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word-wytch · 1 year

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Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 4

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 4/? 3.1k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ There are some things Eddie isn’t used to hearing, and mean even more when coming from you.

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, smut (18+ mdni), true love, internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

Chapter warnings: mild angst I guess? that's it :)

“Well I for one think the first lady’s new ‘Just Say No’ campaign is a great idea, it’s long overdue if you ask me,” said Mrs. Hutchins, to which your mother nodded in agreement.

You stared down at your plate and poked at your green beans with your fork.

“It’s about time there was a war on drugs, it’s gotten out of control in this country,” Mrs. Hutchins continued, reaching for the gravy.

You shoveled the green beans into your mouth to keep it occupied. You figured getting into an argument with Mrs. Hutchins over Reagan’s policies was not exactly what your mother had intended for the evening. Besides, it wasn’t worth your energy anyway.

Your dad gave you a silly look from across the table and you smiled at him.

You looked back down at your plate and thought about Eddie Munson again. This time it was about how he’d looked at you when you told him you’d be here.

You wondered what Eddie would say to Mrs. Hutchins. He had an opinion on just about everything and you were certain he would not withhold it. Not for your mother’s sake, not for anybody. You suspected that it got him into trouble more often than not but there was something you admired about that.

You tucked into your risotto and tuned out the conversation.

He was sitting so close to you today. So close that a ringlet of his soft hair grazed your hand when he leaned over. So close that you could smell him. The same scent that enveloped you in the hallway the other day, although this time less bright notes of shampoo, more deep notes of leather and musk. There was that faint cigarette smell and something else too that you couldn’t quite place, like the warmth of his skin that was distinct and yet indistinguishable.

Normally you were not keen on the smell of cigarettes. It lingered on just about everything. In restaurants and car seats, especially in homes. It clung to the clothing of heavy smokers with a stale musk that you hated, but on Eddie it didn’t seem to bother you. In fact, you were hesitant to admit that you almost liked it.

“Andrew, why don’t you tell us about your new job,” suggested your mother.

You glanced over at the man sitting next to you, hardly able to believe that this was once the boy who used to collect G.I. Joe figures rather than play with them as intended.

Andrew cleared his throat. “My job is to diagnose and correct issues with computer hardware, figure out what isn’t working and order and replace the corresponding parts. Occasionally it’s a software issue, in which case I can troubleshoot and reinstall certain programs.” he said, adjusting his glasses. He looked just about as thrilled to be here as you were.

“Do you guys sell computers there?” asked your dad.

“Yes, though my work is primarily in computer repairs, not sales.”

“You know I was telling my daughter here that I really think computers are going to be the future,” said your mom.

“Oh yes, absolutely. Personal computer sales have quadrupled in the last few years, all thanks to the Commodore 64 being so affordable,” said Andrew. “In fact I really think they ought to have computer classes in every school. I think I read recently in the paper that only 48% of schools have them.”

Your mom’s eyes lit up and she turned to you, “Do they have computer class at your school, dear?”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so. Not yet.”

“Well maybe that might be something worth suggesting to the principal.”

“I doubt I would have much say in something like that.”

“I’m just saying, it’s worth a try, dear.”

You smiled curtly and glanced down at your plate again, scooting your green beens around in the excess gravy.

“Speaking of school, why don’t you tell us a little bit about how your job’s been going? I do hope the students are behaving,” your mother continued.

“Oh, they have their moments but overall it’s been alright,” you said, “We’re studying The Catcher in the Rye in my senior class.”

Andrew raised his eyebrows, “Oh that book,” he said with a little laugh, “It’s a bit strange isn’t it? All I can really remember is how he kept calling everyone a phony all the time. I never understood it.”

Of course you didn’t. “Yeah, the stream of consciousness seems to throw some readers off. A lot of people end up missing the point.”

“What is the point anyway?” asked Andrew, but before you could respond Mrs. Hutchins interjected.

“Don’t you think that book is a bit inappropriate for children? I remember when Andrew brought it home all those years ago. At that time some of the ladies in my church group were trying to get it banned in schools. Clearly their efforts were unsuccessful.”

“My students are teenagers, not children, in fact some of them are already adults,” you said, and thought about recommending Fahrenheit 451 to her but figured the joke would be lost.

“Still, I think teenagers are too young to be reading about,” she lowered her voice, “hookers.”

You bit your lip and looked down at your plate again. It took every ounce of self control not to laugh. You glanced over at Andrew. He looked like he wanted to evaporate.

“I’ll tell you what,” continued Mrs. Hutchins, “Kids are getting into more and more worrisome and bizarre things nowadays. Did you see that special on the local news? There’s this game called Dungeons and Dragons and some people suspect that it’s a gateway, luring children into devil worshiping cults.”

This time you did laugh. “I really don’t think there’s any truth to that. The student I tutor plays that game. He talks about it all the time. It really is just a fantasy game that you create your own adventures in.”

“Well that’s what it might look like on the surface, but on this special they were talking about all the signs to look for if you suspect your child might have been lured. Now there’s the obvious symbolism like goats and pentagrams. Then there’s listening to heavy metal music — that’s a big one. Apparently there’s all sorts of hidden messaging in those songs, especially if you play the tapes backwards.”

Andrew’s face was in his hands.

“Boy, that sounds terrifying,” said your mother with furrowed brows before taking a bite of her pork roast.

You thought about Eddie Munson again. He certainly fit the description, though you were doubtful he actually worshiped Satan. You supposed there was no way for you to really know. He had quite a habit of talking about, well, just about anything besides school, but you doubted he’d openly admit to something like that.

It was strange for you to think that you had really only known him for less than two months. It felt like you’d known him forever.

If he did actually worship Satan, you supposed it wouldn’t really bother you. What you could tell was that he had a good heart. What you also could tell is that there was nothing you could say to Mrs. Hutchins that would change her mind.

______

Much to the disappointment of your mother, sparks did not fly over dinner. That was obvious enough for her not to arrange another, much to your relief.

The weekend came quickly, and it was a long one, which meant more time with quizzes to grade, and boxes that you had procrastinated unpacking. More time alone with your thoughts.

Historically you never minded being alone, typically you relished in it. Lately you had been doing everything you could to combat the oppressive silence in your apartment and the noisy chatter in your mind.

On Saturday you practically wore out your records, exhausting your entire collection as you did some much needed cleaning.

On Sunday it was difficult to get out of bed, so you just left the radio on when your alarm clock went off.

On Monday you sat on your living room floor in front of your TV and thumbed through the quizzes that you gave out on Friday, marking each one with your green grading pen.

You paused when you got to Eddie’s.

There was a little drawing of a dragon at the bottom of his quiz along with a note that said “Slay me!”

You smiled for the first time that day, fingers tracing the lines where his pen met the paper, feeling the subtle indents left behind by it.

You ran down the ten questions, he got nine of them right. You gave him a 90% and circled the A- at the top of the paper. At the bottom you wrote “You sure slayed this quiz!” with a little smiley face.

______

Eddie Munson had a way of creeping into your thoughts when you least expected it. It was like he had taken up permanent residence there, like a song stuck in your head.

It was far a better song than the sad and angry one that had been playing on repeat for months now, and at this point you would take any break you could get from it.

On Tuesday you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he smiled at you on Friday when he turned in his quiz. It was playful and warm.

On Wednesday he sat across from you after school. He was wearing a flannel shirt under his usual denim vest today. It was refreshing to see him in color for a change. The vibrant red suited him. He’d rolled his sleeves up, revealing a tattoo that looked like a cluster of flying bats.

“So, how did you do on your history test? Did you get your grades back?” you asked, bringing your attention away from his forearms.

“Yeah, uh,” Eddie shifted in his chair, glancing off to the side, “I got a C,” he said quietly.

You nodded, your expression neutral, though there was a softness in your eyes. “How do you feel about that?”

Eddie looked surprised, “I…” he paused for a moment, blinking, “You know, honestly, when I first got my test back I was actually pretty happy about it,” he said. “I mean it’s better than I usually do, way better than an F.”

You looked at him curiously, “You said, ‘at first’ did something change?”

“Well, I mean a C is good for me, but — “ he glanced at you sheepishly.

“Then a C is good!”

He looked relieved. “Oh, well in that case, then yeah. I guess I am pretty happy about it.”

“Eddie,” you said gently. He leaned forward at the sound of his name. “You don’t have to worry about impressing me, that isn’t what this is about. I just want to help you graduate, not be valedictorian,” you said, “I’m proud of you.”

Eddie beamed at you with those big brown eyes of his. Suddenly he glanced away, blinking quickly as he lifted a hand to scratch the side of his head to shield them from view.

You leaned closer, sensing the shift in his body language. When he turned to face you again you could have sworn his nose was a little flushed, his eyes wetter than usual.

“Sorry, I don’t hear that a lot.”

Your chest tightened. You wanted to leap across the desk, scoop him up in your arms and tell him that a thousand times, but instead you just smiled softly and said, “Well, get used to it.”

He smiled at you again, big and broad. He fidgeted with the rings on his fingers and for just a moment you swore you could see past the hair, the patches and chains, straight through to the boy he once was, getting F after F. You could see the disappointed looks from everyone around him reflected in those eyes of his. He must have gotten used to them, steeled himself to them, resigned himself to the letter.

You felt the tears start to burn behind your eyes and you searched for anything to change the subject. “How did your campaign go on Friday?”

His lips curved into a mischievous smirk. “Found three new recruits actually, just last week.”

You raised your eyebrows and blinked, clearing your eyes of any evidence. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah. I knew it the moment I saw ‘em, two freshmen sitting all by themselves at the end of a lunch table. They’d been there for weeks, just the two of them. You can always kinda tell with the freshmen, they just look like little lost sheep, ‘specially these two. One of the kids was wearing a Weird Al t-shirt,” he said with a laugh, “And that’s when I was like, ok, these kids should sit with us for a change. Well it turns out they’ve been playing DnD for ages, and they’ve got a friend in another lunch period who plays too, so now we’ve got three new members, which is great because, uh, we were kind of hurting for them.” He chuckled softly.

Eddie had an energy about him that was bold and magnetic. It sucked you right in. The timbre of his voice was bright and warm. It was oddly soothing. You enjoyed listening to him talk, watching his hands as they gestured wildly, which you figured was a good thing since he did a lot of talking.

“Some kids just need someone to show them that school doesn’t have to be all bad, you know? I know that’s what I needed.”

You imagined freshman Eddie sitting in the cafeteria by himself, lonely and lost, with his curly mop of hair much shorter than it was now.

“Us freaks have to stick together, you know?”

You nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, I know. I wasn’t exactly popular myself,” you admitted. “Actually I used to help run an after school mentoring program in Indianapolis. A lot of troubled kids came through there, but it was so rewarding to watch them come into their own, find a place they felt like they belonged, you know?” you said, “I miss that part of my old job.”

Eddie rested his hand against his cheek and hummed in agreement. He looked like he was miles away and yet absolutely present all at once.

“I’ll admit that teaching wasn’t my first career choice, but it’s rewarding in a way that you just… can’t achieve by sitting alone and writing stories by yourself.”

Eddie smirked and gave a thoughtful nod, “That has its own rewards though.”

Your eyes twinkled. “Oh yeah, it definitely does.”

You shifted the focus toward his schoolwork. Today you helped him work through some equations in Trigonometry. Truthfully it took some refreshing on your part, it had been ages since you’d done it and you were more than a little rusty. Math was never really your strong suit anyway. The nice thing about formulas is that once you understood them you could just simply apply them and solve. Math seemed to be something that Eddie was naturally pretty good at though. You wondered if it had anything to do with having to deal with numbers frequently in his campaigns.

“Alright, I think that about wraps it up for today. Not sure about you but I’m getting hungry,” you said.

“Ok, I’m parked right over there,” he said pointing out the window to the van in the near empty parking lot. “We can walk out together. You never know what sort of monsters might be lurking in the shadows at this hour,” he said with a look of exaggerated suspicion.

You chuckled and your heart fluttered in your chest, “Sure, actually I’m the red sedan a few spots down.”

“Great, I know a shortcut,” said Eddie.

You both packed up your things and headed down the main hall towards the gym.

It was when you rounded the corner that you saw them — Jason and Patrick filling their water bottles at the drinking fountain.

You gave them both a little wave, which they returned half-heartedly. There was a curious expression playing on their faces which you had hardly a second to study before you passed. Eddie didn’t even look at them.

You could feel the tension in the air, and their eyes on you as you both left out the back door.

Eddie reached into the pocket of his vest and procured a pack of cigarettes. “Sorry, do you mind? I’m totally jonesing right now.”

“Oh no, it’s fine.”

Eddie gave a gracious nod and popped a cigarette between his lips. He flicked the lighter and his mouth was washed in a warm glow, illuminating the smile lines already prominent on his young face. They suited him.

He blew the smoke away from you with a relieved sigh and you walked toward your cars together in comfortable silence.

The sun was low in the clear blue sky, casting a golden light over the parking lot. The leaves were just starting to change in fiery orange and yellow patches. You could smell autumn in the crispness of the air, in the leaves that had already fallen as they skittered across the asphalt.

Eddie ducked his head under your car in a swift motion and looked around suspiciously. “Coast is clear, no monsters.”

You gave a big belly laugh. “Good thing I have you to keep me safe.”

The wind caught his hair as he rose to his feet and turned to you. “For you? Anything.”

Eddie Munson was beautiful like a neon sign at night. Beautiful like graffiti, like an empty street that beckoned you to wander down it.

You could feel your heart pounding as you smiled at him, turning to putty at his words. “See you tomorrow, Eddie.”

“See ya.” He gave a little bow with his head and waved as he turned toward his van.

You got into your car and set your bag on the passenger seat, letting out the breath you didn’t even realize you’d been holding in. You could hear the roar of the stereo as Eddie’s van came to life two spots over.

You couldn’t help but steal another glance at him. His hair swished and swayed as he bobbed his head to the beat. He was wild like the summer wind as it ripped across a field.

His eyes caught yours again and he flashed you a smile, bright and blinding.

If there was once thing you were certain of in that moment, it was that Eddie Munson was going to be the death of you.

At least you couldn’t get in trouble for your thoughts.

______

A/N: Oooo we've got a revelation on reader's part and next chapter I've got some really delicious moments in store so sit tight because this burn is gonna be slow but oh boy is it gonna be worth it!

I have one request — If you read and enjoy this, especially if you ask/asked to be put on the tag list, I ask in return that you reblog AND tell me what you like about this fic, even just something short and sweet! Please engage with me, it’s all I get in return for writing a story that you love for free 💜

Tag list: @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @newlips

@msgexymunson @bebe0701 @latenighttalkingwithgrapejuice @bibieeddiesgf @idkidknemore @miahellagreat @alizztor @godcreatoreli @shotgunhallelujah @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @strangerthings1983fan @eddiemunsonsbitcch @tlclick73 @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @dollalicia @lma1986 @hayleylatour @catherinnn @maximizedrhythms @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @delightfulpeanutpiebiscuit @ruby-dragon @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @bbyhargrove @eddiemunson011 @secretdryrose @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @quinnsfineline @chaoticgood-munson @edsforehead @hanahkatexo @lori7311 @eddiemunsonsbedroom @chainsawmunson @beep-beep-sherlock @mantorokk-writes @emily-roberts @averagemisfit03 @vintagehellfire @haylaansmi

Thank you all so much for reading and commenting along each week, it means the world to me!

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson older reader #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x teacher!reader #don't stand so close to me #my writing

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songsofadelaide · 3 months

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Waltz of Four Left Feet

cw/tw: no curses/law school AU set in the 2020s, slice of life, unmotivated lawyer/law professor!higuruma x ??? female reader, established relationship, smoker higuruma headcanon, yuuji as higuruma's favourite student/law apprentice, yuuji spitting facts and meddles with the best of intentions, flashbacks of a meet-cute-ugly, inaccurate depictions of law school life, fluff, did I say slice of life already? (lol) + another marriage proposal. wc: 1.1k

"You do know that with your current knowledge and experience in the field, you're on the right track to becoming a great judge. Think about it, will you? Brilliant ones like you don't come around too often."

Hearing superiors, colleagues, students, and strangers alike sing his praises did not stroke his ego at all. More than anything, Higuruma felt a dense weight on his shoulders. Apart from being a lawyer himself, he was an educator, and he felt equally responsible for ensuring his students have the right knowledge at hand when they become lawyers themselves in the future.

And he was fine with that. Becoming a prosecutor? A judge? Those were far too ambitious for him to consider, let alone even think of. Until…

"That's not a bad idea, Higuruma-san. If you become a judge, you'll have more than enough to marry your girlfriend and provide for your family."

Well. That's another way to look at things.

Higuruma was taking a short smoke break in between his classes when one of his favourite students approached him with a chilled canned coffee in hand.

"Are you done with your readings, Itadori-kun?"

Educators shouldn't favour one student over another because it clouds their judgement, yet it was hard not to be drawn to Itadori Yuuji's enthusiasm for the law profession. The young man had enough promise and ambition for them both, and Higuruma made it his personal mission to mould the boy into a lawyer who would be praised just as much as him.

"And you've been with her for how many years now?" The younger man continued as he counted with his fingers, ignoring his mentor's question. "You really should be stepping up and proposing to her or something."

Higuruma breathed his cigarette deep and let out a drawn out exhale that seemed more like a sigh of frustration. "You really think I don't know that yet, kid?"

He first met you in a local coffee shop some years back after you both accidentally spilled your coffees on each other. Instead of being pissed at him, you laughed off the incident as a simple case of bad luck, something you obviously both shared on that day since it wasn't just you drenched in an Americano. He was equally soaking in your favourite latte.

And like a sunflower drawn to the warmth of daylight, he was easily charmed by your bright optimism— very much so that he didn't think twice when you asked him for his contact details (to pay him for his suit's dry cleaning).

Your second meeting at the same cafe wasn't so bad if not for the barista switching your drinks. You laughed it off as you drank your latte with his name on it, somehow tasting sweeter than the usual.

They got it right the third time. You guys were regulars by the fourth.

Higuruma once made the mistake of taking some of his law firm's apprentices to the very cafe you frequented and none of them were able to figure out why he froze at the entrance and urged everyone to find someplace else to have coffee.

Everyone except Yuuji, who followed his mentor's gaze and found a woman smiling at him from across the cafe. His attention to detail was both a boon and bane for him, and a stroke of bad luck for his professor, who unknowingly revealed his most well-kept secret. You could only laugh and shake your head as your boyfriend trailed behind his students, obviously trying his best to stay composed.

When Yuuji found you in the cafe the following day, he bought you a fruit tart. "You must be Higuruma-san's mysterious girlfriend."

"Can you keep it a secret for us both, Yuuji-kun?"

You became fast friends with the boy, too, much to Higuruma's embarrassment and enjoyment. You found it a pleasure to quiz the men with their subject cards even though you knew nothing about law while they weighed in on your own work matters.

"Higuruma-san, you aren't like those people who are married to their profession, are you?"

"Of course not. Now get back to your readings."

His dismissal of talks about marriage was off-putting, but Yuuji knew that Higuruma was just stalling for time. For whatever reason, he'll probably never know.

Higuruma stubbed out his cigarette and threw the butt in the nearby receptacle.

"You have a pretty cushy salary, if you ask me. But if you aren't going to obtain a judgeship like the other professors suggested, what else is stopping you from getting married?"

Oh, right. Yuuji was still there.

"Those readings aren't going to do themselves."

Something did stop him, in fact. It was the fact that you two never really spoke about it. Marriage.

Your relationship was like an ongoing dream for him. One he hadn't woken up from yet because of how airy it made him feel. Just like how a sunflower curled in the direction of the sun, so too did he whenever you were asleep in bed together, curling into your warmth as though he wanted to keep it for his own.

And when he told you over dinner about the judgeship offer from earlier in the day, you replied to him with the same optimism that drew him to you from the start.

"Hiromi, you know I'll always have your back in whatever it is you decide to do. If you wanna go for that judgeship, I say go for it! But you don't have to force yourself, either," you reassured him with a warm smile, one that pulled a similar grin to his own tired face. "Though I suppose some extra shopping money wouldn't be so bad."

"What about m…" He started, only for his voice to fail him. His favourite student would probably be berating him for being so nervous over nothing. Over everything.

"What?"

"Marry me."

Your cutlery goes quiet against your plate, a twinkle in your eyes he mistook for something else. He was planning his escape route now. Your upfront refusal was kindness enough, he thought to himself. But was he really going to stick around and listen to you enumerate the reasons why you wouldn't—

"Of course I will, Hiromi."

"Huh?"

"Oh, my silly little doomer. Did you really think I'd refuse to marry you?" You chuckled at him from across the dinner table. "After that question, expect to be stuck with me for good."

Higuruma laughed, the rumble coming deep from his core. As if there was anything else he'd want more than that. You were all the optimism he needed in his life. "I suppose you're stuck with me then, too."

#songsofadelaidewrites💛#jujutsu kaisen #reader insert #jjk x reader #jjk higuruma #higuruma hiromi #hiromi higuruma #higuruma x reader

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mossmurdock · 3 months

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Tear Her Apart, Stitch Us Back Together (i.shoko)

𓇢𓆸 ieiri shoko x reader

𓇢𓆸 summary: Shoko watches a sorcerer hurt themselves time and time again, until one day she's the one that has to mend their wounds. Their relationship ebbs on just hardly existing until a few coincidental meet ups occur, bringing them together for something they both never knew the other wanted.

Shoko tries to live with a very simple way of thinking. It makes it easier to not take things so seriously; which, in her opinion, is something she knows might save face for her in the jujutsu world. Guts are guts. Blood is blood. Broken bones are broken bones. Grief might be something else.

Most things aren't all that exciting, and even if they were, Ieiri still wouldn’t be up and jumping about any of it. What’s so exciting about tearing people you know apart and putting them back together?

But you’re something different. Different in the way you hold your many wreckless, stupid, gashing wounds, and the way you also manage to take them all seriously. There’s a smile on your face that reminds her too much of Satoru; the only difference being the genuine enjoyment in the aftermath of a battle, only letting all the adrenaline and thrill catch up to you when the deed is done.

It’s thoughtful, almost philosophical in the way you stare at your mentors after one of your many missions.

So maybe she’s more than a little stirred when she sees you first: crouched close to cement in your tattered school uniform, a drink you were definitely not allowed to have clenched tightly in a fist with barely any of the skin left on the knuckles. That smile on your face.

“Ieiri.” You grin up at her, different from the one moments before, finally tearing your eyes away from the fancy bottle and up to hers.

“I didn’t take your spot, did I?” You ask her, swirling the bottle in your hand rigidly. It’s a wine, Shoko can’t even begin to wonder how you managed to get your hands on it without raising any eyebrows, you’re not even bothering to hide it. Then again, she was also the one plainly day smoking.

“I don’t have a spot,” she answers.

You furrow your eyebrows. “Don’t all smokers have spots?”

“I don’t take it that seriously.”

You hum at her, and as if suddenly remembering the very large bottle of alcohol in your hand, you stare at it before looking back at her with your hands slightly up in surrender, a crooked smile replacing the one from before.

“I’m not—I don’t take this seriously either, not really a thing I do on the regular just to be clear.” It sounds like a lie, it looked too expensive for you to have chosen it by accident.

Your free hand reaches the back of your neck, making it impossible for Ieiri not to follow it like she’s under some sort of daze. It's bright red, wet with your blood.

You catch her staring before she’s able to avert her gaze.

“You’re a doctor right?”

Hardly. Barely, at least not yet. Ieiri is practically conning her way through her classes just because of how boring they are, but how illegitimate that makes her future practices is strictly up to her; and as an afterthought: to her patients as well.

“Almost.”

“Think you could fix me up?” You extend one of your hands up to her, nearly reaching her stomach. There’s a slight shake to them and your veins are relatively easy to find. This up close she’s able to dissect you better than she’s ever been able to from afar. It’s jarring.

“It’s fine if you don’t—” you’re beginning to retract your hand, your fingers painfully curling into your palm. Shoko almost yells at you not to do it, the skin of your knuckles are splitting at the seams. She grabs it without thinking.

“It’s fine.”

“Not too much work?” you ask.

“I could use the practice." She crouches down next to you.

The entire time she puts her technique to use, Ieiri notices your eyes never leave her face. They’re so open for her to see, wide and whole. She tries her hardest to remember every bit of it, tries her hardest to open the curtains, to unlock that window when she’s finally been given the chance.

But the blood dries, and when she's done she lets go. You hold up your hand between them in awe, flexing your palm and stretching your fingers.

"Wow.”

"Good as new right?" she says.

Your eyes are obscured by your hand and it makes Ieiri think of a window painfully fogging up before she could catch a glimpse.

Then, you separate your fingers to create four small windows of space. You smile at her through them, tilting your head along with it and letting her only see obscured glimpses of you.

Ieiri finally notices the small bleeding cut on your lips and wonders if you were doing this to her deliberately.

"I have to repay you." Your hand falls, instead using it to bring full attention to the bottle Ieiri had honestly forgotten was there all together. You thrust it toward her almost harshly before getting up, a cold piece of glass now on her chest, warm fingers brushing up against hers briefly. She feels starved.

"Here."

Their positions are reversed now, with Ieiri crouched and you at full height. Your school uniform skirt bunches up at one of your legs.

"I'll see you around, Ieiri. Thanks!"

You leave her there. With tiny stones wedged into the skin of her knees, a gray scuff on one of her leg warmers, half of a promise, and a half empty wine bottle. She thinks about searching up its price but eventually abandons it once she catches something.

Her eyes stray down to the rim of the bottle where a few things lie: the imprint of chapstick, and the tiniest amount of blood(from your lips or hands, Ieiri isn’t sure.)

Gross, she thinks, just as she brings the bottle to her lips and takes a drink.

Washed away by the wine, it still manages to taste like iron.

If anyone were to ask Shoko which jujutsu tech teacher went on the most missions, she wouldn’t really have an answer. Nor does she think she would really care to actually know. Perhaps she would say Satoru simply because he always looked busy in between his expensive plane rides, or Suguru simply because he really liked to act like it whenever someone asked him for a favor. Or maybe she would say you, only because of how you're splayed out in front of her painted in bruises.

It's nearly 7 p.m. and at about 6:30, you had taken the liberty of storming into her doctor’s office and loudly crawling yourself onto one of her autopsy tables, as if you were dying. This is the second time this has happened.

“You look like a beat up grape.”

“Yeah?” You adjust your posture, and in turn she feels your breath in her hair. “Fix me up?”

There’s a cut on the right side of your stomach that's itching itself closer to the bone of your hip as time goes on, the cursed energy is spreading and making your wound larger, and Ieiri watches as your eyelids begin to drop like drapes over your irises because of the fatigue. It makes it seem as if you’re batting your eyelashes at her.

“You’ll need stitches.” Shoko moves away from the table to grab her equipment and hears you hiss in pain, the notion already causing you discomfort, but you say nothing when she comes back with what she needs. Shoko catches the way your chest rises and falls, a small stutter planted so obviously in the movement. Most would have just held their breath in front of her.

She pretends not to see it.

“Can I hold onto something?” You ask her, just as she begins truly approaching your right side with the sharp, clean, sewing needle between her fingertips. Your head is cast downward, eyes obscured by the shadows of light.

“Anything but my hands,” she answers.

You chuckle, “Obviously.”

But it's short lived, because Shoko has already begun cleaning your wound. You suddenly curl into yourself while one of your arms shoots out away from you, it's so fast that Ieiri hardly catches where it's headed, until she feels a sinking pressure in the meat of her left hip. Unusually flustered, she stops her task dead in its tracks.

Your grip subsides once the pain seems to wash over you, Ieiri feels something in her stomach flip.

“Should I have given you a warning?” she suggests sarcastically, a jab at your reaction.

The hand on her hip never fully falls, instead you settle with it simply ghosting there, making a home in her skin and haunting it.

You smile crookedly at her, “Would’ve been nice.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

And she really does, with every stitch comes a warning, every wipe of blood, or every twist of the needle. It still doesn’t help the hold on her hip though, you keep it there nearly the entire procedure, steady.

The fabrics of her clothes all of a sudden feel too thin, as if you can see through her with just the tips of your fingers, the scalding severity of your palm, the tormenting rub of your thumb. It should be the opposite way. She’s the one with scalpels at her disposal; yet you’re the one peering into her.

It all comes rushing back to her once she finally gets home, standing in front of her mirror with the moonlight seeping in from the open window, her nails dancing over a familiar print of violet and ultramarine.

There’s an unfamiliar knock at her door.

“Shoko.” You say it like it's your first time meeting her and it sort of feels like it, considering how long it’s been since she’s seen you.

Her head turns away from the window, disturbing the uneven line of smoke that was streaming out of it. The image of you standing at the front of her door with papers nestled under one of your arms at first seems like something she’s imagined herself.

Your other arm is held by a generic white sling.

“What are you doing here so late?” you ask her. Pushing your body off of its door frame and walking towards her, you abandon your papers on the surface of some miscellaneous sideboard in the corner of the room (the tall one with all the scratches on it).

Shoko finally turns her body towards you, putting out her cigarette in the gray tray sitting on the stool of the window.

“I got the night shift tonight.”

She offers you a cigarette, you use your good hand to politely decline.

“Is that why I haven't seen you around?” You ask.

Shoko scoffs, turning her head away from you. It's that and a lot of other reasons.

“Who knows? Maybe I’ve just been avoiding you.”

“Ouch,” you mutter. And somehow, you’ve managed to gently brush away a few strands of hair from her eyes.

“Your hair’s gotten a lot longer,” You say distractedly, one of her locs lightly toyed with before falling back to its place.

“Can I help?” you offer, finally getting back to the original conversation. “With the work I mean.”

Shoko thinks.

“You know my signature, right?”

You raise an eyebrow. “No, but I can learn.”

“Great.”

They both sign papers for hours, with your own forgotten along with the tell-tale signs of the sun beginning to rise.

If she had been alone, the scribbling and squeak of her office chair would have driven her half mad hours ago; but she’s still here: running on three cups of coffee with too much sugar in them (she shouldn’t have trusted you on getting them) and the fading smell of your perfume.

Abruptly, you throw your head back into the air and let out a groan, your neck eventually cranning towards the open window, red pen still hanging from your mouth. Your face reflects the colors of dawn, eyelashes like the dewy blades of grass.

“I’m gonna have to leave,” you mumble through the pen wrapped around your lips. You use your good arm to heave yourself out of the office chair Shoko lent you, stretching and shaking the fatigue out of your body the best you can.

Acting as if she had been looking down at her paper the entire time, she replies, “Oh no. So soon?”

“Well if you’re that heartbroken about it, I’ll see you around?”

“If it means four more hours of you doing my work for me, sure.”

“It’s a date then,” you can hardly look at her when you say it.

The only thing you left behind was the folder of papers Ieiri had left untouched, expecting you to come back for them. And on a curious night, she takes the liberty of flipping through the pages, the warmth of the nearly month old copied paper long gone and fading.

They’re completely blank. In a stale state of pure delirium, Ieiri bursts out laughing.

“Didn’t know you were such a fan of halloween.”

Her joke was quite literally a shot in the dark: her body stuffed between four small walls and hugged against your chest. The discomfort of the hot dust-bunny air was crawling its way to her lungs by first infecting her nostrils and Ieiri really had been trying not to show how hard it was for her to breathe.

It was October, and the air should have be cool; but instead Shoko had strutted out of her dorm room to partake in the very short list of naivety her and the other student sorcerers were able to dabble in before their impending, and much too fast, adulthood.

There’s laffy taffy stuck between her teeth, and the short ends of her hair were already starting to stick to her neck.

Your breath, sweet with the starbursts you had eaten before, fanned across Shoko’s face. It reminded her of the spinning bottle that got them in here in the first place. The whoops and hollers that had followed them inside, quickly dampening to hushed whispers once the door was closed by your quick hand.

“What?” You sounded unusually nerved.

“The eye-patch,” Shoko explained. “You’re all dressed up.”

The tease is hardly true: you were very much still in your uniform despite it being late. Having heard from Satoru, apparently you had been assigned a late night mission and had just gotten back.

The gossip had been useless though, Shoko could simply tell where you had been based on the rip on one of your uniform sleeves, one you would be stitching closed in the morning; still half drunk on all the punch you drank, and an unsteady needle between the delicate tips of your fingers. She knew you would because she caught you doing it once while walking by the building’s windows. Your’s had been cracked open.

Your hand landed atop your eye, picking at the fabric holding the patch together. If the joke hadn’t hit before, it was now, with the way your teeth sort of lit a light in the small dark room, sharp canines almost like the fake werewolf teeth Suguru had worn to scare people with.

“Can you guess my costume?”

Shoko thought. “A pirate. Except, without the sword, or the accent, or the boots, or…” She trailed.

“What else am I missing?” she asked you.

You shrugged, the gesture somewhat moving the both of them because of the proximity.

“Seems like you know way more than I do,” you said.

“Is it permanent?” Not that it would have mattered, you still looked good. And Shoko was more than sure that a missing eye wasn’t going to get in the way, if anything, the thing suited you without any hint of abnormality to it. With her vision adjusting, she was able to spot the way your skin folded under the tightness of the thin straps, the traces of tiny red trails forming.

“Shouldn’t be,” you answered. “If it heals well enough they said my vision would only be a little blurry.”

“Sounds like great news,” Shoko replied sarcastically, as sweet as the artificially flavored strawberry laffy taffy lingering on her tongue. And you smiled at her, she could see it so clearly.

Shoko’s eyes adjusted to the dark quickly, it made it so that your next words came to her clearer than they ever would have under any source of light, natural or not.

“You know, it still really hurts. Sorta like ghost pains?” you started.

Shoko was nodding slowly, even though the term was used incorrectly, “Right.”

“Kiss it better?”

“Sure,” Shoko breathed out, gentle and startled and maybe too quick.

It had meant too many things, both the request and the acceptance of it.

Your skin was such a short travel away from hers, and really, it all made sense. She imagined brushing away the patch and finding exactly what she wanted behind it. That unlatched window, your soul only for her to see in its entirety and to study all on her own. Red and blue thread and uneven seams.

The mix of strawberry and lemon felt right, along with just the slightest hint of alcohol to balance it out. Shoko didn’t think she could handle all of the sweetness at once. The bitterness stopped her from doing anything stupid.

A few days later your eyepatch was taken off with only minor damage to it.

Shoko is only sad she hadn’t been the one to do it herself.

You’re leaving blood all over her coat, doubled over and head hanging between your tense arms. Ieiri doesn’t have the heart to tell you to let go, that you holding on is really only making things more difficult for the terrifying gash across your chest.

She can hear it already happening, the way your breaths are stuttering and crashing into each other like shallow ice, heaves as slow as melting ice. The thumbs digging into Shoko’s arms are your glaciers: crumbling, strong, disappearing into the sea; her cashmere turtleneck is a storm blue.

“Just give me a minute,” you manage to huff out, “before you start.”

Her hands and arms stay holding you up, still empty of any equipment or cursed energy, but heavy with blue latex gloves. She notices that despite all the blood you leave none of it taints her skin.

You suddenly fall back. Shoko mistakenly takes it as you passing out, until you’re dragging her down with you, your hands making their way up, leaving mismatched red trails up her arms and shoulders and neck; until eventually they rest on her cheeks and your mouth is on hers.

It’s quick and deep, Shoko hardly has the time to close her eyes, instead she’s stuck staring at your tightly closed ones.

Then stupidly, you lean away and carress her gently before truly letting your weight fall back onto the operation surface.

Softly whispering: “I’ve barely seen you. Your hair’s gotten so much longer.”

It mixes in with the hospital blue of the room, her gloves, the bedding, the sanitational box, the plastic all around her, with the blue of her sweater, of your bruises, of her deepened under eyes.

Yet the words are red: bleeding.

What a horrible set of last words, Shoko thinks, the prick of your lips still lingering on her own.

Shoko used to imagine you sitting at her kitchen table.

At the end of it, you would be in a loose shirt, eyes bleary with sleep, lips still puffed from hours ago, you’re covered in her bandages and her smell. She knows you beyond the distant juvenile taste of lemon and is able to shamelessly look at you intimately: between two slides of plexi glass and a scope, because through any sort of window you are divine.

Here, even in this fantasy, she dreams of you foggily.

It smells like coffee. That’s the first thing Ieiri notices when she wakes up with half the duvet thrown off her body and an already creeping soreness in her shoulders. The scent is floating its way through the crack of the room’s door, making the room feel more like it’s morning, when it's more likely to already be midday.

The floor is too cold, reminding her of the emergency room from merely hours ago. Your body was rigid and too heavy. She would have to thank Nanami for helping her get you up to the apartment later in the day.

She still doesn’t know why she insisted on having you in her home instead of leaving you in the recovery room. She stops herself from realizing every time she walks into the spare room to check up on you in the middle of the night, wondering if you had suddenly woken and left without her knowing. Without you seeing just how deep her eyes got in your presence, never blinking, drinking in the soul of you each chance she got.

By the time she gets to the kitchen, it smells like hazelnut creamer, and that’s when it clicks that you might have made her coffee before leaving.

A small note is placed on the mug, a torn piece of paper and messily placed tape reading: ‘Thank you’. It looks almost too colorful against her beige countertops for the message it’s conveying: a goodbye she didn’t want.

It's a blinding red that she eagerly wraps her hands around and downs (it's not too sweet). Its lukewarmness doesn’t go down her throat easily, taking her by surprise just as the breeze coming from her porch does.

With the mug still tilted to her lips, she turns towards it to find the doors open and the blue curtains drawn apart: a wave riding into the room, a glimpse of the sea bed that is your skin.

The mug slips from her hands, she lets it.

The crash has your head turning away from the view, body arching and ready to move from its seated position, Shoko’s hand wrapped bandages around your waist twisting into a blurry frost. Your eyes: alert, open, and whole. Looking at her—not the broken pieces of glass on the floor, or the cold spilt coffee—but her.

Too overcome by everything, too overcome by your extended sojourned presence, she walks over the glass. Feeling a piece of it pierce into the strong skin of her foot, the cold of the beverage mixes in with the warmth of a droplet of her blood.

“Shoko?” You question quietly, still half sat on the balcony floor: a concrete that feels related to another place not too far from here.

But she hardly hears the first time you use her name, falling to her knees in front of you and nearly lunging to wrap her arms around your neck to burrow herself into you.

It tears her apart. It crushes her back together into one piece. The way you link your arms around her waist with just as much desperation blends the red and blue around her into a purple she wishes she had seen before.

“I thought you had left,” she murmurs, muffled enough to be able to cling to the hope that maybe you hadn’t heard her.

Your chest rumbles against hers. “I wouldn’t have made it very far.”

But you could have. Shoko can feel it in the way you’re clinging onto her, strong enough to have made it many steps.

She stays there with you for a second.

You face her when you say, “Let me take care of your foot.”

Uneccassirly, and against Ieiri’s advice, you carry her to the bathroom and seat her there. Under the white lights, you don’t look much different.

The cut is small and the bandaging is even more insignificant, yet you take a painful amount of time, not even bothering to hide that you’re laughing at her bored and unamused expression.

“All done.” You have the audacity to stare up at her sweetly while knelt at her knees, brushing a hand against her thigh as you’re rising from your position.

Shoko grabs your arm, to get a better remembrance of you maybe, or just to do it so that you lean into her space more. Both occur.

“What is it?” You whisper through a taunting smile.

You want Shoko to say it the same way you have been this entire time.

It makes her want to yell, to throw out a simple way of thinking and replace it with something just as complicated as it is carnally selfish. Stitch her back together, mold her, make her again piece by piece, whatever it takes to make her as whole as you seem to everyone else.

Shoko forgets the word ‘it’.

“Kiss me better.”

There’s the replacement of something on your tongue, a foreignness pushed out through a breath and the lull of well placed coffee printed into you. Your lips feel like broken thread, your hooded eyes are a soft fabric.

You bleed easily for her. She has done the same.

notes: old fic i decided to bring onto here!! (the ao3 one isn't updated pls dont look at it LMAO) i thought yall could enjoy this while im trying to get my new shit done,,,it's taking me a bit longer because of school sorry about that! i hope yall enjoyed this tho :)

#shes my everything im so very serious #moss writes #shoko x reader #jjk x reader #ieiri shoko x reader #shoko ieiri x reader

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lokislytherin · 1 year

Text

the angel (jay), the witch (daniel), and the audacity of this bitch (gun)

Lookism (2014-) is a South Korean webtoon written and illustrated by Park Taejoon (PTJ). It revolves around Park Hyung Seok / Daniel Park, who was bullied and “an unattractive loner who wakes up in a different body” which is “tall, handsome, and cooler than ever” (Naver Webtoon) when he transfers to J High. Daniel desires to find the secret behind why he now has two bodies, and in the process of doing so, he gets involved with two key characters: Hong Jae Yeol / Jay Hong, who eventually becomes one of his closest friends; and Park Jong Gun / Gun Park, who is a major antagonist of the series. This essay will explore the extent to which Jay and Gun can be seen as character parallels of each other through investigating their similarities and differences.

First and foremost, Jay and Gun have various similarities. Most of these are explicitly shown throughout the webtoon - for example, they are both smokers, as well as trained fighters, with Jay shown using Systema and Kali Arnis, and Gun with a multitude of martial arts including Aikido, Kyokushin Karate, and Capoeira. They are also both affiliated with wealthy families and corporations, as Jay is the second son of chaebol organisation H Group’s CEO Hong Kyeong Yeong / Steve Hong and younger brother of H Group’s future heir Hong Kitae, while Gun is one of the Ten Geniuses raised by Choi Dongsoo / Charles Choi, who is the CEO of H Group’s competitor HNH Company and the hired bodyguard of Charles Choi’s daughter Crystal Choi. But this is not the extent of their similarities.

Moreover, Jay and Gun are both closely linked with Lookism’s main character, Daniel. However, their relationships with Daniel also mark the biggest difference between them: their treatment of Daniel.

In the first chapter of Daniel’s arrival at J High, Jay is shown to have some kind of interest in him compared to the rest of their class:

The isolated panel of Jay’s parted lips proceeded by a bust-up panel of Jay (Chapter 4) juxtaposes the grouped reactions of the rest of the class. Although Jay never speaks, he is almost always one of the first individuals to come running to Daniel’s aid whenever he is in trouble in future chapters, eventually solidifying his place in Daniel’s friend circle. Daniel is also one of the only characters in the series capable of perfectly interpreting Jay’s silences. Whatever Jay’s exact interest in Daniel is has never explicitly been stated, but PTJ has implied that Jay is homosexual and harbors a crush on Daniel, claiming "큰형석을 짝사랑(?) 한다” (@/ptj.comics on instagram), which roughly translates to “I have a onesided love(?) for Big Hyung Seok”, referring to Daniel’s second body. Time and time again, Jay has shown himself to be willing to sacrifice anything and everything for Daniel, including himself.

Similar to Jay, Gun shows an interest in Daniel almost immediately after meeting him on his own, yet the way he treats Daniel is wildly different. He constantly fights Daniel or the boys in Daniel’s friend group, causing Daniel no small amount of stress and worry. Yet, after Big Daniel is kidnapped by Park Jinyoung, the original Daniel goes to Gun and asks for Gun to train him into becoming a better fighter so he doesn’t “have to solve his own problems” (Chapter 397), this is what Gun says after beating Daniel up:

In the earlier panel, Jay is drawn in bright lighting as he looks at Daniel, suggesting that Daniel brings light to Jay’s life. However, in this panel (Chapter 397: The Kidnapping of Daniel Park - 4) Gun is shown walking into the darkness while dragging Daniel’s bloodied and unconscious body behind him. This suggests that Gun is willing to destroy Daniel - both in mind and body - for his own goals, and ‘for Daniel’s sake’, providing a contrast to Jay.

In conclusion, Jay and Gun have many similarities regarding their backgrounds, but meeting Daniel brings out the self-destructive side of Jay while bringing out the destructive side of Gun at the same time. Thus, Jay and Gun can be interpreted as character parallels through careful analysis of their probably-toxic relationships with Daniel Park.

This semi-bullshit essay was not proof-read but is dedicated to @lookismaddict all the same for enabling this humble writer.

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tag-oc-games · 1 year

Text

Aesthetic game found here.

OC Aesthetic Tag Game thing

Bold

=always/totally fits them

italics

=sometimes/somewhat applies/sorta fits them

strikethrough

=never

— LIGHT SOURCES

SUN RAYS. effervescent smiles, dandelion puffs, bare feet, beach waves, flowers pressed into books, champagne glasses, rose-gold eye shadow, boho skirts, wire-rimmed glasses, hair in loose waves, kaleidoscope eyes, sunshine in your hair, fire in your soul.

INCANDESCENT BULBS. crop tops, floral print, dancing in the rain, quiet defiance, hand-knit beanies, rosé, painted bookmarks, marble floors, cirrus clouds against a blue sky, polaroid pictures, hands held, fingers intertwined, flower crowns, baby bluebirds.

STARDUST. lace bralettes, brisk breezes, jasmine-scented perfume, books with yellowed pages, tracking constellations, sterling silver, violin music, chess games, iced coffee, glittery dresses, high heels, secret grins, midnight meetings, wishing upon a star.

CANDLE FLAMES. denim jackets, gladiator sandals, braided hair, messenger bags, movies at the cinema, stolen kisses, wax-sealed envelopes, haiku poetry, cherry wood, succulents, fountain pens, jigsaw puzzles, soft tired eyes, hidden smiles, cuddling with someone you trust.

MOONBEAMS. newspapers, over-sized sweaters, dancing shadows, fleece throws, cutoff shorts, piano chords, red wine, messy buns, embossed journals, a hint of blush dusted across your cheeks, freshly fallen snow, tranquil solitude, burning incense, light hair and dark skin.

AURORAS. combat boots, burgundy lips, infectious laughter, spiral-bound notebooks, pencils used down to the stub, ripped jeans, painted nails, cloud-watching, summer thunderstorms, hiking trails, vinyl records, film cameras, skating on a frozen lake, hot chocolate by the fire.

FIREWORKS. dancing until the break of dawn, heelys, being wheeled around in a shopping cart by your best friend, the euphoria of soaring through the air, being excited for what the future holds, group hugs, colorful tattoos, bronzer-highlighted cheeks, hugging a stuffed animal, lifting a child onto your shoulders, space buns, bright streaks in your hair. :

— BODY LANGUAGE

DEFENSIVENESS. arms crossed on chest / crossing legs / fist-like gestures / pointing index finger / karate chops / stiffening of shoulders / tense posture / curling of lip / baring of teeth

REFLECTIVE. hand-to-face gestures / head tilted / stroking chin / peering over glasses / taking glasses off; cleaning / putting earpiece of glasses in mouth / pipe smoker gestures / putting hand to bridge of nose / pursed lips / knitted brows

SUSPICION. arms crossed / sideways glance / touching or rubbing nose / rubbing eyes / hands resting on weapon / brows raising / lips pressing into a thin line / strict, unwavering eye contact / wrinkling of nose / narrowed eyes

CONFIDENCE. hands behind back / hands on lapels of coat / steepled hands / baring teeth in a grin / rolling shoulders / tipping head back but maintaining eye contact / chest puffed up / shoulders back / arms folded just above navel / wide eyes / standing akimbo

INSECURITY & ANXIETY. chewing pen or pencil / rubbing thumb over opposite thumb / biting fingernails / biting lips / hands in pockets / elbow bent / closed gestures / clearing throat / “whew” sound / picking or pinching flesh / fidgeting in chair / hand covering mouth whilst speaking / poor eye contact / tugging pants whilst seated / jingling money in pockets / tugging at ear / perspiring hands / playing with hair / swaying / playing with pointer; marker; cane / smacking lips / sighing / rocking on balls of feet / flexing or cracking fingers sporadically

ANGER & FRUSTRATION. short breaths / “tsk” sounds / tightly-clenched hands / fist-like gestures / pointing index finger / rubbing hand through hair / rubbing back of neck / snarling / revealing teeth / grimacing / sharp-eye glowers / notable tension in brow / shoulders back, head up; defensive posturing / clenching of jaw / grinding teeth / nostrils flaring / heavy exhales

— SENSES

SIGHT. small towns. big cities. six thirty curfews. lights that take the place of stars. blanket nests. light through the blinds as a wake up call. found family. finding a single star in the middle of new york night city. window shopping. watching something terrible and enjoying it.growing numb to the sight of injustice. wilted flowers. faded caricatures. bright, bold colours.

HEARING. crickets and lightning bugs. car engines and a / c units. a phone call to mum / dad. laughing with friends. jokes that are so bad you have to laugh. the clicking of computer keys. noise cancelling headphones. the sound of silence. muffled music from another room. drumming fingertips on a table. clicking of pens. listening to a clock and swearing the ticks get slower. ringing in the ears. the voice of someone you love. pitch shifted songs.

TOUCH. being held close during a long night. fleeting reassurances. holding hands when you’re scared. brushing fingers through strands of hair. freshly dried clothes. bruises on your knuckles. silk and satin. your favourite pet’s fur or feather. wringing your hands anxiously. snuggles. comforters in the dead of winter. nails against skin. cold metal. leather in summer.

TASTE. coffee in the morning. tea in the evening. bubblegum that lost its flavor. alcohol burning the back of your throat. homemade cooking, no matter what’s made. blood in your mouth. stale air. mint. fresh vegetables. that processed taste of citrus candy. the first meal you cook by yourself that tastes good. foreign sweets. fast food. bittersweet. sour. spicy. sweet. bitter. too much salt on fries.

#oc aesthetics #aesthetics #light #nature #fire #solar system #personality #five senses #senses #tag your aesthetic #bold your aesthetic

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maquekenzie · 5 months

Text

DND Questionnaire

art by @kiikiibee

GENERAL

Name: Princess Loeva of the Vermillion Halidom

Alias(es): Baby Peony (by her mother), My Peacock Spider (by her boyfriend)

Gender: Female

Age: 15

Place of birth: Cinnabar in the Vermillion Halidom

Spoken languages: Yura, Prism, Savannah, Sol (Sorry Grandpa Phaedra wanted someone to learn Elder!!), Elder

Sexual orientation: Pansexual

Occupation: Princess, Cryptid Guardian, Ward

Class: Thaumaturge!

Ancestry: Savannah (Whisper) Elf

APPEARANCE

Eye color: Gold! She got her father's eyes, which indicate lineage from the royal family of Sol

Hair color: Pink, like her mom's!

Height: 5′8"

Scars: None!

Burns: None!

Overweight: Nope!

Underweight: Nope!

FAVOURITE

Color: Yellow and blue!

Hair color: No preference but she thinks rainbow hair would be neat!

Eye color: Seafoam green............

Music genre: ALL OF THEM

Entertainment: Looking for bugs, reading about scary monsters, playing her biha & lute, dancing

Pastime: Playing her instruments at the temple, taking care of the horses in the Agria stables

Food: Strawberry cakes, ramen, unagi onigiri, fesenjen

Drink: Strawberry milk, mango juice

Books: Anything folklore/myth related

HAVE THEY

Passed university: She definitely would not have if it existed.

Had sex: Nope

Had sex in public: Double nope

Kissed a man: Yes!

Kissed a woman: Yes!

Gotten tattoos: Nope

Gotten piercings: Her ears are pierced in a few place!

Had a broken heart: Yes!

Been in love: Yes!

Stayed up for more than 24 hours: Probably once on accident much to her mother's dismay

ARE THEY

A cuddler: Absolutely

A kisser: ALSO Absolutely (the other day in character she said "SMOOCHES POWER ME!")

A smoker: Nope!

Scared easily: The opposite! She gets scared of things she shouldn't be scared of.

Jealous easily: Absolutely not.

Trustworthy: Yes, though you need to be very clear if something's a secret otherwise she's not apt to get it.

Dominant: She's very blissfully assertive and bossy, but also easy to dissuade.

Submissive: Nope.

Single: Nope! She's being courted by Lord Tarquin of the Topaz House.

RANDOM QUESTIONS

Have they harmed themselves: On accident a few times.

Wanted to kill someone: I wouldn't say explicitly? But it's Pathfinder/D&D so fights happen and she works to stay alive and keep her friends/loved ones alive.

Actually killed someone: Yeah, people trying to kill her.

Ridden a horse: REGULARLY, SHE OWNS ONE, his name is BINDLETWIX THE BOLD.

Have/had a job: Does doing activities in the township she's a ward in so she gets paid an allowance for enriching herself count???

Have any fears: 1) Grammaw being mad or disappointed at her. 2) Biting into something and finding out it's rotten. 3) Encountering the Council of Snails and having Darwin sadly inform her that they and the horses have all agreed they hate her forever.

FAMILY

Sibling(s): Princess Solenne the Summoner of Eidolon Luxia-Kan the Bright Fox and Prince Faras the Royal Ranger, both older

Parents: Princess Tifenn the Summoner of Eidolon Qi'ka The Rise of Spring, and Prince Karim of Sol Nephew of the Sun King

Children: None!

Grandparents: Lady Vermillion and reigning Monarch of the Vermillion Halidom Fiona (aka Grammaw, the scary one), Prince Set of Sol Brother of the Sun King (Grandpa, the fun one), Princess Zara of Sol (Grandma, the nice one)

Aunts/Uncles: Auntie Princess Maëlys Heir to the Vermillion Throne and her husband Uncle Cyril de Leon the Future Red Warden. Uncle Prince Masuud of Sol and his wife Aunt Phoebe de Corvo. Uncle Qadir of Sol.

Cousins: Prince Cayden of the Amber Phalanx, his wife Lady Laurentia of the Diamond House, Prince Darwin of the Royal Rangers, Princess Linnea Heir to the Vermillion Throne, and Princess Pheadra her fellow Ward and chosen one despite her desires!! Cousin Prince Bast of Sol.

Pets: Familiar, technically: Prince Darwin Brach'an Edemomious of House Watercress (Prince Darwin for Short Don't Mind That's her Cousin's Name TOo), a giant land snail. She also has a horse, as noted, named Bindletwix the Bold.

Tag someone:

@kiikiibee YOU KNOW I'M TAGGING YOU, C'MOOOON PHAEDRA

#pf2 #pathfinder #loeva #thaumaturge

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marvelmaniac715 · 1 year

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The 11th of December means the 11th fic for the advent calendar! Check my profile if you don’t understand. Today, Chucky is twenty, tomorrow he’ll spend his first Christmas with Tiffany, which is exciting.

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Alia Davinport carefully adjusted her prosthetic elf ears with an excited grin. This was her first acting job (well, sort of acting job) since graduating college. She’d hoped for a bright future, but for now, she was more than happy to settle for the role of an elf at her local mall during the Christmas season.

She was thrilled to be there, she loved Christmas. But her fellow elf? Not so much. Charles was a strange person, he mostly kept to himself and he never showed up on time. On three separate occasions, he went out in front of the kids without his ears on, and he spent far too much time staring at the attractive younger moms who came with their kids to see Santa.

The only reason he had the job was because the guy in charge of setting up the Santa stuff was an old friend of his from the Boy’s Home he grew up in, and he was strapped for cash after a few bad investments. At least, that was the gossip in the break room.

At that moment, Charles was smoking, leant up against a wall, elf hat clutched in hand. If their boss saw him doing this, he’d be fired immediately. Alia decided to help him save his job, and strode up to him before timidly tapping him on the shoulder. His dark blue eyes gazed up at her with annoyance.

“What? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of somethin’ here?”

“I know, Charles b-but you aren’t allowed to smoke in here, it goes against the contract we signed. Elves have to remain in character the whole time they’re in the mall.”

The man smiled devilishly before responding.

“And who’s to say that the elves over at the North Pole aren’t heavy smokers?”

Alia protested for a few more minutes. Eventually, Charles stood up to his full height from his relaxed, slouched position. This reminded her that he was in fact much taller than her. A sense of deep unease developed in the pit of her stomach.

“Y’know, lady, I think you’ve just made my list.”

She was so scared, she could barely move.

“W-what list?”

Charles smirked and pulled a blade out of his pocket.

“My naughty list of course.”

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Charles examined his elf costume to see if there were any remaining specks of blood. It would probably scar the kids in the line for life if an elf came out looking like he’d just murdered his fellow elf, which is what he had done.

He probably shouldn’t have done that, this could jeopardise his job safety. Money wasn’t so easy to come by, not since he’d gambled most of his pawn shop earnings away at a casino. But in his defence, that bitch shouldn’t have interrupted his smoke break.

#chucky #chucky series #charles lee ray #childs play #elf #santa claus #christmas #horror #fanfiction

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davidastbury · 23 days

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Then ..

It was hardly big enough to merit the title ‘village’; it was just a ribbon of terraced houses and about three side streets snuggling in a quarry blasted hillside. There was a strange mock gothic building owned by the Anglican Church occupied by monks, where unhappy priests could recharge their batteries. And the bare necessities, like a post office, a couple of pubs. Public transport consisted of an hourly bus, otherwise nothing.

She attended a junior school with the smallest classes in the country and later she’d cycle - in summer heat or snow - to the grammar school a few miles away.

And then she was accepted at a college in Manchester; getting that news was the happiest day in her life, because she knew she’d have a financially secure future, a solid profession - but it was totally dependent on the hourly bus service, covering those difficult nineteen miles of narrow road.

Every day she travelled with her father, sitting together on the lower deck, upper deck was for smokers. Yet they both smoked, very moderately, both feeling it was somehow improper for them to smoke together. Her dad worked as some sort of department manager in a city centre store; he wore dark suits with a waistcoat, white shirts with armbands and cuff links; very correct and formal. He’d survived a bad time in the war but didn’t - as far as I know - ever talk about it. He was a deeply honourable man, a gentleman.

She got the highest financial grant available from the local authority but it wasn’t much - because despite her dad’s air of importance his income was poor, but she was careful, spending only on essentials.

Everything - lectures, lunches, libraries, boyfriends and girlfriends, concerts and cinema - all had to be fitted into the template of the early morning bus into town and the 11:00 pm last bus home.

Today that narrow road is a dual carriageway, making the village a desirable location for commuters. Buildings have gone up and buildings have gone down - there are fancy shops and hairdressers, craft jewellers, tiny cafes, florists, specialist foods and so on. The weird gothic building has been acquired by a footballer who nearly every weekend throws noisy parties with fireworks. There have been complaints about the noise of helicopters bringing his friends.

So it’s all changed - but not everything. If I ever meet her again I will tell her that despite the bright new 70mph road and the stupendous feats of civil engineering, the bus timetable has remained constant throughout.

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naoa-ao3 · 2 months

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Coins in A Cup

What's a few coins in the beggar's cup?

John lends himself to an act of charity and finds no good deed is so simple or unpunished.

Hellblazer fanfic.

It's a normal day, maybe even a good day if you want to risk looking at it like that and John Constantine knows only too well the dangers that looking at things too closely can bring.

The moment you says it's a good day is the moment it isn't but it's a nice day and John is willing to take the smaller risk and call it that.

He's back in London and his flat is in order. He's not too strapped for cash and he's got plenty of cigarettes. What more did a man need in life?

He stops in a park to enjoy one of said smokes and finds the world as it actually should be. Kids playing, mums chatting and a breeze that lifts the hair without disturbing the peace.

Yes, this is how it's supposed to be. Rain promised tomorrow but a sky safe for today. The clouds overhead merciful and the children loud and free from school.

They tell him it's a weekend and he feels somehow free from the constraints of their parents who labor burdened under the weight of the work week. They who always had to know what day it was. This was their break too.

John doesn't have a work week and it makes him feel good. He can see it on everyone else, a rope around their necks and maybe he'd have had an easier life if he'd picked up a time card and punched a few clocks but in a selfish way he's never been sorry he missed it.

He smokes and sees an old man begging, sign in front of him and dog beside. He looks out of place and yet he isn't, even on a nice day. Parks are for everyone and as he passes he stops and fishes out a cigarette and a few coins for the guy..

"You smoke, old man?" He asks.

The man looks up, eyes shockingly blue on an ancient face. "Do." He say's taking it from him. Even his hand feel old as it scrapes along John's.

Old people remind him of death and he doesn't want to think about that on this bright day. "Need a light?" He asks instead.

The man nods however and he fishes his lighter out too. The guy takes his time lighting it, playing with the lighter. "Thanks." He say's, finally handing it back.

John nods too and takes it back, tucking it away.

"You can keep your money." The old man say's, exhaling and looking up at him. It throws him off guard and he blinks.

"What?"

The man laughs and he's missing most of his teeth when he does. The one's he still has are rotten yellow from smoke. "I don't take from my own."

"I'm not the bloke with the sign." He say's, a little put off now. He'd been trying to be a nice guy.

The man laughs again and puffs on the cigarette. "Not yet you're not."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He's getting hot around the collar rather quickly. There's something irritating about the old guy.

"Eh?" The man gestures out at the park. "I see the way you look at them. You're not one of them. You think you're better than they are which is funny 'cause they all think they're better than me."

He was angry then and he scowls. "Look, I don't know what you think you know about me but you can piss off."

"Trust me, we've met. I know you." The man say's, still grinning.

"I think I'd remember." John snaps, hackles up.

The old man laughs again. "Sure you would." He say's. "But I know you. You're thinking: 'what day is it' and knowing they all know what day it is and you don't have to. You're the same as me."

John is still for a moment. That was startlingly accurate and makes him distinctly uncomfortable. "I don't think so."

The man laughs again and nudges his little cup. "So you think I'm worth giving money to but don't want to be me?" He laughs. "Make your ego feel good, then?"

John starts fuming again. "How the hell are you alive if this is how you act when someone gives you money?" He asks.

The man laughs so hard he starts coughing and John hates him just a little bit, the creaking smokers' cough sounds like his future. "Been asked that a few times." He say's. Anyway, it's true. You're a hypocrite. Same as everyone else."

John scowls harder. "Probably but it's worth it to you to point it out, huh?"

The cigarette is almost out and he can't believe he's still talking to this guy. He'd only meant to be half descent.

"Sure is." The old man say's.

"So where is it we're supposed to have met?" He asks, crossing his arms.

The old man waves a hand. "Don't worry about it." He say's. "You wouldn't remember anyway. I'm just a face in a crowd."

He's beginning to think the guy is a crack pot. "That so? You know what? You're full of shit."

The man starts laughing again and then he starts coughing and john finally turns and stalks off, stomping away angrily and balling his fists up in his pockets as he goes.

What the hell had that been?

He takes a walk to cool down and somehow without thinking winds up in the park again. He high tails it out before he has the chance to run into the bum again too and is almost home when he turns the last corner and sees something impossible.

The park is ahead of him like he'd turned back a few streets ago.

Like he'd never left.

He stares at the damn thing in the distance and turns around, walking more slowly back the way he came until. . .

He's at the park again and to make matters worse the sun is setting.

He goes at it again, walking in a different direction this time before the dread of it forces him into a run.

He's back at the park in the blink of an eye and angrily he goes for the old man but his spot is empty and so is the dog's.

He scowls and resumes his efforts until he's cold and hungry and very tired.

He sits down on a park bench to smoke.

It's dark out now and he's gone past frustrated already. He can only get so far before he's here again and he knows it has something to do with the bum. The old man was weird. Too weird and. . .

He ends up laying down, uncomfortable and cold and decidedly unthrilled by the situation but there's not much he can do about it at the moment and without meaning to he closes his eyes.

He's woken by a policeman.

"Can't sleep here." He hears the man say, he's pushing at his shoulder with a truncheon. "Come on, you can't sleep here." The man say's again.

John groans and sits up. "How'd you get in here?" He asks.

The cop gives him a displeased look. "You been drinking tonight, then?" He asks, light unnecessarily bright in his face.

"No." He tries to push it away but it just returns.

"Right what'd you smoke?"

He get's angry again. "Look can you just give me a lift home?"

The cop snorts this time. "Home?" He asks. "You're having a laugh. All the shelters are closed this time of night."

He blinks. "I'm not a bloody homeless!" He snaps. "Can you just give me a lift to my flat?"

"Look mate, just get your ass out of the park, okay?" The cop say's, poking him in the chest. "Don't care where you go, just don't go causing trouble. Okay?"

John is stiff and and not in the mood to explain so he starts walking and the cop follows.

They walk and drive in the same direction until the cop turns off and John finds himself at the park again, frustration waving over him once more.

Where the hell is he supposed to go, exactly?

He sits down on the bench again and lights another cigarette, bitter and angry. The breeze he enjoyed that afternoon is strikingly crisp at night and the trees creak in the wind overhead. He knows there's scarier things in the world but right now they trees are starting to eat at him as if he doesn't know anything. "Okay." He say's hoping someone can hear him. "You've made your point. Let me go home."

There's a rustle and then the old man and the dog come out from the shadows. He doesn't know how long they've been there.

"What do you want from me?" He asks.

"You think this was my point, John?" The man asks.

He doesn't give a shit how the guy knows his name, maybe he has met him before. Maybe he had more teeth back then but right now he's pissing him off and he want's out of this circus. "So what is?"

"You're like me." The man say's. "But you think you won't end up the same. You're what? A transient? You've never held a job or punched a card or shoveled shit and you're not the type to settle down and start. Where do you think people like you end up?"

John blinks. It's a little accurate. "Ghost of Christmas Future, huh?" He asks.

The old man laughs once more. "Something like that."

"So you're telling me what? That I need to clean up my act or else I'll end up like you?"

"You're cheeky and sort of but I know you and I don't honestly think there's much you can do to stop it from happening."

John bristles. "Why me?"

"Something in your eyes." The old man sounds like he's having fun, like he likes giving shit answers.

He turns away slightly. This is weird. He doesn't like this. "Where did we meet?" He asks.

The man laughs yet again. "Don't you remember? It was just in the park?"

He almost swings on him but the dog growls. "Come on! Don't give me that."

But the man is just laughing. "Oh Johnny, you gotta have friends. How many of those do you have left now, anyway?"

He wilts a little, that one hurt. "Who the hell are you?"

"Are you stupid? You're looking in a mirror."

"You trying to tell me you're me?" He asks sharply. "Because I sure as hell don't think so." He glances down at the mangey mutt at the man's side. "And I don't keep dogs."

"Didn't say I was you, you arrogant little prick. Just what could be. Your own Ghost of Christmas future, like you said. I'm just here to warn you."

And this time John listens, not well because he doesn't listen to anyone well but he's listening this time. "What'd you do all this for?"

The man shrugs. "Why not? Figured it was worth a shot." He laughs again. "Figured it'd be worth a laugh, actually."

"A laugh."

And maybe this guy was him, maybe it was some version of him or some fucked up idea of a version of him. . . he didn't care. Maybe it was just some old bastard taking the piss out of him.

"Well you've had your laugh." He say's. "And I'm not a damn bum."

The laughing grows almost shrill. "Not yet, John but people like you. . . you're gonna get old." He plants a thumb in the middle of his own chest. "Not me though. I already did that. I'm gonna die next."

He stares at him numbly.

"Give us another cigarette there. Come on."

He does so without thinking and the old man sits down. "If you manage to get old you get to die." He says.

John nods. "Suppose so."

"No supposing about it. Jesus but you're still young. You probably think you aren't but you are. . . ah nobody really see's it coming though.. ." He trails off for a moment, just smoking.

"See's what?" John asks.

The man laughs softly. "Time. Even people like us. . . there comes a point when it get's us too."

But John is young and clever and he thinks he can still find a way out of it all.

He doesn't say that though.

The man grows quiet before blue eyes find him sharply. "Hold onto that extra bit of change, Johnny. You just might need it.

He pats the dog's head and get's up, disappearing into the shadows and night and John thinks he hears his little cup rattle. Thinks he can still hear them. . . wherever they're going. . . clinking and panting, six feet padding along.

He can't and in the end he's left alone in the cold park, bones numb.

He tries going home again and this time manages it, feet passing the return point and plodding on past dark gardens and parked cars.

He has no idea what time it is and if it's still the weekend.

He still doesn't know what day it is exactly and he makes a note this time to try to find out. Maybe he'll start keeping a pocket calendar.

#john contstantine #hellbalzer #hellblazer fic #fanfic #ao3 #fanfiction #archive #archive of our own #weirdness #magic #john as a bad time #one shot #horror #mystery #creepy #homelessness #social commentary #kind of

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