#but i have one brain cell and right now it's just

[muddyorbsblr]

a startling realization pt1

See my full list of works here!

Summary: Oakley returns to campus after a trip with his mates and steadily comes to realize he's developed feelings for you

Pairing: Oakley x Reader

Word Count: 3.9k

Warning/s: frat boy friends vibes; bit of angst; probably not a completely accurate referencing to the events of 'Unrelated' [let me know if I missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: prequel piece to 'just another memory' but can be read alone; Oakley is a SIMP in the making for Reader

There'd been a strange sinking feeling in Oakley's stomach since he and his mates hit the road back to Cambridge. It was the kind that he'd only ever felt when he knew he'd done something that could get his mother cross at him and she and his father would impose some form of punishment on him. Perhaps revoke his cell phone for a week so he couldn't join his friends on their regular scheduled shenanigans. Or chat up some stunner that he'd met the week prior.

But things were different now. He was no longer bound by their rules for the most part. He was free to do whatever he wished and this trip to Italy was the perfect showcase of that new dynamic. All he had to do was get his degree and get a job, and he would still have their support and financial aid so that he wouldn't have to stay at the dorms or even have to tough it out with a roommate that might not approve of the way he lived day in day out.

The only person keeping him in check now was himself, and as far as he was concerned, there was nothing he'd done in Italy that he wouldn't have done in Cambridge. He had a bloody good time there, even, getting to engage in not just one but two flings, and one of them with an older woman.

And yet, when he thought back on every touch, every kiss, that he'd shared with either of the women, that pit in his stomach would form again. As if the activities he'd engaged in during his vacation were somehow the "wrong thing" that could make someone responsible for him cross.

But why?

"You're awfully quiet back there, mate. Which one of your lucky ladies is taking up space in that randy little brain o' yours, I reckon?" Eric teased, lightly tapping the curly blond's head as he plopped down on the seat next to him, jostling him out of his dwelling over why there was a pit in his stomach to begin with.

"I've no idea what you're on about, mate, I'm not thinking of anyone," he tried to brush it off, brows furrowing together when he tried to remember that night in the pool and the knots in his stomach worsened. Like the memories he made in Italy were not something he could look back at with fondness.

If he dwelled on it for even a second longer than necessary, it almost felt as if he was looking back on those memories with a touch of shame.

"Ah come on, Oaks, you tellin' everyone 'ere that you're not thinking about that stunner of a blonde Elizabetta? Even I'm thinking 'bout her and it wasn't my tongue down 'er throat." Eric crowded his space, squishing him to the side of the van. "Or even that cougar Anna, my lord, man that one was fawning and doting after you!"

As if right on cue, his mobile rang and vibrated violently in his pocket. Another call. He didn't need to even glance at the tiny device to know who it was. She'd been calling since just a few minutes after they'd all said their goodbyes.

That was over 24 hours ago. And he was well on his way back to campus, the scenery already began to elicit that feeling of 'home'. Or at least of familiarity.

"Speak o' the devil! Why don't you pick it up, Oaks? Be a grand old time hearing her pining after you again." His friend flailed into his side, dramatically placing the back of his hand on his brow. "'Oh Oakley how I miss you terribly, why don't I come visit you on Cambridge and we can live out any professor fantasies you might have in that virile young college brain? I'll even get the glasses and the pencil skirt just for you."

"Sod off," he grunted, trying to chuckle away the mental image. Another thing that was bothering him: Those fantasies that he'd had before they left for Italy a little over a month ago…none of them appealed to him now. "If you want, you take her number and live out those filthy little daydreams of yours, mate."

All that he could manage to think of at the moment was the melancholic knowledge that when he got back to his apartment, there would be no one there. He wasn't coming home to anyone. That didn't used to bother him before, but for some reason sitting in this van with all his mates and having to hear them be completely taken up with his own conquests in this trip made him feel as if he should be guilty and shameful somehow of the way he acted. The way he treated both the women that he encountered and found himself entangled with.

This is ridiculous, you're not looking for a wife, you batty little git, he hissed at himself, trying to supress the urge to let out a deep exhale. That would set off everyone in the van. Besides, you don't even know anyone that's even remotely wife material.

"Hey hey hey look alive, lads," Marcus, the one at the wheel, started to call out. His tone was brimming with wanton intent. "We are steadily approaching the dorms, and you know what comes after."

"Sorority row!" the rest of the van cheered, proceeding to make botched barking sounds, effectively drowning out the relentless ringing of Oakley's phone.

But the mention of the dorms finally had him sitting up straighter, realization dawning on him that he was wrong. He actually already knew someone who was so much more than "wife material". Someone brilliant and diligent that had a part of him driven to make the steps to be someone better.

Someone that he called his best friend. Better than anyone in the van with him tonight.

You.

"Marcus, could you drop me off here?" he called out, his stomach flipping at the sight of your familiar silhouette jogging to the front door of your dormitory.

His friends' remarks faded into a dull buzzing in the background as he got off the van, making his way over to you and staying still by your side while you did your step-ups at the bottom step of the stairs. It only took a few moments before you shifted your gaze at him, removing your earphones and hooking the cord behind your head before giving him a beaming grin.

"Goldie Long Legs!" you squealed, the exhilaration from your workout giving you an adorably flushed look, the slightest tinge of pink on your cheeks. "I didn't know you were coming back tonight."

"I was gonna give you a call when I woke up tomorrow, but then I saw you." He did his best not to pay too much attention to the strange somersaults his stomach was making the longer he stared at you. "Coffee?" He tried to keep his tone casual, despite the way his voice cracked on the last syllable, as if he was a nervous lad asking a girl out for the first time.

You answered a giggle that had his heart doing the most bizarre acrobatics in his chest. Why was he reacting to you like this? Was it simply the lack of a woman's presence the last two days as they made their way back, making this reaction more primal than anything else? Was it your exercise outfit and the way the fabric clung to the curves that were rarely ever out for him to take notice of before?

Was it something else? Something that was simply…uniquely…you?

"Coffee? At this hour?" you laughed off his offer. "All the coffee shops are closed by now, and you know how you get with caffeine, Goldie. If you have a sip, you won't know a peaceful night's sleep tonight."

"Oi! Lookin' good there, Y/L/N!" Eric hollered from the van. Oakley's skin bristled seeing how his friend leered over your figure. "Shame you didn't join us, Italy woulda been an even prettier sight with you around."

"Rather not add to the trail of broken hearts you lot left behind," you shot back flawlessly, sticking your tongue out at the boys in the van. "I know you lads well enough to know you didn't behave yourselves."

"Oaks over there's the worst offender of us all!" Eric pouted, pointing at the curly haired blond. "Two flings. At the same time. Shoulda seen him, Y/L/N, he was at the top of his game."

The playful smile on your face faltered for a fraction of a second before you recomposed yourself. That infinitesimal moment was more than enough for the pit in his stomach to make its presence felt once again. Now Oakley knew what it was, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Shame. And the worry that knowing what he'd done back there would somehow taint your perception of him. When your gaze darted to him once again, he had to fight back the words that wanted to stumble clumsily out of his mouth. They meant nothing to me.

In the moment they were fascinating, and truthfully while he was in said moment, he thought about how things would go moving forward. If he would try to pursue anything with either of them, but ultimately the immediate answer was 'No'. Back then he didn't know quite yet the reason behind his mind's outright refusal, but now he did.

This dalliance was a mistake. I have someone so much better back at home and I've been a fool not to see it.

"Quite the juggling act, Goldie," you remarked, your tone more hushed than before. It felt as if you were putting distance between the two of you despite not having moved an inch. Like there was a wall he couldn't quite scale now just to get to you.

"One o' them even gave him a nice lil picture o' her. A breathtaking blonde called Elizabetta. Ohh man not even the finest girls in sorority row can compare."

Shut up, you little twat, he internally seethed, wanting nothing more than to throw whatever he could get his hands on at Eric's head so that he could just. Stop. Talking.

And then his mobile started ringing again. And your smile disappeared, your face looking as if it was struggling to decide how to reconfigure itself, your neck twitching with every shrill note of his ringtone. "That's probably that breathtaking blonde now," you said in an eerily chipper tone. "I won't keep you any longer, I'm sure you're tired from the trip. And you'd like to spend the night speaking with your new lady friend."

"Oh that's not even the blonde! That's the other one!" Dammit Eric, stop talking. "Older lady. Head over heels for him, she couldn't keep her hands off him every time they were in the room together. Told you, Y/L/N. Top of his game."

"Ohh so a lady lady friend. All worldly and whatnot…" Even your body language was throwing him off now, way too casual to fit how he himself felt in this moment. The feeling of wanting more than anything to explain. "Well then, I really don't want to keep you. I know better than to keep my elders waiting, you should, too."

The boys in the van started cheering and clapping over your remark, jokingly chanting "One of us! One of us!" as you gave them a curtsy, making a motion as if you were wearing a skirt rather than your black and hot pink leggings.

It was only when you were halfway up the steps to your dorm building that he managed to find his voice again. "Breakfast tomorrow? My treat?"

You only answered with another giggle. "Did you hit your head or something back in Italy? You don't do breakfast, Oakley. At most you do half a protein bar at first period. From my purse. I'll see you at lunch. I mean…if you're not too busy with your new lady friends or whatever."

He couldn't come up with an intelligible enough response, instead watching you walk into your building and shutting the door, wiping away at your face with your towel. All that he could do was walk back into the van, telling Marcus in a daze, "Drop me off at my place. I'm not in the mood for stop overs at sorority row."

Oakley wasn't in the mood for any more games. Any more women. Not tonight.

The next morning the first thing he did was call up his service provider to see about getting a number blocked, and then he grabbed his wallet, rummaging around in his desk drawer for a handful of photos to place in front of Elizabetta's. A group photo with his mates from their first class project in freshman year, a photo with his family. A photo of a stolen moment with you where you two were wielding chopsticks at each other in a playful "stand off" for a potsticker, and your graduation photo.

On a whim, he placed the potsticker one in the front, a fond smile stretching across his face as he traced his finger over your face in the picture. And then his alarm clock began to ring and the sound quickly filled his apartment, springing him into action to find the nearest clean outfit he had lying around.

He nearly broke a sweat with how fast he ran to your dorm building, hoping he'd catch you before you started walking toward wherever you'd decided to grab breakfast for this morning. Right as he was across the street from the front doors, you walked out, one earphone plugged in and the other dangling from the cord, undoubtedly mouthing along to whichever song was topping the chart this week.

"Y/N!" He internally winced at the hoarseness in his voice. He wasn't even running for that long; how was it that he was already heaving for air?

Your head snapped up to his direction at the sound of your name, shock registering on your face when your eyes met his. Followed by confusion, your brows adorably knitting together as you watched him jogging towards you as he crossed the street.

"What brings you to my neck of the woods at this hour, Goldie?" you greeted him with a smile, hooking the cord of your earphones behind your neck. "Have a breakfast date with one of the girls from my building? You must have it bad for this one if you're willing to wake up so early for--"

"Y/N, I'm…I'm not here for someone from your building," he cut you off, wiping his hands on his shorts before standing up straight, trying to get his heart to stop beating so bloody fast. "I asked you to breakfast last night, remember? My treat?"

His response had you visibly taken aback. "Oh…" The word came out more like a squeak, making you clear your throat. "I uhh…I thought you just offered that as a nicety. For catching up. We could've done lunch…or you know, coffee now that it's a reasonable hour."

"We could do that, too," he said in a rush, fighting against the strange instinctual urge to reach for your hand as the worry that you might wave him off and start walking away crossed his mind. "After breakfast?"

You shuffled your feet in place, slightly swaying back and forth. It was a motion he knew all too well from you, the one that told him you were trying to think something through, trying to find the reason and the rationality in something before deciding what to say or do next. Had it been any other day, any other circumstance, and had he not been grappling with finding his own sense of rationality in why there was suddenly this shift on how he was acting and reacting around you, he would have swayed with you.

After a few moments your mouth stretched into a half-smile, shrugging before tilting your head in the direction of a nearby cafe and bakery. "Alright then. Let's go."

Oakley couldn't help how his face broke out into a grin, a touch too eagerly falling into step with you, still fighting the urge to reach for your hand. To lace his fingers with yours.

"So tell me all about Italy," you started, looking up at him and squinting your eyes as the morning sun hit your features. "Start with the food because I want to know if handmade pasta--"

"We can talk about Italy later," he breathed out, finally losing the struggle to not reach for you and settling on lightly resting his hand just above the small of your back. "Tell me about what you've been up to the last six weeks."

He'd try and process what it meant later. That all he wanted to do was know how you'd spent your time apart. That he wanted to hear your stories rather than speak about his own. That much as it was an extraordinary experience to roam Italy with his mates, the only thing he could think of now was how it could have been even more beautiful if he perhaps…experienced it with you.

"Oh…" Your voice got smaller again, as if you were struggling yourself to find words. "Well truthfully they were quite boring. My sister visited campus to drag me to the shopping plaza to overhaul my wardrobe. She's quite literally holding my jumpers hostage and replaced them all with…well, things like these." You awkwardly motioned at the dress you were wearing, a frilly sage number with a bow. "I look ridiculous."

"You look beautiful," he blurted out, immediately biting the inside of his cheek when you snapped your head up to give him a questioning look. A new feeling flooded him. Something almost akin to…fear? His heart was still pounding and thrashing in his chest, his breathing thready like the air was too thin.

Like he was afraid that you'd look at him and see right through him. Right into his soul. His deepest, most secret thoughts. Thoughts he hadn't even dared to properly articulate with himself.

And if you saw them, if you saw him, you would walk away without a second thought. Those words that he was so used to wielding without completely meaning it when he was around other girls, he'd uttered to you with the weight of every unspoken thought he'd had of you since last night.

With every ounce of sincerity and honesty that felt so foreign for him to possess.

"Oh please, Goldie, you don't have to butter me up," you laughed off his compliment, waving it away with your hand like it was a little housefly flitting away by your face. "You don't have to lay it on--"

"I'm not." The words were flying out of him faster than his brain could filter them. "You're beautiful, Y/N. And it's not because your sister overhauled your wardrobe or you changed your hair. It's you." His heart caught in his throat seeing your eyes widen, the questions and the confusion in them mirroring his own. What was wrong with him today? "All of you."

You pursed your lips, already looking back in the opposite direction like you were second guessing agreeing to sharing a meal with him. Or maybe even sharing any form of time with him. He already wanted to hit himself for not keeping his mouth shut, he probably just flushed your entire friendship down the toilet all because he started acting the same way he did when he was in the first grade talking to the prettiest girl in class.

"Hmmm," you sounded through pursed lips, taking a deep breath before your features morphed into that all too composed smile that you gave him and his mates last night. "And here I thought all I had going for me was my winning personailty."

"That's just a part of it," he shot back, failing to fight the urge to touch his hand to your arm as you reached the cafe, helping you keep steady as you walked up the elevated platform leading to the door. Right as you walked past him when he opened the door for you, he caught a wisp of your perfume. The same one you'd worn every day since the day he met you, the scent of apples and mandarin blanketing him with a warmth that took him aback.

Memories of his weeks in Italy now bombarded him. How he would relish the apples that he had, breathing in the scent before taking a bite. How he brought an apple when he and the rest of the group visited a citrus grove, and how the combined smells reminded him of home.

Only his family home didn't smell like that at all. It smelled of tea plants and bergamot.

"Oakley?" Your voice broke through his memories. "You alright over there?"

He took in the sight of you, a single eyebrow raised looking like you were amused by his stupefied state, the corner of your mouth upturned in a little smirk. "Right as rain," he choked out, finding it hard to breathe properly with his heart beating so fast it might as well be The Flash on a treadmill. "Just not used to being up this early, is all."

You only wagged your finger at him, tsk'ing in response when he stepped up next to you at the counter. "Shouldn't have shocked your system with changing your routine like that, Goldie. You have to ease yourself into it, take baby steps. Otherwise you'll crash midday and end up taking a twenty-minute nap that quickly turns into four hours, miss a lecture, and then you'll have to rely on my notes. Again."

"Ah, you should know me better by now, Y/N. I'll need to rely on your notes even if I'm wide awake, I can never pay attention to those old windbags."

His words had you rolling your eyes to the ceiling, a devious smile playing at your lips. He couldn't take his eyes off you, every waking brain cell screaming at him to take your face in his hands and kiss you.

"And here I thought your time with your new worldly lady friend would have you respecting our elders a bit more," you quipped, laughing at him when all he could do in response was audibly choke on the air. "Maybe we can hack that debauched brain of yours. Pretend those old windbags are your older lady friend instead, or pretend one of the pretty girls in our lecture room is your breathtaking blonde Italian beauty. Maybe then you'll pay a bit more attention in class."

I won't, his mind protested. Why would I look anywhere else when you're right next to me?

"I really don't think so," he said softly, letting out a chuckle when all you did was shake your head at him, proceeding to order a bacon cheese waffle sandwich and the first of a handful of coffees you'd be drinking throughout the day. All the while Oakley watched you, a fond smile stretching across his face as he lost himself in the memory of the citrus grove again. The scent he was chasing the entire way to Italy and back.

Your scent.

Home

A/N: Sometime last year I made a lil note in my idea notebook to make a prequel piece to 'just another memory' and now here we are…and it's gonna be a 2-parter with a potential alternate ending because the lil gremlin horn dogs in my writer brain want a scenario where she chooses…well, y'know what, you'll know who it is soon enough 😈😈

'everything' taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokidokieokie @lunarnights95 @superficialdomina @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog @peaky-marvel @lokiified @tom-hlover @dryyoursaltyoceantears @herdetectivetheorist

#oakley #oakley x reader #unrelated #tom hiddleston x reader #muddyorbs writes

[morganafata]

Thanks for the brain worms, Lovely Runner. Now I have theories

I don't watch a lot of currently airing dramas and when I do, I don't usually post anything aside from 'cuuuuute' or 'paaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnn". But because I can no longer be normal about waiting for things, I have let Lovely Runner consume my mind and now I have thoughts about it.

Because the real cool thing about this show (and about kdramas in general) is that it's not just a quirky romcom about two clowns falling in awkward love with each other- it's a murder mystery whodunnit revolving around how Sun Jae died the night he reunited with Im Sol. It's a kdrama but giving '7 1/2 Deaths of Evelyn Hugo' vibes where the protagonist has to figure out who the murderer was in what looks like a suicide while inhabiting a body that's not their's. But in this case, Im Sol has yet to realize that it's a murder. And now I have a Theory.

And it's that Im Sol was the objective the entire time. If not the target, then the focus of the killer. The murderer, whoever it was, just wanted Sun Jae out of the way because he knew that if Sun Jae managed to re-establish a connection with Im Sol again, it would be harder to prey/stalk/possibly murder her.

Because I have watched ep 1 god only knows how many times, and it actually looks as though the phone was deliberately knocked out of her hand. I've seen some theories float around that it might have been a future version of Sun Jae but why would he do that to the woman he loved, knowing what she would endure with her cell phone out of commission (unable to call for help, stranded in the cold with a broken wheelchair). It makes more sense that it was someone with more sinister motives, someone who definitely didn't want her to be able to call for help. It would also make her more willing to get into the most convenient, immediate form of transportation that happened to be passing by. Like...a taxi.

I also think that this stalker/murderer would have been doing this since her high school days because of the fact that someone in a taxi had been following her in episode 4. And what a parallel that would be- just as Im Sol admired to Sun Jae since she was a teenager right into her thirties (and vice versa with Sun Jae having been in love with her from the beginning to the present day) we have another character who has also been obsessed with Im Sol, but not in the sweet, innocent way she was devoted to Sun Jae but in a dangerously obsessed fashion that's more "if I can't have you nobody can''. The night of her accident could have been her stalker's attempt at confessing his "love" only for it to spiral into a kidnapping attempt. Im Sol attempts to run away, Sun Jae thwarts her attacker but it all ends with Im Sol too traumatized to remember that night and resentful of Sun Jae for rescuing her. Sun Jae, full of guilt, keeps his distance and Im Sol is without her protector. And her stalker/Sun Jae's future murderer has been hovering in the margins of her life, satisfied that since she's wheelchair bound and without Sun Jae, she was helpless and 'his'.

But then Sun Jae comes back into her life, Sun Jae who is both a rival and someone who has a habit of saving Im Sol again and again. So, Sun Jae has to be gotten rid of for Im Sol to be truly vulnerable and alone again.

Do I have a theory to who this is? Not really. No one really stands out at this time. Maybe it's a random member from Sun Jae's swim team. Or Sun Jae's swim rival who hates him. But I think he and the CEO guy could just be red herrings for who the actual killer is. I don't think it's Kim Tae Sung. I do think Kim Tae Sung encountered the killer before and the reason he was "expelled" was because he found out the killer's part in Im Sol's accident and was trying to avenge her. It's a little too convenient that he disappeared from the scene after Im Sol's accident because of a 'fight'.

Anyways this could be completely wrong, but I'm having fun guessing. By guessing, I mean suffering waiting for the next ep.

PS Why are 19 year old Sol's bangs so much more cringe when she's not being possessed by her 34 year old self? Kim Tae Sung was telling the truth when he said she got cuter when she became Grandma Sol again.

#lovely runner #kdramas #kim hye yoon #byeon woo seok #it could turn out that sun jae did kill himself #and giving im sol the umbrella was his last kind act before he jumped #but he seemed too happy and hopeful to see her again #he was probably contemplating retiring and making a fresh start with her when the doorbell rang #anyways i love this show

[katerinaaqu]

Survivor's Guilt and Survivor's Duty (P1)

Odysseus was hungry. That much he knew. Gods were really cruel with them the days that went through. He had returned from yet another hunt without any success. Not even a single rabbit was visible to Helios’s island. He was already feeling weary and light-headed with hunger; which was why he thought he was hallucinating when he smelt the finest smell of roasting meat he ever met in his life. However it took him no more than two brain cells of his infamous mind to connect the dots and realize what had happened.

“No! Gods no, let it be not what I think it is! Please gods no!”

His legs grew wings as he began sprinting towards the direction of the smell.

“Why did you lull me to that pointless sleep?! Why! It was all to ruin me? To ruin them?!”

He ran with all the strength of his feet to the field only to find what he hoped in all gods he believed in to be a hallucination. He saw what remained of his men from that eventful 3 year journey having lit a fire and roasting a fine cow to the pike, happy and well-fed. In the past days his men just broke. They could withstand hunger no longer and understandably they had only one source of nutrition on that island; those fat, well-kept cows that seemed to be mocking them. Of course his men would do that! Odysseus could not blame them and yet he pulled his long hair in desperation seeing the scene.

“ARE YOU ALL MENTAL? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MINDS?!” he yelled desperately drawing their attention, “I told you not to do that! These sacred animals will be our doom!”

Eurylochus, his trusted commander came forward. His eyes were full of snare and gathered anger.

“Captain,” he started, “did you expect us to starve to death? Not even one little bird was flying around and all the grass in this place turned poisonous for us! We would die anyways! This time we were doomed either way!”

The loud voice of the furious man was cut off from the sound of flesh striking against flesh and then Eurylochus’s head turned to the side. Odysseus was huffing and puffing; nostrils flattering aflame as he gathered his strong hand back.

“You fools!” he growled tears burning his onyx eyes, “you damned fools! This was a test! A test for our faith and we failed! We failed miserably! Haven’t you learnt anything? Insulting the gods is never a good idea! We should rather die of starvation than this! The gods will show no mercy on us now! We are doomed!”

“You would know of that!” Eurylochus suddenly bellowed beyond himself, “You doomed us all, Odysseus! If you haven’t done that we would be in our country by now! These three years happened because of you!”

This time it was a punch that stroke his cheek, not a slap. Eurylochus fell on the sand but he had no time to breathe for Odysseus grabbed him by the shirt lifting him up to his feet again. The comrades rushed there to grab him (oh they remembered his rage the other time nearly cost Eurylochus his life!) however Odysseus was almost as unmovable as a statue at that point. His face was red with fury.

“I tried to save us all!” he yelled, “Ungrateful bastard, I tried to save us all! I faced the beast that could have eaten us all! After everything I did for you! I-…”

He stopped. He shivered from top to bottom. Eurylochus was right. All had happened because of him. He had insulted Poseidon by blinding his son; he was arrogant enough to brag about it…no, even further back; Troy fell because of him. So many men died because of him. Ten years they fought a brutal war; they had endured the weather, the living conditions, the battles… More than 600 men started and finished the war with barely any loss…and now…less than 3 years out in the sea and… They started 12 ships and now they were one…less than 40 men left in one final ship…and all was initiated because of him…he could not deny it. He found no words to defend himself. Gradually he let go of Eurylochus, who wiped the blood off his lip with his fist. He noticed his men had gathered around to separate them from each other but it didn’t seem necessary anymore. The comrades had let him go, noticing he was almost limb in their arms. His onyx eyes were bottomless. No, it shouldn’t end like that! He had committed hubris to save his men and he doomed them, he had forced himself to bed a woman for one year after gods requested to rectify it and yet here they were again. None of the sacrifices seemed to be enough to wash that sin away. No, he couldn’t let them die like that! He had to try! He had promised he would repent! He had to save them before that happened!

“Gather up your stuff, men!” he ordered, eyes still shadowed by his hair, “We must go as soon as possible!”

“Go?” Polites asked, “Go where?”

“At ANY land!” Odysseus whispered, “Anywhere but here! We must offer a sacrifice of some kind! We must wash away this hubris!”

As he turned his back at them –oh he couldn’t face them now!- Eurylochus stood up and looked at him with eyes resembling knives.

“Should we take the rest of the meat too…Captain?” that word was almost spat like an insult, “Or shall we hope Poseidon will grace us with a meal?”

Odysseus winced. Eurylochus; his brave and loyal friend; the type of person that sure, didn’t tell him always nice things but he was always honest with him and always told him some things that needed to be said; now he seemed gone; All their adventures and torments had hardened him, killing his old comrade and giving him  in his place a bitter, hateful man who could understand no longer the difference between insolence, disrespect and honesty or couldn’t care less to tell them apart. Odysseus couldn’t blame him but at that moment he found his transformation disturbing and concerning. He glared daggers at him. The mention of the meat of the slain animals made even his mouth water. He was hungry too. They wouldn’t survive without food and yes, Poseidon sure wouldn’t allow them to fill their bellies with his fish given the situation and the sea birds even if they graced them with their presence, which he doubted, were inedible and poisonous. Gods forgive me, he thought, but I am just a man!

“Damn you!” he cursed under his husky breath, “Take what you wish! If we survive this, pray to all gods that I will forget this because by all gods one day I’m gonna kill you!”

He could hardly remember the process but he knew they were on their way again; so fast and so hastily inside their last black ship in the openness of the Mediterranean Sea. If it was in his hand, Odysseus would have stayed close to the shore but of course gods were cruel for yet another time as Helios’s magnificent isle lay in the middle of open sea. He had no choice but to head for the sea and hope for the best. He knew there were lands close by; if they could reach them… For six days the trip was uneventful and his comrades had as provisions the meat from the slain animals to feast upon. Even Odysseus had to admit he had tasted the magnificent flesh of the animals, for he could withstand hunger no more. However six days of such a trip and he was always expecting the worst, which never seemed to be coming. His nerves just broke. It was the seventh day of their journey; still no sight of any land and still he hadn’t spoken a word. He was staring at the endless blue of the wine-dark sea and he didn’t speak a word. He could sense his comrades’ tension in the air; he could almost cut it with a knife! And yet, Odysseus could not focus on that. Polites looked up from the deck towards him and then towards Eurylochus who still had his cheek swollen.

“He’s so lost in thought…” Polites commented

“He should be!” Eurylochus replied bitterly, “He might be our king but sometimes he has a lot of nerve to talk to us that way! It was HIS hubris that brought us to this position!”

“Now that is both unfair and blasphemous to our king!” Polites replied

“He is no god for me to perform blasphemy!” Eurylochus replied as a matter of fact

Polites sighed.

“We have our own share of responsibility, you know! If we hadn’t opened that damned sack we might have reached home as well!”

Eurylochus winced at the reminder of Aiolus sack. Yes, that truly was their mistake. They got overcome by greed and distrust.

“And, besides, what Odysseus said is true. You and I were never there. We didn’t experience the week of seclusion in that hole. Perhaps we would have done the same…”

Eurylochus sighed defeated.

“Yeah…perhaps you’re right. And he DID spend a year entertaining Circe till our comrades healed… However…” his face darkened a bit, “I still cannot shake it off, Polites! It is majorly his fault we ended up like this! And he DID keep secrets from us. Or have you forgotten how he kept his mouth shut about Skylla? Six of our comrades dead…and we didn’t even know what was coming…”

“He wanted to spare us…”

“Yeah I am sure he suffered, alright, but we still had the right to know! Perhaps we could have come up with a plan together. Perhaps we could have fought back!”

“Fight back an immortal six-headed dragon? I am not sure how that would have worked but…even if you are right and he should have told us, that doesn’t change the fact that he is here with us now. If he wanted he could have stayed with the witch, Circe and sent us off and we would have no directions and no warnings.”

“He didn’t do that for us, Polites”

“Not entirely, I agree, but wouldn’t be fair to say that he did it for us as well?”

Eurylochus sighed.

“Fine, but seriously it was such a long trip and even longer way… I just want to go home!”

“We all do…” Polites whispered concerned.

Yes, ten years of war plus three years of wandering and danger…more than five hundred good men dead… Everyone could understand the feeling.

“I agree with Eurylochus, though…” said another man, “It was all a big mess that initiated when Odysseus insulted Lord Poseidon. I had warned him that day! I said, stop provoking him! He didn’t listen… We are all paying the price now…”

Polites sighed. Yes, he couldn’t deny that but still it seemed rather unfair to say it was just Odysseus’s fault. If anything, Odysseus was sacrificing many things along the way to protect and save them. He shivered in disgust remembering that he was told he had turned into a swine because he entered Circe’s palace. He felt grateful to Odysseus for rescuing him from such a fate. And yet… He still couldn’t shake that ominous feeling that something would happen and Odysseus’s silence wouldn’t help. Not bearing it any longer he slowly approached Odysseus. He didn’t acknowledge his presence. The silence was deafening. Only the cricking of the ship and the sound of the waves could be heard. There was no land at sight anywhere. It was quiet…WAY too quiet…

“Odysseus…” Polites started, “we…”

“Sh!” Odysseus harshly shushed him

“Please, I have to say it…” Polites insisted, “We were starving we made a mistake but-…”

“Quiet!” came yet another whisper

Polites gulped soundly, opening and closing his fist nervously.

“Odysseus…” he started, “Have we ruined everything…?”

Odysseus looked at him and he seemed ready to reply but then he raised his head sharply towards the sail and then to the ripples of the waves. All color left his face.

“Odysseus…? What is it…?”

“That is Eastern Wind…” Odysseus whispered almost in a panic, “That is Zephyr that is blowing at us! That’s not normal! Not at this time of year!”

He almost jumped from his standing point, suddenly seen afraid maybe for the first time in a long time if not ever in his life before.

“MEN! PREPARE YOURSELVES! STORM MIGHT BE COMING!”

His comrades didn’t have enough time to question if he lost it or not (given the clear skies around them) because in a few minutes the weather changed so drastically and rapidly that people could only suspect a god was causing it. Black clouds filled the sky in a matter of a few minutes and then suddenly the distant sound of a thunder was heard.

“No…” Odysseus whispered, “No…please, lord Zeus no! Forgive us…please!”

Strong winds raised as a matter of seconds and suddenly the deep blue sea turned into a full-fledged storm. The waves rose in angry white foam and the skies were black like coal with flashes of lightning and thunder. Rain followed that was cold and whipping their faces like needles. The men cried out in fear.

“EURYLOCHUS!” Odysseus bellowed on top of his lungs, “SECURE THE SAIL!”

“SECURE THE SAILS!” Eurylochus transferred the order, “ALL HANDS ON DECK!”

The panic galore was not allowing the orders to properly pass however the soul of the sailor cannot be abided by panic! All hands on deck began to work frantically; they commenced running up and down grabbing the chords and the lines, some of them already climbing to the mast to secure the sail. However it seemed the rage of gods was stronger than the determination of men and their burning wish for survival. A strong current of wind torn the sail to peaces sending quite a few falling on the deck.

“LEAVE IT!” Odysseus yelled as a strong wave splashed over him, “BEFORE THE WIND! HOLD ON TIGHTLY MEN!”

As the ship was played around on the waves like a toy, the terrified warriors and tired sailors would be desperately trying to use the rows to turn the ship; do something, ANYTHING to prevent themselves from crushing on the waves. The sail was now torn to shreds; like the cape of a dethroned king, aimlessly whipping against the mast at the strong wind.

“BEFORE THE WIND!” Odysseus kept screaming over the wind, grabbing the line of the sail in a desperate attempt to keep the material from hitting anyone on deck, “ROW MEN! ROW!”

The ship was being pushed mercilessly upon the waves; creaking and moaning against the wind. Three pairs of rows snapped like twigs leaving the ship spinning aimlessly to the winds. The black ship began to tear apart as cracks and gushes appeared to the sides. The deck started taking water both from below and above from the waves.

“SHE’S TAKING WATER!” one of the sailors cried

“REPAIR THE DAMAGES!” Odysseus cried out in desperation running as he was already ankle-deep in water, “WE MUST KEEP HER AFLOAT!”

It was a pointless order and he knew it. No matter how many times they stuffed torn pieces of the sail in the holes it would be pointless. They were already soaked to the bone, they had no way of lighting fire or softening the wax to fix anything. They were just trying to delay the inevitable and they were failing miserably.

“Lord Zeus…father of all mankind and gods please forgive us!” Odysseus prayed again, “Please, we shall repent! Give us a chance! Poseidon! Oh, Poseidon, please give me a chance!”

The disturbing creaking of wood being slowly broken didn’t need much for Odysseus to understand.

“WATCH OUT!” he cried out

Both the fore-stays of the mast snapped like twigs. The mast began to fall in a disturbing creak and collapsed to the stern. The pilot did not have time but to look up at his upcoming doom as the mast crushed him. Even above the tempest the men heard the disturbing sound of bones breaking as his head was crushed and blood splattered upon the stern. The body fell into the black sea, lifeless and soulless. At the sight of that death there was panic galore. No one heard the orders Odysseus was screaming; no one had any mind but to run up and down aimlessly like ants that were seeing their colony collapse. All they could do was scream their upcoming doom. In a foolish hope or rather a crazy need to survive, Odysseus rushed to the half-broken stern, grabbing the remains of the steer; his hands being died with the blood of the pilot.

“No! No! NO!”

He used all the strength of his mighty hands to do something…ANYTHING to steer the ship away the storm. His hands began bleeding out of the effort upon the splints of the destroyed wood.

“Gods no! Not again! No! No!”

The waves were raising the ship to the heaven and dropping it back down like a walnut shell as people were holding for dear life at the remains of their already tearing apart ship. The steer snapped in the hands of Odysseus and fell into the black sea never to be seen again.

“PREPARE FOR IMPACT!” Odysseus cried out, “HOLD ON!”

Therewith the worst came; a thunderbolt stroke the ship and the sudden flash and tremendous sound left them all blind and deaf. Odysseus screamed in pain shielding his ears. The ship cracked from side to side down in the middle; splintering in the winds like it was a pile of leaves. Ears buzzing and his nose filled with smoke from the fiery fire that lit upon the sad remains of the deck, Odysseus staggered to his feet, struggling to get two steps straight, trying to see through the sulphurous smoke (the only thing he could see was his comrades or what was left of them staggering on the ruins of their ship like drunk) when the last tidal wave came to finish the job. The wave must have been as tall as the remains of the ship as it flooded with tremendous force on the deck sweeping everything…and everyone! Odysseus got violently banged against the hull but he watched in terror through his cloudy from water eyes his comrades falling into the water screaming aimlessly for it was the only thing they could do.

“NOOOOOO!” Odysseus could only cry out as he ran to the rim

He watched the bodies of his men almost like small white dots to the absolute blackness; already almost a mile away, sometimes disappearing under the waves at the force of the tempest. Odysseus nearly lost the remains of his wits as he ran about the ship trying to find literally ANYTHING he could use. Another surge torn apart parts of the keel and the mast snapped from it. Odysseus reacted almost automatically as he rushed to the broken ropes and parts of the keel and mast. His hands and thick fingers began working frantically, almost completely unconsciously as water was hurting his eyes and rain was feeling as if piercing his flesh. All his Being was screaming for him to save himself; to survive! However that tiny part of his brain was tingling to him; maybe there are some men who are still alive! Maybe there is time!

“Please Athena! Please Athena…let me save them! It can’t be too late!” he was mumbling as he was securing the ropes so that the two pieces of wood would tie together, “Please, Pallas please! Let me save just one! Please! Let me return home just one! Please! Please! It can’t be too late! I can’t lose them all!”

Yet another thunder from the skies made him jump and then the remains of his favorite ship were torn apart! Odysseus grabbed upon his last raft of salvation. He jumped into the merciless ocean, rowing frantically with his hand towards the direction he saw his men disappear.

“EURYLOCHUS!” he cried out over the waves, “POLITES! ANYONE! ANSWER ME!”

The only answer he got was thunder and wind. The waves were tall like mountains!

“POLITES!” he called out again

Tears filled his eyes as his voice broke.

“SOMEONE!...P-Please! Anyone! Anyone…!”

There was nothing on site…just waves and storm.

“No…” Odysseus cried, “NOOOOOOOO!!!”

Realization was crueler than what he would expect…there was no one…just himself! He cried…he cried loudly as he never cried before.

“NOOO! WHY! WHY! WHY!” he yelled over the waves, “IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME! IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN-…”

His mind and wits nearly escaped him. He remembered that day before their sail for Troy…there were more than six hundred men…waiting for their dangerous trip…

*

Odysseus was standing before his men; the future fleet that was ready for this uncertain trip. Odysseus, dressed in his fine clothes, his long hair neatly brushed and beard trimmed, was looking at them seriously.

“We are heading for a dangerous trip, my men…” he said, “The road is long and we have no idea how long it will take for us to finish with the holy castle of Troy… If we result in war…there is no guarantee it will end soon…”

His onyx eyes stared deeply within countless others of pairs.

“I cannot lie to you, men…I cannot promise you that we shall all return home safely”

He drew a deep breath.

“However I promise you this; I shall do ANYTHING within my power so we can return home safely! I won’t disappoint you!”

*

Back to the present Odysseus cried. He weakly hit his fist upon the mast.

“No…” he sobbed, “I won’t disappoint you…!”

Six hundred men…they were all gone…disappeared… He began hyperventilating. No, it couldn’t be true!

“No…No, Athena! No Athena!” he cried trying to fist the water beneath him as if it were sand, “No, Pallas…! No… No, my men…! NOOOOO! NOOOOOOOO!”

He yelled till his throat was sore…till his voice was gone…he sobbed and cried tears almost as plenty as the waves of the sea. The storm was roaming around him… There was no one there to hear his lament… His voice was carried around by the wind…his tears were washed away by sea and rain…His body was borne by the direful winds…

Six hundred men had started that fateful journey…

Now there was only one…

Now he was alone.

*

The tempest began slowly to subside and the eastern wind gave his place to a breeze from the south. Odysseus was hanging helplessly upon his supposed raft. The nightly fight with the waves had exhausted him and his tears had long now dried out like the salt in his curly hair. His head was already dropping in fatigue when something made him look up. His eyes widened in terror.

“No…” he whispered

He recognized the location. In his pure terror he recognized the narrow path of Skylla and Charybdis; the passage he had struggled so much to get his men out of; the passage that cost the life of six of his comrades. What was worse…he heard an unworldly moan from deep down the sea. His feet felt the low frequency vibration…and then there was a whirlpool. Charybdis had awakened!

“No!” Odysseus cried out, “No, gods, no!”

The merciless current and the frightening groaning from deep down the sea started drawing him. Odysseus at the edge of his wit began frantically rowing with his hand; desperate in his fear to get away from the deathly current that would suck anything to its path! At that moment he remembered Circe’s warnings;

“You must not be there when she sucks it down; for no one could save you from the ruin not even the Earthshaker himself…”

“I HAVE TO TRY, CIRCE!” Odysseus yelled towards the sky in his panic, “I have to try or else my men’s deaths were for nothing!”

The merciless current though wouldn’t bulge as Odysseus realized in terror his pitiful attempts could never save him from this hellish force. The two pieces of wood that were forming his only salvation were being dragged in the ruthless elix. The water was already foaming when he reached the grotto. In panic he scanned the perimeter. Only then his eyes remembered what his brain had erased in fear; the fig tree! Circe had said there was that fig tree shadowing Charybdis! The massive roots and branches were hanging over him; it was his only hope! With strength only panic and adrenaline could give him, Odysseus pushed himself on top of the last remains of his ship and kicked as hard as he could. He had only one chance. His wounded and red hands grasped for dear life onto the rough branches and thank goodness his fingers closed around them!

“ARGH!” Odysseus cried in pain feeling as though his arms would be uprooted out of his own weight, “GODS!”

His legs helplessly hanging over the abyss were desperately moving trying to find a footing but there was none! His arms didn’t have the strength to pull him up at the tree either so he could only hang and hold for dear life. Odysseus dared to look down and saw in terror the gaping hole sucking in the sea and with it his only safety raft. His wet hands would slip and fall if it weren’t for the sheer determination that held him! He prayed to all gods that he knew and didn’t know that this time, just this time, he would find salvation; that his small raft would be vomited out of that whirlpool otherwise he would be lost… The growling rumble from beneath the watery abyss signaled the begin of the outside movement to what it seemed like an eternity later.

“Please gods…please…please…” he was thinking like a mantra

And then he spotted it! The small brownish outline of his mast and keel. He would have a chance! Fear was biting his stomach as he looked down at the whirlpool vomiting out seawater. He knew he had to act quickly or he would have no hope to swim to his raft in that condition. Charybdis below him seemed ready to swallow him even if she was vomiting out the water. What if she really swallowed him if he let go? What if he would be destroyed by some wave? Odysseus looked and looked and the seconds seemed like eons to his tormented heart that was flattering within his chest. He shut his eyes closed; to not see; to not fear and he made his decision

He let go of the branch.

Gravity claimed his body as he fell to the empty space and within the foaming water. The water was hot; hotter than human body temperature and to the tormented king of Ithaca who was freezing from water that seemed like a boiling cauldron. His ears were filled with the sound of bubbles and the hellish growling of Charybdis. He didn’t dare to look; only he paddled like his life depended on it (and it did!) . The suction force that was pushing him upwards this time was with him. Odysseus felt his lungs burning for air and he nearly breathed in the sea water as he hadn’t got a proper breath before diving in the sea. And he was pushed up and up till he was vomited out of the water and drew a soundly breath. He swam frantically till his raft and grabbed onto it with his wounded hands for dear life coughing salted water; nose and eyes aflame from the salt. He rowed and rowed with his hand almost immediately after he caught some breaths. He turned around towards the OTHER dreadful site.

“If Skylla comes out…I’m lost!” he thought

However the dreadful cave that hosted the monster that claimed the lives of six of his crew remained dark and silent. Nothing came out. Odysseus wasted no time and rowed and paddled like crazy to get as far away as possible from that dreadful area. He didn’t know how far Charybdis or Skylla’s ranges were but he certainly didn’t want to know! That was knowledge that even Odysseus of Ithaca, the Man of many Ways could pass on! After what seemed like a full eternity and when the sun was setting for good at the horizon, Odysseus had covered enough distance to see the grotto from afar. He collapsed onto his mast, drawing raspy breaths till his chest began to hurt. He seemed he had no more strength to move. His hands were full of wounds from the ship and the tree branches and hurt from salted water, his lips were torn from the sea and salt had crusted onto his face and hair. Then Odysseus broke down. He cried silently alone in the middle of the sea; he cried for his men he lost, he cried for his dreams that seemed to becoming fainter and fainter; the dreams to embrace his wife and son and he cried for himself. He had barely any hope to survive. He had no men; sea had claimed them. He had no vessel; the storm had claimed it. He had no food or water; those were gone long time ago. He barely had any clothes on for even those were soaked and already tearing apart from the wind and sea. What was the point to keep going, he thought? What would be the point to struggle? He had slim to no possibilities to escape. He was alone in the open sea without protection in Poseidon’s territory. Any kind of sea creature from the usual sharks till the dangerous creatures he faced so far, could potentially kill him.

“I should have died there!” he thought, “Alas this fate is worse than the death in the ship! This agony! Oh, gods I can’t bear it anymore!”

“You are made to endure, Odysseus…”

That was what his grandfather had told him when he visited him in Parnassus what seemed like an eternity prior; almost in another life. However even the tormented Odysseus had his limits. And now these seemed surpassed. Maybe he should let go; allow the sea to take him and end his torment. Maybe he could meet his family in a few decades in the underworld… Why struggle for the inevitable? And yet a small voice to the back of his head made him think that he could not give up just yet; that he had to keep trying and if the sea would claim him then so let it be written, so let it be done. However he had to try and fulfill the prophecy of Tiresias. He felt like he owned this to the 600 lives that were lost under his command. He looked up at the stars that seemed to have started to form. Yes, he would follow the directions that the night dress of Nyx was pointing at. Finding strength anew, the Man Tormented paddled slowly and steadily away from the dreadful spot…

*

Odysseus traveled once more; this time alone and grabbing upon the last remains of his beloved black ship… The night came cold and he was shivering. By the morning another storm caught up with him and his mast was once more drifted by the huge waves that resembled white top mountains, tearing apart his clothes and his flesh. And yet his hands endured… It was as if his heart and hands combined turned into oak or stones. The Man of many Torments endured. Next day the sun was merciless over his head, sending him almost to the brief of hallucinations and heat as sweat was running down his already wounded body. The night the gods felt pity on him and sent a drizzle rain. Odysseus raised his head to the heavens trying to grab as much of the fresh god-sent water as if that would be enough to quench his insatiable thirst and the burning of the salt. Once a passing seaweed came close to him to which Odysseus made some sort of imitation of a meal for himself. How many times he nearly slipped off his life-raft he lost count…how many times he probably actually fainted on it he could no longer remember. And yet, the King of Ithaca endured…in strength that he had no idea he had. It was as if both his body and spirit had decided he had a duty to survive. He survived the agony and pain as well as the anxiety and fear every time something touched his foot beneath the waves or a passing fish would bite his legs. He had long stopped feeling much.

By night before the tenth day of his painful journey he had collapsed. He didn’t feel the sand beneath his body as his raft finally beached at a sandy beach. He didn’t move as some crab or beach beetle walked over his sea-beaten body. By dawn some hints of his consciousness returned. It was only for a brief second that the rays of sun touched his salt-crusted cheek but Odysseus saw or at least he thought he saw a tall slender figure picking something up from the beach many meters away from him (maybe a seashell). The figure turned towards him and walked there.

And then everything turned black…

~~~~~

Ooookay guys this the first part from my Odyssey story! Poor Odysseus loses everything and gets beached in Ogygia.

Rhapsody 12 must be the most intense or one of the most intense of all the Odyssey and honest the way that Homer describes how Odysseus survived had to be kept as it was from my part!

Poor Odysseus must have passed from all the stages of grief at once!

Now I get extremely inspired by music and soundtracks for my stories. For example the Charybdis description was heavily inspired by the amazing Disney soundtrack for the movie "Dinosaur" with the title "The End of Our Island"

For his eventful journey I was partially inspired by Mozart's "Kyrie" from the Great Mass in C Minor and also the scene from the film "Les Triplettes de Belville" for the battle with the elements especially the storm and all.

For the sinking itself I was inspired by various soundtracks and pieces of music.

For my story I kinda take the hypothesis that Ogygia was in fact the small island of Gozo in Malta

As the other time I shall tag some of my amazing commentors/rebloggers and friends! (again forgive me if I forget anyone)

@loco-bird @aaronofithaca05 @tunguszka20 @doob-or-something @jarondont @prompted-wordsmith @simugeuge @fangirlofallthefanthings @ilov3b00kss0much

#odysseus #the odyssey #greek mythology #odyssey #odysseus was severely traumatized #ogygia #charybdis #skylla #homeric poems #homeric poems inspirations #homeric epics #odyssey fanfiction #epic #polytalas the one who suffers too much #polytalas #odysseus the sailor #tagamemnon #the odyssey 1997 #remember them #storm #survivor #Youtube #polites #eurylochus #survivor's guilt #trauma #angst #shipwreck #ancient greek mythology #ancient greek literature

[scp2337]

best thing about Fallout 4 is that, thanks to that classic bethesda polish, the cows in game are big and beautiful and dumb just like real cows but also sometimes they accidentally teleport onto a roof and immediately accept that they just live there now

now THATS realistic gaming

#i had to remove an entire section of fence in one of my settlements #because the brahmin kept accidentally teleporting on top of it while trying to get to the feed trough #THEN i went to another settlement right after that and the brahmin was clipped into the fucking building #like not even one of the houses it was clipped into a structure on the land that isnt accessible/doesnt have an inside #just chillin w its head sticking out of the wall lookin like a mounted head #all because i place the feeding trough the wrong direction (i didnt realize only one side of is intractable for them) #AND THEN AFTER I MOVED THE FEEDING TROUGH SOMEWHERE ELSE ON THE PROPERTY #went back over to the tower/building thing and homie wasnt there anymore so i was like 'ok cool moving it got him unstuck #and then i looked up. #mans was on the fucking roof. straight up vibing in the idle laying down pose #not a care in the fucking world. no classic confused turning back and forth in place because of broken pathfinding #dude got teleported and immediately accepted his new status of 'That Bitch Up On The Roof' #two heads and not a single brain cell between them #now THATS the kind of realism i want in my games

[thats-the-laugh]

PLEASE let me know if this has already been said but I feel like I noticed an interesting parallel between KinnPorsche and VegasPete

ok so in episode 6 when KinnPorsche is running around through the woods, they’re handcuffed together the whole time, right? but then at the end it turns out that Kinn knew how to open the handcuffs the whole time, he just chose not to. and I think we can all pretty much infer that that was because he wanted to keep Porsche with him—he was afraid Porsche would leave

now let’s look at VegasPete in the later episodes. Pete is conflicted about his feelings because he’s growing to care for Vegas, but Vegas still has him locked up, so Pete questions whether his feelings are real and doesn’t like the feeling of powerlessness he has in the relationship. but the reason Vegas struggles to uncuff Pete and let him go is because he’s afraid that if he does, Pete will leave and never come back

basically, both Kinn and Vegas are scared that their loves will leave them, so they force them to stay. but in BOTH cases, when they let their loves go, they come back

Kinn opens the handcuffs and tells Porsche to leave, but Porsche still comes back to kiss him. and even after Porsche has run off, when he hears gunshots, he runs back to save Kinn knowing Kinn is in danger

Vegas leaves keys and a shirt so Pete can escape, but Pete chooses to stay and sit with Vegas after his hedgehog died. and later, after Pete escaped back to the main family, he chooses to resign when he knows Vegas is in pain so he can go protect him from himself

idk i just think it’s really interesting how two couples that at first glance have nothing in common can be so similar

#you can tell i’m being really productive right now #it’s not like every single one of my brain cells is occupied with this show #i definitely didn’t just write an essay about a tv show instead of packing #it’s just that i have so many THOUGHTS about themmm #and this rewatch is making me notice a lot #anyways feel free to ignore this #just had to put it out there #vegaspete #kinnporsche #parallels

[polaraffect]

i need professors to start including their late work policies in syllabi again. i'm trying to make strategic decisions here

#damien.txt #i have an essay due in 4 hours that i have not started. and i did not sleep at all last night #so. at what point do i cut my losses and turn this essay in late. like.... god the concept of trying to write it rn makes me wanna die #but also i probably should right. also bc i have literally 0 idea of what this professor's late policy is #so like..... i'm fucked if he's one of those 'no late work whatsoever' people #and ngl. it's not out of the realm of possibility. he's nice but he also gives 'please send the obituary' when a family member dies vibes #what i really should be doing is trying to write it instead of making this post but like truly i have 0 brain cells right now #i haven't even done any prep work for doing this essay 'like deciding what to right about / choosing quotes #you know what the worst part is? the reason i didn't sleep last night. was because i was anxious about this essay. #i kept trying to tell myself to do it. but i just couldn't make myself do it. and now. here we are #......i really need to get tested for adhd lmaooo #edit: just noticed i wrote 'right' instead of 'write'. brain unintentionally deciding to demonstrate how tired i am lol

[trans-leek-cookie]

can someone teleport me to the poolrooms and shoot me so my blood is staining the pristine tiles and water. Nothing should be alive there

#Jesus Christ I just realized that ur cells might temporarily live on after You The Person die. Like i guess it depends on what counts as #Alive but even when ur heart stops I'm guessing ur red blood cells might stay active???? Not to mention the bacteria in your gut #Me: wouldn't it be so cool if there was blood in the poolrooms bc they're so surreal and pristine and the blood would both break that #And yet be perfectly fitting moreso than any living being? Wouldn't that be cool? #(realizes that even after ur brain shuts off your cells probably won't die in perfect sync and some might survive even briefly after YOU di #And that's what causes some sort of existential anxiety attack) what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck #Seriously though sorry if I sound like an edge lord but i want to put blood in the poolrooms bc it sounds so beautiful. The red blue #Contrast and the staining of the tiles itches my brain just right. It's not something you could make a story about it's something you have #Take on it's own. Like you have to let it be an image whether written or drawn it can't be (primarily) a story. Like there's an implied #Story (who took a gun into the poolrooms) but you have to prioritize the spectacle rather than the series of events #Does this make sense? Writing about someone being teleported to and murdered in the poolrooms is fine but #The simple... It's not shock but the way a dead body with deep red blood either laying on the tile or floating in the pool #There's a story but the story pales in comparison to the single snapshot of the moment. I should've been a fish #Like a pufferfish with a beak so I could eat clams I saw a pufferfish eat clams in person one time and it was fuckin incredible literally #Life-changing. It's just like ok. Yeah ok thats right that's how it's supposed to be. I understand now

[monochrome-delirious]

I just want to remind everyone that no matter what side you’re on, the exact same things people are doing to Amber (cancel culture, hating her, verbal abuse)? We did those to Johnny, too. We gave him intense grief when the allegations first came out, and automatically assumed Amber was the victim without any evidence.

So don’t act like people are siding with Johnny because he is male or because he has a lot of fans—because I haven’t forgotten how brutal everyone (his fans included) was to him before, and how everyone wanted his career ruined.

#it’s the same thing you guys #and I know our court system is fucked and unfair #but they went based on the evidence that was given #and hey maybe they were wrong and maybe we were right to hate Johnny from the beginning #but don’t act like we’re not being a bunch of hypocrites with one shared brain cell #a lot of the people siding with Johnny aren’t doing it because they’re fans or men #they’re doing it because evidence points toward Amber lying and possibly even being the abuser #regardless of your opinion #you have to admit that we have a mob mentality and hate people without context #we hated johnny #we hated Amber #and now we’re back to hating johnny #this is not the end of feminism or female empowerment #and maybe not even the beginning of male victims rights #it’s just a Hollywood court case that made a decision based on the evidence they had #that’s all there is to it #amber heard #amber #Johnny depp #Johnny #also I’m not naive #I know there are rabid Johnny fans who support him because they think he’s hot #those are an outlier and I am not counting them #and who knows #maybe they both abused each other and are both terrible lying scum

[crossbackpoke-check]

here's the answer to your jersey rabbit hole in case you haven't already come across it! credit to the random kraken discord person for digging this up & also that #2 wasn't assigned to anyone that year (sorry about the lack of narrative ://)

twitter. com/ HockeyHallFame/status/ 1611497346944143361

bless you 😭😭 and the kraken discord for figuring this out. as per the official HHOF, matty was wearing a previously unworn 1996 team canada world juniors jersey

#bless you thank you i’m 🥰🥰🥰 you found out!!! and told me!!!!! 😭😭😭 also pshhhh there is boundless narrative you don’t have to be sorry #no narrative you say? matty the specialest boy who took a trip to the HHOF and ASKED PERMISSION to get a ‘vintage’ unworn jersey for a bet #and they said YES? i am unhinged enough i can spin a narrative about it & also: love that he now gets to be in the hhof for a weird sex bet. #liv in the replies #matty beniers #seattle kraken #like matty how did you know that this was an option? who did you ask and they were like ‘just go to the HHOF archives and ask’ ???? #instead of just wearing one of your teammate’s old jerseys? did none of them have them anymore? did too many of them have them? was it just #ebby & matty in the bet? how far in advance did matty have to get permission & did he specifically ask for an unworn one if yes why & why 96 #canada did win gold in 1996 & it was right before (excluding forgettable gold in 97) a very long drought which. i don’t think matty is that #clever or petty but i consistently remind myself he was pre-med &has brain cells so he could be betting on canada downfall. gold & then bust #i’m gonna stop myself right in the tracks here because i got this & was like oh i can be normal now i know (proceeds to not be normal) #@the post i just saw that was like ‘oh maybe it’s jamie oleksiak’s 2012 wjc jersey! he wore no.2’ wrong sorry but THANKS FOR A NEW NARRATIVE #matty can’t ask jamie for his jersey he’s too shy but he does have a giant crush and therefore: you wear a no. 2 jersey no one ELSE has worn #so that it can’t be a message to them but you CAN wear it to practice & show jamie oleksiak that you’re wearing his number in honor of him #& could he raw you pretty please. matty this is a fantastic con I’ve invented for you also big rig? fantastic taste wishing you all the luck

[onlygodknowsimgood]

When I was young, I never really understood my parents insistence to only use olive oil imported from Palestine. It took a long time and a great distance in a process that was neither cheap nor convenient. The oil came in old beat-up containers that did not look appealing to me at all. In my head, if they wanted to support distant family back home, they could just send them money and save us and them a big hassle. We could just use the nice looking olive oil containers from the nearby store. Yet, this was never an option in our household. The only olive oil we used at home was from Palestine.

‎As I grew up and started a student part-time job, I worked with olive oil a little. I knew all about olive oil imported from Spain, Italy, and other countries. I knew which ones were better and more expensive. I also learned to tell, based on the pungent taste, which ones were extra virgin. I was tempted to use my employee discount to bring home one of the fancy bottles and use at our kitchen. I could not get myself to do it, and I did not exactly know why. I felt like it would be disrespectful to my parents even if it didn’t make sense to me. It did not feel right. It was not an option.

‎After living in Palestine for a year during the olive picking season, something changed. The olive picking season in Palestine is holy.

‎Palestinians relate to the weather based on how it would benefit or harm the olives. There is well-known unspoken rule about treating olive trees with respect. There is a day off from work just to pick olives. On public transportation, it is not unusual to hear someone on the phone telling their friend to stop by for their share of this year’s olive oil stored in what used to be a Coca-Cola or a liquor bottle. A driver will stop in the middle of the way to give his brother- in- law a jar of olives that are so close to one another that they start to crush showing their insides.

‎In Nablus, the owner of the Nabulsi soap factory takes pride in how picky he is about getting his olive oil. He insists on filling a cup to let me smell how authentic it is and smirks as he sees my diasporic facial expressions transform in appreciation of its strong smell running through all of my brain cells.

‎I started noticing how olive oil is an essential part of so many dishes. “Palestinians drink more olive oil than water” I would jokingly say and they would laugh in agreement. Olive oil is truly an everyday ritual.

‎They fantasize about its color when it’s fresh and remind me that it starts to change as it reacts with oxygen over time. They dip their bread into olive oil, just like that and without any additions, and enjoy it more than the sweetest of all foods. I can guarantee that every lunch invitation (عزومة) I received during the olive-picking season was a chance for my hosts to share their olive oil using Msakhan (a traditional Palestinian dish).

‎I now have a deeper understanding of the psychology behind the burning of olive trees by Israeli soldiers and why farmers moan at the scene as if they lost a loved one.

‎Wherever you are, if it’s accessible to you, make sure your olive oil is Palestinian. Your ancestors would want that.

- Dima Seelawi

#palestine #olive trees #olive oil #فلسطين

[allofuswantgwinam]

the way that i feel so fucking old after saying this 🤣🤣🤣

#this high schooler at my job is like my unplanned brother and i can’t #everytime he says ‘rizz’ i lose a brain cell #and i should’ve never told him that bc he’ll do it on purpose now and he’s like ‘did your brain cell go away’ 🤣🤣🤣🤣 #idk wtf he be sayin foreals #no clue #but it makes me irritated bc the lil girl he likes said something to him one time about how he talks to me all the time #it offend sme bc i don’t want anyone thinking i want to date a high schooler 🫠 but soemtimes people think im younger so hopefully it’s that🤦 #i also don’t even think he likes me like that but knows better if he does so there is no problems here lmao #one of my coworkers calls him my ‘clinger’ 🤣🤣🤣 bc he is #they don’t know him tho like it is not like that #but I can see why they would think he likes me #he’ll literally come stand right at the front door of the liquor store and talk to me bc he can’t come in lmao #but like I said they don’t know what I know 🤣 he just doesn’t have much support at home #therefore here I am the big sister and he annoys tf outta me just like a fucking sibling #idk why people always have to make things into separate genders being into eachother #it’s not always like that #and every mfing time he says ‘yuh’ #im gonna kill him fr it is disgusting #idk how any grown woman could lust for a high school boy 🤢🤧 I’m barely even grown and am appalled by them 🤣🤣💀💀

[inkskinned]

in the time loop the only way out is to leave her there but you don't ever leave her there, never in the roughly one thousand years you have been in the same day. it is probably like "50 first dates" but you haven't stooped so low as to watch "50 first dates" yet. (but who is to say what another thousand years of the same media will bring to you, maybe you will develop a new taste).

you spent about 200 of these years sulking in a bathtub or on the couch or staring at the seaside. 300 of them have been spent slowly mapping the geographical distance you can actually get before the time loop restarts. you have a list of favorite places: one library in Western Massachusetts called "The Bookmill", which has weird hours and has never raised an eyebrow to you arriving out-of-breath and panting, asking to see a specific book on a specific shelf. There is one beach without a name in North Carolina; it is an accident of geography and ownership title disputes - and it is pristine, untouched, warm and cozy. you've taken her on a lot of picnics there. Acadia National Park. One specific birdhouse in the mountains.

you were stuck in the time loop with the money you entered it with: not enough to rent a private jet. you've robbed a bank a few times, you don't like the way it ends. maybe next century you'll get the hang of it. you don't like the look on her face when you say hang on i have to stop at the bank.

you just have to leave her, and you can go back to being a person again. you took 5 years just catching a flight and sitting in the Grand Canyon. if there's one thing you regret more than anything, it's that you hadn't gotten your passport renewed before this fucking time loop. maybe you should spend some time learning forgery - but also, like, you look like an english teacher. nobody is going to be cool about you asking to see their paper printing machines.

the world is very big. that is one of the things groundhog day gets wrong. there are no consequences, so you have literally all the time (or none of the time?) in the world. in groundhog day, he does a lot of very cool things, but in reality - your muscle memory never gets better. you can't necessarily learn how to play piano or sculpt ice, because your hands never remember the practice. but hey - maybe you'll try violin next. drums. synth.

you can open any door and walk into any conversation. money isn't really an object. you can try every meal off every menu, forever. take her on helicopter tours and into every museum and on every event that is happening right-now at-this-moment. parades and funerals and calligraphy classes.

but you are somewhat trapped by the limitations of your body. if you were reading a book, you still need to get up and go back to the library and find that book again when the day resets. (thank god for the internet). it still takes like 2 hours to board a plane, and then takeoff and landing and traffic. you've gotten off to run around on the freeway. one of the little thankful things: since your brain isn't actually developing (it's a muscle too), the days thankfully don't feel shorter to you. that would be agony.

all you have to do to leave the timeloop is let that man get away with it. that's all. in every version of yourself - forever - you have stopped him.

the problem is that this experience has convinced you of the existence of the human soul. after all, how else are you forming memories? your very cells reset. information has to be transferred somehow. and if timeloops are real, you can convince yourself other magic exists. so you have two choices here: this hell, or the next. there might be a millennia where you have been worn down to the point you can accept fate's decision. this is just not one of them. ironically - she is the one thing you have left.

and besides! if you can't always find something new in your partner, aren't you failing them? there is something new about her, every day with the same morning. every brutal day with the same orange sunset.

after all, you wanted to live with her in heaven, in eternity, and, well - isn't this second-best.

#writeblr #warm up

[cottonconnielvr]

eren loves thunderstorms.

he loves the way the electricity crackling in the sky turns into background noise as he places himself so deeply inside you. you feel full, as always. eren’s head lays next to yours on the cold fluffy pillow, his body fitting perfectly on top of yours. his weight only made your head go even dizzier. your plush thighs welcome eren’s shamelessly slim waist, your mixed arousal making a mess on your thighs. the sound of eren’s deep thrusts is so lewd, his tip kissing your cervix so perfectly. eren’s warm body shields you from the loud thunder outside, the sound of rain brutal against the windows. “you’re so messy…” eren lifts himself from the crook of your neck, his hands rubbing up and down your thighs before pushing them further back to your chest. your breath hitches at the new angle. eren’s change in pace having you drooling over the pillows, he’s stroking you so slowly and so deep your thighs begin to shake. “r-ren” you cry out, your hands gripping the sheets. with every thrust goes the last of your brain cells. eren watches where the two of you connect, his dick snug inside of you. everytime he thrusts back in your slick oozes out.

“ you’re so nasty…creaming all over me” eren lets out a breathy whine, coming down to connect his lips to yours. you don’t have a chance to process his movements before his thrusts speed up, one of his hands coming up to your throat.

whimpers and moans fell from your mouth as eren sucked your tongue, his fingers squeezing the sides of your throat. you could feel your stomach tightening, your pussy clenching around eren over n over. “shit you gonna kill me” eren whispers to himself, your warm sticky insides clamping around him so tightly. his forehead rests on yours, his eyes looking into yours. you can’t help but look away, he knows how uneasy eye contact makes you feel.

“ren m’gonna-” you sob out, tears flooding down your cheeks as the pleasure stimulates you so well. “hm? what you wanna say?” eren teases, fingers gliding over your sensitive clit in smooth circles.

“ i-i can’t” you shudder, hands pushing at eren’s abdomen. “yes you can, sweet girl” eren places a kiss on your forehead, pushing your hands out the way. “it’s okay, just cum m’here” he pushes down on your lower stomach. as if it was destiny, the final crash of thunder for the night hit you as hard as your orgasm, toes curling and eyes rolling back. eren hisses, your pussy clenching so tight around him. “gonna make me cum, pretty” he whines lowly, his grinding into you to prolong your orgasm for as long as possible. you sniffle, coming down slowly in a dreamy haze. you could sleep so good right now.

eren lifts your thigh up, pushing it back even further to bury himself as deep as he could inside you. you gasp aloud in shock, overstimulation hitting you hard as he rocks into you so good. “ren n-no” you squeal, hands desperate to hold onto something. “m’almost there” eren sighs out, his thighs shaking from pleasure. broken moans and whimpers leave your teary eyed form, only getting more sensitive with each thrust.

“ ahh - s..shit… look at me” your eyes lock with eren’s, he looks so good this way. before you can warn eren, your arousal squirts out of you, wetting eren’s lower body. eren stiffens, pumping rope after rope so deeply into you. you both lay bare and limp, chests heaving as you both come down from it all. you can only focus on the rain hitting the ground outside.

….but yeah eren loves thunderstorms!

#bunny’s drabbles 🐇 #aot smut #eren x y/n #attack on titan #eren x you #aot x black reader #aot headcanons #aot x you #aot x reader #eren jaegar smut #eren jeager x reader #eren smut #eren x black yn #eren x black y/n #eren x black fem!reader #eren x black reader #eren jaeger #eren jaeger smut #aot x black reader smut #x black reader #plug!eren #plug!eren x black reader

[hairmetal666]

They start kissing on stage as a joke.

The night before the first time, they're at an afterparty, pounding shots, and Eddie is reading aloud a piece that just came out in Rolling Stone. "'One of the most noteworthy parts of Munson and Harrington's unlikely pairing is their chemistry on stage. It's like these two men--one on his way to being the latest metal god, the other an indie rock wunderkind--are two parts of one musical whole. Their singing, their playing, even their bodies twine and flow with assuredness; where one goes, the other follows without question. They share a single brain-cell and that cell is music'."

Steve giggles, pours some more Grey Goose into the glass. "If they say that now, could you imagine what would happen if we, like, kissed on stage or something."

"What the fuck, Harrington?" Eddie splutters, having just thrown a drink back.

"I don't know, other bands do it!"

Eddie snorts. "I'm cutting you off." He reaches for the bottle and the suggestion is forgotten for wrestling over the liquor.

Steve barely remembers it in the morning. Doesn't think about it at all as he gets ready to go out on stage.

They're playing one of the instrumental breakdowns when it happens. They're leaning into each other, Eddie smiling over his shoulder at him, their eyes locked, bodies moving together. "You wanna?" Eddie mouths at him.

Steve nods before the question actually registers and by then Eddie's warm, soft mouth is against his and he just-- completely forgets what he's doing. His hands still on the guitar strings, and he melts a little, going completely boneless when Eddie grips the back of his head, pulls him deeper into the kiss. t's over almost as quickly as it started, Eddie pulling away and swirling to the mic to start the next verse.

The kiss sinks into Steve's bones, and that's before it becomes a regular feature of their performances. After that night, they're never at the same time during the show, all initiated by Eddie, all over before he can catch his breath; each one chaste and surrounded by people but somehow more intimate than any make out.

He and Eddie, they're friends, bandmates, collaborators. They've known each other since they first started out, forging an immediate connection with they stumbled upon each other hiding out in the garden at some industry bigwig's party. And as much as he loved his friend, never once in that time had Steve considered wanting Eddie.

But now, now he falls asleep with the ghost of Eddie on his lips, goes into each show with a thrum of anticipation, catches himself thinking how beautiful his friend is when he's all rumpled and disheveled from a night in the tour bus bunks.

They've always been easy with physical affection, but once the kissing starts they're constantly in each other's space, idly playing with hair, laying across laps, heads on shoulders, twisting together on the tour bus couch. Steve is ruined with every touch, every moment; he can't get enough.

The first time Eddie uses tongue destroys every last piece of Steve's composure. They've added a new song to the setlist, a remixed version of Eddie's hit "Prince Charming". It's hard, heavy, sexy, one of Steve's favorites. And in the middle of it, right in the middle, Eddie shoves him against a low platform, kisses him like he's trying to own him, tongues twining eager and wet and full of sinful promise. It's like that every show after, Eddie kissing him deep and thorough, like he's trying to lick up every drop of Steve.

He is, unquestionably, fucked. Unquestionably falling. Can't properly fathom how he'd gotten himself here, desperate for Eddie's kiss, as performative as it may be.

They're packing up equipment after a show. Eddie's hair is piled in a messy bun and Steve is trying not to blatantly stare at the curve of his neck, the stray curls against his pale skin. Eddie's gesturing at something, says, "Can you grab those cords, swee--Steve?" He hands them over without thought, notices that Eddie's face is shining red. He's called away to deal with packing the guitars, forgets all about it, but at their next show, Eddie doesn't kiss him.

They don't talk about it.

Eddie doesn't try to kiss him again.

A week after Eddie stops the kiss, they have a night off between shows. He needs to get out of his head, goes out with Robin. He gets back fairly early, but all the lights are off in the bus. It makes him panic in a way it shouldn't; they've always done their own things. Still, he rushes on board, flips on the lights, his absurd heart beating too hard.

Eddie is curled up on the couch, face pressed to the pillows and covered with his hands. The panic kicks up a notch.

"Eddie?" He steps closer, slowly reaching out to grip Eddie's shoulder.

He jerks upright, earbuds slipping free, phone sliding down his hip. "Steve?"

His face is wet, tears actively slipping free from his eyes as Steve watches.

"What happened? Are you hurt?" His hands flutter around Eddie's arms and face, searching for bruises or wounds.

"I'm fine, Harrington," he chokes out. "Though you were out with Robin?"

"Yeah, I was, but Chrissy called. You know how useless she gets. But that doesn't--you--you're crying. What's wrong?"

Eddie's smile is a wobbly little thing, refusing to stick on his face. "Oh, you know, the usual. Fell for the wrong guy."

Steve forces down the gut churning hurt at hearing that Eddie's in love with someone, intent on comforting his friend. He tries to slip his arm around Eddie's shoulders, but Eddie shrugs him off. It jostles Eddie's phone again, slipping it toward Steve and activating the screen. He has a split second where he's looking at the cover of his own first album, before Eddie's snatching it out of reach, scrambling up from the couch.

"I'm fine." He swipes his sleeve over his face. "It's nothing."

And Steve is putting it all together, the being in love and listening to Steve's music, the kissing and how it ended.--

"Eddie." He sounds all wrong, choked and garbled.

Eddie doesn't turn around, is stuffing his feet into his boots. "I'm--I gotta go clear my head."

He walks towards the door and Steve just--"I've been obsessed with you since the first kiss," he says. Eddie stops, hand curled against the door. "We've been friends all this time and I didn't--I never realized. And then we kissed and--it's all I've been able to think about."

Eddie turns then, facing him, expression unreadable."Steve, what are you--"

"I love you. I'm in love with you." It comes out fast, all jumbled, but he can't stand Eddie leaving, not now.

"You--?" Eddie blinks, bites his lip. "That's not possible."

Steve smiles, can't help it. "It is, though. Turns out, I can't get enough."

Their eyes lock; neither speaks. Steve's heart pounds so hard it might spring free of his chest. Eddie moves first, crosses the small distance between them to pull Steve into his arms.

It's not a kiss, but Steve buries his face against Eddie's neck, breathing him in, feeling the echo to the pound of his own heart. "How long?" Steve asks.

Eddie's soft laugh vibrates through him. "Since I saw you walking in that garden and thought, 'jesus christ, Prince Charming is real'."

Steve pulls away to stare at Eddie in disbelief. "But that's--your--the song?"

"They're kinda all about you, Stevie. But that one most of all." Eddie whispers. His eyes glisten.

"Fuck, Eddie." He doesn't mean to whine, but he's not in control of his voice anymore. "I'm sorry I didn't--" He shakes his head. "I'm all yours, Ed. Whatever you want."

Eddie's thumb catches against Steve's bottom lips, eyes transfixed on his mouth. "Everything, sweetheart. I want it all."

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #ficlet #bandmates steve and eddie #musician au #fluff #angst #eddie munson has a crush on steve harrington #oblivious steve harrington #eventual mutual pining #kissing on stage #it's a joke. until it isn't #this is because boygenius won a bunch of grammys #all award shows are fake and the grammys are the most fake of all but still #if the tour bus is rockin' etc etc etc #grey goose got your girl feeling loose

[amisunderstoodgoddess]

The Hunt

(final part here)

Rating: Explicit +18

Summary: When the creature you fear so much manages to escape containment, will he show you any mercy or take you without any regret?

Author's note: I intend to make this story with just two chapters. This is the first, the second will soon be available. Hope you like it!

English is not my first language.

'ALERT: Specimen 375-6 is out of containment.

It's not training. All search and capture units were activated.

ALERT: Specimen 375-6 out of containment.'

You swallow hard as you read the warning message on your phone, the words falling over your body like a truck of bricks.

He had escaped.

The creature you knew and didn't know.

It was yet another top-secret government item, another non-human biological material captured and kept for research.

He stands out from the others, of course.

With his height, intimidating physique, and obvious intelligence, but you never actually approached his cell, only catching brief glimpses from afar as you did your job collecting and saving data from the scientists' research in the system.

But you always felt something strange in the rare moments you needed to approach the cell block he was in.

He kept to the back, using the shadows to stay hidden. And yet there was one thing that caught your attention, regardless of how dark the place was.

His eyes.

Two orange spheres, standing out like beacons in the night.

He remained basically the same every time you entered that part of the building. Sitting on the floor with his legs half bent and his wrists firmly restrained by chains resting on his knees, you couldn't make out the color of his scaly skin or his features in general, but the color of those eyes shone like neon lights in the darkness of the cell.

He looked at you, every time.

It was disturbingly intense. There were no blinking eyelids or shifting gazes, he stared at you with unwavering focus from the moment you entered the lab until the moment you left. His eyes…they shone with intelligence and superiority. Like he's just there because he wants to be there, not because he was captured. He owned everything he laid eyes on. The rational part of your brain screamed, 'Look away! Run away!' but those eyes seemed to want to capture your soul with each encounter.

All your co-workers had noticed the strange fixation that the creature seemed to have on you, but you always denied it, diverting the subject while saying it was just their imagination.

Deep down you knew it wasn't.

You saw the way his unsettling gaze settled on your form, felt the shiver run down your spine at his gaze and yet - even now, you could still feel that warm buzz inside at the memory of his burning gaze locked on you.

You could admit that it wasn't healthy to feel any level of curiosity towards a murderous monster who was obsessed with you. It was scary.

Your only consolation was that he was tightly contained with the best technologies the government could dispose of.

But he always seemed very calm to you, as if he were above all that. In a confident and almost arrogant way, in the way that only people who have a coldly calculated plan are.

Now he was free.

And you had a horrible feeling that you knew exactly who he was going after.

You quickly walk down the street towards your house. Your heart beats fast, the gentle breeze brushes your warm skin and your loose hair. The canopy of trees above and the few lights along the main path cast their shadow in the opposite direction as you walk faster and faster.

At the end of the street, your eyes notice movement, something large and slow, moving behind a row of parked cars. It's not completely unusual for pedestrians to be out so late - after all, you're here, right? - but your stomach drops a little, very consciously. Something instinctive warning you that it is smart to be afraid.

By the time your trajectory takes you past the line of dark vehicles, the street is once again empty and you allow the hairs on the back of your neck to rise with relief. It was probably just some insomniac suburbanite, taking out the trash or smoking a cigarette on the sidewalk.

Rows of closed windows stare at you blankly as you pass by, colonial houses with sagging porches and overgrown backyards, the residents of the peaceful neighborhood sleeping soundly within the comfort of their homes.

A noise breaks the silence: a loud, prolonged rumble, followed by an inhuman whine, an undeniably animal sound.

There's a single lamp behind you that puts an enormous silhouette into sharp relief, but you can still easily see his solid, dangerous structure.

Your knees threaten to give way, your throat burns as you try to take a deep breath, fear leaves you numb and clumsy in exactly the least desired way at the moment. You don't think, not really, you just act. Getting to the house across the street is like running a marathon, and raising your fists to knock on the door, swing the doorknob, requires a huge effort against the adrenaline that makes your hands shake uncontrollably. "Please help me!", your voice is hoarse, your throat is tight, it's not loud enough, no matter how much you want to scream - it's like you're trapped in a nightmare where no one can hear your screams for help. "Let me in, please, I-"

The door swings open under the weight of your fists, and you almost fall to your knees at the abrupt movement. You don't have time to think, to weigh whether this would be the smartest choice compared to the others, you don't know if he's clinging to your back or if there's still a safe distance between the two of you -

You just enter.

---

The realization of the terrible mistake you made dawns on you in the space of a few minutes of panting breaths.

The living room is empty, strangely enough, not that you really have time to think about it. A staircase appears in your field of vision, and your panicked animal brain sends you toward it, taking two steps at a time, crossing a long landing and climbing to a second floor, holding on to the railing like a wooden board salvation. "Someone please!" You manage to scream, "Please, someone! I'm being followed, call the police!"

The police couldn't help you, and if you were thinking clearly you would know that. No one, not even the army, could help you against this thing.

Yet there is no voice responding, no shuffling human movement, no clicking light. And then you see the paint cans, the tarp, the door off its hinges and against the opposite wall.

This house is under construction.

Nobody. No lights. Without help.

Spinning on your heel, you stagger back toward the stairs. But there is no more time. The door you left ajar in your moment of despair lets in a pale beam of moonlight through the unfinished wooden floor of the foyer, and you watch in mute horror as a shape fills it - huge, so tall that he has to lower his head past the doorframe, a brick wall of an alien assassin wearing a metallic mask. The soulless black holes of the visor, poor excuses for eyes, stare back at you.

Alone, in an empty and unfamiliar house. Your heart pounds in your chest, bile rising in your throat - you're trapped.

You know it. And he knows it too.

The creature walks with slow and determined steps towards the end of the stairs. You briefly, wildly consider waiting until he reaches the landing and then throwing yourself off the balcony. You can survive.

The thought makes you feel like a panicked rat, chewing on its own leg to get out of the trap.

Of course there's also the possibility that you'll break every bone in your body and die from sheer stupidity - which may be preferable to death by those sharp claws on his massive hands, but at least the latter you'll be able to escape. If you can keep your wits and your legs under you, you might be able to outwit the Predator. Evade the trap.

You almost want to laugh at your own delusions of salvation.

Your unsteady feet drag back without your eyes leaving him, but with every slow step you take back he takes one towards the stairs. The silver rays of the moon bathing his reptilian-looking skin, highlighting his entire body dyed in a singular tone of obsidian, with some lighter variations on the abdomen and in some internal points. Thick, long tendrils of 'hair' flow around the mask and over his broad shoulders, adorned with gold and silver metal beads. One of his hands - oh, huge and with long, sharp black claws - seems to want to reach out towards you, but the creature holds back for some reason, preferring to continue with the strange war of glances.

It seems that in his escape from the laboratory he recovered some of his things: in addition to the mask, he wore the wrist gauntlets, the net that covered his body, the strange piece of cloth wrapped around his hips decorated with bones and skulls, and the metallic protectors on the shins. The metallic chestplate and combi-stick weren't visible, you can't tell if he managed to recover it or not.

Regardless, he was infinitely more frightening now that you can see him outside of containment; big and broad, a solid wall of defined muscles. But it was his posture that unnerved you. The roll of his shoulders, the tension in his arms. The almost imperceptible flex of his calf muscles, as if he was preparing to jump - just waiting for a movement from you to attack.

He reaches out, this time to his own face, grabbing the metal there. Air pressure is released when the metal mask is removed.

You hold your breath.

His face was lighter than the rest of his body, a slightly grayish tone with some black streaks mixing with the dreadlock-like hair on his head, a few black barbs framing the sides of his face and along his elongated forehead. There were, of course, those flaming eyes you already knew. Instead of lips, he had four folded jaws with long teeth at the tip of each of them. Inside those jaws, you could see more of his teeth, smaller but more numerous and frighteningly sharp.

He moved his jaws as he climbed the stairs with purposeful slowness, his massive size making the stairs creak, strange clicks and rumbles emerging from his mouth.

You gasped in response to his face, shaky and scared, your backward steps continuing until your back hit the wall.

End of the line.

If you ran you would have to turn your back on him, and you couldn't do that. Never turn your back on a predator, everyone knew this rule.

It was as if you were in a horror movie or a nightmare, where you could only watch without any reaction as the monster approached. The predatory way he approached awakened the primitive instinct to flee, but your legs were shaking too much for that.

You pushed yourself further against the wall, even though there was no longer any space. It looked like he wouldn't stop walking, that he would simply knock you into the wall, but at the last second he pinned you against him and ice-cold wood at your back.

The air was knocked from you, hands flat against his chest instinctively as a way to get some distance. Even under the net, his skin was clearly much warmer and firmer than your own, smooth in some places and textured in others, the latter matching the gray patterns that spread across his extremities. He smelled mostly of moss and damp, like a forest after rain. But there was also a muffled current of pheromones, a slightly peppery scent that hit you like a tsunami.

In fact now that you felt it, it felt heavier and heavier by the second, as if he was exhaling on purpose. With each inhale, that smell seemed to make you a little more relaxed, a little more dizzy.

It took a few seconds for you to realize that he was even closer, hovering above you, his breath hot and wet, stirring your strands of hair. A gasp left your throat as his sharp jaws dove down, digging his nose or whatever it was into your hair to press into your neck - though you didn't know if that sound had been out of terror or something else. All you knew was that when he backed away, another low, animalistic growl resonated from deep in his chest, long and continuous and it took you a few awkward seconds to realize he was...purring? Purring like a cat? It was bizarre, but your own body began to uncoil, as if some force tied behind you sternum had pulled your back with him.

Your breathing is now labored for what seems like an entirely different reason. You can increasingly smell that intoxicating scent in the air and that, plus the mesmerizing purr, is making your eyes roll back slightly, a blurry haze taking over your thoughts. You can feel his sharp claws as they dig into your shirt and you, in turn, can't control the shudder in your body in response.

His scent is doing something to you, something that definitely shouldn't be happening. There's an overwhelming pressure blooming in your core, the beginnings of a dull ache that makes you clench your thighs to ease the tension. The saliva in your mouth comes down with difficulty as you swallow and lick your lips, stretching your neck to look into his eyes - god, you could barely reach the line below his chest with your head. What's happening with you? He is not human, he is not human. This is wrong.

"..." His jaws click and move, strange sounds fill the room with deep growls and hisses; he was talking, but you couldn't understand him. His eyes roam your face as he speaks his strange language, and his thumb gently wipes away a tear you hadn't even noticed falling from your eye.

You open your mouth to question, to scream for help, to beg for mercy, for anything...but nothing comes out.

His breath is hot as he bends his body until he's almost face to face with you, all predatory expression and clicking jaws, almost drooling on your skin. And then, as he forcing the words out of his depths, he says, “Mate.” He declares to you, slowly and gravely in a way that no human sound could ever be, but a little more understandable now.

You look at him in shock, not expecting a deep, English word to come out of his alien mouth. His inhuman eyes are bright enough that you clearly see the orange flames in the dim light of the night, slashed down the center with black, almost feline pupils that threaten to drag you inside.

Mate.

What the hell?

You blink slowly, the low rumble persisting as he purrs under your attention and you can tell he's trying very hard to appear less threatening to you. You bite your lip against a hysterical and completely untimely laugh that wants to escape, the tension of fear finally channeling into something different (something manic and traumatized) when he presses his broad forehead to yours in a frighteningly intimate gesture, tilting his head even further to rub your cheeks with those sharp jaws, snorting into your hair and sniffing at your neck.

The drag of the deadly fangs against your skin is exhilarating, in the worst way and you fear what is to come, a very animal and very instinctive part rooted in the most unconscious corner of your being, knows exactly what this creature is wanting from you. And the worst part, the most disturbing and embarrassing part of this realization, is that you don't know if you want to resist. Not with the way his scent and purrs are making your legs shaky and your mind fuzzy.

You're shaking, but it's not just from fear and perhaps the creature knows this, because he pulls back a little until he looks into your eyes - something very carnal and very primal vibrating almost visibly beneath that reptilian skin.

He slowly looks away from yours to fiddle with something on his wrist, and you feel like you can breathe once again without the oppressive weight of the orange orbs on you. He clicks the object on his arm for a few moments and then pulls a small metal disk out of it. It's no bigger than a small cell phone chip, and he balanced it on his fingertips.

Curious, you lean in a little. You just want to take a look at what he's doing; but before you even know what's happening, the giant puts his hand around your throat and pulls you towards him. You scream at the hostile action and try to fight him, but of course it's no use. With his strong hand, he can easily subdue you and move your head to the side, pressing the metal thing against the skin just behind your ear in a quick, burning blow.

You don't have time to react, much less to understand how he did that at that speed.

You just feel the effect.

It burns, like you're being branded, and you scream. Your whole head hurts, and for a second you wonder if he hit you against the wall in the process. It's a wrong and distorted feeling, like someone is tuning a radio inside your head, you hear screams and white noise echoing inside; so loud that you have to cover your ears with your hands, but that does little to decrease to the cacophony inside your mind.

When the alien releases you, you kneel on the ground, still writhing in discomfort and pain from the chaos in your head – and then, suddenly, everything stops. You're panting, your fingers covering your ears and your head between your knees, but when the noise quiets, you slowly look up. And although you are dizzy and a little disoriented, the presence of the creature hovering ominously above you is clear.

“W-what was that?” you mumble between quick breaths. "What the hell did you do to me!?"

The alien blinks slowly and tilts his head, jaws clicking before he responds. "Now we can talk."

Your eyes widen at the strange sound (but fluid and articulate, very different from just a few minutes ago), your stomach tightens and you pull your knees closer to your chest. “W-what?”

“It’s a translator,” he says. His voice is still very dark and booming, but his growls and clicks have somehow turned into words you can understand. “This allows your little ooman brain to understand my language.”

You swallow hard and feel the blood drain from your body. He was scary when you couldn't understand him, but he was even scarier when he could talk.

“Get up, little ooman,” he murmurs. “We should get to my ship. I don’t want to spend any more time on this miserable planet.”

You can't believe what you're hearing, everything is happening so fast. With shaky legs, you gape at him. “I…I don’t understand.”

The moment is interrupted by something when the alien turns his head towards the window of the house, the various dreads tubes rattling with the movement and his jaws opening in a low trill while a long, forked tongue at the tip comes out of his deadly-looking mouth. You gasp at the sight, but he doesn't look at you, using his own body in front of yours, as if he was instinctively hiding and protecting you from something you cannot see, feel or hear. The burgundy appendage is long and glistens with the moisture of his alien saliva, along its length there are some quivers and small barbs. He slowly waves the thing in the air, almost as if he's proving something. And then you understand.

He's smelling it.

Maybe he's even more snake-like than you thought, after all, catching scent particles in the air with his tongue.

The air is positively thick with eager anticipation, he's alert and ready and you feel it.

You don't have time to think about it too much, though. Because soon he is looking at you again, although there is no longer any sign of malice and hunger in his posture now. The way he lifts his colossal body until he's completely erect, swelling the already prominent muscles to appear more menacing, only speaks of a creature with a purpose.

"Oomans here. They must have some kind of tracker." He growls once more and clicks that gauntlet again, making you jerk back with a new wave of fear.

"Y-yes, all the containment units are after you now. It's only a matter of time before they find you and try to arrest you again. Y-you should go." You respond quietly and slowly, trying to make him understand every word.

"My ship is nearby." He grumbles sullenly. You try to control the wave of curiosity that the word 'ship' evokes in you. Seriously, how many humans have had the opportunity to see one up close? But of course you don't say anything, if you got out of this situation with your life it would be good enough. You would forget about this bizarre encounter and go on with your peaceful and boring life as if you had received the greatest gift of all.

But then he continues.

“You…” He covers your body with his once again, cornering you against the wall. Your eyes widen as he wraps a thick arm around your waist, pulling you into him. "You belong to me now, ooman. You'll come along."

You feel like you didn't get it right. “T-to space?”

He doesn't seem to want to entertain this conversation anymore and just grunts again.

It's like all the red flags go up in your mind at once.

"N-no! No, I can't, that's...I can't!"

But he doesn't listen to you, and you can't predict the sharp sting on your neck. It doesn't hurt like it used to, but he cradles your head with huge fingers almost tenderly as a sickening sensation wracks your body and makes you stagger. You feel weak, your body giving out as you babble out things that even you don't understand. Everything is getting dark and your little fingers are scratching his arms looking for support, your breathing is coming with difficulty and your eyes are unfocused.

"It's okay, mate, just give in...I'll take care of you..." He purrs, but you can barely hear him, your senses are fuzzy and lethargic and you know you're going to pass out.

The last thing you see before the darkness swallows you and the unknown can wrap its tentacles around you, are orange flames above you. Hot, consuming and scary.

And then there is nothing but emptiness.

#prey #predator #yautja #yautja x human #yautja x reader #predator x reader #predator x human #yautja x you #yautja smut #predator x you #predator x reader smut #predator series #predator smut #predators #yautja lovers #monster smut #monster fucker #monster #tw monsterfucking #halloween #kinktober #monster lover #monster x human #monster x reader #exophelia #predator/prey

[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。the dictionary definition of a rich boy

synopsis. that rich guy who won’t stop asking you out is your partner for this project—send help

contents. pre dating rich boy! gojo, college! au, implications of a zenin being pushy on the first date, satoru being distraught you went on a date lol, pre relationship shenanigans with the cutest loser boy !!

word count. 3.8k (it’s literally all just him being a handful)

notes. thank you niku my most cherished gojo stan for comming this (and giving me the most ridiculous tip) i adore you so much :,) mwah 💋

he’s late—gojo is late. in fact, he’s very late, by forty-five minutes and thirty-two seconds to be exact. you aren’t really the count-by-the-second type of person, but somehow when it comes to that irritating, smug, too-talkative brat that you’re stuck with…well, you can’t help but be petty and use the seconds against him too.

he shows up close to an hour after your agreed time, waltzing in with a grin on his face—and, oh, you should kill him. he has the audacity to send you a wink when he walks over, coming up to your table and pushing his sunglasses down his nose just a bit to look you in the eyes over the lenses. 

what kind of person wears sunglasses indoors? surely only the kind that are nothing but trouble.

“aw, you’re here already,” gojo hums, “that excited to see me?”

“you’re late,” you spit.

“am i? i could have sworn—”

“now it’ll get dark by the time we get through what we planned for today,” you glare. he looks enthused, positively delighted by the statement—it’s almost as if you’ve offered him candy. 

“well, then i’ll just have to walk you to your apartment,” he offers smoothly. 

what a jackass. of course, just as expected, he’s still attempting to worm his way into your personal life (and likely your pants) in the most obnoxious of ways. over your dead body, however, will you ever allow him to know where you live, let alone accompany you on the way. you value your sanity, and having a conversation with gojo satoru longer than you absolutely have to seems like the most efficient way to fry every nerve and brain cell you have left.

“absolutely not,” you grit, “you can call me an uber. you pay.”

“alright,” he nods, “i’ll get an uber for you. but i’ll need your number to make sure you made it home safe. otherwise, what kind of partner would i be?”

typically, any normal pair of partners are meant to exchange numbers for a project—it would be the easiest form of communication, and more importantly, you can spam call if gojo decides not to carry his weight instead of just hoping and praying he checks his socials. but you can’t let him have your number—he’s not trustworthy enough for that. the last thing you need is him bombarding you with texts, or worse: calls, in the middle of work and class. so instead, you strictly inform him that any and all communication will occur via social media.

he pouts at that—it’s a cute pout, you have to admit. it’s slightly dangerous, too, because had you not had the self-control you do, you might have caved. but then he lights up at the prospect of you adding him back on socials. 

i’ll get your number one of these days, he says confidently. his confidence is as aggravating as the way he clicks his pen in the middle of class. he still chooses to sit right beside you despite all the free and very available seats the entirety of the lecture hall has. 

but no, he insists on sitting right next to you—and you? well, you have to hope you don’t get charged with homicide by the end of every class from the constant clicking he makes you endure. despite all that, gojo is surprisingly smart, which means your project might not be so doomed. 

he’s annoyingly smart, actually—he never takes notes, and just when you think the professor has him cornered by asking him a question when he’s seemingly dozing off, he answers immediately with the correct answer. 

you hate him.

“absolutely not happening,” you grumble, opening your laptop, “anyway i think we should start with—”

“well, i hate to inform you,” he sighs sadly as if it genuinely pains him to say this, “but i’ve actually deleted all my socials.”

“what?” your eye twitches.

“yeah,” he nods, “it’s a bit of a cleanse if you will. staring at your screen all day and finding value in fake posts is not good for mental health, you know? i’m trying to be more in tune with myself. it’s been a real self-journey.”

before the end of this project, you might either be a college dropout or an inmate at the county jail. you’re not sure, either is equally as possible.

“gojo satoru, i am sick of your games,” you spit, “we both know—”

“and i would hate not being in touch with my partner since it’s a crucial part of this project for us to work together,” he hums, something of a smug look plastered on his aggravatingly gorgeous face, “that thirty percent deduction for ineffective partner communication would be such a shame to get when we’re working so hard already on this, wouldn’t you agree?”

is he threatening you? for your number? with your grade? he is, you realize—and you clench your fist tightly around the phone in your hands as he eyes it with a knowing look on his face. he has you right where he wants you, whether you like it or not.

“you’re an asshole,” you spit.

“i’m a mental health advocate,” he gasps—he has the nerve to act offended, even as he’s so obviously enjoying working you up like this. you wish he’d drop dead immediately. maybe you could take his card from his wallet as his cold body lays lifeless on the table and order yourself a new laptop if he did—that would be ideal. 

“i saw you post on your story last night—”

“you didn’t watch it,” he pouts, “i posted a shirtless gym selfie just for you—wait a second, you pay attention to my story, huh?” he cuts himself off with a smirk, wiggling his eyebrows at you, “c’mon, you don’t have to force yourself to skip them. you know you wanna watch them.”

“no, i don’t,” you seethe, “it was just the first one at the top. stop being self-important—”

“anyway,” he drawls, eyeing your phone again. you want to splash your coffee in his face. “i’ll need your number,” he sniffs, “the crushing disappointment of you skipping my story made me realize i’m too focused on getting social media validation, so i’m taking a break. it’s the best thing for me to do in my headspace right now. hope you understand.”

“are you kidding me?” you stare at him. he grins before shaking his head.

“i would never joke about mental health,” he says seriously—it’s not as serious as your desire to slap him, however.

“fine,” you take a long, slow sip of your coffee to calm down, “give me your phone.”

“oh, you’re gonna set your own contact?” he brightens, immediately handing you his phone. it’s brand new—the newest model, in fact. it’s barely been a few days since it dropped. truthfully, you’re not even sure why you’re shocked—of course, he, of all people, would upgrade immediately. “how intimate,” he gushes, “it’s almost like we’re going on a date—”

“do not text me outside of project purposes,” you interrupt, thrusting the phone back into his hands, “got it?”

“you got it,” he grins triumphantly.

—————

like all things he does, gojo finds a roundabout way to keep his word without actually keeping it. it’s his secret talent, you think—finding loopholes through all the technicalities of things.

hey when ur free can u read over my portion? i just finished

btw r u going to that frat party this wknd? u don’t seem the party type haha but u should come 

i’ll introduce u to suguru! he’s my best friend he’s super nice u’ll like him

oh and when do u wanna meet this week? promise i’ll be on time this time ;)

you make sure to only respond to the questions regarding your project—just because he technically kept his word and started the conversation centered around the project before getting off topic doesn’t mean you have to indulge him. and the way he types is infuriatingly annoying—who shortens every possible word like that? only him, you think.

okay, maybe you’re just nitpicking now, but every time you see his name pop up on your screen, your mood sours tenfold. you decide to answer as dryly as possible.

k i’ll look. we meet same time as last.

the period at the end should add the perfect touch—you grin to yourself in pride at that one. instantly, bubbles pop up and indicate he’s typing again. your smile very quickly drops.

wow ur a rly dry texter aren’t u?

that’s ok i don’t judge

so how bout the party? 

i can be ur escort ;) 

it’ll be fun!

from his side of the screen, gojo watches as your contact shows notifications silenced at the bottom. he pouts to himself—no party, then, he thinks.

—————

gojo satoru, the guy who seemingly has everything he could ever want, likes you. 

frankly, he’s not really sure why—at first, he finds you mildly amusing, and he thinks it’d be fun to have a short fling with you perhaps. somewhere along the line, however, that changes. he watches you dedicatedly take notes in class, no matter how tired you seem from work the night before. he notices the way you chew on your bottom lip when you’re really focused—it’s actually very cute, he thinks. and he’s entertained by the way you always have some smart little retort waiting on your tongue. you’re not boring—and more than anything, you leave him a little humbled. it’s refreshing, and he kind of likes it, if he’s being completely honest.

he’s never liked anyone before—it’s a weird feeling. at best, he’s had a crush where he could appreciate that someone is generally pleasing to the eye and has a personality that might mesh well with his, but he’s never yearned for someone before. 

it just so happens to be his luck that the same person he wants more than anything in the entire world (for the first time ever, too) seems to hate his guts. it also happens to be that the same person he wants more than anything is currently getting asked out by some kid from the zenin family. right in front of him. and you’re saying yes. 

why on earth would you say yes to a zenin of all people? don’t you value yourself? 

gojo can admit that he’s had his fair share of heart robbing and tear inducing moments—he’s not exactly someone with the best track record for commitment, but at least he doesn’t use people for his own benefit. plus, he does, in fact, actually plan on committing to you. that zenin boy most certainly can’t be any good news if he’s anything like naoya, who gojo has met on a multitude of occasions, and knows very well is a scoundrel of a guy. 

“see you at nine?” he hears the zenin (what was his name again?) ask you. you nod, smiling sweetly. 

why don’t you smile sweetly at him like that? he buys you coffee every week. sure, he only gets to buy you the coffee because you have no choice but to meet him for the project, but he even offers to get you a slice of cake—you don’t ever accept, though, so he ends up eating both. but you do like coffee, very strong coffee that’s probably not sweet enough for his liking, but you enjoy the coffee he buys you nonetheless, and that has to count for something.

“sure, see you at nine,” you hum.

gojo watches in absolute shock (and abject horror) as you look down shyly. as soon as the zenin boy walks away, he stomps up to you.

“hey, what gives?” he asks petulantly, making your face paint on that irritated look that it always seems to adopt when he’s in the vicinity—how rude.

“what do you mean?” you ask tiredly, “i don’t speak toddler, so please use your words—”

“why’d you say yes to that zenin boy—”

“he has a name. it’s—”

“who cares what his name is? he’s an asshole! he won’t treat you right even if his mother’s life is on the line—”

“oh, and you would?” you raise an eyebrow, glaring at him. how is it his place to tell you who’d treat you right and who wouldn’t? how is it his place to even care?

“i would,” he gasps at the accusation, “you’d date a zenin but not me? how come?”

“because you’re annoying,” you counter like it’s obvious.

okay, now that is technically fair—gojo has heard his fair share of you’re annoying’s from people in his life. in fact, a good amount of them come from his own mother, but he’s also dashingly handsome, very good in bed, has soft hair, is tall and muscular, can buy you whatever you like, and can be smart and funny too if you really don’t care for those kinds of things. he’s the entire package and more. and more importantly, he’s not from the zenin family, and that automatically means you’ll actually be treated with an ounce of respect.

he looks at you incredulously, feelings a little hurt. “that’s not true! name one annoying thing i’ve done—”

“you laughed in the middle of me speaking in class.”

“that wasn’t at you! suguru showed me something funny on his phone—”

“and you took like twenty minutes in line ordering the most sweetest drink on the menu while i was running late—”

“you can’t use that against me, that’s not fair! i’m a paying customer, i should be able to get whatever i want. plus, it’s technically not my fault you were late.”

“you rubbed in the fact that you had a black card.”

“you mentioned it first!”

“you were late to our first meeting for the project.”

“okay, that was an honest mistake! people are allowed to make those, you know—”

“i don’t want to go out with you,” you say frustratedly, “and it’s really annoying when you act like a spoiled brat that can’t handle the word no and keep on insisting, okay? so leave me alone unless it’s to discuss our project—which weighs fifty-five percent of our grade, by the way, so don’t even think about getting lazy.”

he is not lazy, he wants to argue.

but before he can, you roll your eyes and take a step to walk around him, leaving him there to blink in shock. okay, he thinks with a huff, so you’re playing hard to get. that’s no matter, he’s good at the chase anyway. 

—————

the date doesn’t seem to have gone well. gojo can tell because your eyes are slightly red and puffy, and you’re extra grouchy today in class. your professor seems to have noticed, too, because instead of calling on you today, she calls on gojo extra as a rare show of mercy. 

gojo doesn’t mind—this class is surprisingly easy, and he’s bored half the time anyway. he might as well indulge the uptight professor in an ugly brown pencil skirt and answer her pretentious questions that aren’t as complex as she thinks they are. 

“so,” he finally breaks the silence, “how was your date—”

“if you’re looking for a chance to say i told you so, just get it over with, you jerk,” you grumble. he raises his eyebrows in surprise before both hands go up in surrender.

“i wasn’t,” he says genuinely, “you just…uh…you look upset, is all.”

you hesitate for a short second, gauging his sincerity for a moment before sighing and slumping on the desk, cheek resting on your arm. gojo resists the urge to poke the soft flesh—it’ll probably make you mad, and you’re already in a bad mood. 

“he was…pushy,” you say quietly, “i don’t really believe in taking things far on the first date. he didn’t like that.” instantly, his fists clench tightly, eyeing you from the side carefully, almost in concern. “nothing happened,” you wave off, “but he did make me feel disgusting,” you mutter.

“yeah, well, he is a zenin,” he points out, “they’re…well, my family’s known them for a while. my mom hates them.”

you look over at him in mild interest, raising an eyebrow. “don’t tell me there’s drama in the rich community,” you gasp, “i thought you all just came as one to sip fancy wine and laugh at the poor together.”

he snorts, throwing you a toothy grin that you think for a moment is kind of cute—but that doesn’t mean he’s any different from the rest of the rich folks. someone of gojo satoru’s caliber has no business mixing with someone of yours—it’s common knowledge. gojo has everything he wants, and if he doesn’t, it’s a simple matter of asking before it’s his. there’s simply no way you can mold into his world to be what he needs you to be, and when the time inevitably comes when he realizes you’re not what he wants, well…you’d like to save yourself the wounded pride and crushed soul while you can. 

“sometimes we have fancy appetizers too with the wine,” he jokes, “don’t forget those.”

“oh, my apologies,” you chuckle. gojo likes it when you laugh, he decides. it looks much better than when you’re glum—he thinks seeing your lips quirked in anything other than a smile is a waste of your perfect features, and he can’t have that.

“my mom married my old man in this stupid arranged marriage or something,” he explains casually, like it’s just the norm. you suppose it is—for the rich, at least. you wonder briefly if gojo will have a marriage planned for his future, too, and you wonder if he’s okay with that. surely it’ll be some wealthy and fancy socialite of a girl that fits his family’s standards. someone who’s not you—not that you care anyway, you wouldn’t marry him regardless. “my grandma wanted her to marry the zenin, but she said no. said he treated her like a piece of meat every time they met, so she settled for my dad instead. lucky her, 'cause now i’m her son,” he beams. 

settled—something about the way he says it makes you think his parents must not really care for each other as a husband and wife should. it makes you think briefly about what his childhood might’ve been like, not watching his parents happy and in love the way they should be. but still, the way gojo talks about his mother is fond, with a gentle smile on his face as he recalls the things she’s told him. you can’t help but smile a little too.

“i think that makes you the lucky one,” you snort, “you’d still be her son. just that you’d be a zenin.”

he crinkles his nose at the thought, dramatically shivering and making you giggle. “gross,” he gags.

“well, now you have her to thank,” you hum, “your dad would’ve been…whoever the zenin she was supposed to marry is.”

“yeah, well, trust me,” he mumbles, his smile dropping ever so slightly, “my old man’s not that big of an upgrade from a zenin. even my grandfather’s sick of him. imagine being such a douche, your own dad can’t stand you.”

you’re learning more about gojo in one sitting than you ever imagined (or planned) to learn—part of that is because he seems like he’s the type to overshare on the first meet; the other part…well, you have to be honest with yourself, it’s not exactly a bad pastime hearing him talk about himself. gojo is an odd piece of work, and you can’t say you hate learning about the little pieces that come together to make him so weird. 

okay, perhaps weird is a bit rude, you think—he’s…unique.

“oh, so you’re the dictionary definition of a rich boy, huh?” you hum, resting your cheek on your hand as you sit up and face him—gojo, for a quick moment, feels his heart stutter when you talk to him like that: with your undivided attention like he’s the only one in the room. 

“what makes you say that?”

“daddy issues is like…the first thing in the rich boy starter pack.”

he laughs at that, smooth and almost sweet—it’s a dangerous thing. it’s easy to attract you to him, like a bee to honey, with the way his lips curl like that, showing off his dimples. but the bees can easily turn into maggots—and you don’t want to find yourself as a dead carcass by the end of this.

“i don’t have daddy issues,” he says smoothly, “that old man should sleep with both eyes open. if anything, he has son issues.”

“you’re hands down the oddest person i have ever met,” you mumble.

“what was that? did you say hottest? yeah, i know—”

“shut up, jackass,” you scowl, shoving his shoulder when he leans closer with a bat of his lashes. he laughs, and so do you—and just for one, quick, momentary instance, gojo satoru is not so bad. dangerous and a bad choice maybe, a setup for a big mistake perhaps, something you should stay away from, in fact. 

but not so bad. 

“how about i show you what it’s like to go on a date with a gojo,” he grins, winking easily. he’s persistent—very persistent, you note. “you might like it a lot more than a zenin.”

“no, thank you,” you hold a hand up, “never going to happen.”

“never say never,” he hums, “you might eat your words.”

—————

“hey, satoru?”

“that’s not my name.”

“that actually is your name,” you say tiredly.

“hmph,” satoru rolls over, dramatically tugging the blankets over his body as he shuffles away from you, “not to you, it’s not.” 

you sigh, pursing your lips at his antics. “oh my god. okay—hey, toru?” you correct yourself. and just like that, he turns back around, grinning brightly as he inches closer until his head is resting on your chest.

“yes, baby?” he says sweetly, earning a roll of your eyes as your fingers weave into his hair. it’s soft—you don’t think you ever want to let go.

“it’s way better dating a gojo, by the way,” you murmur, “than a zenin.”

“oh yeah?” he grins smugly, arm draping over your body as he kisses your jaw, “i told you it would be, didn’t i?”

“i haven’t dated other rich families to compare, though,” you tease, “you might get replaced.”

“unlikely,” he chuckles, “no one,” there’s a kiss to your jaw, “will love you,” another kiss to your cheek, “like me.”

finally, there’s a slow, soft kiss to your lips—and when he kisses you like that, you have no choice but to believe him.

satoru sooooo sends multiple texts back to back he just like me for real

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