#s4:tray | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

himbosandhardwear · 3 months ago

Text

Steddie I pre-S4 I secret relationship AU I rated M I 3.9 k I angst I S4 fix-it I time skips

This was going to be a fully fleshed out story but I lost the umpf to finish, it just felt unnecessary to commit to an entire fic, so here's the rough draft for anyone interested.

July 10th, 1985

Eddie answered the door to find Steve Harrington standing off the porch, one foot on the bottom step, looking a bit like mangled raccoon roadkill, with somehow still an immaculate head of hair.

“Whoa, man, who'd you piss off this time?”

Steve slow blinked up at him. “I don't wanna talk about it. You open for business?”

He didn't normally take house calls but they weren't in school right now - Steve never would be again, the lucky bastard - and Eddie was saving up for a new amp, so yeah, he was open for business today.

“For you, Moneybags, always.” He held the door open wide.

Steve walked in, mumbling, “Not sure Moneybags is accurate now that I'm unemployed.”

“Well, then your money is even more precious. You could've spent it all on Budweiser but you chose me.” He fluttered his eyelashes at Steve.

“Don't know any other drug dealers,” he pointed out.

Eddie scowled. “C'mon, man, give me the illusion of being special.”

Steve's lips quirked, playful, even though it must've been stretching that cut painfully. “Oh, Munson, only your steller ditch weed can save me!”

Eddie would never admit it but the fact that he played along, albeit sarcastically, made him give Steve an extra pre-roll for free.

***

Aug 16th 1985

“And I said to her, ‘You can't expect me to tell you that. It's against the bro code or something,’ not that we were ever actually bros, it's the principle, right? But then she gives me the fuckin’ wet eyes, like I'm killing her-”

Eddie wasn't really listening, he was more focused on the task at hand, but Steve was a talker and Eddie had made peace with that weeks ago, so he politely hummed and nodded as needed to keep him going.

“Shit.”

“What?” Steve stopped monologuing to ask.

“Nothin’, just didn't have as much in this bag as I thought.” He put the tray aside and got up to grab another sack. There should be enough to round out Steve's usual six joints in his dresser stash.

“Anyway,” Steve continued on, unperturbed by the interruption, “I said to her-” He continued to wax about Nancy fucking Wheeler while Eddie dug through his top drawer. Ridiculous man couldn't wait thirty seconds, no, had to follow Eddie into his room. “Like Byers has the balls to cheat on her, ya know? And what the fuck am I supposed to do about it if he did? Fly to California and… Huh.”

“What?”

He was so wrapped up in looking for the right strain, he didn't turn to look until Steve's continued silence became weird.

He should've just given Steve five joints and charged him less.

“Uhhh. I can explain?”

Steve looked up from the skinmag on Eddie's side table and laughed. Actually laughed. “Oh yeah? I'd love to hear it.”

Why did he look so happy about it? Christ, he was literally bouncing on his toes.

“You're being weirdly chill about this,” he pointed out when Steve continued to grin.

“It's just funny, I guess. I have that same one.”

Time stopped. It started back up of course but not in any way that made sense. Because Steve was giving him that look, that open faced ‘See anything you like?’ look, with the steely eyed determination of a man who knew what he was doing. He'd seen that look before, in clubs, on the street. The problem Eddie was trying to work out wasn't so much ‘Could Steve Harrington really be queer?’, it was ‘Could Steve Harrington really want to fuck around with me?’

“What the fuck does that mean?” He asked, sure he was reading this wrong.

Steve cocked his head. “It means exactly what it sounds like.”

He turned to give Steve his full attention. “You, Steve Harrington, own the August edition of Drummer magazine.”

“Yes.”

“The gay porn mag.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He watched as Steve's face turned a lovely shade of pink. “To look at pictures of naked men and jerk off,” he said calmly, despite the blush. “Also the articles are well written and informative.”

That shocked a laugh out of Eddie. He crossed his arms and leaned up against the dresser. “Uh huh. What was your favorite one?”

“That story about the military rites of passage. Something about being told what to do gets me going.”

It could've just been a good guess, Eddie supposed, but he didn't think so.

“Oh yeah, private?” He said, all bravado. “Drop and give me twenty.”

The bravado died a soldier's death as he watched Steve hit the floor, on his knees, and then begin doing actual pushups. He watched up until twelve or so - the play of muscle under that blue and white polo was really something - before stopping him with a laugh.

“Get up, you fuckin' jock. We get it, you're in great shape.”

Steve did stop but only so he could sit back on his heels, hands placed firmly on his thighs, to look up at Eddie as though awaiting further instructions.

He gulped.

***

Sept 28th 1985

Eddie had his hand down Steve's pants, sucking a sizable hickey on his neck, when Steve blurted out, “Teen Wolf is playing at the Drive-In in Shelbyville.”

He backed away slowly, swimming through a haze of horny confusion to mumble, “The fuck?”

“Um. Just sayin'.”

“‘Just sayin'?’ Why are you ‘just sayin'’ right now?” He articulated this with a heavy squeeze to Steve's dick.

“Ha!” Steve arched toward him while also wincing in embarrassment. “I just wanted to ask before I forgot.”

A drop of cold lead sank Eddie's stomach. “Ask…what?”

He blinked at Eddie in the dark. “Do you wanna go? To the movies? With me?”

Heat washed out the cold feeling and replaced it with mounting anger; Eddie slowly pulled his hand from Steve's pants. He watched Eddie back away with wide-eyed confusion, going to ask what was wrong probably, but Eddie beat him to it, unwilling to hear the concern in his voice.

“I thought you understood what this was, Harrington. We don't do dates,” he spit the word like a curse. “That's something you do with the nice girls from your daddy's country club. We get each other off in the back of my van, where no one can see it rocking. Right? That's what this is.”

Steve's whole face shut down, giving nothing away. He gave Eddie a small nod, doing his pants back up. That was probably for the best, he was too rattled to get off now anyway.

“Yeah, I think we're done for today. Come see me when you remember what it is I'm good for.”

Steve didn't respond, just kicked open Eddie's back doors and hopped out. The beemer started a second later, not peeling out angrily, not kicking up gravel and dust in its wake, just drifted off into the night.

Eddie's hand shook as he tried to light a cigarette, flame winking in and out as his fingers slipped, another thing Steve had ruined. What an asshole, he thought, still furious. What the fuck was he thinking, asking Eddie out? That they'd just go to the movies together? Like a couple of regular people? Didn't he know that's not how things worked? If you're lucky, which Eddie was, you find a mentor to teach you the rules of staying safe. If you're not lucky, you learn the hard way.

Going steady with rich, popular boys was not on the list of approved activities.

Eddie snapped his cigarette in half and chucked it out the back door. The black of the lake beyond the trees, near invisible under a waxing moon, left him feeling sick to his stomach and lonely. The nights were getting too chilly to sit with the doors open anyway. He swung them shut and shrugged his flannel back on. The memory of Steve running his warm hands over Eddie's shoulders, slipping it off as he ran them down his back, struck Eddie like a slap to the face.

He shouldn't have freaked out. He could've handled it better. It wasn't Steve's fault he didn't know the rules. He didn't have someone like Gil to warn him about how dangerous it was out there. Oh well, it was too late to take it back now. He'd apologize when Steve came around again.

***

Oct 10th 1985

“I just don't get why he won't talk to me. I tried to see him at Family Video and he ran into the back office and locked the door. Buckley just stared at me until I was sure my hair would catch fire. Like I ever did anything to her,” he grumbled.

“Ed,” Gil sighed over the phone like Eddie was being particularly stupid, “he wanted to take you out and you yelled at him.”

When he said it like that it sounded reasonable. “Yeah, except we don't do that! You taught me that! That's not safe!”

“Oh, no. Oh, Eddie,” he sighed again. It was really starting to piss him off. “I didn't mean for you to take that to heart. You can't shut out everyone who might love you-”

“Love me?!” He screeched. “Are you insane? He didn't love me!”

“I'm not saying he did, I just mean you can't expect everyone you sleep with is going to agree no strings attached forever. Eventually you're going to fall for someone, and then all the bullshit running around in secret, that shit becomes worth it. I wasn't trying to stop you from falling in love, I was just trying to teach you how to get around safely.”

Eddie sputtered. He was so confused. Where was the burly, son of a bitch, leather vest wearing, biker bear who once told Eddie where to find the best glory holes in a new town? What the fuck was the shit about falling in love? That wasn't supposed to be in the cards for him. And certainly not with Steve Harrington. That was never going to be a thing. Not in the cards, not in the casino, not in Las Vegas itself! But all of a sudden he was allowed to date if he was sure the other person was worthy? Since when?!

Gil, instead of taking pity on him, doubled down. “I think it's probably too late with this Steve fella, but Eddie, don't push away the next one who takes an interest in you. Okay? It's still rough out there, it's still dangerous, but, god, what is any of this for if we aren't allowed to be in love?”

“You asshole,” he sniffed, “where was all this lovely advice two years ago?”

“You were a kid, dumb ass. If I'd told you to run off with the first guy who gave you butterflies, you'd be dead already. I was trying to keep you safe first, cut me some slack!”

“Fine! But I still blame you for fucking me on the Harrington thing. You have no idea what you cost me. Literally and figuratively. The wallet and the ass on that man.” He wasn't going to admit to missing the man attached to the wallet and the ass. It was too fresh of a realization.

“I'm sorry, kid. Seems like you really liked him.”

“What? No I didn't.”

“That why you called me and ranted about him for a half hour straight? Because you don't like him?”

Eddie scowled at the sink. “Shut up.”

Gil sighed at him again.

***

March 29th, 1986

A car had pulled up.

His blood was rushing in his ears, nothing but the sound of the ocean in a giant seashell, like the one his mom had kept on her dresser, so he didn't hear the voice at first. It wormed its way into his understanding slowly, a male voice, low, calling his name.

He grasped the bottle tighter, waited until the voice got closer, and then sprang out from under the tarp. His senses grew sharp, focusing on the dark shape in front of him. They came together hard, fell into the wall with a jarring crash. All thoughts went into stopping the body against him from hurting him first.

Hands grasped his wrist to keep the bottle from finding its mark. Strong hands, with wide knuckles, ones that Eddie hadn't seen in six months but still, unbidden, saw in his dreams.

He finally looked up and found Steve Harrington at the end of his makeshift knife.

“It's me, Eds, it's me” he was panting. “You're safe. I promise. It's okay.” He kept repeating it until Eddie finally let go of the bottle. Let go and then buried his face into Steve's neck and wept. He couldn't stop it, it just came out of him, everything, all the terror and confusion and guilt.

“I didn't do it, I didn't hurt her, it wasn't me,” he kept repeating.

“I know. I know, Eds, I know you didn't,” Steve answered, hand still running over the back of his head. Like the last six months were just a terrible dream.

He didn't even notice Steve wasn't alone, not until Henderson clasped him around the shoulder and told him there were things living under Hawkins, things that would make a horde of Beholders turn tail and run.

And they'd been dealing with it all since ‘83?

Which meant Steve was already a hardened veteran when he was goofing off in Eddie's trailer, making tusks out of pretzel rods and calling Ewoks by the wrong name.

“Jesus Christ.” He put his head between his knees and did his best to ignore Steve's hand rubbing up and down his back. He didn't want the comfort but he took it anyway.

***

March 31st 1986

“Hey, Eddie,” Steve pulled up next to him, skipping over the slimy Devil Roots with ease, “I just wanted to say thanks for savin’ my ass back there.”

Eddie chuckled lowly, not ready to say, ‘You know what you did, you macho asshole.’ “Pretty sure Wheeler saved your ass but you're welcome.”

“You definitely helped. I mean, you didn't have to swim through a portal to hell after me but you did.”

The shame of Steve giving him even an ounce of credit crept up his throat and started to choke him. Steve had been getting drug to hell by some unknown force and still Eddie had hesitated. He was a coward.

“Man, I just didn't want to be the asshole who stayed behind.”

The silence felt damning, like he should've just kept his mouth shut.

Steve jammed his hands into his ratty sweatpants. “Right.”

Now he thought Eddie didn't care at all.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he whispered, “You know that's not the whole truth, right? I know things are weird between us but I don't want you dead.”

He had to keep his eyes on the ground as they walked but out of his periphery he could see Steve nod.

“Yeah. I get it.”

He didn't but Eddie didn't know what else to say. He hadn't let himself think about what they were to each other now. Not friends, not ex’s, not strangers. He’d tried not to think about Steve at all - except what he couldn't avoid, like Henderson’s obsession with him and things his brain forced him to remember at night - since whatever they were doing ended. Since Steve left and never came back.

He opened his mouth to soften the moment, tell Steve how Henderson would've killed him in a more creative way than Vecna if he'd let Steve die, but Steve cut him off.

“I should thank you for that too.”

Eddie chanced looking over.

“For what?”

“For ending things when you did.”

The squirm in his gut worsened. They hadn't talked about it. He didn't want to talk about it. “Oh?” He choked out.

“Yeah, I was, uh, making a bigger thing out of what we, what we were doing, than I should've. I blame Robin for enabling me, she's the one who said to just ask you out like a normal person. Sorry for making it weird and ruining it. Always trying to give my heart to people who don't want it.” He chuckled morosely. “Anyway, thanks, I guess. You probably saved me from a lot more heartache later down the line.” He slapped Eddie on the back, like they were old chums, and then he skipped up to the girls without a backwards glance.

Eddie stood there, alone, gaping at his retreating back.

***

April 1st, 1986

Eddie had always been good at compartmentalizing. When his mom got sick, he got really into Tolkien, let that be his focal point in a storm of hospital visits and missed days at school. When his dad got picked up and sent to prison, he let Wayne teach him how to play guitar, which he spent most of his waking hours on. When Steve made it clear he was done with Eddie, he packed up the little pocket of time they had, the enjoyment he'd found in Steve's company, and folded it under the recesses of his mind, told himself it was all for the best, to not think of it again, and then he threw himself into Hellfire.

So, now that he’d found himself in another untenable situation, clarity struck Eddie like lightning as he thrashed on the ground - Hey, dumbass, Steve Harrington actually liked you, wanted to date you, would've fallen for you, and you fucking blew it. Not only did you blow it, you broke his fucking heart.

It was an asinine thought to have while he was actively dying but considering the alternative was acknowledging that he was being eaten alive by demon bats, he welcomed thoughts of Steve.

Steve, who Eddie had convinced himself was just scratching an itch with someone who wouldn't tell, but who had actually been telling his best friend the whole time.

Steve, who came over for weed but stayed to hang out, sometimes for hours, well before they were fooling around.

Steve, who wasn't anything like Eddie had assumed he would be, was exactly the kinda guy Eddie would've fallen for. If he was allowed.

But he had been allowed, the whole time apparently, and was too stupid to notice.

Henderson showed up a minute later, just as the bats collapsed around him, thank god. If he'd gotten the asshole killed he was fairly certain Steve would've brought him back somehow just to kill him again.

He wasted a lot of breath apologizing to Dustin, agreeing that he was totally gonna make it. Wasted some more trying to bequeath Hellfire to him. Wasted his last breath to say, “Tell Steve I'm sorry.”

Dustin wouldn't understand what for but maybe Steve would.

Just before he lost consciousness he caught Dustin saying, “Tell him yourself,” and then something that sounded suspiciously like, “Eddie! No.”

But by then he was gone.

***

Date unknown, 1986

He was never sure if what he was experiencing was real or not. Since the pain had stopped everything had a surreal quality, mostly flashes of light, some sound trickled in, shouting and crying and tires squealing; all of it was fleeting and seemed unimportant.

The first thing that felt real was Wayne's voice. Gruff and short and so, so familiar. It brought tears to his eyes. He was pretty sure anyway, hard to tell when he couldn't open them yet.

“Get your boy, Fletch, or I'm gonna break his arm.”

“Now, Wayne, we're just doin’ our job,” Chief Powell said in a softer tone than Wayne's snarl or Callahan's offense.

“Either one of you touch a hair on his head, I'll-”

“Have Steve call his famous lawyer dad,” Robin piped up from somewhere in the room, thankfully stopping Wayne from further incriminating himself.

“He's a divorce attorney,” Steve mumbled. “But he knows people!” He rallied after what Eddie imagined was a look from Robin.

A beat went by, Eddie almost slipped away in the quiet, before Chief Powell spoke up again. “You're all gonna go to bat for this kid?”

Steve responded first. “He's a hero.”

Eddie didn't get to enjoy that for long, a nurse came in to shuffle them all out of the room so they could re-up his pain meds and then it was nighty-night again.

***

Date Unknown, 1986

The next time Eddie woke, it was dark in the room, only a bit of light coming in from under the door and from the parking lot lights outside. His eyes felt gritty, heavy with sleep, but he could make out the shape of Steve in the chair beside his bed.

He was awake, staring down at the side of Eddie's mattress.

No.

Eddie followed his gaze and found Steve staring at his hand where it laid across his own forearm, careful of the tubes they were both hooked to. As soon as he saw it, he became aware of the warmth of it, Steve's huge hand draped over his cold skin.

“Feels nice,” he tried to say but it came out more garbled mess than actual words.

It was enough to get Steve's attention though.

“Eddie!” He said with excitement, relief. “What do you need? I should get the nurse.”

Eddie forced his arm to respond, to turn over and clasp Steve where he was about to remove himself. His grasp wasn't near enough to keep Steve in place but the fact that he tried kept Steve where he was.

His voice refused to cooperate, felt like coughing up glass, but he tried to communicate that Steve should stay.

“Okay, okay, I'm here. Not going anywhere. Do you need anything? Water? Pain meds?”

Eddie could definitely use both of those things but the most pressing thing, the only thing he could really think of was…

Lifting his hand to point as steadily as he could at Steve's chest.

He chuckled. “Why do you keep trying to take my shirt?”

The question made little sense. For one thing, this was the first he remembered being coherent enough to demand anything, and second, Steve wasn't wearing a shirt, he was in a hospital gown, same as Eddie.

He shook his head as best he could, a frustrated frown and a grunt to indicate that wasn't what he meant at all.

Steve leaned closer. “What is it? I don't know what you need, Eddie.”

Now that he was closer, Eddie reached out as best he could and pressed his palm to the left side of Steve's chest.

They stared at each other. Eddie could feel the tears slipping down his face but he didn't dare move his hand to wipe them away.

Slowly, like he was scared, Steve's hand came up to press Eddie's hand closer. Big and warm and missed to the point of aching, though Eddie had been loath to admit it to himself.

“You’re serious?” Steve whispered. “You want...this?”

Eddie nodded frantically.

“If you mean my tit I'm going to be so pissed at you.”

Eddie choked on a laugh. He did his very best to mouth, “That too.”

That got him a laugh, a soft one. "Some things don't change." He looked away, shy. Or not shy exactly, cautious. "I hope you remember you said all this when you wake up again. You're pretty doped up."

That was an easy fix. The drugs probably made it easier to admit but he was tired of pretending it wasn't true.

He pulled Steve's hand until it settled over his own chest, stitches and all, and forced himself to croak, "I already tried to forget, sweetheart. It didn't work."

Steve's answering smile rivaled the dawn.

#this is just every pre-s4 secret relationship fic ever written #and its half assed #but its mine #two cakes situation #steddie #ficlet #my writing

553 notes · View notes

eachuisge-cc · 6 months ago

Text

Another bunch of cats to populate your save with, this time some of my Evergreen Harbor townies.

All of them have all their outfits done and most of them are poly because I mean. they're cats. They also mostly have warrior-cats-adjacent surnames because I think it's fun to name them that way.

Required CC:

Feline Skins

Feline Ears

Feline Tails

Feline Eyes

Feline Heterochromia

Feline Fangs

Feline Claws

Plantigrade Paws (for best results, apply with the WW body selector)

Teeny Beans

Recommended CC:

Feline Penis

Download:

SFS | Or get them directly from TheEachUisge on the gallery

A random assortment that I pieced together from townies I've edited over the course of gameplay. Will sort them out with some careers and such eventually probably.

Okay this one ended up being just one large poly family. Because that happens with catsims. They're like people from Seattle. The three silver tigers are all one matrilineal bloodline, with the teenager's bio dad being unknown and out of the picture. Her mom is in a relationship with the two ladies in the middle. The isabelline one in the back isn't related to anybody here by blood, she just happens to be in a triad with two moms. The orange one is also still with her other partner, and their kids are the tortoiseshell and the orange kitten. A couple of them have careers and I think I managed to set the tuxedo guy up to be assigned as an eco master on the community lots as long as you don't make them a played household.

#s4:cat #s4:tray #s4:households

51 notes · View notes

levanswrites · 5 days ago

Text

troubled cure, for a troubled mind

pairing: eddie munson x reader

summary: “It’s called E.” He tilts the tin toward you. “MDMA, if you wanna get technical.”

He pauses, raising his brows.

“This is what you were asking about, right?”

warnings: first time drug use, underage substance use, slow burn, intense pining, first kiss, light angst, fluff

word count: 4.7k

A/N: spent the last week doing nothing but thinking and writing abt eddie munson b/c i finally got around to watching s4 of stranger things. so late to the party, i know.

The pizza bagels were burning.

Eddie swears under his breath, yanking the tray from the rickety oven and dropping it onto the stovetop with a loud clank.

From across the kitchen island, you flinch.

He winces, then apologizes, both sounds muffled as he crouches to shut the oven door. Peeks his head back up to see you perched on one edge of his couch, legs bouncing, hands fidgeting in your lap—the same restless energy you had earlier that day, at the forest bench behind the field.

That version of you who had toed the dirt with your shoe: I just… Chrissy said you could… Looked around all paranoid and jittery, like you were nervous to even be near him, let alone ask for something stronger than weed.

And still—you’d shown up.

Though now, in his trailer, you look like you might change your mind again.

He fills a glass at the sink and sets it on the coffee table in front of you. Your knee is nearly vibrating.

He wipes his hand on his jeans and stands back up, divot between his brows.

“You, uh… you sure you’re ok?”

Your fingers are clenched tight over your knees, knuckles pale like you’re bracing for impact—or escape.

But then, a breath. Slow.

And when you look up, something steadier settles behind your eyes.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Well,” he blinks, nudging the glass toward you with two fingers, “First step is this. Hydrate. Golden rule of every good night.”

You pick it up with both hands, barely casting him a glance, and take a careful sip.

“Thanks.”

Eddie nods, flopping into the armchair across from you, letting the cushions swallow him whole.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. Just… taut.

Like a wire pulled tight between two fence posts.

And maybe he should’ve said no the first time you asked. Maybe he should’ve said something different earlier, back at the bench, when you kicked at the dirt and couldn’t quite look at him.

His leg bounces once. Then stills.

That guilt—it never shouts. Just sits low in his gut, chewing at the lining.

Nope. Just can’t let it go.

“Listen, can I uh…” He frowns, rubbing at the bridge of his nose like it might knock loose the right words. “Can I ask why you wanna do this?”

Your fingers tighten around the glass, knuckles going pale again.

“I mean,” He’s leaned forward now, elbows to knees. “You don’t exactly seem like a…”

He trails off, the rest catching in his throat.

Junkie. Loser.

Freak.

The words hover—ugly, too easy—and he forces them back down, eyes locking on your mouth instead. It opens, then closes, like the answer’s caught somewhere between your teeth.

You glance up, eyes unreadable but not cold. Just distant in a way that makes him desperate to know what’s underneath. Beneath the gloss of mascara and lingering scent of floral hairspray.

Still, you don’t give it up.

“I just… wanna see what it’s like.” You shrug.

And he might’ve failed algebra twice before Ms. O’Donnell finally let him slide by with a mercy D, but—this?

This he’s good at.

This he’s been doing long before he ever started selling anything. Rich jocks. Burnouts. Townies.

Different stories. Same hollow-eyed ache.

He could read through them like water spots on a page.

But with you?

He’s got nothing.

Aside from Chrissy, you’re the first girl he couldn’t pin down at a glance.

You’re quieter, even more elusive than her.

Because Chrissy had that sparkle—that first-row cheerleader, homecoming queen kind of shine. Queen of Hawkins High. Everyone knows Chrissy Cunningham.

But you—you aren’t like the schoolyard royalty and laundry-basket-shooters you hang around.

Careful. Smart. Untouchable in a whole different way.

And that’s worse. That’s harder.

He nods, slowly. Stirs in his chair and tries to convince himself that he’s convinced.

Then:

Churn.

Nope.

“Yeah, see—” He lets out a sharp sigh, twisting in his seat. Rubs hard on that scar above his brow, left over from when he’d tried to give himself a piercing: “—I just can’t in good conscience give you this stuff without like… knowing? You know, like what it’s for?”

You’re silent for a while, and then:

“Do you ask everyone else why they want what they’re buying?”

There's something sharp in your voice, there. In your gaze.

And yeah. That hits. That cuts through the fog.

Eddie lets out a short breath. Finally—something. You’ve given him something.

“Well, no,” he quirks a smile, scratching the back of his neck—because, yeah, you might’ve gotten him a little with that. “But with other people, I usually don’t have to ask, so…”

You blink at him. Once. Then again.

Then you sigh—a slow, low rush of air that softens your whole posture. The mask slips a little with the sag of your shoulders.

“I just… I get in my head sometimes.” You twist the glass in your lap. “I thought it could help.”

It’s less than he hoped for. But enough.

“Okay.”

He turns, finally dipping into the space between the armrest and the cushion, where loose change and guitar picks go to die. Comes back with a small silver Altoids tin, scuffed at the corners, hinge a little crooked.

“I keep the good stuff close,” he grins, jiggling it, but you don’t smile.

He pops the lid with his thumb. Inside, a few round pills rest against the scratched metal—tiny, pale, each stamped with a heart.

“It’s called E.” He tilts the tin toward you. “MDMA, if you wanna get technical.”

He pauses, raising his brows.

“This is what you were asking about, right?”

Barely more than a rumor out here in hicktown Hawkins, but enough to make ears perk up in locker rooms and parking lots. The all-new party drug that makes you want to feel everything and touch everyone.

Your eyes land on the pills and they flicker—not quite fear, but something adjacent.

“Yeah… I think so.”

He knows that look. It’s the same one he wears in the mirror when he’d hold something in his palm and wonder if it’d make him feel better or worse.

“Got this fresh from an old buddy up in Chicago,” he sighs, flicking a pill gently with his nail.

You nod, slow. “And it’s… safe?”

He gasps—sudden, dramatic—snapping the tin closed and clutching it tight to his chest.

“Wow. You think I’d sell you something dangerous?” He flails backward, tongue out, flopped against the back of the armchair like he’s been mortally struck. “You wound me.”

“No, I just…” You blink, startled, then almost smile. “Sorry?”

He grins, easing upright again. Looks back down at the tin and sniffles quietly.

“Nah, it’s safe.” He murmurs, quieter. He’s only tried it twice, sure, but both times came up clean—no spiraling trips, no laced crap. Just warmth. Connection. The kind of high that softens edges instead of cutting them open.

“They call it the love drug,” he adds, picking one up to roll it between his thumb and forefinger. “I’s not like acid. Doesn’t mess with your head like that. Just… makes things feel good. Music sounds better. People, too.”

You grow still, but his level gaze finds your fingers twitching in your lap. Just once.

And that ache in his gut returns. Low. Uncomfortable.

A long pause, then:

“There’s a party, right?” His voice dropping, because he knows he’s toeing a thin line, “…that’s why you wanted to buy tonight?”

You look up, fast. And for a second, he thinks he’s screwed it, gone too far. That flicker in your eyes, like a match trying not to catch.

But then you nod. Press your lips together.

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” He dips his gaze, cracks the tin again with a little grin and pretends to count. “Well, I’ve only got enough for like… four, five people?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s, it’s just for me.”

Figured.

The tin is strangely loud when he snaps it closed.

He slides one pill across the table between you. Halfway.

“If you wanna try it,” he gestures, “I’d start with a half dose.”

A beat.

Then: “When’s the last time you ate?”

You blink cutely, then shake your head.

“I don’t know—lunch, maybe?”

Eddie grins, bouncing off the armchair with a dramatic exhale.

“Then you, my friend, have arrived just in time for the gourmet portion of the evening.”

Another twitch of a smile from you—small, but real.

He jogs to the kitchen and comes back with a plateful of burnt pizza bagels.

“I was nine, okay?”

Your laughter spills over the rim of the Shasta can, teeth clicking softly against the metal. You wave your hand like it’s nothing, like the story isn’t objectively ridiculous—but your eyes are bright now, and you’re actually laughing, so he’s calling it a win.

“And you faked rabies.”

You nod, completely serious. “Chewed up an Alka-Seltzer. Full commitment.”

He barks a laugh.

“You’re a menace,” he grins, biting down on the skull on his ring finger. “How’d I not know you back then?”

“I dunno,” you shrug, sly smile on your tongue. “Maybe you were too busy lighting things on fire behind the gym.”

He blinks, surprised. So you do remember him.

“Hey. Only twice.” He grins, pointing.

You roll your eyes, still smiling, and settle deeper into the couch. Shoulders dropped, legs tucked.

He’s busy observing the way the streetlamp light flickers across your hair through the slatted blinds, when your gaze slides to the broken clock on the VCR.

Your smile falters.

“Shoot, what time is it?”

He squints at his wristwatch. “Uh, 9:30.”

Only a half hour ’til your little party. Your boyfriend, Andy Reynold’s party, to be exact.

Well, you never actually use the word ‘boyfriend,’ but you also can’t hold eye contact when you talk about him, either.

Not like it matters, anyway. He’s pretty sure that whole group—Carver, Reynolds, the rest of Hawkins High’s Letterman mafia—are just dating each other in one endless ego-loop.

He looks over to find that you’ve gone still again. Back to perching, hands in your lap.

“Okay, so I should…” Your eyes flit to the white dot on the table. “I should take it now, right? Just so it’s… y’know. Working by then?”

He straightens a little, blinking slow. Wonders what he should say. His head tilts just off-center, hair slipping into his face.

“I just…” you add, voice a little smaller. “I want you here when—if anything feels weird.”

That look. Wide-eyed. Bare.

He swallows.

“Yeah, if you…” Nods once. Then again. “Sure, okay.”

A pause.

“How long?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“How long ‘til it… works?”

He scratches the back of his neck, shrugging.

“Half an hour. Hour tops, depending on your stomach.”

You nod, steady now. Inhale. Exhale.

Then you reach for the whole tablet.

“Whoa, hey—” He stops you gently, a smile ghosting his lips.

Presses his nail into the heart and snaps it clean in two.

“Start with this,” Drops one into your palm, the other half still balanced in his hand. “See how it sits.”

You blink up at him one last time, then slip the pill past your lips.

He watches, brows arched—at the way your face scrunches at the chemical taste, the way you desperately chase it with soda.

“Yeah,” he mutters, lips twitching, “they don’t exactly make ‘em in cherry.”

Then he leans back, drumming idly against the armrest.

Thinks about the joint in his vest pocket, burning a hole through the denim.

His fingers twitch.

“Hey,” He looks up with a loud grin, “You know how to play UNO?”

Eddie notices it long before you do.

He clocks it between turns, glancing sideways from where he’s migrated—no longer in the armchair but slouched on the other end of the couch, more than a cushion’s width and a sprawl of half-played cards between you.

You’re still in the same spot, but something’s changed.

One arm hooked loosely around a throw pillow. Sweater sleeve slipping down your shoulder. Your head tilted just so, resting against the back cushion.

Not fully surrendered, but close.

He tosses a yellow 4 onto the pile, watching the way your eyes drift around his living room, catching on the clutter—the mugs, the hats, the crooked posters, the tiny army of miniatures marching across every shelf.

“Do you live here alone?”

“With my uncle,” he mutters, scratching the side of his neck, rings glinting dull under the light. “He’s working nights lately, though, so it’s just me.”

A pause, then:

“Uno.”

“What? Aw, c’mon—again?”

You giggle, pupils dark and stretched like spilled ink. You drop a green 4 on the pile, fingers a little slower than before.

“Gotta keep up, Munson.”

He watches you—openly now. A little shameless.

Thinks about how many people must look at you all the time.

But no one watches.

“Hey, uh,” he murmurs after a beat, “If that stuff starts kicking in soon, you might feel warm. Floaty. Or, like… hyperaware of everything?”

He crinkles the flimsy card edges in his palm.

“That’s normal. But if anything feels bad, you tell me. Kay?”

You blink, pursing your lips, then nod.

“Okay.”

He nods back. Pulls a new card from the deck. Doesn’t even look at it.

“I’m glad it’s you.”

He freezes, feeling something shift behind his ribs.

He blinks at the stack of cards in front of him, then glances up at you.

“Alright,” he grins defeatedly. “Your turn. Finish me off, Ms. Rabies.”

You haven’t said anything in a while.

But when he looks over, he notices warmth rising up your neck, blooming across your cheeks. And the sheen in your eyes—bright, glassy.

Yep. The E had you riding high now. Soft, euphoric, buzzing gently beneath the skin.

You sigh quietly.

“It’s kinda warm in here.”

“Yeah, that’s the stuff kicking in,” he murmurs, getting up. “One sec.”

Flicks on the small fan next to the TV and cracks the window behind the couch, letting in the early sounds of night—crickets, the whispers of dry grass, distant music from a trailer window. A dog barks.

An easy draft slithers in, and the curtains flutter like breath.

When he turns back around, you’re watching him, pupils blown so big they almost swallow the pool of your eyes.

That open, wide-eyed look.

“You’re really nice.”

He huffs out a smile, caught off guard. “I—uh. Thanks?”

“No, like…” You purse your lips, “You didn’t judge. Didn’t try to convince me or make it a thing. Just… let me be.”

He exhales, scratching at the back of his neck as he eases back down beside you. “Well, I think I’m like, the last person in Hawkins who gets to judge anyone else, so…”

Your head tilts—curious, genuine.

“Why?”

He blinks slow, leaning back a touch.

“Uhh,” Brows knit as he studies your earnest expression—not a hint of sarcasm in sight.

A cursory glance at your surroundings would more than suffice as an answer, yet your eyes are only fixed on him.

“I mean,” he shrugs, smiling, “I live in a glorified tin can with like, 200 mugs and a broken microwave? Been held back from graduating twice, so—”

He laughs.

“Not exactly in a position to judge.”

Your jaw shifts, tongue tracing the edge of your bottom lip in a slow drag.

Then you mutter, voice low and sticky:

"That’s the thing, though. You don’t pretend. Everyone else does."

You let out a soft breath, shaking your head and looking out through the half-open window.

“You don’t… put on a show. Not like me. I’m like, ninety percent fake smiles at this point.”

A soft pause. The dog barks again somewhere outside. A voice shouts faintly in the distance.

This time, when you look back at him, your smile is different.

“Plus, I like your mugs.” You shrug, eyes flitting over to the collection on the far side of the wall.

You lick your lips again.

“Here.” He clears his throat, and reaches for the glass of water on the table, still nearly full.

He swallows thickly as he watches you drink, like he’s the one with dry mouth.

After that, you go quiet again for a while.

The couch had you now—your spine curved, head tipped against the cushion as it swallows you whole. Eyes studying the ceiling, like the stucco texture is some kind of holy map only you can read.

And your fingers.

The way they drag along the edge of your jeans, catching and skating over seams. Trailing along the hem of your sweater, pluck at a little loose thread.

You twirl it between your fingers like it’s a secret, like it’s talking back.

And your face—fuck. That slow-bloom softness, lips parted just slightly, a tiny crease between your brows that comes and goes like a tide.

Eddie doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

Then you let out a soft hum, the faintest sound in the back of your throat.

He smiles, soft and unseen.

“Hey,” He whispers, cheeks pressed to his fist, blinking through the curtain of his hair. “You still with me?”

You hum again—low, distracted. Head still tipped upward.

Then:

“Your ceiling’s moving.”

He grins, relieved.

“Yeah? What’s it saying?”

You tilt your head toward him, pupils blown wide, smile lazy and dream-slanted.

“Dunno yet. But I think it likes me.”

He laughs, leaning back, and you giggle—so easy, effortless, like you weren’t fighting it anymore. And god, he liked hearing that. Could’ve kept feeding you lines just to keep it going.

He watches you breathe in, slow and even.

“I keep thinking about the sky,” you murmur suddenly. “Is that weird?”

He blinks. “Nah. The sky’s a solid topic.”

“No, but like… I feel like I’m inside the sky.” Your head rolls back against the cushion. “Like it’s in here now.” Your finger slides over to a spot on your chest, right above your heart.

His throat tightens a little. Watches your finger for a second longer than he should.

Then he shifts, folding his own hands over his lap, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling like he might be able to see through it too.

Then, after a long pause:

“I don’t want to go to the party tonight.”

Eddie blinks.

“Don’t think I’m ready to, you know… go there, with him.”

Him?

He doesn’t ask. Just tilts his head toward you, cheek pressing into scratchy fabric.

You're rubbing over that spot on your chest, frowning.

“I keep telling myself I should. Like it’s… the thing I’m supposed to do. Like it’d make me feel normal. Or good. Or something.”

You lower lip twitches.

“But I just keep feeling sick.”

You blink. Eyes glossy but steady.

“I dunno, I thought this stuff would make all that easier. Heard it was s’posed to make you… want, or whatever.”

It hits him, then, like a slow punch to the chest.

And he wants to say, That’s not what this is for. Or, You don’t need to be brave for something that isn’t right.

But you already know.

So when your eyes meet his again—searching, unsure—he just smiles.

“Then fuck him,” he shrugs, “And I mean that in the anti-literal sense.”

And it anchors something deep in him, the way you laugh in response—sharp through your nose, soft at the edges. A real smile creeping in as you look back up at the ceiling.

A long pause. Heavy in a good way.

Then, just barely audible:

“K.”

“C’mon, gorgeous, where are you…”

Eddie croons into a dusty stack of cassettes, shoved into a sagging cardboard box next to the TV. He’s crouched on his knees, elbows planted, brows furrowed—a man on a mission. The kind of mission that only makes sense when your skin’s still buzzing and you’ve got just enough time to chase the perfect song before the comedown sets in.

He flips through the collection, cracked plastic cases clicking under his touch, until his index finger lands on the one he’s been looking for—old, label half-peeled, probably dubbed over a dozen times.

“Yes. Found it,” he calls over his shoulder, triumphant, and jams it into his uncle’s battered boombox, pressing play.

The soft whir of the tape rewinding. A second of static crackle.

Then it begins, the first few notes drifting out slow, warm, and low. Deep guitar, hushed vocals—something from his secret stash of ‘not metal but still fucking magical.’

When he turns around, you’ve already slid off the couch and onto the floor, limbs flopped out, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

He smiles, dropping down right beside you, body parallel to yours. Joins your gaze on the ceiling and lets himself drift in the same space.

The song starts to weave around you like fog. Soft, sticky-sweet, old tape hiss woven between each note. Your arm feels close. Closer than before. The backs of your hands just shy of brushing where they lay side by side on the floor.

He lies like that for a while.

Listening to the hush and haze of the tape—warped edges, gentle warble, every note stitched with the soft static of time—and wonders what it sounds like to you.

If the music brushes your ribs like it does his,

If it stirs the same ache in your blood,

If it's drawing maps he’ll never get to see.

Then—he feels it.

The slightest twitch in your fingers. Just once. Barely anything. But his senses are lit up, stretched thin in that dreamy in-between state despite the fact that he’s completely sober, and somehow he knows.

Doesn’t see it, just feels.

Like a pulse. Then still again.

He keeps his hand exactly where it is. Palm to the ceiling, not reaching. Just open.

And then—

You move again.

Slow, like you’re thinking through every inch, crawling closer and closer.

The side of your hand brushes his, barely there, and then your pinky moves—climbing onto his thumb, curling over it tentatively, like a cat settling into a warm lap. Testing weight. Seeking stillness.

And then the rest of your fingers follow, one by one, slow as breath, until your hand settles against his—

Palm to palm, not laced together. Just touching.

His throat goes dry. Not in the holy-shit-she’s-touching-me kind of way. No, this isn’t a move.

This is you anchoring.

He shifts, just enough to clasp his fingers between yours. Fills in the gaps and settles.

You exhale.

And it sounds like relief.

He’s pretty sure he blacks out for a good minute or two.

Silence so thick it swallows the music and the steady hammer of his heart.

Then, a whisper—something like his name—floats up from beneath him.

Your fingers squeeze his, curling around the back of his hand.

“Is this okay?”

He turns his head—slow, drawn—to find you watching him. He barely nods, the rough carpet scratching his right ear, your hair tickling warmly against his cheek.

You roll a little closer, breaths mingling—shoulders press, knees graze.

The scent of floral hairspray, cherry lip gloss—all pretty and done up for the party you missed.

Then he realizes you’re staring at his lips.

Not subtly. Not accidentally.

Intense enough to burn a hole through him.

And before he can make a sound, you lean in.

And he—

He just lets you.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Just closes his eyes the second he feels your breath against his lips.

The kiss is almost chaste—barely there, a whisper of a thing—yet it sears behind his eyes like the afterimage of the sun. Bright. Burning. Eternal.

And he thinks it has to be you. The way you glow.

With your flushed cheeks and trembling hands and the ridiculous way your soul still shines through all your careful armor.

You pull back a second later, though it feels like hours, and exhale a small, stunned laugh against his lips, a happy little sigh that makes him want to die.

Or melt.

Or explode.

Or sink straight through the floor and burn alive in eternal damnation, because that’s where he’s falling—straight down.

Down through the cheap floorboards, through the cracked linoleum and worn carpet of his piece-of-shit trailer, straight to the molten core. Down, down, all the way to Nessus—the ninth layer— where the fire burns clean and nothing escapes the pull of its lord.

Fuck—he’s so far gone and he’s not even high on anything.

That thing writhes low in his stomach again, curling in on itself, and twists.

Inviting a pretty girl over to his place, late at night, for drugs she’s never even seen before. Kissing her on the dirty floor of his trailer, like he’s some cliché with bad intentions.

But then—

You open your eyes.

Long after he’s opened his.

And your smile—that quiet, blissed-out curve of it—sends something crashing through him.

Your head tips back against the carpet, your hair spilling like light around your shoulders.

You mumble something about how much you love this song, letting your eyes slip shut as you turn your head toward the ceiling.

He stares up at the rusty-white overhead of his trailer, and thinks about the sky.

It hits in small shifts.

Still soft, still close—but quieter. Only the low whir of the tape spinning in silence, long after the B-side’s ended.

He swallows. Scratches at his jaw.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice low, trying not to spook it.

You give him a delayed nod.

“Yeah. Just…” You trail off. Sigh through your nose. “Feels weird now.”

He nods.

“Yeah. That’s normal. It fades out kinda slow.”

He shifts onto his side, props himself up on one elbow.

Glances at his wrist—past midnight.

“It’s late, I could, uh…” He stands slowly, bones cracking like he’s twice his age. Offers you a hand. “If you want, I could drive you home. Or… wherever you’re going.”

“Home’s fine,” you say eventually, slipping your hand in his. “If that’s okay.”

“Sure.”

“I’ve got gum if you want it,” he calls out, moving to the clutter near the sink while you stretch out your limbs. “Helps with the jaw thing.”

The clock on the microwave’s still frozen—3:17.

You blink. “Jaw thing?”

“Some people clench while coming down. Not always, but… y’know. Just in case.”

You take the gum—spearmint, probably stale. He shrugs his jacket off the hook, and tosses you your bag.

Neither of you talk much on the drive.

He keeps glancing over, just to make sure you’re still breathing easy.

You stare out the window as streetlights flicker past, gold stripes cutting through the dark.

When he pulls up at your curb—headlights painting lazy arcs across your front walk—neither of you move to open the door.

Something crinkles beside him and he turns to watch you fish out a handful of bills from your sweater pocket, pushing them awkwardly across the console.

“For the…” You trail off, unable to meet his eyes.

He gives you a look. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, folding the bills gently back in your fist. “Consider it a… friend discount.”

A protest starts, then dies. You close your hand around the money and hold it until your knuckles grow white.

With one hand on the doorframe, you look back:

“Hey, Eddie?”

“Yeah?” He glances over, rings cutting into his fingers where he clutches the wheel.

“Thanks for…” You step back, hand sliding down the chipped paint and returning to your side. “Y’know.”

He grins, shooting you a wink.

“Anytime, Rabies.”

Back outside his trailer, Eddie stands in the patchy yard, head tipped back, the air thick with cut grass and trailer-park gasoline.

Above him, the sky drapes over him like velvet—deep indigo, a thousand pinhole stars clinging in wild clusters.

He stays like that for a while, jaw tight, hands in his pockets.

He stares up at the endless stretch of night, and thinks about you.

A/N: I had fun writing eddie for the first time! also went down a rabbit hole researching ecstasy + the 80s lol. lmk ur thoughts! comments and reblogs are always appreciated :)

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #stranger things #stranger things fic #fluff #angst #pining #first kiss #light angst #cw drugs

243 notes · View notes

lotusarchon · 7 months ago

Text

macaque's successor (mk x reader)

part one of macaque's successor

content warnings: female reader, second pov (you/your), mild fluff and angst, season 1 events, isekai (reader dies from choking), foul language, macaque mentioned i guess, vague hints of manipulation/gaslighting from macaque, mk being a little shit, nsfw content, minors/ageless blogs dni, virginity loss,np in v sex, mild dubcon oral sex (fem receiving), public sex (reader + mk fuck in an alleyway), car sex (in the tuktuk), implied breeding kink, light bondage (the headband is a paid actor)

author's notes: requested from AO3. this literally hit 6k words so i'm gonna make it a series lmfao help

You remembered choking.

Honestly, it was an embarassing way to die, you won't deny it. How humiliating it was when people asked about your demise, anticipating a tragic if not heroic end. And usually, in the fanfics you read, that's how it always go!! Either someone dies by trying to save someone else, or by fucking suicide!! Not this!!! Not by choking on a dumpling while watching the fifth season of your favorite show; Lego Monkie Kid!!

Gods, how embarassing. Even when waking up, the memory of the dumpling stuck in your throat while you flailed wildly, surprised when the plot twist was revealed with the snake villain…gah! Just end you now!

Wait no. You died once. If you died twice again, that would be way worst.

Ah well. You couldn't say you were too disappointed. Though you missed a few things from your old life, your life was just…too boring. You didn't have much friends, your parents were emotionally distant and well, aside from your job, there really wasn't much to your current life. You felt too much like a burden to your parents, so maybe…you could free them of the worries of an unmarried, boring child.

You considered your ‘isekai’ moment as some sort of new start. Your chance to better your life! You didn't anticipate to be a part of anything major, not with your boring self, but the scenery in the Lego Monkie Kid universe wasn't so bad, and surprisingly the people seem nice. Perks of being a children's show, you guessed.

When you had first woken up, lying on the sand of some beach, you were both pleasantly surprised and concerned. It took a few minutes for you to process that you hadn't ended up in some weird coma because you choked to death and that you had, somehow, in some weird fucking way, woken up in the lego world. How did you realize that?

If the lego hands weren't enough of an answer, the green and white blur of a certain female character driving past should've been.

You were fucking isekai’d.

And then you fainted from shock.

When you woke up again, you were lying on a military cot, a thin blanket thrown over your form. There was sunlight from a window to the wall opposite of you, and the sound of clapping and cheering.

While you sat there contemplating your situation, and wondering if you were about to be canon fodder to some demon within the show, a door you hadn't been aware of opened and closed shut. A man wearing a thick black and red robe was standing in front of you. And come on, you're no fool―there was no way in hell you wouldn't know who this particular figure was. You'd have to be pretty stupid not to have recognized his dramatic robes from the second season.

Which reminded you. Where exactly had you fallen in the timeline, if Macaque found you and most possibly brought you to his weird theatre?

“You got a name, kid?” His gruff voice questioned, pulling the hood of his head to glance at you. In his hands was a tray, a simple meal of rice porridge and cut fruits. You accepted the tray awkwardly, wondering if the food would be edible if this was pre-s4/5 Macaque.

“Um. My name is (Name).” You smiled at the monkey demon awkwardly. “And…um…w-who might you be?”

“Macaque. The Six Eared Macaque.” He took a seat on a discarded chair, sharp fangs glinting in what little light it had. “(Name), huh? Well, I found you before you died from a cold, (Name). You were stranded on a beach not far from here.”

Right…that you already figured out.

“I hope you don't mind me asking. Do you have any family or friends to run home too?”

You thought for a moment. You didn't die and end up in any existing character already…..so as far as you knew, you were completely alone in this strange new world. The realization finally dawned on you that though it was a joyous feeling, being in your favorite show, interacting with nice people, there was no way you'd be able to survive. You were human for all you knew too, just some person living in a world with magic, demons and the occasional deity.

“No.” You signed, stirring the porridge. “I'm..alone.”

“You have no one?” Macaque repeated. “No one to turn too for help? Surely, your parents…friends…?”

You shook your head again.

There was a moment of awkward silence. You continued to stir the porridge awkwardly while Macaque possibly thought to himself.

“Alright.” Macaque stood. “It'd be cruel of me to leave someone as young as you to wander off on your own.” You tensed when he walked in your direction, but surprisingly, all he did was gently pat your head. “I'll offer you a deal, kid, since you're already in my debt.”

Please don't ask me to sell my soul.

“Wasn't planning on it.” Ah, you spoke out loud. “Be my apprentice. I'll feed and clothe you and in turn you train under me and help around the theatre here. It'll be a…mutually beneficial relationship.”

Well. You didn't have much of a choice now, did you?

After a moment of thinking, you nodded. There was nothing less to be done than to accept your fate. And hey, as cliche as it was, maybe you can turn Macaque over! Act like the MK to his Sun Wukong, you know?

And that was a lie.

Macaque was not a kind teacher. As the agreement followed, he did feed and clothe you. Hell, you swore he was even giving you your own salary helping him out with the theatre, either cleaning up or sending posters or dealing with guests. He wasn't so bad, that was, outside of training. During training, though, he was an entirely different person.

The first week, he was horrible. You swore you couldn't even repeat the degrading words he had said, every detail embedded in your head. Scolding you for being weak, to put more effort if you truly wanted to learn and be strong. That being weak was for those that were already dead.

It was difficult to think he was an entirely different person outside of training. Usually he would chat or show you things he's made, like puppets or dolls. If he was in a good mood, he'd even put on a puppet show for you, and you'd get to see his ‘The Hero And The Warrior’ tale up close and in person. But, if he was in a bad mood, you were lucky to get a simple grunt before he ignored you.

Between that and when you were alone, you got to explore more of your new world. You found out that his theatre was to the end of the city, so a lot of people would have to travel often to see his plays. After getting lost a few times and finally getting a map you could properly read, you found Pigsy's noodles and decided to pay it a visit.

What was the worst that could possibly happen? And anyways, you were both bored and curious to know where exactly you were in the storyline. Since you were supposed to be Macaque's apprentice now, surely that meant you'd most likely be involved now in the main story, right?

“I keep telling ya MK, you rarely ever focus!”

Ah, that should be an obvious enough an answer. There was an entire episode dedicated to MK's focusing. Erm, episode…6, was it? No, that was the racing episode.

Episode 7, maybe? Ah, yeah, that had to be it.

You dared to peek your head inside, catching sight of the protagonist and his father figure speaking to each other. Or, more like MK was clinging to his dad's leg while Pigsy scolded him with threats of firing him.

Ah, typical Monkie Kid moment. It felt so unreal to be here in person, watching them.

And then MK ran into you. Had you been that dazed out you completely missed him running until he ran smack into you, spilling noodles on the front of your shirt?

“Gah! Are you okay!?” MK spluttered, his eyes wide with panic. “Oh, shit―” Wait, was that normal? Wasn't this a kid's show? Why the fuck― “Fuck, uh.”

“Kid?” Pigsy's voice was heard behind him. “What's the keep u―oh, damn it MK.”

Huh? This is a kid's show! Why are they swearing!?

“I'm sorry!!” MK was whining. You felt his hands on your chest, dabbing away with swabs of paper napkins he must've grabbed from the counter. “Sorry, sorry!!! I'm so sorry, I just―aah!!”

You were to dumbstruck to even question the fact he was so blatantly touching your chest. Not when you were more concerned about the fact they cursed. This was a children's show. Why the fuck were they cursing!? Were they always cursing and it was just obscured because of the children audience it was aimed for!? Huh?!

“Kid, I think you've made it worst.” Pigsy's gruff voice brought you back to reality. You smiled nervously as MK pulled his hands away, wringing them anxiously from the stain he just left behind.

“I'm sorry!!” MK pursed his lips. Though he was never a favorite of yours, you had to admit up close he was kind of cute in the basic anime protagonist way. You wondered what would happen if you pinched his cheeks a bit. Would it be soft to touch? “I-I’ll um, I'll make it up to you! Promise!”

Oh. Right, he spilled noodles on your shirt.

You shook your head, waving off his worry. “No need too. It's fine, it was my fault anyway.” Technically you weren't wrong. You weren't paying attention, and how was MK supposed to know someone was kinda attempting to spy on him. “But uh….” You glanced at the sticky wet stain. “I don't suppose you have anything I can borrow…?”

MK perked up. He looked pleased you weren't yelling at him, nor demanding some form of payment that would probably give Pigsy a heart attack. He nodded quickly, fluffy brown hair growing even messier from his actions. Holy shit, was it as soft as it looked? Would it feel nice??

“I've got a spare shirt upstairs!” He exclaimed, once again interrupting your thoughts. “My friend leaves her clothes behind, there should be one that fits you! Gimme a sec―”

Oh, he was gone. You were going to tell him not to bother, it'd be too weird wearing his best friend's shirt….

Waiting in awkward silence, you glanced at Pigsy, who had crossed his arms opposite of you. He raised his head and caught your gaze, making you look away.

“You must be new around these parts,” the pig demon remarked, causing you to stiffen. “I don't think I recognize ya, kid. Got a name?”

Er….well.

“(Name).” It'd be pointless to lie about yourself. And anyway, if you chose the name of a character that was probably already in the series, it'd make one hell of a scenario. Too embarassing anyway. “Umm. You must be Pigsy, the owner of this er…fine establishment?”

The pig demon snorted, “As if the name isn't obvious enough.” You flinched, anticipating him to be rude, but who knew he was merely being sarcastic and teasing you. He shook his head at your expression, chuckling, “I'm pulling ya’ leg kid. Yeah, that's me. What brings ya’ here anyway?”

Before you could respond, the sound of someone falling down a flight of stairs, and a certain noodle boy reappeared with a clean, green and white T-shirt in his hands. He smiled bashfully, apologizing for his absence and shoved the cloth into your hands abruptly.

“So you won't have to wear a dirty one!” He exclaimed with his signature grin. “And my apology! It should be closer to your size…I think….”

The noodle boy trailed off, staring at your chest for a moment. You followed his gaze and blinked.

“I…eh?”

Instead of blushing like he was caught in the act, MK scratched his chin thoughtfully. He didn't come off as a pervert to you, merely concerned and almost confused.

“Kid. Ya staring too much.”

“Oh.” MK blinked. “Oh, my bad! Sorry, I just didn't know if you'd be comfortable wearing anything too small. If it doesn't fit, do you want mine?”

You knew he meant well, but you did feel slightly offended. You weren't that big, were you?

“Kid.” Pigsy sounded mildly exhausted. It seemed like it wasn't the first time the noodle boy had been a bit too blunt with his words. “I think ya should stop talking.”

“I didn't say anything bad this time!! Did I?!”

You and Pigsy exchanged a mutual stare, shaking your heads at the remark. He gestured towards the customer bathrooms for you to change, but when you returned MK had long since left for his job and typical adventure of the week. As a form of apology, Pigsy gave you a free bowl of noodles and invited you to return at any point for your cleaned shirt, which he insisted you leave behind for MK to wash.

You weren't sure if Macaque was pleased when you explained where you had gotten the noodles, or disappointed. By his tone and appearance, he didn't seem offended. If anything he seemed quite satisfied with your remark while you split your noodles with him, and he remarked, strangely, “That MK's a good kid. You can befriend him if you want.”

You paused mid-swallow, unsure of what to say. Macaque chuckled at your expression and patted your head.

“It's fine,” he said with a grin. “Just ‘cause I hate his mentor, doesn't mean I'll stop you from having friends of your own.” He stole a piece of meat from you. “Just as long as you don't pull a bitch move and abandon your mentor. I'd feel so heartbroken, y'know?”

There was something about his tone, that brief sarcastic comment paired with his saccharine smile that made you flinch. Still, you nodded, assuring him that you'd never abandon him.

It's not like you had anyone else anyway.

An unlikely friendship formed between you and the hero.

You returned to the noodle shop once your training with Macaque was completed, hoping to return Mei's shirt and retrieve your original one. Pigsy greeted you at the door, offering you to take a seat while MK returned from another one of his monster of the week adventures. Pigsy wasn't so bad, though you were surprised to see Tang absent. Then again, maybe the scholar was just busy―he didn't appear in every episode after all.

“Oh, Piggy! Tangy is dea―” Mei was the first to barge into the noodle shop, her eyes wide. Seeing her up close and in person, you were practically shocked at how pretty she was. You thought the Mei fans had been exaggerating, but no. The dragon girl was just as pretty if not more, and when she flashed you a grin you swore you might be a little bit queer. “Whoa! Cute girl!”

“Mei, what the hell?” You still couldn't get used to them swearing. Pigsy threw a spoon at the dragon girl, which she managed to duck. Unfortunately, the person behind her, MK, was the victim of the spoon, and he collapsed with a cry. “Just ignore her, she's always weird.”

You smiled, nodding while Mei protested against the comment. She took a seat on the stool next to you, offering her hand.

“Oh! You're the girl MK was telling me about!” Mei exclaimed as you introduced yourself. You were surprised MK would even bother speaking about you, who was pretty much an NPC at this point, but at the same time, being noticed by the protagonist was a pleasant feeling, wasn't it? “Did my shirt fit you or was your boobies to big?”

You heard MK choke at the remark, and when you glanced at him he looked ashamed.

“I didn't say that,” he quickly defended, throwing himself at Mei to stop her from sharing any more embarassing comments. “I-I just said that the shirt was too small!! I swear!! I didn't mean anything like that!!”

You smiled awkwardly. “It's fine. I'm sure it was an accident.”

The dragon girl merely sighed. You didn't miss the look she flashed at her friend, and as if they had some sort of telepathic ability, MK returned her look with his own. You were in awe at their silence conversation, and you had no problem merely observing them like animals in a zoo.

Ah, wait…there are animals here…oops.

“Sure. Accident.” Mei scoffed under her breath, turning her attention back to you. “Soooo~ cute gal. Did I tell you how cute you were?”

Basically. “You mentioned it, yes.”

“Good. ‘Cause you are.” The dragon girl pinched your cheek. The action made you wince, reminiscent of how Macaque tended to be, always pinching your face on occasion, but Mei's hands were gentler and less likely to make you tear up. She released your cheek after a while, arm still slung around your shoulders while she continued on, “(Name), (Name)...huh. You know, I actually don't think I've ever met you either.”

Without thinking, you sighed in relief. For what it was worth, you were still feeling jittery at the idea of being recognized by someone. After all, who's not to say you hadn't just ended up in a random NPC’s body that just happened to resemble you? The universe worked in mysterious ways, and you'd really not want that chance of being recognized. Even if it wouldn't be a major problem plot-wise, you'd rather not have to deal with the nagging feeling you were in someone else's body.

So, hearing one of the most sociable characters in the show admit to never meeting you before made you all the more relieved. If you could clap your hands, you really would at that moment.

MK had taken a seat on the opposite side of you, leaving you trapped between him and his best friend.

It…was a bit odd, you wouldn't lie. There was an empty seat next to Mei, so why choose to sit next to you of all places? Wouldn't it be easier to sit with his friend?

“Oh, yeah. I don't think you mentioned where you're from?” Pigsy had long since left for the kitchen, so you knew that question had been from MK. It was cute that Pigsy had chosen to mention something trivial you said to his kid, but you'd also hate having to be asked and make up a lie on the spot.

You thought for a moment, then nodded. “I didn't think it was important. My family moved here for some business stuff.”

Mei seemed to perk up at that. “Oh, you're a foreigner? That's so cool! Where are you from!?”

“Um….”

“Right. Right.” The dragon girl relaxed, her lips parted in a laugh. She waved off your nervous expression, “Sorry ‘bout that. Didn't mean to pry. But that's pretty cool.”

“It definitely is.” MK grinned next to you. “Traveling around like that sounds fun. How do you like the city so far? Have you seen the cheese tea stalls?”

They're actually called cheese tea stalls!? You sweatdropped, trying to imagine what tea would taste like with actual cheese in it. The combination in your head made you mentally gag, but with a smile on your face you merely nodded. Macaque had taught you well, even if not directly, so you'd consider yourself a pro at masking your feelings.

“Ah.” Was it just you, or did MK sound disappointed at that?

And yet, not only a few seconds later, his expression had brightened once again.

You spent at least three hours at the noodle shop, listening to MK and Mei ask you questions and share the wildest stories.

For some reason, MK always seemed to look for your opinion on something. You put it off as merely him hoping to impress a new friend he's made, as a newly turned hero.

You sat with Macaque once again for dinner.

Almost half a year had passed since you had arrived in this new world. Surprisingly, an unlikely friendship had formed between yourself and the dragon girl and monkey boy duo.

You didn't think something like that would've happened in over a million years. Someone like you, befriending people as fun and kind as Mei and MK? You'd have to either be high or dreaming.

But, you didn't mind it either way. They were fun to be around, and more often than not, they'd invite you on their hangouts. Especially that MK, who was always ready to pull you into an adventure with him.

You had to admit, you've grown quite fond of him over the past few months.

And as for Macaque…

You glanced at the simian. Though you'd like to think you two had grown closer, there was still a barrier that kept you at arms length. At this point, you assumed Wukong's supposed betrayal was still fresh on his mind after all these years, and so even if he was nicer to you, he never once actually attempted to draw you closer.

So disappointing…

You chewed on your chopsticks thoughtfully.

Over time, you've tried not to interfere with the canon plot too much. So, even when that particular episode regarding the key to unlocking the Bone Demon's tomb happened (cough, s1 episode 8), you didn't intervene. You didn't warn MK that he was toying with the very object that would change his life forever, nor did you warn him about the creepy Mayor guy.

Speaking of him…there's something really off-putting about that guy. It's like he knows something I don't. You frowned to yourself, recalling that particular interaction. Though you didn't do much, the Mayor had still been watching you.

“It would be my deepest pleasure to meet little miss once again,” he had said, oddly charming in a particularly creepy way. “So until we next meet, farewell~!”

Agh, whatever. It was canon he was total nutcase anyway, you shouldn't be worried about that.

What you were worried about though, was the episode where Macaque would meet MK. As much as you loved him as your favorite character, you couldn't deny that he had as much of a role to MK's trauma as the other villains did.

And with how fond you were of MK currently, you had to admit; hurting him just to spite Wukong was genuinely too far. When all was said and done, hating your ex best friend was fine, but there was no need to pull innocent people into the crossfire. MK might not have dwelled on it anymore, but the interactions he had with Macaque and later on Azure…it definitely fucked him up, didn't it?

Sigh. Though you knew this had to happen for plot's sake, you really wished it didn't have to happen. You didn't think you could bare to witness this scene upclose and in person, so you wondered if you should take Mei on that offer to leave the city for a few days…

“So, you and that MK boy are close now, hm?” When you raised your head, Macaque caught your gaze and grinned. He was sipping from a can of fizzy drink, something you'd never expect from him of all people, and occasionally would glance at you. He raised a brow, “You turned into a beaver, kid? You're chewing those chopsticks for so long.”

Embarrassed, you pulled the chopsticks out of your mouth. The ends were covered in your spit and bite marks, and you cried in your heart at the damage. How embarassing…

“Um. Yeah. Guess we are now.” You shoveled cold noodles into your mouth again, hiding your embarrassment. Until you choked and had to take a break, coughing and chewing soggy noodles.

Macaque slid a can to you, already opened. You accepted it with a nod, relieved at the sugary taste that freed your clogged throat.

He was speaking again. “I've been thinking. The kid looks like he needs some extra training, you know? I mean, looking at his fighting moves….something tells me that teacher of his hasn't been doing jackshit for him. Just shoved a big staff into his hands and told him to go crazy.”

If you didn't know Macaque's character in season one, you would've thought he was genuinely concerned. Though his words were criticism at Wukong, there was no warmth or genuinity in them, only a type of bluntness intended to hit home.

You stared at your can thoughtfully. Would he ask you to help him manipulate MK? Would you have to lie to him?

“Hey. Have you ever taken a break since you became my apprentice?” Macaque threw his empty can into a wastebasket, yet his gaze was still on you.

You blinked. You hadn't taken a break since you joined this world, and that been well over six months now.

Where was he going with this?

“I think you deserve a break,” he concluded and leaned back against his chair. “Spend a few weeks outside the city. It'd do you some good. I'll arrange some things for you, ‘kay? Maybe even hook you up with one of my pals to continue your training.”

Oh. Macaque hadn't sent you out of the city with good intentions. He'd sent you so you wouldn't be a hindrance to his plans―you liked MK, that much he knew. His six ears could pick up on the way you brightened around the kid, and he was well aware of the signs of affection. You adored him as he did you, but you were too stubborn to admit it.

Sure, there were some things about you that confused him. He couldn't hear anything from your past, as if it were a blank slate. No childhood, no recollection of a time before you came across him. It was if something was purposely stopping him from hearing beyond that first meeting between you both.

But to Macaque, that was fine. A hindrance, but fine. He would work with it.

As long as you weren't there to warn MK, to push him away from Macaque. As long as you weren't there to disrupt the natural flow of fate.

Macaque boredly nudged the fallen hero's face, a malicious smile on his lips. How the mighty had fallen, just a child with a heavy stick. And where was his mentor now?

“You know, it's a shame my student likes you so much,” he said, almost mockingly, and grabbed MK's chin. The little bastard tried to glare, his body weak from the sudden withdrawal of power within him. Good. “You know, she likes you so much. Thinks you're such a cool guy.”

MK's eyes seemed to narrow. His interest was piqued.

Good.

“(Name)...ah yes. She likes you so much, you know? Even told me not to go too hard on you and your fragile heart.” Macaque's smile merely widened. The longer he yapped some nonsense, the more this naive little hero bought into it.

Ah, that would be the death of him. What a foolish child, helplessly ready to believe what words were spoken. That would never do him any good.

Not that Macaque cared. Watching that look of betrayal flash across his face, the fight he had left fading…

Even when Wukong had stepped in, and he had suffered a bitter defeat, Macaque thought it had all been worth it.

You knew something was wrong the moment you returned to the city.

Maybe the plot had gone wrong. Maybe Macaque didn't betray MK because you had been his student? Maybe MK hadn't fallen fool to Macaque's charming words?

….

The city was fine. MK was fine.

When you stopped at the noodle shop, you were wholly surprised to see MK there. Aside from a bandage wrapped around his neck, he was fine. Laughing with his best friend, bothering Pigsy.

He was fine.

“Oh! (Name)!” Mei leaned over the counter, waving at you excitedly. You flinched at the attention, sparing the noodle boy a glance.

The smile he had been wearing fell. He wasn't looking at you with the same gentleness he had just only three weeks ago. Now, he looked wary, and upset.

Your blood felt cold in your veins.

Had Macaque done something?

“Hello? Earth to (Name)?” Mei gently racked her knuckles against your head. “Girl, you okay there? Did that three week vacay turn your brain into jelly?”

You tore your gaze away from MK.

Whatever it was Macaque had done, you needed to fix it.

At least, to explain yourself…

And surely, MK would listen to you…right?

MK's staff felt heavy against your chest. You knew this staff had once been a pillar in the dragon king's palace, but holy shit the show did not put enough emphasis on how heavy this staff was. The baddies that had to face the opposite end either had more plot armor than the protagonist, or fucking balls of steel.

Mind you, this was MK only allowing you to feel a quarter of it's actual weight. You figured he wasn't mad enough to crush you under it, given that he was still holding the staff above you with a conflicted expression.

You hadn't anticipated he would've followed you back to Macaque's dojo, which had long since been abandoned from his defeat. You hadn't anticipated he would've attacked you, if only to test something…

“He was right,” he muttered, caging you against the wall at the back of the building. “You…you're his student?”

Was, you thought, recalling the shadow powers you'd used to escape him. Now though…

“MK, I―”

“No. Don't you even.” You snapped your mouth shut at his remark. His eyes were glazed over, and you swore if he blinked, he would actually cry. As it stood, he merely glared at you, his expression flitting from angry, to upset, to hurt, and repeated the cycle. “You…you fucking lied. You…you were just pretending to be my friend!?”

You stayed silent.

MK laughed in disbelief.

“You won't even try. You…why?” The weight on your chest was lifted. MK's staff disappeared, but he still kept you caged between his arms, his shoulders sagging. “Why do this? Pretend to be my friend? Made me like you―” Your heart broke at the way his voice cracked. “You…you just…you lied. You lied and said I was your friend. Lied and pretended to be my friend, pretended to like me in turn, only for it to be all an act?? Why? What could Macaque have offered for you…to…to do this!?”

You heard him sniffle. “Fuck. You won't even defend yourself. Won't you lie and tell me I'm wrong?”

“But you are.”

MK raised his head.

Oh, you hated this. He looked so heartbroken. The tears had spilled, staining his cheeks. He looked so sad, and you hated this. You hated seeing him cry like this.

“I…never lied to you,” you mumbled, looking at your feet. “I did. Like being your friend. I liked…being with you. I never…I never wanted to hurt you, MK. I swear. I've always liked you. I wanted to be your friend, I liked you.”

But Macaque…

“I didn't know what Macaque was planning.” A lie. “But I never intended to hurt you, MK. You can hate me for what Macaque did, but I never wanted you to get hurt.” At least, not to this extent….

You raised your head to see MK still staring at you. His eyes wide in shock (hopefully not horror), and he looked…confused.

You never really noticed how cute he looked, all confused and lost. You wanted to pinch his cheeks.

So you did. You reached up, and squeezed his cheek between your hands. MK didn't stop you, too surprised, and you took advantage of it―squeezing and smushing, watching how red they became from your actions.

I don't like it when you cry. I really don't. If this is how hurt you are, I'll never do it again. I'll never let you cry again.

MK's hands grabbed your wrists. You stilled, expecting him to be angry, but he only pinned your hands to the wall.

“Prove it.”

“Huh?”

MK pursed his lips. The corners of his eyes were still red from crying, and his gaze had darted from your eyes, and then lower.

“You…you have to prove that you mean it,” he said, finally. “That…that Macaque was lying. You have to prove you're telling the truth.”

MK, aren't you sounding like a child right now?

You paused, but nodded. “I don't mind. But how am I supposed to prove that?”

MK stared at you so hard and for so long, you had to look away with shame. Why did it feel like he was implying something here…?

A hand cupped your boobs. You blinked when MK gave it a light squeeze.

….. ISN'T THIS SHOW RATED FOR KIDS!? WHAT THE FUCK!?

Note to future self: fucking in alleyways are very unhygienic and also just uncomfortable in general.

Other note to future self: you somehow gave Qi fucking Xiaotian a boob kink.

No, you weren't joking. MK had looked at you so pleadingly and helplessly that of course, you had to yield to his request. You liked him, he liked you, and if this meant he would trust you again and mend the bond Macaque had broken, then so be it. You'd fuck in one thousand alleyways if it meant MK would trust you again.

You just really hoped you wouldn't have too, though. Alleyways were weird.

And, you figured not to question this situation.

You ran your hands through MK's hair, sitting atop the tuktuk MK had parked in the same alleyway. Though you itched to pull his bandanna off, you decided not to. If only because when you had tried before, MK had looked at you with heartbroken eyes, and you didn't like seeing him upset.

His hand slid down the front of your pants, pushing your panties to the side. Your body tensed, and you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth when his fingers rubbed against your folds, following the same rhythm as his hand occupied with your breast.

Look. You were a total loser in your old life, okay? And in this one, you never bothered with dating.

So, of course, you're a total fucking virgin. The closest experience you had with anything porn related was fanfiction, and everyone knows fanfiction is never realistic!!

So, of course, you were embarrassed and completely tense, even when MK assured you not to be.

A fucking cartoon character is more experienced than me. A. Fucking. CHILDREN'S SHOW MAIN CHARACTER. HOW DO YOU THINK I FEEL!? You cried in your heart, but flashed MK an awkward smile nonetheless. He grinned at you, before his lips latched onto your nipple he'd been teasing. At the same time, his fingers had found your hole dripping with anticipation, gently pushing a finger inside.

Fanfiction did not prepare you for any of this. You thought you would faint from actually experiencing this the first time….agh…

MK's tongue was wet against your tit. He squeezed and fondled the soft flesh, dragging his tongue against your perked bud with leisure. His other hand gently pumped through your walls, slow, at first, until he added a second finger, and the base of his palm pressed against your clit.

Ugh, this was awkward. You slapped a hand over your mouth, hiding your embarassing fucking noises, and hopefully your own burning expression.

Oh god, what if I get sent back home? The fuck am I gonna tell my parents!? “Hey Mom and Dad, I lost my virginity to a fucking fictional character, no big deal!” Bah!!

Sharp teeth grazed against your tender bud, and the slight burning sensation from MK's fingers inside your cunt gave way to the slightest bit of pleasure, slick easing his movements. You felt yourself squirming against his hand, unsure if you wanted to pull away when his fingers curled against a spot that made you dizzy, or push into him for more.

The noodle boy released your tit with a wet pop, saliva connecting his lips to your breast. If it had been in any other situation, you wouldn't have mind to say it was borderline lewd, but this was real and it involved you, so naturally, you looked away in embarrassment. You heard MK laughing at your reaction, his palm applying pressure to your puffy clit, seeming to find your jolts and muffled whines amusing.

His free hand tugged on your pants, pulling them lower to your ankles. He settled himself lower between your legs, and your panties were pushed higher and his head lower.

You stiffened when his warm breath brushed against your cunt, your fingers still pumping in your hole.

“...hey, wait a sec―” Your hands landed on his head. “Aren't we…I mean you're…we really shouldn't―”

MK pouted, swatting your hand away. “I thought you said you wanted to prove yourself?”

You sneaky little bastard. “Not to this extent!”

“(Name), you're fine.” As if he to prove his point, his tongue swiped leisurely against your folds. You stiffened, feeling your face grow so fucking hot―was that a fucking piercing!? “Don't be scared. Or embarrassed if you're a virgin. I'll take good care of you.”

My brother in Christ you are a fucking lego character I'm more concerned on how either of us has the body part for thi―

MK's lips latched onto your puffy clit, sucking on the tender bundle of nerves. His hand gripped your thighs, holding you close while his fingers quickened and thrusted into your cunt, pressing against the soft spot that left your knees completely weak.

You didn't want to make any noise. You really didn't!

But when MK's tongue flicked your clit, the cold piercing a stark contrast against the warmth, and his mouth worked in rhythm with his fingers…

It wasn't your fault those noises slipped out. You mewled and pushed against him, gasping at the sensation.

You'd question how the fuck MK had a tongue piercing and experience in sex after you were finished.

If you remembered, that was.

MK's fingers suddenly pulled out of you, leaving you clenching around nothing. His tongued dragged languidly against your messy folds before he pulled away, your juices dribbling down his chin. He kept eye contact with you, propping his fingers between his lips to lick them clean…

Wtf…

“Okay! I think that's enough!” MK sat up abruptly and helped pulled off the rest of your clothing. You spluttered, trying to argue because of the very fun fact of you both being in public still, but apparently, the fucking Monkie Kid had no sense of shame or dignity. He simply flipped you onto your stomach, and your hands pulled behind your back and then tied with something…

Wait. “...did you just tie my wrists with your bandanna?”

“Yuh huh.” Gods, how could he sound so innocent after eating you out? “It's hot. I've always imagined tying you up with it, you know?”

You made a face at that. Did I also give him a bondage kink? Oh boy…

MK's chest pressed against yours, placing a chaste kiss to your cheek when he pushed himself inside you, causing you to burrow your face against the seats.

Fuck. I'm losing my fucking virginity to a cartoon character. Oh, isn't that fan-fucking-tastic. And he's fucking big, what the actual fuck. Why is he big? How does he even have a dick?? He's a LEGO.

Oh wait, this doesn't hurt that badly. Fucking fanfiction ass logic.

“(Name)?” You heard MK's voice filled with concern. “Do you want me to move? Or stop? We can stop―”

If your hands weren't tied behind your back, you knew for a fact you would be strangling him. There was no fucking way he got you into this situation only to fucking pussy out because of concern. You might be a virgin but you're no coward.

Probably.

“You can move.” You grumbled against your better judgement. “Just…be gentle.”

“I am gentle.” MK laughed in your ear. His lips pressed into another kiss against your temple, and his hips slowly rocked against yours, allowing you to adjust to the feeling. He pulled back slightly, just enough to snap his hips back in place in a slow thrust.

The first thing you thought was, Wow, this is weird.

Then you also thought, This really doesn't hurt as much as it should…

Maybe you were just weird, but MK huffing and moaning in your ear was…kinda hot, you wouldn't lie. Those whimper edit audios were tame in comparison to the noises he was making right now.

With your hands behind your back and tied, you couldn't do much but squirm in place with each of his thrusts. His hand pushed your head further against the leather seats, bottoming out fully against you. The wet sounds of his cock inside you filled the night air, and you had to muffle your own noises for your own dignity.

MK's pace quickly picked up speed, taking your muffled cried as a sign to keep going. His pelvis smacked against your ass, his cock stretching your walls and hitting angles you weren't even aware of and leaving you to drool against the seats of his tuktuk.

“You…you better promise not to leave me,” you heard MK mumble against you. “You can't leave me, okay? ‘cause you promised―” His cock kissed your cervix, making your toes curl and your pussy clench around him. “And you…you would keep your promises, right?”

You really needed your hands untied. “I do,” you promised, fighting back another moan. “‘promise not to make you cry again, ‘kay? Pinkie promi..mmph!”

MK angled your head back, slamming his lips against yours. His teeth grazed at your lower lip and sucked at your tongue, swallowing your cry when the strange feeling in your stomach snapped, cumming under his cock. His hips continued to snap against yours, each thrust feverish and driving you mad with stimulation.

It wasn't until MK had finally cum, collapsing on top of you on the seat, did he pull away from the kiss, and your brain return to normal.

How sticky…and your arms were beginning to ache from this position. You tried to turn on your side, but MK simply wrapped his arms around you and grumbled under his breath.

“Are you planning on leaving me again?” He asked, and you could practically hear the pout in his voice. How the fuck was he acting like the deflowered maiden here, when the one who just lost their virginity was you!?

“I…no.” You sighed, squirming in his hold. “My hands hurt though, so lemme go.”

“No.”

“....MK…”

“In a minute.”

“MK you came inside.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Fuck you mean oh yeah you tryna knock me up?”

“....”

“Oh my god I gave him a breeding kink too.”

“A what?”

“Nothing.”

371 notes · View notes

thisapplepielife · 3 months ago

Text

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest.

Float On

The bird swoops low again, aiming for the sandwich on Eddie's knee. It's graceful, in a way Eddie isn't. Not these days, not since, well. Since. He sits on the beach and wastes another day of their spring break moping.

Spring Break isn't for him, not since that one two years ago. But everybody else wanted to get away, and he couldn't blame them for that. He wants to get away from Hawkins, too. Permanently. But all his prospects for escaping that hellhole have fallen into the cracks in the earth, like much of the rest of the town.

So, here he is. Half-heartedly protecting his peanut butter and jelly sandwich from a would-be thief of a bird.

Eddie's tired. More tired than usual of trying to fit himself into a round hole as a square peg. Eddie isn't, and will never again be like everyone else after everything that happened. Societal norms seem harder than ever, after knowing what being just a little different gets you.

His friends don't get it, not really, and he tosses the sandwich on the ground, giving up. He's used to things being taken from him, and he doesn't have the fight left to stop it.

Eddie floats on his back in the ocean. He floats better here than he ever did at home in lakes and ponds, and he's been doing it for hours every day they've been here.

Float, float, floating.

He almost wishes there were a water gate underneath him now, complete with tentacles to pull him under. Down, down, down, until it spits him out someplace else. Somewhere more suited for this version of him, forever tainted by the Upside Down.

Eddie hears the splashing, the man-made movement of wading, then swimming, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't want to listen to Gareth's lecturing, or Jeff's eternal encouragement. It's definitely not Goodie. He's scared of the seagulls after they stole his nachos, tray and all.

The movement ceases, and he can feel them floating next to him. That's fine, he supposes. As long as they stay quiet.

"You're drifting kind of far out."

Eddie's eyes open, and he turns his head to look over at Steve Harrington. He shouldn't be here. How'd he get here?

"Gareth called me. Said you were floating away. I didn't know he meant it literally."

Eddie nods. He is floating away. He's damaged, inside and out, and spending spring break at the beach isn't helping.

Nothing helps, not really.

Steve reaches over and takes his hand, "You can't just float away, okay?"

Eddie admits, "I kind of want to."

"I know. But I won't allow it," Steve says, and Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and Steve's hand, at the same time.

They aren't friends, not really. But it's been a weird limbo after that other spring break. You can't live through something like that with people, and not feel kinship. But they are very different people, and Eddie has always known that.

Steve Harrington landed on his feet. The bruises around his neck faded, and he got right back out into the world.

Eddie's scars seem to run deeper.

"I just feel heavy. Weighed down."

"You're floating," Steve teases softly.

"But I feel saddled with an anchor, hell-bent on dragging me down. Maybe it should," Eddie admits.

Steve rolls onto his side, out of his floating position, and kicks over closer to Eddie's head. Then, Steve treads water behind him, cups the back of his neck, and slides an arm over Eddie's belly. Slick skin against slick skin.

Eddie knows what's coming, can sense it, and he closes his eyes. Holds his breath.

And he was right. Steve pulls him under, fully submerging him, washing him clean. Then, he brings him back to the surface.

It's symbolic, a baptism of sorts, and he accepts it. Turns his face towards the sun, and opens his eyes, blinking the stinging saltwater away.

Steve Harrington still has a hold of him, but Eddie kind of believes he might be able to keep himself above water, now.

But he doesn't have to. Not yet. He lulls his head back on Steve's shoulder, as Steve holds him up, treading water with ease.

Jeff's standing at the edge of the ocean, and holds open a towel. Eddie's exhausted, and he steps into it, letting Jeff wrap him up in the soft cotton, hugging him.

Steve is shaking out his hair like a wet dog, and the three of them trudge towards the rented beach house that hush money paid for, but couldn't make him happy.

He lived.

Now he actually has to do that.

They kick through the sand, and when they reach the steps, Eddie pauses.

"What?" Jeff asks.

"I'm hungry," Eddie answers, "I'm starving, actually."

"Swimming will do that. We'll order pizza," Steve offers, and that sounds like the best thing Eddie's ever heard. He wants Steve to take charge.

And Steve does. Stands at the counter, in the rented beach house, shirtless, chest hair still damp as he argues with all the guys, trying to formulate an order that makes sense. Eddie can't stop staring at him.

It's like he's glowing.

Eddie's stomach tightens. He can't. He can't have feelings for Steve Harrington just because he came and played savior.

There's bickering and wheedling, and Steve Harrington being bitchy to regain control of the situation. It's soothing, somehow. Eddie sprawls out on the couch, and closes his eyes.

He doesn't open them until his legs are being lifted, and Steve slides down on the couch, now dry, pizza in hand. Steve puts Eddie's legs in his lap, opens the box, handing over a slice.

Eddie grins, and takes it. Enjoying Steve's hand on his shin. It feels grounding, like maybe, maybe he won't come untethered and float on anymore.

"Thanks for coming," Eddie says.

Steve smiles, "Always. You need anything, I'm here."

For some reason, Eddie actually believes him, and he leans forward, squeezing Steve's hand.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries, check out @corrodedcoffinfest to read takes on Spring Break prompts, or to offer up your own!

#corrodedcoffinfest #prompt: seagull #steddie fic #stranger things #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #pre steddie #steddie fanfiction #corroded coffin boys #stranger things fic #thisapplepielife: short fic #thisapplepielife: corrodedcoffinfest

137 notes · View notes

inkedinfusions · 6 months ago

Text

𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | eren jaeger one shot

⊱❦︎⊰ | You encounter Eren again after a year of not seeing him. Still, things could not be more different than when you first parted. You stand on opposite sides of a cell trying to piece together that which separated you after years of close friendship.

── ★ ˙ ̟ . ❦︎ .ᐟ.ᐟ masterlist of works

𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭

word count: 2k

content warnings: hurt no comfort, angst, mentions of violence but nothing you haven't seen in aot, spoilers for s4 ig, gaslighting on erens part because he is in his lets make everyone hate me era. I'm like 99 percent sure there are not markers for gender or height or anything else here so this is gender neutral reader. Can be read as romantic or platonic.

a/n: Yeah, idk where this came from either. I was chilling, trying to write for the key listening to music, and then BAM i love you by billie eilish came on and inspiration hit me in the back of the head with a metal tray. This is my Christmas gift to ya'll, so I hope you like it. Happy holidays!

Thanks for reading!

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 holding cells are kept was humid, decrepit. It smelled of decay, of burned out dreams and untold desperation. The stones that made up the walls were held together by the sheer will of those who sentenced the unfortunate tenants – those that found themselves on the other side of rusty bars, lit only by the faint light emitted by the hellfire torches.

Your footsteps echoed in the small hallway that led up to the cells, and you were guided by this same light, following like a moth to a flame, knowing just as well that the probability of getting burned climbs higher the farther you walked.

The sway of your cardigan kept your warmth against the cold of the dingy place, where not even the fire that lit your way was able to warm up. You fiddled with the hem of your sleeve, pockets empty except for the feeble hope that kept fighting inside you, not getting extinguished no matter what the higher ups told you, what your eyes had witnessed back in Liberio.

The gruesome memories from the raid left a bitter taste in your tongue, only stoked by the death of your friend. It had been unexpected to say the least; there had only been a bang as the bullet left the firing chamber, a thud as Sasha’s body hit the floor. The desperate pleas from you and everyone else and then the tenderness of her last breath, succeeded by the limpness of her body.

She had gotten a burial in the common grounds, just as many of your departed comrades before her – she had left behind people who loved her, just as many of your departed comrades before her.

It had hurt like hell when you arrived on the island, it had hurt even more later, when you arrived to Shiganshina. The city was cleaned from the pandemonium that had happened oh so many years ago, and still the traces of the Wall’s fall could be found in those who survived it. And now you had gone and inflicted similar pain on the nation who had been responsible.

Innocent civilians –children, mothers, brothers, humans– were caught in the crossfire as they so often are. The blood they had shed was nothing but the price to be paid for winning the game those in the high chairs played, their hands so easily wiped from the crimson liquid. And you, a simple soldier, weren’t in the position to afford such a sanctified handkerchief.

The uniform that you had donned in your early days as a cadet had been white, odd in theory but practical in the field. Titan remains evaporated in just a few seconds – minutes in worse cases – and so there wasn’t much of a problem when time came to clean them.

It had only been when your enemies started to be human that there had been a change to make them black, a color in which permanent blood splatters would show less.

The journey back on the airship was nothing but a figment of time in your memory, numbed by the loss you had felt, by the expected reunion that had done nothing but confuse you, melt your perceptions and flush them down the drain.

Your feet finally took you to the end of the cell row, having passed endless empty ones. Each time you approached a new one, each time the wall partition revealed the inside of the bars, each time your heart jumped, your stomach churned.

You felt like a lovesick teenager again, with butterflies in your guts, with clouds messing with your thoughts, with heat spreading across your face. But now there were no warm embraces, no teasing words, no glances exchanged when on opposite sides of the room. There was only silence as you met Eren’s eyes from across the metal bars – his, devoid of feeling; yours, anguished, betrayed.

The faint crackling of the torch to your right set the atmosphere, the small candle at the side of his mirror followed it in its dance.

“...You changed your hair,” you said, breaking the silence, cutting it with a butter knife.

“I did,” he replied.

A beat passed. His clothes rustled as he stood up from where he was sitting on the bed, walking so he would be situated directly in front of you. Divided by the iron beams, by the way neither of you stood close to them, you continued to watch him, drinking in the essence of the boy you hadn’t seen in a year.

But the person in front of you was a boy no longer, but a man with a scarred mind, one burdened with the knowledge of things yet to come. You surveyed his figure as you often did before, lessons learned from the many brawls he seemed to get himself into, from the many injuries he used to try and hide from your watchful eye, giving in when you traced the bruises that marred his skin.

That little routine stopped when he got his titan powers, now it being the thing that kept his flesh unblemished, no longer needing the healing of your touch and yet longing for the comfort it offered.

Just as the fire danced, you had too, stepping in between lines, playing with the tether that held you both together, tugging and tripping and twisting until the relationship you both shared could not be defined by any spoken words.

Still, you tried.

“Yours looks the same,” he said, as coldly as his first statement.

It did. You hadn’t let it grow, and neither had you taken scissors to it and cut until it resembled a haircut no more. It had been stagnant just as you, left to rot behind with the progress that wasn’t going anywhere in this world of broken hopes.

You nodded, losing your words just as easily as you had lost him.

The candle in the cell kept dripping, wax falling off the candle holder and forming small drips along its side. The torch kept flickering, changing your shadows so that no moment was the same.

“Why are you here?” Eren asked.

“I just wanted to see you–”

“Let me rephrase,” he interrupted. “How are you allowed to be here?”

You hesitated. Hange had been clear with your squad. None of you were allowed to make contact with Eren, given his current traitor status to the island, given your emotional ties to him. Coming down here would be only detrimental to your position in the military machine if all that were to be true.

And still, moments after Hange had left the holding cells after talking to Eren for the first time in the better part of a year, they had summoned you to the building. The higher ups had been against it at first, but it became clear that you were the person that Eren would be more likely to talk to. And by the Walls, did that admission hurt.

“...Hange thinks you’ll talk to me,” you said. “I chose to believe them.”

“Talk to you?” he said. “What do we have to talk about?”

His question strung your heart along, puncturing it like the sharp headed arrow that it is. You knew he had changed – it was as obvious as the ripples a stone forms in the sea. Yet you wanted to pretend that beneath the hardened surface, he would still treat you like the boy you used to know did.

The more you thought about it, the angrier you got. How dare he disappear without a trace, how dare he make you worry for a year, how dare he send letters with instructions with no regards for your being, how dare he return as cold as a winter day. How dare he treat you with scorn, worse than a stranger, for strangers don’t have bonds that can be ruptured.

“Nothing to talk about…?” you started, slowing your words down to push their meaning through. “Nothing to talk about?”

You clenched your fists, fire burning in your guts, your heart, your eyes, threatening to set you ablaze.

“You left with no warning, on a strange land not one of us had been to before, suddenly sent letters basically ordering us to follow your plans for a raid, and then when I finally see you again you tell me we have nothing to talk about?”

You didn’t notice how your breath pattern became increasingly more erratic, how you began to wildly gesture with your hands. Your body language was deservingly sharp against him, and yet Eren remained frustratingly calm through your rant.

“You summarized it nicely,” he said after a moment. “Well? I’ll tell you no more than what I told Hange.”

“I want to hear it anyways,” you said with barely contained exasperation.

Eren took a step forwards, closer to the iron bars, closer to you and still so far away.

“You might think I am a prisoner here, but there is no cell that can hold me now,” he said. “You remember me taking the War Hammer Titan back at Liberio. You know I can leave whenever I want.”

“So why haven’t you?” you asked.

Once again there was no outwards response on Eren’s part. His eyes flashed with something, but that was it. There was no agitation, no remorse.

“Why should I tell you?” he said. “You are the one who said the higher ups sent you.”

“So now you're just–” you made a disbelieving gesture with your hand, “keeping secrets? You know I won’t tell them if you ask me to.”

This time the flash in his eyes was far clearer. Surprise. Wonder.

“You would commit treason then?”

You scoffed. “You sound surprised. I've been charged with insubordination before.”

All three of you had. Eren, Mikasa and you went against Levi’s orders back in Shiganshina, with the only purpose of saving Armin’s life. It shouldn’t be a surprise that the same determination be applied to him.

His face hardened. “You won’t get anything more from me.”

“...Whatever. I don’t care why you haven’t broken out,” you started. “But I want to know why you left us.”

“Left you, you mean?”

His words cut deep, and he could see that. You felt heat making its way through your guts, up your esophagus, threatening you with its bitter raspiness. You were dazed, confused. What had happened to warrant such a drastic change?

“It's simple really,” Eren said. “I keep moving forward, while you get stuck behind. Our paths were never meant to stay together for long.”

“You don’t mean that,” you said, the heat turning to tears that you were barely holding back.

“I do,” he answered. “I may look like I’m the prisoner here, but you are the one who cannot escape the guilt that trails behind. Guilt at surviving, guilt at desiring better, guilt at failing to do so. It’s people like you, who claim to want to be free and yet lock themselves in the comfort of their own cages that disgust me.”

You had said your piece, he had said his. And now there was only one thing left behind to tick away, one last statement before everything went crashing down, one last dance before the music ended abruptly, the orchestra destroyed by those they performed for.

“I love you,” you said, a single tear running down your cheek.

“That was your mistake,” Eren said.

You choked on a laugh, disbelieving. You remembered warm days spent dazing on the shadows of a swaying tree, of late nights and graveyard shifts, of lingering touches and heartfelt words. You remembered the boy who loved you, one who you were sure was trapped under layers and layers of falsehoods.

Eren didn’t move, when once upon a time he would've been the first to comfort you after seeing the droplets that fell out of your eyes. But he just stared, as still as a statue when you turned to the hallway, taking your leave, walking away with the last breath of the melted candle.

Living as a soldier was brutal. You had lost friends, endured broken bones and cracked ribs, known the primal fear that comes with being on the wrong side of a weapon. And yet nothing hurt as badly as the few cutting words Eren had imparted upon you.

#i love you #ann writes #aot #snk #attack on titan #attack on titan x reader #shingeki no kyojin #aot x reader #eren yaeger x reader #eren jeager x reader #eren #eren x reader #eren yeager #eren jaeger

101 notes · View notes

ballerinarina · 10 months ago

Text

LOVE ON SUBWAYS AND TAGETES

FIVE HARGREEVES X Fem!OC

Synopsis: On Christmas, Five and Lila manage to return to their timeline after seven years of living together, lost. Izabela notices that something is strange, but it is only when Diego and Five engage in a discussion with confessions that she realizes that she has been betrayed. While everyone heads to the van to prevent the end of the world, Izabela asks for a few minutes alone with Five to settle things, dot the i's and cross the t's; Word Count: 3.2k Tags: spoilers, angst, cheating, fluff, slightly canon divergence (but Lila x Five/end of S4 still happened)

Note: It's been years since I tried to write something (and I never tried to do it in English before), but I hope it worked out! You can listen to the FANFIC PLAYLIST HERE and here you can read about my OC, but it's perfectly enjoyable to read it knowing nothing about her, or imagining youself in her place! I wrote thinking that they both look ± 20 years old. Please enjoy and tell me what you think! ♡

CLICK TO PORTUGUESE VERSION

Something was off, Izabela could tell as soon as her eyes fell on Five. The boy had never been the really outgoing, smiling or affectionate type, but at that moment he didn't even seem present in Diego's living room. His unstable and lost look, the worried wrinkle on his forehead and a tense and insincere return of affection when Izabela welcomed him into the kitchen with a hug put her on alert.

It had always been easy for her to read him, but a hint of confusion seemed to be beeping in her mind now. Keeping her distance and giving him space — at least until he could organize his own thoughts —Izabela was sitting on the arm of the sofa next to her husband, without touching him, just with her senses attentive and worried as she observed him like an enigma.

A tired sigh escapes her mouth as she foresees that Five's anxious restlessness combined with Luther's comments about the apocalypse could only result in nothing good. It was Christmas Day and, from the bottom of her heart, as unlikely as it was, Izabela was wishing that the end-of-the-world problems had magically resolved themselves — or at least been paused, as the previous moments of tranquility seemed to suggest. Not unexpectedly, they were not, so sure enough: as soon as she gets up and heads to the kitchen, mentally using the excuse of taking the Brazilian mayonnaise salad out of the fridge to get away from the depressing subject, she hears Five's stressed voice picking a fight with his brothers.

Escaping the realization of the apocalypse as an existence in her mind (for the fourth time) was her goal as she grabbed the tray and the dishes, trying to distract herself from Diego and Five's argument. With the kitchen right in the next room, the attempt was naive and failed: Izabela could feel the anxiety rising up her spine. She had never seen her husband so hopeless, but not even for a second found this behavior strange among the others. She herself couldn't take it anymore and, good heavens, she hated loud noises, hated missing Christmas, hated her brothers fighting — even though she wasn't much less temperamental than them —, hated not understanding what was happening to Five, and, most of all, hated the end of the world.

She opened and closed the drawers of that house that wasn't hers on impulse, more as an outlet than really interested in finding cutlery to serve the mayonnaise, when she felt her body freeze at the sound of Diego's voice cutting through the air.

“Is something going on between you two?”

Below her, the sought-after steel spoons and forks gleamed, reflecting her pale face and no longer showed interest in any meal.

“Diego…”

“Holy shit!”

In her ears, Five's silence pierces more than any of those sharp knives could. Refusal is the modus operandi that Izabela's mind immediately activates, only retaining strength amidst the shock to slightly shake her head in denial to herself. She thinks she must have misunderstood, sharpens her ears, holds back her despair. But no.

Five and Lila were having an affair.

To Izabela's anguish, Diego and his wife's voices were the last things she wanted to hear, but they were the ones talking, talking, talking amidst the suffocating silence that settled over the house like a funeral, squeezing her chest and leaving her breathless. Five and Lila were together.

Why? Was that why Five was acting strange? How had she not noticed before? When had she lost her husband? At what point had Five stopped being the person she trusted most in the world? In what world had she stopped being the person he trusted most? Why hadn’t he told her himself? Had she done something wrong?

“Yeah. You think I’m gonna buy that bullshit?”

Not even noticing when it began a state of near hyperventilation, Izabela's breathing only catches when Five's voice finally silences her thoughts:

“She’s telling the truth, all right? We got lost. We couldn’t find our way back.”

“We were searching for seven years, Diego…”

A gasp. No. No, no, no — it is horror what gradually fills every cell of Izabela's body, like blood spreading across a carpet.

Seven years. The pieces fit together almost in slow motion in her head, with her mouth half open, wanting to cry, but unable to emit even a single sob. It is towards the open door that her body turns without even needing an order, but it is her own steps that seem to weigh a thousand tons, and it is on the threshold that she stops once again. Leaning on the doorpost, without the courage to step outside and face her husband. Her husband, from whom she had lost seven whole years.

“We were chased, attacked, shot at…”

Each of Lila's words of explanation numbs her from afar as they settle into her diaphragm like stones. As if 45 years without Five hadn't been enough. As if the imminent end of times wasn't enough. It all sets up a scenario so desperate that it turns all sadness into apathetic disgust on her tongue.

Claire’s interruption comes like a ghost that straightens her posture and wipes away the moisture that escaped as it pooled in her eyes. Pursing the lips in bitterness, the information of Ben’s location is an almost physical reminder to Izabela that, whether she likes it or not, she will have to be part of the Umbrella Academy once again, so repressing all this futile conflict is her only option at the moment.

Swallowing the feelings, however, doesn't take away the agony in her heart and, with a shaky sigh trying to regain her composure, she fails to maintain the cool when her eyes meet the back of Five's figure as she enters the room. More than ever, Izabela wants to be practical, to go prevent the end of the world once and for all while stifling any thoughts about this terrifying situation playing with her head, but she knows she would never be able to win any fight like that. In a mirror of her unconscious distress, she exchanges glances with Klaus, the only one on the couch who noticed her in the corner of the room. "I just need a few minutes. Please." he doesn't need words to understand and, with a certain pity, he doesn't hesitate to stand up and encourage the rest of the family towards the van, distracting them with some Klaus-style comment that Izabela honestly can't process.

Feeling her presence as he had for so many years in his past, Five turns around, meeting Izabela's gaze, who mentally catalogues the worst nausea she has ever been condemned to feel when looking at her husband and wondering if she finds a stranger there. The eyes trying not to run over every detail of that face only now notice how much sadder and tired it seems compared to the last time she outlined his features. The silence traps them in a trance in which she finds herself unable to think of anything to say, until she hears the living room door slam, looking away at it and noticing that it was closed. The boy sighs and purses his lips; they were alone.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Is it true? Everything Lila said?” going back to stare at him, the words slip through her mouth, almost like an escape “Did I miss seven years of you?”

“All this time I tried to come back, Izabela…”

A quick shake of her head, Izabela crosses her arms in a tic. What he tries to justify, with such a cautious voice, had never been the question for her.

“I believe you.” pause “And… even if it’s not true, Five. It’s been seven years.”

“Yeah.”

That wasn't the tightness in her chest. She knows Five well, she knows her brother and husband well, and knows how he had spent decades trying to return to his family before. Even if, at any time in these seven years, he had hesitated, Izabela would never have the arrogance to judge his willpower in the face of emptiness. No, her cholera is another. Trying to keep her voice serious, she feels that what she wants is not to fight, that unlike her brother Diego, her anger is not against Five but against everything in essence. She finds herself unable to rid herself of a deep desire to slit her throat, she bites her lip.

“Do you love her?”

“Bela…”

“Please.”

After so many years of the tradition of emotional constipation that has branched out in the family with half-truths and poorly spoken subjects, when Five holds his wife's gaze, he already knows that she would not accept him doing the same thing that Lila did to Diego. Avoiding the subject is the easiest thing to do, but Izabela, so emotional, has also always been the most logical Hargreeves in dealing with emotion, so he knows very well that she, while staring at his green irises so dejected and hesitant, prays for an honest answer.

“I do. I love her a lot, Bela.”

It is no less painful to hear what she already imagined she would hear: the mind seems to be in standby mode, slowly assimilating what so quickly pierced her heart. Trying hard to accept the new reality rationally, the only disturbance on her face is her eyebrows furrowing for just a second, struggling to suppress the urge to cry that rises in her throat, her gaze scanning the wall in the background and then turning back down.

“So you don’t love me anymore?”

Five perceives more of a statement than a question. He opens his mouth to try to answer, but then closes it, his face saddened and his voice not found before himself. It is when she does not hear a response that the so-called new reality hits Izabela, surrounding her in fear, making her look at him with a neutral voice and expression contrasting with her trembling pupils.

“Five… you don’t love me anymore?”

“That’s not fair to you…”

“No… Look.” her voice is dually firm, but by a thread, shivering him “Don't lie, but don't let me die without having that answer.”

If before the tension between the two could be described as funereal, it becomes even more so. The prospect of an imminent death coming out of Izabela's mouth is so strange to Five's ears that it hurts as if he were the one who lost seven years of his wife. Even in the midst of all the daily hopelessness in her life, when finding herself facing the end of times Izabela used to at least pretend to have faith. The lack of such works as a disillusionment for him. Despite having lost his own a few years ago, he only embodies this in himself when he realizes that not even Izabela thinks it is worth believing that she will have another chance to say what was not said.

“I couldn't.” the answer simply comes out of him due to the disturbance of perception “I couldn't stop loving you, even if it were a centenary, Bella. I've never stopped thinking about you, not for a single minute of these seven years.” Five shakes his head, lowering it, scared to finally verbalize anything at all about the subject, especially to the person he was most afraid of doing. He barely feels room to hate how he stutters, lost like just a boy. How he hesitates. “But… when…. when my heart started loving Lila… I had so much fear of coming back to you, precisely because not even for a moment I stopped loving you too.” his cheeks begin to get wet with the tears that throughout his life he has always repressed, but that only ever escaped in the presence of the girl in front of him “Coming back to you meant concretize it, and that's not fair to you, you... you know I'd rather rip my heart out with my own hands than hurt you. But I couldn't help myself…”

His greenish eyes, now so moist, return to Izabela and are surprised to notice what Five identifies as tenderness amidst the restrained and painful crying that accompanied his. Not that his wife wasn't towards him the most tender human being he had ever had the fortune to live with, but precisely because he had failed her so much, he knew he deserved her anger. What he receives, however, is the anguish in his chest intensifying when Izabela approaches and puts her forehead to his, cupping Five's cheeks in her hands and sighing a lament:

“Please. Tell me you still wanna stay with me.”

Silence, he gasps in agony.

“I don’t mind, Five.” Izabela feels as if she is short of breath, so much she longs for confirmation of her request. Any attempted neutrality was lost when the words of the husband, who's always so strong, made it clear how exhausted he seemed in the face of his own feelings. Five had been her weak point for as long as she could remember, and, knowing every comma of what once shaped his pain, being able to see it now makes her desperate, above all and any problem. “I lost seven years of you, Five, I… I almost lost you forever… Please. Maybe the world will end today, but if it doesn’t… Stay with me.

It shouldn’t be Izabela the one asking for anything in this scenario. But if Five still loves her — and, God, she can see that he does —, she finds herself willing to fight the feeling of humiliation tingling in every part of her body. More than anyone, she knows how much the boy believes in his core that he doesn’t deserve any mercy or love as payment for his countless past sins. Izabela sees his affliction before her and, as she has done all her life, she could never give up on her husband like that. He gasps with his brows furrowed, trying to hold back his tears, when a sudden flash illuminates the girl’s mind, that finally sees the edge of the inevitable abyss in which she finds herself.

“Even if… even if you stay with her too… Just… don’t leave me…”

Such insensate words being uttered set up the exact moment when Five breaks, nodding his head in despair and wrapping Izabela's waist in a frightening fragility — which she herself would never have expected to witness in him on a day and in a mood like the one they were experiencing —, marking the beginning of a salty, bereft and hasty kiss, with neither having any idea on who did it.

The bodies of each spouse, once accustomed to kissing for hours on end, this time witnessed an emotional suffocation that soon left them short of breath. Five finds his reason trapped in Izabela's incongruity, who even facing a scenario like the apocalypse and the most logical devastation of what she should feel for him, still thinks and utters such an altruistic and utopian possibility. It is uncomfortable. Hiding his wet face in the girl's shoulder, he hugs her tightly and she immediately clings to him, wrapping her arms around his nape and trying to find in the fingers that intertwine in his locks any physical difference that would mark the years that have passed in him.

“I shouldn't do this to you.”

“No. No. Five.”

“Izabela, it's not fair” he tries to repeat it for the third time, but she interrupts him and repeats herself too:

“And I don’t mind. Damn, Five... You survived. You came back to me. And if loving her kept you alive... That’s… that’s okay with me.” If Izabela is honest with herself, she admits how every word she utters never fails to sound absurd to her. Jealous since she was a child, she deeply hates finding herself in this scenario and, yes, she wants to at least scream in rage. The truth, however, is still intrinsic to every sentence she is saying, no matter how strange it may sound to herself. Faced with this situation, greater than all the rage she feels is the memory of her husband alone for 45 years with the only trace of what he believed to be love coming from deliriums about a broken mannequin — this is what makes her sicker than any unusual situation of infidelity. The realization that Five saw himself once again in front of the horror that has endured his entire life fades any absurdity in the impulsive words she has been speaking, because it is replaced with the relief that at least this time he was not alone. He, in reflex, hugs her tighter, fearing this being a lie. It is with the man she loves most so fragile in her arms that she reaches the certainty that, if in order to survive in the midst of despondment, Five needed to find love — human, real —, her love for him can indeed overcome any other feeling she may feel in the face of it. Izabela pulls away from the hug, connecting her eyes with his and guiding her hand from his hair to his cheek, in a sweet caress accompanied by the melancholy of a weak smile. “When we save the world… Tell me about her. Tell me about you both.” in immediate reaction he frowns, a slight protest as if he assumes that this would only hurt her, but she continues “Five, I love your heart. And this… is part of it now… Let me know. We'll find a way.”

Five hesitates. Izabela is very good to him, always has been. He sees in the affectionate look she gives him the pain his wife is feeling, but he also sees how genuine she is in everything she says. The suffocating dilemma makes him want to die, hating to cause such displeasure to someone he loves so much, but it also makes him wonder if he has gone mad and is just trapped in a dream, so Kafkaesque was the dread he has felt of this moment for the last few years. He kisses her, briefly, leaning in with a sigh and praying in gratitude before joining their foreheads, nodding in agreement, agonized.

“Fuck, I missed you so much…”

“Good to have you back, Five.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Like the misfortune of flowers burning in a fire, Izabela, however, never gets to have Five lying with his head on her lap in a moment of affection, reciting about how much he loved her even from a distance. She also doesn't hear her husband's cautious voice telling her about the dangers that left his life hanging by a thread countless times during those years away, or about the unplanned feelings he experienced. She never had to get used to how their marriage would adapt when he sorted out his pending love with Lila, because such plans never came to fruition, just like the ones to sort out with his brother Diego.

The existence of this love, — of these loves — intertwined by the knots that constituted its universe, was eternally erased in two marigolds that, I like to believe, only survived the rebirth, the wind and the storm due to the hope and lull watered shortly before the end on the vestige of cherish that fought in the hearts of the two lovers.

Five and Izabela Hargreeves.

N/A: What do you think? I'd love to read your opinion!

95 notes · View notes