that the two of thee ought not fight one another over a man, whether he be our father the King or a handsome duke. 

Cornwall: And what hole did you crawl out of, little mouse? 

Cordelia: If thou dost love my sister as thou dost profess, Henninus, thou shouldst not treat Goneril and me so poorly. 

Cornwall: You have a big mouth for such a small girl. 

Cordelia: And thou hast small courage for so big a mouth. 

Cornwall: Do you love your sister, mouse? 

Cordelia: I do, though she knows it not. 

Cornwall: Then why are you so rude to me? 

Cordelia: ‘Tis not rudeness. ‘Tis honesty—just as ‘tis only just and honest for me to tell thee that thou art a very strong and handsome man, for all your other flaws. 

Cornwall: Your sister seems not to think of them as flaws. Hast not noticed how fond she is of me, Miss Honesty? 

Cordelia: I have. Would that she was fond of a better man. 

Cornwall: What better could there be, mouse? 

Cordelia: One who encourages not her bitterness and darker impulses. 

Cornwall: Has she not reason to be bitter? Your father the King hardly knows her to speak to. 

Cordelia: Though I love the King our father, I do know he is wrongfully harsh and neglectful to my sisters. But indulging bitterness and hatred will make Regan happy not, and thy appeals to her vanity shalt not be able to replace the love she has not from the King our father. 

Goneril: The child speaks true. Get thee gone, Henninus. Regan needs not the help thou wouldst give. 

Cornwall: I go, your highness—but think you not that I will give up my suit for your lovely sister’s hand. You are not more stubborn than I. (To Regan) Fare you well, my sweet Regan. 

Cornwall kisses Regan’s hand.

Regan: Fare thee well, good Cornwall! 

Exit Cornwall.

Goneril: Sister, thou shalt be the death of me.

Regan: Why call’st me sister? Thou dost not do a sister’s office, driving off a man who professes me a queen! By all the gods, surely I do hate thee—and Miss Honesty more so! 

Exit Regan. 

Goneril: Child, do not speak of this to the King our father. Our sister is ungovernable, and I would fain not be blamed for’t.

Cordelia: Unless Regan finds herself in grave danger, thou hast my word that I will not. It would do our sister and the King our father no good, and thou it might harm. 

(Pause)

Goneril: Child, thou see’st much. What doth thou suppose the fiery Duke of Cornwall wants of our sister? 

Cordelia: I think he loves our sister as much as a man of his nature can. Methinks he truly wishes to please her—but he is the sort of man whose love wouldst enable all the worst aspects of our sister. 

Goneril: Then thou think’st not that he is using her?

Cordelia: Not in the way thou mean’st. He is too enchanted by her charms for that. (Pause) Sister, wouldst thou care to play outside with me? Surely thou wilt have little chance to do so once thou art wed and managing thine own household. 

Goneril: I have no time for games, child. Our father the King expects me to manage many of his kingdom’s affairs, and for the sake of mine own future power, I must do so. In fulfilling his will do  I fulfill mine. 

Cordelia: Doth such selfish grabbing for power make thee happy, sister? Can it be more fulfilling than being a family, than enjoying the beauty of the world? 

Goneril: Did our father the King not have power, thou wouldst not be able to enjoy the world as thou dost. Think’st thou that the powerless peasants have any life to enjoy? 

Cordelia: When compared to these peasants, thou hast power unimaginable. Why then art thou not happy?

Goneril: I am yet subject to the King our father’s will. 

Cordelia: And what if, when thou art free of his will, thou art still unhappy? 

Pause.

 Please, sister. I would that we could be friends. Wilt thou not play with me? 

Goneril: I would make thee very poor company. Thou hast friends. Play with them, and leave me to mine own ends. 

Cordelia: Art sure? 

Goneril: Cease thy endless questioning! I have important work to do and a wedding to plan, and need not thy distractions.

Cordelia: If thou dost change thy mind, I shall welcome thee gladly. 

Exit Cordelia

Goneril: I would that child didst not make weakness so appealing. I have no time for her fancies of love and family—yet I have a memory but half-remembered of the Queen my mother taking the child’s side of love. Perhaps there is something to it then…

Pause. 

But then, ‘twas love for my father and that child which killed my mother. No, I must stay mine own course. Better ‘tis to be alone and powerful than loved and weak. Let my fool sisters chase love—I will be the one who prospers in the end. 

Exit Goneril.

Scene 6: The King’s Gardens

Enter Cordelia and the Fool

The Fool: Tell me, sweet coz–wherefore does a cloud hang over the maid of sunshine? 

Cordelia: “Maid of sunshine?” Dear cousin, thou hast spent too much time with my father the King if thou doth address me with such florid flattery. 

The Fool: I’troth, coz, I do wonder how thou art thy father’s daughter and thy sisters’ sister. Thy father is well pleased to be flattered to the top of his bent, and thy sisters wouldst be praised even past truth. And thou, who art the best of them all, disdains even the least compliment as dishonesty. 

Cordelia: The best of them? Surely thou dost jest. 

The Fool: Not at all, honest maid. Even a fool may be grave in matters of great report. When I call thee the best of thy family, ‘tis done in a most serious manner. 

Cordelia: Good cousin, do not sacrifice the truth out of concern for mine position or mine heart. I prefer honesty even to kindness. My father the King hast made me a goddess through the excess of love, and through doing so he hath set my sisters at deadly animosity with both me and his majesty.  I prithee–tempt me not to believe that I am better than I am. 

The Fool: Dost thou yet believe me to be a flatterer, gentle coz? 

Cordelia: Thou must be, to praise me higher than a ruler of such a clever mind as Goneril or a lady so beauteous and charming as Regan–-to say nothing of claiming me greater than his majesty the King! 

The Fool: Marry, coz, doth thou think so lowly of thyself? 

Cordelia: I do see myself but as I am: a foolish fond child of no great beauty. Besides my royal birth, I have nothing to recommend me but mine simple honesty. Mine tutors have tried to give me an education like to that of my sisters, but by my father the King’s doting I have been too often left to my own childish fancies. He would not have me troubled by such difficulties as complex lessons, and through that I have become a scandal to the ladies of the court. 

The Fool: Come, coz, thou art too harsh a magistrate. Art thou not gentle, loving, kind, and full of the joys of life? 

Cordelia: And without the dignity of a princess. Would that I were other than that which I am—for then my simple joys would not disgrace my father the King in the eyes of the noblewomen.

The Fool: Right glad am I that I am a graceless fool.

Cordelia: Cousin, wherefore comes such a thought? 

The Fool: Why coz, if goodness be a disgrace, I wouldst not be respectable. (Pause) So come, let us leave the graces of thy father’s court. Wouldst thou favor a game of fencing? 

The Fool pulls out a pair of wooden swords.

Cordelia: Cousin, I—

The Fool: Art afraid that I should win? 

Cordelia: (Laughs) Afraid? Of losing to thee? Give me one of thy swords, and I shall show thee how afraid I am. 

The Fool gives Cordelia one of the wooden swords. 

Cordelia: Good cousin, I thank thee. Thou hast restored my joy aright. 

The Fool: I am glad on’t–but I would not have thee thank me for carrying out mine office. I should be a poor fool indeed if I could not bring joy to a maid so light-hearted as thou art. 

Cordelia: Deny me not my thanks, cousin. I wouldst not have thy goodness go unrewarded. 

The Fool: My pretty coz, serving thee is reward enough. (Pause) Now come, worthy opponent. Into the fray! 

Cordelia and the Fool mock-fence around the stage, laughing. Enter the Duke of Albany, holding a bouquet of flowers, and Lady Martha. 

Albany: Tell me truly, lady mother–think’st you that my gift will please the Lady Goneril? 

Cordelia accidentally collides with Albany; Albany drops bouquet.

Cordelia: Oh! My apologies, good sir. I prithee, forgive me for mine heedlessness. 

Albany: Thou art quite forgiven, sweet maid. 

Cordelia: Here, let me–

Albany: No need. I can–

Cordelia and Albany both move to pick up the bouquet but only succeed in colliding again. Both laugh. The Fool retrieves the bouquet and hands it to Albany. 

Albany: I thank thee, good fellow. 

The Fool: I would that I had as much reason to thank you, sir—but as you and mine sweet coz do conspire to make mine position superfluous, I cannot. ‘Tis hard enough to be a fool without wise men making fools out of themselves to compete with me. 

Cordelia: Good cousin, blame not the gentleman for my foolishness. 

Albany: Sweet maid, I displayed folly enough without thy aid. This honest fellow spoke aright when he did call me fool. (Pause) Thy name, gentle maiden? 

Cordelia: Cordelia. 

Albany: Forgive me mine impudence, your grace. Had I known—

Cordelia: Fret not, good sir. I am the last and least of my sisters, and even were I not, you have been more than polite. Your name and title, sir? 

Albany: Maglanus, your grace, the Duke of Albany. The venerable woman with me is Martha, my lady mother. 

Lady Martha: Good morrow, Princess. 

Cordelia: Good morrow, lady. I am glad to see you well, and gladder still to meet your son. My father the King hath told me of his betrothal to mine eldest sister, and it pleases me well that I shall have such a good and patient man as my brother-in-law. 

Lady Martha: Tell me, your grace. Does his highness the King know that you run about in his gardens, playing at fencing with his all-licensed fool? 

Cordelia: Aye. The King my father doth say that he joys to see me play so. 

Lady Martha: (Sighs) Then the Dowager Duchess of Cornwall spoke true. Your father the King doth allow you to run wild. ‘Tis a pity. You seem a sweet child, and it is too cruel altogether that your father the King hath instructed you not in the womanly arts. 

Cordelia: I am sorry that my conduct pleases you not, Lady Martha. 

Lady Martha: It is for your own sake that I should have you behave differently, your grace. With training such as yours, I fear that you will have few suitors when you are of an age to wed. 

Cordelia: Truly, Lady Martha, I should rather have one suitor who does love my humble honesty than a hundred who love me only for my manners and my charms. My sister Regan hath many suitors, and yet I would not stand in her place for anything. 

Albany: Since you do speak of suitors, ladies, I would have your advice. Think’st you that Lady Goneril will look fondly on a gift of flowers? I…I fear that I have but little thought as to what might please any lady, let alone one of such exalted status as the daughter of the King. 

Lady Martha: Flowers? My son, it is as I told thee before—thou were better to give her a quiver of arrows. The Lady Goneril hath no use for such gentle things as flowers. 

Cordelia: My sister is indeed an archer of some skill. She hath not the strength for the longbow, but with a smaller bow she hits the target every time. 

The Fool: Your lady mother doth advise you well, sir. If you do wish for blind Cupid to hit the center of the Lady Goneril’s heart, you would do well to start with a gift of arrows. 

Lady Martha: (Aside) And this Amazon my gentle son will wed in a fortnight. Would it were not so! 

Albany: Dear me! I have misjudged the situation quite. 

Cordelia: I prithee, good sir—do not be so alarmed. Mayhap my sister will receive your gift in the spirit in which you didst intend it. 

The Fool: Indeed, sweet coz—and mayhap I shall grow wings and soar above the still-wandering clouds. The Lady Goneril will have her way—or none. 

Enter Goneril.

Why, I am a conjurer indeed! I speak but her name, and she is summoned! 

Goneril: Enough of thy jests, Fool. I have not the patience for them. 

The Fool: That truth should be silent I had almost forgot. I’troth, lady, your sister hath spoiled me with her willingness to listen to honest words. 

Goneril: Why my sister should spend her company with such a low fellow as thou art, I shall understand never. Be silent or be gone. 

The Fool: I shall be the sound of silence, lady. 

Cordelia: Sister, be not unkind to him. He is a lad of much nobility. 

Goneril: Only thou wouldst say such of a common peasant, child.  

Cordelia: To say otherwise of him would be to lie. (Pause) Sister, thy suitor hath come to pay court to thee. 

Goneril: My suitor? What suitor? 

Cordelia: Why, the Duke of Albany–the man to whom thou art betrothed! 

Goneril: (Aside) Were he not so meek, I should wonder at myself that I did forget him. (To Albany) I trust that you will forgive me my slip of memory, good sir. As the heir to the King my father’s throne, I am responsible in part for the administration of his kingdom—to remember affairs of marriage is something for which I have little time. 

Albany: Believe me, Lady, I am not angry with you. I know well that I am a man easily o’erlooked—and our betrothal is so new that I am yet unaccustomed to thinking myself your suitor. ‘Tis only to be expected that you should forget. 

Albany hands the bouquet to Goneril. 

Lady Goneril, I only hope that you will find these flowers a worthy token of my affection. I…I am yet unaccustomed to courting, and what gift should please you I had no thought. 

Goneril: Loath though I am to admit mine own ignorance, I know not what ladies should expect to receive as gifts from their suitors. You are the only one I have ever had—or expect ever to have. (Pause) Though I cannot say that I wouldst be pleased with flowers as a gift upon other occasion. What use to me is something so ephemeral? I should much rather a dagger or a quill. Some use they have–flowers have none. 

Albany: I…I beg your pardon, Lady. I did not think of the matter thus. I brought you the flowers because they reminded me of your beauty, and it did seem only right to bring something lovely to someone so lovely. 

Goneril: Such a timid man as you are, good sir, should never give as a gift anything that you knew I would dislike. I condemn not your kind intentions.

Albany: Would that I had more experience as a suitor, lady. In mine ignorance, I have pleased you not—and for no benefit cut short the growth of these flowers. 

Goneril: (Aside) The man hath far more of his flower’s nature than I do. Were’t not so, he should never have called me ‘lovely’. From whence does such a gentle man as this come? And what have I—still sans gentleness—to do with him? 

Cordelia: I will take your flowers if my sister will not. I would not have your gentle blooms go to waste, good sir. 

Goneril: Thou art ever impolitic, child. Though I have no use for such a gift as this, ‘twould be most improper for me to reject any gift from a man to whom I am betrothed. The King our father would think that I was jeopardizing our alliance with the duchy of Albany should I do any such thing, and his wrath at such a prospect should not be little. No, the flowers I shall have to keep.

Albany: But I would be more than happy to bring a bouquet of flowers for you when next I come to pay suit to your sister, sweet princess. 

Cordelia: I thank you—and I prithee, call me sister. 

Albany: Sister, your grace? 

Cordelia: Indeed. When you wed my sister, you will become my brother—and well pleased am I that such a gentle-natured man as you shall be my relative. 

Albany: And I will be honored to call such a kind maid sister. (To Goneril) Lady, would it please you to come along with me? I would fain not have all of our courtship in the general eye. 

Goneril: It were best if you become accustomed to being ever in the general eye. When we do wed, you shall become a prince of great import—and with that greatness will come very little privacy. (Pause) But for now, let us retire. Our courtship is yet but young, and far be it from me to threaten our alliance by causing you more discomfort than is necessary. (Aside) Or to threaten mine own power by driving away such a mild-mannered man as this. He may not be the sort of man who wouldst wield his own power or authority well—but at least he shall never threaten mine. 

Albany: For this consideration, dear lady, I give you thanks. Your father the King has great expectations of our marriage, and I would prefer to have some confidence in wooing ere he beholds our courtship. (To Cordelia) Farewell, sweet sister. (To Lady Martha) Farewell, lady mother. 

Cordelia: Farewell, gentle brother. 

Lady Martha: Fare thee well, good son. 

Exit Albany and Goneril. 

Lady Martha: I am glad that my son’s gift was not received so badly as I feared. 

Cordelia: So too am I. Your son hath a good nature, and I do hope that some of his gentleness should soften my sister. 

Lady Martha: Think’st you that is likely, your grace?

Cordelia: Sure I cannot say. Coldness is in my sister long ingrained, but your son is at least sure not to encourage her hunger for power—nor her harshness neither. Of all the King my father’s noblemen, he is one of the few who would not do so. For that, I like your son well as her husband. Would that I could be sure I liked my sister well as his wife! 

Lady Martha: I suppose ‘tis foolish to speak of the matter thus. Your father the King wishes them wed, and so it shall be. (Aside) I hope only that his desire for an alliance between the crown and my son’s duchy leads not to the destruction of my son. 

Enter Messenger. 

Messenger: Lady Martha, his majesty the King wouldst speak with you about your children’s upcoming marriage. 

Lady Martha: Then bring me to his majesty. I would not deny the wishes of my Lord the King. (To Cordelia) Good day, your grace.

Cordelia: Good day, Lady Martha. I hope my father the King treats you well. 

Exit Lady Martha and Messenger. 

The Fool: Truly, dear coz, I would not be the Duke of Albany for all the world. It is a hard thing to be a fool, but a harder thing to be a lamb. 

Cordelia: A lamb, coz? 

The Fool: Aye—a lamb to the slaughter. He thought never even to be the Duke, and now thy father will have that mild-mannered man be prince consort to your tigress of a sister. How shall he and thy sister get along once they are wed? He hath not the experience to govern—and thy sister hath not the patience to teach him. Like as not, he shall end thy sister’s servant more than her husband–bound always to her apron strings. Thy father and thy sister are sacrificing him to their own power, and he is too green in the ways of the court to see’t. 

Cordelia: Then I shall ask the King my father to release him from the betrothal. I would not have such a gentle man suffer so. 

The Fool: Dear coz, do not do so. Thy father loves thee dearly, but he wouldst have his decisions questioned by none. Once he hath decided upon a course, no matter how foolish or cruel, he will never turn to the left or right from that path. Even the wise Earl of Kent hath never been able to change his mind. To petition him to end thy sister’s betrothal would do the Duke of Albany no good, and risk awakening his wrath against thee.

Cordelia: Surely the King my father would never turn against his own daughter for a petition–especially one that comes from honest love! 

The Fool: Thy father has lived his entire life in expectancy of obedience and praise, and he hath come to rank any dissent as disobedience—even that which comes from his own daughters. Once I did see thy eldest sister attempt to correct him on a point of strategy, and the rage he poured out upon her for such impudence was enough to bring her as near to fear as I have ever seen her. 

Cordelia: Cousin, I have still been his favorite child. Sure am I that he would never react so angrily to me as to my sister–and I would very much like to be able to use his favor to aid someone other than myself. 

The Fool: Thou art his favorite indeed, and ‘tis probable that he wouldst not have been angered had thou been the one to correct his strategy—but thou art not suggesting that thou correct him on a minor strategic point. Thou art suggesting that thou wilt petition thy father to end thy sister’s betrothal–a betrothal that will tie the wealthiest duchy in the kingdom directly to the crown. ‘Tis a matter of great import, and thy father will react most poorly to even his favorite child questioning such an alliance. I wouldst not see thee hurt by his wrath, sweet coz. 

Cordelia: To spare such a good man as the Duke, I will risk even the wrath of my dear father. 

The Fool: And ‘twere thou the only possible target of his wrath, I suppose I couldst do naught but admire thy bravery. But there is a chance that thy petition will also rouse thy father’s anger against the Duke whom thou dost seek to help, or even against thy sister Goneril. Truly he may suspect that one or both of them is using thee to escape from the betrothal, and in his wrath both would be punished more severely than he should ever punish thee. The Duke would be banished–or worse—for treason should thy father suspect him of trying to renege on the betrothal through thee, and thy sister could find herself disinherited for defying thy father’s will if thy father believes that she is the one who wishes the end of the betrothal. 

Cordelia: What then should I do, good cousin? 

The Fool: Give the Duke all the kindness thou canst, and hope for the best. ‘Tis all that can be done in such a case as this. (Pause) But I pray thee, sweet coz, let not the affairs of thy great relations steal thy joy. Wouldst go with me to skip stones in the nearby stream? 

Cordelia: I shall, cousin, and gladly. Would that my family did recognize the virtues of such simple pleasures! 

The Fool: I too would have it so, sweet coz. (Aside) But alas, thy father and thy sisters are too wise in their own eyes to realize that they are foolish. Even I, as a fool, and thou, as a simple untutored maiden, have more hope than they–for we at least are wise enough to know we are not wise!

Exeunt.

Scene 7: The Duke of Cornwall’s Castle

Enter Cornwall and the Dowager Duchess

Duchess: My dear sweet son, I prithee—tell me what is ailing thee! Thou dost eat little, sleep poorly, and participate not in thy usual sports. What is it that afflicts thee so? 

Cornwall: A woman—of the most beautiful features and proportions. 

Duchess: Again and yet again? Son, the duchy’s power was not meant solely for thou to feed thine own appetites! 

Cornwall: I want her, mother!

Duchess: Thou didst say as much with the last girl that thou didst ‘love’. And the one before that, and the one before that! And where are they now? 

Cornwall: (Laughs) What does it matter what became of some peasant wenches? 

Duchess: It matters because they were our servant girls! 

Cornwall: You taught me that the servants exist to carry out our will. Why then does it matter if we lose a few? There are always more to replace them.

Duchess: And I am the one who must go about finding those replacements—because thou art too busy drinking thyself into a stupor or seducing another of my lady’s maids to do any of the actual work that running thy duchy entails! 

Cornwall: Mother, I want her! 

Duchess: Well, thou shalt not have her. Thou hast reached thy majority, and I will wink no longer at thy most disgraceful behavior! 

Cornwall: Are you refusing me what I wouldst have, mother? 

Duchess: Yes. I am. 

Cornwall: But you have always given me whatever I wanted! 

Duchess: ‘Tis true, and I repent me that ever I should have allowed thee to indulge in thine every whim. I am paying double for mine folly now! 

Cornwall: Come, mother. Surely you would deny me not the joy of such a gorgeous woman. 

Duchess: I have said once and will say again: thou shalt not have her. No longer will I give thee free reign to do as thou list! 

Cornwall: No one doth refuse me, mother. Not even you!

Duchess: Thou saucy boy— thou hast some nerve to wag thy tongue so rudely against me! 

Cornwall grabs the Duchess by the wrists and pulls her toward him.

Cornwall: I want her, mother, and I will have her—-or you will have cause to regret defying the Duke of Cornwall! 

Pause

Duchess: Thou hast ever known thine own mind, my son. If thou dost feel so strong about the matter, I will oppose thy will no longer. Which of the servant girls dost thou wish me to send to thee this time? 

Cornwall: (Laughs) The woman I wouldst have now is no mere serving wench, mother. I have entered a game of much higher stakes than ever I have played before. 

Duchess: What maiden is it then that has been so unfortunate as to have caught thine eye? 

Cornwall: Why, no less than Regan, daughter of the King.

Duchess: The Lady Regan? Hast thou lost thy sanity? ‘Tis one thing to have thy way with servant girls, and another altogether to attempt the seduction of the King’s daughter! Should his majesty hear that thou art trifling with her honor, thou shouldst pay with thy head! 

Cornwall: Attempt the seduction? You do me wrong, mother. Her heart is already safe within my grasp—just as my heart is safe in hers. I need only to win her hand to be most happy. 

Duchess: Then thou dost seek to marry her? 

Cornwall: I do. Her beauty and her passion must be mine forever—and the crown that is her dowry too. 

Duchess: And thou wouldst have me help thee in thy suit for her hand? 

Cornwall: Dost have objections to such a union? ‘Twould be a boon for you to have your son a prince of the realm. 

Duchess: My son, the Lady Goneril is the only one of the King’s daughters who wouldst be a suitable bride. Were she not betrothed to another, I should advise thee to sue for her hand instead, but as she is already promised, I can only tell thee that I would not have thee marry the Lady Regan were she the last woman on the globe. She hath had neither training in the womanly arts nor her elder sister’s brains, and the passion that you so admire in her is naught but wantonness. 

Cornwall: If she is wanton, then verily I should never want an honest woman.

Duchess: The lady has a terrible temper….

Cornwall: Then we shall be yet the better matched. I should be bored could my wife not match mine own fire. True she is no proper noblewoman—but her teasing flirtations and her temper shall  keep the fires of my passion stoked far better than could the obedient and responsible maiden that you wouldst have me wive. Get me married to her, mother, and I shall never get drunk again—or bother the servant wenches more. 

Duchess: Wilt thou swear so? 

Cornwall: On my life, I swear. Get me my sweet Regan to wive, and you shall have a better-behaved son than you have ever dreamed. 

Duchess: Then I shall go to the King and present thy suit to his majesty within a fortnight. 

Cornwall: Do so, mother, and soon you shall have both a princess and a prince in your debt! 

Duchess: Run not too far ahead, my son. Even if the King approves the match, thy betrothal to the Lady Regan will become official only after the Lady Goneril is wed. ‘Twill be two or three months at least before thou canst truly call her thine. 

Cornwall: Fear me not, mother. Even your fiery son can be patient if it means the hand of a woman so enchanting and passionate—to say nothing of the crown! 

Duchess: (Aside) The Lady Regan must be powerful enchanting indeed if she can make my son patient. Mayhap she shall be a better wife to my self-willed son than I should have thought. 

Exeunt. 

To be continued (in Act 2)....

[kitabasis]

On Cornwall, Lear, and the Reality of Evil

(Or, Local Nerd Hates Main Character of Play)

Now, if you’ve read any of my recent posts, you’ve probably realized I am currently reading King Lear (I mean, I’ve finished reading through it, but I’m still reading it), and that I feel a burning hatred toward the character of Lear and more than a little sympathy towards the villains, even though some of them do objectively worse things, Cornwall. Partly to defend my opinions against people who think I’m kind of insane for having the preferences I do, and partly because I’ve noticed that other people (at least on tumblr) have those same preferences, and I’m curious enough to want to know why.

Now, I mean, just to get the obvious out of the way–man who loves his wife and does war crimes is like, one of tumblr’s favorite characters, so no surprises there. And you know what? Maybe that’s as far as it goes for some people, but I don’t think it’s that simple. So, let’s dig in.

So, I’m going to start with something that is seemingly completely unconnected to what we’re talking, but I promise it’ll all come together in the end, just stick with me for a moment. 

Sometimes when you’re writing, critique partners will recommend that you raise the stakes. What people often think that means is to make them “bigger”--like, if you fail the whole town won’t get destroyed, but the whole world–but actually what it means is that you have to make them more personal to your characters, more emotional. Furthermore, “bigger” and “more personal” are very often opposed, because the human mind is frankly not really built to be able to fully comprehend the existence of 8 billion people–a town tends to, emotionally, feel as big as a planet. Even beyond that, it’s much more easy to relate to things on a smaller scale, because you’ve probably experienced them, or something like them. Even if your mother is alive, you’ve likely lost someone, even just in the form of your best kindergarten friend moving away, and thus can map the latter experience onto the former. But it’s much harder–obviously not impossible, that’s sort of the entire point of writing–to empathize with someone dealing with the possibility of the end of the world; that’s why so many characters’ internal monologues focus on how that loss would affect things they care about (which I don’t, for a record, think is a bad thing). 

So, here’s where it connects back to King Lear: this is the reason that, I think, Lear’s villainy is so much more real to us than Cornwall’s. I–and, I am assuming, most people who read King Lear–have never actually had to see torture or its effects outside of fictional media (unless you did, in which case that really sucks for you, and I’m sorry about that and hope you’re doing as well as you can). We know torture is bad in the abstract, and maybe if you’re particularly good at empathizing and/or imagining you can get a better sense of it, but generally speaking: it’s an evil that’s hard to conceptualize, to relate beyond “yeah that’s bad and fucked up”.

Lear’s evil though–that is an evil, I would wager, that most either know someone who has experienced or have experienced it themselves. More broadly, as a rich ruler who has seemingly never taken care of or considered the peasants of his kingdom, thus resulting in a largely impoverished country (until he is literally brought face-to-face with a hovel), he is a very recognizable figure in our modern world. But really personally—and I think key to my grudge against Lear (and probably yours too, because if you’ve read this long with a positive opinion of the winner of the 1606 Worst Fictional Dad Award, frankly I’m surprised, but thank you I’m supposed, unless you’re reading this in order to write an angry response detailing why Lear Is A Good Person Actually, in which case please don’t) is that he is an absolutely dogshit father. We don’t get actual details on how he raised his children, but his open favoritism, unpredictable behavior, belief in his entitlement to complete obedience, raging temper, and repression of his own “feminine” emotions create a figure that is, I think, very recognizable. I’m not saying that Lear is almost certainly an abusive father…but fuck it, that’s exactly what I’m saying. At the very least and most generous he is an incredibly bad one. And that sort of evil, that sort of harm, is one much more palpable to me than Cornwall.

[gatheringbones]

["Pat was nineteen, I was twenty-four. After camp I went home to Durham and she to New York, and we wrote daily. If I expected my usual Alabama routine of intense letters that gradually petered out. I was wrong. One letter described her dreams of kissing me. "Nothing sexual, of course," she explained, as the drumbeat in my clitoris sent me the final confirmation I was queer. Then Pat's mother (a bright, angry woman who tried to bind Pat close) sat her down and explained how there are only three kinds of love and two of those are homosexual. Whether or not we were ready to admit it, her mother argued, most certainly we would end up as lovers, potentially the first of many disastrous homosexual affairs for Pat. She asked Pat to break off seeing me. Pat went upstairs and wrote to me: "I can't cope knowing that I love a woman. It will be easier if we terminate the relationship now before it's too late." But she wrote a second letter, asking that we make the decision together. "All I'm asking you is to think about our relationship, honestly, from a feeling point of view— are we in danger of entering a homosexual relationship? If you think we are— what do we do about it? I'll do the same from my standpoint."

I knew that Pat's mother was right, that I was a lesbian and that I loved Pat. I wandered around Durham that afternoon, ending up under a cedar tree trying to decide whether I should kill myself. I got up from beneath the tree resigned to a lonely and tragic life, but committed to living.

I wrote Pat to break off the relationship:

I've got to stop running sometime. I'm sorely afraid, my friend, that your mother is right. I am in love with you. It's becoming hard for me to explain the situation any other way. The implications and consequences shake me to the core... It astounds me how much of my thought processes for a terribly long time have been devoted to avoiding the realization of my lesbian tendencies (note that, still evading, I cannot say lesbianism)... Quoth Goneril (or is it Regan) in King Lear, "He hath ever but slenderly known himself." Amazing. And, altho, my feelings at this moment are a tremendous sense of disorientation and dismay, I also feel a weird sense of relief. Life after this, no other [revelation] can compare. Previously— when I was hiding— I had thought that... whatever I was fighting was inherent in existence and that I would wrestle with it until I couldn't stand it anymore. This fear was fear that I'd have to face what I'm trying to face now. But even now I'm backing away from it. But if I can face it and and work through it— accept myself and find some way/place to be accepted as myself— then I'll be free.

I urged her not to let the fact of our lesbian love humiliate her or make her doubt her worth, finding myself, as I recognized, "in the difficult position of trying to assure you of your loveableness which my very love for you might make you question."

(...) My mood of sad, scared resolve lasted until the next day's mail, which brought Pat's next letter, with no mention of the previous day's correspondence. In the first two weeks after she defied her parents and moved down to live with me, I discovered passion, that coming together of the body's and the spirit's longings in the plane where two bodies meet, like the sky and the land. For weeks it was as if I were floating. Our first kisses were spaced at thirty-minute intervals. It took me that long to recover. After two days she said, "Mab, at some point we have to take our clothes off."]

Mab Segrest, Memoir of a Race Traitor, The New Press, 1994

[janecrockeyre]

scum villain is a greek tragedy disguised as a regular tragedy disguised as a comedy disguised as a danmei

this is going to be long, and this is only PART ONE.

a.k.a, Analysing the plot of Scum Villain’s Self Saving System through Aristotle’s Poetics, because I Have Mental Issues

Part One: Introduction and the Tragic Hero

Scum Villain’s Self Saving System is a tragedy disguised as a comedy, unless you’re Shen Yuan, in which case it’s a mixture of a romance and a survival horror. It's a fever dream. It's a horrible, terrible book that made me feel new undiscovered emotions when I finished reading it. 

The thing is... SVSSS shares characteristics with some of the most famous tragedies in the West, such as Oedipus Rex, Medea, Antigone, the Oresteia... if you haven’t read these, I’ll explain everything. But the gist of my argument is this: SVSSS is the perfect tragedy. In triplicate. 

Tragedy as a genre is old as balls and so it has meant slightly different things to different people over the last few thousand years. I'll be focusing on ancient Greek tragedy, which was performed at the yearly Festival of Dionysus in Athens during the 500-350s BC (give or take a hundred years). Aristotle, when writing about this very specific subset of tragedy, had no idea that one day Scum Villain would be written, and then that I would be using his work as a way to look at Shen Qingqiu’s Funky Transmigration Mistake. Anyway!

Greek tragedy greatly influenced European dramatic tradition. I have a lot of opinions about white academics idolising and upholding the classics as the "paragon of culture" but I'll withhold them for now. I have no idea if MXTX has read Greek tragedy or not, so don't take this as me saying they are writing it. 

In my opinion, tragedy is a universal human constant. We are surrounded by pain and hurt and none of it makes any sense, so we seek to process that pain through drama, art, literature, etc. We want to understand why pain happens, and how it happens, and try to make sense of the senseless. The universe is cold and cruel and random. Tragedy eases some of that pain. 

On that note: Just because I am analysing Scum Villain through a Greek lens doesn't mean that it was written that way. I'm pasting an interpretation onto the book when there's probably a very rich and deep history of Chinese tragedy that I just don't know about. If you ever want to talk about that, please, god, hit me up, I would love to learn about it!! 

Anyway, tragedy. MXTX is excellent at it! Mo Dao Zu Shi? Painful dynastic family tragedy. Heaven Official's Blessing? Mostly romance, but she managed to get that pure pain in there, huh? 

But in my opinion, Scum Villain holds the crown for the most tragic of her stories. MDZS was more of a mystery. TGCF was more of a romance. Neither of them shy away from their tragic elements. 

Scum Villain would fit right in between the work of Sophocles, Euripides and Aeschylus. How? Let me show you. Join me on my mystery tour into the world of "Aristotle Analyses Danmei..."

Part One: The Tragic Hero

What is a tragic hero? Generally, Greek tragic heroes are united by the same key characteristics. He must be imperfect, having a "fatal flaw" of some kind. He must have something to lose. And he must go from fortune to misfortune thanks to that fatal flaw. 

There are two (technically three) tragic protagonists in SVSSS and all of them are tragic in different but formulaic ways. Each protagonist has their own version of “hamartia” or a “fatal flaw”. 

Actually, hamartia isn’t necessarily a flaw - rather, it is a thing which makes the audience pity and fear for them, a careful imperfection, a point of weakness in the character’s morality or reasoning that allows for bad things to happen to them. For example, in Oedipus Rex, the king Oedipus has a “fatal flaw” of always wanting to find the truth, but this isn’t exactly a flaw, right? Note: this flaw can be completely unwitting, as we see with Shen Yuan. It can also be something that the protagonist is born with, some kind of trait from birth or very young. 

Shen Yuan

Shen Yuan’s “hamartia” is his rigid adherence to fate and his inability to read a situation as anything but how he thinks it ought to be. He believes that Bingmei will grow into Bingge, and it takes several years, two deaths, and some truly traumatising sex to convince him otherwise. 

Shen Jiu

Shen Jiu’s fatal flaw is his cruelty. It is his own sadistic treatment and abuse of Binghe which directly leads to his eventual dismemberment. This is kind of a no-brainer. Of course, it isn't all that simple, and as an audience we pity him for his cruelty as much as we fear it because we know it comes from his own abuse as a child. This just makes him even more tragic. Delicious. 

Luo Binghe

Luo Binghe’s fatal flaw is a complicated mix of things. It is his position as the “protagonist” which compels him to act in certain ways and be forced to suffer. It is his half-demonic heritage, something entirely out of his control, which sets in motion his tragic reversal of fortune when he gets yeeted into the Abyss. He also, much like Shen Yuan, has the propensity to jump to conclusions and somehow make 2 + 2 = 5. 

As well as having their respective “flaws”, all three protagonists match the rough outline of a good tragic hero in another way: they are in a position of great wealth and power. Even when you split the different characters into different “versions”, this still holds true. Yes, Luo Binghe is raised a commoner by a washerwoman foster mother, but his dad is an emperor and he also ends up becoming an emperor himself. 

Yes, Shen Jiu is an ex-slave and a victim of abuse himself, but Shen Qingqiu is a powerful peak lord with an entire mountain’s worth of resources at his back. 

Shen Yuan is a second generation new money rich kid. 

Bingge is a stereotypical protagonist with a golden finger. Bingmei is a treasured and loved disciple with a good reputation and a privileged seat by his shizun’s side. 

In a tragedy, having this kind of good fortune at the beginning of your story is dangerous. Chaucer says that tragedy is (badly translated into modern english) “a certain story / of him that stood in great prosperity / and falls out of high degree / into misery, and ends up wretchedly”. If we follow this line of thinking, a good tragedy is about someone who has a lot to lose, losing everything because of one fatal point of weakness that they fail to address or understand. 

If we look at Shakespeare, this is what makes King Lear such a fantastic tragic protagonist. He is a king in control of most of England, who from his own lack of wisdom and excess of pride, decides to split his kingdom apart to give to his daughters, favouring his murderous, double crossing progeny, and condemning his only actually filial daughter to death. He loses his kingdom, his mind, and his beloved daughter, all because of his own stupidity.

This brings us to:

Part Two: Peripeteia

This reversal of fortunes is called peripeteia. It is the moment where the entire plot shifts, and the hero’s fortunes go from good to bad. Think of it like one of those magic eye puzzles, where you stare at the image until a 3D shark appears, except you realise the shark was always there, you just couldn't ever see it, waiting for you, hungry, deadly, always lurking just behind that delightful pattern of random blue squiggles. 

Each tragic hero has their own moment of peripeteia in SVSSS, sometimes several:

Shen Qingqiu

In the original PIDW, SQQ’s peripeteia presumably occurs when he finds out that Bingge didn’t perish in the Abyss but has actually been training hard to come and pay him back. There’s really not much I’m interested in saying here - as a villain, OG!SQQ is cut and dry, and the audience doesn’t really feel any pity or fear for him. As Shen Yuan often mentions, what the audience feels when they see OG!SQQ is bloodlust and sick satisfaction. There is also the trial at Huan Hua Palace, which I will talk about in Shen Yuan’s section. 

Shen Yuan (SQQ 2.0)

One of SY’s most poggers moment of peripeteia is the glorious, terrifying section between hearing Binghe for the first time after the Abyss moment, and getting shoved into the Water Prison. 

“Behind him, a low and soft voice came: “Shizun?”

Shen Qingqiu’s neck felt stiff as he slowly turned his head. Luo Binghe’s face was the most frightening thing he had ever seen.

The scariest thing about it was that the expression on his face was not cold at all. His smile wasn’t sharp like a knife. Rather, it showed a kind of bone-deep gentleness and amiability.”

This is the moment of true horror for Shen Yuan, because he knows what happens next: the plot unfurls before him, inevitable and painful, and he knows that death awaits him at Luo Binghe's hands (lol). Compare it with the bone deep certainty with which he faces his own downfall during the sham of a trial later in the chapter (I’ve bolded the important part):

“In the original work, Qiu Haitang’s appearance signified only one thing: Shen Qingqiu’s complete fall from grace. [...] Shen Qingqiu’s heart streamed with tears. Great Master… I know you’re doing this for my own good, but I’ll actually suffer if she speaks her words clearly. This truly is the saying “not frightened of doing a shameful deed, just afraid the ghost (consequences) will come knocking”!”

After the peripeteia is usually the denouement where the plot wraps up and the threads are all tied together leaving no loose ends, but because this tragedy isn’t Shen Yuan’s but the former Shen Jiu’s, it’s impossible to finish. 

Shen Yuan cannot provide the meaningful answers that the narrative demands because 1) he doesn’t have any memory of doing anything, and 2) he wasn’t the person who did them. Narratively, he cannot follow the same path as the former SQQ because he lacks the same fatal flaw: cruelty. 

This is why Binghe doesn’t kill him - because he loves him, rather than despises him. And this is why Shen Yuan has to sacrifice himself and die for Luo Binghe in order to save him from Xin Mo: because the narrative demands that denouement follows peripeteia, and SQQ’s fate is in the hands of the narrative. 

(Side note: I believe that this literal death also represents the death of OG!SQQ's tragic arc. The body that committed all those crimes must die to satisfy the narrative. SQQ must die, like burning down a forest, so that new growth can sprout from the ashes. After this, Shen Yuan's story has more room to develop instead.)

It must happen to show Bingmei that SQQ loves him too. And this brings us to Bingmei.

Bingmei

Bingmei has two succinct moments of utter downfall. The first is a literal fall - his flaw, his demonic heritage, leads his beloved shizun to throw him down into the Abyss. From his point of view, SQQ is punishing him simply for the status of his birth. He rapidly goes from being loved and cherished unconditionally, to being the victim of an assassination attempt. 

He realises that he is totally unlovable: that for the crimes of his species that he never had a hand in, he must pay the price as well: that his shizun is so righteous that no matter what love there was between them, if SQQ sees a demon, he will kill it. Even if that demon is Bingmei. 

The second moment is when SQQ dies for him. Again, from his point of view, he was chasing after a man who was struggling to see him as a human being. Shen Qingqiu’s death makes Bingmei realise that he has been completely misunderstanding his shizun: that SQQ would literally die for him, the ultimate act of self sacrifice from love: that SQQ loved him despite his demon heritage. 

Much like King Lear holding the corpse of his daughter and wailing in sheer grief and pain because he did this, he caused this, Bingmei gets to hold his shizun's cold body and cry his eyes out and know that it was his fault. (Kind of.)

(Yes, I’m bringing Shakespeare into this, no I am not justifying myself)

Maybe I'm a bit sadistic, but that scene slaps. Let me show you a comparison of scenes so you get the picture. 

Re-enter KING LEAR, with CORDELIA dead in his arms; EDGAR, Captain, and others following

KING LEAR

Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stones:

Had I your tongues and eyes, I'ld use them so

That heaven's vault should crack. She's gone for ever!

I know when one is dead, and when one lives;

She's dead as earth. Lend me a looking-glass;

If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,

Why, then she lives.

[...]

 KING LEAR

And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life!

Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,

And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,

Never, never, never, never, never!

Pray you, undo this button: thank you, sir.

Do you see this? Look on her, look, her lips,

Look there, look there!

Dies

Versus this scene in SVSSS: 

Luo Binghe turned a deaf ear to everything else, greatly agitated and at a loss of what to do. He was still holding Shen Qingqiu’s body, which was rapidly cooling down. It seemed like he wanted to call for him loudly and forcefully shake him awake, yet he didn’t dare to, as if he was afraid of being scolded. He said slowly, “Shizun?”

[...]

Luo Binghe involuntarily held Shen Qingqiu closer.

He said in a small voice, “I was wrong, Shizun, I really… know that I was wrong.

“I… I didn’t want to kill you…”

PAIN. SO MUCH BEAUTIFUL PAIN. Yes, I know Shakespeare isn’t Athenian, but he was inspired by the good old stuff and he also knew how to write a perfect tragedy on his own terms. Anyway. I’ll find more Greek examples later.

This post was a bit all over the place, but I hope it has been fun to read. Part Two will be coming At Some Point, Who Knows When. This is a bit messy and unedited, but hey, I’m not getting paid or graded, so you can eat any typos or errors. Unless you’re here to talk to me about Chinese tragedy, in which case, please pull up a seat, let me get you a drink, make yourself at home.

ps: if you want to retweet this, here is the promo tweet!