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cinnaminsvga · 1 month

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Harana | Jungkook

harana (n.): the act of wooing someone by serenading them

→ summary:

Unwilling to settle down with you after five years of dating, Jeon Jungkook decides to break up to chase after his dreams. In the aftermath, you leave your hometown, desperate to forget your past and relearn what it means to be on your own. Two years later while on your way to work, you pass by a familiar voice singing songs about a girl he had left behind.

{or alternatively: Jungkook still sings the love songs that he wrote for you. He still means them, too.}

→ genre: busker!au, exes to lovers, angst, humor → warnings: jimin is insane and kinda crude (he has some issues going on), jungkook is a pathetic wet bunny but he's trying his best, oc has So Many Problems, so much arguing and yearning, ambiguous ending??? but my god there is hope!! the humanity of it all!! → words: 16.1K → a/n: HOLY SHIT IM BACK (kinda) and happy new year!! yeah ok its march but im relearning how to form coherent sentences so be patient ;w; this is the first installment of my hfoh series that i teased a LONG time ago... i made it a resolution to complete this series by the end of the year before i kms (Keep Myself Safe) so here's to a brand new year :D (oh god @ universe pls be kind)

part of the “heart full of hugot” series

Two days before the incident, your shower nozzle decides to explode.

Okay, you have to admit that statement is a little misleading. Shower nozzles, in all its nonsentience, do not randomly decide to explode no matter how much you try to defend yourself to your landlord. Maybe your grip had been a little too harsh that morning, or maybe hanging 5 pounds of hair products on the handle had been a bit too much for the old sport to handle. Or maybe, just maybe, the universe was warning you about the incident.

Whatever it was, it doesn’t erase the fact that your shower would be out of commission for the next week or so (though your landlord seems adamant about prolonging your suffering as long as possible). Until then, you’re going to have to find some other ways to keep the grease and grime from building on you. Heavens know that you already have a thriving ecosystem living in the back of your couch—you don’t need another one growing under your armpits.

Lucky for you, you have friends. More importantly, you have friends who have showers. There is one problem though—all your friends live on the other side of the country.

It’s been two years since you moved to the Big City™️, but you have done little to grow your social network. Call it introversion or depression, either way, you have no more contacts on your phone than you did when you left your hometown. Well, except for one person, if you could even consider him one. Frankly, you didn’t have a choice.

“Welcome to my humble abode, stinky,” Jimin greets you as you enter his house. Your nose is instantly assaulted by the smell of Bath & Body Works® Sweet Pea, reminding you once more why you didn’t consider him a friend.

“Hey,” you reply gruffly, shucking your ratty shoes near his entrance. Your shoes look incredibly out of place amidst the sea of designer Chelsea boots and a singular pair of thigh-high heels. You take a glance at his living room, already feeling worse about yourself tenfold.

You had met Park Jimin by complete accident, much like how his mother probably felt when she first saw him too. You had never known anyone quite as… interesting as him, to put it lightly.

When you got your job as a hostess for a luxury bar and restaurant, you figured you wouldn’t make many friends with your coworkers. Everyone was so… pretty, but in the shiny, untouchable sort of way. Almost all of the servers were as gorgeous as the models you’d see in magazines. You hadn’t known that the owners only hired a certain “demographic” of people for their restaurant, and you were equal parts flattered and disgusted that you’d somehow made it (though you suppose your bullshitting skills were all to thank).

Unsurprisingly, even the bartenders were gorgeous, including one Park Jimin. He did have an aura to him that screamed “I’m a cut above the rest and I know it,” but that could just be the gold chains dripping down his neck. You almost mistook him as one of the patrons who mistakenly made his way behind the bar, and knowing the sort of clientele you’ve had to deal with so far, you wouldn’t have been surprised. It took a couple of weeks before you finally found out who he was (and what his fucking problem was).

Jimin was a part-time bartender with a full-time job as a bitch a self-made entrepreneur. Which is to say, he sold… tasteful photos of himself on the internet. You had nothing against his line of work. In fact, you would go far as to say you didn’t give a shit what he did outside of your shared workspace. But if there’s one thing Jimin is, it’s that he hates being ignored.

So when you were adamant about not oohing and aahing at everything that makes Park Jimin perfect, he made it his self-appointed mission to befriend you. Or at least that’s what he claims, but given how he treats you lesser than the shit that cakes his cheeks, you have a lot of doubts. Perhaps he’s never made an effort to make a friend, hence his inexperience with being a decent human being. Or perhaps he’s just an asshole, but who is to say? The point is: he’s the only person you knew in this godforsaken city who would likely allow you to use his shower without being awkward about it and that’s that.

The worst part about being an acquaintance with Park Jimin was that he lived in the richest area of Downtown but he wasn’t old money, that’s for sure. His entire essence screamed overconsumption, and his myriad of little trinkets littered across his apartment confirmed your previous assessment. You wouldn’t be surprised if you opened his freezer and found ten types of ice sorted assorted by color and shape like the extra bitch that he was.

He made his money through sheer force, and it would have impressed you if he wasn’t, you know. Him.

“Bathroom is over there. I placed a towel and other shower amenities that you can borrow,” he says pointing to a door with a large “FART ZONE: ENTER WITH CAUTION” sign taped to it. You don’t ask.

“Thanks,” you say flatly. You wait patiently for his out-of-pocket comment.

Like clockwork, Jimin smirks. “Sure thing. I gave you the super heavy-duty stuff. Figured you’d burn a hole through my expensive towels with how stinky you are, with your yeasty cu—”

“Aaaand I’ll be done in a few minutes. Thanks again Jimin,” you interrupt, making your way to the bathroom and slamming the door with as much force as you can muster. You hear something fall as the door shuts, and you vaguely hear Jimin mutter something about his “fart zone” signage.

You begin to prepare your shower routine, humming lowly as you go about your business. You try to ignore the suffocating scent of ten million diffusers entering your nostrils, wondering for the umpteenth time if Jimin is suffering from long-term olfactory dysfunction.

“Focus, Y/N. The quicker you shower, the quicker you can get the fuck out of here,” you whisper to yourself. However, in your haste, you knock over Jimin’s towel by accident. When the towel falls, a sheet of sandpaper slips out from underneath it, and you stare bemusedly until it finally hits you.

“YOU ARE SUCH A LITTLE BITCH!”

From behind the door, you can hear Jimin’s infamous cackle. “Did you find the loofah? I got it just for you, darling!” he shouts back through his laughter, and you just grumble back in response. How on earth no one has strangled him to death, you have no idea.

“Whatever. I’m gonna shower now! Go beat off or whatever the fuck you do in your spare time,” you grouse, stripping as quickly as possible.

When the first droplets of water hit your body, you can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. You had both anticipated and dreaded going to Jimin’s house, but you desperately needed the shower. So you go through your routine, trying to find some semblance of relaxation throughout the process. However, it seems that Jimin was yearning for a little bit of attention as he chose to recline on the other side of the door and chat your ear off. Peace was never an option, it seems.

“Hey, Y/N! So why haven’t I seen you at work recently?” Jimin hollers from his living room. Despite the wall separating you, his voice manages to retain its volume.

You squirt a large glob of Jimin’s (expensive) conditioner onto your hands. “What do you mean? I go to work every day. You were the one who hasn’t been clocking in.”

You can hear Jimin scoff. “Um, correction! I went to work last Friday, which so happened to be your day off. If I didn’t know any better, I would have assumed you were avoiding me.”

And right you are, you think. But instead, you say, “Yeah, what a coincidence. I’ll be back to my regular schedule on Monday, though.”

“So that means you didn’t see the Justin Bieber wannabe stationed outside the restaurant then?” Jimin asks, voice miffed. “The guy suddenly sat down by the entrance window and a whole damn crowd started to appear! The absolute nerve of these people—don’t they know Park Jimin was just past the doors?”

This provokes Jimin to go on his long epic soliloquy, which you’ve learned to drown out over the past two years. He could go on hour-long tirades if he wanted, and any interruption from you would just bounce off his nonfunctioning ears. And so, you allow his voice to fall to the back of your mind, similar to white noise if it wasn’t so grating.

However, this was likely your greatest mistake. If you hadn’t been so exhausted, or if Park Jimin hadn’t been so damn annoying all the time, or if the stars had aligned just right… Maybe you would have been forewarned about the incident. It’s as if the universe was screaming at you to pay attention, but alas… You were standing on the proverbial highway, unbeknownst to the incoming traffic because you had your metaphorical AirPods on.

So there you are, completely showered but none the wiser to your impending doom, naively looking to the future with unsuspecting eyes. Even if you had known of what was to come, would avoiding it even be possible? In hindsight, you suppose not, but you still kick yourself for being so blind. If only you’d steeled your heart, then maybe you wouldn’t have felt like vomiting in front of a crowd of innocent bystanders the very next day.

xxx

Monday comes and your shower still isn’t fixed. Jimin makes the benevolent gesture of allowing you to use his shower in the meantime, though you’ll only partake in his offer as minimally as possible. He does mention that he’ll need at least an hour’s notice, warning you about “accidental voyeurism.” You shudder to think of what sort of horror you might find if you did visit him without warning, and you pray for the continued well-being of your retinas.

On your way to work, you’re too busy watching cute videos of animals to notice the unusual flock of people idling close to your workplace. When you get closer, however, the growing commotion is enough to rip your gaze away from your phone, and the sight of the large crowd makes you stop in your tracks.

It is 4 pm and the usual line of waiting patrons should not start piling up for another three hours, so this confuses you more than anything. You shuffle closer, squinting at the crowd until you notice that they aren’t lined up at all; instead, they have congregated into a large circle, but you are too far to see what they are surrounding.

An accident? You worry, wondering if something terrible happened. You tiptoe above the heads of people, subtly moving forward to take a better look. Curse you and your curiosity. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself to see something grotesque or astonishing, but instead…

It’s worse.

Inching closer, you can begin to hear a soft thrumming of a guitar and a gentle singing voice that causes alarm bells to ring in your ears. The warm melody digs up old memories of a time long past: of ballads sung outside your childhood bedroom window, of promises whispered under Spiderman sheets, of tender caresses tucking stray hairs behind your ears… They flood your senses, but all you can feel is dread.

It can’t be who you think it is. You accidentally elbow a guy on your way to get closer, unsteadying his grip on his phone.

“Hey, watch it! I’m filming a totally not-staged TikTok over here!” He yells, but you can hardly pay attention to him when you feel unnaturally drawn to come closer, still.

You’re nearly at the front, with just a couple of teenagers standing between you and the (not-so) mysterious street performer. But the distance is enough, and your breath catches. You can see him—

Black hair partially hidden under a bucket hat. Boots bigger than Pangaea and a pair of eyes equally as large. Dark ink snaking down his arms, peeking out from under oversized sleeves. Piercings that could rival Park Jimin on a good day. He isn’t facing you, but you can still see his big doe eyes, gentle sloping nose, and pretty lips stretched into a handsome smile.

Your heart is thundering in your chest. This can’t be happening, you panic. After two whole years of rebuilding and reshaping yourself, relearning how to be yourself and not… not just his girlfriend.

Jeon Jungkook stands before you, busking in front of your workplace of all locations. The universe could not have been any crueler to you.

You—you had been known as nothing more than Jeon Jungkook’s high school sweetheart. Buried memories of snide comments from jealous teen girls fill your mind, reminding you of the time when you were coined a simple side piece to the main attraction. Decor, as they would call you. Nothing more than a girl who happened to snag Jungkook before people realized he was going to turn… hot. A hot guy who could sing. An inevitable chic magnet, as they would call him.

And now, years later after much therapy and soul searching, your worst nightmare is standing in front of you in the flesh. This is what you will eventually dub the incident.

At that moment, however, there is little to no time to dwell on naming this ongoing core memory. All you can feel is the adrenaline pumping through your veins, as well as the nausea rising up your throat. You stumble backward, blatantly shoving onlookers away as you struggle to find some air to breathe. In hindsight, you probably should have backed away as subtly as possible, but you hope that your dyed hair might be different enough that Jungkook wouldn’t know it was you if he had glanced your way.

Even when you stagger towards your work establishment, the walls cannot perfectly muffle his soothing singing. You can’t make out the lyrics to his song too well, but his unmistakable voice is hard to ignore. Working as a hostess, your station is also coincidentally as close to the door as possible for maximum torture.

This can’t get any worse, you think as your mind races with conflicting emotions. You thought you had moved on, thought you were past the pain and the memories, but seeing Jungkook again, unexpectedly, stirs up a storm of feelings you thought were buried deep. Anger, hurt, betrayal—all rush to the surface, threatening to overwhelm you.

But there is no time to unpack all that baggage right now. Time will continue to march on, and your job is still on the line. How can you have the time to have a mental breakdown when you were still living paycheck to paycheck?

But even as you try to push Jungkook out of your mind, his voice echoes in your ears, his image burned into your memory. It's as if the universe is laughing at your misery, reminding you that despite all your supposed growth, you are still just you.

Painfully and pathetically you.

As you struggle to pull yourself together, a familiarly loud voice rings outside the edge of your consciousness. “Hey, Y/N! Fancy seeing you here…” Jimin greets you, his usual jovial demeanor halting midway when he sees your panicked expression. He clears his throat, perplexed. “Umm… Are you alright there, girl? You’re looking a little pale.”

You do not even have the mental capacity to wonder why Park Jimin was miraculously early to his shift, nor why he seems genuinely worried for you. Rather, all you can do is wave him off and use what little time you have before the restaurant opens to steel yourself for hours of melodious torture.

“I’m fine, Park. You should get to work,” you grit out, wiping your sweaty palms on your uniform. Normally, Jimin would have teased you about the obvious wrinkles on your skirt.

“You’re not the boss of me,” Jimin huffs, always the contrarian. He thinks better of it, however, and softens his tone. “Are you feeling sick or something? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

You freeze, perhaps giving yourself away a little. “I’m fine,” you repeat.

“You know, if you refuse to elaborate, I’m going to have to retract your shower privileges,” Jimin taunts with a smirk.

You feel a migraine growing by your temple, making you wince. God, why must men be the source of all your problems?

“I’m just… a little annoyed by the busker outside the restaurant,” you eventually admit, trying to be vague. Unfortunately for you, Jimin hates beating around the bush and would never take your crap if he knows something is up.

Unable to withstand the weight of his unimpressed stare, you clarify, “He was someone I used to know, that’s all.” You aren’t going to be any more specific than that, though you imagine Jimin gets the picture. You zip your lips, hoping to whoever is causing you pain that Jimin would somehow let the matter drop and leave you to your misery.

You brace yourself for his onslaught of questioning to come, and… it doesn’t happen. Instead, when you glance at Jimin, he is mysteriously stone faced. You wait for him to speak for what feels like a few minutes, but he doesn’t show any signs of wanting to tease or ridicule you. He simply watches you with a pensive expression. You can barely stop yourself from staring back at him, slack-jawed at his silence.

Of course, you aren’t just going to question your luck, or what little you have at least. So, you stay silent back and fidget uncomfortably.

Finally, Jimin seems to snap out of his strange reverie. He fixes you with a bizarrely sympathetic grin, patting you affectionately on the back. “I see… Well, if you ever need a drink tonight, head over to the bar for a little sip. I got you covered,” is all he says in response before sashaying away.

That was so fucking weird. You want to chase after him, perhaps beat the truth out of him. Jimin is nothing but a scheming dick, and you aren’t about to let him roam free with such sensitive information about yourself. Just as you’re about to stomp his ass (perhaps to relieve some of the building tension from your weary soul), your manager pops his head from his office door.

“Y/N! Make sure you’re logged into the booking system. There’s going to be a party of 20 coming in about an hour,” he reminds you, shooting you an apologetic look. You nod back with a sigh, swiping the booking tablet from the hostess desk and scrolling through the logs. Sure enough, it is going to be a busy night despite being a Monday evening. Perhaps a little busier than usual, in fact.

Whatever. You will use whatever distraction you can get, and perhaps the approaching noise from the restaurant patrons will be enough to drown out the sound of his voice.

You aren’t religious by any means, but you pray to whatever higher power exists that Jeon Jungkook doesn’t somehow decide to enter the restaurant. Stay outside, you plead. Outside the restaurant and your life, if possible.

Throughout the evening, you do your best to push aside the memories that threaten to resurface. You greet customers with a smile, lead them to their tables, and ensure their dining experience is pleasant despite the anxiety poisoning your insides. It's a routine you've perfected over time, a shield against the chaos of your emotions.

As the night wears on, you can feel Jimin's eyes on you from across the restaurant. You sneak glances back at him, and you blanch at his pitying gaze. If the restaurant had been slightly less crowded, you would have flipped him off.

He’s probably enjoying my suffering, you think darkly. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction, you straighten up and do your best to appear more unaffected. Just as you do so, you can hear Jungkook perfectly hitting a soulful high note.

“I’m so sorry for thinking I was strong,” you whisper to the universe. “Forgive me for my insolence.” You clench your fist in anguish, ignoring the confused looks from the customers in front of you.

By the time your shift comes to a close, you are completely and utterly drained. You feel like a snail that has been continuously salted over the past eight hours, and you cannot help but cheer in relief when the clock finally strikes two in the morning. You have to wait for the last few diners to make their leave, but otherwise you are ready to let your bed swallow you whole.

You stand by your hostess desk, leaning your head against it with a defeated sigh. Jungkook’s voice had died down only a few minutes ago, and you hope that by this point he has mercifully left the premises. You want to take a peek to make sure, but just as you’re about to make your way to the door, you feel a hand on your shoulder stop you in your tracks.

“‘Sup, bitch.” Jimin still has that weird, pitying gaze pointed at you, though his words don’t match it. “Are you okay to go home alone tonight? I can bring your dumb ass home if you want.”

You shove his hand away, ready to bite his head off when you think better of it. If Jimin drives you home, then that lowers the chances of seeing Jungkook down to pretty much zero.

“You know what? Thanks,” you grouse. Jimin smiles at you winningly, and the image of it brings a shiver down your spine. You hit him, creeped out. “Hey. Stop that, will you? You’re being really weird?”

Jimin scoffs, crossing his arms. “Me? Weird? At least I don’t look like a damn firework ready to explode just because my cringelord ex-boyfriend is singing sappy love songs outside—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you seethe, stomping on his foot. He yelps in pain and slaps your shoulder in retaliation.

“Ouch! Watch your ogre feet! My shoes are worth twice your monthly rent I’ll have you know,” he bristles. He breathes deeply, likely finding his inner calm (which you doubt exists). “But because I’m so nice, I’ll ignore your earlier transgression and blame it on your underdeveloped amygdala.”

You don’t know what’s more surprising: the fact that Jimin knew what an amygdala was or that he was forgiving you in the first place. “Whatever. Let’s finish closing up and then head out. I’m exhausted.”

You make quick work of your task and when you’re ready to head out, Jimin is already waiting by the backdoor. He’s twirling his car keys with a finger and gestures for you to follow him. As you make your way to his car in the back parking lot, you catch sight of a lone figure standing next to a beat-up pickup truck. He’s leaning against it, his hands busy tuning a battered guitar.

Your breath hitches, and you immediately feel nauseous. Of course the incident has yet to end. The night is young, after all.

Jimin accidentally slams the backdoor closed, and the noise wrenches Jungkook’s attention away from his ministrations. Immediately, his eyes lock with Jimin before finally turning to you.

Your heart skips a beat as he gazes at you, your mind racing with a hurricane of emotions. You hadn’t expected to see him again so soon, especially not after the tumultuous encounter earlier in the day. What did you say earlier? That “the chances of seeing Jungkook was down to pretty much zero”?

The chances of seeing Jungkook is low, but never zero, your mind unhelpfully supplies.

There is a long period of awkward silence. Jungkook has his mouth slightly agape, his hand subconsciously lowering his guitar to rest against his truck. To your left, Jimin’s breathing quickens slightly. You, on the other hand, are trying your best not to projectile vomit in this damned parking lot.

Jungkook is the one who decides to break the delicate silence. “Is that you…?” he calls out hesitantly.

Don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my—

“Y/N,” Jimin interjects. His gaze is steel cold, uncharacteristic of the carefree boy. He slings an arm around your shoulders, gently nudging you towards his car. With your view still fixed on Jungkook, you miss the way Jimin shoots the other boy with a playful smirk. “C’mon, babe. Let’s go home.”

His words startle both you and Jungkook. “Wha—? Jimin?” you splutter, flushing at his flirtatious undertone. You want to curse him out for his strange behavior, but all the shock has left you mute.

Jimin all but shoves you into the passenger seat. But just as he’s about to slam the car door, you hear Jungkook call out your name. It’s fleeting and quiet, but you heard him crystal clear.

It breaks your spirit to hear him say your name. For a moment, you feel as though you are floating.

When was the last time he called your name? And so softly, too? If you could replay that moment over and over, would you be able to catch some signs of tenderness in his voice? When you close your eyes later that night, would your dreams show you that he had been gazing at you with yearning? Was any of it true?

As Jimin starts the car and pulls away from the curb, you steal one last glance out the window, only to find Jungkook staring at you with an arm outstretched. You continue to watch him until his figure disappears into the night.

You are quietly immersed in your own thoughts, the whirlwind of emotions intensifying your persistent migraine. Unaccustomed to silence, Jimin decides to give his unsolicited two cents, as per usual.

“Geez. Didn’t know you were into the whole starving artist type. If I’d known, then maybe I’d stop trying to brag about my fortune to you,” Jimin scoffs. “If loser buskers like him impress you, then maybe I should—”

“Would you shut the fuck up for once in your fucking life!” You explode, whirling to face him with a glare. Jimin has the audacity to flinch, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

“What the fuck? Why the hell are you mad at me?”

“What the hell was that back there? ‘C’mon babe.’” You mimic his voice with a sneer. “Why on earth would you do that? Now he thinks that we…”

“Why do you care what he thinks? He’s your ex, remember?” Jimin cuts you off, but you can’t even refute him. He continues, “Figured as much. And judging by how spooked you’ve looked all day, I have to assume that he was an asshole, right? Why else would you accept my offer for a ride home if you really wanted to avoid seeing him?”

You shrink under his accurate assumptions. Damn, were you really that easy to read? “I… I mean, yeah but…” You clear your throat, still feeling wronged by him. “You didn’t have to act like a weird prick in front of him!”

Without warning, the floodgates burst forth. You begin to ramble, the thoughts that have been weighing you down pouring out of you in waves. “Jungkook was my ex, yeah. But he wasn’t an asshole. On the contrary, he was really sweet. The nicest guy in my school, at least. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, that sort of person. I dated him all throughout high school and he was a great partner.”

Jimin hums skeptically. “Then why the messy break-up?”

“It wasn’t messy!” You retort defensively.

“Could’ve fooled me!” Jimin snorts. “I also frequently act like a trembling kitten when I see my exes,” he says sarcastically.

You ignore him. “The reason we broke it off was because he wanted to pursue his dreams to become a singer after high school and I wanted to do other things. It was a mutual break-up! Honestly, I’m glad that we did. Too many girls wanted him and all the unwanted attention was getting on my nerves. I was glad to find a reason to end it all,” you explain, hoping you didn’t sound as shaky as you felt. What you said was mostly true, though you left out the important bits to yourself. Mostly to save some of your dignity intact. (Truthfully, you just didn’t want to admit things you weren’t ready to face.)

“Then if you’re so glad, why do you look like you wanted to shit yourself? It ain’t adding up,” Jimin fires back.

“It’s just—” you stammer, trying to find a reason why you were so bent out of shape after seeing him. “I-I was caught off guard, I guess. I knew he was pursuing his dreams to sing and all, so I expected him to leave the country. I wasn’t expecting to see him outside where I work, of all places,” you mutter lamely. You have your head bowed, biting your lips from the nerves. Again, you weren’t totally lying.

Jimin is silent for a moment, contemplating your admission. When he looks so calm like this, it’s hard to get a read on what he’s thinking. As Jimin speeds down the highway, the street lights illuminate his face in a strange way, and for once, he looks like a stranger. His steely expression makes you nervous, for some reason.

Eventually, he asks you a question you would never have expected. “And he just let you go?”

You pause. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Jimin huffs, irritated. “He just up and left without a fight? If I were him, I would have…” he trails off, his jaw clenching.

You don’t know where this Jimin came from. Under the moonlight, Jimin looks livid, but that can’t be right. Jimin, mad for you? Sure, you’ve seen his anger directed towards you, but this? Everything’s gotten so complicated, and you are just about ready to succumb to sleep and hope to wake from this nightmare.

The rest of the drive to your house is silent, save for the sounds coming from passing cars. Jimin pulls up to your apartment complex, his mysterious anger finally subsiding.

Just as you’re about to reach for the car door handle, Jimin places a hand on your shoulder. “Listen, Y/N. I’ll talk to management tomorrow morning. I know the manager well enough that I can probably convince him to do something about that ex of yours. He’s busking on private property, so it should be easy to get rid of him,” Jimin says, tone serious. He swallows, and for a moment you think he looks a little nervous. “If that’s what you want, I guess.”

His kindness scares you. You want to tease him, ask him where Mr. Bitchy and his $2000 Chelsea boots had gone. Anything to make this air of severe sincerity to abate. This new Jimin feels suffocating. But instead, you nod your head stiffly.

Jimin makes a pained expression for a moment, but it’s quickly replaced by his usual playful smirk. He slaps you upside the head, laughing heartily at your stunned face.

“Get some rest, babe. I’ll see you tomorrow evening,” he chuckles, reaching over to open the door for you. You scramble out into the cold city air, taking one last look back at him through his window.

He rolls it down, leaning forward to flash a toothy grin at you. “Hey, stop with all the angst, pookie. Wouldn’t want my favorite toy to get sick from overthinking. Who else would I bother at work if not you?”

You snort, both endeared and irritated in equal measure. He’s right. Everything was going back to normal tomorrow, you’re sure of it. You flip him off with a cheeky grin before making your way to your apartment.

Everything is going to be okay. Jimin says he’ll do something about it, and for whatever reason, you feel like you can trust him on this. Surely good fortune was soon to be upon you.

xxx

Jimin had texted you while you were still sleeping:

Spoke to Manager Jeong about your little problem. He said he’ll deal with him.

You breathe a sigh of relief, your body feeling significantly lighter. Your sleep last night had been tumultuous and restless. You feel more tired than you did when you went to bed, but all your weariness fades once you read Jimin’s text.

Once you make it to work, you find that management has gotten rid of Jungkook somehow. Added with the fact that your landlord has promised to look into repairing your shower (no guarantees, but you want to stay optimistic), today has been significantly better compared to yesterday. You even catch yourself humming as you set up your workstation, a small smile gracing your lips.

Jimin has a later shift this evening, and you find that you are somewhat disappointed for once. Your overwhelming gratitude is surely the only reason, otherwise you would never admit to wanting to see him at any given time.

You are in the midst of texting Jimin about all the good news when your manager passes by your desk. You are quick to pocket your phone away from his prying eyes, ready to defend that you aren’t slacking off… but his demeanor does not reveal any ire. In fact, he looks rather pleased for once.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Jeong. What’s up?” you ask, suspicious. You instinctively fold your hands behind your back; it is a subconscious effort on your part to keep your distance from him. Something about your manager always gives you a bad feeling when he looks a little too happy.

He grins widely. “Everything is going splendidly, Ms. Y/N. In fact, I think today might just be our lucky day!”

Never during your time working here has his and your luck ever coincided. “Our lucky day?” you echo.

“Why, yes! I spoke with your lovely friend and coworker Jimin this morning,” he starts, and immediately your alarm bells ring. You don’t even bother correcting him about the ‘friend’ part like you normally would. He continues, “He gave me a brilliant idea about the busker who had been performing in front of the restaurant the past two days.”

You nod slowly, not quite understanding. “Yes… The busker has been quite… the spectacle,” you say carefully. Somehow, you know calling Jungkook a ‘nuisance’ would have been the wrong choice in this instance.

Manager Jeong beams. “Exactly! You must have noticed the amount of people we served yesterday despite being a Monday. Additionally, almost all of those new customers requested outdoor seating no less!”

You feel the world tilt on its axis. What is he on abou—?

“What are you talking about?” you exhale.

“Don’t you think it would be even better for business if we got that busker to perform inside the restaurant? Why, it’s a brilliant idea and I don’t know why I didn’t think of it first! Our live band has always been missing something special, and perhaps a vocal accompaniment is the exact answer to our problem! Think about it, the atmosphere would be…”

Manager Jeong continues to prattle animatedly about his plans to your unhearing ears. There must be static or cotton plugging your head because you cannot possibly understand anything he is saying. Jungkook? Inside? Performing at your restaurant? But Jimin said he had spoken to the manager about getting Jungkook away from you! None of this makes sense.

“That makes no sense,” you verbalize, unknowingly cutting Manager Jeong from his monologue. He halts in surprise, as if now just realizing you were standing there (much less capable of interrupting or disagreeing with him). When he snaps out of it, you sense that familiarly sinister aura emerging from him in waves. You belatedly realize he must have mistaken your outburst as antagonistic.

“Well, Ms. Y/N. Whether it makes sense or not, we have hired Mr. Jeon to perform live at the bar stage for the next four weeknights. If, for some unknowable reason, I am incorrect,” he pauses to emphasize his words, “then his services will be promptly terminated. However, judging by his popularity from simply standing out in the cold and singing silly love songs, I am sure that worry is unwarranted.”

Behind you, the telltale sound of the main door swinging open catches you even more off guard. You do not even have the chance to turn to face the newcomer, only managing to register the gust of cold wind that accompanies their entry.

And so, you hear him before you see him.

“Hello?” Jeon Jungkook greets quietly.

Even without turning, you can imagine how he looks, how he stands, how he feels, how he tastes—

Manager Jeong claps his hands gleefully. “Splendid timing! Speak of the devil…” The older man nearly skips towards Jungkook like a youthful school girl, accompanied by his uncharacteristic squeals of excitement.

You can feel his gaze on you, almost tangibly. With nothing but your shreds of dignity left intact, you force yourself to face him.

He’s still so tall, is all your mind can helpfully supply as you stand feet away from your high school sweetheart for the first time in two years. He’s still wearing the same bucket hat from the night before, semi-shielding him from view. Despite that, you catch a small flash of white graze his bottom lip as he chews the soft flesh nervously.

“Hi, Y/N.” He addresses you directly, completely overlooking your manager without a single glance. Despite his hat, he still has his eyes lasered on you, as if not quite believing you were there. You hate how his attention makes you shiver all the same.

Even though he ignored your manager (which would have been a major dispute had you done the same), Jungkook still receives a friendly handshake in return. “Mr. Jeon! I’m surprised you know Ms. Y/N, though I’m sure you must have spoken with her when she was escorting guests to the outdoor seating the other day.”

You had actually gotten your co-hostess to seat all the outdoor seatings yesterday, but you weren’t going to mention that.

Manager Jeong claps him on the back, inadvertently causing Jungkook to stumble forward closer to you. He looks up at you then, eyes bugging out of their sockets like a rabbit caught in a bear trap. You stagger backwards in turn, barely concealing the anxiety on your face. Oh fucking hell.

Your manager is none the wiser, of course. “Well, this makes my job much easier! Since you’re both acquainted, I’ll let Y/N show you the ropes. The band doesn’t start their set until later in the evening, but you’re free to take a look at the stage and other parts of our facility in the meantime,” he says, chuffed. Meanwhile, Jungkook looks like he’s been shot by a freeze ray.

Then, your manager points a sharper gaze at you. “Ms. Y/N, treat our super star well. I know you won’t disappoint me.”

Fucking superstar… You can only nod in defeat. “Y-Yes, sir…” you whisper, clenching your uniform with your fists. It is the only way to keep them from shaking like a leaf. You watch as his figure disappears behind his office door, leaving you to fend for yourself. Powerless, you train your gaze to the floor, unwilling to meet Jungkook’s eyes.

But the nerves are taking control of your body, screaming at you to eject, eject, eject!

“Sorry, I have to go to the toilet,” you splutter quickly, almost tripping over yourself on the way to the restroom. You dimly wonder if Jungkook is going to think you’re leaving to throw up, but you can’t find any self-respect left to care. All you need is air and space to breathe—preferably away from him.

You slam open the stall, hardly checking to see if anyone else is around before locking the door shut. You sit on the toilet, plant your face between your knees, and scream.

Should you go home and use sickness as an excuse? But even if you did, you still had shifts every weeknight. You would have to see him eventually. You can pray all you want that Jungkook will be fired by the end of the week, but even your delusional mind can never fathom the idea that anyone would willingly want to send Jeon Jungkook away. Plus, you remember that the regular band that plays at the restaurant has been wanting to get a singer to accompany them for ages, and you know just how damn affable he can be. They are going to love him, and you hate him for that.

It is clear to you that there is no other option:

You pull out your phone to quickly open up Indeed on your browser, frantically hunting for any openings that might fit your measly qualifications. However, you have to pause in your search to deliberate. Wouldn’t it be better to move out of the country? You had been so naive to think that moving cities was enough distance between you and Jungkook—going across the ocean is the obvious answer. Should you start up your Duolingo lessons again and hope that you can somehow survive in a different continent with only a few dollars to your name?

You shut your phone in despair. Whether or not your plans of escape are feasible or not, in the short term, you are stuck with having to suck it up and just learn to ignore your ex-boyfriend’s presence. Surely you can force out a fake smile or two, especially with how much practice you’ve gotten after working with unbearably entitled customers.

Taking a step outside of the restroom stall, you head to the sink to splash some cold on your face. You stare at the mirror, confronted by a girl who looks two seconds away from having a Netflix Original-esque meltdown. You rake your fingers through your hair, doing your best to look like you aren’t about to rush into incoming traffic. To no one's surprise, it doesn't work.

“Okay, I got this. Just pretend like he’s just some guy, because at the end of the day, he is just some guy,” you mutter to your reflection. She looks back at you unconvinced. “He may have broken my heart into little bite size pieces, but who cares! HE’S JUST A GUY!” You repeat the phrase over and over again like a lunatic, in a desperate attempt to cognitively alter your brain chemistry.

At that moment, one of the other stalls in the restroom creaks open, and a girl you recognize who works as one of the dishwashers walks out. You both have a silent eye conversation as she quietly studies your crazed expression and crumpled work uniform.

Eventually, she awkwardly clears her throat, pointing to the only sink in the restroom. “Uh, sorry to hear about your, uh, guy problem. Could I use the sink please?”

You hastily back away, allowing her to take your spot. You don’t even have the energy to apologize for your spectacle, just bowing sheepishly to her before making your way back to the main hall. If she rats you out to the rest of your coworkers, then that gives you another reason to move out of the country. Maybe you should consider a name change while you’re at it.

When you exit the restroom, you half expect Jungkook to be waiting for you by the door, but find that he isn’t anywhere nearby. He isn’t by your hostess station either, and you thank your lucky stars for once. Even if your manager had asked you to show him around, you’re sure that Jungkook can find his way around just fine. Plus, the stage is at the corner of the restaurant and is sufficiently far enough that you wouldn’t have to make eye contact with him if you were careful.

You don’t know which greater entity has been messing with your sanity these past few days, but you hope that they can show you mercy just once—a brief reprieve, if anything.

You clasp your hands in prayer. I’ll eat more vegetables, I’ll remember to floss, I’ll call my parents from time to time… Just please let me survive tonight.

“Remember, Y/N… He’s just some guy,” you reiterate through gritted teeth. If a passing coworker happens to overhear your demented chanting, then you pay them no mind.

You walk towards the entrance, flipping the sign to open. You feel like a video game character when you glance at the clock, which signals the start of your shift. You can imagine the red bold text hovering above your head: 8 more hours until freedom.

This is just like playing Five Nights at Freddy’s, except you’ve only watched the movie and you suspect your life is probably worse than whatever Josh Hutcherson had to survive through.

You take a couple heaving breaths to brace yourself for what will be the longest eight hours of your life. You’ll show Jungkook just how well-adjusted and mature you’ve become. You are a professional, and not even a boy with angelic vocals will make you crumble. After all, what’s the worst he can do?

xxx

He could, in fact, do a lot worse than you thought.

“I have many regrets being born at all,” you mutter bleakly, three hours into your shift.

Jungkook had started singing only an hour ago, so you had been filled with false confidence at first when the restaurant was filled with nothing but ambient chatter and soothing jazz music. You felt more and more confident as the minutes ticked by and your anxiety slowly melted away. You even forgot that he was somewhere in the back, likely warming up or whatever it is that singers did before a performance.

However, your brief moment of courage shatters almost immediately when Jungkook finally takes the stage.

At first, you did your best to tune out his voice, but it’s especially hard when whoever was in charge of the sound system decided to crank his volume to an excruciating level. You wanted desperately to grab some napkins and shove them in your ears, but you suspected that your customers (and manager) would be unappreciative of that gesture. And so there you lay, forced to wallow in Jungkook’s melodious singing like a criminal strapped to an electric chair.

But how much more pleasant an electric chair would be! Why on earth was Jungkook so adamant to sing sad love songs the entire time? Why couldn’t he be like his other singing contemporaries, who loved to write songs about getting bitches and making money? At the very least, even if he wasn’t quite a platinum selling artist just yet, surely he was constantly sharing beds with anyone he pleases? Couldn’t he sing about that?!

(In the back of your mind, you wonder if it would be less painful to learn that Jungkook has slept with multiple people… Because then, it would mean that he had moved on while you stood alone on your island, stranded and yearning.)

You didn’t want to think too deeply about his lyrics. However, you're only human. So when your mind barrier failed and you caught snippets of his singing, you noticed a pattern. There was always a girl in his songs. She was omnipresent, and Jungkook was always pleading for her. Begging and aching and wanting. But most all… he was always repenting. In every song, he always whispered a pious apology.

You feared what would happen if you turned around in those moments of weakness. You were terrified of admitting something, of letting words spill that had been trapped in your throat for the better part of two years.

Lucky for you, salvation comes in the form of one Park Jimin. Though, can you even count him as your savior when he had also inadvertently caused your demise?

Jimin doesn’t even have a shift today, so you’re more than surprised when his bright blonde head stumbles through the restaurant doors. His expensive coat is askew and his signature designer shades are nowhere to be found. He is panic incarnate—an expression you have never seen on his face before.

“Holy fuck,” he greets, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. His profanity startles the elderly couple waiting to be seated, their glares menacingly sharp. To his credit, Jimin doesn’t even seem phased.

In lieu of an answer, you gesture vaguely behind you. You can imagine how dejected you must look. “Holy fuck indeed,” you sigh.

It takes a moment for Jimin to regain his bearings. He straightens up and pats down his coat, but his hair is still tousled by the wind. If not for the fact that he has a car, you might have thought he had run all the way here.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t know this was going to happen,” he starts, genuinely remorseful. “I texted Manager Jeong this morning and he said he’d get your ex to leave, but I didn’t think he’d offer the damn bastard a job!”

“Mind your language, Park. I’m still at work,” you scold. You try your best to ignore the scrutinizing gaze of the elderly couple. You lower your voice. “And don’t apologize. I know you’re an asshole, but I doubt you’d actually prey on my downfall like this. I know you’re not into public humiliation.”

Jimin brightens slightly at your joke, but he still looks like a guilty puppy who'd been caught shitting on the carpet. “Yeah, well. I happen to enjoy tormenting you and I won’t let some upstart Charlie Puth wannabe ruin your life. That’s my job.”

You smile wryly at him. “Well, that’s too bad. Jungkook’s been singing for a few hours now and I’m pretty sure Manager Jeong is going to keep him long-term. He might have broken my heart, but damn does he have vocals. I'm sure you'll have plenty competition when it comes to 'who can make Y/N's life feel like hell.'”

Jimin doesn't smile back, but instead studies your face for a moment. Then:

“Do you think if I offer to suck Manager Jeong off, he’ll fire him?”

“What the fuck?” You nearly yell out in surprise, your jaw dropping to the floor. Judging by his serious scowl, you know he's actually considering it. By now, the elderly couple waiting to be seated have left the premises.

Jimin continues, unperturbed. “I know he secretly wants me, based on how his wife seems to have a personal vendetta against me. He definitely wants a taste of my bus—.”

“Stop, I get it!” You wave your hands to make him shut up, heat rising up your cheeks. “Never say that string of words to me ever again. You have just inflicted ten years of suffering onto my poor brain.”

“Hey, I’m just offering solutions here!” Jimin pouts.

You stare at him, unimpressed. “Save it. You tried solving my problems already, so let’s just accept the fact that there’s nothing else for me to do but to suck it up. It’s time for me to put on my big girl pants for a change.”

“I mean, I could do all the sucking instead, but you’re being a little bitch about it,” Jimin mumbles. He’s lucky you didn’t hear him this time, lest you give him something to really whine about.

“Anyway, I guess this is my life now. Nothing to do except hope that he never tries to interact with me or I can find another job,” you shrug.

Over your shoulder, Jimin fixes Jungkook with an icy glare that is cold enough to give you the shivers. For the first time that entire night, you hazard a glance back at the stage, finding that Jungkook is already looking back at you.

You whip your head back forward, perspiration forming down your back. For fuck’s sake, this guy.

“Well, let me know if he tries anything. I’ll beat that little freak into the floor if he tries so much as breathing the same air as you.” Jimin huffs, puffing up his chest with false bravado. You can’t help but laugh at his empty threat, knowing that Jungkook could probably bench press Jimin without breaking a sweat. Jimin's muscles are only for aesthetics, after all.

“Don’t worry, he hasn’t actually spoken to me actually. He can keep singing his sad little love songs, I really don’t mind,” you say, like a liar. Jimin snorts, wholly unconvinced.

“Well, if you need me, I’m heading to the bar to grab a drink so I can stare at your ex uncomfortably until he leaves. See you!” Jimin bids you farewell with a cheery grin as he skips a little too happily inside the restaurant.

Why'd you have to befriend the largest lunatic in the city? You massage your forehead with a groan, willing away your growing headache.

The rest of the night trickles away like molasses. Jungkook continues to sing his heart out, save for an hour intermission where he presumably takes a short break. In his absence, you hear Jimin guffaw loudly, his laughter too sharp to be considered happy. You faintly hear Jungkook shy stutters in response, and you momentarily consider running in to interrupt.

Why? Did you want to save Jungkook from Jimin’s unnecessary harassment? It’s not like Jimin is doing it out nowhere, he was just trying to be… a good friend?

You pause to ponder. As much as you hate to admit it, you know why you want to help Jungkook. But Jimin on the other hand? Why did he want to help you? Questions begin flowing through your head like a whirlwind, and your nausea increases. God, when was your next therapy appointment again?

You save those questions for another day. As you look at your watch, there are only thirty minutes left until two in the morning. You tap your foot impatiently, smiling curtly at departing customers as the restaurant slowly emptied. As they left, you overhear some of your regulars giggling amongst themselves, whispering about the cute new singer and his charming demeanor.

The last nail on your coffin has been hammered. Yeah, Jungkook isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

With the restaurant closing soon, it sounds like Jungkook is ready to end his set as well.

Throughout the night, Jungkook rarely made a point to speak. The only time he didn’t sing was when he quietly introduced the title of his next song and the band swiftly began the first opening notes. For his last song, however, Jungkook decided to give a little more backstory for his final song.

“Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for listening to me for the night,” Jungkook says with a soft voice, his tone awfully shy despite his powerful belting throughout the evening. The few customers left give him a warm round of applause, and you hear the familiar sound of his timid giggles spill from the restaurant speakers.

“This will be my final song for the night. Most of the songs I sang today were covers, but this one is an original. I…” He hesitates for a moment, and something pulls you to turn despite the alarm bells ringing in your ears. You face him, and just like earlier in the evening, he is already looking back at you.

This time, you don’t look away; he does. His eyes flit to the ceiling, and he licks his lips from nerves. “I… I wrote this song a long while ago. I’ve never sang it in public before and I never thought it would ever see the light of day. Until, well…”

He stops again. This time, he gestures to the guitarist in the band, silently asking to borrow it. With a guitar in hand, he smiles a little more confidently at the small crowd of people. He begins strumming the first few notes, and your heart stops. “I hope everyone had a pleasant evening. Get home safe and have a great rest of your week. My name is Jungkook, and this last song is called…”

Before he can sing the first line of his song, you make a break for it.

You slam the restaurant doors open, and the stinging cold air immediately pierces their fangs into your skin. Your coat is still inside, but you can’t bring yourself to reenter. You take a long breath, the chill barely registering in your mind with how loudly your heart is pounding in your ears.

Hearing the opening to that song was enough to bring you back in time, three years ago:

You are in his childhood bedroom, his walls littered with concert posters and his floor a mess with unfolded laundry and guitar picks. The afternoon sun is streaming through his windows, bathing him in gold. You have an exam the next day and he has cram school to go to, but you’ve both chucked your books somewhere on his desk, left forgotten.

He has his eyes closed, concentrated. You’re both on his small twin bed, squished together side by side and thighs touching. You have your head on his shoulder and he has his hands on his guitar. He strums a few chords experimentally and sings a melody that only the two of you know.

(Not anymore.)

“Are you writing a new song?” you ask, voice a little scratchy. Neither of you had spoken for the past few hours, just basking in the setting sun and Jungkook’s indistinct strumming. But now, his chords sound more sure, more certain of something.

“Yeah, I just thought of it,” he hums. He opens his eyes a smidge, a smitten smile on his lips. You mirror him.

“What’s it about this time?”

His brows furrow. “I’ve been trying to write about other stuff, you know? Namjoon-hyung tells me it’s important that songs have meaning and impact.” He pauses in his strumming, looking a little conflicted. “And I get what he means. Art is all about saying something, but… I can’t help that there’s only one thing I ever want to talk about. Is that so wrong?”

You chuckle, understanding what he means. You nudge your head against his cheek, grinning from ear to ear. The fluttering in your chest has become routine to you at this point, but he somehow always knows how to increase it tenfold. “God, you’re such a sweet talker. Really, Koo. There’s no need to serenade with love songs—I’m already yours.”

He looks back at you, brimming with tender affection. “I know,” he responds. Then, he takes a pen from his bedside table, and begins writing.

During those years of dating him, you always thought that If he was a waterfall, then you were a teaspoon. You desperately tried to be enough for him, but you’re barely able to fathom the depth of his devotion. Everything about him was excessive, and you could seldom understand how he managed to contain himself. He was born to share himself, to tear bits of his soul so that the world may understand him, love him. His songs were a testament that he was trying to do that, and you always felt so lucky to be able to receive him, wholly and fully.

How cruel was it that Jungkook uses that same song to rip open the barely healed scab on your heart, leaving you bare and stinging and raw all over again.

You have no idea how long you've stood there in the cold. It must have been barely a few minutes when Jimin finds his way to you. He wordlessly shrugs his coat off and places it on your shoulders, but you make no move to acknowledge him.

You hope your silence is enough for Jimin to infer that you are not in a conversational mood, but he’s nothing if not impatient. He forcibly pulls you to face him, his hands warm even through your clothing.

“Hey, you good? Did something happen?” He asks with barely concealed irritation, but it’s not directed at you. Still, you flinch at his scathing tone, shrinking in on yourself. In your daze, you vaguely notice his resemblance to an angry baby chick.

“It’s nothing. Go back inside, I’ll be right there,” you mumble lamely, weakly pushing him back towards the restaurant. Jimin does not budge, instead leveling you with a hard stare. This time, you’re sure his irritation is for you.

“You idiot, you literally ran out like someone was out to get you. Of course it’s not nothing,” he grouses.

You sigh tiredly, shaking your head at him. “We can talk later. It’s almost closing time and I just want to go home and sleep.”

Before Jimin can argue further, the door to the restaurant opens once more, but it isn’t a leaving customer.

“What the fuck? What are you doing out here?” Jimin all but shouts at Jungkook. He holds up an accusatory finger at him and uses his other hand to nudge you behind him as if to shield you.

Jungkook winces, instinctively stepping back. Despite being a few inches taller than Jimin, Jungkook’s timidness makes him look smaller. “I… I was just worried about her—”

“Don’t you have a song to finish in there? Talk about professional,” Jimin spits out. Jimin maneuvers you so that Jungkook can’t see you, but you manage to catch sight of how his gaze follows you unfailingly.

“I finished up my set. It’s closing time.” Jungkook responds coolly. He’s still a little quiet, but you can sense some of his natural composure rising to the surface. When he needs to be, Jungkook has been known to stand his ground—usually when it comes to matters involving you.

At this time of the night and after hours of mental torture, the last thing you need is to watch your two worst nightmares duke it out in front of your work establishment. You are beyond exhausted, and you hardly have the fortitude to withstand another minute of their voices ringing in your ears.

Your eyes well up with tears of frustration, causing the two boys to freeze up in panic. You don’t give them the chance to fuss over you; instead, you haphazardly wipe your cheeks before roughly pushing them back towards the restaurant.

“Get back to work, you idiots.” Your voice sounds warbled even to your own ears, but you push past your overwhelming emotions in favor of getting back inside to close up. Hell, you might even call in sick tomorrow, just so you can cry pathetically into your bowl of cereal in solitude.

“I’m not even on the clock today!” Jimin complains faintly, but you only push him harder.

When you all reenter, you walk back to your desk and pointedly ignore the two of them until they awkwardly float away from your orbit. Despite the distance they give you, their gazes are still fixed plainly on you and they feel like knives digging into your back.

Eventually, all the final customers of the day take their leave, and your remaining coworkers start dimming the lights and bidding their goodbyes. From the corner of your eye, you see Jungkook bowing respectfully to the band, who were giving him friendly pats on the back for a job well done. Jimin walks toward you, his car keys dangling from his left pinky.

“No thanks. I’ll take the bus home today,” you declare before he can offer a ride. Jimin opens his mouth like a goldfish, flapping his lips dumbly as he stares at you in shock. You have no idea why he’s so surprised, given how you’ve been making it obvious that you need some space.

He looks like he wants to argue again, but thinks better of it. A singular moment of restraint from Park Jimin, which is an act you once thought impossible. Maybe he does care about you more than you thought.

He stiffly nods at you, shoving his hands and keys into his pockets. He still has a frown on his face when he tells you to text him when you get home. You flip him off with a shaky smirk in response, a feeble attempt to bring some levity back to your now tense relationship. It works a little, and Jimin brightens up significantly. How simple-minded of him.

With a flippant wave, you leave work and head towards your bus stop. At this hour of the night, the streets are mostly dim, save for some street lamps and bars that stay open longer than your restaurant. There are always some people milling about, enough that you never feel too on edge about how late it is. Still, your bus stop is often empty, leaving you to mull over your thoughts in peace.

You are in the midst of jamming your earbuds into your ear when a presence makes itself known beside you.

Is it possible to go through the five stages of grief in under a second? You suppose not, but it’s hard to tell what sort of emotions swim through you when you come face to face with Jeon Jungkook again.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter under your breath. You pause the song playing on your phone to glare at him with as much venom as you can muster.

Jungkook holds up his hands in surrender, doe eyes wide like prey. “I-I’m heading home too! I’m not following you, I swear!”

You groan internally. Figures that you and Jungkook take the same bus home. But hold on— “Don’t you have a car? I remember you were parked near the restaurant the other night,” you note, squinting at him.

Jungkook looks sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah. That car was my hyung’s. He lets me borrow it sometimes, but he needed it tonight.”

“Sure…” You level him with a skeptical frown. You remember his hyung, but don’t recall him ever owning a car. You aren’t even sure that his Namjoon-hyung is allowed by the country to drive a car, much less own one.

He could be lying, but you don’t want to give him an excuse to continue any conversation. So, you busy yourself with your phone and keep your head bowed away from him.

When the bus arrives, Jungkook makes it a point to sit a few rows behind you. Thankfully, he has a better understanding of social cues than a certain Park that you know. He leaves you alone, but your entire body still feels like a rope pulled taut. You have to convince yourself not to look behind you, your morbid curiosity scratching your insides raw.

You are in the home stretch now, and it’ll only be a few more minutes before you get to your stop and make your way to your safe haven. Hell resumes the next day and the next, but at the very least you’ll have your home to yourself. No one could take that away from you.

Again, this is where you learn that tempting fate is never a good idea.

When you exit the bus at your stop, you can hear his footsteps following you. It’s hard not to notice, especially when his large and distracting boots make such a distinct racket that makes him so Jungkook.

You hasten your pace towards your apartment complex, your shoulders hunched and hands shoved into your coat pockets in an attempt to hinder the bile rising from your stomach. He had promised that he wasn’t following you, but that proclamation seems to be standing on feeble legs with how long he’s been on your tail now.

Your street is filled with rows of low-rise apartment buildings, so you hope that if anything happens, you can yell as loud as you can and alert some compassionate neighbor to come to your aid. (Not that you think he would ever physically harm you, but… You can’t say the same about your mental state.)

Your home is just two buildings away from where you are, but Jungkook still seems determined to follow you to the end. You all but skip the remaining feet to your apartment entrance, your breath coming out in puffs as you finally muster up the courage to face your supposed stalker and give him a piece of your mind.

“If this is some convoluted way for you to find out where I live, then you aren’t being very subtle about it,” you say, your chin held up high despite the growing urge to vomit pathetically in front of your ex-boyfriend. You have your hand rested on the doorknob, just a moment’s notice away from bolting into your house if the need for a quick getaway arises.

To your surprise, Jungkook wasn’t following you as closely as you expected. He had stopped trailing you about two buildings down, his own hand poised on the door with a look of genuine shock.

You both stand there, staring at each other as mutual understanding dawns on the two of you.

Everyday, the universe learns of more creative ways to be cruel.

“Oh…” Jungkook’s voice falters. He looks simultaneously frightened and amazed, as if he too finds this entire situation unbelievably harsh. He swallows thickly, looking at you and back to his door in quick succession. “Well… This is a strange coincidence,” he murmurs.

You want to believe that this was his entire fault, that Jungkook had somehow managed to track you down to haunt you for the rest of your days. You want to believe that he’s a crazed stalker who is willing to find where you work and live so that every hour of your wretched life is filled with nothing but reminders of what-could-have-beens. You just want someone to blame instead of just the cosmos—you want someone tangible to hate so that your suffering can be given some sort of identity. You want to give your mourning and hurt a name so that you can learn how to heal.

You want to believe all of that, but it’s hard to do so when Jungkook looks so incredibly uncomfortable, as if he’d rather melt into the shadows and never be seen again.

In all your memories, you have never seen Jungkook look so small.

You heave a big sigh, your fingers grasping the door knob so tightly that you half-expect it to be dented from the force. You linger for a moment, your mouth opening but nothing spills out.

What is there to say? What do you say to an ex-boyfriend that you haven’t seen in two years, who is suddenly so deeply entwined in your life once more? Do you tell him goodnight? Tell him to stay away? Tell him to come home with you?

Jungkook looks equally as conflicted. His lips are pursed tight with words left unsaid. You aren’t sure whether you want to punch the confession out of his mouth or seal them up forever. It feels like eons before he finally breaks the silence with a mirthless laugh.

“I… I just wanted to say—back at the restaurant. When I sang that last song,” Jungkook begins, and his voice feels loud because of how empty the streets are. For a moment, you are reminded of a cathedral you once visited during a vacation, how sacred silence can be. The world holds its breath, waiting for him to speak.

“I meant it all. Every word. Every lyric. I never stopped…”

He trails off, shrugging his shoulders. He stares at you helplessly, but you don’t know what to say. You don’t want to listen any more, but your feet are planted to the ground. You’re frozen like a deer in headlights, forced to brace against him as he crashes into you.

He continues, “And when we broke up back then… I never wanted that to happen. You broke it off before we could even try something—and I hated how I didn’t fight for you harder. I let you misunderstand me because I was afraid you wouldn’t want to stick around if I didn’t succeed. I convinced myself that I was holding you down, but I never gave you—us—a chance. I never stopped regretting it since.”

“Me? Break up with you?” You echo incredulously. That statement is enough to break you from your trance, the telltale signs of indignation rising up your chest. “How dare you suggest—Me? You were the one who broke up with me, asshole! You were the one who broke my heart and decided to up and leave to god knows where! Only to miraculously respawn right next to me, groveling at my feet with sad love songs as if that’s enough for me to forgive and forget? Fucking entitled bastard,” you seethe.

Somehow, Jungkook manages to shrink more, like a bunny with his tail tucked between his legs. “Yes, you’re right that I broke your heart but… When I told you I was moving away to try and become a singer, it was always with the intention of staying together. I know it would have been difficult, but I wanted you to be with me through thick and thin. But when you misunderstood and took it as a break up, I let you go because, well… I was scared that it would happen eventually. Who wants to date a broke busking fool anyway?”

He laughs, but it sounds watery. He sniffles, and you hope it's only because of the cold. “I tried looking for you, but you blocked me everywhere and no one from back home seemed to know where you went. So I just accepted that we’d never see each other again… Until a few days ago, that is.”

A misunderstanding? Is that what everything boils down to? Years of trying to build yourself back up again, relearning what it means to be happy—all the fallen domino pieces in your life trailing back to a single moment in time? All because Jungkook was scared that you didn't love him enough?

You’ve never felt angrier in your life. You fear what you might say if you continue to stand outside there, face to face with the singular person strong enough to whittle you down to the bone. Jeon Jungkook is all soft smiles and sweet songs, but how come he’s always able to knock you off your axis? Few people on this earth can stitch you up and break you down in equal measure, but somehow, Jungkook manages to do all that and more.

Then, comes the guilt. Had it been all your fault? That you hadn't returned his love in equal measure? Had you secretly given up on the hope of being on his level? Always looking down on yourself: unable to move past your insecurities. Were you terrified of being his side piece, his girlfriend, forever?

Who are you, even? And where do you stand?

(Beside him, is what you want to answer. You don't know if that's the right choice.)

You can’t bear to look at him, least of all answer him. Without another word, you shove your house key into the door before slamming it shut despite the late hour. If you awaken any neighbors, you’ll apologize later. For now, all you require is sleep and hope that this has been all a terrible nightmare.

xxx

Reality is a bitter pill to swallow.

Jeon Jungkook continues to sing at the restaurant, and after only two days of repeat stellar performances, your manager decides to promote him as the official vocalist for the band. It hurts to admit that you're not the least bit surprised; you might have a hard time looking at him, but you can never deny his talent.

His song list has added a larger variety of genres ever since his first performance. That is to say, he isn’t always singing about lost loves and tragic couples every night. Perhaps it is due to some requests from customers or his other bandmates, but it doesn’t stop him from sprinkling one or two love songs into the mix.

He doesn’t sing any original songs ever again. That, at least, is a small mercy. He doesn’t make any moves to speak with you either, despite the daily awkward trips back home after the end of your shifts. Whether that’s because he’s given up on you (again), or he’s waiting for you to make the first move, you don’t know. Frankly, you don’t think you have the energy (nor courage) to do anything about it.

It’s a few weeks after Jungkook’s first performance at the restaurant, and closing time is approaching. You appreciate Friday nights the most because it means you’ll have two consecutive days to relax and avoid your problems. It’s also the busiest night of the week, when white-collar workers decide to drink and eat for as long as the night allows them. Busier nights mean more distractions, and you’re willing to deal with twenty Karens over one Jungkook.

During nights like these, your manager occasionally asks you to fulfill some waitress duties when there aren’t enough hands on deck. Normally you’d hate it, but earning the extra tips is enough to keep your grumbling to a minimum To this day, your landlord has yet to do anything about your broken shower, and you’ve finally conceded to the fact that you’ll have to be the one to do something about it.

As you inform the customers in your area that the last call for orders is approaching, you sneak a glance at the bar to see Jimin dutifully performing his job. That is to say, he’s flirting up a storm, getting women and men alike to blush from head to toe as he serves their drinks with a salacious smirk.

What a swindler, you think to yourself, snorting when he makes eye contact with you. He gives you a cheeky salute, mouthing something as he gestures to the back door.

Despite the semi-fight the two of you had all those weeks ago, Jimin was never one to argue about the same topic two days in a row. When you saw him the next day after your confrontation with Jungkook, Jimin was back to all smiles. You still catch him sending death glares towards Jungkook on most nights, but he doesn’t bring up the matter with you anymore. For that reason, you’ve gratefully settled back into your weird, banterful friendship with him. Even if there’s still a lingering tension between the two of you that you refuse to acknowledge.

You nod thankfully back at him, excited to go to his house and take a much needed shower. At this point, going to his house has become second nature to you, and it gives you an excuse to not see Jungkook at your regular bus stop every day. You have half a mind to never fix your shower for that reason, but of course there is still the problem of having to deal with Jimin every time you need to bathe. You hardly consider yourself an impatient person, but Jimin likes to toe the line far more often than necessary.

You’re down to your last two tables before you can close up shop when your manager suddenly barrels right into your path. You nearly drop your tray of dirty dishes to the floor, holding in a loud yelp as your suspiciously stern-faced manager halts you in place.

“Ms. Y/N, may I have a word with you for a moment? It’s regarding your paycheck for the month,” he barks, lips downturned. He appears disgruntled about something, and it sends a worried shiver down your spine. And here you thought Fridays are meant to be fun. He doesn’t wait for you to reply before he stalks back to his office, an unspoken command for you to follow.

You unload your dishes in the kitchen before making your way to his office. The small, dark room is cramped with overflowing file folders and coupons from multiple take-out places. You accidentally step on a stack of papers, and upon further inspection, seem to be a pile of applications for new hires. You distinctly remember complaining to him months prior about being understaffed and him replying that no inquiries were coming in.

As you approach, your manager shuffles through your coworkers pay stubs, and you notice yours and Jungkook’s on top of the piles.

Manager Jeong clears his throat. “Well, Y/N. It seems to be your lucky day. As you know, we split the tips based on your hours and what sort of duties you fulfill. With the new hire we have as our in-house singer, we’ve had to split it one way more to accommodate his arrival. However, he has recently requested to me that his portion be reallocated… to you, Ms. Y/N.”

Your jaw drops immediately. “I-I don’t understand, Manager Jeong,” you sputter.

Manager Jeong snorts, bemused by your reaction. “Don’t understand? Well, I suppose you’ll have to ask Mr. Jeon if you want his reasoning. Regardless, since we normally deposit your salary straight to your bank account, would it be alright if I hand you his tips in cash for now? He only informed me about his request an hour ago, and the accountant has already clocked out for the week.”

All you can do is nod dumbly back at him. With a huff, your manager presses a white envelope into your hands before promptly ushering you out of his office. “Well, that's settled. Out you go! Have a good weekend, Ms. Y/N. Don’t forget to lock the register before you leave!” He calls out before slamming his door in your face.

It takes you a moment to reanimate back to life. You stare at the white envelope for a long while, unable to fathom the scribbled out name of Jeon Jungkook replaced with your own name. Then, you crumple it into your fist before stomping over to where Jungkook and the rest of the band are in the middle of packing it up for the night.

Jungkook looks up from his guitar case when he senses you fast approaching. For a fleeting second, a smile graces his handsome face before it’s smacked away by your crumpled envelope.

“Keep your fucking cash, Jungkook. What the hell is your problem?” You fume, cheeks heating from agitation. Jungkook splutters for a moment, prying the envelope away from his face and looking at it in bewilderment. When he sees it clearly, recognition dawns on his face, followed by guilt.

“It’s just… my way of saying sorry, I guess.” He answers you meekly, neck flushing red in embarrassment. Behind him, the rest of the band grow silent at the scene before them, and you debate on telling them to mind their own business when they quicken their pace to leave.

“Well, keep your apology to yourself. There’s nothing to apologize for,” you correct him with a frown. To offer an apology is to offer accountability. You aren’t sure if you’re ready to hear him say that.

“No, it’s a sorry for… using you, I suppose.”

“Using me?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “For what?”

Jungkook smiles wryly back at you. “For inspiration?” he clarifies. For being the reason I can sing? He leaves that part unsaid, but you can almost imagine him saying it.

You feel heat rising to your cheeks again, but this time you aren’t quite sure if it’s from embarrassment, anger… or something else.

Unable to conjure up a response to his simple confession, you stomp away from him with a pounding heart and shaking hands. You continue the rest of your closing shift routine instinctually, your body moving on autopilot as Jungkook’s words continue to ring inside your head. When all is said and done, Jimin makes his way to your station with a questioning stare, but you wave him off in favor of stomping ahead of him to the parking lot.

In his car, Jimin rattles off about his latest exploits and purchases, his grating voice a comfort for once. You hum noncommittally during his stories when appropriate, but you suppose your usual indifference feels different, even to Jimin's untrained ears.

At his house, you drift to his bathroom immediately. You already have a shirt button undone by the time you get a handle on the door when Jimin’s hand stops you in place. You can feel his warmth emanating against your back as he slowly pulls the bathroom door close. With a tired sigh, you reluctantly turn to face him and find him standing closer than you expected.

He has an arm resting above your head, effectively caging you. You feel your shoulders sag. Damn, here comes another confrontation. Why can’t everyone just leave you alone?!

“Talk to me,” he says. No, he demands.

You push him away weakly, but he hardly budges. “Nothing to talk about,” you lie. Had you no filter, you’d be word vomiting all over the place ages ago.

Jimin groans, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Enough with the emotional constipation. I’m here to listen, alright? No teasing or anything, I’m all ears and maybe a shoulder to cry on. Just don’t stain my Chanel top too bad,” he jokes.

You puff out a short breath—a sorry excuse for a laugh. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to talk about it, and that’s that.”

“It’ll make you feel a lot better, though,” he offers.

You scoff. “What makes you think that? What if I just want to ignore all my problems forever and never grow from it? Is that so bad?”

Jimin pushes himself away from you, raising his hands in mock defeat. “You’re so fucking annoying. Can you stop running away from your problems and talk to me? Hell, talk to Jungkook for all I care! Just stop being a doormat and speak your mind for once in your damn life!”

“What are you, my therapist?” You brush past him, shower all but forgotten. You begin toeing your shoes back on, ready to head home tired and smelly. At the very least, you won’t have to deal with this stupid annoying asshole any longer.

Jimin strides back towards you, but for once he doesn’t do anything to forcibly stop you. Jimin has always been gruff with you, not afraid to push and pull you in any which direction. It’s part of the reason why you can’t take him seriously, even though you’ve recently realized why he was always being such a prick towards you—

“Yeah, I’m not your therapist. But for better or for worse, I’m your friend and I—I fucking care about you, alright? And it sucks seeing that good-for-nothing stick his nose in your business and act like he can do anything without any repercussions.”

Is Jimin being for real right now? “With how often you look at yourself in the mirror, you’d think you’d be better at introspection,” is all you say to that. You shove your feet into your shoes, not caring that you’ve probably put them on wrong. Maybe it’s because it’s Friday and the fatigue from the week has finally settled deep in your bones, but you can’t help but leave one last scathing remark to drive the final nail in the coffin.

“You know, if you were a little nicer to me, maybe I would talk to you. Hell, maybe I’d like you back. But no, just keep being your domineering, asshole self and I’ll keep being the same fucking doormat bitch you know and love,” you spit, turning towards the door and away from his face. You’re not even curious to see how he reacts. “I don’t need protection, alright? When I tell you to stay out of my business, you stay out of it. So don’t try and pretend to be my knight in shining armor.”

There’s an ocean of silence, enough to hear a pin drop. The urge to apologize surges to the surface, but you stamp it down. He’s petty all the time, so now it’s your turn.

Okay, maybe that’s a little too mean on your part, but you’re exhausted. Perhaps it is true when they say you should never act on your anger when it’s past midnight. But can anyone blame you? You’re only a girl, and girls need to snap too.

When he responds, his voice sounds weak. Park Jimin, weak? It's almost unthinkable. "Why don't you trust me?"

Isn't it obvious? you want to say. But some mercy remains within you. You'll pick up the pieces another time. Instead, you rasp out, “Good night, Park. I’ll see you on Monday.”

The walk of shame back to your house is long and arduous. Your phone dings thrice, likely signaling texts from Jimin, but you turn it off without checking for sure. For once, the weight on your shoulders is slightly lighter. You huff out a dry laugh, realizing belatedly that maybe Jimin is right—maybe speaking your mind has its benefits.

There’s a small park in your neighborhood that you always pass by. You don’t remember the last time you spared it a second glance, but this time you notice a lone figure swinging back and forth, arching dangerously higher than what you would consider safe. From a distance, all you can make out are the person’s comically bright boots, and you have a sinking suspicion you know who it is without seeing their face.

Cosmos, or whoever it is that controls my life, why must you braid our strings of fate so tightly? You ask, but as always, it refuses to reply.

Against your better judgment, your feet bring you closer towards him. He has his back towards you, his feet pumping him higher and higher and you half expect him to swing in a perfect arc like a gymnast on parallel bars. You have to keep your distance a bit, lest you get the wind knocked out of you by his signature stompers.

You clear your throat, and the boy stops mid-swing and nearly catapults himself into the spongey, playground floor. Hunched over and wheezing, Jungkook directs his shocked eyes at you with a comical stare.

You raise a hand in greeting. A peace offering, maybe. “Hello—”

“I swear I’m not stalking you!” Jungkook interrupts as he scrambles to his feet. He bows deeply in remorse, the action so endearingly him. “S-sorry, I’ll make my way home now…”

“I don’t own the park, Jungkook. I was just saying hello…” You snort, wringing your hands uncomfortably. You grind your shoes into the ground, the sound of crunching leaves breaking the still air. “A-and… to say sorry, for earlier.”

“Sorry?” Jungkook repeats, confused. When he realizes what you mean, he waves his hands frantically. “No, no! Don’t be sorry! It was my fault for being so inconsiderate. I understand how you might misconstrue my actions, and I made things more awkward. I’ll consider your feelings more in the future…”

In the future… You cough, unwilling to meet his bright and honest gaze. If you stare too long, you fear you might go blind.

“I come here to the park often, when I feel too cramped inside my apartment,” Jungkook explains, frantic energy radiating off him in waves. He’s gesticulating too much, a clear sign that he’s trying to hide his nerves. You remember how he would do the same thing in high school, whenever he had to present his projects in front of the class.

You hold a hand up, a weak attempt to get him to calm down. “I’m not here to interrogate you. I just wanted to…” What is it that you wanted to do?

The two of you just stand awkwardly like that, similar to a few weeks ago when you discovered you were neighbors. You’re grasping at straws in your head, both conflicted for wanting to tell him something and running away. Even if you were to talk to him, what would you say? There’s a reason you told Jimin you didn’t want to talk—frankly, it’s mostly because you have no idea what to say or feel.

But you do know, the universe responds.

I ask you questions all the time, and this is how you respond?

Either that, or you’re going insane, the universe remarks.

Jungkook pulls out his phone, his fingers fumbling as he unlocks it. He takes a furtive step towards you, but thinks better of it. There’s a few feet of distance between you, but it feels like worlds apart. Close and yet so far. You recall how you’d easily pull him towards you in the past, how being together felt as natural as breathing.

“I know you absolutely hated it the last time I played my original song at the restaurant, so I refrained from performing any ever since that night. But that didn’t stop me from writing them. I was fine with keeping them locked in a vault forever, but…” He hesitates, searching you for any signs of discomfort. When he sees the carefully blank look on your face, he continues with trepidation.

“Can I try a song for you? You don’t have to say yes, and you’re free to tell me to fuck off and I’ll never even look at you ever again. Just…” He flails one last time, a choked sob making its escape from his throat.

Are you hopeless for wanting to say yes? Or were you reverting back to your old self who relied on him and believed in him so heavily? If you wanted him out of your life for good, you would have quit your job at the first sight of him. Maybe you were masochistic. Or maybe were you hopeful for a new start, a chance to rekindle a relationship that you’ve secretly always wanted to repair.

You have so much life ahead of you. Many more mistakes will be made and maybe they’ll haunt you when you’re older. But would it really be such a terrible gamble to take one more chance?

You nod, and seal your fate.

He presses play, and the soft strumming of a guitar fills the empty playground air.

Not for the first time, you wonder how it can be so easy for Jungkook to be so… honest. He spills his heart in every song that he writes, and you know he’s never been a great liar. He can’t help it, being genuine is in his DNA. This crashing waterfall, this boy with overflowing emotions—he sings what he thinks but feels terrified because of it. You might not understand his honesty, but you know that fear. You know it all too well.

He beholds himself to you—raw and unfiltered. A little battered and bruised, but still Jungkook. Behind everything, still the boy you’ve been yearning for.

Maybe this song is what will give you enough confidence to admit everything to him, too. As you stand there, listening to his mellow voice sing confessions to no one but you and the stars, you think you grow a little more courageous that day.

Maybe you won’t be able to tell him tonight. Maybe not tomorrow, nor next week either. But as you gaze back at his hopeful eyes, you know deep in your heart that you’ll find the words you’ve been looking for.

“I’ll keep waiting for you, if you let me.” Jungkook’s voice floats gently to you, and settles in your open palms. This time, you don’t let go

xxx

Months later, Jungkook stops working at the restaurant when an offer from a major record company arrives in his mail. Apparently, a big shot from the local radio station had pitched him to an employee at that company and they were all pleasantly surprised to find a hidden gem at a random bar and restaurant.

In your apartment, you stare outside your window and to where his home is—well, where it was. You wonder if he finished packing his things, ready to make the big move tomorrow. You stand up with a stretch, sparing a glance at your still broken shower. It would be nice to have one more shower at his place… And after that? Maybe you should start looking for a nicer apartment; somewhere far away might be nice.

Your phone rings, and you see his contact photo light up your screen. With a smile, you answer.

“Come over, if you want. I won’t make you,” Jungkook assures you.

You laugh lightly, already halfway out the door.

#bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #bts x reader #jungkook x reader #bts reader insert #bts fanfiction #bts imagines #bts fluff #bts angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jeon jungkook #jungkook #bangtan #bts #bts fanfic

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 5 months

Text

The Golden Ratio - Part Two

Pairing: Michael Gavey (Saltburn) x f!reader Warnings: Derogatory language, angst, smut, virginity loss. Word count: ~4.7k

Chapter summary: Her and Michael struggle with the social side of university, and with each other. Series masterlist.

Author's note: For @assortedseaglass. No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

She is halfway through her second can of Carling, having downed the first as soon as Michael handed it to her, before she feels ready to speak.

In a rare display of empathy, he had handed her a lager the moment he’d opened his door to her, clearly having taken note of her miserable state. There isn’t a mirror in his room, so she has no idea of how puffy her eyes may still be from crying.

The beer is warm, but it’s doing its job and that’s all she really cares about right now. With every pass of the fizzy, amber liquid down her throat she feels lighter - she doesn’t normally drink, so it doesn’t take long.

“Go on then,” she says miserably, drink held in a loose grip between both hands as she perches on the edge of his bed. “You can say ‘I told you so’.”

“About what?” He says, eyeing her carefully, from where he is seated on his computer chair, turned away from his desk to face where she currently sits, the frame of it creaking slightly as he sits forward.

She exhales, keeping her gaze fixed on the ring pull of her beer. “Rich…he’s…he’s been cheating on me.”

“Oh.”

Michael clears his throat, obviously uncomfortable, and for a moment she thinks he won’t say anything else. Her mouth turns downwards bitterly, thinking it’s best she just leaves.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, so quietly she almost doesn’t hear it.

Her head snaps up, eyes locking with his, and he leans back as though wary of her reaction.

“For what?” She asks, a mirthless smile tugging at her lips as she cocks her head.

He bows his head, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger. “I dunno,” he glances back up at her, “just something people say, isn’t it? When something bad happens…”

“I don’t want your empty words,” she tells him, setting her can down by her feet before resting back on her palms. “Tell me what you’re really thinking.”

“You’re already upset,” he states matter of factly, “I don’t think that’s wise.”

“Fuck what you think!” She exclaims, shifting back to the edge of the bed. “Tell me.”

“Alright, fine,” Michael sighs, “I think Rich is a fucking loser, and him cheating is the best thing that could have happened–”

“Wow, thanks–”

“No, let me finish. He’s reading art, for fuck’s sake! What could you possibly have in common? You can do better, you’ve got a brilliant mind.”

Brilliant.

In two years, Rich had never once called her that. A feeling of warmth passes through her as her eyes meet the vibrant blue of Michael’s.

“You really believe that?”

“I know that.”

They stare at each other in silence for a few seconds, and she has no idea what possesses her, but suddenly she is leaning forward, pressing her lips to his. He is hesitant to respond, and when he does it’s chaste and uncertain, a marker of inexperience or unwillingness which she cannot decipher, so she pulls away.

But then he is chasing her, large hands cradling her head as he tugs her back, his mouth finding hers once more. This time the pressure is equal, their breathing heavy as the sticky sound of their saliva grows more significant.

Moving from the bed, not breaking the kiss, she straddles his lap, ignoring the way the chair wheels back against the desk with a heavy thud. Her fingers thread into Michael’s short, sandy hair, as the embrace deepens, her tongue brushing against his. She grinds herself down upon the rapidly growing bulge she can feel beneath the zipper of his cargo shorts, causing a rumble of approval to vibrate from deep within his chest.

It feels good to feel wanted, but as their hands paw haphazardly at each other through their clothes, doubt creeps into her mind. If this is his first kiss, then it would be his first time too. He is her friend, her project partner, she has just broken up with her boyfriend. None of this is a good idea.

Reluctantly, she pulls away, sheepishly climbing from his lap. They’re both breathing heavily, and Michael gingerly adjusts his glasses as he looks up at her in silent question.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” she says breathlessly, running a hand through her hair, “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m a bit pissed and got carried away…”

“Oh,” his eyes widen, as he nods in understanding, subtly moving to adjust himself in his shorts, “of course. I wouldn’t want to take advantage.”

She reaches out a hand, not quite touching him, but wanting to placate him as she fervently shakes her head. “No, no, it’s me taking advantage. I don’t want to ruin things between us. We’re friends.”

“Friends?” The way his eyes light up as he says the word makes her smile, hopeful that she hasn’t caused irreparable damage between.

“Yeah, friends.”

She needs that more than anything right now.

“So, what are you hoping to do once you graduate?” Michael asks, glancing between her and their collective notes.

It’s the day before they are due to present back to Professor’s Byrne’s class, and they have met in the library to go over everything one final time.

In the days since their kiss they have grown closer; sitting next to each other in the remainder of their introductory lectures and meeting up to work on their project, though they both know it is complete and needs nothing else doing to it.

She has grown used to Michael’s intensity, would go as far as to say she is fond of it, and genuinely looks forward to seeing him each day. Oxford feels far less lonely with him by her side.

“Something in the field of medical research,” she says, her fingers playing absentmindedly with the delicate softness of the petals of the sunflower head they’d cut down a few days prior. I read Professor Byrne’s paper before I applied here. It inspired me.”

“The one on biomedical systems?”

Her eyes light up as she smiles at him. “You read it?”

“Hmm. An interesting read, though I much prefer mechanics.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“Yes, I think so. I’ve been reading a lot about random matrix theory. I’d like to go into the field of statistical mechanics.”

“I look forward to reading one of your research papers one day.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, though she doesn’t miss the faintest of pink that tinges his cheeks.

It’s the day of the presentations, and just as she’d suspected, almost every group in the glass has presented back a table relating to how the Fibonacci sequence creates a spiral. Her and Michael share a knowing look, a smug smirk of satisfaction on each of their faces.

Aside from one presentation, which did in fact focus on rabbits, but delved too deeply into mating habits to be considered mathematical, theirs is entirely unique.

She beams with pride as she catches the impressed smile of Professor Byrne from the corner of her eye as they stand at the front of the lecture hall, talking through their findings.

“Very well done, both of you,” she tells them as they return to their seats.

The compliment makes her heart soar, providing her with a rush that lasts long after the class has been dismissed.

“Let’s go to the pub,” she says excitedly to Michael as they walk down Woodstock Road, away from the Mathematical Institute.

“You want to go to the pub? It’s the middle of the day.”

“There are no more lectures today, and I feel like celebrating. We really impressed Professor Byrne.”

Fifteen minutes later they’re sitting in the Lamb and Flag. A bright pink straw juts out of the neck of her bottle of Smirnoff Ice, and she rolls it between her fingers playfully as she watches Michael sip his pint.

The pub is half full with other students, all either skipping lectures or making the most of a free period.

“I told you that focusing on flowers would make us stand out,” she says, unable to suppress her grin.

Michael swallows his beer, wiping his mouth the back of his hand once he’s settled the pint glass back down on the beer mat. “Yeah, you did. We made the rest of the class look like losers,” he says with a chuckle.

“Yeah, we make quite the team, don’t we?”

He smiles, lowering his gaze and nods. There it is again, that adorable pink flush that dusts his cheeks.

“I’m gonna go to the loo. Will you watch my drink for me?”

He nods, watching as she stands and walks to the ladies.

Five minutes later, she can no longer see him at their table as she returns, though both their drinks are still there. She peers around the corner, seeing him standing before a larger group of students. A few she has seen around before, though they’re not on their course.

“So, is she your girlfriend then?” She overhears one of the guys ask Michael.

“No, not my girlfriend,” he responds, “but I’m helping her get over a break up, if you know what I mean.”

She swallows, feeling her heart lurch as she listens, unable to believe what she’s hearing.

“Oh yeah? Really helping her get over it, I bet,” the guy says, earning raucous laughter from the rest of the group.

She storms towards them, deciding she’s heard enough. Despite wanting to sound angry, her voice trembles as she speaks, betraying the tears she’s fighting to hold back. “I haven’t slept with you!” She shouts at Michael, meeting his shocked, wide eyed stare. “I would never sleep with you!”

Turning on her heel, the pub door swings open with a squeak of hinges as she pulls on it. She walks quickly down St. Giles’, swiping angrily at the tears that have begun to roll down her cheeks.

How could he? They were supposed to be friends and he’d talked about her as though she was something cheap. She had thought Michael was different to everyone else.

Back in her room, a hollow ache has burrowed its way into her chest, as she lays flat on her back on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. The high of that morning’s presentation is long forgotten as her mind races with thoughts of what she’d overheard in the pub.

Why had he spoken about her like that? Had he been pretending to like her all this time just for the sake of the presentation?

Nausea swirls in her gut as she’s startled from her throughs by a soft knock at her door. She knows who it will be before she even answers it, and is half tempted to simply ignore it, she doesn’t want to see him. However, curiosity gets the better of her and before she can stop herself, she’s moving towards the door to open it.

Michael stands on the other side, posture not as straight as it usually is, as his shoulders slope and he looks at her imploringly. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he looked remorseful, but he is too self assured for such emotions.

“What do you want?” She asks tiredly.

“I’m sorry,” he says meekly, his voice softer than usual. “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” she snaps. “So why did you?!”

“When you went to the toilet, that group called me over, started asking questions and I…I don’t know…I just wanted to feel what it would be like to be normal, just once. I–”

She feels anger run hot in her blood, nostrils flaring as he speaks and cuts him off. “I’m not here to act as your fucking cloak of normality, Michael! Fortunately, we’ve already given the presentation.”

“What do you mean?” He asks, brows pinching together with concern.

“I mean that the need for us to continue speaking to one another is over.”

She slams the door in his face, choking back a sob.

Fuck Michael Gavey. She is so incredibly angry with him, she wants nothing more to do with him. And yet she can’t understand why it hurts so much, somehow this feels worse than what Rich had done to her.

The next few days are torturous. She avoids Michael as much as she can, sitting away from him in lectures, looking away when she catches him staring at her. Seeing him online on MSN makes her heart ache, yet she can’t find it in herself to simply block and delete him. It feels too final somehow, worsened by the fact that she stares obsessively at his username, a part of her hoping a message will pop up from him. It never does.

Life goes back to feeling bland and lonely, with nothing to look forward to anymore. She goes about her days, alone, and then sits in her room, alone.

A week later and she is back in Professor Byrne’s class, only this time she seats herself as far away from Michael as she possibly can, trying not to think about how happy she’d felt to present beside him the last time she was in this room.

“So, I hope you all enjoyed your introductory project,” she begins, as she enters the room, setting her briefcase down upon the desk at the front. “It wasn’t just an exercise in presenting what you know about the Fibonacci sequence, it was a test of how well you work in pairs. That being said, the person you worked with will also be the person you are paired with for your upcoming tutorials with me.”

Her heart sinks.

No, no, no.

Chancing a glance over at Michael, she feels herself grow hot as she sees he’s already looking at her, and she quickly turns away. She had hoped to be able to avoid him, but now would have to spend an hour in close confines with him once a week for the remainder of first year.

Her heart races for the rest of the lecture and she finds herself unable to concentrate, hurriedly packing her bag and rushing to leave the room the moment they’re dismissed.

Unfortunately, Michael has beaten her to it and is waiting for her in the corridor. She bows her head, moving to step around him, but he blocks her path.

“I’ll ask for a different tutorial partner,” he says, “you needn’t worry about having to interact with me.”

She looks up at him, her eyes wide with shock. Her throat tightens as she’s met with the sight of his baby blues, boring a hole into her. “Don’t…don’t do that. It would look bad to Professor Byrne. We can both be mature about this.”

Silently she forces away the sadness she feels at him not wanting to be partnered with her. He’s in the wrong, not the other way around, she has to remind herself.

“As long as you’re sure?” He asks, shifting from one foot to the other, clearly feeling as uneasy as she does.

“I’m sure. I’ll see you around,” she tells him, finally stepping past and walking away.

“See you tomorrow,” he calls after her.

What?!

She rifles in her bag, pulling out her freshly printed timetable.

There it is. Tutorial - 9.05 - Prof. Byrne.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

She is filled with restless energy until the next morning. Her leg bounces involuntarily as she sits in the armchair next to Michael’s in the small, stuffy room of Professer Byrne’s office, who is seated opposite them.

Her eyes scan the shelves of books, the various notebooks that are fanned across the table, anything to avoid looking at Michael, until the older woman speaks.

“So, I hope you’ve both come with notes prepared to discuss the various ways of describing and displaying data, as discussed yesterday?”

Her face blanches. She’d been too distracted following the tutorial announcement to pay attention, and hadn’t heard her assign this. She has done no reading or note taking.

Michael glances over at her, taking in her worried expression. “Actually,” he interjects, “I think we may have misunderstood the instructions. We worked on this as a pair too, I hope you’ll forgive us just this once?”

The professor sighs, crossing her legs and tapping her pen against her pad. “Fine. Just this once. But I require individual work moving forward, you aren’t earning your degrees as a joint effort.”

“Understood,” Michael nods, rifling through his papers. “Here,” he says, leaning across and handing her a few sheets. “These are your notes.”

Slowly she takes them from him, her eyes scanning the pages, mostly graphs and tables of data, easy enough to understand and explain, without needing context.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, offering him a small smile.

The tutorial goes ahead without any further hiccups. Michael talks passionately and competently about what he’s read and the notes he’s taken, and she manages to talk through the data points he has provided her. If Professor Byrne suspects any unpreparedness, she doesn’t say.

Once it’s over and they step out into the hallway, she hands the papers back to him. “Why did you do that?” She asks quietly.

“You hadn’t prepared anything,” he says with a shrug.

“That was really nice of you.”

“It’s the least I owe you.”

“Thank you.”

He nods. “It won’t happen a second time. Come prepared next week. I want to hear what that brilliant mind of yours can come up with.”

There it is again. Brilliant mind.

She smiles at that, though her heart twists painfully in her chest as she watches him walk away. This is what she had wanted, she has to remind herself, he’d disrespected her.

Another two weeks go by, and though she is lonely it gets easier not having to avoid Michael. She finds their weekly tutorials are something she looks forward to, enraptured by how fervently he speaks about each topic, and preening with pride as he sits clearly impressed as she talks through her own notes and findings.

She misses him, though she is too proud to admit it. He had hurt her, and she’d told him to stay away. It would be humiliating to crawl back to him after that.

It’s Friday night and she’s in desperate need of a snack, so heads out of her room in the direction of the vending machines, running straight into a group of girls from her floor as they’re walking out.

Their giggles die down to silence as they see her, all offering her awkward, but obviously fake smiles.

“Not out tonight?” One of them asks, she’s fairly certain her name is Annabel, from what she’s heard in the corridors.

She shakes her head. “No, not tonight.”

“You could come out with us? We’re off to The Bull.”

She scans the faces of the other girls, all clearly less than enthusiastic about her presence, then shakes her head. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“Oh, darling, I wasn’t asking,” Annabel giggles, grabbing her arm.

Less than thirty minutes later she finds herself squashed around a table in The Bullingdon, next to Annabel. She recognises Felix and Farleigh as part of the group they’ve joined, all passing around Jägerbombs and cigarettes.

She feels out of place and underdressed, in jeans and a long sleeved shirt. The rest of the girls are all dressed up in colourful, sparkly eyeshadow and low cut tops.

Amidst the din of their laughter and seemingly endless chatter, set to a backdrop of ‘SOS’ by Rhianna, she can barely hear herself think. She sips anxiously at her coke, pressing her lips together and shaking her head when Annabel jiggles the 35cl bottle of vodka she’s produced from her bag, asking “want some voddy in that?”

Her focus is pulled away when she spots Michael tucked away in the corner. He’s sitting opposite the guy she saw him with on the first night, whose name she has since learned is Oliver.

Her and Michael lock eyes and he gives her a polite nod before returning his focus back to his own conversation. To be so close and yet so far from him makes her ache.

Try as she might, her gaze keeps wandering back to him, unable to focus on the people around her. She watches with keen interest as he rises from his table, headed towards the gents as Oliver makes his way to the bar.

“Olly! Olly! Over here!” Shouts Felix, and to her surprise, Oliver skulks over, with the body language of someone who’s about to ask them for spare change rather than join their group.

She raises an eyebrow as Felix shuffles over, making space for him to sit down and wonders if Michael will join them too.

Her question is answered when he returns from the toilets, giving Oliver an awkward wave which goes unanswered.

“Shit sorry,” Felix says, “are you here with your mate?”

“Nah, he’s just leaving,” Oliver says nonchalantly, accepting the shot he’s been passed.

From the way Michael bows his head and leaves the pub, she knows that’s the furthest thing from the truth, and shoots Oliver a pointed look.

“‘Scuse me,” she says quietly to Annabel, pushing out of her seat and following after Michael.

The chilly October air is biting against her skin in juxtaposition with the sticky warmth of the pub, as she attempts to follow his lanky gait.

“Michael, wait!” She calls after him, hurrying her steps to catch him up.

He stops, turning to her, a look of defeat on his face. “Go back to your mates.”

“They’re not my mates, and they’re not yours either,” she says softly. “I saw what Oliver did to you, that was out of order.”

“The closest thing I’ve felt to normal since coming here is hanging out with you,” he tells her. “The rest of them are all vapid cunts.”

“Then let’s go back to hanging out again,” she offers, stepping towards him.

“After what I did to you?” He asks, raising his eyebrows.

“I miss my friend,” she says honestly, “come on, we’ll make our own fun, we don’t need those losers.”

He laughs softly, and for the first time in weeks she feels whole again.

There’s an odd sense of coming home as she steps inside of Michael’s room, the welcoming warmth wrapping itself around her like a familiar blanket.

“There’s beer under the desk,” he tells her, closing the door behind him.

She makes her way over towards it, pausing when she sees the papers on top of it.

A First Course in Random Matrix Theory for Physicists, Engineers and Data Scientists is printed in large font on the top page, she lifts it away, seeing that on the second is a simple dedication to her.

Her heart flutters as she draws in a shaky breath. “What’s this?”

“Fuck!” He exclaims, eyes going wide as he steps towards the desk. “I hadn’t expected you to come back here. I’d forgotten I’d left this out. You said in the library a few weeks ago that you’d be keen to read my first paper when I published it. It isn’t finished, but I wanted to dedicate it you, since you made my first week here so–”

She presses her lips to his, hands reaching up to cup his cheeks as she kisses him fiercely. Michael returns the gesture, long arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her close.

“...so wonderful,” he finishes breathlessly, pressing his forehead to hers when they finally part for air.

“I look forward to reading it,” she grins up at him.

“Well, if you wanted, you could–”

“Do you really want me to read your paper right now?” She asks, gripping the front of his t-shirt and pulling him towards the bed.

“On second thoughts…”

He pulls her back in and their mouths meet again, desperate and needy as they topple onto the bed, tugging eagerly at each other’s clothing, quickly undressing each other.

Their pace slows once they are fully bare, and she runs her hands up and down the length of Michael’s sturdy back, enjoying the weight of his lithe body on top of hers.

“I missed you,” she whispers.

“I was an idiot,” he tells her, holding his weight up on his palms.

“Mmmm. The most stupid genius I know.”

He huffs a laugh. “I think I know just the thing that might cheer you up,” he tells her, moving down her body.

She props herself up on her elbows, watching with keen interest as he moves down her body, placing her legs over his shoulders once he reaches the juncture of her thighs.

He is hesitant at first, studying her closely, but then presses forward. She yelps at the sensation, all of his focus is on the bundle of nerves at the apex of her sex, and it feels electrifyingly intense with the motion in which the tip of his tongue moves against it. It’s too much.

She squirms, pushing him away with a squeal.

“Did you not like that?” He asks, seeming unsure of himself as he sits on his haunches, adjusting his glasses.

“It was a bit too much,” she admits, giggling slightly.

“Oh…sorry,” he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, “I read you’re supposed to shape out the letters of the alphabet when you do that. I’ve always been more of a numbers man, so I went for Pi instead.”

She laughs loudly, reaching for him when he bows his head in embarrassment. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later. Right now, I just want you.”

“Come here,” she says, leaning over to rummage in her purse for a condom. “May I?”

He nods, shuffling closer as she tears open the packet. He hisses through his teeth when she wraps her hand around him. He’s warm and thick, foreskin silky smooth as she gently rubs her hand up and down the length of him, feeling every ridge and vein.

“Is this your first time?” She asks softly, as she rolls the rubber from tip to base.

“Um…yeah…is that a problem?” He asks, reluctantly meeting her eye.

“Not if it isn’t for you,” she tells him earnestly, free hand stroking his cheek. “Do you want me to go on top?”

He shakes his head. “No…no, I want to feel you.”

She smiles in understanding, laying back and coaxing him to move over her, spreading her legs to accommodate him.

He feels heavy against her entrance and she fights to resist the urge to cant her hips forward, wanting to take things at a pace he’s comfortable with.

His jaw slackens as he pushes forward, and she sighs in pleasure at the slow stretch of him bottoming out inside of her. Their breaths are hot against each other's necks as he stills, adjusting to the new sensation.

When he eventually withdraws to slowly push back in again, she moves her hips in time with his, encouraging him, and he quickly finds a rhythm. They are a clash of teeth and tongues as their mouths meet messily, hands exploring each other as the bed creaks beneath the exertion of their movements.

“F–fuck…you feel good..” he mutters, causing her to moan and her toes to curl, as he nudges against her sweet spot.

She could come from this if he keeps it up, and she can feel herself clenching around him as the beginnings of her peak approach. Right as she teeters on the edge, he groans, pulsating and spilling into the sheath that separates them.

“Sorry..” he whispers, looking at her with fogged up lenses.

“It’s okay,” she reassures him, her fingers stroking through the hair at the side of his head, brushing over the temple of his glasses. “It felt good.”

“But you didn’t…you know…”

“Plenty of time for that,” she says, pecking his lips. “Like I said, we’ll make our own fun, won’t we?”

“Get another condom then,” he says, pulling out of her. “I’ve still got some making up to do.”

#michael gavey x reader #michael gavey #michael gavey x y/n #michael gavey x you #michael gavey imagine #michael gavey smut #michael gavey angst #saltburn #ewan mitchell #michael gavey fan fiction #michael gavey fanfiction #michael gavey fan fic #michael gavey fanfic #saltburn fan fiction #saltburn fanfiction #saltburn fanfic #saltburn fan fic #michael gavey saltburn #saltburn michael gavey

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steddieas-shegoes · 9 months

Note

Hi! I've spent hours reading your Steddie stuff when I honestly should have been sleeping because work and adulting. Gotta be some of my favorite writing! You have requests/prompts open? I have 2! If you like them :) 1. The Soulmate idea of people having a moving animal tattoo representing their Soulmate. Steve has hyperactive bat who loves to drape itself around his neck quite possessively. Eddie with a retriever pup or something that likes to curl up over his heart. 2. Always a sweetheart Steve? No King Steve era thing. He bugs Eddie to learn about D&D to understand his kids better qnd our poor metal gremlin melts :) I'm Soft Boi, so sorry for no angst.

I'm posting the 1st one here, but on the second one, I am gonna just give a rec instead. Last Man Standing by @griefabyss69 (GriefAbyss on AO3) is kind of this request but taking it to filth level 😈 But anyways, this idea is so fucking cool my dudes. I love a good soulmate AU, and when it's something super unique like this, I lose my shit. I definitely think someone could make a slow burn with this idea and if anyone does, please let me know! - Mickala ❤️

---------------------------------------------------------

He used to hate it.

A bat was such a menacing and disgusting creature.

Anyone who saw it would give him a look that was equal parts apologetic and concerned.

But when Steve started getting left alone at home, when he only had surface level friends, when he cried himself to sleep because the silence wasn’t enough to drown out the negative thoughts, the bat wrapped itself around his neck, and he didn’t feel so alone.

He’d started sleeping with his hand on his shoulder just to feel closer to his soulmate.

Hoped that whoever it was wouldn’t be disappointed that he was theirs.

————-

Eddie convinced himself for his entire childhood that the golden retriever tattoo that ran up and down his arms every day was some sympathy soulmate tattoo.

There was no way his soulmate was someone this hyper.

And then Wayne explained there was usually a story behind the tattoo, something more than just the personality or energy of a person.

At night, the retriever would pace across his chest, eventually settling right over his heart.

He wondered what his tattoo representation was.

He hoped it was a bat.

————-

“Dude, it’s not a big deal. Just show us!” Tommy yelled to Steve from the pool.

Steve had managed to hide it from his friends for so long.

He wasn’t ashamed necessarily, but he definitely didn’t need Tommy and Carol or any of the rest of the basketball team to see it.

The tattoo often stayed hidden pretty well during the day, usually hid on his thigh or stomach. He got away with always wearing shirts for practice and skipped post-practice showers with excuses that he had a study group to get to.

But his pool was a problem, especially now that he was at an age where everyone wanted to come over to swim when his parents weren’t around, which was often.

He tried to make excuses, said he was just worried about the sun, worried about a creepy neighbor watching.

It only worked a couple of times.

Now it was night, so no sun.

The neighbor was on vacation.

And everyone expected him to strip down and get into the pool.

So he did.

Everyone stared in silence as the bat flew from his stomach to his back and settled on his shoulder.

It seemed like it wanted to be seen, but still wasn’t sure how it wanted to be perceived.

Steve could relate.

No one commented on it, probably too afraid that one wrong word would get them kicked out of the pool permanently.

When he went to bed that night, the bat took its place around his neck, his hand rested in its place against his shoulder, and he sighed.

“I hope you’re being seen,” he whispered into his empty room.

——————-

The golden retriever was completely still for more than eight hours the same night Starcourt exploded.

Eddie tried not to panic for the first few hours, knew it could be any number of reasons the tattoo wasn’t moving.

But after hour six, he called Wayne at work, worry carrying over the line as fireworks boomed in the background.

“It’s not moving. It- you said when it stopped it meant- they can’t be, though.”

“Eds, take a few slow breaths, son. C’mon now, you’d have known if he-”

“But what if mine’s broken? What if the connection isn’t right?” Eddie tried taking breaths, but it wasn’t working.

The more he thought about it, the more likely it was that his soulmate was gone.

By the time Wayne made it home from work, the retriever had moved from his forearm to its usual place over his heart, and Eddie was fast asleep on the couch, his hand resting on top of it.

—--------------------

Being dragged into more freaky Upside Down shit was not on Steve’s to-do list. Then again, it never really was.

He wouldn’t have even bothered coming with Dustin and Max if not for the fact that Dustin was terrified something had happened to his new best friend Eddie.

He tried to hide his terrible mood, but knew he was failing.

He woke up this morning to his bat already on his leg, seemingly asleep, though it was normally still around his neck or on his shoulder when he woke up.

It hadn’t moved all morning, and he was a little worried about what that might mean.

He was also getting more worried by the day that he’d never meet his soulmate.

He knew it was dramatic, but most people he went to school with had met theirs by now, their tattoos now permanently placed in matching spots on their bodies.

“Dustin, this is so stupid,” he reiterated for the hundredth time as they walked up to the boathouse door.

He kept thinking it to himself as they poked around looking for Eddie, as he was being held against the wall with a broken bottle to his neck by Eddie, as he felt a flutter in his stomach at the way Eddie was watching him as they told him about the Upside Down.

He didn’t take the time over the next couple of days to pay much attention to his tattoo, didn’t really consider the fact that what little time he slept, he was so out of it he didn’t even notice whether the bat was on his neck or not.

Didn’t think about it until a moment in the RV alone with Eddie, when something in his brain told him to check on the bat.

“Sorry, just. Can you wait one second?” Steve interrupted Eddie’s thought as kindly as he could.

“Uh, yeah?” Eddie responded, confused.

He slipped to the back, not bothering to close the curtain that separated it from the rest of the RV.

He lifted his shirt in hopes of seeing it, but it wasn’t there.

He groaned and unbuttoned his jeans, rushing to just check and see if the bat had moved at all.

He shoved his jeans down and frowned.

It was in the same place still.

On his inner thigh on his right leg.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, or what he thought was under his breath.

“Everything okay?” Eddie’s voice was much closer than he expected, making him jump and rush to pull his pants back up. “Shit, was that your tattoo?”

“Yeah. It hasn’t moved in a while.”

“Neither has mine.” Eddie moved in closer. “Actually, mine’s on my thigh too. Kinda makes it hard to check.”

“Which thigh?” Steve couldn’t help asking.

“Right.”

“What is it?”

“Golden retriever. Can’t really imagine who it would be,” he admitted.

Steve’s first and only pet had been a puppy. A golden retriever named Daisy.

She was his entire world for almost a year until she chewed on one of his dad’s expensive watches and ended up being given to a man who worked with him.

He cried for days after that, didn’t talk to his dad for weeks, not that that was difficult to do since he was gone more often than not.

He vowed that he would get another one the moment he was an adult.

That didn’t quite work out.

But his nannies all used to call him a retriever, his energy contagious in the best way, his playful demeanor a relief. As he grew up, it got dulled by his parents, expectations, society, but he knew inside, all of that was still there.

“What’s yours?” Eddie asked, shaking him out of his thoughts.

“A bat.”

Eddie tilted his head and looked at him, eyes squinting to take him in.

“A bat?”

“Yeah. He’s a playful guy, but kinda shy it seems like,” Steve’s smile was fond until it was sad. “At least until he stopped moving.”

“When did he stop moving?” Eddie ignored the fact that it was a he for now.

“I guess I noticed it the day we found you in the boathouse.”

They both stared at each other for a moment, possibly coming to similar conclusions.

“What about yours?” Steve asked quietly, though something told Eddie he already knew the answer.

“The day you found me in the boathouse.”

“I-”

“How-”

“Dingus, we gotta go!” Robin was suddenly yelling as the RV door slammed open.

They could figure this out later.

They would have to.

—-----------------------

As Steve sat by Eddie’s bedside in the hospital, he thought about how often the bat tattoo had been the only comfort he had, the only thing that kept him from being completely alone.

He thought about how Eddie had always done his best to include the people who didn’t belong anywhere else, how he’d put on a show to protect himself, but hated being seen.

Wayne watched him from the other side of the bed, silently judging him, probably trying to figure out how to kick him out.

But he couldn’t.

He felt the pull now.

Now that he’d been around Eddie, somewhat gotten to know him, how he was fearless when it came to the gremlins, was willing to give up his own life if it meant getting Dustin to safety, he could feel the tug on his heart.

It was inconvenient since they didn’t know when or really even if Eddie would wake up.

So he waited.

He waited for Wayne to kick him out. He waited for doctors and nurses to have answers. He waited for Eddie to wake up.

He waited to know if he’d be able to have his soulmate or not.

—-------------------

Eddie’s first word when he woke up was Steve’s name.

Steve let out an uncontrollable sob, curling down so his head rested in the sheets of the bed.

Wayne’s hand was on his back, his voice trying to speak to him and Eddie at the same time.

They’d gotten closer over the last few days, Wayne’s calm presence enough to keep Steve from completely losing his mind with worry.

But the pain meds in the IV drip seemed to catch back up to Eddie within minutes and he was asleep again.

“He woke up though. Your boy woke up,” Wayne said to him, holding his hand.

“Yeah. He did.”

—-------------------

When Eddie left the hospital, Steve insisted on pushing his wheelchair to Wayne’s truck himself.

The nurse agreed with little argument; The hospital was incredibly understaffed and overrun with patients from the “earthquake” and she had a million better things to do.

The walk down was mostly quiet, but not awkward.

“I think some of my tattoo is missing,” Eddie finally said, barely more than a whisper.

“From the bats?” Steve asked.

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. Doesn’t change anything.”

“No?” he asked, voice full of hope.

“Not a thing for me.”

—------------------------

They dated.

It was unconventional in every way.

Steve had never pictured himself with a man, but now he couldn’t picture himself with anyone but Eddie.

Eddie had to explain that they couldn’t just go out and hold hands like any of Steve’s other dates, they had to be careful.

It wasn’t always easy; Steve got frustrated and Eddie got insecure.

But they always ended their nights with soft kisses, with whispered words of comfort and promises.

They fell in love like that, the tattoos only the beginning of something that no one could have expected.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #ficlet #request #soulmate au

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ebonyslasher · 9 months

Text

Spicy Alphabet: Jason Voorhees

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Such a sweetheart. He's eager to clean up after. It's a bit sloppy at first but he gets the hang of it. Tucking you into the bed and laying right beside you when he's done to cuddle. He does everything out of love and necessity. Of course you won't be able to move after THAT session.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He's quite proud of his torso, it's a powerhouse. His torso is the one thing he'll allow himself to look happily at in the mirror. Those abs and back muscles were a blessing.

You? He doesn't have one. Everything about you is a blessing from God to him. There hasn't been an inch of your body he's neglected.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

This may sound strange, but it depends on your relationship development.

Married? Cream pies oozing out of you every time.

Engaged? Cum shots on different body parts.

Even if you can't physically get pregnant, Jason feels like creampie always equals possible pregnancy.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

There's nothing dirty about this pure man. How dare you! Until he kills……then he's pretty messy.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Not experienced at all. Pretty sure he grew up evangelical Christian. They don't like even kissing until you get married. He's awkward, uncomfortable, and shy.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Missionary

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Let's avoid laughing until he gets super comfortable with sex. He might think you're making fun of him. Once he's more confident in himself, he'll also laugh at the weird sounds and awkward transitions.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

His pubic hair has its own ecosystem. You swear you could discover some new animal species in there. He'll groom if you ask him, or even let you trim him yourself. But if you like the ecosystem, be ready to become an ecologist 🌱

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Exceptionally romantic. There are times where it gets so overwhelming, it makes you cry. That and the incredible orgasms he gives you. Actually, you can't tell which reason made you cry the most.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Nah. He will just come to you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

As long as it's gentle, he's into BDSM elements. Mostly bondage and you dominating him. Big scary guy likes to be put in his place, figuratively, by his small, cute s/o. It helps him unwind from his killing sprees. Once married, he will have the strongest urge for breeding.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

If you are okay with it, on a bed near the lake. The moonlight shines down on you both, exposing the glisten of sweat on skin.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Your existence is enough to turn him on. But he gets especially hard when you take charge and take care of him, doting on him like the loving spouse you are.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything that will hurt you. Also, anything that he finds degrading for the both of you like; scat, piss play, or spitting

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Loves to give, give, givvvvvvvveeeee!! Oh, you'll be screaming in pleasure when he goes down. His tongue and the amount of saliva he produces makes you feel like you're sitting in his heavenly water.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Scared to go rough, so he's slow and sensual. Later on, he'll allow some rough moments, but they are very quick.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Would rather have a full love making session. Quickies remind him of the teens who he kills for having pre-marital sex. There's no love in the action to him.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

No. He'll try something new for you. But he has his hard limits.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Although he's a powerhouse, he delivers so much emotion through his movements during lovemaking. He can last 2-3 good rounds before he's tapped out. He needs to emotionally recover.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Sex toys? He's neutral. It depends on what it's being used for. He likes using them on you more than on himself. With bondage (and other related items) , he would rather be on the receiving end.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He is not unfair! He'll give you what you want. He's a sucker for you 💕.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Moderately loud. He grunts a lot. Sometimes whimpers.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

You were teaching him how to tie knots one day with some colorful rope you ordered. His hands were used as a demonstration. After running through various techniques, you noticed his arousal poking out. That's when you both discovered he likes being tied up.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Anaconda. Not kidding. He's soda can thick, 10.5 inches long. He has a small curve to the left.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Low, on his own. You're the deciding factor on how high his sex drive is. He tries to match you.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Sometimes he will quickly fall into slumber after caring for you. Other times, he's energized by the session. So he'll go out and check the camp.

#jason voorhees #jason voorhees x reader #slasher x reader #grown folks business #spicy Alphabet #calling it that cause you know.... Tumblr #also using these are practice to get back into writing #x black reader

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anim-ttrpgs · 23 days

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All TTRPGs are "Narrative-Focused."

I feel like I have got to remind TTRPG players (and even worse, remind TTRPG designers) that “story” and “narrative” are happening the entire time they’re playing no matter what.

There is no such thing as "Roleplay vs Rollplay," it's always roleplay and it's always narrative, whether you are rolling the dice or not.

“Crunch” and "combat' is not “when there’s no story or narrative just a bunch of boring numbers” and “fluff” is not “the time that the boring numbers step aside and let there be an actual narrative.”

“Crunch” is when the rules and/or the dice influence the story or narrative in some way, and “fluff” is when a player (including the game master) has to come up with a part of the story or narrative without any mechanical scaffolding supporting its emergence.

This isn’t a factor of just combat, but combat tends to be what people say this about the most. It’s not “combat vs roleplay”, or "roleplay vs rollplay", combat is roleplay, combat is part of the story.

There is no-such thing as a "more narratively focused TTRPG", all TTRPGs are equally narrative-focused, you just might not be recognizing the narrative because it isn't the narrative you're trying to tell. Even combat-focused games like D&D5e are telling a narrative story, it's just a narrative story about larger-than-life heroes who get into lots and lots of fights. All of those crunchy numbers on the character sheet are "roleplay mechanics." The Fighter's role is to engage the enemy head-on, the Rogue's role is to sneak around an attack the enemy from behind. That is their role in battle and that is their role in the story, because the story is about a group of battling battlers and the battles they battle. What a character is good at and what they are bad at is part of their characterization, and their characterization is part of the narrative. You're playing a game that is meant to tell the same type of story as a Marvel movie.

In fact if you’re playing a game like any edition of D&D, that is based around combat, then combat is actually the most important part of the story, because that is the time that a protagonist can fail in their goals and/or die.

If you’re playing an RPG, and you’re finding that the rules and dice are constantly getting in the way of the story you’re trying to tell—well first of all let me remind you that TTRPG stories are supposed to be emergent, if the DM keeps faking dice rolls to keep the story "on track", you aren't really telling an emergent story—and secondly then that is a glaring sign that you are playing the game wrong, and you are playing the wrong game. And when you search for the right game, you don’t necessarily need a system with less rules, you could be very happy with a system with a lot of rules as long as you play a system with rules that support the kind of narrative you’re trying to tell.

I've said it in another post before, that for TTRPGs, rules are like wind, and the narrative is like a sailboat. You might be having to push your boat up-wind, and feel frustrated with all the wind pushing back against you as you try to make a combat-focused game like any edition of D&D be all about characters calmly working out their differences. You might think then that you need less rules/less wind, and that crunch, dice-rolling, and/or combat are the opposite of storytelling and roleplaying, but it isn't. You need to find some wind/rules that are blowing in the direction you want the story to go. You need to find a different game. No, you really can't just homebrew combat out of the game.

If you don't like combat, you need to find an RPG that isn't focused on combat. If you do like combat, well, still find a different game than D&D5e becuase its combat is pretty bad compared to like every other edition of D&D and every other combat-focused fantasy RPG. If you don't like D&D5e combat you might even find that you really enjoy some other game's combat if you give it a shot.

Here is a post about escaping from WotC, D&D5e, and the legitimately harmful effects it has. It also has a great many more resources for that than this post does.

I'm listing one resource here because it's my post. The A.N.I.M. TTRPG Book Club can a good starting point for where to find a game that better suits your needs. It’s a discord server that treats playing TTRPGs like a book club, with the goal of introducing members to a wide variety of games other than D&D5e. RPGs are nominated by members, then we hold a vote to decide what to read and play for a short campaign, then we repeat. There is no financial, time, or schedule investment required to join this book club, I promise it is very schedule-friendly, because we assign people to different groups based of schedule compatibility. You don’t have to play each campaign, or any campaign, you can just read along and participate in discussion that way. And if you can’t afford to buy the rulebook we’re going to be reading, we will make sure you get a PDF of it for free. That is how committed we are to getting non-D&D5e RPGs into people’s hands. Here is an invite link.

if you want to support me and my team specifically Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy, our debut TTRPG, is going to launch on Kickstarter on April 10th and we need all the help we can get. Set a reminder from the Kickstarter page through this link.

If you’re interested in a more updated and improved version of Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy than the free demo you got from our website, there’s plenty of ways to get one!

Subscribe to our Patreon where we frequently roll our new updates for the prerelease version!

Donate to our ko-fi and send us an email with proof that you did, and we’ll email you back with the full Eureka prerelease package with the most updated version at the time of responding! (The email address can be found if you scroll down to the bottom of our website.)

We also have merchanise.

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actuallyadhd · 6 months

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Book: The Procrastination Equation Subtitle: How to Stop Putting Things Off and Start Getting Stuff Done Author: Piers Steel, PhD Publisher: Random House Canada Year: 2010

This isn't going to be a really formal book review or anything, I just thought I'd provide you guys with the pertinent information, in case you want to read it yourselves. :)

So, basically, Piers Steel is an industrial psychologist who specializes in procrastination. He teaches at the University of Calgary, in the Haskayne School of Business. He started studying procrastination because he procrastinated, so once again we have an expert who used his own problems to influence his studies. :D

The procrastination equation isn't a real equation - that is, it's not something you can plug actual numbers into and figure out what your procrastination number is. It's more of a theoretical approach to the definition of procrastination, that explains how and why people procrastinate. Written as a mathematical equation, it looks like the picture at the top of this post.

In other words, what we expect to receive for a task, multiplied by its intrinsic value (to us), all divided by how impulsive we are times how far away the due date is, equals how motivated we are to actually work on the task in question. The less motivated we are, the more we're going to put it off. This is why so many post-secondary papers are written the night before they're due: the papers are assigned months ahead of time, there is no certain expectancy of a good grade, and young adults are rather impulsive and don't really like working hard on things anyway. So the motivation to write the paper is really low until just before it's due.

One of the things I found really interesting about this book was the stuff about how brain function affects procrastination. Basically, it's the conflict between the limbic system and the prefrontal cortex that buggers us up. In reading about this, I kept thinking to myself, "he's describing ADHD!" but he never uses the term once, in the entire book.

The limbic system is the part of our brain that makes us do things when we want to do them. It's basically the seat of impulsivity. (Oh, by the way, he uses the word "impulsiveness" throughout the book. I prefer "impulsivity," even if my spell checker doesn't believe it's a word.) The limbic system is perfect for a hunter-gatherer society. Of course, evolution means that we are always perfectly designed for the environment we no longer live in. :)

The prefrontal cortex is the part of the brain that deals with executive functioning. It's where we make plans, follow through on plans, and all that other great stuff that is basically contrary to the nature of the limbic system.

On to the practical stuff...

First there was a self-assessment quiz (it's in chapter two, if you decide to read the book). People procrastinate because they have low expectancy, low value, or high impulsivity. As it turns out, my problem is mostly with impulsivity. In other words, I postpone doing things until the last minute because other stuff keeps catching my attention. I do the other things first, not because I don't think the first tasks are important (value) or will pay off in the end (expectancy) but because whatever it is that I end up doing instead is just way more interesting in the moment--long-term thinking just isn't my strong suit. (I'm pretty sure this is due to ADHD because I would always do all the research for a paper right when it was assigned, and then sit on my notes and let things percolate until the night before it was due. So I'd be completely prepared for the assignment and not complete it, even though I had everything I needed in order to do so.)

Chapters 7-9 are the ones that have the actual practical approaches to combat procrastination. I took notes on all of them, but of course not all of them are techniques that are going to be useful for me. I'm going to copy my notes anyway, though, because some of you guys might get something out of it, too. :)

Each bold header below has to do with a reason for doing something; the italicized sub-headers are the names of the ways you can deal with problems in that area, and are followed by explanations of how the methods work.

Expectancy

Success Spirals (+)

Set an ongoing series of challenging but ultimately achievable goals; maximize motivation and make the achievement meaningful.

Think of an area of life of real interest and strive to improve just a little beyond your current skill set.

Break town the tasks that daunt you into smaller and smaller pieces. Keep formal track of your progress. Count your successes.

Vicarious Victory (+)

Find an inspirational role model and/or a positive social peer group.

Seek inspiration from stories or others; it is easier to believe in yourself if you are surrounded by people who believe in themselves--or you!

Join a community, service, or professional organization.

Start your own support group; can be anyone, as long as it is mutually encouraging friends.

Wish Fulfillment (+)

Visualization, either mental contrasting (what you want vs what you have) or creative visualization (what you want, as per The Secret; not as effective as contrasting).

Think about the life you want; focus on just one aspect (break it down!); elaborate on what makes it attractive (e.g., diary, collage, quiet concentration); mentally contrast future with present, focusing on the gap.

Plan for the Worst, hope for the Best (-)

Rather than believing you can entirely and easily beat the problem of procrastination, believe that you can beat it down.

Determine what could go wrong, reflect honestly on past experiences, and ask for advice; list ways you habitually procrastinate and post it where you work; avoid pre-determined risks as much as possible; develop a recovery plan ahead of time; use the recovery plan.

Accept that You're Addicted to Delay (-)

Acknowledge powerlessness over procrastination: truly acknowledging that any single failure of willpower inevitably leads to the collapse of all your self-control gives you far more motivation than believing that occasional lapses can be safely contained.

Keep a daily log of procrastination habits; acknowledge that a weak will is the biggest problem, and "just once" is the beginning of the end; accept that the first delay justifies all the rest of them.

Value

Games and Goals

Finding the balance between the difficulty of your task and your ability to do it is a key component for creating flow, a state of total engagement.

The rist of procrastination diminishes when tasks are relevant, instrumentally connected to topics and goals of personal significance.

You need a string of future goals that you find intrinsically motivating to hook your present responsibilities onto.

Frame long-term goals in terms of the success you want to achieve (approach goal) rather than the failure you want to prevent (avoidance goal).

Make tasks more challenging; connect tasks to long-term goals (what you find intrinsically motivating); frame goals in terms of what you want to achieve rather than what you want to avoid.

Energy Crisis

Spoons (mental and physical).

Do difficult tasks at peak performance times; don't get hungry; exercise lots; make sleep predictable; respect your limitations.

You Should See the Task I'm Avoiding

Doing other things instead of the thing we're supposed to be doing - getting things done, but not the "right" thing.

Identify something you've been putting off, then things that are more enjoyable and do them instead/first.

Double or Nothing

Procrastinators tend not to reward themselves for getting things done.

Anticipated rewards make the work more enjoyable, which helps winning.

List rewards you can self-administer, promise yourself these rewards; consider ways of making tasks more enjoyable (pairing) without overriding the work.

Let Your Passion be Your Vocation

Finding work you want to do is a major step toward avoiding procrastination.

http://online.onetcenter.org/find/descriptor/browse/Interests

Look at careers involving activities you love or like doing; filter out all the occupations for which you don't possess skill or ability; rank by demand.

http://careervision.org

Impulsivity

Commit Now to Bondage, Satiation, and Poison

As you get closer to a temptation, your desire for it peaks, allowing the temptation to trump later but better options.

Throw away the key: eliminate the alternatives.

SatiationL meet your needs in a safe and managed manner before they intensify and take control (schedule recreational activities first, then add chores - "unschedule").

Try poison: punish failure.

http://www.stickk.com/

Identify your temptations, then...

Put them out of reach or far away;

Satisfy your needs first; or

Add disincentives to make them unattractive.

Making Paying Attention Pay

Inside out: pay attention please!

Frame in terms of abstract and symbolic features.

Ascribe negative qualities and consequences.

Outside in: now you see it, now you don't.

Regain stimulus control by making it harder to access or even notice the temptations.

Declutter and replace the clutter with triggers for tasks you usually procrastinate on.

Make workplace a cue by working until motivation disappears; then go elsewhere to goof off (this could be just another profile ont he same computer so you have to log off and back in if you are going to goof off).

Use covert sensitization to make distractions less inviting; focus on abstract aspects of temptations; eliminate cues; replace distraction cues with work-related cues; compartmentalize work and play as much as possible.

Scoring Goals

The finish line is just ahead.

Set corporeal goals with real deadlines, use mini-goals to get started on a task, structure the goals so that they are appealing (i.e., inputs [time invested] vs outputs [what's produced]).

Full automatic.

Intentionally adopt a routine; make an explicit intention to act (if-then is pretty good for this).

Frame your goals in specific terms so that you know precisely when you have to achieve them; break down long-term goals into a series of short-term objectives; organize your goals into routines that occur regularly at the same time and place.

"Optimal self-control involves not the denial of emotions but a respect for them."

#actually adhd #procrastination #book reviews

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dusty-cobweb · 6 days

Text

Julian realizes that Garak is still hurting weeks after the incident with the wire. He intends to help.

tw // mention of suicide, animal death (not explicit)

Garak lied. He knew how to mold his face, suppress the suspicious lilt of his voice and stim of his hands. Yes, Garak was a very good liar.

However, today, merely a few weeks after the wire incident, his facade trembled. It wasn’t obvious, not at first. But Julian knew Garak, or at least knew how he acted.

He would smile coyly, maybe move the replicated flowers from the center of the table, press his hands together politely while Julian got his meal. Afterwards, they would exchange barbed words, meant not to hurt but to puncture holes in the other’s argument. It was fun, for the most part. One they equally enjoyed.

Now, Garak still smiled, but his lips pressed flatter than usual, painting a thin line against dull scales.

“Doctor? I do hope I’m not boring you?” Garak’s voice fluttered in, almost amused at his lack of attention.

“No! No, not at all Garak. It’s just…” Julian tried to find the words, tried to place what was so wrong with the picture in front of him.

“Just..?” Garak questioned.

“Your scales— they’re not shiny like they usually are.” Julian ended up saying, cursing himself as he did. Garak seemed just as surprised as himself, his brow ridge shooting a bit higher than usual.

“You know how work goes. Lots of commissions make for not much time for scale treatment, you understand,” He says, “Now about the Mirabal sisters; I can see what you were trying to say with the story, but in Cardassia a leader such as Chujillo”— his accent slithered out—“would never have taken power in the first place. Our peer-reviewed system prevents this.”

At any other time, Julian would’ve jumped at the opportunity to dissect what peer-reviewed meant (he suspects that’s why Garak said it), but right now all he could think about was finding out why Garak was so evasive.

“Garak,” He needled in what others have said is his “doctor’s voice”. “Do not try to avoid the subject, not with me.”

For a moment, Garak’s eyes darkened. Not in anger, but something more soulful; a bone deep exhaustion that settled heavily on armored shoulders. It was like all the life had left his body, leaving only the aftermaths of the wire in its place. And then— just as quickly as it came— it left, leaving only Garak’s saccharine sweet smile.

“My dear, there is no need to worry.” He said simply. No further explanation, no more platitudes, no lies. The worry in Julian’s heart turned desperate.

He was losing Garak.

Julian sat quietly with that thought. Garak sipped his tea. Finally, “I had a cat when I was younger.”

Garak looked at him over his tea.

“And here I thought I knew everything about you, my dear doctor.” Garak smiled lightly. Smiled as if Julian wasn’t plunging down a rabbit hole of what-ifs.

“She was the cuddliest thing— a calico, meaning she had all these multicolored spots on her fur. Gosh, she was beautiful. And wherever I went, she followed. Always my little shadow. If I sat down, she jumped onto my lap. If I showered, she would wait in the sink. Every night, she would find a way to sleep on me, even if I turned over.” Julian smiled sadly at the thought— it had been so long since he thought of Mu’izza.

“While that’s quite touching doctor, I don’t know how that’s related to totalitarian dictatorships of Latin America.” Garak once again took up his teacup.

“One day, she just got up and left. Jumped out of an open window, maybe. I don’t know.”

Garak frowned, “I’m sorry my dear, that must’ve been heartbreaking,” After a few moments of considering pause, “If she was fed well, taken care of—loved— then why did she leave you so suddenly?”

“Because cats hide when they go off to die, Garak. They don’t want to be vulnerable in front of others.”

Julian looked at Garak, really looked at him. And Garak saw his desperation, his pleading for him to understand. And of course Garak understood; the doctor was hardly ever subtle with his metaphors.

“Ah,” Garak said simply, tea cup placed gently back into its plate.

“Sometimes I think if Mu’izza stayed and let me take care of her, that maybe I could’ve saved her.” Julian’s voice got softer at the end, cushioned by a long standing sadness.

“Or maybe you couldn’t have. Maybe you would have just prolonged her suffering by helping her. Doesn’t she deserve to die when she wants?” Garak retorted. He was angry, he realized suddenly. He was so angry. Garak wanted to snarl, to bear his teeth and swipe their meals off the table, watch his delicate tea cup shatter. He wanted to throttle the doctor, make it so he could never breach his psych again.

Through his newfound fury, Garak heard the doctor’s voice flutter in again, “You’re right. Maybe she would’ve been miserable. But we’re peddling hypotheticals again. The fact of the matter is my little Mu’izza was still vulnerable when she died. It didn’t matter where she went to die, she always would’ve been powerless. At least with me, I could’ve had her in my lap, could’ve shielded her from the cold, could’ve—“ Julian’s voice wobbles, just slightly. It’s enough for him to pause, take a deep breath, and look away. Garak notices the barely there shimmer of tears in his eyes.

Oh, my dear Julian, Garak realizes. The anger at the doctor ebbs, turning into an aching love that moves him to wrap his hands around the doctors’. Julian looks back at Garak, surprised. For a moment all he does is look at their enjoined hands and Garak worries he miscalculated. Then, slowly, Julian squeezes.

“I just… I just wish I could’ve said goodbye. That’s what I really want.” Julian whispers, just for Garak to hear.

“I see that now, my dear. I’m sorry if I brought up bad memories.” Garak returns the squeeze.

“Are you sorry enough to not make more bad memories?” Julian asks. His voice was like a molten sword dipped in oil, fiery words hidden beneath a tempered tone.

“You cannot ask that of me, my dear. Please do not ask that of me.” Garak pleads. Julian frowns, worrying his lip between his teeth. Finally, he nods.

“Then, I only ask that you let me say goodbye. Will you allow me that?”

“Of course, my dear doctor.”

Julian squeezes his hand and makes to let go, but Garak holds on. Perhaps it’s selfish of him to cling to the doctor. But now that he’s felt the warmth of his hand and the breadth of his care, Garak can’t imagine letting him go now.

yeah this is bad but idc. no beta, no thoughts, just pure procrastination from finals.

good night everyone ! sweet dreams to me (i will be playing solitaire until 3:30 AM)

#garashir #julian bashir x elim garak #julian bashir #elim garak #fanfic #writing

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venusjeon · 1 year

Text

golden arrows

the god Apollo is dared to seduce the first mortal his eyes set upon without revealing his identity, so changing his appearance slightly and taking the name of Hoseok, he crosses paths with you. but as it happens, the only man you say you'd ever lie with is Apollo... also, you're on a quest to steal his golden arrows.

♔ PAIRING: apollo!hoseok x mortal!reader

♔ GENRE: greek mythology, historical & bet au, adventure, fluff, humour

♔ WORD COUNT: 9.6k

♔ WARNINGS: religion themes, drinking, swearing, period-typical sexism, animal hunting&sacrifice, nudity, kissing, mentions of non-consensual sex, sex happens but no smut soz, murder

♔ BETA: @yoonoclock <3 thank you so much again !!

♔ AUTHOR'S NOTE: nvm the fic can we appreciate the banner bc i kinda served with it. no but this has been in my wips for almost as long as i've had this blog so i'm v excited for you guys to read it :D

Heroic Age

Sing to me, ‘o muse, the song of a priestess who was loved by a god willing to forgive her wicked crime.

It was a peaceful night on OLYMPUS, the home of the gods, where everyone had gone to sleep hours ago under a black sky dusted with stars.

Everyone save Apollo, Hermes, and Dionysus, who refused to be parted with their jug of wine that refilled on its own so the party should never end. So much of it had they consumed, though, that even the god of the drink had come to neglect his cup, slumping over the table while his half-brothers slouched on their chairs.

But what they were yet to lose was their sense of humour, as they teased each other about their tragic love lives. Now, it was Apollo’s turn to be taken the piss out of.

“At least the objects of my desire run towards me, not away,” laughed Hermes. “What was that nymph’s name, Daphne?”

Apollo gestured his discrepancy by waving his index finger side to side. “That was the doing of that winged fuck, Eros.” Famously, he had struck Apollo’s heart with an arrow that kindled love and Daphne’s with one that banished it. Pursuing her through the forest until she begged to be turned into a laurel tree to escape his advances, Apollo learned never to get on the wrong side of the god of desire again. “He’s always had it in for me, I tell you.”

“Sure, yes, blame him,” twice-born Dionysus said, cheek still glued to the table. “We can all play that game.”

Hermes nodded. “Admit it, brother, only the thrill of consorting with an immortal draws them to you. And it fades quickly once they realise you can’t pleasure them in bed.”

“Oh, you tell yourself that’s it.”

“I bet you my herald’s staff.”

“Bet what, exactly?” Apollo scoffed. “It’s not like I can stop being a god. Your joke of a point cannot be proved, you fool.”

“Except, it can,” Dionysus said as he sat upright, but Apollo didn’t understand, so he sighed, “Isn’t intelligence supposed to be one of your domains? We’re no strangers to changing our appearance so that mortals can’t recognise us, so seduce the first one you see without revealing your true identity. It will confirm they’re not pretending to love you just because you’re a god.”

“Another of my domains is prophecy, you seem to forget. I can’t lie. Otherwise, who would believe my oracles?” Apollo pointed out, then smirked. “It’s also why I can be trusted when I say you two are my least favourite Olympians.”

He was allowed to joke, right?

“More merit if you succeed. Which you won’t, of course,” Hermes said with a smile shared by Dionysus.

Apollo pursed his lips. He was aware the wine was to blame for his taking offence at the mocking tone of his brothers, but he couldn’t help his own pride.

“Very well. Kiss your staff goodbye.”

He would show them.

Past noon the next day, shining Apollo descended from the summits of Olympus having taken the likeness of a youth whose good looks equalled his—physical attraction was after all a part of love, as was Aphrodite’s other realm, beauty, a part of Apollo’s identity.

He would take the name of Hoseok. It meant ‘a name known throughout the entire country’, so it could perfectly be a new epithet of his, like Phoebus or Delius were. Yes, not a lie. All good. So, Hoseok chose a forest near the city of TEGEA to wander through, hoping to come across someone. That someone was you.

Bowstring drawn and arrow aimed at three sword-wielding men.

Without a second’s delay, Hoseok made appear his golden bow and arrows, known to never miss their archer’s target. Surely coming to your rescue would be a good start? Except... you might need none.

The men were close enough to trust their own weapon outdid yours, failed to consider you’d move fast enough to dodge the sharp edge of their bronze swords and that by grabbing your arrow by its shaft, you’d manage to graze their skin with its tip, forcing them to step back with a grunt.

Unwilling to wait and find out how they’d counterattack, Hoseok nocked and then released his own arrow, which as intended, landed right before their feet in the form of a normal wooden one.

You turned around with a frown. Who–?

“That can’t be fair, three against one?”

The sound of the men fleeing behind you at the sight of this stranger halted your thoughts. His face certainly did too, as well as his bright hair that shone under the sunlight like spun gold. With a satisfied smile, he stored his weapons in the quiver he carried on his back and approached you, chest slightly out as if he owned the forest. From each step he gave seemed to spring a harmony that filled the air, but you still gripped your bow, wary. He noticed. “I mean you no harm.”

Once he was in front of you, Hoseok was able to take a better look at your face, one he instantly liked. What a relief that bet or not, he’d pursue you. However, he also noticed your smile was forced, as though being saved was an inconvenience.

“Good to know. Thank you for the help. I’ve no time to lose but if our paths ever cross again, I promise to repay your favour.”

And just like that, you walked past him.

“Wait!” He turned around to catch up with you once he got over the unforeseeable blow. “Allow me to escort you out of the forest. There may be more bandits lurking about.”

“I don’t need your protection.”

Clearly... He chuckled, “But I might need yours.” Just not for the reason being discussed.

Now that he thought about it, was this the work of Hermes? After all, he was the one in charge of keeping roads and travellers safe, as well as thieves.

You looked him up and down while walking. A man with such a build, he certainly would not need help, and if he wanted something of yours, he could just take it—or try. So he really was just a kind stranger, huh. “As you wish.”

Hoseok smiled, held hands behind his back. “Tell me, what is your name and where do you come from?”

“I am Y/N, and I’m a priestess of Apollo in PYLOS.” Hoseok almost gasped in delight. Well, this was fate!

Although based on the fact you dressed a man’s knee-length chiton and wore your hair tight up in a subtle bun, he’d sooner have guessed you were a follower of his twin sister, the huntress Artemis. The reason for it was probably that it was safer to travel as a man, but either way Hoseok was fucked. His priestesses were sworn to chastity.

“We are a long way from Pylos.”

“And going further away north-east, I know. I’m… on a quest.” The stranger’s visible intrigue pressured you into providing some context, “My younger brother Jungkook is a servant at the royal palace, and two days ago he was charged with treason for trying to murder the prince, of which I believe he is innocent. We weren’t allowed to speak but he’s a sweet boy, such evil would never cross his mind. He’s being kept in a cell now, awaiting an execution only I can prevent, for the king said he’d be pardoned if in seven days I brought him Apollo’s golden arrows...”

Hoseok had to stop himself from making a dramatic halt. If Jungkook was indeed as innocent as you claimed, you could pray for him to aid your brother either by lending you the arrows or making the king see reason. You needn’t be on a quest. Unless, “You mean to steal them.”

“I’ve no choice,” you said bitterly with your eyes cast down, ashamed all the same. Priestesses were supposed to honour the gods, yet you were about to rob one of them, yours. It was a blasphemous defiance, hubris, but also the only way to save Jungkook. You glanced at the stranger, wondered whether he was contemplating stopping you. “I bet you regret scaring those three robbers away earlier. It is odd that I haven’t rightfully been struck down already with a golden arrow shot from the Heavens for what I’m about to do. I know I’d deserve it.”

Hoseok understood your hands were tied. It was not you whom his anger was directed at, but the king, for sending you off on such a mission. He’d deal with him.

First, though, came you. No matter your circumstances, you were the first mortal he’d seen, and he’d already decided where to display Hermes’ staff in his palace in Olympus.

“Maybe Apollo has looked into your heart and seen it is pure, and will punish that who is making you do this instead. If only you pray so to him.”

You scoffed. “I think he has more important things to do than listen to the prayers of a nobody.”

A nobody? But you were one of his priestesses! There were few mortals dearer to him.

“I assume, then, that you’re headed to CORINTH.”

“Correct. I’m to catch a ship there to cross the gulf. But enough about me. What do they call you, and why do you find yourself in this forest?”

A forest that, you’d failed to notice, was crowded. Nymphs of nearby trees, flowers, lakes, and springs, all gathered to stare at Hoseok in awe as he walked. Animals too. They could see his ethereal self under his disguise, yet dared not approach him, hiding instead from your sight. Were he not busy, he wouldn’t mind lying there to sing and play the lyre for them.

“I am Hoseok, and my brothers… want me to meet a girl. I was on my way to her.”

“A girl? Do you mean, to take as wife?”

Hoseok astutely answered the first question only, “Yes. I’m told she will likewise be in Corinth.”

“If you can keep up, I’d not mind a travel companion.” Hoseok was about to say keeping up was not a problem with him when he realised the animals were dispersing and the nymphs forming a crowd ahead. You followed his gaze and groaned. “Another obstacle? Who am I, Theseus?”

Hoseok laughed, “Every hero faces challenges.”

Thief, rather. Though being called hero did make a flush creep across your cheeks… until reaching the hubbub, where all colour drained from them. The nine Muses were there, a youth knelt and clasping the knees of one of them in the manner of a supplicant.

“Please,” he begged, “I didn’t mean it, it was just a jest!”

They weren’t moved by his tears. “All here heard you set yourself above shining Apollo, speak ill of him. It is only fitting your mouth be sewn shut with a lyre’s string as punishment.”

Hoseok raised his eyebrows, amused. Nice one. He wished he could be there in his real form to do the job himself. But seeing you attempt to gulp the lump in your throat beside him, he could tell you were horrified. Did you fear to share the same fate? You would, in truth, had Hoseok caught you trying to steal his arrows, but now that he knew your justification and was set on seducing you, a different future was to be woven by the Moirai.

He whispered in your ear, “I think I dropped my bag of coins back where we met. I promise I won’t be long.”

You sighed, “I’ll watch the spectacle in the meantime.” To know what to expect when your time came…

The fair-voiced Muses recognised Hoseok as he left, pretended not to. If he was undercover, he must have a reason, and they wouldn’t out him. They weren’t surprised when he returned as Apollo.

He appeared out of nowhere, the god you planned to slight, so beautiful your eyes almost hurt as when one looks at the sun—radiance shone from his head, his curly hair so bright that a golden crown must camouflage in it under the sunlight, much like Hoseok’s. Guilt stung your heart when his gaze found yours and he smiled warmly.

Apollo then turned his attention to the kneeling youth, who’d begun to sweat. “What do we have here?”

“This boy boasted he was a better musician than you.” The Muses laughed, and you almost did too. It was a ridiculous claim.

“Did he?” Apollo’s good mood seemed untempered. “Well, I’ve no time for a music competition, so shall we just agree you’re in the wrong?”

The youth was quick to nod, yet dared not look away from the ground. “Y-Yes, Phoebus!”

“Do you regret your crime?”

“Awfully, lord, I do!”

“Well, tempted as I may be to make an example of you, today I’m feeling merciful. You’re forgiven.”

There was a pause in which the whole forest fell silent, asking themselves if they’d heard right. A god letting pass an act of hubris was unprecedented. You held the air in your lungs, unsure whether to release it in relief, as this might just mean your venture wasn’t doomed.

“Forgiven?” Even the Muses were dumbfounded.

“It’s not often mortals show remorse, so as long as they do, there’s no need for harsh punishment. Especially if they’re pretty.” Apollo glanced at you, making your lips part, before turning around to face the youth again. “Pour a libation for me and we’ll call it a day, eh?”

Later, long-winged Selene was pulling the moon behind her from the chariot she drove in the sky to bring the night when thanks to Zeus’ sacred laws of hospitality, xenia, an old couple near ARGOS was happy to feed you dinner and provide a bed for you to sleep in—one you’d have to share, which was absolutely fine and not the cause of your arisen nerves.

But once lying on it, the tension in your muscles weakened as you listened to Hoseok play a soothing melody on a lyre he’d found in a chest, and a faint smile settled on your lips.

“This song… I once heard Apollo play it,” you confessed. Given Hoseok was the author of it and had taught it to no one yet, he frowned. He was certain he’d never met you before that day, so how could you have heard him play it?

“When?”

“I was a child. Jungkook and I were playing in the forest outside of Pylos when we heard it. We followed the sound and found Apollo sat against a rock with all sorts of animals surrounding him, listening to him play and hum. It was lovely.”

Even though the gods were known to harshly punish mortals who spied on them, Hoseok smiled too. He played often for the animals, so he didn’t know which specific day you were talking about, but he was glad it served as a happy memory that eased your journey into the embrace of sleep. Although it probably had to do more with your brother.

Hoseok couldn’t blame you, as he also loved his sister deeply, had even slain a divine creature for his mother once. Family was as important to you as it was to him and for that very reason, he realised then that Hermes’ staff was already lost to him. There was nothing else you could afford to care about.

Little did you know, there was nothing else Hoseok chose to care about but you.

Early the next morning, you reached Argos, only that you went around instead of through it.

The great city wasn’t closed, but the old couple had warned you Apollo had stung its citizens with his arrows of pestilence because their queen had neglected him in her devotion, sacrificing to all the gods but him. She should’ve accounted for the detail that while one of his sides was healing and medicine, the other was plague and disease.

Hoseok didn’t regret it. It was her fault her people were suffering. But the grim look on your face when you’d been told… He knew the news had cancelled out the hope born inside you yesterday and that you’d immediately asked yourself that if he’d done that over some sacrifices, what would he do to you for stealing from him?

Midway through the day, while hunting for lunch, he decided to lighten the mood.

“But why not? Most priestesses don’t serve for life!”

A part of you hoped Hoseok was exaggerating his dismay at your refusal to marry not to make you laugh, but so you wouldn’t suspect it was in fact real– No. There was no sense to that thought. Where did it even come from? You were a priestess, he was to be married, and you didn’t know each other.

“My family would have to come up with a dowry and they can’t afford it.”

“I think any is a small price to pay for a man to keep your bed warm.”

Oh… so that was it? He was indignant you wouldn’t know such pleasures? You’d never craved them, honestly, rather thought they were only possible for men. Interesting. But not important right now, as opposed to the rabbit moving about in that bush. Nocking an arrow on your bow, you whispered, “The only man I’d ever care to sleep with anyway is Apollo."

Hoseok felt smug for a second, as he followed your step, then reminded himself this was bad. You were supposed to fall for him, not Apollo. “I’m sure every man back in Pylos prays daily that you quit priesthood.”

A snort betrayed you and the rabbit darted away from the bush, so seizing the chance, you released the arrow and assured lunch. “Thanks Apollo!”

“Don’t mention it–” During the short duration of a missed beat, Hoseok’s heart had forgotten that it was common for mortal archers to thank him, the god of archery, when they hit their targets. Sweet merciful Zeus! Why was he on edge? “Uh… D-Don’t mention his name. We don’t want to summon him, do we?”

Before heading to the lifeless rabbit, you nodded, figuring he was right. “I reckon you can’t wait to meet the girl your brothers want you to marry.”

Hoseok didn’t follow after you, instead watched as you picked up the rabbit and struggled to remove the arrow from its body on your way back to his side. By your tone, he could swear you’d spoken from a place of jealousy, distant as though it may be.

“I find I wouldn’t mind if the trip to Corinth lengthened.”

You looked up once near enough to tell him you would, but the words flew away from your mind the moment your eyes landed on him.

Hoseok was pleased he’d taken this appearance. You were mesmerised, eyes narrowing, likely wondering how you hadn’t noticed until now how attracted you were to him!

Or not. “You’ve a spider crawling up a curl.”

Hoseok was starting to think Hermes and Dionysus were right… The warmth of his divine presence tended to do the job for him, his wit and charm really played a secondary role. Now, he was forced to give up the former, but you, Hoseok feared, were proving to be either immune to the latter or remarkably good at pretending so.

Or maybe it was his fault fully… Just, why the hell did he get so nervous around you?! It was like he couldn't muster a grain of confidence. He’d have to make an effort for the first time not just to flirt, but finish a conversation feeling like he had things under control. That he was in charge.

It wouldn’t help that he wasn’t used to being treated as an equal by a mortal. Much less given commands. ‘Skin the rabbits while I gather some wood’, ‘Burn the fat and bones as a sacrifice to Artemis, will you?’... Even when he’d offered you his share because he, as an immortal, didn’t need food to survive, you’d responded with an assertive ‘Eat’. Not to say he didn’t like it. It was amusing, in a way.

But passing by a small lake fed by a waterfall, Hoseok decided it was his turn.

“Fancy a swim?”

“Sure. And to be fed grapes, while I’m at it,” you chuckled, under the impression Hoseok was joking until you turned around and saw him getting rid of his chiton. Your eyes widened like those of Athena’s owl at the sight of his bare body, looked away only once you’d fought through your shock. “My brother’s life is at stake. If you wish to stay, then this is goodb–”

“Oh, come on, just a quick dive. When was the last time you bathed?”

“Back in Pylos.”

“Thought as much.” You discreetly smelled yourself and at once agreed hygiene shouldn’t be neglected. There was just one thing… and by the way you kept quiet, Hoseok noticed. “What, you’re afraid of water?”

“Not water itself, but drowning.” You played with your fingers, embarrassed to say, “I can’t swim…”

A loud laugh made you snap your head towards its source to see Hoseok approach you naked without any shame. To your own surprise, your feet rooted to the ground instead of stepping back as he promised, “I’ll hold you.”

Never would you have imagined you’d strip naked before a stranger and get in a lake with him, but there was something about him that inspired trust. You knew he wouldn’t take advantage, his gaze keeping away from your private parts proved it so. When the two of you slipped into the water, Hoseok kept a firm grip on your waist, even though you managed to touch the bottom if you stood on your tiptoes. For a second you wished you didn’t, so he could hold you even closer…

“Loosen up, Y/N, you’re as taut as a bowstring,” he said in a low voice, as he was so close he needn’t be loud, and you swallowed hard while nodding.

He next told you to move your limbs about and before you knew it, you were swimming and splashing him and giggling.

The dark began to skew the sky with stars sooner than expected, though, and you blamed the pleasant time spent at the lake for it. You were supposed to sleep in Corinth, where the festival of Aphrodisia was being celebrated, but the city was so far that you were going to miss your ship at dawn!

Luckily, Hoseok had a plan.

While you were picking up some flowers to present to foam-born Aphrodite for lack of a proper offering, he snuck away into the forest, somewhere you wouldn’t hear him summon his kin. A mention of Selene’s name was enough for the goddess to have her white horses land before Hoseok.

Elbow resting on the edge of her chariot and palm holding her jaw, Selene sighed, “I’m busy, Apollo, in case you haven’t noticed. Night doesn’t just come on its own.”

“Speaking of which, I need you to hold back the moon until we get to Corinth, me and–”

“Your priestess, yes.” Selene smirked when Hoseok frowned. “It gets boring up there. One resorts to gazing down, and your lame attempts at seducing this girl provide the funniest distraction.”

“Will you help me, or not?”

Selene laughed, “Gladly.”

And so it was that you reached Corinth before midnight, hair however completely dry as the day had lengthened by many hours. You could piece together no explanation for it, so it had to be what Hoseok mused, that the gods must be making mischief.

Despite the late hour, the streets were crowded with pilgrims who sang hymns to the goddess of love and beauty, and every column of every building was entwined with flowers. The air was also perfumed with the scent of cinnamon but as a priestess, you knew that was to mask the spilled blood of the animals being sacrificed outside the great Temple of Aphrodite, that you entered to leave your modest offering.

Hoseok waited outside, and scoffed when he spotted a familiar face dancing in the crowd, a garland crowning his head. It was the mighty messenger Hermes—or Taehyung, as he liked to address himself when mingling among the mortals in such form.

“Didn’t take you for a faithful follower of Aphrodite’s, little brother,” Hoseok laughed when they stood face to face.

“Well, you know her. She’s likely to welcome me back into her bed if I sing her praises. Literally.” Taehyung looked around to make sure no one was paying attention, made appear his herald’s staff out of thin air. “I hope you haven’t forgotten about our bet? Your priestess will die of old age before you make a move on her.”

“Love isn’t born in a day,” Hoseok retorted in his defence, ignoring Taehyung counting to two with his fingers. “Besides, she’s on a mission of her own, it isn’t currently a prime concern of hers. Be patient, I have no deadline.”

"Even all the time in the world won’t be of help to you, Hoseok.” Taehyung patted his shoulder before joining the dancing crowd again.

Soon, you walked out of the temple and came to a stop in front of Hoseok, too quiet. He frowned.

“What is it?”

You looked everywhere but at him. “She must be waiting for you, the girl you seek to wife.”

Ah, jealous? “I think she’ll be pleased if I keep you company until your ship sets sail tomorrow. Make sure no harm comes to you.”

Since you did want to be with Hoseok for a bit longer, the corners of your mouth quirked into a smile.

The night was spent in a cloud of food, drink, dance, song, and laughter. You loved Jungkook dearly, but it was alleviating to set aside the anxiety suffered for his fate, as well as yours. Wine was good at that, casting away all the bad from one’s mind.

At some point, Hoseok decided it was bedtime. Relying on xenia and the generosity of strangers, he knocked on the first door he saw and a family surely opened it to welcome you in. They showed you to a spare room after some chatting and the second you were alone, you wrapped your arms around Hoseok’s neck and made your lips join.

He was taken aback, but readily licked both your lips before kissing you back ardently, like you were the goddess and he your worshipper. You closed the distance between your bodies to melt into his warm embrace. Hoseok knew you craved him inside, so as a tease, he slipped his tongue in your mouth when you relaxed your jaw and slid it across yours as his cock would. That caused you to moan, and your core pulsate with lust. This might be one of your last nights alive, so why not treat it as such and give in to your desires? To the sweet passion Hoseok stirred inside you?

You would’ve, had he not suddenly pulled back.

Your mouth tried to seek his, even let out a few whines, but he wasn’t having it. Why? Why too did he look like he was suppressing annoyance?

Hoseok did want to savour every sweet bit of you, but what he’d tasted on your tongue was an abundance of Dionysus’ wine. In truth, he only needed take a look at you, so drunk you could barely stand, supporting your weight on him not to stumble. Hoseok sighed.

As a god, he wasn’t subjected to the laws of man. They didn’t apply to him, nor did their morality, so plundering you in that state wasn’t a crime. Mortals were created out of clay to serve the immortals and be playthings to them… and yet Hoseok wanted to earn your love. Not because of the bet, which meant less to him the more time he spent with you, but because he was catching feelings himself.

Besides, none of this was real to begin with. You were just convinced you were going to die, hence why you were doing what you normally wouldn’t.

“Not like this, Y/N.” And carefully, he led you to the bed, where you fell asleep in a matter of minutes.

Your eyes fluttered open when Selene’s sister Eos cast open the gates of dawn.

An ache grounding into your temples, you sat up only to realise the other side of the bed was empty, thanked the gods for it when memories of the previous night resurfaced and embarrassment drowned you. What had you done?

And more urgently, what time was it?

You couldn’t risk missing that ship, so you slapped your own cheek—yes—and pulled yourself together, dismissing every thought that didn’t include Jungkook before joining the family for a quick yet lively breakfast.

The walk to the port was however a quiet one, where neither you or Hoseok seemed to know how to get rid of the awkwardness, and because of that, it was disconcerting when he held your hands once stood by the ship you were to embark, so tenderly like they were injured and he didn’t want to hurt you.

“I want to come with you.”

It took you a second to react. “No. We don’t both need to suffer the wrath of a god.”

“But I won’t let you die.”

You withdrew your hands, smiling wistfully. “My death is not for you to impede.”

Hoseok bit his tongue. “Have faith. We will meet again.”

Sailing away you pondered over how, if you ever did see Hoseok again, it would be as a married man. You’d rather rot in the depths of Hades’ dead kingdom.

For the moment, you prayed Poseidon was in a good mood and his waters remained peaceful as fortunately, your destination was another: the home of the Muses, as the cave in MOUNT PARNASSUS was known to be, and the place where Apollo’s golden bow and arrows were safeguarded when he had no need for them.

Merely crossing the gulf of Corinth would take you a full day, so in the meantime, Hoseok set off to Pylos. He wanted to get to the truth of the matter.

He found your brother guarded only by bronze bars, snuggled up on the cold floor of the palace’s underground cells. Apollo squatted next to him to tuck behind his ear the fluffy dark hair that covered his face, and a whisper of Jungkook’s name was enough to waken him.

Indeed, it was wide awake how he screamed and cowered at the corner of the cell.

“It’s been but four days, the king said I had seven! You can’t execute me yet, whatever the prince says!”

“I’m no executioner, Jungkook. I’m Apollo.”

“The new cook?”

“The Olympian!”

“Oh…” Yes, he should’ve guessed it was absurd for the palace’s new cook to come greet him in his cell. Wait– Did this man say he was Olympian Apollo? Jungkook rubbed the remaining sleep off his eyes and wondered how he could not have recognised those shiny blond curls! “Oh.”

The god barely stifled an eye-roll. “I’m here to hear what happened. Tell me, and know that I’ll see a shadow behind your words if you lie.”

Jungkook gulped. “I was wrongly accused, lord. It is the prince who should be sentenced to death.”

Apollo cocked his head to a side. “The prince?”

“I’m his serving boy. The other day, I overheard him plot against the king with his stepmother. Everybody knows they’re having an affair… Well, everybody but the king, of course. I was going to warn His Grace, but the prince caught me and claimed I was the one behind the plot. The king decided that I’d be executed in four days from now if my older sister Y/N failed to bring him–” Jungkook shut his lips at once.

“My golden arrows.”

Oh, no. He knew of your quest? “Y/N is a priestess of your temple here in Pylos! She’s devoted to you, of all the heavenly gods fears your wrath most!”

“I know.” Apollo stood up and gave him a reassuring smile. “As I know you are telling me the truth.”

At nightfall, you arrived in DELPHI, heart hammering its way through your chest, as on the morrow you’d reach Mount Parnassus and carry through your blasphemous theft.

The nerves were clearly not going to let you sleep, so there was no point in making use of Zeus’ xenia. Instead, you were waiting for the change of guards at the entrance of the great Temple of Apollo—where the high priestess Pythia served as an oracle uttering prophecies under divine possession—so you could sneak in. Once inside, you walked to the end of the naos only to kneel before a tall statue of Apollo that made no justice to his ethereal beauty, and raised your hands into the air with your eyes closed.

“Hear me, child of Leto, he who presides over this temple! If ever I’ve served you in the past, if ever you’ve loved your sister as I love my brother and would do anything for him, grant my prayer and… do take out your vengeance on me. But not tomorrow when I rob you of your arrows, only after I have saved my Jungkook from the sword. Please, heed me!”

“I’ve never known anyone so foolish as to announce to a god her plan to steal from him.”

Your eyes snapped open to see the Pythia lurking in the shadows behind the statue. Shit.

Coming to your feet, you wanted to reach for your quiver and cut her life short before she alerted the guards. You were in a sacred place, but what was one more unforgivable sin?

What stopped you were Apollo’s own lethal weapons, his golden arrows, magically appearing in her hands.

“Phoebus has cursed them. Any who isn’t him and uses them will perish,” the Pythia explained flatly, as if she was hearing his voice in her head and repeating them out loud. “He wants you to give them to your king.”

She handed you the arrows, at which you stared astounded. Apollo knew? Had heard your prayers?

“What of my fate?”

“No harm will come to you by his hand, or any other,” she promised. “You’re under his protection now.”

Tears quickly flooded your eyes and then streamed down your cheeks. Your shaky breath morphed into a laugh and your laugh into a sob, all out of relief. Hoseok randomly crossed your mind, and the next question you didn’t know whether was addressed to the Pythia or yourself. “But why?”

She approached and cupped your cheeks, using her thumbs to wipe your tears gently. Even if you neither knew nor trusted her, you didn’t step back. Her touch was warm, felt strangely familiar…

“Because he’s looked into your heart and seen his light.”

Apollo was done with Hoseok for the moment. Or so he’d thought.

He’d meant to watch you from the clouds save your brother and be done with the ‘tomorrow I may die, so I’ll behave like nothing matters because nothing does’ cast of mind. He wanted to matter to you, to be loved by you.

Alas, his hopes and dreams were crushed.

The fifth day of your quest you spent sailing back to Corinth, but your sixth one, you finished entering Argos. Now, why in Hades would you do that?! Death dwelled in that city, had you forgotten? Or mayhap… you feared not disease, after being told Apollo would protect you.

Alright. He’d make you invulnerable like Achilles, then. No problem. He was about to when he saw two guards suddenly arrest you for no apparent reason in the middle of the street and drag you to the palace. Immediately, Apollo took the appearance of Hoseok and stormed off from Olympus—though really not that bothered in view of the fact that it meant he got to meet you again.

You, however, weren’t sure you were glad to see him. Not there, at least.

“Y/N, what a coincidence!” he joked before the guard manhandling him into the throne room forced him on his knees next to you. “Do you buy your vegetables here too?”

“Who is this?” the queen asked annoyed.

She was standing in front of the two of you, a small crowd of courtiers gathered as an expectant audience that seemed to be about to watch some spectacle. If only you knew what it was about. You’d been shoved there with no explanation, were about to demand one right before Hoseok showed up.

“He says he’s her companion, Your Grace.”

The queen frowned. “But the prophecy spoke of one only…”

Hoseok quelled a frown. Prophecies passed through him, and there was none yet that involved Argos. No, the city was supposed to suffer until he saw fit.

You, on your part, had had enough. Had wasted enough time. “I command you let us go right now! You’ve no reason to detain us!”

The queen scoffed, looking down both at and on you. “You command me, brat? I’d order your death if you weren’t already destined to have your throat slit at the sacrificial altar.”

What? In dismay, you turned to a Hoseok who seemed to not fear the queen of Argos at all, rather looked at her suspiciously.

“Perhaps if you were as kind as to tell us why, Your Grace,” he asked, disdain hidden behind his faked respectful tone. The queen wasn’t blind to it, but let it pass, choosing to just glare at him.

“Over the smallest thing, Apollo has cursed the whole of Argos with a plague. My seer claims the only way to appease his anger is to sacrifice in holy ritual the one person who dares enter the city.”

Hoseok almost laughed. Her seer was a fraud.

“Your Grace!”

Before you could even whip your head around, a guard had snatched the golden arrows from your quiver and walked over to the queen. You tried to stand up to retrieve them, but another guard held you down.

“What have we here?” The queen realised whom the arrows belonged to the second she had a closer look, gasped in shock. “It cannot be! Are these–”

“Mine.”

Everyone, including you, stared at Hoseok in disbelief.

The queen faced him. “So, you’re the thief?” Oh, no, of course! He didn’t know what had happened in Delphi, believed you’d stolen the arrows and would be punished by anyone who found out… Fool. Why would he cover for you? “Well, well. Apollo’s stolen weapons returned and a double human sacrifice… My loyal subjects, tomorrow Argos is saved!”

A loud cheer erupted, one you could still hear from the dark cell you and Hoseok were taken to by guards who then left to celebrate, trusting the bars to do their job.

You joined your palms and forehead with the wall, mumbled, “What use is your protection now that I’m stuck?” Hoseok knew that question was addressed at Apollo. The next one, however, asked as you turned around and walked up to him, was loud and clear and meant for Hoseok. “And what are you doing here? Are you mad?”

He flinched back, confused. Weren’t you happy to see him? “I came for you.”

You wanted to ask ‘What about the plague?’, but what instead came out was, “What about the other girl?”

Other… So you already considered yourself his?

Hoseok gazed into your eyes as he confessed, “My brothers wanted me to meet a girl, and I have.”

Your lips parted slightly. He’d turned down a possible bride in favour of you? He was mad. Mad enough to return whatever feelings you were struggling to suppress. You turned away from him, arms crossed. “A girl who’ll lead you to your death.”

Neither of you was dying tomorrow, Hoseok would sooner kill the whole of Argos than let anyone lay a finger on you.

“A girl who’d love me.”

Frozen in your spot, you daren’t turn around. Love was a strong word, and you’d known this man for just a few days. Eros’ arrow can’t have pierced your skin! Although… you couldn’t deny it must have grazed or scratched it.

“I don’t, I’m a priestess. What happened the other night… was a mistake. I’m sorry, I regret it.”

Since you weren’t looking, Hoseok allowed his lips an ironic smile. He could tell you were lying, trying to convince yourself rather than him. “You can both love Apollo and be in love with me.”

Shocked, you turned around. “Are you asking me to risk my position in order to what, be your lover?”

“It’s the gods who’ve brought us together,” Hoseok explained, walking closer. You held your breath, “who’ve shut the gates of my mind so I can think only of you. I believe the gods wouldn’t put your position in peril.”

And true that was. Priestesses were supposed to be spouses of the deities they served, so once Hoseok revealed his identity, you’d be relieved to learn your vow of chastity hadn’t been broken, as he was the only one it didn’t apply to.

You glanced down at his lips, then shook your head as though resisting a spell. “In my mind, there is only Jungkook.” The cell wasn’t too spacious, but out of stress you still paced around it. “And now we’ll die apart because I trusted a god who may have tricked me.”

Hoseok chuckled in the middle of the deep breath you were taking to calm down.

“You didn’t think I came here without a plan?” He walked over to put his hands on your shoulders and give them a gentle squeeze, putting an end to your pacing. “I’ll do everything in my power to reunite you with your brother. Do you trust me?”

You remembered when he told you to have faith you’d meet again. And you had. Besides, what other choice was there? “I do.”

Hoseok let go of you and went to lie down on the small bed, hands behind his head and eyes closed. “Then we’ll have to wait a couple of hours.”

You stared at him. He really didn’t want to just bed you, was actually looking out for you in a way Apollo was failing to. Or maybe he had sent him… Either way, Hoseok meant not to demand your love but deserve it, making your problems his like you shared a soul and body—and his, you realised then, you no longer wanted to resist.

“A couple of hours?” Hoseok nodded. “Well… it’s cold.”

“It is?”

You sighed, not knowing how to say it. “You once told me any is a small price for a man to keep your bed warm.”

Hoseok opened his eyes before the sentence was over and propped himself up on one elbow. You sat on the edge of the bed, a trembling hand rising that shyly caressed his cheek until he placed his own over it, and pressed a bit harder so you could really feel him, how hot his divine silver blood—known as ichor—was turning. You did, flashes of the night you kissed him making it into your mind. How his lips felt around yours, his tongue inside your mouth, your bodies pushed together…

Both leaned in at the same time, melting in a kiss that led to a night of pleasure dedicated to Aphrodite.

Meanwhile, Dionysus was doing his part.

Having taken the form he liked to call Jimin, he’d pretended to be a cupbearer at the feast the queen of Argos had held to celebrate the end of her punishment. No one noticed he didn’t belong as he poured his special, unmixed wine into the cups of every person in attendance, masking its strong taste with his powers. In a matter of hours, the whole court had lost their senses and passed out where they were, as mortal parties tended to finish in the presence of the god of intoxication.

Satisfied, he skipped his way to the cells, where he found you and Hoseok all cuddled up, skins glowing with the vigour you had loved each other with.

Jimin waved his hand and the cell’s door opened slowly, as though by a draft, but you turned around at once to see no one. “The gods be praised!”

Only seen and heard by a Hoseok who kept gesturing him to leave behind your back, Jimin laughed, “Dionysus, specifically.”

He disappeared then, and you and Hoseok didn’t hesitate to get out of there. What you did hesitate to believe was what your eyes witnessed once, in search of Apollo’s confiscated golden arrows, you entered the banquet hall. A whole court in the arms of Morpheus…

“There they are,” Hoseok whispered not to wake anyone, pointing at the end of the table, where the queen sat and in front of whom the arrows lied.

He walked over to get them, staring at the woman responsible for so much offence. Shielding the action with his body so you wouldn’t see, Hoseok grazed her arm with the tip of one of his sharp arrows, drawing blood. That was enough for her breath to still, her life to end.

You made it safely outside the city, near the house of the elderly couple who’d hosted you days past, even, but at some point you looked up at the moon and halted your rushed pace a tad abruptly, forcing Hoseok to do so as well since you were holding hands.

He frowned. “I don’t think this is the time to sightsee, Y/N.”

“But what’s the point?” you cried. “Pylos is more than two days away. There’s no way we can get there before sunrise.”

Hoseok looked up at the sky behind you, smiled. “Indeed. Though we might get there at the same time.”

You turned around for a peach-coloured sunlight to filter through the clouds and blind you.

Hold on, how could this be? It had been night for only some hours! And yet, before the two of you landed her chariot Selene’s sister, the rosy-fingered Eos. You held Hoseok’s hand tightly. In the presence of a goddess, one could not help but feel tense.

“You, child. Are you Y/N of Pylos?”

“I am, l-lady.”

She smiled kindly. “I’ve been sent to give you a ride, Y/N. I believe your king expects you.”

Relief washing over, you grinned at Hoseok, who caressed the back of your hand with his thumb. “This must be Apollo’s doing!”

“Must be, yes.”

You turned back to Eos and nodded. “Off we go, then, lady.”

In about twenty minutes, people in front of the palace of Pylos were making space for the white horses to land their chariot.

Everyone stared in awe. Doubtless they’d thought you were going to fail, yet here you were escorted by a goddess, with Apollo’s golden arrows in your quiver, and… a foreign man holding your hand?

Once Eos had flown away to drag along the dawn to the West, you discerned on the judgemental faces of the Pylians the conclusions they had jumped to. Conclusions that were correct. You had given your virginity to a stranger, become a whore in the eyes of the world…

Hoseok was the one who let go of the hand he’d been holding ever since you lay together, and you missed his touch right away, like it was the air your lungs needed to breathe. He put some distance between you and with a respectful bow of his head—that was just for show—said, “After you, priestess.”

Eager to hold Jungkook in your arms again, you nodded, then led the way to the throne room.

The second you walked in, all heads turned to the king, who was sat on his throne on the top of some steps, looking at you in the same shocked manner everyone was. Nobody dared say a word. The only sounds in the room were first that of your feet taking you in front of the steps, Hoseok closely behind, and second that of you reaching into your quiver to get hold of the arrows.

The king leaned forward as though spellbound by the beauty of the deadly weapons, without taking his eyes off them ordered a guard, “Bring the boy.”

You turned to smile at Hoseok and he smiled back, but once you’d directed your attention to the door, he continued glaring at the greedy king. He obviously believed luck was on his side, given you’d come back from a suicide mission with a prize for him, but he’d soon learn the gods were not to be fucked with.

“Y/N!” Jungkook exclaimed as the guard dragged him into the throne room. Having eyes only for your brother, you didn’t notice the prince and his stepmother arrived next and took the king’s side while sharing worried looks. Hoseok did, sensed they feared Jungkook would reveal their plot now that he wasn’t going to be executed. You were about to go make sure he was alright, but the king’s voice stopped you.

“Uh-uh. The arrows first.”

Apollo’s curse in mind, you carefully presented them to him. Hoseok watched as he examined them while you ran to embrace Jungkook free of impediment, then passed them on to his son.

Who wasted no time in stabbing his neck with one of them.

Gasps and screams tore the silence apart, echoing as if they came from the stage of a theatre. In fairness, you might as well be in a tragedy play.

Shielding Jungkook with your body out of instinct, you kept still not to draw the gloating prince and his stepmother’s attention, eyes wandering to a Hoseok who otherwise walked over to you without a care for the blood crime just committed. The murder of one’s relatives was against the natural order, punished by the Erinyes themselves. Fortunately for the prince, he wouldn’t be tormented by the goddesses of vengeance, as the curse was already doing its work, causing him to choke in the midst of a speech in which he was declaring himself the new king of Pylos.

To everyone’s confusion but yours, he fell down the steps, lifeless before reaching the floor. His stepmother and lover shrieked, knelt beside him to try to shake him awake, but to no avail. It was then when she found you among the courtiers and through her tears and grief, glared at you.

“What have you done?!” she shouted, Hoseok alone noticed, surreptitiously curling her fingers around the shaft of one of the golden arrows scattered about. “I’ll have your head for this!”

What followed happened so quickly that you had little time to react.

Arrow raised in a fist, the queen lunged herself at you, but Hoseok stopped her right before she reached you by grabbing her wrist, and as she fought to free herself, he received a small cut on the hand. Eyes wide with horror, you gasped.

No.

No, no, no, no…

“Is his blood silver?” Jungkook whispered to himself, and after a second his words transformed from a distant, incoherent echo to a clear question. Upon realising he was right, you frowned.

Hoseok snatched the arrow from the queen and she stumbled backwards, glancing at the guards.

“Come to the aid of your queen, I command you!”

Despite their reluctance, they were going to, but froze when Hoseok nocked the arrow on his bow and this one turned from wooden to gold before their eyes… and not just that.

Something changed about his appearance. Was it the hair? The eyes? You couldn’t tell. It was subtle enough to miss it yet substantial enough to know that your Hoseok was actually a god in disguise.

No other than Apollo, in all his glory!

As you blinked a few times trying to make sense of it, he aimed his arrow at the queen, and playing deaf to her pleas, slew her. Of course, his curse wouldn’t apply to an immortal.

When he turned around, a sea of courtiers fell to their knees, but he cared only about you, standing there in shock. Suddenly taking pity, he didn’t look forward at all to telling you he’d tricked you because of a bet…

A man thankfully rose to his feet and approached him before he had the chance to open his mouth. “Heavenly lord! You’ve blessed Pylos with your presence to free us from a family unworthy of our throne. Tell us, what can we ever do to thank you?”

Hoseok– or Apollo? This was tough, since you could somehow see both at the same time... Well, whoever, replied, “For now, consign the bodies of these three to the UNDERWORLD with all proper rites and burn them.”

Had Hoseok’s voice always been honeyed? His words certainly were... Though looking back, he’d never lied to you, just tip-toed around the truth. Didn’t make you feel any better, but he was a god. What an insignificant mortal felt must be irrelevant to him.

The courtier nodded, followed along with everyone the guards who carried the dead royal family outside of the throne room. Only you and Jungkook remained. And him.

“Leave us, little brother,” you ordered softly.

“But–”

“Listen to your sister. Fear not, I won’t harm her.”

Jungkook trusted that, he just didn’t want to leave your side ever again. However, it became clear to him that defying a god was the stupidest idea when he met his eyes. There was a subtle threat reflected on them.

He didn’t need to be told twice to go then, and the silence he left behind was beyond tense.

You daren’t look at Apollo now that you were alone. The man you’d spoken so casually to, bossed around, shouted at, made love with. But when you did muster some courage, you realised he didn’t seem so different in appearance, it was just that you weren’t blind to his splendour anymore.

He beckoned you to come closer and you obeyed with your face cast down as, would he punish you for doing the king’s bidding and stealing from him, after all? To your relief, he only raised your chin gently to make you look at him, but your eyes instead landed on the small cut on his hand, and without thinking you held it to check whether it was deep, careful not to touch his blood as ichor was deadly to mortals.

“Y-You’re hurt…”

“This little thing?” Apollo smiled at your concern, as it was no more than a scratch. He blew his divine breath on the wound and in seconds, it healed completely. “I suppose I owe you an explanation.”

“You owe me nothing, lord.”

“Hoseok is fine. I rather like the sound of it when you say it.” He sighed when you just nodded. “We didn’t meet by chance, Y/N. Hermes and Dionysus dared me to seduce the first mortal my eyes set upon without revealing my identity.” Oh, so worse than you’d imagined. “It didn’t occur to me that you’d beat me to it.”

Your lips parted in confusion. “To seducing you? But I’ve done nothing but disrespect Apollo– I mean, Hoseok– Uh, you…”

He chuckled, “Believe me, I know. Without meaning to, you’ve bewitched a god well enough to make him overlook hubris. Do you know what that means?”

You shook your head.

“It means I am in love with you, and that I want you to be mine.” You avoided his gaze out of shyness, but he cupped your cheeks and kissed you like he had done back in that cell less than an hour ago, taking your breath away—only this time, you felt the heat of the sun itself on your lips. He pulled back only to whisper against them, “You know I do not lie.”

You did know that. But could you forgive so easily being deceived over a bet? Even the god of whom you were a priestess?

Truth was, it wasn’t just the fear of what then seemed to be a certain death by the hands of Apollo that drew you to his embrace the night before you left Corinth. Neither was it just lust in Argos. He’d earned your love, so much so that you’d agreed to become his lover, were likely going to quit being a priestess at some point to be wed to him. The bet was won long ago, he knew he needn’t claim your maidenhood for it, and yet he’d stuck around.

A different face mattered not.

He loved you, and you loved him.

“I am already yours.”

Hoseok hummed pleased before you kissed him, and you felt his smile grow under your lips. It made you smile too, and the two separated to laugh. Then, he headed to the steps to pick up his golden arrows and put them in his quiver.

“You’re leaving?”

“I must leave for Olympus. I have responsibilities I’ve set aside this past week, but I’ll come back whenever you utter a prayer to me. I promise.”

He saw the disappointment on your face and placed a hand over your belly, making you frown. “Intimacy with the gods always bears fruit. I can already feel twins growing inside you, and I cannot wait to raise them alongside you.”

At the thought of your children playing around the forest the same way you and Jungkook once did—or Apollo and Artemis, at that—you couldn’t help but smile again. Not to mention that you would not only preserve your position as a priestess, but also be revered for giving a god descendants.

Hoseok kissed you one last time, and when you opened your eyes, he was gone, but his warmth remained.

#bts au #btswritingcafe #jung hoseok #jung hoseok x reader #hoseok x reader #hoseok fluff #hoseok imagine #bts #bts scenarios #bts fanfiction #bts x reader #bts hoseok #apollo!hoseok #bangtan imagine #bts greek gods #jung hoseok scenarios #bangtan #bts fanfic #jhope

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eternalera · 2 months

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Who is stronger Lute or Vaggie?

Personally I'm gonna go ahead and say Lute is stronger than Vaggie. 'But they fought and Vaggie beat her-' yeah no one cares, lemme explain.

So basically I know that the angels are meant to be kinda bad fighters because yknow they don't arm themselves properly and stuff and they don't defend as well and you can strike them easily from there but uh...

while I don't doubt that this is the case with other angles its pretty damn clear that it isn't the case with Lute.

Lute attacks Vaggie aggressively and when she first attacks her she goes straight for her eye like she said she would. Not to mention but Vaggie does try and defend against her. Of course this is all kinda unfair towards Vaggie since well she is defending and apparently angels aren't good at defending but you also have to keep in mind that Carmilla trained her so... yeah- sorry.

not to mention the fact that she isn't totally helpless as we see Lute lunge at her trying to attack and Vaggie grab her arm most likely trying to throw her to the ground. But as we see in this next very weirdly timed screenshot I took Lute easily counters this attack. She doesn't hesitate to fly up and slam Vaggie into the ground.

That is impressive. Especially since it's hard to react that fast with a move that effective. Most people even when fighting for a while wouldn't think of that because when you're in hand to hand combat with someone every decision you make is in the moment. Especially in such a fast paced battle like this one.

Another thing would be her notice of the piece of glass that Vaggie held. She had basically a few frames (from what ive seen) to see that and grab it trying to stab Vaggie. That being said though she puts all of her weight and force on it causing Vaggie to easily overpower her and use her own force against you. Remember when fighting you don't put all of your weight/force into one move, it can be easily used against you and yeah, its gonna suck.

We see that here when Lute is in a very bad position, but not for long as it seems that Vaggie might've also made the same mistake and used it. Not to mention that she appears to be standing here and having bad frame as she is bent over. When fighting in a position like this you typically wanna stay tall with your chest since it'll be hard to do what Lute does next which is throw you over.

And we see that Lute does in fact do this with what seems to be little to no struggle. Not to mention that Vaggie didn't have the upper hand for very long. She had it for like a frame in the animation so yeah.

Vaggie does react quickly in this scene though so thats nice :)

Not to mention she's just been thrown to the ground and had to get up and regain posture so thats cool :D

We then see Lute quickly back away though which is also a good move and is kinda a defense I wanna say. She distances herself with her weapon knowing that more distance equals more power but uh yeah she kinda rams it into the wall...

She then leaves her sword (good idea since its proven that she and Vaggie are both quick to react) and goes to instantly tackle Vaggie to the ground instead. I want to point out that this is something that could've been easily avoided on Vaggies part I think. Just take a few steps back or keep some sort of guard up or stance and she easily wouldn't have gotten tackled as easily. But she lets down her guard and well she gets bodyslammed.

Once again Lute uh... uses the environment and slams Vaggies head into a desk... fun. Also Vaggie bleeds gold blood, kinda makes you wonder if she never cut herself on accident before.

Lute lets her guard down though as she goes to search for something to stab Vaggie with and within this time Vaggie finds something to hit her with which is impressive as her eyesight is probably horrible after being slammed into the desk.

In the end we don't see how Vaggie gets to this point but seeing as how they were going before it probably was a long while with a ton of injuries on each side but with Lute most likely having the better position/upper hand in each of the battles as she mostly had it in this fight.

Then in the end Lute stabs Vaggie's hand, she removes the spear and grabs it throwing Lute across and into the rubble (she's pretty damn strong I gotta say).

I'm not gonna count the rubble as fast reaction because Lute was doing a monologue and yknow its not really that impressive in terms of reaction. But it is a good use of surroundings.

But overall in this fight despite Vaggie winning I would still say that Lute is stronger/the better fighter. She let her guard down in a battle she thought that she was already winning but lets be honest, if she didn't she would've killed Vaggie without a doubt it was only when she mentioned Charlie that she actually yknow got Lute.

If she didn't then Vaggie would've been as good as dead.

Overall these two are very good fighters and their fight scene was probably one of my favorites if not my favorite. But in the end I feel like if they were in a sparing match that Lute would win. Honestly she would've/should've won but yknow. Yeah she mentioned Charlie and the power and love and shit :)

lemme know what you think :D

#lute hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel lute #hazbin hotel #hazbin #character study #fighting study #fight scene #character analysis #vaggie hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel vaggie #who is stronger?#im gonna get attacked by the vagige simps for this one #she is a good fighter but just not as strong #plus she was trained by an overlord and still lost so uhh #gonna have to dock some points there #that being said though i would NOT want to fight her #i had too much fun with this #i take a fighting class so this was fun :)

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toasecretsanta · 4 months

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(2 of 2 fics)

MERRY CHRISTMAS PART 2! :D

Another fic [by @firealder2005] based off of the prompt list by @literallyjusttoa :3 This one is Apollo/Admetus, be it in older times or the modern day!

I will have this posted on Ao3 once the submission is up! :D

Warnings: I have this rated Teen & Up. Only warning is Apollo being rather depressed.

Also fluff alert! :3 This is Admetus/Apollo we’re talking about haha

ENJOY!

Nothing Else To Give But Love…

A soft nose grazed his hand. He shifted and absently began stroking the poofy wool on top of the sheep’s head.

Apollo hummed as the sheep’s baa echoed through the sleepy, spring-green field. Despite the mild warmth, he shivered, one hand nearly strangling the cords wrapped around his hand, the rest of the twine cinched about his waist.

The field was quiet. Simple. Nothing like Olympus had been during, or even before…before…

Before it had happened…

His son’s young face, blue eyes wide and startled as a clap of thunder rolled through the sky and electricity shattered the world around them leaving —

Apollo took in a shuddering breath and squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back the tears welling in them.

Oh, Asclepius… He inwardly whispered. I’m so, so sorry, my sweet, sweet son.

He hadn’t deserved such a wonderful child — frankly, all of his children were marvelous and he couldn’t fathom what he’d done to deserve such bright kids. Apollo didn’t deserve them. He didn’t deserve Asclepius — hadn’t deserved him…

Apollo’s grasp on the cord loosened, letting the rough cords fall from his fingers. He raked a hand through his hair, the locks empty without the laurel wreath usually nestled in them. He hadn’t been casted down to Earth with it the first time, and it was no different now.

He shamefully missed the weight of the crown in his hair. The guilt he made himself carry day in and out. Never letting himself forget her.

Her. Another person he hadn’t deserved…

Did he deserve anything? He, the most glorious of gods…but now nothing more than a mere servant. A shepherd.

(Not that there was anything wrong with shepherds, mind you. He was the god of them, and had dated a few. Branchus had been a beloved lover, and the person who made Miletus one of Apollo’s favorite cities.)

And what made it worse…he was here because of his own actions. His father’s enraged expression was still fresh in his mind, though the memories were tinted red by his own fiery, destructive fury.

Actions have consequences, my son, Zeus’s voice winded its way through his head. Even you are not above the law.

So here Apollo was. Laying in a field, dressed like a servant. Deprived of even more divinity than he’d had the first time he’d been casted down to Earth to work for Laomedon (the name made him shudder). He thought he felt mortal during his time in Ilion — or Troy, as it was now called. For the first time, his hands had ached. He experienced fatigue and thirst.

Last time was nothing compared to now. By the end of the day, he was exhausted. It was harder to access his divine power to keep himself awake at night, even if dear Admetus attempted to get him to go to sleep, insisting it was natural to need rest after a long day.

But he couldn’t — Apollo didn’t need to rest. He was a god, he could go centuries without rest.

It was only temporary, after all.

(He ignored the yawn that tugged at his lips. The heaviness of his eyes.)

(Temporary. All temporary.)

Footsteps made his head turn. Apollo subconsciously brought a hand up to his hair and played with a strand as he caught sight of Admetus coming closer. Handsome face, dark, soulful eyes and equally dark hair. Stubble grew on his perfect jaw.

Apollo felt his heart flutter when the king softly smiled at him.

He straightened when Admetus slid down beside him, patting the sheep lazing on his other side on the head as he looped an arm around Apollo. The god leaned against him and rested his head on his shoulder, humming happily when Admetus placed a kiss on his hair.

“Slow day?” the king murmured against his hair.

Apollo shrugged, fighting back a yawn. “Pretty much. I think the wolves and bears have decided to go elsewhere.”

“They bow before their lord,” Admetus grinned. Apollo giggled into his shoulder. “As they should.”

The god chuckled again, though a slight sigh shivered through his body. “Not now, though,” he murmured. “I’m not their lord now.”

Admetus stroked his hair. Apollo could almost imagine the concerned tilt of his head, the slightly raised right eyebrow as he looked at him.

The king hummed, resting his head on Apollo’s. “They seem to think so,” he softly observed. “They still listen and obey you.”

Apollo shuffled his legs and buried his face further into Admetus’s robes. A hand ran through his hair again, gently working at small knots, before it was removed and Admetus shuffled around himself.

Peering up, Apollo blinked as the king slid off his light cloak, shook it out, then swung it around Apollo’s shoulders and gently fastened the clasp. Apollo raised his hands to Admetus’s, protesting; “You don’t have too—”

“I insist.”

“Really, I’m fine.”

Admetus kissed his forehead and pulled Apollo into a warm, firm hug. The god gratefully sank into it, eyelids fluttering as sleep tugged on his consciousness. He squeezed his eyes shut and mentally shook himself awake. No sleeping, he ordered himself. Especially not when a handsome king is hugging you!

“You have a lot on your mind,” Admetus murmured. “Don’t you?”

Apollo sighed. “Yes,” he admitted. “I do.”

Admetus stroked the back of his neck, which felt really nice. “Anything I can do to help lighten your load?”

The god softly laughed and rubbed at his heavy eyes. “I don’t know,” he said, pulling away slightly and looping his arms around the king’s neck. Their noses brushed against each other. “Not now, anyway.”

The king cupped his cheek and rested his forehead against Apollo’s. Apollo hummed with contentment at the gesture.

“I have something for you,” Admetus bashfully whispered. Apollo stroked the stubble on the king’s chin and blinked slowly at him, a small smile pulling on his lips at Admetus’s flustered expression.

Admetus reached into his exposed robes and withdrew a circlet.

The first thing that caught Apollo’s attention was the color. A thick, lush green. Shining in the soft, sleepy sunlight.

Bay laurels.

A laurel wreath.

Hesitantly, Apollo allowed his fingers to brush over the delicate leaves before withdrawing. “I…I can’t. I’m not —”

“A prince?” Admetus quietly supplied. He used his free hand to gently pull Apollo to his feet, adjusting the cloak around him, before placing the wreath in his long, unfurled hair, fingers tracing the skin of his cheek.

“Admetus —”

“Keep them on, my prince,” Admetus whispered, placing a light, loving kiss to Apollo’s forehead. “You’re just as royal as I am.”

Apollo gazed up at him, blinking rapidly as his blue eyes got suspiciously wet. He didn’t deserve this gift, especially from Admetus. He wasn’t worthy of it, of a crown made from the leaves of a woman as great as she had been.

But…Admetus seemed to think he did. A corner of his lips curved into a shy smile. Oh, Admetus… he wistfully thought. You somehow see something good in me.

Before he could stop himself, Apollo surged up and kissed Admetus on the lips. His hands trailed up into the king’s dark hair as Admetus drew him close. Apollo felt his heavy eyes flutter shut, relying on his other senses to navigate the wonderful kiss —

Before he blinked back into awareness, staring bewilderedly into Admetus’s perplexed eyes.

“Um. Hi,” he squeaked. Admetus had caught him in a dip, holding him over the ground below them. Apollo had to admit, it felt quite nice. Though how did he end up in this lovely position?

“Hi,” Admetus chuckled. “You…passed out there, for a moment.”

Apollo felt his face burn. Oh dear, sweet Ouranos…how embarrassing. Did he really just pass out while kissing? His breath stuttered as he avoided meeting the king’s mirthful eyes.

“Did I steal too much air?” Admetus grinned. “Or did you just fall for me?”

Apollo slapped his chest and burst into laughter. “That was so bad,” he snorted, smiling brightly from ear to ear.

“I know,” Admetus’s grin was still beaming. “But it’s worth it to see you smile.”

Apollo bashfully ducked his head, laughing once more when Admetus scooped him into his arms and grin brightly.

“Now, however,” Admetus began. “You should rest. You’ve barely been sleeping.”

Apollo looped his hands around his neck and laid his head on Admetus’s shoulder. “I’m fine,” he murmured, eyes fluttering. He snapped himself awake. “I’m a god, Admetus. I don’t need sleep.”

Admetus hummed in disagreement, beginning to walk back to Pherae’s palace with Apollo still nestled comfortably in his arms. “But you’re deprived of much more divinity this time,” he wisely pointed out. “And that means, you do need sleep.” The king paused and rested his forehead against Apollo’s, adding quietly; “I would never make you do something you don’t want to, but please,” he implored. “Go to sleep. You need it.”

The god huffed before sheepishly smiling. “What about the flocks?”

“I have a feeling they’ll be fine,” Admetus assured him with a grin. “The message that the god of flocks is protecting this place should have gotten around by now.”

They both shared a light chuckle before Admetus softly kissed Apollo. He leaned into the feeling, feeling a soft thrill of contentment ripple through his being, before murmuring; “Alright. But only if you join me.”

Admetus softly laughed. “If that is what you wish, my prince.”

----------

Admetus glanced at where Apollo laid sprawled beside him beneath the covers. The blanket had slipped off him, and Admetus carefully pulled it back up, brushing Apollo’s golden hair out of his face as he did.

Finally, he was getting some rest.

Apollo was a stubborn god, and seemed convinced he didn’t need the necessities mortals did — food, water, sleep — and Admetus had used every trick in the book to get him to pay attention to the very human needs he now had.

Well. Almost every trick.

He absolutely refused to use the control Zeus gave him over Apollo. Absolutely not. It horrified him that the wise and just king of the gods he’d spent his life honoring would just give a complete stranger the ability to manipulate his own son any way they liked.

Admetus had always carefully crafted his words to leave Apollo the opportunity to refuse an order if he so chose — a loophole, if you will. Ironically, he never did except for when Admetus wanted him to listen, like actually sleeping instead of making cheese in the dead of the night.

Sighing fondly, he gently ran his fingers through Apollo’s hair, mindful of the laurels now nestled in them. It felt like the soft silk that came from the East.

It scared him, sometimes. This temporary bond between them. Admetus found himself second-guessing his words before speaking, fretting over the possibility of accidentally using it against Apollo…

He had no desire to force this beautiful being into anything — especially since they became lovers.

Admetus wasn’t a fool. He was very well-aware of the power dynamic between them, and did his damndest to even the field as much as possible. He had never used the control he had against Apollo, and he never would.

And for that matter, why should he? Yes, Apollo was technically in his service and therefore legally and divinely bound to obey him, but he was his own person too. He had his own personality and quirks.

Like making cheese in the dead of the night, Admetus bit back a chuff at the memory, a smile stretching across his face as he tucked his chin over Apollo’s hair. He remembered that moment well. Apollo with jugs of fresh sheep milk, carefully taking the curdled bits and brining them, letting the cheese soak in the liquid.

His face had been pinched, a slight frown on his lips, but his movements had been precise and smooth, as if he’d been making cheese his whole life.

And well. Considering Apollo was the father of Aristaeus, Admetus could believe that.

Apollo had sheepishly admitted to not being able to sleep that night, smile strained as thunder rolled outside, lightning and a simple beeswax candle their only source of light in the darkness. Instead of urging his beloved back to bed, Admetus had dropped down beside him and gently unpinned his hair, letting the frayed, golden locks free and began to braid them.

They had sat there the rest of the night, in quiet, comfortable silence, though it was occasionally interrupted by a thunderclap or flash of lightning. Apollo flinched a few times at these, prompting Admetus to twine their hands together once he finished the Athenian hairstyle.

In response, the divine herdsman glanced at him, a soft smile lighting up his beautiful features, before it curved into a mischievous look.

“What are you—?”

Apollo looped his arms around his neck and slid onto his lap, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Care for a bite?” He impishly asked, freeing one hand to scoop up a platter of freshly-made cheese.

Admetus raised a brow, lips twitching, as he asked; “Did you slip something in it?”

Apollo scoffed. “Of course not,” he placed his unoccupied hand to his chest, as if offended. “Only the finest of cheese for my favorite king.”

“And only the finest of the gods could ever make it,” Admetus teased, accepting the offered cheese platter, only to pause when Apollo clucked his tongue and nimbly plucked a piece up himself.

“Allow me,” his smile softened from teasing to genuine. “Least I can do for your kindness.”

Admetus chuckled awkwardly. “It’s nothing,” he shook his head. “I do think this world could use a little more kindness.”

Apollo hummed. “I suppose you’re right,” he softly said, offering his hand with the cheese out. “Taste?”

Admetus didn’t break eye contact as he ate the cheese from Apollo’s fingers, cupping the god’s hand as he did. The tangy, rich flavor bathed his tongue and he licked his lips.

“Delicious,” the king proclaimed, snagging another off the platter. “You truly make the best cheese I’ve ever tasted.”

Apollo laughed as he ate a bite of cheese himself. “Ah, then you truly have yet to live,” his eyes danced in the darkness. “Remind me to get you some of Aristaeus’s — he is the true master of cheese-making.”

Admetus smiled and kissed Apollo’s cheek, comfortably wrapping his arms around his waist. “I shall await this marvelous cheese,” he whispered against his beloved’s ear. “But for now, I’m very much content with yours.”

Apollo’s bashful duck of the head sent flutters of warmth through him.

Sighing fondly at the memory, Admetus nosed into Apollo’s warm body beside him, breathing in the scent of laurels, glancing momentarily at the wreath still laying in Apollo’s hair. It sat crookedly, the leaves unused to being crushed under the head of a human.

Delicately, Admetus adjusted the wreath until it sat mostly straight, though there wasn’t much he could do about the crumpled leaves. Some golden strands had fallen back into Apollo’s closed eyes.

Even without a crown, he silently thought to himself as he brushed those strands away. He’ll always be royal to me.

—

My ramblings on ancient greek CHEESE can be found on Ao3 :3

#submission #toasecretsanta #firealder2005 #literallyjusttoa #trials of apollo #toa #trials of apollo fanfiction #riordanverse #riordanverse fanfic #pjo apollo #pjo admetus

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burningvelvet · 3 months

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A very long analysis on Heathcliff, his relationships, and his origins: or, how Wuthering Heights drove me insane :)

Links to my previous WH analysis (which aren't required to read this post!): 1) my post analyzing heathcliff & his relationships with cathy2.0/isabella/hareton / 2) smaller post analyzing heathcliff & the earnshaws in relation to theories about his parentage / 3) misc. heathcliff/cathy analysis

On Heathcliff's origins, his mysteriousness, and his arrival to Wuthering Heights:

As I mention in that 2nd link, I think the theory of Heathcliff being Mr. Earnshaw's son is an interesting theory of conjecture because even if not true (and it probably isn't) it allows us to more deeply explore the generally accepted basis of the canon, which is that Heathcliff is not related to them, but nevertheless is still caught between the labels of "family" and "outsider," just like he would have been if he had indeed been a bastard, a step-child, or even more formally adopted. Under Mr. Earnshaw's wishes Heathcliff shares a room with the children, he is given equal gifts and clothes as them, and he is preferred over Hindley. And while he may not be in line to inherit legally, he ends up inheriting anyway, an idea which lends itself to the novels Joseph-approved theme of predeterminism/fate.

So I'm not dead-set on any singular interpretation or theory as to Heathcliff's role in the story or the details of his background. Much of his character is inherently mysterious: his race and age are unknown, his family history and origins are unknown, what he was doing for 3 years of Cathy's marriage and how he acquired his wealth are unknown, some of his feelings and motives are highly debatable (as I discussed in my post about his odd dynamics with Cathy 2.0, Isabella, & Hareton: https://www.tumblr.com/burningvelvet/738901817580290048/my-analysis-on-heathcliff-and-his-relationships), & whether English was his first language is also questioned (many people including myself have wondered at the line where we're told he "repeated over and over again some gibberish that nobody could understand," though it could have just been panicked child's speech).

Many academics have noted how Wuthering Heights follows various testaments of the Gothic literary tradition, not only by the involvement of death, violence, ghosts, etc., but also in the use of incestuous themes (whether literal or metaphorical) and the use of the Other in Heathcliff, aided by the mysteries of his origins and his racial ambiguity.

As for Heathcliff not revealing much about his childhood, I believe this part of it could be due to trauma as well as regular childhood amnesia. He may not remember anything. A lot of people don't have many memories from before the age of ~6 anyway — and I just looked it up— his real age is never given but he is believed to be around the same age than Cathy who was described as "hardly six years old." I had thought they were a little older for some reason. He's also said to have been "speaking gibberish" which I once considered may have been indicative of a foreign language and/or accent but now, because of his age and probable low background, it may have been due to his just being very young and maybe unsocialized and shy. It actually makes my heart ache when Nelly describes him :(

Here's an excerpt from chapter 3 describing Heathcliff's childhood:

"He threw himself into a chair, laughing and groaning, and bid them all stand off, for he was nearly killed—he would not have such another walk for the three kingdoms.

'And at the end of it to be flighted to death!' he said, opening his great-coat, which he held bundled up in his arms. 'See here, wife! I was never so beaten with anything in my life: but you must 'en take it as a gift of God; though it's as dark almost as if it came from the devil.'"

We crowded round, and over Miss Cathy's head I had d peep at a dirty, ragged, black-haired child; big enough both to walk and talk: indeed, its face looked older than Catherine's; yet when it was set on its feet, it only stared round, and repeated over and over again some gibberish that nobody could understand. I was frightened, and Mrs. Earnshaw was ready to fling it out of doors: she did fly up, asking how he could fashion to bring that gipsy brat into the house, when they had their own bairns to feed and fend for? What he meant to do with it, and whether he were mad? The master tried to explain the matter; but he was really half dead with fatigue, and all that I could make out, amongst her scolding, was a tale of his seeing it starving, and houseless, and as good as dumb, in the streets of Liverpool, where he picked it up and inquired for its owner. Not a soul knew to whom it belonged, he said; and his money and time being both limited, he thought it better to take it home with him at once, than run into vain expenses there: because he was determined he would not leave it as he found it. Well, the conclusion was, that my mistress grumbled herself calm; and Mr. Earnshaw told me to wash it, and give it clean things, and let it sleep with the children.

Hindley and Cathy contented themselves with looking and listening till peace was restored: then, both began searching their father's pockets for the presents he had promised them. The former was a boy of fourteen, but when he drew out what had been a fiddle, erushed to morsels in the great-coat, he blubbered aloud; and Cathy, when she learned the master had lost her whip in attending on the stranger, showed her humour by grinning and spitting at the stupid little thing; earning for her pains a sound blow from her father, to teach her cleaner manners. They entirely refused to have it in bed with them, or even in their room; and I had no more sense, so I put it on the landing of the stairs, hoping it might be gone on the morrow. By chance, or else attracted by hearing his voice, it crept to Mr. Earnshaw's door, and there he found it on quitting his chamber. Inquiries were made as to how it got there; I was obliged to confess, and in recompense for my cowardice and inhumanity was sent out of the house.

This was Heathcliff's first introduction to the family. On coming back a few days afterwards (for I did not consider my banishment perpetual), I found they had christened him 'Heathcliff': it was the name of a son who died in child-hood, and it has served him ever since, both for Christian and surname. Miss Cathy and he were now very thick; but Hindley hated him: and to say the truth I did the same; and we plagued and went on with him shamefully: for I wasn't reasonable enough to feel my injustice, and the mistress never put in a word on his behalf when she saw him wronged.

He seemed a sullen, patient child; hardened, perhaps, to ill-treatment: he would stand Hindley's blows without winking or shedding a tear, and my pinches moved him only to draw in a breath and open his eyes, as if he had hurt himself by accident, and nobody was to blame. This endurance made old Earnshaw furious, when he discovered his son persecuting the poor fatherless child, as he called him. He took to Heathcliff strangely, believing all he said (for that matter, he said precious little, and generally the truth), and petting him up far above Cathy, who was too mischievous and wayward for a favourite.

So, from the very beginning, he bred bad feeling in the house; and at Mrs. Earnshaw's death, which happened in less than two years after, the young master had learned to regard his father as an oppressor rather than a friend, and Heathcliff as a usurper of his paren's affections and his privileges; and he grew bitter with brooding over these injuries. I sympathised a while; but when the children fell ill of the measles, and I had to tend them, and take on me the cares of a woman at once, I changed my idea. Heathcliff was dangerously sick; and while he lay at the worst he would have me constantly by his pillow: I suppose he felt I did a good deal for him, and he hadn't wit to guess that I was compelled to do it. However, I will say this, he was the quietest child that ever nurse watched over. The difference between him and the others forced me to be less partial. Cathy and her brother harassed me terribly: he was as uncomplaining as a lamb; though hardness, not gentleness, made him give little trouble."

From this excerpt we see that Earnshaw 1) despite being racist toward Heathcliff, is also wildly protective of him - so much so that he kicks Nelly out of the house FOR DAYS for initially not allowing Heathcliff to sleep in his childrens room 2) Earnshaw doesn't like Cathy that much, and prefers Heathcliff over her; later when he dies he has a nice moment with her, but still asks her why she can't be a better child (lol) 3) Earnshaw did not name Heathcliff on his own accord but Heathcliff is named after Earnshaw's own son that died!!! And that says a lot; we're also never really told how Mrs. Earnshaw felt about him being named after her dead kid, or if she had a part in it or not, or if she grew to like Heathcliff too — she just dies soon after - however, I think we can all assume she always favored Hindley over Heathcliff, since we're told Hindley's jealousy grew after her death 4) Heathcliff is described by Earnshaw as a "gift from God" which I find kind of suspicious because Earnshaw struggled so much just to get him home... um, God had no part in that, Mr. - unless he's referring to the kids existence imo. At any rate, if Heathcliff isn't biologically related to Earnshaw, we're still led to have the sense that Heathcliff is sort of predestined to be there 5) Heathcliff was indeed a bit scraggly/unkempt when he arrived, but imo that doesn't mean he was necessarily a homeless orphan; if he did have a mother/family, they probably would have been living in harsh conditions anyway just by being impoverished, and if not, maybe he was just a bit dirty from wandering outside like normal kids do, and like he's so fond of doing anyway on the Moors later on - he could have just been playing outside when this white guy comes along and takes him under his coat! 6) Earnshaw says he asked around for the kids parents and felt obligated to take him on, though the kid was struggling... so yeah, regardless of if he's omitting other info or if he's his father or not, we can infer that he essentially kidnapped Heathcliff.

After re-reading this excerpt, I don't think it's as likely that Earnshaw had seen/known Heathcliff personally prior to his taking him home, but I still don't think any of this totally disproves the theory that Earnshaw could have been lying to Mrs. Earnshaw/omitting certain information.

Why was Mr. Earnshaw in Liverpool to begin with? I and many others often assume it was some sort of a business trip, and it probably was, but after re-reading the part where he leaves, I can't actually find anything to definitively confirm what he was actually there for. He could have been in Liverpool specifically to take Heathcliff with him. Another thing that doesn't make any sense is the fact that he walked all the way there alone: "I’m going to Liverpool today, what shall I bring you? You may choose what you like: only let it be little, for I shall walk there and back: sixty miles each way, that is a long spell!’"

He's then gone for 3 whole days. Meaning according to him, he walked 120 miles in 3 days, half of that while carrying/dragging a struggling small child, who he says he took because it would be his easiest option: "his money and time being both limited, he thought it better to take it home with him at once, than run into vain expenses there."

He's contradicting himself, because if he was so concerned about finances then he never would have taken on another child, as Mrs. Earnshaw immediately supplies (meaning if he was on a mission to retrieve Heathcliff, he didn't tell her): "Mrs. Earnshaw was ready to fling it out of doors: she did fly up, asking how he could fashion to bring that gipsy brat into the house, when they had their own bairns to feed and fend for? What he meant to do with it, and whether he were mad?" Ummmm you're telling me there isn't something a little suspicious or weird about any of this?!

And why would he be walking in the first place when he has horses — was he really so tight on money as to not want to support/feed them on a journey, or did he just not want to be recognized or attract attention, or did he not want to deal with a child riding on a horse for the first time? I assume carriages/wagons were out of the question for costs, and I know people walked a lot back then, especially in rural farmlands, but that is a very long journey as he himself says. What was so important? Did he even go to Liverpool at all? And why did he bundle Heathcliff up as if to hide him? To avoid suspicions about having a bastard child, etc.? And we're told Mrs. Earnshaw was expecting him home earlier, and we get no indication if she knew Mr. Earnshaw's plans or whereabouts.

And why does Mr. Earnshaw act so upbeat and nonchalant about all of this, when we're told he's usually really stern? Ie he supposedly treats Nelly well eg, telling her he'll bring her back fruits on his journey, but then he LOCKS HER OUT OF THE HOUSE FOR MULTIPLE DAYS for not following his orders about putting Heathcliff in the children's room on his first night there.

Where tf did she even go lol? Am I forgetting some part about her family having a nearby house? How far did she have to walk to get there, alone and unaccompanied as a young woman? Probably less than 120 miles in 3 days, but still! He's known Nelly her whole life, and he's supposedly known Heathcliff for a day (in which time Heathcliff has already led him into physical exhaustion), and yet he already prefers Heathcliff over her as well as his own children.

Even excusing Nelly being a narrator of debatable reliability, and being sometimes contradictory & biased against Heathcliff, Mr. Earnshaw's behavior still seems a bit outlandish and it makes sense that Mrs. Earnshaw would ask him if he had gone mad. I course, I may be looking too far into this, but how can I not?

Heathcliff's trauma, his relationship with Mr. Earnshaw, Earnshaw as kidnapper, and race:

I think Heathcliff is certainly severely traumatized. I'm not a psychologist but Nelly's line "hardness, not gentleness, made him give little trouble" is textbook childhood CPTSD, and it is partly due to Earnshaw indeed being a kidnapper with a white saviour/"white man's burden" complex.

I think the following quote by Nelly supports this kidnap view, in that she actually refers to him being kidnapped; Emily may also be encouraging us to speculate on even the most outlandish theories of his origins like Nelly does:

"‘A good heart will help you to a bonny face, my lad,’ I continued, ‘if you were a regular black; and a bad one will turn the bonniest into something worse than ugly. And now that we've done washing, and combing, and sulking—tell me whether you don’t think yourself rather handsome? I'll tell you, I do. You're fit for a prince in disguise. Who knows but your father was Emperor of China, and your mother an Indian queen, each of them able to buy up, with one week’s income, Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange together? And you were kidnapped by wicked sailors and brought to England. Were I in your place, I would frame high notions of my birth; and the thoughts of what I was should give me courage and dignity to support the oppressions of a little farmer!'"

Like in Charlotte's Jane Eyre, Emily also borrows taboo Romantic and Orientalist imagery and racializes the gothic Other figure, because this idea of the foreign/non-white body was a source of anxiety to a lot of white British Victorian readers. This is a popular concept in Gothic literary studies & a lot has been written on it, so I won't go into it too much.

Like Charlotte's Bertha Mason, Linton Heathcliff's identity as being mixed race is essential to his character — in the narrative, him being white-passing is supposed to relate to his identity being more Isabella/Linton (as also evidenced by his name) and less Heathcliff's, who is disappointed not to see his own resemblance in his son.

Since we seriously don't know Heathcliff's true origins, we can't ascertain his ethnicity (given his descriptions/epithets/Nelly's speculations, he is likely fully or part Roma, South-Asian, or African), and we can't tell if he or his family/mother were highborn, enslaved, or simply free, but we do know that slavery was still very active in England in the late 1700s when Heathcliff is a child, and his hometown Liverpool was the center of the slave trade, so connections to slavery either ancestrally or during his hiatus (a popular theory, explored in the book Heathcliff: the Lost Years by David Drum) are possible.

More evidence for the theory of Heathcliff having a previous history of child abuse and unknown early trauma, possibly relating to the slave trade (which doesn't necessarily discount the Earnshaw parentage theory either imo, and if anything may make it more likely if his reasoning for taking Heathcliff was that he wouldn't want his biological son enslaved) — is the portion where Nelly describes Heathcliff and how he initially took Hindley's abuse stoically:

". . . a sullen, patient child; hardened, perhaps, to ill-treatment: he would stand Hindley's blows without winking or shedding a tear, and my pinches moved him only to draw in a breath and open his eyes, as if he had hurt himself by accident, and nobody was to blame. This endurance made old Earnshaw furious, when he discovered his son persecuting the poor fatherless child, as he called him. He took to Heathcliff strangely . . ."

When Nelly adds that Earnshaw called Heathcliff "poor fatherless child," I see this as ironic whether Earnshaw is his biological father or not, since he is still the closest thing he has to any sort of "father figure" nominally, and symbolically in line with the view of Earnshaw as flawed micro-colonizer. In the act of standing up for Heathcliff over his own teenage son and future master of the house, he is basically acting as a pseudo-father preferring one son over another; for Hindley, the blow is deepened by Heathcliff not being Earnshaw's son in name.

For clarity's sake, whenever I refer to Mr. Earnshaw as Heathcliff's unofficially adoptive father or father figre, I do so sort of hesitatingly. Mr. Earnshaw/Heathcliff do not have a regular father/son dynamic; we're told that Heathcliff did not embrace but rather fought Mr. Earnshaw the entire 60 miles back to the Heights.

Surely the above may be hyperbole, but we must keep in mind that Mr. Earnshaw's gifts for Cathy/Hindley/Nelly were lost or destroyed in the process: most symbolically, Mr. Earnshaw's struggle to obtain Heathcliff led to Hindley's fiddle being broken, Cathy's whip being lost, and we're never told what happened to Nelly's gift of fruit, but we can assume it was lost or never got to be obtained as a result of his preoccupation.

Heathcliff's relationship with Mr. Earnshaw is complicated because of the racial power imbalance & as I said, Earnshaw having a white saviour complex & basically kidnapping Heathcliff despite (or so we're told) not fully knowing if Heathcliff had a family or not. Most important are Heathcliff's own feelings about the situation; Earnshaw's wild affection is clear.

We're told by Nelly's observations that Heathcliff clearly did not have a great love for Earnshaw: "I wondered often what my master saw to admire so much in the sullen boy; who never, to my recollection, repaid his indulgence by any sign of gratitude. He was not insolent to his benefactor, he was simply insensible; though knowing perfectly the hold he had on his heart, and conscious he had only to speak and all the house would be obliged to bend to his wishes."

When Mr. Earnshaw was dying, Heathcliff was sitting with Cathy who was singing to Earnshaw. When they realize Earnshaw has finally passed, Heathcliff seems to genuinely grieve as equally as Cathy (Hindley is at college at this time):

"The poor thing discovered her loss directly — she screamed out — 'Oh, he's dead, Heathcliff! he's dead!' And they both set up a heart-breaking cry." Later when Nelly returns from getting help: "I ran to the children's room: their door was ajar, I saw they had never lain down, though it was past midnight; but they were calmer, and did not need me to console them. The little souls were comforting each other with better thoughts than I could have hit on: no parson in the world ever pictured heaven so beautifully as they did, in their innocent talk . . ."

Yet we also know by Heathcliff's odd dynamics with Nelly and Hareton, and even by some of his behavior around Catherine I (who is the only person that most of us can agree he really loves), we can see that, probably due to trauma, Heathcliff does not know how to show affection "normally."

By his earlier disconnected reactions to Hindley's abuse, we can see that early on he had trouble reacting to negative emotions as well, which probably led him to his later emotional dysregulation & bursts of rage/frustration, which make complete sense in his situation and are why we can still often sympathize with him in his path of vengeance, even despite his abusiveness.

So we do not know the full extent of Heathcliff's feelings toward Mr. Earnshaw, and whether he truly had deep affection for him or somewhat resented him, but whatever his feelings were, they were clearly complex. As we all know, Heathcliff is capable of feeling very strongly, and when he does, he is usually vocal about it (see: literally most of his dialogue). He can't go 30 seconds without roasting someone lol. But he is oddly ambivalent and quiet about Earnshaw.

You could also (& countless academics have) argue that Earnshaw/the Earnshaw family is essentially a microcosm of colonization, Heathcliff is symbolically captured/enslaved by Mr. Earnshaw (which highlights how white saviourism is oxymoronic), and then actually becomes almost literally enslaved by Hindley later on.

On Heathcliff and Hindley:

Both are extremely flawed. Both are wildly in love with women who die from labor, both become abusive single fathers, both are defined by their grief and feelings of revenge, both want to kill each other all throughout the story, both actually try to do so to varying extents. Heathcliff saves Hareton from Hindley's negligence by catching him, Hindley saves Isabella from Heathcliff's abuse by tackling the latter (in what I think is one of the novels best sequences, Isabella's narration of the period of Heathcliff and Hindley's fighting and her escape). Heathcliff's bond with Hareton, like Hindley's bond with Isabella, is both manipulative and touching in turns. Ditto for their bonds to Nelly.

Many people believe Heathcliff had a role to play, directly or indirectly, in Hindley's death. Evidence for this: 1) teen Heathcliff wishes Hindley could drink himself to death but acknowledges doctor Kenneth says he won't: "‘It’s a pity he cannot kill himself with drink,’ observed Heathcliff, muttering an echo of curses back when the door was shut. ‘He’s doing his very utmost; but his constitution defies him. Mr. Kenneth says he would wager his mare that he’ll outlive any man on this side Gimmerton, and go to the grave a hoary sinner; unless some happy chance out of the common course befall him.’" 2) later, Kenneth remarks to Nelly that "He's barely twenty-seven, it seems; that's your own age: who would have thought you were born in one year?'" 3) Joseph once accused Heathcliff of attempting to murder Hindley during their fight ("And so ye've been murthering on him?") - in which Isabella said Heathcliff had to barely restrain himself from not killing Hindley. Joseph later adds suspicion to Hindley's death when, after Heathcliff explains to Nelly how Hindley had been suffering from the effects of alcoholism but died suddenly in the morning, Joseph "confirmed this statement, but muttered: "I'd rayther he'd goan hisseln for t' doctor! I sud ha' taen tent o' t' maister better nor him—and he warn't deead when I left, naught o' t' soart!'" (trans. from WH Reader's Guide site: "'I'd rather he'd gone himself for the doctor! I would have taken care of the master better than him—and he wasn't dead when I left, nothing of the sort!'"). So Heathcliff told Joseph to fetch Kenneth which left Heathcliff alone with Hindley, who was then dead when Joseph/Kenneth arrived.

My own theory is that Hindley probably choked on his own vomit (a common form of death by addiction) because of Heathcliff's description of he and Joseph finding Hindley "snorting like a horse; and there he was, laid over the settle: flaying and scalping would not have wakened him." It is after this that Heathcliff is alone with Hindley and he dies. Heathcliff can be seen as guilty through inaction imo, though he would justify it by saying he was letting nature take its course.

Heathcliff and Hindley take turns enslaving each other throughout the story. Hindley's seniority, legitimacy, and race give him advantages, while Heathcliff's early favoritism by Mr. Earnshaw and his later accrual of wealth, wit, and strength give him some advantages. We're told by Nelly (and she's biased, but she's the main source we have) that Hindley bullied Heathcliff immediately, to which Heathcliff weaponized Mr. Earnshaw in his favor, as evidenced by the horse scene.

If, when Hindley returned to become master of Wuthering Heights after Mr. Earnshaw's death, his wife Frances had taken a liking to Heathcliff, or if Hindley had simply matured in his time away — in other words, if Hindley had decided to grow up and let bygones be bygones — I wonder if Heathcliff would have done the same, and decided to be peaceful & not to continue their childhood rivalry.

The bulk of Heathcliff's lust for revenge really stems from Hindley's treatment of him after Mr. Earnshaw's death, when Hindley, as the new Mr. Earnshaw, really does follow through on that childhood promise during the horse scene to use his wealth/power/independence to render Heathcliff miserable, and to turn him out or keep him enslaved. Possibly at the beckoning of Frances (which I mention later,) Hindley succeeds in fulfilling this childish power fantasy, and this is partly what inspires Heathcliff to obtain the means of flipping the script and later rendering Hindley a weakened dependent.

Although Hindley is racist/absorbed his parents racism, note that Catherine was not/did not, and so Hindley's true hatred of Heathcliff imo is more motivated by jealousy/envy for his father's affection than it is anything else, & his own feelings of inadequacy & self-hatred which likely would have existed anyway & were just fuelled by being "usurped" in his father's affection.

I really blame Mr. (& Mrs., though we sadly have so little insight into her character) Earnshaw for Hindley/Heathcliff's rivalry, because I feel like we can assume Mrs. Earnshaw must have favored Hindley more when Mr. Earnshaw started favoring Heathcliff, considering Hindley's hatred increased after the grief from his mother's death, — and this favoritism & parental split is bound to deepen the split between their favorites.

Hindley's hatred of Heathcliff really increased after his father & then his wife's deaths (meaning he had prolonged complex grief), which I'm assuming compounded & brought back his feelings of his original grief for his mother, resulting in further hatred of Heathcliff who had nothing to do with any of it but whose arrival Hindley just subconsciously associated with his mother's illness/death & his father's emotional abandonment (which we could consider a mental death which took place before his physical death; imo Hindley's whole character is defined by grief).

To enhance their pseudo-brotherly rivalry, which some may say is reminiscent of Abel/Cain (especially if you believe the theory/opinion that Heathcliff murdered Hindley or was otherwise in any part to blame for his death), we again have the fact that Heathcliff was named after Hindley's dead brother.

Heathcliff is actually Heathcliff 2.0, and maybe it was Mr. Earnshaw's grief that led him to use Heathcliff 2.0 as a replacement child the way Hindley uses Mrs. Earnshaw 2.0 as a replacement mother.

All throughout the story we have people being named after each other and taking on each other's roles, ie the whole 1st/2nd generation parallels (we could extend it to be 1st/2nd/3rd since I've highlighted the narrative importance of Mr./Mrs. Earnshaw), Linton Heathcliff, Cathy 1.0/2.0. — but we know nothing about Heathcliff 1.0 other than that he died in childhood.

Was he Catherine's age, younger, or older? Did Catherine see Heathcliff as a replacement brother? Did Heathcliff 1.0 die before Catherine was born? Was he Hindley's age? Did Hindley already have grief/trauma from Heathcliff 1.0's death and resent Heathcliff 2.0 for usurping not only him, but his dead brother's place?

We're told that "the family" gave Heathcliff 2.0 his name, but I assume Mrs. Earnshaw and Hindley may not have been involved due to us never seeing that they care for him — and Joseph may have had a role in it, but he's also rarely thoughtful, and Nelly was gone — so could Cathy have suggested the name Heathcliff? (which brings to my mind Edward Rochester telling Jane Eyre to "give him his name" when he proposes to her, asking her to call him "Edward" — this would be poetic of Catherine/Heathcliff's relationship).

The meaning of the names Heathcliff/Hindley are very similar; they also share the same initials, syllable count, and the "ee" sound. Heathcliff is a combination of "heath" (a synonym for "moor"; what he and Cathy love to roave on) and "cliff." In meaning, apparently (according to some sources on Ancestry.com) Hindley is a habitational name from hind 'hind, female deer' and lēah 'woodland clearing' — which is basically another way of saying heath/moor. So there is a lot of similarity in their names, and this tainted brotherly theme, both of which must have been intentional.

Regardless of whether Heathcliff & Hindley are foster brothers or half-brothers, this naming choice is still a sign that Heathcliff was predestined to be part of the family, and lends itself to the other themes of predeterminism in that Heathcliff ends up becoming the master of the Heights after Hindley the way he would have if he were his biological brother.

Mr. Earnshaw telling Hindley he'd bring him back any gift he chose, and then returning with that gift having been broken by Heathcliff, are ample reasons to explain the hatred that moody 14-year-old Hindley immediately feels for him, who was about half his age and therefore an impractical playmate. He is more like a new sibling, and like an older sibling, Hindley is horrified at being overshadowed by the family's new addition. Since we don't know whether Hindley knew or was close to Heathcliff 1.0, we can hesitantly assume he may have been upset by the naming.

On Heathcliff, Hindley, and Frances:

I would like to briefly touch more on Hindley's wife's death (so closely followed by his fathers death) bringing up feelings of his mothers death. Hindley's wife Frances Earnshaw is the second Mrs. Earnshaw and she only comes to the house right after Mr. Earnshaw dies. I believe Hindley parallels his father, Frances parallels his mother (so like many men, he metaphorically "married his mother"), and that Frances also has some similarities to Heathcliff.

Frances has an unknown origin story and Hindley keeps her background from his father on purpose, and this could have been intended to parallel the first Mr. Earnshaw from possibly keeping Heathcliff's origins vague: "What she was, and where she was born, he never informed us: probably, she had neither money nor name to recommend her, or he would scarcely have kept the union from his father."

Frances also immediately dislikes Heathcliff... just like Hindley's mother, the first Mrs. Earnshaw, did: "Mrs. Earnshaw was ready to fling it out of doors: she did fly up, asking how he could fashion to bring that gipsy brat into the house, when they had their own bairns to feed and fend for? What he meant to do with it, and whether he were mad?"

We don't know why Frances dislikes Heathcliff, but it wouldn't be a stretch to assume it has to do with his race & status, because it is only after her disapproval that Hindley banishes Heathcliff to the role of a servant/slave, we can assume. We can also assume Frances disliked Heathcliff from the beginning, since we're never told that she took a liking to him like she initially does with Catherine; we are only ever told she dislikes him:

"She expressed pleasure, too, at finding a sister among her new acquaintance; and she prattled to Catherine, and kissed her, and ran about with her, and gave her quantities of presents, at the beginning. Her affection tired very soon, however, and when she grew peevish, Hindley became tyrannical. A few words from her, evincing a dislike to Heathcliff, were enough to rouse in him all his old hatred of the boy. He drove him from their company to the servants, deprived him of the instructions of the curate, and insisted that he should labour out of doors instead; compelling him to do so as hard as any other lad on the farm."

It is after the last quote that we learn Cathy and Heathcliff become increasingly "feral" outdoors, as Heathcliff is forced to toil in outdoor labor, and Cathy insists on keeping him company while he's at it. At this point they are both essentially orphaned, and then neglected and abandoned by Hindley and Frances, the new Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw, who take on the roles of the former Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw, who were similarly neglectful and emotionally abandoning to their children.

On Cathy and Heathcliff:

In the beginning, Lockwood reads this diary entry from Catherine I which proves the prior analysis in that she compares Mr. Earnshaw 1.0 to Mr. Earnshaw 2.0 (Hindley):

""An awful Sunday,' commenced the paragraph beneath. 'I wish my father were back again. Hindley is a detestable substitute — his conduct to Heathcliff is atrocious – H. and I are going to rebel — we took our initiatory step this evening."

Notice how in the death of Mr. Earnshaw and then under the tyranny of Hindley (Mr. Earnshaw 2.0), Cathy and Heathcliff are often sharing each other's emotions, and their bond is very twin-like. They both cry & grieve in their room in unison after Earnshaw dies, and although Heathcliff is the one primarily sentenced to torment by Hindley, Cathy doesn't abandon him to it and instead often keeps him company in his punishment, recalling when she was younger and her father would try to keep Heathcliff away from her to punish her.

Even when Cathy does sort of abandon Heathcliff to marry Edgar, in her speech after Heathcliff leaves, she says that her plan was to use her control over Edgar to benefit Heathcliff, so she really never intended to abandon him at all. Abandonment, attachment issues, separation, loss, grief, being torn away from someone/somewhere/something, are all major themes in this story, often expressed by familial and more often filial experiences.

Cathy and Heathcliff's relationship basically embodies all these themes the most poignantly, in that Heathcliff abandons her because he thinks she's abandoning him and he can't bear it and would rather leave than be left; then as soon as he returns, Cathy ends up actually physically abandoning him by dying! And later on, her ghost taunts him (I believe most of us can take the ghost plot as canon & not hallucinatory considering how many characters attest to it), and he once again returns to her like he did before.

Their whole relationship is about overcoming obstacles to separation, and being determined to retain their attachment as an act of defiance (even if it means defying life, death, physics, etc.) — this is why they're considered the most romantic couple in literature even despite their awful behavior most of the time, because in writing/literary pedagogy as a general rule it is almost always the goal of romantic leads to overcome obstacles which separate them from their lover, – and Heathcliff and Cathy take this goal to a new level by overcoming not only their childhood punishments of separation from one another, but overcoming the impossible obstacles of LIFE AND DEATH to reunite in the spirit realm where no one can separate them again — not even God.

Both Catherine and Heathcliff say that they know they won't go to heaven; God literally doesn't want them, and he has abandoned them, and this is the ultimate abandonment/seperation. Thus, all they have in the universe is each other — and if their relationship didn't work in life, they're determined to make it work in death!

Some final thoughts on Mr. Earnshaw and the making of Heathcliff:

Due to all of my previous explanations, I consider Mr. Earnshaw a possibly well-intentioned man but who ultimately failed all of his children (along with Mrs. Earnshaw) by 1) emotionally neglecting/abandoning Catherine because she was a "bad child" & acted more boyish than Hindley, 2) emotionally neglecting/abandoning Hindley in favor of Heathcliff (and maybe it was partly because Hindley was becoming a moody teenager and Heathcliff was comparatively younger/easier to handle bc of his trauma-induced subdued nature, but whatever his reasoning, it had disastrous consequences), 3) emotionally neglecting Heathcliff too by not being involved enough in his integration with the family & not checking in on him and Hindley, 4) straight up just not being that involved to begin with and not seeming to teach his children anything, hence why they're all bratty and grow up to be deeply maladjusted.

Notice how Nelly's motivational speeches to Heathcliff, and her taking care of him when he was sick, have an extraordinary affect on him, meaning Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw probably didn't show him even half as much attention or real affection. Like most English fathers at the time, Earnshaw thought his job as father/master was to merely provide provisions, leave the children with the women to be actually raised, and be done with it. The most unique thing he does in his life, and indeed his whole role in the story, is bringing home Heathcliff.

Maybe most importantly, I also just realized that Earnshaw kidnapping Heathcliff parallels Heathcliff kidnapping his own son after Isabella dies (and also him kidnapping his daughter-in-law Cathy II), and while this narrative parallel works if Earnshaw is merely Heathcliff's adoptive father, it also could be working to suggest that Earnshaw was his biological father, knew Heathcliff's mother had died, and so went back for him and took him by force. If Heathcliff's mother had recently died (or been separated from him), this would have compounded his trauma of being taken by Earnshaw, and this would have furthered his childhood memory loss, which could be another reason why I don't think Heathcliff remembers very much about his origins.

Heathcliff has much in common with Frankenstein's creaure. Yet, he is essentially a self-made man, his own creator and creature. We are even led to think of him as inhuman, as Isabella suggests with her referring to him as such and even calling him vampiric. And he does bear a lot of similarity to John Polidori's Lord Ruthven, from the first vampire novel The Vampyre (a Byronic tale, based on Byron's short story Augustus Darvell). Heathcliff's canonically mysterious origins and mysterious hiatus are necessary to his character; like Isabella and Nelly, we're supposed to question him and form our own opinions on the matter.

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