#they sure would have a case for 'subjected to special peril or serious danger' even without a body

[alternis]

looking up case law for presumption of death in new Jersey to make sure my daydreams are legally accurate

[ralph-n-fiennes]

Hey! Is there any chance you could post the entire interview from The Times here? Thanks

Sure! Here it is

Ralph Fiennes: ‘There is a kind of political correctness that’s in danger of becoming totalitarianism’

The actor and director talks about his new Nureyev film, the perils of mob justice, and why he’s tired of playing evil

Ralph Fiennes’s The White Crow, the actor’s third film as a director, is as fine a portrait of an artist as a young man as you will find outside the pages of James Joyce. Set in Paris in 1961, it is the story of the defection of Rudolf Nureyev from Russia, the climax of the Kirov Ballet star’s belligerent growing-up, and a big publicity coup for the West.

Its writer, David Hare, who has done a job as brilliant as The White Crow’s director, has said that he loathes the idea that Nureyev’s defection was a balletic “leap to freedom”. At the time, he points out, there was optimism in Russia after the death of Stalin and the accession of the more liberal Khrushchev. In microcosm it is true, certainly, that the man Fiennes plays, Nureyev’s teacher Alexander Pushkin, was no tyrant. Indeed, it is vaguely upsetting to see the much lusted-after leading man who, two decades ago, was the seducer in The English Patient, now at 56 play a bald professorial type, cuckolded by his protégé — although the real seducer in this case was, it seems, Pushkin’s wife, who cajoled the mostly homosexual Nureyev into her bed.

“Alexander was very kind and very, very gentle,” Fiennes says. He is in a suite at the Dorchester in London, dressed in jeans and coatigan. His long, floppy hair, I notice to my relief, has, in reality, suffered no more than some widow’s peaking. “People talk about his technique, which was to let the students discover their own mistakes. Now, I’ve seen ballet classes where the teacher literally comes and forces the arm and turns the head and wrestles with a student’s body.”

Fiennes agrees with Hare that it was claustrophobia, rather than tyranny, that Nureyev was fleeing and that his defection was a spur-of-the-moment decision prompted by the heavy-handedness of KGB minders alarmed at his carousing in Paris. Still, the urge had surely been building. “Subconsciously, for him there was a world elsewhere,” Fiennes says, quoting from Coriolanus, which he has starred in and directed for cinema.

Nureyev’s “leap” is performed at Le Bourget airport in front of a scrum of reporters, whose colleagues would pursue the dancer right up to his death from Aids in 1993, aged 54. Perhaps, I say, the film suggests that the dancer trades one form of surveillance for another? Fiennes, however, barely concedes the point even though his own private life — in 1996 he left his wife, Alex Kingston, for Francesca Annis, his co-star in Hamlet almost 20 years his senior — has suffered its share of scrutiny.

A newer form of western tyranny seems to disturb him more. In recent weeks he has offered his support to Liam Neeson, his Schindler’s List co-star, after Neeson said in an interview that he had once wandered the streets with a cosh hoping to be attacked by a “black bastard” so he could avenge the rape of a woman close to him. Fiennes has also stood firm by Michael Colgan, a former director of the Gate Theatre in Dublin, who has been accused of bullying and sexual harassment during his tenure. In the first case, Fiennes says that Neeson was attempting an honest confession. In the second, to be accused is not invariably to be guilty.

“I think there’s a kind of political correctness which has its strength, but is in danger of becoming its own sort of totalitarianism,” Fiennes says.

It is harder, perhaps, to argue the case for Sergei Polunin, the Ukrainian dancer with a supporting role in The White Crow who in January was dropped from a ballet in Paris after posting rants on Instagram, but Fiennes says that he was a joy to work with. “Basically, I ignore all the stuff that he said because I believe there’s the noise the human being can make and then there’s who they truly are as a person, and I think Sergei is a good man, a kind man.”

Fiennes, I observe, occasionally makes a bit of noise in his private life (in 2007 an air stewardess claimed that she had inducted him into the mile high club). “I’ve been guilty of shit,” he agrees. He is less ready to concede that his description of “the unpleasantness and ruthlessness” of the young Nureyev as he looked to “create” himself may have once applied to him.

“I’m uncomfortable saying an overt yes to that. I connected with aspects of his hunger to learn, I suppose, his hunger to absorb.”

Fiennes’s self-creation remains a fascinating subject. His career looked set to be in art until, enrolled at Chelsea College of Arts, he noticed a young New Zealand painter and the “fury” he had about his vocation.

“I thought, ‘He is driven and I’m here painting that bowl of fruit, but I don’t know what I’m trying to say.’ I think I had acted at school and there was some moment at college when the penny dropped and I thought, ‘No, I want to be an actor.’ It suddenly became very clear to me, certain.”

Was there fury about his acting? “I think there was a bit. There was a real sort of determination, but I remember one audition at one drama school. I came out with this RP voice and I think they thought, ‘Who is he? Is he pretending to be a Shakespeare actor?’ I felt maybe I wasn’t the kind of actor that was cool at the time.”

Rada recognised the real thing. Leaving in 1985, he was quickly taken up by the RSC and the National Theatre. By the time I last interviewed him, in 1995, he had already been nominated for an Oscar from his remarkable portrayal of the concentration camp commandant Amon Goeth in Schindler’s List, and was about to play Hamlet at the Almeida in London — which was where he would fall in love with Annis, who was playing the prince’s mother. There was no doubting his greatness. Of his range, however, there was less inkling.From Goeth, we knew he could play a particularly nuanced kind of evil, but who could have predicted his terrifying box-office turn as Voldemort in the Harry Potter films?“I did actually say to my agent, after Voldemort, ‘Please don’t send me any bad guys. I’ve done that now.’ And I don’t think I’ve broken that promise, unless you count David Hare getting me to play his version of Tony Blair in Page Eight.”A consequence of that resolution was our discovery that Fiennes could be wickedly funny on film — as the suavely savage Gustave in Wes Anderson’s The Grand Budapest Hotel and then that grab-bag of ego, the music producer Harry, in A Bigger Splash. However, this is also a serious actor who learnt Russian for the movie Two Women and speaks it beautifully in The White Crow, indistinguishable from Russian cast members speaking in their native tongue. His Bafta-nominated directorial debut with Coriolanus in 2011, meanwhile, was followed up by an impressive Dickens movie, The Invisible Woman.

There is an off-the-peg explanation for Fiennes’s overachievements. As a child, he had to compete with his siblings for attention, for love and to impress.

“At the age of seven, I was the eldest of six, and I probably had a little bit of special treatment, being the eldest, and then felt the competition coming up behind,” he says. “When we get together as a family, we laughingly acknowledge our need to have our space. Because we’re all quite close together in age, I think you define your territory. ‘This is my territory. This is who I am.’”

He says that his mother, Jennifer Lash, a writer known as Jinni, who was married to Mark Fiennes, a farmer-turned-photographer, inspired her brood with her love of words and performance. Two of his sisters, Martha and Sophie, became film-makers; one brother is a composer; and another is Joseph Fiennes, the actor.

“But it was frantic. She often felt huge distress. She wanted to write, and sometimes the pressure and the strain and the frustration of not being able to write, not having the time to write, the peace and the space to write, would explode, but the love was always there, incredible love.”

Jinni, who published her first novel at 23, died of cancer aged 55, when Fiennes was 30. He says that he still feels her presence, although that could just be his “own need to feel that something”.

Does he dream about her? “Sometimes. My father too. What’s so weird is my mother died in 1993 and my father died in 2004 and yet somehow in the brain they’re restored. In the dreams, if they come, they’re completely clear, completely present and as they were. Somehow the brain has stored the memory of the voice, the person.”

Do friends ever say to him that his career has been incredibly Oedipal? I am thinking not just of Hamlet and his leaving a wife of his own age for his Gertrude, but the mother-son dynamic of Coriolanus.

“Yes, people have commented on that, and I shouldn’t be ashamed of it. I mean, Oedipal is probably how we’re wired as the sons of mothers. I don’t feel any awkwardness about there being an Oedipal element in one’s self. I think that’s quite healthy. It’s part of who you are.”

Has he been in therapy? “I had what they call psychotherapy for a little bit. It was interesting.”

Did he go because he was unhappy or because he wanted to explore himself? “I was going through a time of crisis and emotional disturbance and upset.”

Can he say about what? “No, I don’t want to.”

Having come from a noisy, competitive family, I can see why he might, in his fifties, choose the apparent solitary life that he has, living in a studio loft in east London. Since his relationship with Annis ended in 2006, there have been rumours of girlfriends, but nothing, apparently, very permanent.

“There’s living alone and being lonely. They are different things. I feel quite content, living on my own. It’s funny, isn’t it? Some people say, ‘Don’t you want children?’ And for me it’s not a negative. It’s not a dislike of children. I respect that some people do.”

I quote something that Hare has said about Fiennes, that he likes to surround himself professionally with people who love him. I wonder whether film sets and theatre companies are his substitute families.

“I think you’re in a kind of parental mode as a director, and that is your family. As an actor in a company, you’re less parental, although if you’re possibly in a leading role, there is a leadership element.”

I like the idea that he joins families of actors and, now that he is older, he becomes their father. “Yes, although I haven’t consciously thought I’m achieving parenthood that way,” he begins. And then thinks of Oleg Ivenko, the 22-year-old Ukrainian ballet dancer from whom he has conjured up a light yet intense performance in the lead role in The White Crow.

“Oleg, you see, he was a totally inexperienced actor. That was definitely a version of creative parenting, guiding him through the requirements of a feature film and a main role.”

In loco parentis, as a teacher, Fiennes, we can assume, is a Pushkin rather than a Stalin. Papa Ralph. It has a ring to it.The White Crow is out on general release

[johobi]

When You Least Expect It | 04

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader x Taehyung

Word count: 8.6k

Warnings: masturbation mention, angst 

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16732419/navigate

A/N: This ended up being a 15k chapter but I wanted to keep the chapter sizes under or around 10k if possible, so here is the first part. The second part will be coming forthwith!

Next: 05 || WYLEI Masterlist

You’re in love with your childhood friend, Taehyung. The problem is, you treasure your friendship with him far too much to ever risk losing it. Oh, and he’s quite the Casanova. At your wits’ end with feelings you can no longer hide as diligently as you once did, you ask him to set you up with someone, anyone, in a last-ditch attempt to avoid a heartbreaking conversation.

Your hand twitched in your lap under the strain of suppressing a facepalm. “Aren’t we a little old to be playing this game?”

Hoseok scampered over, crouched low, perilously clutching a bottle of vodka and several shot glasses to his chest. Luckily, he managed to reach your group before the evening was ruined by the shattering of glass. “When can you ever be too old to hear your friends’ dirty secrets?” he posed, and you no longer had the power to withhold the inevitability of your hand meeting your face.

“I thought for sure that we already knew each other a little too intimately,” you peeked through your fingers at Yoongi, who, for some reason, was toting one of those expensive-looking crystal decanters and tipping it in your direction with a deliberate wink.

Hoseok followed your gaze to the subject of your shame. “Hey, I told you not to touch that stuff! It’s for special occasions.”

Drunker than he usually allowed himself to get, Yoongi waved the container in front of him as Hoseok advanced on him, withdrawing it cruelly out of reach whenever he stretched for it. “This is a special occasion,” he asserted. “I’m here.”

“Dude, I don’t care how good a friend you are, that stuff costs a bomb and you’re not having any now,” the taller of your two friends put the other in his place. It was always a little jarring when Hobi got serious. Like the sun setting and ushering in a darker unknown, seeing the light disappear from his face would have you scurrying for safety. If Hoseok was angry, upset or disappointed, you sure as hell better hope it wasn’t directed at you. In this case, however, he was more bemused with Yoongi’s defiance than anything. “I’ll bring a little for your party.”

Yoongi forced out his bottom lip into an uncharacteristic pout. Bewilderingly, the expression suited his small, round face a little too well. Dare you say, it was even becoming of him? “Fine.”

Somehow, initially lured by the promise of drinks and a sorely needed group catch-up, you’d been dragged into an ill-advised game of Never Have I Ever. When all of you gathered – even in your rather subdued late-20s – you could expect something memorable to go down. And, cocooned within a tentative tranquillity that you had weaved over the past few days, you didn’t want that endangered. You weren’t here for drama.

You’d been far more restrained with your alcohol consumption than the others so far, though, and you realised how much you’d probably missed during your past episodes of inebriation. Your wasted personality was definitely just an exaggeration of your sober one; not a Jekyll and Hyde type some of your more unassuming friends had mortified you by showcasing.

Guilty of being a flirt even when there was nothing negatively influencing your better judgement, alcohol only amplified that trait to the extent that you basically became a sexual deviant. Not a stranger to dancing on tables and giving whoever was unlucky enough to be sitting there a show of your amateur lap-dancing skills – usually goaded on by the cheers of your shit-faced peers – your inability to limit yourself had gotten you into some rather tricky and, on occasion, shameful situations. It had been a long time since you’d really let yourself go, though, and tonight would be no different. Watching the quirks of your friends’ personalities manifest in ways you’d previously been too impaired to see awarded you joy enough.

Other than the three of you, Taehyung had tagged along too, and in tow, a couple of his own friends. You were surprised he hadn’t brought Tara, but you knew their budding relationship was a big thing for him and that he was probably planning on officially unveiling her at Yoongi’s party. For the sake of safeguarding that precious, fragile stability you had pieced together for yourself, you tried not to dwell on it for long. But you knew that the only reason you weren’t being taunted constantly by visions of Taehyung walking some faceless woman down the aisle was because she was just that; an unknown, intangible. She was still just a concept in your mind, and you were afraid of what the reality would do to you when you were finally forced to confront it next Saturday.

One thing was helping, though. Immensely.

Jungkook.

You still couldn’t believe it, really.

While waiting for Hoseok to set up and for Taehyung to get back from the bathroom, you retrieved your phone from your pocket. You had no new messages, of course – basically everyone who gave you the time of day was in this room with you. But you thumbed affectionately over the last few messages he had sent you, the same quiet smile that lifted your lips settling itself there once more as you read them. Since that sequentially harrowing and then uplifting day at the school, you’d been texting each other on the regular.

[15:34] Jungkook how about this?

[15:34] Jungkook sent an image.

You spent time examining the selfie he’d sent you. Posing in front of a poster for what was obviously a horror film – some slasher, you guessed, from the silent scream emanating from the lead actress’s gaping mouth – Jungkook mimicked her expression, his free hand flat against his cheek in some wide-eyed Edvard Munch tribute. On your first look, you had merely been amused at the lengths he would go to to extract a smile from you, but then it had bloomed into an affected warmth. Everything he said and did was in an attempt to lighten the load of your burdens a little, and it touched you a tad too deep. You didn’t want him to become your pack-horse; you wanted him to enjoy his time with you, too. And, somehow, he was making it easier for you to become a person that was enjoyable to be around. In minute, hesitant steps, but still. Your second date was the day after tomorrow, and averse to the run-up to your first one, you simmered with excitement when you thought about it.

No, the pain hadn’t gotten any easier, but rather than picking at the wound and preventing it from healing, you allowed Jungkook to be the bandage that cushioned against such harm. And, because you couldn’t let yourself live, not even for one second, you felt guilty about that.

He was just a distraction.

As much as you wanted him to become everything to you that Taehyung was, he was just a temporary salve that washed away when you were dragged downstream by the current.

Taehyung always pulled you under.

[15:36] Lmfao, you’re adorable

[15:37] Jungkook i’m not adorable, damnit!! i’m a testosterone-fuelled, hot-blooded man!

You swallowed a snicker. You had a feeling that your age gap made him a little insecure, so you tried to tease him as little as possible. Tried. It was his fault for being cute as fuck.

[15:38] Somehow, you’re both. Good job!

And then he’d sent you something that stirred a feeling in you that had become all-too familiar when attached to Taehyung, but not any other man.

[15:39] Jungkook let me prove it to you someday

Yes, your venture was cautious and new, but you had set the bar with your previous flirting. This had encouraged him into being a little bolder with you. Nothing obscene, nothing even all that overt. But occasionally he sent you messages that hinted at something. And holy shit, it got to you far more than you’d ever expected. Even just the faint promise of it had you fidgeting a little uncomfortably in your seat sometimes.

It had become an altogether terrifying prospect that you may never be attracted to, or aroused by another man until you somehow got over Taehyung. The fact that Jungkook could provoke you in this way was endlessly reassuring, if not a little startling. Thankfully, it was still too early for you to even think about sleeping with him yet – you were determined to take it slow, despite what your body told you – and if things ever went well enough for you to consider acting on your desire, you had ample time to prepare.

[15:41] Maybe, if I’m feeling charitable lol

And that was something he was going to have to get used to – your sometimes overly abrasive wit that was certainly not a defense mechanism in any shape or form. Not at all.

He seemed to sense that about you, though, if his response was any indication. In such a short period of time, too. How?

Jungkook played along.

[15:42] Jungkook yes miss, thank you miss

You had a feeling that such flirtatious back-and-forths were a tribute to the relative safety of distance between you. Jungkook certainly seemed bolstered by it. Because for every dangerous comment you’d levelled at him on your date, face-to-face, he’d been stumped, and more than a little flustered. With a little time and loosening up, what sort of a man would he show himself to be? You bit your lip thinking about it.

“Did your man-shape send you something good?” a sing-song voice rudely interrupted your increasingly indecent thoughts.

You looked up at the guy with lurid red hair. It was Jimin, one of Taehyung’s friends from college and someone you’d had to repeatedly rebuff in the past. Sure, he was hotter than Satan’s favourite beach holiday destination, but you found his personality incredibly lacking. In fact, his dating practices imbued in you as little faith as Taehyung’s, except he was not up front, he strung women along and frequently made booty calls to those who were naïve enough to believe that he would eventually want something more. And that is why you kept well away from that strutting, manspreading catastrophe. “My man-shape?” you clarified, though you supposed Taehyung had told him all about Jungkook. The fact that you were the subject of recent conversation between the two of them made you feel a little uncomfortable – when would Jimin get the hint? No, when would he finally take note of the flashing neon sign above your head that read ‘Hell can freeze over first!’?

“Yeah, your boy-toy. Sexting already?” he smirked, spread out on the couch like he owned the place, one arm slung over the back and his legs spread as wide as his distractingly tight jeans would decently allow him.

“Jesus, Jimin,” you sighed. Every time you uttered his name it was awash in disapproval. “Nosy much? How about I ask you when you last fucked someone? No, wait, don’t answer that,” you added on hurriedly, your frantically waving arms stretching to censor him the wider he opened his mouth. “No, don’t tell me. Please.”

He stuck out his bottom lip in protest but complied. Thankfully, as coarse and lewd as he could be, Jimin could – most of the time – reel himself in when people began to tire of his unseemly conversational topics. Unfortunately, he was still insufferable enough that you wouldn’t consider meeting up with him on your own time, but you were more than happy to hang out with him in the presence of others. Jimin in limited doses could be fun. Somewhere, a small part of you lurched at the thought that he had probably been your ideal type only a few years ago.

Why Hoseok thought it was a good idea to play this game, especially with Jimin present, mystified you. Not only did you basically know everything about each other already, but you were no longer living a transient lifestyle; everyone had remained here with some permanence and if anything embarrassing surfaced tonight, there would be nothing for it but to face an awkward run-in the next day. It was inescapable. And this is why these games were better suited to the temporary shitstorm of student life. Particularly for you, who was probably liable to spill the juiciest secrets of them all.

So, despite feeling the familiar, coaxing warmth of alcohol cladding your veins, you would endeavour to lie at every opportunity. The problem is, you weren’t particularly good at lying, especially when put on the spot. And all the more for being under the sway of Russian spirits.

Mercifully, Jimin’s attentions had been captured by the hushed scolding of the other friend Taehyung had brought with him – a girl you didn’t recognise, and by the way Jimin was being excessively handsy with her in the midst of their playful, charged bickering, you presumed she was his current ‘girlfriend’. Her face was entirely unfamiliar to you, and it surprised you a small amount to see her here at Hoseok’s place, considering Taehyung was your tie, not his. And he had brought with him a chain of friends whose links to Hoseok became weaker the further down the line you went. He didn’t seem to mind, though. Unlike you, Hobi was outgoing and welcoming of fresh blood. He just loved to play host.

Everyone was sitting on the floor in a circle, waiting for Taehyung to return. After several more minutes and jokes exchanged about whether to send in an excavation squad, he finally reappeared and settled himself next to you. Before anyone had a chance to say anything other than a cursory ‘Finally!’, he held up his hand. “Don’t ask, unless you want me to get gross.”

And, yes, it had dawned on you the day after your most opportune reunion with Jungkook and Taehyung’s subsequent suspicious behaviour that the Gods hadn’t smiled upon you at all. No, it had just been him spinning his tricks. From the intrepid misplacement of his phone, to the fastidiously plotted – late – arrival, to the panicked, rushed departing. The fucker had planned it all, despite your obvious discomfort with the entire situation. The anger you had felt initially would have been a damn sight more homicidal if it hadn’t been so dulled by the genuine contentedness your spontaneously set-up date had given you.

When you’d seen Taehyung next, though, you’d immediately tacked him to the wall, finger prodding his chest in accusation. He’d merely stood there, frozen, eyes wide and duly fretful. And he knew damn well it would extinguish your fury. The bear-hug he’d then trapped you in hastened your transformation from vengeful hell-bitch to tender, wilting flower. Muffled pleas for forgiveness had been breathed into your neck and it’d taken the self-control of a saint not to turn your head and swallow his begging with your mouth. Because, fuck, why did he have to get so close all the time, smelling like all your favourite memories and haunts and places in the future only your imagination could take you. It was a good idea to keep him at arms’ length, really, but he caught you off-guard every time, pinning you like the apex predator of maleness he was.

Eventually, you’d bestowed upon him the forgiveness he so desperately sought and thanked him. Because you were truly thankful. Jungkook had deserved that second chance.

Hoseok began to dish out the glasses, filling up your respective cups. Having already plied everyone with drinks since an hour beforehand, needless to say the room was already abuzz with giddy chatter. “Let’s get going, then. I’ll go first. Take a drink if you have done this, remember.”

You leaned back against the front of the sofa opposite the one Jimin and his girl were seated on and pulled your knees to your chest. “We know, Hoseok. I’ve played this game so many times.”

“I know you have,” he tutted, disappointed with your sour attitude. “And I’m sure many of us have, too. But we’ve never played it together, have we?”

Taehyung answered for you, mimicking your posture and raising his knees. “Nope. I was 3 years too late to join in on your antics,” he muttered, an indignant finger hovering between you, Yoongi and Hoseok. “But then again, I was a good boy, so.”

Yoongi almost choked on the beer he’d been chugging. Oh God, you thought to yourself. Yoongi, don’t mix your drinks. “Bullshit. You might not have been drowning in booze in your teenage years, but everyone knows you were drowning in pussy instead. You’re hardly the face of morality.”

The younger brother merely shrugged, unaffected. “True. They all thought I was a good boy, too, though.”

If you’d been drinking, you were sure it would be burning the inside of your nose right now. Instead, you slapped his shoulder lightly in admonishment. The kid was clearly becoming uninhibited. “Kim Taehyung!”

For some reason, Jimin seemed to enjoy goading you. “Things are probably going to get a lot worse than that, ____. Why don’t you drink some more to take the edge off of his PG-13 words?”

The girl thumped him, but you were already glaring at him so hard you saw even his steadfast look of self-congratulation falter a little. There was absolutely no doubt in your mind that you could take that cocky little shit of a man out back and have him begging for mercy within a couple of minutes. “Why don’t you sit on my finger and spin, little boy? You’d probably like that, huh? Don’t talk to me about PG-13.”

An uproarious ‘ooooooooooh!’ rippled throughout your group. “Holy shit,” Yoongi rasped. “Someone Google the nearest burn centre.”

Hoseok was giggling and kicking his feet like an excited child. Jimin, however, stared at you, slack-jawed enough to convey how severely dumbfounded he was. For a brief moment, in the absence of his cocksure smirk, you saw him for what he truly was: a babyfaced man still living out his collegiate fantasy in order to feed his constant need for validation. You felt sorry for him, in that second. That feeling was painfully familiar to you.

But it was Taehyung’s reaction that had you blanching. The blatancy with which you spoke about your sex life was, usually, kept strictly to the trained ears of Yoongi and Hoseok. They had frequently been your drunken comrades-in-arms, afterall. Taehyung, however, had been relatively sheltered from your mountain of sexploits. You protected him from that image of you; didn’t want him to think you were loose, or debauched, or anything else along those lines, even though you knew that he wouldn’t judge you. That it wasn’t shameful to be that way. He, afterall, had been and was still that way. Not quite as wild, you were sure, but nevertheless. And that utterance, just now, was only the tip of the iceberg. He had no fucking idea.

But he was just staring at you. His face, on appearance, blank, but you knew that face, and that everything was somewhat out of place. Eyebrows slightly raised, eyes a little wider, lips incrementally parted. Afraid of what kind of conclusions his brain was coming to, you adopted your first line of defence: savagery. “I’m sorry, Taehyung, have I forever corrupted your innocence? Stop gawping and start drinking.”

Your acidity dissolved the weird tension. He shook his head and huffed resentfully. “Mean.”

Impatient to start, Hoseok clinked his glass against the bottle of vodka. “If any of you are too young, inexperienced or easily frightened, you’re more than welcome to sit out. Now let’s get started! Never Have I Ever,” he paused, scanning the circle. Everyone’s glasses raised expectantly in the air. God, you were going to get so fucking drunk tonight. “Kissed someone of the same gender.”

For some reason, everyone’s eyes flew to you first, and you shrugged and downed your shot. That was something you had absolutely no problem admitting to. You raised your hands in exasperation. “What is this, a 13-year-old’s sleepover? Give me some real questions,” you snickered. But why the fuck did you ever think that provoking the others in the room – particularly Jimin – into asking something far more untoward was a good idea? You groaned inwardly, knowing that your immodesty would only worsen with percentage imbibed.

You watched Yoongi lower his glass, and that didn’t surprise you one bit – he’d never displayed an interest in men, and very few women in general. Even your booze-fuelled fondling had been experimental rather than the culmination of some pent-up sexual frustration. If anything, you suspected he was aromantic, asexual or both.

The aggression with which Jimin slammed his glass on the table had you rolling your eyes. Of course. Such fragile masculinity. “Nope, never,” he commented as casually as possible.

Hoseok’s face had gradually drooped the more people that lowered their drinks. Then, shyly, he took his shot. Yoongi turned to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, reevaluating him from head-to-toe. “Really? Who? When?”

And that surprised you. Yoongi had never expressed an interest in anyone’s romantic life, even his own. Hoseok seemed giddy with the attention, and that had your eyebrows shooting skywards. Had he set this up to put out some feelers?

The younger of the two cleared his throat, falsifying some projection of nonchalance. “Some guy, and ages ago,” he trivialised the occurrence.

Unbeknownst to the man who was now questioning everything he knew about his best friend, you’d personally witnessed many more such encounters – and several that had progressed quite a bit further – you’d had the misfortune to walk in on when Hoseok had implored you to sneak him into some of the frat parties you’d attended. He wasn’t strictly in the closet or anything, but you knew that he preferred to keep it close to his chest, and for some reason that hadn’t occurred to you until now, away from Yoongi in particular. Had he gotten tired of waiting for him to show some interest? It was strangely reminiscent of your situation with Taehyung.

Interesting.

Taehyung had rested his glass between his legs and was tracing the rim with his finger, waiting for the hubbub to die down. To your great annoyance, Jimin nodded his approval at his friend’s lack of bi-curiosity. God, why was he the epitome of a bro? The girl – Candy, you thought you’d overheard Jimin calling her earlier – also raised her glass and winked in your direction, taking her shot. Failing to surprise you at every predictable, meandering turn, Jimin whooped his encouragement of this revelation. “Candy! Fuck, I’m gonna be thinking about that later,” he dropped brazenly, but everyone seemed to have discarded their reserve by this point and merely emitted a mix of cringe-induced groans and chuckles.

“My turn,” Taehyung piped up, brandishing his glass high. “Never Have I Ever had sex in a public place,” he proposed confidently, like he’d spent some time mulling over what to say.

Again, you and Candy drunk in tandem, pointing at each other a knowing finger. You seemed to be kindred spirits. Jimin and Taehyung also took a shot, and your mind was threatening to run wild with any number of potential scenarios that involved your best friend’s disposition for public indecency.

Yoongi’s glass lay neglected on the floor; apparently keeping it raised was tantamount to too much effort. “Okay, I want examples, please,” his tone not at all becoming of a request and more suspect of fallacy.

Candy and Jimin glanced at each other before the latter bragged. “In a park.”

Taehyung, having always been a lightweight, was resting his head back against the sofa cushions, rolling it from side to side for no apparent reason other than his own amusement. His voice was a lot thicker than normal and fuck if it didn’t sound like his throat was coated with honey. “In the toilets at a concert.”

Longingly, you wanted to envision such a sight. But – and even though it was difficult to contain, the longer the night when on – you would not let yourself do so. You inhaled deeply in preparation to impart your list. “On a beach, in a field, in the woods, in a lecture hall, a supply closet, the back of a car, the back of a motorbike…” you trailed off when all ambient noise ceased entirely. Were you being too honest? “Uh, you get the idea.”

“Fuck,” Jimin whistled. “Shit, you’re wild,” he lauded you openly. His companion didn’t seem at all disgruntled by his appreciative attentions. In fact, she was nodding along with his exhortations. “Alright, my turn. Never Have I Ever,” he dragged out the last word, pinning you with a pointedly salacious gaze. “Masturbated over one of the people in this room.”

The soundtrack from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly may as well have been playing for all the loaded looks that were exchanged. Like cowboys at a saloon showdown, everyone’s eyes flew to one another, some with drinks aloft and precipitously hanging. When the weird tension alone was no longer entertaining enough for Jimin, he took a shot directly and tipped the empty glass towards you, sending you a brazen wink. Your lip curled in disgust and you moved to employ Taehyung as a human shield between yourself and the shameless pervert, but you were halted by the curious hovering of his hand over his planted shot-glass. A tremulous sigh escaped him and in one fluid movement, he downed his drink, as though wanting the offending liquid gone as soon as possible.

This was far more a shocking revelation than Jimin, who seemed irritated that Taehyung’s admission had stoked the fires of enthusiasm in the group. Yoongi was the first to spring to life. And that in itself was weird, because he was usually the last person to give a shit about such frivolity. “I swear to God, if it’s me, I’m murdering you.”

Taehyung’s hair fell over his eyes when he raised his head to look at him. “Very funny, hyung.”

But he wouldn’t elaborate further, and your heart began to hammer against your ribcage. Inwardly you took a roll call, your eyes drifting between people. Was it Hoseok or Jimin? Was that why he seemed so reluctant to admit it? Or perhaps it was Candy? If she was currently engaged elsewhere, that would also explain his hesitation.

An angel of mercy appeared to tease the truth from him. “Well, who is it, then?” Jimin sneered. Alright, perhaps not an angel. One of Satan’s earthbound minions.

Taehyung didn’t seem particularly annoyed with being pushed on it; afterall, he could have lied without anyone calling him out. He slumped back again to stare up at the off-white ceiling, before a gentle loll of his head had him facing you directly and with what you can only describe as a mischievous grin rounding the edges of his angular mouth. Your blood ran cold. “____.”

“What the fuck?” you gasped near inaudibly, glancing in alarm around the circle, as though you could glean an inkling from their faces that this was some sick prank. But rather than sit there, as blank and unresponsive as you were, people were up in arms, roaring their delight. In the commotion, no-one seemed to notice the way you had drained of colour, nor hear the thunderous pounding of your heart, so loud in your ears you were sure it would deafen you.

Taehyung had been watching, though, and he patted your thigh as if to soothe you. “I’m sorry for ruining the sanctity of our childhood, noona,” he grinned impishly. Clearly, this wasn’t anywhere near the calamitous deal to him that it was to you. “In my defense, I was a teenager, and when you hit puberty you turned into this hot, older girl right before my eyes. I was into older girls for a while because of that,” he elaborated to the group, and Jimin nodded sympathetically, as though both were attendants of some support group and had experienced a shared pain.

You knew that it shouldn’t have meant anything. That the moment had long gone; been buried beneath years of many other girls and women much prettier, much more interesting than you. To be the muse of a teenage boy’s masturbation fantasy was as fleeting as the length of time it took for them to bring themselves to completion.

And yet.

And yet, there had been some acknowledgement, some time, somehow, that you had been desirable in his eyes. He’d seen you as a woman; not just as a sister, not just as some amorphous blob. A woman. And that accompanying word, having itself rolled off his own tongue, an actual cherry on top: hot. He’d thought you were hot.

You briefly recalled the sight of your ghastly reflection from an earlier bathroom trip. Taehyung almost certainly didn’t regard you as such anymore, but it had been a reality at one point. Perhaps, if you worked on yourself, you could conjure it back. What would you have to do? Lose a little weight, put more effort into your appearance?

The ice in your veins melted and allowed your blood to flow once more, searing you with possibilities. The tumultuous excitement in your stomach should have been shameful, improper – you had Jungkook to think about now, and yet, and yet you were still only one date and a few minor flirtations in, you could cut him off quickly without harming him too much more, and—

Stop, you hissed inwardly. You’re a fucking disgrace.

The power he had over you was truly formidable. How could you ever mistake the lightness in your step of late as being a sign of you finally overcoming this? If he even so much as looked in your direction you would crawl over hot coals to reach him.

You saw it in his eyes. The calm, casual way he still regarded you, as if he hadn’t just shattered your carefully constructed barriers into heart-rending fragments. You had to get out of there.

“I gotta go to the bathroom,” you mumbled, tripping over yourself in your haste.

“Wait,” Jimin called after you, and you repressed the urge to strangle him before turning to him, palms spread and expecting some infuriating jibe.

“What?”

“You’re avoiding the game,” he smirked, looking as pleased as punch. And that’s what he would be getting very, very soon.

You could have walked away. You could have walked away from this game from the beginning. But you were irate and not thinking straight and you wanted to affect Taehyung in some way, any way, even if it was just to make him regret such a barefaced confession. So you stalked toward him and picked up your glass, eyeing him meaningfully before throwing the liquid to the back of your throat and tossing the empty vessel to the couch. Wiping your mouth on the back of your hand as he gawked at you, bewildered, you sauntered away looking far more of a badass than you felt.

Because when you got to the bathroom and closed the door, you slid down its surface to the floor and began to shake, your shoulders heaving with every great, silent gasp of air you desperately drew in to prevent your panic from spiralling out of control.

This is how it would always be.

You progress around the board, you make some headway in life, you land on a Chance and you stupidly take it, every single fucking time, because you can’t not know what is under that card.

You pray that it’s Boardwalk, but you go straight to jail.

Or, more aptly, purgatory. Repeatedly.

Nothing about this situation was healthy or sane, and now Jungkook’s tender feelings were embroiled. You could no longer serve yourself so selfishly without hurting others. And that is what prompted you to, finally, take out your phone. With trembling fingers and a tear-smeared screen, you texted Hoseok.

[22:13] I’m so sorry to ask this of you. I don’t want to ruin your night, but I have something really important that I need to talk to you about ASAP.

[22:14] Would you mind taking me home? I can’t stay here any longer.

You heard the chime of his phone distantly. It was hard to stay strong, when you could feel the resurgence of your unrequited feelings crushing your lungs, but what was almost unbearable was the shame of dragging others into your mess.

[22:15] Hoseok Of course! Are you okay? What’s going on? Are you in the bathroom still?

[22:15] Yes, I’m here, and I’m hiding. I’ll tell you why soon. I can’t come out yet, I feel and look like an idiot.

A few seconds after your text, you heard the scrape of muffled movement and your head snapped up in panic. He wasn’t sending them home, was he?

[22:16] Hoseok-ah! I’ll leave, don’t tell them to go on my account! Oh God

Murmurings unmistakeably confused and reluctant in tone met your ears when you pressed one to the door.

[22:17] Hoseok I’m getting tired as it is, so don’t beat yourself up about it. I got what I wanted out of the night.

You groaned and pressed your face to your knees, sandwiching your nose between them, hoping they would swallow you up into obscurity. When the sounds from outside abated, though, you were granted no such wish. Instead, with a sudden yank of the door behind you, you fell backwards and hit your head on the floor, squinting as artificial light assaulted your eyes. “Oh, fuck,” you muttered, rubbing the crown of your head.

Hoseok peered down at you, eyebrows raised as far as they could possibly go, his expression so intensely concerned you wanted to comfort him. “____. Jesus, are you okay? What’s going on with you?”

Bracing his hands under your armpits, he dragged you into standing and you leaned against him, his warm, platonic love enveloping you in the form of his cashmere-clad arms.

And that was it.

You just.

Let.

Go.

You sobbed, and sobbed, and when he hushed you gently and manoeuvred you backwards, still face-deep in his chest, you sobbed, both of you stumbling occasionally in the conjoined efforts of two people possessing impaired motor skills. The backs of your knees eventually hit the couch and you crumpled, still clinging to him, into its plushness, and he didn’t yield, not for one second. He must have been able to tell how much you needed him in that moment.

God, it had been so long since someone had just held you, romantic or otherwise. You’d basically been sub-human and shunning any prolonged contact for a spectre of love that you were sure would haunt you to your grave. “Hoseok,” you sobbed, and you couldn’t get out much more than that.

Ever so gently, he rubbed the span of your back, equal parts to comfort and encourage you. “I’m here, ____,” and when you didn’t say anything else, he took it upon himself to relieve you of your pain without you having to open your mouth and form the excruciating words. “Is this the culmination of the last few months?”

“Y-Yes,” you sniffled, an ugly wail swallowing any further explanation.

His voice was kind, patient. “Have you been holding this in all this time?”

“Yes,” you repeated lamely, but this in itself was a miracle – your verbal confirmation of these feelings were solidifying them into concrete, tangible problems that you could potentially fight. And, now, you wouldn’t have to battle them alone.

He sighed, then, and you stiffened, because you were so afraid of rejection in any form now that you thought it possible that even one of your dearest friends would become sick of your antics and disown you. You began to tremble, and he squeezed you closer; uncomfortably tight if you liked breathing, perfectly tight if you wanted to feel as though you had returned to the safe recesses of the womb. “You can shoot me down if you like, but please don’t lie to me if it’s the truth,” he mumbled into your shoulder, and you gulped. “Is this about Taehyung?”

For the third and final time, you exhaled your answer with all the relief of having a splinter extracted. “Yes.”

Hoseok nodded, but didn’t move, or say anything further. Instead, he allowed you to cry out the last of your bountiful supply of tears and only then, when you pulled away, snotty strings snapping upon the absence of your nose from his sweater, did he say anything. Of course, his first words were calculated to put you at ease. He looked down at the impressively large, damp stain you had left in your wake. “I’d recommend consulting an ENT doctor.”

You couldn’t help yourself; you laughed, your eyes still red and shining. But just the knowledge that you were no longer alone in this struggle, that it didn’t have to be contained to the self-destruction of your own inner prejudices, but could be scrutinised with objectivity and lucidity; you already felt tonnes lighter. “I’m sorry about your sweater. I promise, I’ll get you another like it.”

He futilely wiped at your endlessly gushing waterworks before handing you a box of tissues from the coffee table. “None of that. So,” he prodded gently, lowering his head to catch your downcast eyes. “Do you want to talk, or should I ask?”

Talking plainly about it was still too hard. You took the coward’s route. “I’m sorry to make you work for something you don’t even want to hear, but it would be easier if you ask me about it. My thoughts are a mess.”

Hoseok snatched the Kleenexes away from you when all you did with them was tear them apart between your fingers. That drew your gaze to him and he pinned you with one of reproach. “Stop. Beating. Yourself. Up,” he punctuated each word with a tissued dab at your face. He cupped it around the end of your nose and, like a parent kneeling before their leaking child, commanded you: “Blow.”

That roused you a little. You shirked away in embarrassment. “Oh my God, no. I can blow my own nose,” you sniffed indignantly, though the validity of your assertion was nullified in large part by the sodden patch on his sweater that he pointed to in reminder. You smiled again and thwapped him, but he seemed beguilingly happy by your response.

“I’m glad to see you smile. Let’s sort out your little problem then, shall we?” he proposed, and you sighed.

“It’s hardly a little problem.”

“It will be when we tackle it together,” Hoseok said confidently, and you almost believed him. “I don’t know what’s going on, exactly, but you got upset when Taehyung admitted to being a gross little shit. I’m guessing it goes deeper than that, though?”

You shuddered at the memory of the playfulness in his eyes as he had said it. “Yes. Actually,” you sat up a little, peaked by your own interest. “Have you ever, I don’t know, sensed anything from me? About Taehyung?”

“You’ll have to be a little more specific than that,” he pressed gently, reclining in the space Jimin had so grossly been taking up prior. “What do you mean?”

Words were hard. “Did you ever get the impression that I was, uh, into him? Like, something I said, or did?”

Hoseok let his head rest on the back of the sofa as he considered your question. Then, he shook his head minutely. “Not really. I mean, you’ve always been affectionate with each other, and your chemistry has always been relaxed. Like, never forced, or tense, or anything like that.”

You brightened with this heartening piece of information. “Oh, I’m so glad. God, I was worried I’d been way too obvious. I mean, when you asked me about Taehyung, I started panicking that it was as plain as day to everyone, and I was the only one pretending.”

Hoseok tugged you to into a more comfortable position with him, and threw his arm around your shoulders to pull you close. “So you have a thing for him? Is that why you got upset? I thought, perhaps, because you’ve been pretty down lately, that – I don’t know, that perhaps the fact that your perfect best friend was just a dirty little pervert like the rest of us men made you feel – I don’t know, I’m grasping at straws here – betrayed, or unsafe, or, I don’t know. That’s about 5 minutes worth of frantic guessing, right there,” he rambled, and although you understood his line of thinking, you wished it was as superficial as that. “I thought this breakdown was more to do with, honestly, the outcome of my over-working you,” he muttered, and you felt the barbed sting of guilt. All you ever did was make him worry. “You’ve been suffering, you’ve been struggling, and I’ve only piled more on top of you.”

You cut off any further musings of his accountability by choking him a hug, silencing him with the pressure of your arms around his neck. “Stop. Don’t you dare think this is anything to do with you. It’s not, and it never has been.”

Hoseok sighed again, and, oh, what you would do not to hear him make such an unhappy sound. It was agonising. “Still, if you’ve been suffering for so long, I’m sad that you didn’t feel like you could come to me sooner. I feel like I’ve failed yo—“

You held a finger to his mouth and if that hadn’t muzzled him, the seething glare you watched him wilt under did. “Don’t be fucking stupid, Hoseok. You’re not the problem here, it’s very clearly me. I’ve never been one to speak openly about how I’m feeling. You should know that well. And, seeing as I show more of myself to you than anyone else, you should also know that you are, honestly, the only person I would ever come to with something like this. It has taken me reaching breaking point to finally come clean about it.”

“But why did it take for you to get to that stage?” his forehead creased in confusion. “It’s difficult to talk about, yes, but why wait until you hit the bottom before you seek help?”

“Because it’s not that I merely have a crush on Taehyung, Hoseok, I –“ you stopped to gather your thoughts into one concise statement. “I love him.”

His eyes widened almost comically. “You love him? You don’t just have some crush on him?”

“No,” you breathed, slumping into the cushions. “I’ve loved him for fucking ages. It’s slowly been driving me mad, and I don’t know what to do anymore. I thought – foolishly – that getting back into dating would help, and, well – it did. Kind of,” you stumbled through your words, slapping the sofa in frustration. “I like Jungkook, I really do. He’s great, and every time I doubt that there’s something there, he does something that shows me that there might be. But it’s still very early days, and I— this infatuation, or whatever it is, it’s impossible to fight most days. But especially when Taehyung says or does something that gives my pathetic hopes something to cling to. What he said tonight, well, that was the one thing that I had always protected myself with – the idea that he’d never been attracted to me. And now, well, my mind’s having a field day.”

Hoseok leaned forward, elbows steadied on his knees, a hand cupping his chin in thought. He looked most astute like this. “I see,” he muttered, his vision unfocused and clearly elsewhere. What was he seeing? A solution?

“What do I do?” you whined, stamping your feet. “Can you see my dilemma, though? Don’t tell me to confess to him, because he’s in too deep with Tara now, and even if he weren’t, he’s never expressed to me any desire to date me. And because of that, I won’t do it. I value him, my friend, far more than I value my own skewed desires.”

He bobbed his head in agreement vacantly. “No, I wasn’t going to suggest that. I agree that it could ruin things between you. I think you’re going about it the right way, to be honest – Jungkook sounds promising. Yeah, Tae throws you a curveball every now and then, but this new guy has distracted you from him pretty successfully, right?”

“Yeah,” you relented, watching the way his mouth curved sweetly when he was contemplative. “But I always go back to him. Always.”

“In that case,” Hoseok turned to you and applied a gentle pressure to your knee as though to prepare you. “I think it would be best if you distance yourself from Tae for a while and focus purely on Jungkook. I know you’ll have to see him at the party, but keep your interactions minimal for a while until you can really allow the new guy to make an impression. Hopefully, a good one.”

Honestly, you’d considered this option a few times in the past, but Taehyung was insidious. He was clingy and needy when it came to your friendship; it certainly wasn’t one of those ones where you questioned whether you were the only person in it. He was always proactive in contacting and arranging things with you, and when you’d tried to limit your time with him he’d only become more insistent, and you could hardly explain to him just why you were withdrawing from him.

This time, though, you had Jungkook. Hell yes you were placing far too much responsibility on the poor guy’s unknowing shoulders, but keeping him in the dark about it would prevent your mess from becoming his burden. This knowledge was a comfort, a stabilizer, just for you, to keep you afloat. “What if he texts me, what if he calls me? What if he just shows up without explanation? He will, you know. He does that.”

“Reply to his texts sparingly and pick up the odd call on occasion. Don’t make it seem like you’re cutting him out, just that you’re incredibly busy. Your finals are in, like, 3 weeks, aren’t they? Use that as an excuse. By then, perhaps you’ll have made some headway with Jungkook.”

“And what if Jungkook isn’t what I’m looking for? What if it’s hopeless?” you hugged a cushion to your stomach and curled over it, the black cloud looming.

Hoseok seemed to notice the shift in your state. “Don’t catastrophise,” he emphasised the last word. “I know what you’re like. Let’s try this first, and think of something if that comes to be. Okay? You have me to talk to about this, now, so don’t you dare go digging yourself into a pit again before you ask me for help.”

You stuck out your bottom lip in some ineffective attempt to stem the batch of fresh tears brimming your eyes, because you were just so fucking touched by how much he cared about you, even though you never let him in, never came to him with anything. He made you feel strong for doing this, not weak. “I love you so much,” you blubbed, and he crushed you to him again, your face squished unpleasantly to your earlier display of upset. “Thank you, Hobi.”

“Don’t even m—“

The pocket of your jeans vibrated and the two of you exchanged a look. You both knew who it would be. Now that you thought about it, you’d probably left him feeling rather disconcerted after your last interaction. Hopefully he would write it off as you being drunk and a little disgruntled rather than actual disclosure of who you thought about when you fingered yourself.

“Go ahead and read it,” Hoseok nodded for you to proceed. “We’ll figure out what to do.”

You clicked on your phone and looked at the top-most notification.

[22:53] Taehyung Noona, if I made you angry, I’m sorry. I was drunk and not thinking straight.

Another message came through while you were reading.

[22:55] Taehyung I just wanted to let you know that whatever I did back then, it meant nothing, and it never changed how much I respect you and look up to you.

Your stomach turned sickeningly. It meant nothing. You’d just made an unexpected appearance amidst his usual jack-off fodder. He was trying to comfort you, and any sane person would recognise and appreciate that. For you, however, his words only wounded you deeper.

[22:56] Taehyung I was just a stupid kid back then, and clearly alcohol helps me regress to that. I don’t think of you that way anymore, and I haven’t for a long time. I just wanted to reassure you. I don’t want things to become weird between us.

Of course it was impossible that he could find anything in you attractive now. The older you got, the more invisible you became.

[22:56] Taehyung I love you, ____, you’re the most important person in my life. And I’m sorry.

If you had been on the verge of evacuating the contents of your stomach before, you were now just one hastily-slapped-hand-over-your-mouth away from ruining Hoseok’s carpet. If the intent had just been a little different—

Hobi snatched your phone from you and marched you immediately to the bathroom. Thankfully, just in time. Ever the long-suffering, dutiful friend, he held your hair aside as you hurled this evening’s mistakes into the toilet bowl.

During one of your pained, rasping intervals, you noticed him scrolling through the messages Taehyung had sent you

“He’s saying everything wrong,” Hoseok muttered, his brows pulled down in frustration. “God, he’s so oblivious.”

Your phone buzzed in his hand and you looked up, both dreading and eager to hear what he had to say next.

Against your expectations, though, a smile lit up Hobi’s face. Just seeing that lifted your weary spirits a little. “What?”

“It’s Jungkook,” he chuckled, turning the screen to you.

[23:08] Jungkook i just woke up from the worst sleep ever and you were the first thing i thought of

[23:09] Jungkook this is creepy and far too late to send but i have anyway

[23:09] Jungkook just want you to know i’m thinking about you

Somehow, his texts dulled the sour taste on your tongue. Hoseok watched you intently, and you knew he would be pleased by what he was seeing. Every subsequent message pulled your smile a little higher, made your eyes shine a little brighter. And still, they kept coming.

[23:10] Jungkook not in a dirty way

[23:10] Jungkook oh god i’m making this worse

[23:10] Jungkook hopefully you’re drunk and delete these texts by accident

Sure enough, you were giggling at his adorable buffoonery, headache and burning throat forgotten. Hoseok gained confidence in your joint plan of action. “I’m sure things will work out,” he framed it as a statement, not a meagre hope. “Give Jungkook a chance, try and focus purely on him.”

The necessity of equilibrating your yo-yoing mental health had you agreeing resolutely. “I will. Let me just text Tae so he doesn’t worry,” you mumbled thickly, and Hoseok raised a suspicious brow at you.

“I’ll do it,” he informed you, and you knew there was no room for argument. You watched quietly as he tapped in a very brief response to Taehyung’s heartfelt apology and handed your phone back to you.

[23:14] It’s fine, I’m not mad. See you soon.

The curtness made you wince. “He’ll think I am mad,” you were convinced.

“No, he won’t. He’ll ask me when he sees me tomorrow how you were, I’m sure, and I’ll tell him you went home smiling. Okay?”

That satisfied you somewhat. “Alright. Thank you, again.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t be silly. Now, don’t leave your new man on read this time, yeah?”

A noise of agreement sounded in your throat and you stewed over how to respond to his sweet messages. You had to tease him, of course.

[23:16] I am drunk, and I re-read these texts many times on purpose. Just to commit them to memory, so I can torment you about them forever.

-

Next: 05 || WYLEI Masterlist

[newstfionline]

Door-Busting Drug Raids Leave a Trail of Blood

By Kevin Sack, NY Times, March 18, 2017

CORNELIA, Ga.--This town on the edge of the Appalachians has fewer than 5,000 residents, but the SWAT team was outfitted for war.

At 2:15 a.m. on a moonless night in May 2014, 10 officers rolled up a driveway in an armored Humvee, three of them poised to leap off the running boards. They carried Colt submachine guns, light-mounted AR-15 rifles and Glock .40-caliber sidearms. Many wore green body armor and Kevlar helmets. They had a door-breaching shotgun, a battering ram, sledgehammers, Halligan bars for smashing windows, a ballistic shield and a potent flash-bang grenade.

The target was a single-story ranch-style house about 50 yards off Lakeview Heights Circle. Not even four hours earlier, three informants had bought $50 worth of methamphetamine in the front yard. That was enough to persuade the county’s chief magistrate to approve a no-knock search warrant authorizing the SWAT operators to storm the house without warning.

The point man on the entry team found the side door locked, and nodded to Deputy Jason Stribling, who took two swings with the metal battering ram. As the door splintered near the deadbolt, he yelled, “Sheriff’s department, search warrant!” Another deputy, Charles Long, had already pulled the pin on the flash-bang. He placed his left hand on Deputy Stribling’s back for stability, peered quickly into the dark and tossed the armed explosive about three feet inside the door.

It landed in a portable playpen.

As policing has militarized to fight a faltering war on drugs, few tactics have proved as dangerous as the use of forcible-entry raids to serve narcotics search warrants, which regularly introduce staggering levels of violence into missions that might be accomplished through patient stakeouts or simple knocks at the door.

Thousands of times a year, these “dynamic entry” raids exploit the element of surprise to effect seizures and arrests of neighborhood drug dealers. But they have also led time and again to avoidable deaths, gruesome injuries, demolished property, enduring trauma, blackened reputations and multimillion-dollar legal settlements at taxpayer expense, an investigation by The New York Times found.

For the most part, governments at all levels have chosen not to quantify the toll by requiring reporting on SWAT operations. But The Times’s investigation, which relied on dozens of open-record requests and thousands of pages from police and court files, found that at least 81 civilians and 13 law enforcement officers died in such raids from 2010 through 2016. Scores of others were maimed or wounded.

The casualties have occurred in the execution of no-knock warrants, which give the police prior judicial authority to force entry without notice, as well as warrants that require the police to knock and announce themselves before breaking down doors. Often, there is little difference.

Innocents have died in attacks on wrong addresses, including a 7-year-old girl in Detroit, and collaterally as the police pursued other residents, among them a 68-year-old grandfather in Framingham, Mass. Stray bullets have whizzed through neighboring homes, and in dozens of instances the victims of police gunfire have included the family dog.

Search warrant raids account for a small share of the nearly 1,000 fatalities each year in officer-involved shootings. But what distinguishes them from other risky interactions between the police and citizens, like domestic disputes, hostage-takings and confrontations with mentally ill people, is that they are initiated by law enforcement.

In a country where four in 10 adults have guns in their homes, the raids incite predictable collisions between forces that hurtle toward each other like speeding cars in a passing lane--officers with a license to invade private homes and residents convinced of their right to self-defense.

After being awakened by the shattering of doors and the detonation of stun grenades, bleary suspects reach for nearby weapons--at times realizing it is the police, at others mistaking them for intruders--and the shooting begins. In some cases, victims like Todd Blair, a Utah man who grabbed a golf club on the way out of his bedroom, have been slain by officers who perceived a greater threat than existed.

As the police broke down his door in 2010, Todd Blair emerged from his bedroom with a golf club. He was shot to death five seconds after the first ram at his front door.

To be sure, police officers and judges must find probable cause of criminal activity to justify a search warrant. Absent resources for endless stakeouts, police tacticians argue that dynamic entry provides the safest means to clear out heavily fortified drug houses and to catch suspects with the contraband needed for felony prosecutions.

But critics of the forced-entry raids question whether the benefits outweigh the risks. The drug crimes used to justify so many raids, they point out, are not capital offenses. And even if they were, that would not rationalize the killing or wounding of suspects without due process. Nor would it forgive the propensity of the police to err in the planning or execution of raids that are inherently chaotic and place bystanders in harm’s way.

Forcible-entry methods have become common practice over the last quarter century through a confluence of the war on drugs, the rise of special weapons and tactics squads, and Supreme Court rulings that have eroded Fourth Amendment protections against unreasonable searches. Support for their continued use has been bolstered by an epidemic of opioid abuse and the threat of domestic terrorism.

Because many raids occur in low-income neighborhoods, shooting deaths like one in November of a 22-year-old black man in Salisbury, N.C., have exacerbated racial tensions already raw from a spate of high-profile police killings. The American Civil Liberties Union concluded in a recent study of 20 cities that 42 percent of those subjected to SWAT search warrant raids were black and 12 percent Hispanic. Of the 81 civilian deaths tallied by The Times, half were members of minority groups.

The no-knock process often begins with unreliable informants and cursory investigations that produce affidavits signed by unquestioning low-level judges. It is not uncommon for the searches to yield only misdemeanor-level stashes, or to come up empty.

In some instances when officers have been killed, suspects with no history of violence, found with small quantities of drugs, have wound up facing capital murder charges, and possible death sentences.

In December, a jury in Corpus Christi, Tex., acquitted a 48-year-old man who spent 664 days in jail after being charged with attempted capital murder for wounding three SWAT officers during a no-knock raid that targeted his nephew. The jury concluded that the man, Ray Rosas, did not know whom he was firing at through a blinded window.

While the raiders are typically seeking narcotics, there also have been deaths and serious injuries when warrants were served on people suspected of running illegal poker games, brewing moonshine and neglecting pets. In 2011, officers in Marine City, Mich., conducted a dynamic-entry raid to serve a search warrant for “any and all evidence pertaining to graffiti including but not limited to, spray paint containers, markers, notebooks, and photographs.” After forcing residents to the floor at gunpoint, they found nothing, according to depositions by the residents.

The Times found that from 2010 to 2015, an average of least 30 federal civil rights lawsuits were filed a year to protest residential search warrants executed with dynamic entries. Many of the complaints depict terrifying scenes in which children, elderly residents and people with disabilities are manhandled at gunpoint, unclothed adults are rousted from bed and houses are ransacked without recompense or apology. Louise Milan, 68, of Evansville, Ind., alleged in her filing that she and her 18-year-old daughter were handcuffed in front of neighbors during a door-busting 2012 raid prompted by threats against the police made by someone who had pirated her wireless connection.

“There’s a real misimpression by the public that aggressive police actions are only used against hardened criminals,” said Cary J. Hansel, a Baltimore lawyer who has represented plaintiffs in such lawsuits. “But there are dozens and dozens of cases where a no-knock warrant is used against somebody who’s totally innocent.”

At least seven of the federal lawsuits have been settled for more than $1 million in the last five years. They include a $3.75 million payment in 2016 to the family of Eurie Stamps, the unarmed Framingham grandfather who was accidentally shot, while compliant and on his stomach; and $3.4 million in 2013 to the family of Jose Guereña, a 26-year-old former Marine shot more than 20 times as agents broke into his house in Tucson. No drugs were found.

In each of those cases, as in almost all botched raids, prosecutors declined to press charges against the officers involved.

Perhaps no fiasco illustrates the perils of no-knock searches as graphically as the 2014 raid here in Georgia’s northeast corner. On May 22, an eager young Habersham County sheriff’s deputy named Nikki Autry, who was attached to a narcotics task force, turned a small-time methamphetamine user into a confidential informant. Intent on avoiding jail, the informant, James Alton Fry Jr., set about the task of baiting bigger fish.

According to trial testimony and investigative documents, the agents sent Mr. Fry out on the night of May 27 to make drug buys. He scored two Lortab pain pills on his first approach, struck out with a second source and then was connected to a meth dealer named Wanis Thonetheva. At around 10:30 p.m., Mr. Fry, his wife, Devon, and their housemate, Larry Wood--all persistent meth users--drove to the address provided by the dealer.

“It didn’t look like a drug house,” Ms. Fry later testified. “This was a nice house. It’s usually a shack or trailer.” The police did not follow them to provide protection or surveil the property.

Mr. Wood conducted his business out front with Mr. Thonetheva, a 30-year-old American-born son of Laotian immigrants, as the Frys waited in their red pickup. All three appeared shaken when they met up with their handlers in a church parking lot. They had spotted two men at the house whom they took to be guards for the drug operation, and a third who might have been a supplier.

The agents sent the informants home, but about half an hour later Deputy Autry texted Ms. Fry with an afterthought. “Did y’all see any signs of kids at wanis’ house,” she asked.

“Nothing except a mini van,” came the response.

Thinking she was on to a big score, Deputy Autry, who was 28, did not wait for daylight or further investigation. She returned to the Sheriff’s Office, where she pulled Mr. Thonetheva’s criminal history and mug shot. With the approval of the sheriff, Joey Terrell, she alerted the county’s Special Response Team to prepare for a raid. She and her drug unit commander, Murray J. Kogod, began drafting the application for the no-knock warrant.

The affidavit included inaccuracies and hyperbole. It asserted incorrectly that Mr. Fry--the only informant formally certified by the police--had bought the drugs, rather than Mr. Wood. Deputy Autry described Mr. Fry as “a true and reliable informant,” even though he had not made a buy before that night. Despite the lack of surveillance, she wrote that she had “confirmed that there is heavy traffic in and out of the residence.”

Shortly after midnight, Deputy Autry and another agent awakened the county magistrate, James N. Butterworth, with a house call. He read the affidavit and placed her under oath.

She told him that Mr. Thonetheva had been arrested several times for drug possession, that there might be armed lookouts at the house and that an assault involving an AK-47 had been reported there the previous year. The judge, who had never denied Deputy Autry a warrant, found no reason to dispute probable cause and signed at 12:15 a.m.

“If you had drugs and you had weapons, that was constitutional purpose to go on in there, not to knock on the door,” he later testified.

The Special Response Team, formed three years earlier, consisted of a dozen men plucked from the Sheriff’s Office and the Cornelia Police Department. They trained on their own time for four hours each Thursday. The Humvee had been procured through a Pentagon program that made surplus military equipment available to even the most rural departments.

There had been few chances to quell riots and subdue active shooters in the hamlets of Habersham County, population 43,000. Instead, the unit had been used primarily to serve narcotics search warrants, 32 times in all.

During their pre-raid briefing, team members circulated a photograph of Mr. Thonetheva, a Google Earth image of the brick house with dark shutters and a sketch of the three-bedroom interior. Deputy Autry mistakenly told the team’s commander that the drug deal had gone down near a side door to an enclosed garage, so he plotted his entry from there. She told him there were no signs of children or animals, failing to mention the minivan.

When the flash-bang detonated with a concussive boom, a blinding white light filled the room. The entry team rumbled in, screaming for the occupants to get to the ground. Deputy Stribling peered into the playpen with a flashlight and found 19-month-old Bounkham Phonesavanh.

Deputy Stribling waved off Deputy Long, who had lobbed the grenade. “Charlie, go away, you don’t need to see this,” he said.

The child, known affectionately as Bou Bou, had a long laceration and burns across his chest, exposing his ribs, and another gash between his upper lip and nose. His round, cherubic face was bloodied and blistered, spackled with shrapnel and soot. The heat had singed away much of his pillow and dissolved the mesh side of the playpen.

At first the child was silent. But as Deputy Stribling picked him up, rubbed his feet and shook his arms, he began to wail. Even the drug agents stationed outside the other end of the house could hear the screams.

“You don’t think that baby got hurt, do you?” one asked another.

Some mistakes might be laughable were they not so consequential.

In May 2010, the police in Hempstead, N.Y., shot and wounded 22-year-old Iyanna Davis during a no-knock raid at a two-family residence where she lived in an upstairs unit with a separate entrance. The warrant was for downstairs.

Ms. Davis was awakened at about 7 a.m. by the sound of a door’s being smashed and hid in a closet, she recounted in a deposition. A Nassau County police officer, armed with an assault rifle, opened the door, found her crouching and screamed at her to raise her hands.

“That’s when I heard the shot,” she recounted. “The force actually knocked me back on my backside.” The bullet had entered her right breast and exited her abdomen.

In his own deposition, the officer, Michael Capobianco, said that he “tripped and didn’t mean to fire.” He was cleared of any policy violations; Ms. Davis, who spent a week in the hospital and another three months recuperating, won $650,000 in a legal settlement from the county.

Some SWAT veterans find it confounding that many police agencies remain so devoted to dynamic entry. The tactic is far from universally embraced, and a number of departments have retired or restricted its use over the years, often after a bad experience.

The National Tactical Officers Association, which might be expected to mount the most ardent defense, has long called for using dynamic entry sparingly. Robert Chabali, the group’s chairman from 2012 to 2015, goes so far as to recommend that it never be used to serve narcotics warrants.

“It just makes no sense,” said Mr. Chabali, a SWAT veteran who retired as assistant chief of the Dayton, Ohio, Police Department in 2015. “Why would you run into a gunfight? If we are going to risk our lives, we risk them for a hostage, for a citizen, for a fellow officer. You definitely don’t go in and risk your life for drugs.”

Another former chairman of the association, Phil Hansen, said SWAT teams tended to use dynamic entry as “a one-size-fits-all solution to tactical problems.” As commander of the Police Department in Santa Maria, Calif., and before that a longtime SWAT leader for the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, he said it seemed foolhardy to move so aggressively in a state that voted in November to legalize recreational marijuana.

“Why am I risking people’s lives to save an ounce of something that they’re bringing in by the freighter every year?” he asked.

Clearly there are factors that contribute to the tactic’s staying power. Some of it, according to long-term observers, derives from the adrenalized, hypermasculine, militaristic ethos of SWAT.

“It’s culturally intoxicating, a rush,” said Dr. Kraska, the criminologist. “It involves dressing up in body armor and provocative face coverings and enhanced-hearing sets, a cyborg 21st-century kind of appeal. And instead of sitting around and waiting for something to happen twice or three times a year, you can go out and generate it.”

That culture is reinforced by a cottage industry of tactical training contractors, many of them veterans of the Iraq or Afghanistan wars, who are hired by police departments to keep SWAT teams up to date.

“For them, collateral damage is something you try to avoid but it’s not a deal breaker,” Commander Hansen said. “That doesn’t translate well for police work. If you’re in the military and told to clear a block of houses in a half-hour, you’re going to do it quickly by kicking in doors and throwing grenades. It’s a whole different theater of operations.”

Another potential factor is the incentive sometimes provided by asset forfeiture laws when contraband or drug proceeds are found in a residence. Revenue generated by those seizures typically reverts back to law enforcement agencies.

Connor Boyack, president of the Libertas Institute in Utah, said that was one of the rationales behind his state’s recent ban on forcible entry in drug possession cases. In 2015 when the new law passed, search warrant executions accounted for 29 percent of all forfeitures, according to a state report.

“We feel strongly that a lot of this is financial motive, not to keep the community safe,” said Mr. Boyack, whose libertarian-leaning group advocated for the restriction.

Further inducement has come from the Defense Department’s excess property program, which has distributed more than $6 billion in military vehicles, weapons and other equipment to law enforcement agencies since 1997. Until last May, the Pentagon required that any transferred equipment be “placed into use within one year of receipt.”

The Obama administration ended that requirement after a larger review of the so-called 1033 program, which was prompted by the police response to the 2014 civil unrest in Ferguson, Mo. President Trump has yet to act on a campaign pledge to rescind an executive order signed by President Barack Obama in 2015 that limited the kinds of equipment offered by the government. It is unclear whether he would reinstate the one-year rule.

As SWAT officers administered first aid to Bou Bou Phonesavanh, other agents detained his parents--Bounkham and Alecia Phonesavanh--and their three other children, ages 3 to 7.

“You know why we’re here,” an officer barked at Mr. Phonesavanh.

He didn’t. “Why didn’t you knock on the door?” he asked.

Elsewhere in the house, the agents came upon Mr. Phonesavanh’s sister, Amanda Thonetheva, who owned the place, as well as her boyfriend, her grandson and one of her sons. They did not find her other son, 30-year-old Wanis, who no longer lived there but dropped by at times. Nor did they find guns or drugs beyond some meth residue in a glass pipe. Later that night, deputies arrested Wanis at another address.

The Phonesavanhs had already suffered their share of misfortune. Earlier that year, the family’s house in Janesville, Wis., had burned down. They stayed in a motel as long as they could afford it, then lived for two weeks in their 11-year-old Chrysler Town & Country minivan.

They drove to Georgia when Mr. Phonesavanh’s sister offered the room in her garage. Seven weeks later, after struggling to find work, they were preparing to drive back to Wisconsin.

Remarkably, Bou Bou survived the explosion after being sped to a hospital in Atlanta. Now 4, he underwent his 15th surgery late last year, with more to come, his mother said. “The nightmares are still there,” she said, “several times a week. When he wakes up he’s usually sweating and holding his face.” She said all of her children became scared when they saw a police officer or security guard.

The Phonsevanhs, who have returned to Janesville, received $3.6 million in settlements to the federal lawsuit they filed against the traumatized members of the drug and SWAT teams. The payments were made through government insurance policies purchased with taxpayer funds. All but $200,000, Ms. Phonesavanh said, has been spent on medical and legal bills.

“Things are still quite the struggle,” she said. “They didn’t mean to hurt my son, but they could’ve done a lot more to prevent this.”

A Habersham County grand jury issued a stinging report, but found no criminal negligence and declined to indict any of the participants. Federal prosecutors then won an indictment of Deputy Autry for violating Bou Bou’s civil rights, but she was acquitted after a weeklong trial. The jury accepted the defense’s assertion that the mistakes made by the former deputy, who had resigned, were unintentional.

In their closing arguments, opposing lawyers found common ground in their criticism of no-knock searches.

The prosecutor, Assistant United States Attorney William L. McKinnon Jr., called the tactic “probably the most intrusive contact that any citizen could have with the government.” He got no dispute from one of Deputy Autry’s lawyers, Michael J. Trost. “There’s a pattern of excess in the ways search warrants are executed,” he told the jury. “That’s what led to the injuries to this child.”