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winxanity-ii · 7 months

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𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐡, 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐈𝐭 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐬𝐭. 𝐏𝐑𝐓.𝟏

╚»★«╝ 𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐌𝐞𝐧: 𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 & 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮 x 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐌𝐢𝐤𝐨!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ╚»★«╝

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: comedy

‌🇷‌🇦‌🇹‌🇮‌🇳‌🇬‌: non-explicit

🇵‌🇴‌🇻‌: 2nd person; You/Your

🇩‌🇪‌🇸‌🇨‌🇷‌🇮‌🇵‌🇹‌🇮‌🇴‌🇳‌: in which, you find yourself at the hands of an unstable artifact.

🇼‌🇴‌🇷‌🇩‌ 🇨‌🇴‌🇺‌🇳‌🇹‌: 4.1k

🇦‌/🇳‌‌: I had so much fun writing this, but it's so long that I broke it into 3 parts...go to 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐡, 𝐍𝐨. ʲʲᵏ if you want to understand this; also Y/n's (your) power/ability descriptions will be at the very bottom.

★·.·´🇯‌🇺‌🇯‌🇺‌🇹‌🇸‌🇺‌ 🇰‌🇦‌🇮‌🇸‌🇪‌🇳‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

You pull up in front of the grand entrance of the all-girls school, immediately recognizing the stately façade. Wait, isn't this Hana's school? The same one I used to go to? You glance over at Gojo, who's chuckling behind his sunglasses.

"Alright, we're here. Ready for another mission?" he asks, the corner of his mouth curling into a sly grin.

You start to nod before pausing, taking a second look at his expression. "Wait, why do I feel like there's a catch?"

Gojo removes his sunglasses and looks you dead in the eyes. "Because this isn't an observational mission for you. You're flying solo on this one, kiddo. Oh, and you'll be looking for a cursed object—a Grade-1, to be precise."

Your stomach drops. "Wait, seriously? My first solo mission is at my old school? And you waited till now to tell me?"

"Surprise," he says with that irritatingly charming smile.

You feel like a ball of tangled nerves, but then Gojo leans in. "Hey, don't worry. No cursed spirits, just an object. I'll be outside if you need me."

Taking a deep breath, you reluctantly nod. Gojo's words chip away at your anxiety, making room for a swell of determination to rise within you. "Okay, if you say so," you tell yourself.

With a deep breath, you activate one of your techniques.

"Timebound Steps: Historical Trace"**

Your eyes immediately adjust to the influx of cursed energy, turning the normal hues of the world into vibrant swirls of colors. Like stepping into an otherworldly art gallery.

As you make your way into the school building, your eyes catch the traces of past cursed activities. And it's not just any traces—these are uncomfortably familiar. A specific streak of cursed energy makes your skin crawl as you remember an incident from years ago: a slimy, perverted curse that had targeted Hana. It had latched onto her before slithering away, seemingly losing interest, and had been found later in the school's nurse's office, sliming over the nurse.

That was the day you realized the danger wasn't just out there; it was right here, lurking in the places you called 'home.'

Shaking off the memory, you focus back on the task at hand. The traces lead you to creaky steps that lead into the basement—a graveyard for forgotten textbooks and dusty trophies.

Okay, Y/N, you can do this, you affirm yourself, stepping into the dimly lit basement. You're like Indiana Jones, but with better fashion sense and no fear of snakes. As you walk down the rickety steps, the wood creaking under your weight, you take in the atmosphere—dank, musky, the scent of mildew wafting in the air.

The space is cluttered with the school's forgotten past—old lockers, abandoned art projects, obsolete textbooks and decaying sports equipment. It's an eerie underworld, a graveyard of learning and childhood ambitions. But what makes it even more unsettling are the sporadic bursts of cursed energy that you can see with your cursed technique. They're everywhere, splashes of ethereal, unsettling hues clinging to forgotten items, or floating aimlessly through the air.

You even spot a couple of small, harmless curses too, barely registering on your danger meter. One is a blob-like creature that almost looks cute—if it weren't for its too-many eyes.

As you sift through the accumulated clutter, your eyes scanning for that distinct aura that would signify the grade-1 object you're seeking, frustration starts to set in. It's like trying to find a needle in a haystack, only the needle is cursed and the haystack is also... well, cursed.

"Ugh, where is it?" you mutter under your breath, pulling out your phone to text Gojo.

Y/N: Hey, this place is swarming with traces. Can't isolate the object. Help?

Almost instantly, your phone buzzes with his reply.

Gojo: Hang tight, I'll be right down.

While waiting, you spot a faint but peculiar trail of cursed energy different from the rest, as if whispering for you to follow. Your eyes narrow, and you cautiously step toward it. There it is—the hand sculpture, concealed among a pile of dusty textbooks and misplaced gym clothes.

The hand sculpture isn't just peculiar; it's a spectacle. Intricate etchings cover its surface, ancient alphabets from diverse cultures melding into one hypnotic tapestry. Greek, Latin, Chinese, runes of sorts—all dancing together in a chaotic ballet, drawing you in deeper into their narrative.

An ominous, trance-like aura envelops you as you edge closer. Your hand floats up as if guided by an external force, fingertips tingling, almost there...

Then Gojo's voice pierces through the air, laced with an urgency you've rarely heard from him.

"Y/N, don't—"

Your eyes lock onto his just as your hand clasps around the sculpture. And then—darkness.

Total, all-encompassing darkness.

☆

As your senses flutter back, your surroundings slowly come into focus. You find yourself lying on a narrow bed in a place that's unmistakably an infirmary—pale walls, clinical scents, and that ever-present antiseptic vibe. Your head is a haze of fog and cotton balls, disoriented, like you've just stepped off a merry-go-round that was spinning a tad too fast.

Your eyes scan the room, catching sight of a familiar tuft of white hair at the end of your bed. The person's face is hidden, arms acting as a makeshift pillow. Instinctively, your body fills with a sense of relief. Ah, Gojo. Must be keeping an eye on me.

Just as you're about to break the silence with his name, the curtain that's been shielding your little section of the infirmary zips open with a swoosh. In walks a young man, and you're instantly struck by how he carries himself. It's in his posture—erect, shoulders set but not tense. He's tall, probably over six feet, filling the gaps in the room, commanding attention without even trying.

He has smooth, tan skin that gives off a warm glow, contrasting beautifully with the darker, almost obsidian color of his eyes. These are eyes that don't just look; they perceive, as if dissecting you with his gaze. His nose is sharp, complementing his regal profile, and his lips—full but not overly so—are set in a neutral line yet tinged with an enigmatic sort of smile.

His long, flowing hair is a marvel in itself, well-kept and falling fluidly, framing his face and adding another layer of complexity to his already intriguing visage. His hands, hanging loosely by his sides, are battle-hardened and sculpted, wrapped in a uniform that, while vaguely similar to the styles you know, seems—well—refreshed, like a throwback but with more vibrance.

The moment your eyes meet, the atmosphere gets charged with a strange kind of electricity. His gaze is both questioning and measured, trying to place where exactly you fit into his world. You find yourself ensnared in his look, a blend of mystery and familiarity that grips your already befuddled mind.

His eyes narrow slightly, still locked onto yours. A whirlpool of emotions floods you—curiosity, mild concern, and a tinge of...intrigue? Each physical detail of him—his choice of clothing, the way his hair falls, his intense gaze—screams layers upon layers of depth, making you wonder just how far those depths go and what secrets they might hold. Just who is this guy, and why does he feel so...significant?

"Gojo, get up and stop fooling around. We have to head back to the academy," he says, not breaking eye contact with you until the last syllable escapes his lips.

You're left pondering, your mind a jigsaw puzzle of questions and half-answers, as the white-haired figure at the end of your bed starts to stir.

"Geto, you never let me have any fun," the white-haired figure whines, pushing himself up from his arms. He stretches luxuriously, like a cat who just woke up from the world's best nap, before pivoting to face you.

And then your entire universe short-circuits. Because, yes, it's Gojo, but not the Gojo you're used to. This is Gojo unburdened by years, more boyish, his eyes glowing with a youthful vigor you hadn't noticed was missing before. It's like looking at a photograph come to life—a snapshot from a past you've never known but now find yourself thrust into.

Your heart is racing, synapses firing a million thoughts per second. You feel like you're in the middle of a crisis, both existential and immediate. It's like waking up in an episode of your favorite TV show, except this is no dream world—your instincts tell you it's far too vivid, far too real for that.

"Hey, kid. What were you doing with a grade-1 curse?" Younger Gojo finally breaks the silence, his eyes still that piercing shade of blue, studying you intently. His tone is playful but you detect an undercurrent of seriousness, leaving you with a cliffhanger feeling, like you're teetering on the edge of something both monumental and unnerving.

Your mouth opens, but words seem to be jammed in your throat. You're trying to piece together a response, something that could possibly explain what's happening, but you're at a loss. The world as you know it has been thrown into disarray, and here you are, caught in the whirlwind.

Your mental gears grind to a halt at his words, but one thing manages to stick out like a neon sign in the fog of your thoughts: "Kid?!" You shoot back, your brows knitted in a scowl. "I'm not a kid!"

Gojo gives you a look of disbelief that's so profoundly Gojo you almost feel a sense of normalcy. Almost.

"Oh, really?" He leans in, clearly amused. "And how old might you be?"

You fix him with a deadpan look. "I'm 17."

Gojo pauses, his teasing expression giving way to one of momentary contemplation. He tilts his head, as if seeing you in a new light. But it's only a beat before that devil-may-care grin returns full force.

"Oh, so we're age buddies now?" he leans in closer, and you notice something—a twinkle in his eye that wasn't there before. "Though I must say, you're pretty cute yourself."

Unbeknownst to you, he's observed that your eyes take on a certain golden sheen, a shimmer, with each fluctuating emotion. It's as if your very feelings are coloring your chrono-print eyes, imbuing them with a vivid, glowing luster.

You're gathering your wits to come up with a smart reply when Geto, looking like he's hit his limit for the day's drama, interrupts. "Are we done with the theatrics? We need to go."

Gojo glances toward him but then shoots you a playful wink. "Not quite, Geto. Our new friend is coming with us."

Geto sighs, exasperated. "You can't be serious, Goj—"

Gojo doesn't let him finish. He reaches over to you, his fingers gently guiding your face so you're looking straight at Geto. And there it is—the opal hue of your eyes now practically radiant, suffused with golden light. The atmosphere changes instantaneously, thick with tension and unanswered questions.

Geto's voice halts in his throat, his eyes going from incredulous to intensely focused as he scrutinizes your newfound radiance. You feel like a specimen under a microscope, your every secret ready to be unraveled.

There's a pause, a stillness, where even the air seems to hold its breath, waiting for the dominoes to fall. "Fine. Let's head back to the academy."

☆

As the car smoothly rolls down the road, an experienced driver at the helm, you're sat on the left of the two fascinating energies—Geto's grounded silence and Gojo's kinetic vivacity. Your eyes keep darting to Gojo, who's proving to be this ever-unfurling mystery. Today, he's less a walking enigma and more a ball of youthful exuberance. He's practically bouncing in his seat, regaling Geto with stories, jokes, and impressions that would probably be viral content if this reality knew what "viral" was.

Geto, at first glance, seems like he's not quite in the same car. He's composed, a steady rock against Gojo's whirlpool of energy. But then you catch it—the subtle quirk of his lips, the almost-there smiles, and the eye rolls that hold more affection than annoyance. These quiet reciprocations are like hushed affirmations of a friendship that's both complex and deep-rooted. It's as if each of Geto's eye rolls and monosyllabic answers are a secret language only the two of them understand.

Now, the Gojo you're witnessing is shockingly different. He's not the towering figure who could easily bend reality to his whims. No, this Gojo is...younger. Not just in appearance but in the way he laughs a little too loudly, jokes a little too freely, and lives in the irreplaceable 'now.' Your gaze locks onto the side of his head for a moment longer, wondering how many layers there are to the people you thought you knew.

As the car comes to a stop, the guards open the doors with a military efficiency that leaves no room for casualness. Gojo's eyes narrow into an uncharacteristic seriousness as you're whisked away by a different set of guards. "Where are you taking her?" His tone isn't joking or jovial—it's dead serious, an undertone of steel that you hadn't caught before.

"To a holding area. Orders from above," one of the guards replies curtly.

You can't help but throw a lingering glance over your shoulder as you're led away, catching Gojo and Geto shrinking into the distance. Gojo's eyes lock onto yours for a fleeting second, a micro-expression of concern flashing across his features before you're whisked around a corner and out of sight.

Stepping into the grand chamber, you're greeted by an imposing round table surrounded by the academy's higher-ups. The sight of them stirs a distant memory—one where you had to meet them due to the uniqueness of your eyes. You remember how they'd looked at you then, their eyes filled with a sort of predatory hunger, as if you were some rare specimen that could potentially produce powerful future sorcerers. It was a gaze that made your skin crawl.

This time, however, their eyes are different: cold, calculating, but also tinged with wariness, as if they don't quite know what to make of you. You're like a puzzle they haven't solved yet, and that, apparently, doesn't sit well with them.

You barely have time to brace yourself for the impending line of questioning. That's when the door slams open, and the atmosphere in the room shifts from simmering tension to full-blown crisis mode. The messenger who bursts in is visibly shaken, his eyes wide and frantic. Sweat clings to his brow, and his chest heaves as if he's just sprinted a marathon to deliver this news.

"Emergency! Emergency!" he gasps, trying to catch his breath. "The Plasma Cult has activated one of their Forbidden Rituals! The cursed energy levels are off the charts, and it's disrupting the barriers around key locations!"

Instantly, the room becomes a hurricane of action. Papers fly off the table, chairs are pushed back, and hurried conversations occur between hushed yet frantic voices. Scrolls are unrolled, and sigils start glowing as they discuss countermeasures. The weight of the situation is so intense that you, the mysterious intruder, are suddenly less of an immediate concern.

In this whirlwind, you're abruptly pulled aside by the same guards who brought you in. This time, they take you to a smaller, unadorned room next door, and as they shut the door behind you, you're left in the silence of your own thoughts. A series of questions tumble through your mind. What is this Plasma Cult? How do they have the power to send this place into chaos? And where does that leave you, in the grand scheme of things?

But the one question that nags at you, even as you sit there alone, is the simplest and yet the most complex of them all: What the hell is going on?

☆

Time seems to stretch indefinitely in that little room, each tick of the clock amplifying your spiraling thoughts into a cacophony of "what-ifs" and "now-whats." The room isn't exactly designed for comfort, and the blank walls give you nothing to focus on, deepening your dive into your own mental maze. But then, the door creaks open, interrupting the mental turmoil.

It's Gojo, stepping in with that signature blend of mischief and nonchalance. But as he locks eyes with you, you notice something new—a weightiness in his gaze that tempers his usual playfulness. "They treating you well in this five-star suite?" he asks, grinning in a way that almost, almost makes the situation feel normal.

But the normalcy shatters when he drops the bombshell. "We need to talk about your eyes," he says, the grin remaining but his eyes turning earnest, serious even.

Your heart skips, does a somersault, and lands in your stomach. "My eyes?" you echo, your voice tinged with apprehension and a hint of confusion. What could possibly be so important about your eyes?

Tossing aside any pretense of formality, Gojo makes himself at home, perching on the edge of the bed before stretching out his long limbs. He looks so comfortable you'd think he was in his own living room. But despite his relaxed demeanor, the gravity of the conversation isn't lost on him—or you.

"Yeah, your eyes," he leans back on his palms, capturing your gaze as if trying to read the secrets swirling in your irises. "When we stumbled upon you, you were passed out, but not alone. There was this burst of cursed energy—potent, wild—swirling around you like you were the eye of some magical storm. Initially, I just figured you were an innocent bystander, collateral damage in a rouge curse."

He pauses for a moment, his eyes narrowing as if piecing together a puzzle. "But then you woke up, and when I—playfully, of course—teased you, I saw it. Your eyes, once normal, began brimming with cursed energy. It was like watching a dormant volcano suddenly remember it can erupt."

Gojo's words hang heavy in the room, like charged particles just waiting to collide. There's an intensity in his eyes now, a focused attention that leaves no room for his usual teasing.

"Do you know what's happening?" he asks, his voice low and contemplative. "Have you ever channeled cursed energy before today?"

Your eyes dart away for a moment, your thoughts racing. The truth is, you're not exactly sure. There's a part of you that's worried, worried that divulging too much might disrupt whatever delicate balance keeps this reality from splintering. The curse that sent you here—could it have been something that tapped into your unrealized potential? Could telling Gojo unravel whatever magic—or curse—that's stitched this reality together?

Taking a deep breath, you opt for a half-truth. "I don't really know," you admit, your voice tinged with frustration. "I felt the energy earlier, like a magnetic pull, but it was more like I was unconsciously following it. After that, I don't remember anything else."

Gojo takes in your words, his gaze still locked onto yours. For a moment, you think he might press further, dig deeper into the enigma that you've become. But then, he shrugs, as if conceding to the mysteries of the universe for now.

"That's fair," he says, stretching his arms above his head and yawning, reclaiming his casual demeanor as if donning a familiar jacket. "So, any ideas on what you can do? Can you blast cursed energy out of your fingertips? See the future? Command armies of Shikigami?"

His words are light, teasing even, but you sense the undercurrent of earnest curiosity. As for you, you're really not sure. But the questions he poses make you wonder—what if? What if you can do something extraordinary?

Just as you're about to formulate a response, Gojo makes himself even more comfortable, lying back on your makeshift bed like he's ready for a Netflix binge. "Before we dive into that, though," he grins, "let me tell you something about myself. I —Gojo Satoru—happen to be the strongest Jujutsu sorcerer around—yes, even stronger than grumpy Geto."

Gojo's words seem to echo in the space between you, lingering like the aftershocks of some cosmic event. The atmosphere is pregnant with potential, both exhilarating and terrifying. For just a second, you wonder what it'd be like to share in that self-assured power he exudes, to truly understand the world of cursed energy that is so deeply entrenched in his reality—now, apparently, your reality too.

"But why am I telling you this?" Gojo suddenly asks, breaking the silence. "Because if you can see cursed energy, and better yet, have it within you, well then," he sits up, his eyes meeting yours with the intensity of a star about to go supernova, "you and I are going to have a lot of fun together."

He pauses for a moment, letting the weight of his words hang in the air. His eyes meet yours again, almost as if sizing you up. "By the way, we've been on this rollercoaster of craziness and I realize... I don't even know your last name. Formalities are boring, but sometimes necessary, don't you think?"

Caught between apprehension and the electrifying allure of the moment, you hesitate for just a second before speaking. "It's L/N," you say, nearly whispering, as if saying it too loudly could break the spell that's hung in the room.

"Oh, c'mon. We're the same age here. Doesn't that earn me a first-name basis?" He grins, taking a step closer, invading your personal space just a bit. "Besides, I think you're cute, so that's got to count for something, right?"

His words catch you off guard, causing your cheeks to heat up. The audacity of this man to flatter you so shamelessly! It's disarming, how he can be so blunt yet so captivating all at once.

Seeing your eyes fall to the ground in shyness, Gojo's eyes glint mischievously. "See? I knew you'd look even cuter when you blushed."

You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your cheeks betrays you. "You're impossible," you mutter.

"And you're adorable when you're flustered. So, do we have a deal? First names?"

You look up, catching his gaze. It's intense, like he's looking right into you, but not in a way that feels invasive. Instead, it feels like he's inviting you to let your guard down, to be on equal ground—even if just for this stolen moment in time.

Taking a deep breath, you finally give in. "Alright, Satoru. My first name is Y/N."

He blinks, clearly not expecting you to actually give in. And for the first time, you see his cheeks heat up ever so slightly. "Well, look at that," he murmurs, his voice softer than you've heard it before. "Y/N, huh? I like it. It suits you."

Before you can ask what he means by 'fun' earlier, the door bursts open once again. It's Geto, his eyes scanning the room before locking onto Gojo.

"Enough chit-chat. We've got another emergency. And you—" Geto points at you, his expression unreadable, "you're coming with us this time."

Gojo's eyes twinkle like he's just been told Christmas came early. "See? What did I tell you? Fun."

And as you rise from your seat, caught in this whirlwind of events you still don't fully understand, you can't shake the feeling that you're standing at the edge of something monumental. It's as if the universe is holding its breath, waiting to see what you'll do next. You steal a quick glance at Gojo and Geto—two figures who, despite their stark differences, seem so sure of their place in this world. For a moment, you're gripped by a pang of envy, swiftly followed by a gnawing sense of displacement.

You don't understand how you got here, what these new abilities mean, or how your life turned into this whirlwind of inexplicable events. A string of questions—each one more pressing than the last—swirls around in your mind, none offering the solace of an answer.

But despite the confusion, the uncertainty, and the surrealism of it all, there's a tiny seed of resolve that plants itself deep within you. You don't know how you ended up in this situation, but you're determined to see it through, to understand this world of curses and magic, if only to find your way back... to whatever 'back' means now.

And as the door shuts behind you, sealing off what little familiarity you had, you make a quiet promise to yourself: you'll navigate this labyrinth, confront its monsters, its mysteries, and find a way back—wherever and whatever that may be.

lol idk where im going w/ this but shits about to pop off, respectively loollol

🇾‌/🇳‌'🇸‌ 🇵‌🇴‌🇼‌🇪‌🇷‌🇸‌/🇦‌🇧‌🇮‌🇱‌🇮‌🇹‌🇮‌🇪‌🇸‌ 🇦‌🇳‌🇩‌ 🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌🇮‌🇷‌ 🇩‌🇷‌🇦‌🇼‌🇧‌🇦‌🇨‌🇰‌🇸‌:

"Timebound Steps: Historical Trace"**

Let her see footprints/traces from up to 30 days in the past. Can focus on specific individuals' footsteps/curse traces... Drawbacks: Using this ability for an extended period drains her energy...

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ghostcade · 9 months

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ALL OF MY EERIE INDIANA ART SO FAR I LOVE THEM SO MUCH AND IM GOING TO PUT THEM ALL INTO A BLENDER !!!!!!!

i need to draw Marshall,, hes just hard to draw yet hes my favorite

#eerie indiana #eerie #marshall teller #dash x #simon holms

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fandomtrumpshate · 1 year

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By the Numbers update!!

With just over a day left to sign up as a creator for Fandom Trumps Hate 2023, here's a quick roundup of all of the numbers:

We have 705 offers by 527 creators (I've had to update this three times while writing this post!). Of those, 97 are offering to work in ANY fandom! The rest have signed up offering fanworks in 273 fandoms, including 177 write-in fandoms! (To compare that with roughly the same time last year, as we approached 24 hours left to sign up for FTH2022 we had 680 offers from 525 creators in 257 fandoms including 153 write-ins … meaning we have 23 more offers in 16 more fandoms by the same number of creators for 2023 … SO FAR.)

A look at the offers, broken down by type (with last year's numbers in italics for comparison purposes) -

458 Written fanwork (fic, fan poetry, etc) (457) 107 Fan art (103) 63 Fan labor (beta services, translation, Brit-picking, etc) (70) 59 Podfic (39) 13 Other Digital Fanwork (7) 5 Video (4)

Nearly 65% of creators are opting to let their bidders choose which org to support with their donation. The orgs most often chosen by those who wish to direct donations to a particular nonprofit remain the Transgender Legal and Education Defense Fund, any/all abortion fund, Rainbow Railroad, and the Navajo Water Project. The orgs selected least often are The Appeal, Razom, and Violence Policy Center.

In our listed fandoms Good Omens has increased its lead and its lock on the top spot. MCU caught up with Sherlock and Teen Wolf for a brief 3-way tie for 4th place behind HP and K-pop, but has since gained an additional signup to claim that spot, leaving Sherlock and Teen Wolf tied for fifth ahead of Star Wars, Stranger things, SVSSS, The Untamed, and The Sandman.

A handful of signups could still shake things up here, or over in the unlisted fandoms, where the Young Royals lead has been cut in half … see the full list of all 177 write-in fandoms under the cut. Sign up to create fanworks to push your fandom up in the rankings! Reblog FTH posts so your fandom friends can do the same! Sign ups are open until Sunday Feb 19 at 11:59 PM Pacific.

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#fth 2023 #fanworks charity auction #by the numbers #signups are open #closing soon!#signal boost!

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grimoireofhayley · 2 years

Text

Colourful Mind

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: You're a visual arts prodigy, overwhelmingly talented and carefree; you have a vivid memory and you pay a remarkable amount of attention to detail. Everyone know's who you are; Eddie Munson is among those people and he's falling hard for you, though, you have no idea who he is until one momentous evening.

Word Count: 1.0k

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of gore.

Part Two, Part Three:

There you sat, big-(e/c)-eyes fully immersed into one of your paintings; a massive red and gold dragon spewing fire atop a mountain of mangled corpses; knights were on horses, parading towards the serpent, pointing their sharp-tongued devils at the creature in an attempt to scare it.

Eddie watched from a distance, his Hellfire campaign had ended well-over an hour ago, so he took this time to wander around the school, not wanting to go home right away, and that's when he spotted you; the quiet, art-nerd who sat alone in an empty class, painting away at a fantastical masterpiece.

He scanned you; mesmerized by the intricate details that latched itself to the painting. The way your wrist flicked with ease, coating the mythical being in red fur and gold tips. Its talons curved to a point, glistening with copper, grabbing a knight in its grasp, pulling him a part, blood trickling out of the man like a river, his screams were visible, but died down with him. It was lifelike and stumbled with gore, however, Eddie was smitten by it.

In his eyes, the artwork looked as if it was moving, that he could see the dragon flapping it's wings, tearing down an army of knights; hearing the haunting screams of the damned penetrating the atmosphere around him as the eerie scene unfolded before his very eyes.

"Christ." He murmured, his mouth ajar.

You jumped, startled by the outburst, dropping your pallet and paintbrushes to the ground, the paint splattering against the white tiles.

"Shit, I am so sorry!" Eddie voiced, rushing over to you, kneeling down to pick up the mess he had helped you make.

You smiled warmly at him, "N-no, worries." You stuttered, effortlessly swiping a cloth off your easel.

You went towards the sink, turning the tap on, mixing soap and hot water into the fabric.

Walking back to the mess, your smile never left your face, making Eddie's heart flutter in a worrying speed.

His face tinted pink, not knowing why he was suddenly feeling palpitations.

He slowly observed you as you twisted the cloth, wringing it over the splotches of paint, causing a flood of water to drain out of it and you swirled it around, cleaning up the paint.

"Eddie." He sputtered, "The name's Eddie Munson." He grinned, lending out a hand for you to shake.

You placed your hand in his, gripping it tightly, his ring-tousled fingers leaving small indents in your skin.

You shivered at the touch, gulping as you spoke your name, a sudden shyness enveloping you.

"I'm (Y/n), (Y/n) (L/n)."

Of course he already knew your name, you were infamous around here. You were a visual-arts prodigy, a new student with a formidable amount of talent, who already has an array of scholarships lined up for her, the best in the school, the best in Hawkins, Indiana. You're that (Y/n) (L/n); the one he admires from a distance, the one he eagerly craves to know more about.

"It's a pleasure meeting you, Sweetheart." He smirked, fluttering his big-chocolaty hues at you, and immediately you were enamoured with them.

Your ears flared and your pearly-whites grinned back, "The pleasure's all mine, babe." You winked, sending a wave of warmth across his features, your flirtatious personality bubbling to the surface.

Eddie rubbed the back of his neck, shuffling in his spot, a small smile tugging at his lips. "So, uh, what made you paint that?" He asked, gesturing towards your finished piece.

"I had a nightmare." You murmured, crossing your arms over one another, looking at it. "It was bugging me all day, so I had to paint it." You claimed, staring up at him, "It's nothing compared to what I usually paint, though." You smirked, bragging a bit, trying to read his demeanour, but to your prevail, he lacked any form of one.

Nonetheless, he looked at you, a devious-but-playful grin on his face, "What do you mean, your usual puppies and rainbows paintings?" He chortled, looking you up in down, teasing you.

You huffed, smacking his arm slightly, "No, they're much more gore-y."

Eddies eyes widened, "You? Really? I find it hard to believe." He laughs, judging your outfit; which consisted of dark blue overalls, a white blouse underneath and red converse with floral pins engrossing the straps of your fit. You definitely didn't seem like the type who usually paints things like that.

You snorted, "Just because I like wearing colour, unlike you, doesn't mean my paintings are always happy, far from it, actually." You stated, a wave of sadness lingering, "Though, you're not wrong, I always add a little spoof of cuteness to my darker stuff." You giggled, pulling him by the hem of his Hellfire shirt, beckoning him to look closer at the painting. "Where there is darkness, there is always beauty." You entailed, pointing to a small detail that was in the flame; it was the same scenery, but the dragon was curled up with another dragon, but it was smaller in comparison. There were no knights, just a momma and her kin, enjoying the peace and quiet.

"Wow." Eddie spoke in awe, "You really got in there, didn't you?" He eyes you, astounded by how detailed your painting truly was with his arms crossed. "I take it that the baby dragon was killed and that this..." He trailed, pointing at the darker version of it, "Is the mother's revenge."

You nodded happily, clasping your hands in excitement, "Uh-huh." You exclaimed, your paintings always told a story, but it was up to the viewer to pick what that story was about.

"Atta girl." A broad smile taking over Eddie's face, "Colour me impressed."

You giggled, causing Eddie's heart to flutter again, a new string of emotions tangling up in his thoughts.

God, you were so cute.

"Would you maybe, uh, want to sit with me at lunch tomorrow?" He queried, staring at you, unsure of how you'd respond.

You nodded, "Of course!"

#eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie x reader #stranger things #stranger things x reader #stranger things eddie #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #one shot #artist #fan fiction #reblog #cute

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