#mars fics

[loveu2themoonandsaturn]

“SLUT!”

loosely inspired by the taylor swift song.

steve harrington x fem!reader

a/n: tried to get the word count but I fear I lost track at 3k and that was maybe only the halfway point 😭 also sorry for the potentially shit formatting, I’ve never done this before and I typed the whole thing in the tumblr app. hope it doesn’t ruin the reading experience 😅 all credit for dividers goes to @strangergraphics!

angst, hurt/comfort, fluff(ish), no use of y/n, second person, office gossip, way past upside down but hawkins is still that same small town, very 80s/90s attitude toward sex, slutshaming, sort of miscommunication trope (more like meddling jackass trope) minor injury (no blood), reader is mentioned as having meat in her freezer and consumes dairy once, only kinda beta’d because every time I try I just end up ADDING THINGS, smut 18+ MDNI, filthier tags below.

contains: porn with an unreasonable amount of plot, protected piv fucking (girls we cannot afford children in this economy, wrap it before you tap it), soft pleasure dom!Steve, needy Steve who may or may not be real big on talking you through it, oral (m+f), fingering, some ball sucking, intimacy, love confessions (i’m sorry😭), eye contact, hickies like a motherfucker, no body type mentioned, no hair type or length mentioned, y’all prolly know most of the drill.

hope you enjoy! 🩵

Steve swore he felt his soul leave this side of heaven when he felt a fist slam against the front desk of the Family Video, right next to where his head so happened to be resting, wrapped up in his own arms. Whoever just did that was about to hear a piece of his mind.

“Hey man, what the hell- oh. Hey,” He relaxes for a moment when he sees that it’s you, but only for just that moment.

Because then he sees your face.

Hot, angry tears are streaming stoically down your face from a pair of red, puffy eyes. He panics at the expression that paints the face he so adores.

His immediate instinct is to fix it.

“Baby, what’s wro—”

“Don’t you fucking call me baby right now,” you cut him off. Your voice is cold, almost devoid of emotion. It worries Steve. “Why would you say those things about me, why would you lie?”

Steve’s head is spinning now. Lies? Talking about you? Was he still asleep, dreaming? Had he accidentally shifted into another dimension? Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, slow down—”

You scoff. “I don’t believe that for a second. I believed you when you said you’d changed, that you weren’t that same douchebag we all knew back in high school,” you pause, throat catching on the lump nestled deep within it. “But I was wrong about that. I won’t make that mistake twice.”

Steve felt his heart shattering, and he didn’t even know why, didn’t understand what on earth was going on.

“Wait, no, I’m serious, I don’t know what we’re talking about here, please!” He’s desperate now, needs to know what he did, what transgression he forgot that he must now atone for.

“You expect me to believe you don’t know what your good friend Tommy got up to this morning?”

Tommy? Tommy Hagan? Steve hadn’t so much as spoken to that toxic jackass in years, what could he possibly have to do with anything-

“Because I walked into work today and was greeted by him, in front of all my coworkers, announcing that he had a gift for the new town whore,” you choke out, voice no longer cold, but bitter. Angry. Sad. “And he handed me what must have been the deadest, most rotten bouquet of flowers left from the supermarket, with a card. ‘To the SLUT, courtesy of King Steve,’” you say, voice raised enough to catch the attention of several now-nosy movie perusers.

Steve stands slack-jawed, floored at the mere thought. He wasn’t even sure how Tommy knew he was seeing you, let alone what he could have done to give him the impression that you had slept with him.

Unfortunately for Steve, you don’t take his silence for the shock that it is.

“Nothing to say for yourself? My reputation is in shreds, my boss won’t look me in the eye and my coworkers haven’t stopped whispering since 9 a.m., yet you have nothing to say for yourself?” you spit, incredulous.

Steve’s brain finally gets with the program and makes his mouth move.

“Honey, I didn’t know anything about this,” he pauses when you roll your eyes, crossing your arms in front of your chest, “I haven’t talked to Tommy since high school. I have changed, I’m not the person that I used to be, and even if I was still friends with Hagan’s sorry ass, I would never, ever lie about you like that. I like you. I care about you. I would never put that in jeopardy.”

Steve’s eyes are pleading, which you might notice if you could even bring yourself to meet them.

“God, Steve, please don’t treat me like I’m stupid-”

“I’m not, I’m not!,” he cuts you off. “I swear, I don’t know how he got that idea into his head, but I would never do that to you!” Steve is fighting the urge to raise his voice. You deserve his gentleness, even during a fight, he thinks. That gentleness is clearly not mutual, though, at least not right now.

“Is it because I said I wasn’t ready?” you say, voice at a low volume.

Steve feels his heart thud restlessly in his chest, hurt and pain lashing at the muscle.

“Wh… What?” He’s giving you an opportunity to back out, clarify, say you don’t mean what he thinks you mean. But you double down.

“Is Tommy doing this out of some weird bro-code respect for you because I said I wasn’t ready to have sex with you.” You ask it like it’s a statement, a sure thing, no real questioning to your tone.

He’s hit with a wave of this sick feeling in his stomach, this inescapable dread at the thought that you might believe even for a second that he would stoop that low. He swallows, a thick feeling as a lump in his own throat starts to make itself known.

“You really think that poorly of me?” he mutters out, pained.

You shake your head, tears falling faster now.

“I didn’t Steve. All my friends told me I was being stupid, too trusting of you, giving you too much benefit of the doubt, and I…” you prick your finger into your own chest, bone meeting bone as the digit presses into your sternum. “I told them they were crazy. That they were stuck in the past and that you were so different now. I defended you.” You let out a mirthless chuckle. “And look where that got me. Do you know what half the town will think by this time tomorrow? They’re gonna that I spread my legs for the first man to show interest in me, for the man who has a well-documented history of taking what he wants and leaving, and they’re going to think I’m pathetic and easy for it.” He’s never seen you like this. It’s agony.

“In a way… the truth is almost worse. Because I was stupid enough to let ‘King Steve’ come and pretend to be all sweet and gentlemanly and brand-spanking-new. I guess the punishment fits the crime, right? I believed you, and now nobody is gonna believe me.” You start to turn on your heel, halfway ready to walk out the door.

“Wait, wait!” Steve is frantic now. “I don’t know how this happened, but please, give me a chance, let me fix this for you,” he begs.

You squeeze your eyes shut, hands finally coming up to wipe away some tears so you can at least leave with some dignity.

“I don’t think this is something you can fix.”

And with that, the best thing in Steve’s life walks out the door.

Hurt doesn’t even begin to describe how he feels. But it’s quickly replaced by rage, blinding anger that someone would do this to you. More anger yet that Tommy-fucking-Hagan of all people would crawl out of whatever hole he’s been living in to, to what? Ruin his chance at happiness with you since Carol dumped him the second she went away for college? Hurt you just for being associated with Steve and a better future, not his past? What the hell is this?

He’s dialing Robin’s number before he can even think straight, asking if she can do him a favor and stay the last hour at the store, close up. He mindlessly agrees to whatever condition it is she sets; he’s hardly paying attention, because now? Now he has business to attend to.

The night is young, and Steve knew he’d luck out eventually by just going from filthy dive bar to filthy dive bar. After all, there were only so many places in Hawkins where a burnout could go to delude himself into thinking he’s not there to drown his sorrows.

It’s at the fifth one that he lays eyes on Tommy, looking worse for wear. He’s surrounded by a couple other guys that walk and talk and dress like Steve used to in high school, Tommy’s obvious attempt at replacing him. He almost wonders if he’ll find a pseudo-Carol somewhere in the crowd, waiting to dote on him.

Steve overhears Tommy talking, who clearly does not know he’s even been found and is being watched.

“I mean, you guys should have seen the look on her face. Harrington’s girl was basically a puddle, I guess she knew she got caught. You know what they say, though boys—”

“Yeah? What is it they say, Tommy?” Steve’s sudden interruption brings a mix of shock and satisfied jeers among the little crowd. Tommy turns whistles, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction.

“Well look what the cat dragged in! Big King Steve back from his latest conquest. What’s wrong, your girl can’t handle the consequences of her own actions?”

Steve’s jaw gets tight at that; he’s trying damn hard to maintain some semblance of control. All he can think about is how bad he wants to punch that smirk off Tommy’s face.

“And just what do you think you know about her, huh Hagan? Or did that half semester of college give you time to get into shitty creative writing?” Steve grits out.

“Oh, please Harrington, don’t act like half the town didn’t see you two heading into your place this weekend. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two together,” Tommy says, cocky as ever.

A moment of realization hits Steve then. He had brought you to his house, at night, and you two were alone. He’d let you sleep in the guest room when it got too late. It never even occurred to him that someone was watching, let alone would assume something went down between the two of you and spread that assumption around.

He feels like such a fucking idiot.

He knows this town, knows these people. They love nothing more than a scandal. Something to gossip about. He should have been more careful with you. His own anger with himself turns into rage at the sorry excuse for a man now standing before him.

“You’re such goddamn dumbass, Hagan. She’s not a whore, a slut, an anything. She slept in the guest bedroom, and she only spent the night in the first place because I said it was too late to drive her home.”

Tommy and his gaggle of trust fund babies, one of whom surely paid for the flattening beer he takes a swig from, all elbow each other, exchanging knowing glances.

But they don’t know shit, Steve thinks.

“Listen, Harrington, it’s cute that you want to ‘defend her honor,’” Tommy mocks, “But at the end of the day, nobody in this town was born yesterday. I’m sorry her feelings got hurt just because people noticed how easy she is, but that’s how it i- what the fuck dude??”

Tommy is cut off quickly and finds the edge of the bar jamming into his spine, with Steve Harrington having rushed in and wrapped his fists into Tommy’s shirt collars.

“She is anything but easy, you son of a bitch,” Steve seethes, pushing Tommy back again for emphasis. “Six months we’ve been dating, and I haven’t touched her. You know why that is? Because I actually give two shits about her, I have respect for her, something you’re not capable of doing or having for anybody.”

Tommy is thrown off guard, but quickly recovers, slapping that smirk right back on his face. Steve decides then and there that he hates that smirk.

“Listen buddy. We all remember your track record when it comes to anything that involves fists,” Tommy sneers. “Unless you wanna get your ass handed to you, I suggest letting me go. It’s not like anyone would believe she’s the choir girl you want us to think she is.”

Steve laughs, the sound dark. He laughs, and that confuses the hell out of Tommy and his crew.

“Maybe you peaked in high school and forgot that other people grow past who they were at 18, but the rest of us didn’t. So if I were you? I’d get to work fixing this shit, unless you want to have to fix your goddamn teeth, buddy,” Steve says, his threat only cushioned slightly by his sarcastic remark.

“Like hell I will,” Tommy yells before shoving Steve off. He swings, and color quickly blooms across the apple of Steve’s left cheek. “Now get the fuck out of h-”

Tommy doesn’t get to finish. Or do much of anything, really.

With one solid, square hit to the chin, Steve lays Tommy out, leaving him with nothing more than a sure concussion and a nice sticky spot on the bar floor to come to on.

Tommy’s herd of friends stand in stunned silence, a strong juxtaposition from their earlier mindless chittering. It’s satisfying, if Steve is honest with himself.

Steve steps closer to them, causing a few of them to back off, clearly not wanting to be next.

“When he wakes up, you tell your little friend here to fix the mess he made, and that if I so much as have to hear someone utter his name again for the rest of my life, I’m coming back and beating his ass, and next time I won’t stop once he’s on the ground. Oh, and make sure he leaves me and my girl alone, yeah?”

Something about Steve’s energy is enough to have them nodding, no questions asked.

Steve storms out of the bar, only one mission left for the day.

You’re home in your apartment, taking your feelings out on a bowl of ice cream and watching Pretty in Pink for what must be the ninth time, when you hear knocking at your door.

You find yourself wondering who the hell would be knocking at this hour, only irked at the possibilities running through your head.

You’re already yelling through to the person on the other side as you make your way to the door.

“I don’t want to buy whatever you’re selling and I already know Jesu- Oh.”

You swing open the door to find none other than Steve Harrington, looking a lot more bruised than the last time you saw him.

Both of his eyes look apologetic, pitiful, and the quickly forming mark beneath his left one certainly isn’t helping your resolve.

You have the urge to kick him to the curb, but find that, in spite of what you believe he did, you didn’t leave your feelings for him at the doors of the Family Video when your hightailed it out of there earlier that day.

So that’s how you get here, with Steve sitting on your kitchen counter, right fist squishing into a bag of frozen peas, left hand pressing a freezer-burnt steak into the respective cheek. Your movie is forgotten, frozen in time, and what remained of the ice cream has been left to melt.

You’re silent, plaid pajama pants and your softest T-shirt hanging on to your form, only shielded somewhat by the fuzzy robe that sits open, mostly just draped around your shoulders. As you lean against your fridge, you take a long sip from your mug, warm liquid soothing as you fight to break the silence, the tension that seems to suffocate the room.

You don’t ask where those bruises came from. Curious as you are, you find you’re not sure if you really want to know. However, you’re not left to wonder for long.

“I’m pretty sure I put Tommy Hagan in the emergency room tonight.”

Your eyes nearly fall out of your head with how wide they get, head snapping up when he says that.

“I, um, got real pissed when you told me what he did to you, and I went from bar to bar until I found him. I told him to fix it, and he acted like it was some big joke, and I was just seeing red, but in my defense, he hit me first,” he rambles, gesturing vaguely to the slowly thawing slab of meat currently taking up half the real estate on his face.

You continue to stare at him, bug-eyed and unmoving. Steve finds himself unable to stop talking under your gaze.

“He said he or, someone, I guess, saw you come into my house the other night and never leave and so they like? Assumed the rest, and I’m sorry, because I definitely should have thought about how it might look before offering you the guest bed, or I should have taken you home, or I should have slept on the goddamn sidewalk so it was incredibly clear nothing was going on but I didn’t so I told him, or I guess I told his friends to pass along the message, to fix it and he was just out cold on the floor of the bar and I-”

“Steve.”

He finally stops, looking at you. He sees tears welling up in your eyes and immediately assumes it was something he said. He starts to apologize, but you hold up a hand, shaking your head.

“I just can’t believe you would do that for me,” you mutter, at a loss for words.

Steve, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, says, “I mean, of course. You’re my girl and someone was mean to you. I’m crazy about you, why would I let anyone hurt you just to take you away from me?” He cocks his head when he asks, eyes innocent. “And I mean, it doesn’t hurt that Tommy is the biggest jackass in all of Indiana and has been earning that knockout since we were like, 16,” he laughs out.

For a moment, the cognitive dissonance is winning out. You’d fought with yourself all day about the kind of person Steve Harrington is. Who, until very recently, he always was. All day, you’d let the voices of high school friends permeate your head, losing trust in your gut, in your own instincts, in what you thought and believed. You had yourself convinced that you’d allowed yourself to be blinded, had just wanted the attention, the affection, and that Steve had never ever changed, just got better at hiding it. But maybe the truth wasn’t so simple.

A tear falls. In assuming he had broken your trust, had you broken his?

You know it’s not your fault. Not really. That blame belongs squarely on the shoulders of a loser who’s going to have to explain to a less-than-nice nurse just why he came through the doors of the emergency room with a concussed head and a dislocated jaw.

But you fell for it. A few mean looks, some workplace gossips whispering in the break room, and you fell right into Tommy’s trap. Hook, line, sinker.

What was it that made you so easily believe the worst of the man who has, throughout your relationship, shown you nothing but affection and kindness?

Guilt gnaws at you, because you think you know.

“I’m so sorry for not believing you. And for all the things I said earlier. I was… I was cruel. I was mean and defensive and let some pseudo-high school drama put me right back in that place mentally, put you right back to who you were in my mind, and that was unfair. I was punishing you for your past, and you didn’t deserve that,” you say, looking over at Steve now.

But Steve is having none of it.

“I spent years being the worst version of myself to everyone around me whose pants I wasn’t trying to get into. I was vindictive and, sometimes? Flat out evil toward people who weren’t high enough up on the social ladder for me. If I had been in your position, I would have thought the same thing, because I have thoroughly earned that reputation. I don’t expect you to get rid of that past version of me in your head. I know you can’t just forget. You’re only human.”

He slides off the counter, frozen goods abandoned as he crosses over to you where you lean and looks you in your eyes.

“It’s my job to make up for it. To prove I’ve changed. That’s not trust that forms easily, it’s hard earned, and I intend to do everything I can to win it fair and square. To earn the right to be yours.”

You feel heat burn behind your cheeks at his sweet words. “So does that mean you forgive me for being a real bitch to you in front of customers today?”

Steve laughs, the sound jovial and refreshing after the day you’ve had.

“Sweetheart, there’s nothing to forgive, but how ‘bout I say all is forgiven if you can forgive me for being a huge dumbass?” His lopsided grin and the way he’s looking at you, all heart eyes and pure adoration… all of it is too much, too good, and all you can do is nod, a small, hopeful smile on your face.

“Good. Now, would’ya c’mere and let me comfort you? Let me take care of my girl after the shitty day she had?” He holds his arms open to you, hands waving you in.

You roll your eyes just a bit before giving in, immediately accepting the familiarity and warmth of your boyfriend’s arms. You’re so glad he’s still your boyfriend.

He kisses the top of your head and lets your face press into his chest, allowing his own heartbeat to soothe you as he holds one arm firmly around your waist, letting the other rub a flat palm up and down your back.

“Sweet girl, you didn’t deserve how they treated you today…” he mutters just loud enough for you to hear. “Only deserve good things… gonna give you all the good things to make up for it, yeah?”

The sheer relief you feel being here, with him uttering sweet nothings into your ear and treating you like the you’re the only thing that matters in the whole wide world, it makes up for it all, you think. Maybe tomorrow will be hard, maybe people at work will still suck, but you won’t be facing it alone. You’ll have Steve. That feels like enough.

You let yourself peek out from where you’d tucked yourself in so you can look up at this wonderful man who did so much today to prove that he’s not who everyone thinks he is. He looks back down at you and just smiles, staring into your eyes.

It may have been less than a day.

But, God, you had missed him.

So you indulge yourself, removing one of the arms from around his body and placing a hand far back on his neck, just enough to be able to run your fingers softly through the short pieces at the base, brushing your thumb along his jawline.

His smile falters for just half a second, replaced by the shivers you give him.

Encouraged by his reaction, you don’t hold back, using your hand as leverage to drag his face into yours for a sweet kiss. Your lips lock, and neither one of you moves away or lets go until the need for oxygen wins out. It’s stupid and sappy and exactly what you needed.

When you do finally have to let go, you’re both breathing hard, but Steve still finds it in him to make a suggestion.

“I think I left some sweats and a T-shirt here back when I helped you move in that new couch,” he gestures to the spot where you had just been wallowing, “How ‘bout I change and we get comfortable on the couch and you tell me every thought on that pretty little mind?”

You two do exactly that. He’s pleasantly surprised to find you’d laundered the very clothes he’d left over, something you shyly justified with the possibility that he might get stuck and need to spend the night, a concept which clearly flustered you to no end.

So there you are, curled up in Steve’s arms, same paused movie frame still on the TV, and you just rant about your day.

“…And if all of that wasn’t enough, she had the nerve to whisper one last snickering ‘whore’ to me on my way out! I don’t know where she gets off, especially since it was just last month that everyone heard she got caught sneaking out of the supply closet with the assistant manager!” Steve chuckles at that, “But it just sucked! I don’t mind being the center of attention, but good grief, not like this! These people are like vultures! It made me sad and mad and just a bunch of other things and it was ridiculous because it was all for something I didn’t even do!” you finish, Steve pressing comforting kisses into your temple.

“That’s just not right, honey. I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he says.

You lean into his chaste kisses, hands playing with his fingers where they sit clasped in your lap.

“I just… it’s ridiculous. I mean, half the reason I told you I wasn’t ready for sex was because I was so anxious, so terrified that somehow people would know and then they would judge me for it,” you shake your head. “And I know, that’s like bullshit, but it’s where my head was at. Today though? All I could think to myself all day was, I wish I would have just done it. I didn’t do anything and they still talked all their shit. If I’m going to be called a slut, a whore, easy, I should at least have gotten something out of it. Give ‘em something real to talk about, make the their bullshit worthwhile,” you muse. “Maybe I still should.”

You’re so lost in those musings that you barely notice the way Steve is staring at you, wondering if he’s had a stroke.

“What do you mean?” he says, certain he’s misheard.

He definitely knows what you mean. Being called on it, however, has you almost backtracking, your face so hot now he would surely get burned if he touched it.

You don’t look him in the eye, instead appearing very focused on each individual finger on his hands as they sit in your lap. You’re unfortunately noticing that he takes very good care of his nails, keeping them short and clean, perfect for— Stop that, you chide yourself, finally responding to your boyfriend, who is maybe having an aneurism behind you.

“I mean, just… it’s so stupid, the only reason I didn’t do something that I really wanted to do was because I was worried what people would say about me. That all seems pretty moot now so, I dunno… maybe we should… do it… sometime,” you mumble out, not sure if you’re embarrassed more by your seriously weird concerns about the opinions of others or the fact that you’re all but asking Steve to have sex with you.

Steve is not thinking about either option, though, being ever the opportunist.

“I would take you right now.”

Maybe you’re the one having that stroke?

You whip your head around and look at him, that same hungry look, the one he always gets when the two of you make out for just a liiiiiiittle bit too long, now gracing his face.

You whisper out, “Are you serious?”

He nearly scoffs at that. “I don’t play games when it comes to you,” a phrase that has a more than one meaning after his bar-side activities this evening, “I’ll always wait for your yes, and I’ll always stop at your no but… for that time in between? I’m making love to you like it’s my last day on earth.”

Your breath hitches, something deep within you warming and stirring at his words.

“Can I tell you something, Steve?”

“Always, gorgeous.”

You gulp.

“You’ve got my yes.”

Suddenly, you’ve been moved. You’re laying on your back on your couch and your very gorgeous boyfriend has one leg between your thighs, holding your face between both hands as his spine arches over your body and leans his face toward your face so he can kiss the air right out of your lungs.

You two had made out before but compared to this? Jesus H.

You hear the sound of your own soft whine as he readjusts and the movement presses his strong thigh firmly against your core. You watch as he breaks the kiss just to groan, already so satisfied, so intoxicated by you.

“That’s right pretty girl, just let yourself feel good, I’m gonna take care of everything, gonna take real good care of you,” he rambles, eyes squeezed shut as he nods at nobody in particular.

“You want that, baby? You gonna let me make you feel like you deserve?” He forces his eyes open to stare at you. Good God. You nod, another desperate sound that could maybe pass for a “Yes” pressing its way out of your chest.

“Atta girl,” he says before tearing his own shirt off, the garment landing somewhere on your living room floor.

He pushes his fingers beneath the fabric of the robe you’re still wearing, slowly slipping it off of you, saying, “Now anything you don’t want me to do, anything you want me to stop, you let me know, yeah? Let me hear you, baby.”

The robe is quickly abandoned beneath you as you all but blubber out a “Yeah, yes, Steve, I will.”

He stands up, leaving you confused for a moment.

“I’m not doing this with you for the first time on your couch. C’mon, sweet thing, up,” he says, reaching for your hands.

You take his and let him lead you to your own bedroom, shutting the door behind the two of you despite your living alone. In a way, it’s perfect, isolated in a way that makes you feel like it’s just you and him.

He turns to you, walking up to your form and kissing you again, his hands reclaiming their space on the sides of your face. You’re sure you’ll never get tired of that feeling.

His kisses last long, but almost not enough, his lips moving down to your jaw, your neck, searching for that spot that makes you—

“Oh, fuck, Steve.”

Found it.

He hones in on the spot, kissing and licking at it gently. His aim isn’t to leave a mark — not here, anyway — but just to make you feel good.

By the way you’re panting in his ear? He’s pretty sure he’s succeeding.

He walks you backwards, careful, only detaching himself from your neck to help lay you down gently. He crawls over top of you, his body caging yours.

Your shirt has ridden up, revealing a touch of midriff to Steve. It only makes him more feral.

He plays with the hem of your shirt, warm fingers brushing against the skin below.

“Can I take this off for you?” he asks.

You’re nodding, already moving to help him strip the fabric from your form. You weren’t wearing a bra because, truly, why would you be wearing one in your own home, so his eyes are free to land right on your chest and watch the soft jiggling as you breathe in and out.

You had worried that he might pick out spots on your body that made you insecure, but that worry flies out the window when you see that same hungry look back in his eyes.

Frankly, he looks so desperate, you almost feel bad.

“It’s okay, Steve, do what you want. I’ll tell you to stop if I don’t like it,” you say, encouraging him.

You truly do not have to tell him twice.

First he’s kissing that spot on your neck again, earning a breathy sigh and a pleased smile from your lips. Then he travels, lips attaching to your collarbone, and you feel it as he kisses his way down to your breast, sucking a nipple into his mouth, thumb rubbing over the other one as his tongue works at this one.

That earns a good bit more than a sigh.

“Holy shit, Steve… that feels so, ah,” your voice grows pitchy as you bite back your moans. Your refusal to let him hear you doesn’t bother him one bit. It just means he has to work harder to pull those pretty sounds from you.

He switches his lips to your other breast, mouth laving messily over this nipple as his other thumb slips and slides across the one he just left.

You already feel so good, but you know he’s just getting started. The thought makes you shiver.

Once he’s satisfied with the attention he’s given to your nipples, he expands his journey across the map of your skin and starts sucking at the underside of your breasts, leaving marks only you and he will ever get to see. Whichever breast he’s not busy leaving darkening splotches on is being squeezed and squished, only adding to the feelings that all seem to be directed right at your quickly-soaking cunt.

Having left you littered with marks, some even landing on your torso and the soft skin of your belly, Steve looks up at you, lips swollen and wet from his hard work.

“Please say I can go down on you,” he sighs out, sounding like he’s in another world.

You balk at that for a moment, worried.

“You don’t have to Steve, I know guys don’t really like-”

“I want to. So, so fucking bad. I want to make you feel good and I need to taste you or I might actually explode. I don’t care how you keep it or what it looks like, I just, fuck!” His voice is pleading, his desire bleeding through every syllable.

He takes his kisses down to your hips, pushing your sweatpants and panties down just a touch to reveal more of your entirely-too-kissable body. He’s sucking at the thin skin there, leaving his mark on yet another inch of you.

“Please baby, if you want it, please let me,” he whines out, an incredibly sweet and needy sound.

Well shit. Who are you to say no to that?

“Okay, yeah, yes, you can, Steve,” you rush out, turned on beyond belief.

“God, yes, that’s my girl,” he mutters out, not even pausing to consider the effect those words are having on you.

You’d find it inconsiderate if it didn’t make you want him so much more.

His fingers are quick to hook back into both your bottoms, tapping the side of your hip so you’ll lift them as he all but tears the clothing from your legs. He easily spreads your now-bare limbs, eyes laser-focused on the absolutely sopping wet pussy that he unveils.

“Holy shit… is this all because of me?” he questions, experimentally sliding a finger through your folds, gathering your slick.

You laugh, breathless. “Have we been in the same room this whole time? I don’t think I’ve ever been this turned on in my life.”

His dick has been hard for a hot minute now, so that confession earns an almost painful twitch.

He can’t find it in himself to ask any more questions, just sliding your pretty thighs over his shoulder, kissing them as he makes his way down to where you need him most.

The first lick is thorough, but gentle. A trembling whimper leaves your lips, then the sound of his name.

He finds himself moaning at your taste, desperation to drink you in winning out.

He presses his tongue right into your waiting hole, occasional moans against you earning him yet another flood of your juices to taste, a tantalizing squeeze of your walls around him only complimenting the flavor.

He moves to lap at your folds, greedy, head only coming to a stop once he’s got the flat of his tongue rubbing circles over your clit. You finally lose the battle you’d been fighting, letting out a moan that makes you thankful your last next door neighbor just moved out last week.

Steve, cheeky as ever, smiles at this, hot breath from a laugh billowing past his tongue and onto you. He’s almost too good at this.

He gives thick, teasing licks to your clit, each one serving as punctuation as he talks to you.

“Best fucking pussy… Fuck… could eat this pretty pussy… mm… for the rest of my life… so good,” he murmurs, absolutely drunk on you.

“Steve…” you whine out, needing him so badly it nearly hurts.

“Oh, darlin’, I know,” Lick. “I know, pretty girl,” Lick. “Just need’ya,” Lick. “To be patient for me,” Lick. “Doing so good,” Lick. “Making me so proud.”

He picks right then to properly dive in, licking and sucking on you until you can hear your own heartbeat, feel it in your throat. The sounds you make for him are downright debauched, curses and expletives floating in between the sound of his name. He couldn’t be happier.

You’ve been clenching around nothing for some time now as been pleasuring you, though, and that doesn’t sit right with him.

So, before you know it, Steve is working one, then two fingers into your dripping heat, reaching farther inside of you than you ever could. Your hands quickly seat themselves among the roots of his hair, holding his head exactly where you want him.

Your cries ring out freely through the air, a weak, “I’m so close,” the only interruption. Your thighs have begun to squeeze around Steve’s head. He’s not sure if you’re trying to keep him there forever or shut him out but, it’s all the same to him. He’d happily wear you like a pair of earmuffs for the rest of the night. Best damn pair he ever owned, if he did say so himself.

He holds steady with his actions, moving his fingers just so inside you, repeating the same motion of his tongue against your clit until it hurts, but he’s well rewarded for his efforts.

“Oh, fuck, Steve, I think I’m… fuck, I’m gonna—” you’re forced to cut yourself off as an orgasm overtakes your body, pouring pounds of pleasure over you all at once like one of those giant buckets at a water park. It’s electric, overwhelming, and so, so good. Your moans lilt out, high pitched and shaped something like Steve’s name.

He works you through it; he doesn’t stop until you peel his head from between your legs, pulling him up for a kiss that leaves you both lightheaded, exchanging moans between each others mouths as your bodies press together. You can taste yourself on him, something you didn’t expect to make you as feral as it does.

Steve breaks the kiss, sitting back on his knees to admire his handiwork. Gorgeous, angry little hickies have already begun to bloom beneath your satin skin. He’s excited for the day they fade so he can go back and replace them.

You watch him, laying breathless while he ogles you with a smirk, scanning your body up and down to appreciate the beautiful mess he’s made of it.

It makes you decide that payback may be due.

Steve stands, ridding himself of his bottoms, hard cock swinging free. You can’t help but think to yourself how pretty he is, how unfair it is that he’s so pretty everywhere.

You move to get up on your knees in front of Steve where he stands next to the bed, kissing his face, his jaw, his neck, his chest, his—

“Wait, wait, baby, wait,” he stops you mid-descent. “As hot as it is that you want to return the favor, I don’t think I’ll last and I really, really need to be inside you.”

It’s your turn to smirk now, but before you do, you turn those same pleading eyes he weaponized against you right back at him.

“Please, Stevie? I’ll be gentle, I’ll go real slow,” you say, fluttering your eyelashes up at him.

He presses his palms into his eyes, losing the fight for control going on in his head.

“…Fuck, just please be careful, no funny business, yeah?” he sighs out, looking down at you.

You let on that smirk now, and finish kissing your way down his body, laying on your stomach. Your tongue just barely teases the tip, a small kitten lick that grants you a drop of precum. He tenses at the feeling, sheer pleasure already making him regret his own weakness toward you. It’s all he can do not to blow his load at just the idea of what’s going on right now.

Gently, you place a hand beneath his dick, feeling the weight of it, your mouth watering. You wrap your fingers around it, careful not to use too much pressure. You look him in the eye as you pull just the head into your mouth, moaning around him.

“You’re gonna kill me, holy shit,” Steve says.

You giggle a bit, moving your mouth up and down just a bit, cautious of any sudden movements that might prove too overwhelming.

“Feels too good baby, won’t be able to keep going like this,” he pants, sensitive and whining.

You pull off of him with a soft pop. “Compromise, then?”

He’s not sure what you mean until-

“Jesus fucking Christ baby, holy shit, shit, shit!” Steve is fighting for his life at the sight of you softly stroking his cock with one of his balls pulled securely into your mouth.

You can tell by that reaction and by the purely distraught look on his face that he won’t let you stay down here for much longer, so you make the most of it.

You suck gently, continuing to stroke. You switch to the other side, but not without licking a fat stripe from his base to his tip, earning a strangled noise of pleasure.

“God, you’re cruel,” he whimpers out, unable to contain his own soft moans and sighs as you work.

Steve feels himself getting a little closer than he’d like. “Alright, that’s enough of that for you, missy,” he says as he pulls away from your touch, laughing at the noise of protest you make as he does.

“Don’t worry darlin’, just lay back for me,” he says, walking over to the jeans he had discarded earlier.

You do as he says with only a slight grumble, but can’t help yourself as you watch Steve walk. Even his ass is pretty, you think as you watch him bend over and pull out his wallet, plucking a foil packet from its confines.

He turns around then, and you’ve been caught staring.

Steve smirks when you rush to meet his eyes, feigning nonchalance. “Perv,” he teases before getting back into the bed with you.

You’d protest, but then his hands, those hands, are working deftly to unwrap a condom and roll it on, and suddenly you find yourself entirely uninterested in your status as a pervert.

He crawls back on top of you, moving to kiss you softly, a sharp contrast to the intensity of the moments you two just shared.

He breaks it only to say three words: “I love you.”

Forehead pressed into his, you know you should be shocked, but you aren’t. It feels right. You tell him, too.

“I love you, Steve.”

He smiles at you dopily, and you’re sure a matching smile adorns your face.

“Are you ready, baby?” He asks, interlocking one of his hands with yours, nothing but adoration and loving concern in his eyes.

You nod. “I want this, I want you,” you tell him honestly.

Steve presses one last sweet kiss to your lips, selfishly savoring the taste of them for just a little too long. He breaks it with a sigh. “I’ll go slow at first, sweetheart. You let me know if you need me to stop.”

You hum in agreement, focus resting between the two of you where he’s got your legs spread, kneeling in between them as he guides his cock to your entrance.

Slowly, almost too slowly, he pushes himself in, both of you groaning in relief when the head is in. He presses forward, meeting little resistance from your slippery heat. He sighs happily once he’s seated in you fully, just enjoying being enveloped in your warmth.

He probably would have stayed there if it wasn’t for the wiggle of your hips and the sudden clench he felt from inside of you.

“You can move, Stevie. Need it,” you sigh.

He takes the instruction, and both of you are wrecked as he works into a rhythm.

Your eyes flutter shut as you moan, but that won’t do for Steve.

“Nuh uh,” he says, dropping the hand he’s holding and getting down, shifting his weight to his elbows so he can hold your face in his hands. “Eyes on me. I don’t want to miss a thing.” His tone urges your compliance, so you give it to him, looking into his eyes.

Fuck.

The way your eyes bore into each others is nearly too much, the feeling of his hands splayed across your cheeks, your jaw, your temple… your senses are being flooded, and all your brain can compute is Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve.

He can see every reaction you give him, every hitch of your breath, adjusting until he’s in the perfect position for you, the squeezes of your fluttering cunt driving him wild.

You’re helpless, being held captive by your own pleasure, and Steve is only adding to it, talking to you in ramblings of his own pleasure.

“God, you know what you’re fucking doing to me?”

“Feels so good, sweet girl. Never wanna fuck another pussy again, only yours.”

“That’s it, baby, take it, take it. Doing so well for me, my gorgeous girl.”

“You like that? That feel good? Oh, I bet it does, huh?”

“Taking me like a champ, always knew you’d be good for me.”

You want to respond, you really do, but the way he’s talking to you, the way he’s pounding into you just right, the way he’s looking you right in your eyes as he speaks this utter filth, has left you wordless, only moaning and whining out little ah, ah, ah, fuck’s that only spur him on.

You feel your undoing start to form and begin to reach down, needing some attention on your clit to cross there.

“Don’t do that baby, let me. You close?” he says as he shifts all of his weight now to the one elbow, keeping your face in that hand as the other snakes down to rub circles just where you need them, making you whimper, fighting to keep your eyes open.

You nod at his question. “So close… gonna make me cum again, Stevie,” you manage to get out, snaking your arms around his neck, clinging to him desperately.

His eyes never leave yours. “Tell me what you need. Wanna feel you when you cum, feel you soak my cock.”

“F-faster.”

You barely get the word out before he starts to nearly double his speed, desperate to get you there, sharp, shallow, fast thrusts leaving you to just wail.

“Oh, fuck, Steve, please, please, fuck, please,” you ramble out, unsure what you’re begging for.

“C’mon, give it to me, you’re right there, cum for me.”

The perfect circles on your clit, the pistoning of his hips, the way he stares at you so intensely, egging you on? It all proves to be too much, and you feel yourself thrown off that cliff and into pure, sweet pleasure as your release rolls through you, Steve’s name on your tongue.

Steve cants into you desperately, rhythm breaking as he chases his own high, which is coming on much faster largely because of you. Feeling you grip him like a vice, and having watched just how angelic you look when you cum? He wasn’t going to be able to hold back much longer.

Overstimulated and desperate, you start to egg him on the same way he had egged you on.

“Please, cum, Steve, I wanna feel it. Need to feel you finish so bad, feels too good, please, baby,” you breathe out. “Do it just for me, yeah?”

That’s a wrap for Steve. His thrusts grow lazy as you feel him twitch inside you, condom filling quickly with his load. He keeps thrusting until it hurts, only then settling down, pressing his forehead into yours, kissing all over your face gently as you both bask in the afterglow.

“You’re so perfect,” he mutters, his desperation for you to hear him, believe him, making his expression look almost pained as he squeezes his eyes shut. “It’s always gonna be you for me, you know that?”

You’re unsure how to respond, really. You find yourself so wrapped up in a warm, buzzy feeling, your adoration for him leaking all over your brain’s wiring, causing it to short circuit. So all you do is nod and close the distance between your mouths, giving him a kiss so gentle and loving that catches him in the moment. He wishes he could stay like this forever.

You both fight to end the kiss several times, but each time either of you pulls back even a little bit, you find yourselves pressing right back in for just one more.

When it finally does break, you look up at him and see the man you always knew, deep down, was here to stay. Your Steve.

“Thank you.”

He cocks his head. “You’re welcome, but what for?” Ever the gentleman.

“Just for being you.”

The two of you lay on your couch, Pretty in Pink over and quickly exchanged for When Harry Met Sally, an appropriately raunchy film for present company and previous activities.

You called out of work for the next day shortly after the two of you finally peeled out of bed. Steve had wrapped his arms around you from behind, pressing soft encouraging kisses into your neck, your back, your shoulder as you rang your boss. You didn’t care if they thought you were only calling out because you were embarrassed; you know the truth doesn’t matter to these people, so you won’t waste it on them. All you want to do tomorrow is spend the day with your boyfriend, so you decided that that is what you’re going to do.

So there the you are, curled up in Steve’s arms for the foreseeable future, lips occasionally pressing into his wrists and hands as you held them. He hadn’t bothered with putting his shirt back on, and you let your robe sit where the two of you had ditched it earlier in favor of the warmth radiating from the chest against your back.

Sally fakes her orgasm in the diner, earning a laugh from both of you.

“I’m sure glad that I don’t ever have to question if you actually came,” Steve mutters, prompting you to tease.

“About that…”

“Bullshit!”

You giggle as his arms squeeze you in tighter, his lips attacking the side of your face and neck.

“Alright, alright, I yield, I yield! You are a true man in a sea of boys, you had me coming like a freight train, you win!”

His attack softens, smiley kisses becoming more intentional. He doesn’t let go of his now-tightened hold on you, though. He just likes having you close too much.

Steve mutters into your ear, shaking you gently in his arms to make his point. “I meant what I said earlier, you know. It wasn’t in the heat of the moment, I do love you.”

Somehow you find yourself far more flustered when he says that to you with his clothes on, but you know you feel the same.

“And I love you, Steve. Thank you for everything you did for me today… and I do mean everything,” you say, only a bit cheeky.

He nips at your ear, but still says, “Anytime, pretty girl. Anytime.”

You turn just a bit, hands tracing over his bruised knuckle and face, worry forming behind your eyes, just a small frown playing at your lips.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to try to cover those up for you? A quick run to the pharmacy and I’m sure I could find what I need to color correct,” you muse, but Steve just shakes his head.

“Nah, I kinda dig them. Makes me look a little badass! If anyone asks, I’ll just tell them they should see the other guy,” he pauses, but then says, quietly, “Plus, it’s pretty much like a shining badge of having defended your honor. Why would I ever cover that?” There’s a teasing tone behind his words but you can tell he really means it.

“Alright. You’re sweet. But please defend my honor without fists next time, I don’t want to have to look Hopper in the eye when I bail you out.”

“No promises, sweetheart,” he says, mischievous. You can hear his grin.

You roll your eyes, but you still smile.

You think you could get used to a life like this.

Thank you for reading! 🩵

[more-mara]

My writer red flag is that I cannot stick to one project at a time because tell me why I’m writing a Landoscar university au one shot when I haven’t even finished my current wips 🤨

[mariipun]

Some Sunny Day

Warnings: N/A, Fluff

Word Count: 1,671

Brief Description: Welcome Home Bakery AU. Wally Darling x GN!Reader. Reader/self-insert. You are learning how to bake, but don’t know where to start. Not wanting to be a nuisance, you’ve begun watching from outside the local bakery café’s window as Wally took notice.

[Characters belong to Clown, aka, partycoffin]

Dedication: @satanic-witchcraft (Inspired by their Bakery AU, although it’s extremely loosely based /I just love the aesthetic/. Just a fanfic I wrote because I dreamt about this scenario lol)

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.

It first began on a warm Tuesday afternoon.

You stood there outside, writing in a yellow-covered journal as you watched through the window of the bakery café; the blue-haired man glancing up at you every so often as he kneaded the dough. At one point, the both of you had made eye contact and he watched as you smiled. You pointed toward his motions and then pointed at your book with a slight tilt of your head as if asking permission to take notes.

Wally nodded, a smile of his own forming on his lips in return before going back to work on evenly distributing the dough. You continued to take notes, sometimes carefully mimicking some of his movements in the air as if committing to memory the way the dough needed to be handled. You’d be there for about an hour before placing your journal into your satchel, tucking the pencil behind your ear, and waving goodbye. Wally simply grinned, nodding in reply as you walked away.

This continued every week for the next three months.

Like clockwork, you were there every Tuesday afternoon as the café side bustled with life; customers shuffling in or out with pastries, coffees, or teas. Wally had become accustomed to your presence, albeit through the bakery’s window. He wondered why you simply didn’t come in to ask him questions about his work... or why you never seemed to come into the establishment during this time.

The other workers happened to take notice as well, but he assured them it was not an issue, and he didn’t want anyone to pry. He assumed you were wanting to learn how to bake, perhaps even explore new culinary skills. He may not know the extent of your situation, but he was always happy to teach, as you had always been enthusiastic to learn.

You’d watch, you’d write, and then you’d both exchange goodbyes. He didn’t realize when he’d stop working on whatever he was doing to simply watch you walk away to whatever destination you were headed to next.  

.

.

Every Tuesday afternoon, he began anticipating your return.

He didn’t quite show how excited he was, maintaining his cool demeanor, yet mindlessly fiddling with the strings of his apron. As the clock ticked closer to the predetermined time, he would prepare his area, having a different recipe or lesson at the ready.

You had even started noticing the little things he did, perking with curiosity. Some days there would be a recipe for whatever he was making during that time, laid out in front of your view; a list of ingredients meticulously written out in what you assumed was his handwriting.

Was he sharing his trade secrets with you?

You would read through the list of items, jotting them down quickly before watching as he began creating the batch of goods. Whenever Wally shared one of his recipes though, he’d patiently wait until you were done writing before showing you how to measure and make.

On other days he’d start showing off, tossing dough in the air, or elaborately packaging whole loaves of bread for orders. Sometimes he’d get a bit carried away, getting flour in his hair, or accidentally dropping an egg on the floor. He’d shift his eyes toward you to catch a glimpse of your reaction, always earning a giggle or stifling a laugh in your hand before continuing to write away in that yellow journal of yours. His cheeks would dust rouge in embarrassment, but honestly, Wally was glad he had an audience, especially one as devoted as you.

Sometimes, a bittersweet taste would settle on his tongue as the hour would end and you’d retreat into the world while he stayed behind the glass. Your figure would be lost within the crowd of people walking up and down the sidewalk, colors of various shades blending and muting into the background.

He wondered what you did every Tuesday morning before coming to the bakery, and what you did after when your time together would end.

Maybe he’d ask you one of these days, but for now, he enjoyed the wordless company.

.

.

Twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes past your usual arrival time.

You hadn’t shown up yet and the ticking of the clock began to make him restless.

Wally started to wonder if you were no longer available, or maybe, no longer interested in stopping by. A few different scenarios had swirled in his mind from you being at work, maybe school, having gotten hurt, maybe sick? Why was he so concerned about a complete stranger? Neither one of you even knew the other’s name.

Yet… he felt his chest tighten, disappointment prickling at his skin.

Surely, you were just running late today?

He stared at the counter; his mind lost in thought. He didn’t hear the familiar dings of the bell when the front door opened as you stepped inside, yellow journal in hand. He had only looked up when he heard Julie’s voice greet you from the register.

“Finally decided to come inside instead of watching through the window, huh?” Julie chimed.

You laughed in response, the sound filling the bakery with warmth.

Wally’s cheeks lifted as a smile formed on his lips, eyes falling on you. Feelings of elation and relief both washed over him in waves.

He stood still. The world around him seemed to burst into vibrant hues of light. Soft yellows, pinks, and mellow blues dance around you. He continued to watch you in adoration as you placed a drink order and made your way to one of the small tables near the corner of the café.

“It’s not polite to stare you know,” Poppy spoke up from behind him, causing him to turn and stutter in response. She smiled at him and shook her head. “Why not just say hello?” She encouraged, earning a defeated sigh from the man.

Wally took off his apron, hanging it up. “You’re right…” he mused, dusting himself off. “I’m going to take a break…”

“Take all the time you need dear,” Poppy replied, taking over the kitchen.

He carefully made his way over.

.

.

You were comfortably seated in the corner, reading through your writings as you sipped your drink. Setting the cup down, you looked over to the man making his way to you. You gave him a smile as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Mind if I join you for a bit?” he asked, a bit hesitant.

“I don’t mind at all.” You spoke sweetly, gesturing for him to sit.

Wally pulled out the chair across from you, settling down as well. Eyes panning down to your journal, he pointed a finger in its direction. “May I?”

“Oh! Of course.” You chuckled, moving the journal toward him. He began turning through the pages in awe of the detailed notes, scribbles, and even sketches of the baked goods he shared with you.

“Wow, this is incredible.” He breathed, “You even captured some of the techniques I use when I bake…”

“Yeah, I really wanted to make sure I got it right, ya know?” You confessed before clicking your tongue, “…But… whenever I try to bake something myself, it doesn’t seem to turn out right…” You mulled over the words, leaning forward to rest your arms on the table as you watched him read.

After a moment, he looked up at you in understanding before setting the journal back on the table. “Well, if you are interested, I’d be more than happy to teach you one-on-one here in the bakery, so you aren’t just watching from outside.”

“Really?” You squeaked, a bit more loudly than intended, earning a few looks your way. You gave him a sheepish grin, nodding. “Thank you… I would absolutely love that, but…”

“But?” He looked at you quizzically.

“I don’t have much money to really afford private lessons or anything…” You said sadly, reaching over to take the journal back. “I’ve usually just come by to watch you work, which is why I took notes. I tried doing the same with a few other bakeries, but they brushed me off. You were the only one that didn’t really seem to mind…” Sighing, you closed the journal and tucked it away, “I just didn’t want to bother you with it, so I’m just fine watching from the window…”

Wally pondered this for a moment, humming thoughtfully before nodding at you. “Then how about this? I’ll teach you ways you can improve your skills, and in return, you help me organize my recipes. That sound fair?”

“More than fair… That’s just way too generous.” You counter, hands coming up in defense.

“I suppose, but I do need some help with organizing my own notes. And it’d be a great help if you could assist with that, especially with all the ideas and experiments I have in mind... Sometimes I lose track.” He chuckled, gently scratching his cheek. This offer was more of an excuse to get to know you better anyhow. “So, what do you say?”

“Y-Yes…. I say yes, absolutely. Thank you so much, Mr.—"

“Darling”, he interjects, extending a hand for you to take. “My name’s Wally Darling. But please, call me Wally.”

You slowly take his hand in your own, heat emitting from your cheeks as you gave him your name in return. “It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance… Wally.”

For the rest of his break, the two of you talked, laughed, and talked some more until his attention was pulled away back to work.

You said your farewells, but before leaving, Wally gifted you a small box of pastries filled with new flavors he was working on; contemplating whether they would be good to sell or not. He asked you to try them and write in detail what you thought about each one. You were happy to do so, saying goodbye once more as you left the bakery.

You were both looking forward to next Tuesday.

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.

[marzipanloves]

☔ for Macaque?

(TYSM! Funny enough I have the perfect picture for it)

☔ — f/o and s/i got caught in the rain... write about how they handle it! did either of them bring an umbrella?

The sound of rain pouring down on the pavement made a wash of white noise in the otherwise noisy city as two men stood under the awning of the café they’d just finished eating at. Somehow the downpour caught them by complete surprise, despite Mars pulling out their phone and rechecking the weather report, that ‘15% chance of rain’ suddenly like far bigger odds as they’d initially assumed.

The other man beside them somewhat leaned towards them, glancing down at the phone in their hands.

“So. Does it say how long this’ll last?” Macaque asked glancing back up at them.

“Uhhh…” Mars muttered, scrolling with their finger only to find that the forecast had suddenly changed to rain for the rest of the day, “I’ll just say it’s not something we can wait out.” They sighed, putting their phone back in their pocket. Their husband caught the message, letting out a discontent hum as he crossed his arms.

The two of them stood there, looking out at the rain that blurred the view the further they looked out, rippling and splashing on the ground. The pitter-patter of raindrops on the pavement somewhat muffled the sounds of conversations and already sparse traffic around them. What started as a disappointment turned to a much more  peaceful scene, as Mars shut their eyes and took a deep breath of the clear, refreshing scent of the water, sighing blissfully. Turning to see their now more relaxed body language, Macaque himself felt his frustrations fading as he stretched, only to use his extended arm as an excuse to wrap around their waist and pull them closer to him.

They leaned against him, giving another content sigh as they nuzzled against his warm body to contrast the cool weather.

After another few moments of watching the rain Macaque stretched again, rolling his neck and shoulders.

“Alright then, I think I know how to deal with this.” He said with a tilted smile on his face. Before they could ask, he suddenly fell into the ground, quite literally, as a circle of shadow enveloped the ground beneath him that he suddenly disappeared into.

A small gasp of surprise left them before they chuckled, shaking their head from how they were still surprised by his powers despite how used to it they were.

Another shadow portal appeared on the concrete wall beside them, a hand reaching out and gesturing them closer before being held out, ready for them to take it. Mars giggled again at their husband’s playful actions before stepping forward and taking it. As soon as his hand closed around theirs, they were quickly pulled forward, nearly falling through the portal until they hit something warm and soft again, looking up at how they’d landed on their husband’s chest.

Disorienting as it had been in the past, they weren’t surprised this time by the sudden shift of scenery as they looked around to suddenly be under the awning of his dojo.

“You okay?” Macaque asked with a smug smile, having pulled them harder just to feel them fall into his arms, something he figured they’d put together but pleased by the result nonetheless. Mars let out another small chuckle as they leaned up to kiss his cheek.

“Yep!” they replied, turning to look out at the rain once more. Now out of the more busy main areas of the city, the sounds of traffic and people were completely gone amongst the sounds of the rain. It felt so tranquil, they could almost…

“Babes?”

Macaque’s voice brought them from their voice, pulling them back as they’d walked forward without realizing it, his hold stopping them from nearly stepping out into the rain. Though to be honest, it looked really nice…refreshing after the otherwise warmer than normal weather for the season. Plus, they were already right here at home…

They turned back to give him their own mischievous smile.

“Baaabe?” he asked, quirking a brow as he saw the grin on their face, his own growing as if he practically knew exactly where their mind was going.

Before he could ask they let go of him, stepping out into the pouring rain with a small noise of surprise at how cool the water was and how quickly they were drenched.

At their surprise and silly act they heard their husband laugh, turning to see him shaking his head. At first they thought he’d just roll his eyes and tell them to come inside, but to their surprise he suddenly stepped forward too, ears and tail flicking as he felt the cool rain on his fur. The initial bracing for the cold water smoothed into a more relaxed look as he opened his eyes again, looking down at them with obvious fondness in his eyes and voice as he cracked another smile.

“You’re somethin’ else.”

In return Mars just chuckled again, leaning up to cup his face in their hands and pressing a kiss on his lips, initially supposed to be quick but ending up lingering longer as his arms wrapped around them. After a few moments they broke the kiss, eyes starting to flutter open again as they looked back up at him.

His lidded adoring gaze suddenly shifted to more wide eyes before he started laughing. They were about to ask but realize what’s up as they open their eyes more and realize their glasses are absolutely covered in water, practically useless now. His hearty laugh, much brighter and louder than his otherwise more chilled, composed demeanor was both adorable and contagious, causing them to just take the frames off and laugh along with him.

“Alright, alright. We should get inside before it gets too cold, come on.” Macaque shook his head again, lifting the edge of his cape to cover the two of them from being drenched any further as he ushered them back towards the building.

They may have both gotten cold and had to hang their soaked clothes up, but it was still far worth it to make some hot drinks and settle into the warm bed together, drifting off to a very comfortable nap, hand in hand as usual.

[tinyfaust]

I just read an excellent fic yesterday wherein the author fully invented a whole Romulan novel just for Julian and Garak to talk about. Being as invested as I was, I commented on the fic letting the author know how interested I was in an expansion of their ideas of Romulan history or more details about the fictional novel itself.

This beautiful fucking human being replied to be WITH A WHOLE FUCKING ESSAY DETAILING THE PLOT OF THE NOVEL AND THEIR HEADCANONS ON ROMULAN CULTURE IN REGARDS TO ITS INFLUENCE ON THIS FAKE FUCKING NOVEL!!

Im devastated this novel will never exist! I need it so badly! But also like. Star Trek fans? Nobody is doing it like they are. They’re fucking crazy (affectionate). They’re inventing whole cultures, art forms, books, paintings, people, etc.. They’re creating whole Tolkien-esque worlds for a 4k fanfic about a fucking pretty boy doctor and his gay ass lizard homie.

Comment on fics besties! Comment on fics!! Whole worlds of information are waiting to be infodumped on you if you just make it known you liked their work! Everything is yours IF YOU JUST COMMENT ON FICS 💖💖💖💖

[demaparbat-hp]

“Feeding and checking on two animals a couple of times a day is hardly a chore for you. Meanwhile, I've got to deal with a sexist and—even worse—a stupid piece of koalasloth dung.”

“Still not my problem.”

“I'll make it your problem,” she growls.

She wanted murder. He needed sleep.

Technically, the scene this dialogue is from doesn't match the artwork, but the vibe is most important! Their banter must be one of my favorite things about Itch, Akai Kotou's second chapter (read it here!). The dynamic between Suki and Jian Li is terribly amusing, isn't it?

[lambcultist]

꒰ ♱ ꒱ sugar mommy!caitlyn kiramman headcaons ┆ fashion designer!caitlyn, sugar mommy!caitlyn, serious bdsm dynamic, mommy kink, bondage, sex toys (strap-on), lingerie and collars, free use kink, size kink, aftercare, oral (c!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), dom!caitlyn, sub!reader, femme!reader, age gap (reader in early twenties and caitlyn in her early thirties), i want her :( ♡  MINORS DNI ( 18+ )

♱ caitlyn was born into wealth, the kiramman name already highly influential. she had big shoes to grow into, and from a young age she had found an unusual way to transform the success of the family name into her own; fashion.

caitlyn had an eye for style since she was young, and began learning how to draw fashion sketches and develop new patterns as soon as she could wrap her small hands around a pencil. trained to sew by the seamstresses her parents often commissioned, caitlyn was equipped with everything she needed to dominate the industry; the skill, the knowledge, and the personality, all of which shone through every piece she designed.

she won awards as young as eleven years old for her creativity, was crowned best dressed in the yearbook as she graduated private school, and was praised for the uniqueness of her style. caitlyn had a natural gift; there was a rareness in the approach she took to fashion. something the industry wasn't used to.

inspired by the elegance of royalty, the dramatic flair of victorian era trends, and a feminine twist on traditionally masculine pieces, caitlyn carved her name into the industry by force. she wouldn't slow down for anyone.

she was driven by passion. if her latest line wasn't selling the numbers she wanted, she'd waste no time getting back into her studio to make something better. almost always, she'd make a comeback greater than the last. she bought a magnificent cabinet with the goal to fill it with awards and plaques to commemorate her success. the kiramman name would dominate catwalks—the high fashion industry was never the same as it was before she had touched it. other designers worked hard to keep up, but caitlyn's pace was relentless.

♱ she had everything she ever wanted. caitlyn had made her mother and father proud, she was reaching every goal she wanted. but she was lacking somewhere.

caitlyn could have any woman she wanted, she knew this and often was unafraid to use this to her advantage, but the older she grew, the less satisfying it had became to see a different woman each night. she needed someone loyal. for the first time in her life she felt stagnant. and then she met you.

the loveliest service she had received in any restaurant, michelin star or otherwise, had been from you. it was terribly busy but you had an eye for everything happening all at once. you handled it with a poise caitlyn hadn't witnessed before, and she rewarded you with a hefty tip and a request to have your contact details—it took her pulling a few strings to get this, but she could get whatever she wanted in this world.

♱ you were desperate. every calm reaction to meticulous dining requests and customer issues was due to your desperate need for tips, bills and rent piling higher and higher over your shoulders at the time. the moment caitlyn found this out, she wanted to assist you.

caitlyn hadn't considered herself the type for a transactional relationship like this, but it was an easy decision to make once the idea struck. she wanted devotion, you needed help. she could throw away as much money as she liked on you, it was pennies to her.

but most importantly, you revived her. caitlyn was quick to run to her studio, inspired by your beauty.

♱ soon, everything you owned was kiramman. your clothes, your makeup, your perfume, your shoes, your bags. she made custom pieces for you, her most special muse. you'd be posing in the middle of her studio for her to run her hands over your body with a tape measure, trying on half-finished pieces, modelling every new item for the catalogues and online store.

if you were to be seen publicly at her side, caitlyn would have you dressed as appropriately for the event as she desired.

♱ she had changed your life. from waitress to full-time model, and, unbeknownst to the public eye, her submissive.

your lingerie was kiramman. your collars were kiramman.

caitlyn was never cold. she was intimate and tender, a guiding hand. your mommy, who never punished, and only ever rewarded you. if you misbehaved, she never knew about it.

♱ caitlyn would give you anything you ever wanted. she ensured you were still making your own money via your modelling, but she gave you a sizeable weekly allowance as her baby, and 'bonuses' given to you at random if you needed a little extra to buy something you liked.

she kept you happy. financially or otherwise, caitlyn was very focused on keeping you close. if you were insecure or afraid, she supplied loving snuggles on her couch with her cats. if you were cold, she'd sleep by your side in luxury bedding. she had a perpetually warm body, her bosom the most comforting pillow to lay your head.

every kiss of caitlyn's was expensive, flavoured by hundred dollar lipsticks and sophistication.

♱ the filth of your sex life, which was certainly alive, was so special because it was something nobody knew about. people could speculate how your life was under caitlyn's wing, but they didn't know the ins and outs of her like you did as her sub.

it was part of your deal, after all. caitlyn could have you whenever she liked. if she wanted you, she would have you. you would kneel on the floor by her desk while she worked. she'd tug on your leash every now and then to remind you of your place and to demand your silence as she focused. she would bind your wrists with ribbon to restrain you while she touched your body. she'd tell you it's only so that you'll have an easier time being a good girl and not squirm too much.

if you were ready for bed, but looked too pretty in the sleepwear she designed, she'd pull your slip over your hips to curl those long, mean fingers into your pussy.

if you were bored, or looked lost, she'd call you over and coddle you, letting you suck on her clit to entertain yourself for a little while.

designing your lingerie was her favourite. it was always in her favourite colour. rich, custom made navy lace and silk were always her go-to fabrics to use. she'd design it so that you would match with whatever she wanted to wear as well.

she liked any position, from doggy, to cowgirl, to missionary. she was taller than you, stronger than you, and could manipulate you into any position. fucking you with her strap was the most therapeutic act. the continuous cries she pulled from your lips, the repeated 'mommy, mommy, mommy', and the tears that glimmered down your cheeks in the low light, were the most pleasing to her. she could overwhelm you so easily.

♱ aftercare was luxurious. caitlyn would immediately scoop you up, gathering you into her lap and letting the tactile sensations steady your heart. then she would ready a bath, treating it like a spa day. expensive soaps lathered over your body, not a single spot missed by her slow hands. you'd be dried with a soft towel after and put to bed in her arms as she enjoyed a cup of tea and a book, your breathing slowing as sleep finally overtook you.

♱ caitlyn could say it was simply transactional, and she took much pride in being such a great sugar mommy, but she didn't want to accept that you were much more than just her sugar baby. you were the loyalty she needed, the inspiration she needed, and you were so pleasant to look at she would feel her heart swell every time. especially at every photoshoot. she was fond of you. perhaps more than she should've been.

um, hi... hehe... now that i've finished my big ellie one-shot (posting on the weekend if you missed it) i am back to regular posts. until i focus on something else. which, i do have lots of longer fics lined up that i'll want to work on soon.

🏷️ @abbysdollie @valeisaslut @eriiwaii @emmap3rkins @jinxedbambi @heyimrye @rhian88 @g4ys0n @angelxvs @yoosohh @marvelwomenarehot0 @tennisthatcher

[yzzyhee]

love bite — sjy

bf!jake x gf! reader

warnings: established relationship, suggestive (minors dni), kissing/making out?, biting, marking, grinding, hair pulling, petnames (baby) , smallcases written work

wc: 930~

synopsis: your boyfriend’s collarbone makes you give dracula a small run for his money

a/n: i actually wrote for a second time. wow. it had to be done… anyway! genuinely don’t know what i did nor do i want to know anymore 😃 but this is mainly for myself bc i can’t either bite his or my wife’s collarbone so @ja3yun, angel, this one is for you. i wish to do to u what yn did to jakey 🙂‍↕️ or i just want jake idk anymore send help but anyway feedbacks are appreciated 🧛

“stop staring.”

“hm?”

“yn.”

you smile innocently at your boyfriend as he gives you a pointed look. to be honest, you have been staring at him — specifically his collarbone that is currently peaking from under his hoodie.

“can you please focus?”

oh, right. jake’s been trying to explain to you the material from the latest physics class but you seem to lose your focus. and how could you not? his pretty, kind of — definitely — suckable collarbone is just sitting there, waiting for you to bite on… you’re just a girl after all.

“let me bite you.” you say suddenly and for a second your eyes widen, surprised that you actually voiced your thoughts.

jake tilts his head and looks at you with a curious look. you’re not usually the dominant one in the relationship, always letting him to take the lead in your intimate moments.

although his focus should remain on the task at hand, your outburst has diverted him into your way of thinking and now his thoughts are filled of your soft lips on his skin and the way you look at him sends a small shiver down his spine as heat courses through his veins.

he leans back against the headboard of his bed, his hoodie somehow slipping a little further down his shoulder, exposing more of that collarbone you’ve been eyeing so intently.

“you want to bite me?” he asks, voice low, almost teasing.

you bite your bottom lip and nod, feeling confident now that you sense the desire in his voice.

“just a little bit.” you murmur, a mischievous smile spreading across your lips as you move closer to him and let your fingers brush against the fabric of his hoodie, tugging it down more to expose that tempting, just so tempting skin of his.

jake’s breath hitches as he watches you. it’s not like you to be so forward and that contrast between your usual shyness, submissive attitude versus this sudden boldness is making his heart race. he doesn’t stop you when you press your lips to his collarbone, slowly kissing the exposed skin. your teeth graze him without notice and he feels a jolt of electricity run through him.

“yn…” he breathes out, his hands instinctively finding your waist, pulling you closer as your lips work their way along his collarbone. the softness of your lips kissing, tongue peaking out to lick at his skin and the nip of your teeth is driving him insane, each touch of yours going straight to his dick as he feels himself getting hard.

you’re so focused on him, lost in the sensation of his warm skin beneath your mouth that you barely notice the way his hands tighten around you, pulling you into his lap and making you straddle him.

you let out a small gasp, feeling his hard on pressing into your core. his hands make their way to your back, lowering you completely on him.

you detach yourself from his collarbone and move to look at him. your breath halts as you see him looking at you with darkened eyes and slightly parted lips. he drops his gaze on your glossy lips, touching them slowly with his thumb. you part them, biting down on his finger.

his eyes seem to darken even more, his lips crashing against yours, hungry and demanding. his hands find the hem of your shirt and he doesn’t even think twice before he pulls it over your head.

he breaks your kiss to look at you and you suddenly feel a bit shy under his gaze as he’s taking you in, staring as if you’re the beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

you take advantage of him staring at you and you take control to reach the zipper of his hoodie, your fingers brushing against his chest as you pull it down, revealing more of the skin you’ve been craving.

you lean in, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along his collarbone, revelling in the way his breath comes in short gasps and the way his grip on your waist tightens.

“baby, you’re driving me insane…” he groans, his voice strained and filled with a kind of desperation that feeds into your ego and makes you start rocking back and forth slowly on him.

you smile at his words, enjoying the effect you have on him. “i like driving you insane.” you whisper against his bone and feeling brave, you give him small kitten licks along it.

he swallows thickly as your kisses move slowly higher, settling on a spot just near his pulse, feeling it pounding. you let your lips part against his skin as you begin to suck gently, your tongue flicking against him and teeth biting into as you work on leaving him with your mark.

jake moans again and bucks himself up into you. the sound spurs you on and you suck and bite a little harder, feeling his heartbeat quicken. as you pull back you’re greeted by the sight of a dark mark blossoming on his skin and you smile in satisfaction.

his hands glide up your back, fingers threading into your flowing hair. with a firm grip, he gently tugs, tilting your head back to expose your neck and the curve of your chest, barely covered by your bra. he leans closer, his warm breath hovering over your skin. his lips graze your collarbone, pressing a slow, lingering kiss before his tongue begins to trace along the delicate ridge.

“my turn to bite," he murmurs with a cheshire-cat grin, and you've never been more grateful for giving voice to your desires.

[ghostbsuter]

"Excuse me?" Jazz's voice echoes in the meeting room in space. She gains the attention of the heroes immediately and sees them tensing up in at her appearance.

Behind her, he swirling green portal is open, waiting for her to return.

A blond, coat wearing man, curses upon seeing her and gives a half bow. "Princess Jasmine," he speaks up, eye twitching.

"What brings you here?"

At the greeting and reveal of her title, few others fall into bows, the lady at the head of the table, wonder woman?, gives her a smile.

Her eyes pin the green skinned man to his seat, who in return tilts his head at her.

"My brothers birthday is soon," she focuses on the man again. "I'm simply here for a present."

The man tenses, another curse slipping. "Ah– king phantom, right? I wasn't aware his birthday would be so soon."

Jazz ignores him, calmly walking to the Martian and placing a picture of Mars before him.

"The tales of your people have brought much interest to my brother. He became a big fan." She tells, sharing her intentions at his light poking.

"I ask for a signature, it would make his day."

Martian Manhunter, alien hero, and once upon a time, a father even smiles. He's delighted yet feeling a deep-rooted sadness. The tales of his people continue to spread in the afterlife, it seems.

Jazz leaves quickly after, not before giving Diana a number, they are cousins after all.

Danny will love her present.

[soliadiaz]

across the stars by @ummrys NASA astronaut Evan Buckley is presumed dead and abandoned on Mars. Despite everything, he lives to tell the tale.

-> @buddienetwork event: home

-> 9-1-1, What's Your Movie? event: The Martian (2015)

[incorrect-green-lantern-quotes]

Currently drunk and imagining Green Lanterns being the resident alien experts in the Justice League/Titans/whatever superhero team they’re in

Like, when the JL first got together and Hal learned that two of his teammates were the last survivors of their worlds, he decided then and there that he would always support them in whatever way he could.

(Because as the first- and for a while, only- human in the Green Lantern Corps, Hal knew better than most what it was like to be the only one of his species in a room. It’s astonishingly lonely even when you know your planet and people are still alive and well.)

So Hal asks his ring for information about Krypton and Mars, which holidays their people had celebrated and held sacred, what foods they had enjoyed that he could recreate with ingredients available on Earth.

Hal ends up becoming the third JL member after Bruce and Diana to learn about Superman’s secret identity after Clark has to explain that he came to Earth as an infant and most of his own knowledge of Krypton is as secondhand as Hal’s is. J’onn however, is very touched by Hal’s attempts at baking N’bisko cookies, as it reminds him of when he would make them with his wife and daughter.

Guy inadvertently makes Hal's practices into a tradition when he gets roped into some Fourth World drinking games with Mr. Miracle and Big Barda. Apokolips might be a flaming hellhole, but it was still once home to them both and they do miss it at times. Even in his Warrior years, Guy keeps his pub stocked with food and drinks that are popular in space, in case he gets a hungry visitor from the stars.

From then on, it becomes a duty of their shared legacy. John in his rookie days didn’t listen much to Hal but this was one of piece of advice he did heed: You might end up with an alien refugee as a teammate at some point, and it is your job as a Green Lantern to be there for them when they’re homesick. John was never a member of the Titans, and he's certainly no mentor to the team's alien princess, but he does visit Starfire on days when her banishment from Tamaran weighs most heavily, like the Blorthog Festival.

Kyle had no idea about any of this when he inherited the last ring in the wake of the Corp’s twilight. Expecting him to pick up where his predecessors had left off would have been just another weight to carry on his shoulders. So instead the heroes who'd once been touched by a Green Lantern's kindness now return the favor for their only successor. They tell Kyle about the Corps that were the keepers of peace and justice across the universe for thousands of years. They tell him of how the emerald knights of Oa were brave and kind and loved by so many people.

They tell him these things because they see that the Green Lanterns were more than just an organization of lawmen. They were a legacy, a family, a culture. Unorthodox insofar as that every member was an adopted one, but that only meant Kyle is just as much a son of the Corps as Hal or Guy or John had ever been. He may be Oa’s last son, may not have known that he belonged to the Green Lanterns until their light was all but gone, but he would never have to be lonely.

[loveu2themoonandsaturn]

Oh, my, my, my

a/n: first and foremost let me apologize because this was supposed to just be a stream of consciousness yap sesh and instead it became… whatever the fuck this is. i hope you bitches like childhood friends to lovers. bone apple teeth. eddie munson x fem!reader. zero warnings. this is 2% angst, 98% fluff. not beta’d so… if you see a mistake please message me, it will eat me alive.

thinking about eddie x reader and Mary’s Song… it’s quite fitting, don’t you think?

I was seven and you were nine…

With his mother gone and his father in and out of prison so much that the judge finally revoked his custody, only giving him limited visitation and, after the hair shaving stunt, even that will go away, a young eddie moves to forest hills trailer park. there’s a little girl there, can’t be much younger than him. she’s shy, hides behind her mothers legs, but can’t help but stare at eddie.

he thinks it’s out of judgement until the next weekend when he wakes up on a saturday morning and walks outside to take out the trash because damnit he refuses to be a deadbeat like his dad and he will help his uncle with the chores, he spots you, that little girl, out on the road, and he contemplates saying something about how that’s dangerous but before he can, you see him first, and you offer to share your sidewalk chalk with him. you two talk for hours, making a game out of getting up and running out of the way of the cars, seeing who can race to safety the fastest. you lose track of time until your mother calls you in for lunch. she asks if you would like to bring your new friend.

and that marks the start of a beautiful friendship.

your mom jokes with wayne that the two of you will be attached at the hip until you’re old and gray.

wayne jokes back that he should start collecting coins in a jar for the wedding fund now, while they’ve still got time.

i was sixteen when suddenly, i wasn’t that little girl you used to see…

Eddie’s first senior year is nearly at its end. You’re excited for him, so proud of him. you made the leap to dating over the previous summer, something that made wayne and your mother both breathe a sigh of relief because good grief it sucks watching two kids be hopelessly in love and not know how to say it, but it almost felt like it came too late. he’ll be graduating soon, you think, and leaving you behind, but you still want that for him, want what’s best.

it’s confusing to you when he suddenly becomes so closed off, when it feels like he’s keeping something from you. he’s still with you but it feels… different.

the two of you are out at lover’s lake one night (read: morning bc the time on that clock has an a.m. behind it by this point) in the back of his van with the doors wide open and you start talking about throwing a graduation party. he says he doesn’t need one and you think he’s being humble, modest, so you try to convince him, and that, for whatever reason, seems to set him off. he gets out of the van and starts stomping away and you’re confused, of course, so you run after him, ask him what’s wrong, and then eventually he just says it: he’s not graduating. he’s failed, and they’re holding him back.

this is the first time you’re hearing about it. something about the fact that he didn’t think he could tell you… it stings.

he can’t help himself; to him, he knows that this is going to be the thing that drives you away, the realization you surely must be coming to that he’s not good enough for you. he doesn’t see the point in doing anything other than helping to push you away.

suddenly he’s talking about how he’s sorry he can’t be some brilliant perfect boyfriend, how he knew he couldn’t tell you because God forbid you, little miss never had to study a day in her life, you, who school and social life seem to come so easily to, had to be stuck getting dragged down by some high school flunk.

now that? that does a lot more than sting.

tears are already welling up in your eyes, and your voice comes out so weak when you ask him…

is that what you really think of me?

and he’s heard you upset before, seen it, held you when you cried, but that’s just it… he’s always been the one to comfort you, to protect you from those emotions.

realizing that this time, he’s the cause?

he fucked up. and he regrets it like all hell.

he starts to apologize, starts to say he didn’t mean it, but you’re not having it, doing your best to harden your face as you brush past him back toward the van and tell him to take me home, eddie.

the ride back to forest hills is agony. he wants to say something, wants to fix it, wants to make it better, but you’re not even looking at him.

the only sign that you’re even still awake are the intermittent stuttering breaths that he knows are just the sounds of you trying to hide your tears.

once you’re back at the trailer park, you don’t even wait for the van to roll to a complete stop before you’re hopping out and running up to your front door. he tries to follow, he does, tries to apologize again, but he hardly gets the words out before you’ve shut the door in his face. hard.

he knocks, begs you to just come talk to him, but you shut off your front porch light and he can hear the sound of you walking away.

you’re distraught and you cry yourself to sleep, ignoring your suddenly awoken mother and her questions, wanting nothing more than to forget this stupid night ever happened.

the last thing you expect when you wake is for your mother to be asking you to do chores first thing in the morning, but there she is with a trash bag that you’re expected to take out.

maybe if you were more awake you would have noticed the knowing look on her face as she sent you out the front door.

but then you cross the threshold and hear a rustling to your right and.

there’s eddie.

still in his clothes from last night.

having sat on your front porch all night waiting for the chance to just talk.

i’m sorry.

i thought you deserved better than me, that i needed to prove that, push you away so you’d do the right thing and get rid of me.

i’m too selfish though… i can’t be the one to hurt you.

I can’t be the one to lose you.

maybe all isn’t forgiven in that moment…

but it sure is by the time your mother calls the two of you in for lunch.

a few years had gone and come around…

sure, it took eddie another year to graduate but goddamnit, he did it. best part? he got to walk the stage with you. got to watch you try to stifle your giggles as he flips off the principal, just like he said he would.

the two of you got to go out and chase your dreams together, with corroded coffin getting discovered when a music exec, desperate for anything alcoholic, stops at the hideout on a random tuesday night after a shit day. needless to say, your boy turned that night around for him.

you finished college, and got a job that lets you travel. you get to see the love of your life take on the world by storm, doing exactly what the two of you used to do when you’d play pretend together in the woods; you cherish those memories, but you find you like the real thing even better.

it’s everything you could have ever wanted for both him and yourself. it’s perfect.

we were sittin’ at our favorite spot in town…

you and eddie were back in hawkins for thanksgiving, happy for the break from traveling, even happier to see friends and family as you all converge on the tiny town.

after living in each others orbit for so long, eddie knows that you’ll want to go on a walk after dinner. something about it helping the food settle. he’s unconcerned about the why; he’ll happily walk with you anywhere.

you find yourselves walking hand in hand through the woods you grew up in, ending up in the clearing you two always used to spend hours in, sword fighting with sticks with you were younger, laying on worn blankets and staring up at the stars as you got older.

the old stone you two used as a bench in your youth is still there, still in tact. you sit together as the late november sun starts to go down and for a while after.

eddie always thought the moonlight and the sparkling stars above you made you look like an angel.

you’re distracted, seeing if you can still name the constellations the two of you spent so much time memorizing when you were younger. You don’t notice the way he stares at you.

you don’t notice when he slides off the rock, either, kneeling on the ground before you.

and you looked at me, got down on one knee…

are you kidding me, munson? yes!

take me back to the time when we walked down the aisle…

the ‘party’ was an apt name, you thought, for the group of ragtag friends you’d made along the way to get here. it was really only natural to throw ‘wedding’ in front of it.

the wedding was perfect, striking the ideal balance between yours and eddie’s styles as well as some elements of tradition.

eddie swore up and down he would remain totally stoic, certain he’d maintain his rockstar image throughout the ceremony.

but when the doors opened and he saw you for the first time, wayne walking you down the aisle? instant waterworks. he can’t help it. you’re so beautiful and angelic and perfect and after today you’ll be a family, a real family. you’d think he was upset with the way he was blubbering if it weren’t for the 10-mile wide smile plastered across his face.

luckily, you had hopper officiate and, having done this before, he knew better than to trust eddie when he said he’d be chill. the first thing he put in his pockets when he was getting dressed was the very handkerchief eddie was drying his eyes with by the time wayne was giving you away.

you both said your vows, ones that left all your friends and family misty-eyed, robin grumbling about someone cutting onions.

eddie doesn’t even let hopper finish before he says i do.

neither do you.

and you know this is only the beginning of a beautiful life together.

take me home where we met so many years before…

a few years after the wedding, the band decides to take a break, not forever, just long enough to focus on the families they’d made.

you and eddie move into wayne’s old trailer, him retiring from the plant and buying a cabin in the mountains. you each get a letter from him once a week, and you both promise to visit in the winter when the pond next door has frozen over and all the tree tops are covered in snow.

you don’t tell eddie about the stomach bug you’ve been fighting the past couple weeks, nor about your suspicions when you realize how long it’s been since you bought a box of tampons.

you don’t tell eddie when you swing through the pharmacy, buying the test, telling yourself it’s just for your peace of mind.

you do tell eddie, or rather, yell for him from the bathroom, when you see two lines and not one on the stick.

you see him see those lines, hear his oh, shit, and then watch as the biggest grin spreads across his face.

you feel it when he kisses you stupid, littering your face in them when you need to come up for air.

you feel the way he holds you close and see the look in his eyes when he says

let’s do this.

we’ll rock our babies on that very front porch…

the twins look so much like eddie, it’s almost sickening. your baby girl got your nose and a little more of your hair texture, and your baby boy got your eyes, as evidenced by your husbands teasing when he cries that he frowns just like you when you cried about (insert pregnancy hormone sabotages here). you barely even had an impact on the skin tone, something that has you mumbling something about stupid punnet squares under your breath, no real heat behind it as you look at your genuinely cherubic infants.

twins are exhausting, and they both got colic just like their dad did, and you didn’t know it was physically possible for things this tiny to poop so much.

but you know you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

especially when you see the look on eddie’s face when his own son betrays the order of the diaper change, pissing all over your poor, sweet husband before he could get the new diaper back on.

parenthood is hard.

but at least you know you’re doing it with each other.

after all this time, you and i…

sending twins off to college proves to be a challenge for you and eddie; it’s hard to pack boxes efficiently with tear-filled eyes.

you couldn’t be more proud of your kids though. you hope they’ll do alright; this isn’t their first time being separated. after all, your son and daughter had very different ideas about what sounded like a “fun” summer camp to attend, your daughter being much more interested in the science camp her uncle dustin always reminisced than the music camp her brother was dying to go to. but still.

a mother worries.

so does a father.

you’re both wrecked as you see them off on their first big ventures into adulthood, spending the rest of the evening in the house together wondering where all that time went. you only break up the pity party to take a phone call, overjoyed to find it’s from your daughter.

the usual pleasantries, asking if the drive was alright, if the room is okay, end when eddie asks your daughter how the roommate situation is.

said daughter is horrified to report that her roommate is actually a total metalhead, and is obsessed with her dad. she thinks she might actually lose her lunch if she hears her roomie ogle over her corroded coffin poster and mutter about how much hotter eddie got once he became a father.

apparently reminders of him being old enough to be her father don’t do much.

and she’s far too scared of the potential consequences of informing her roommate that she is spending far too much time eye-fucking a man who so happens to be her father, lest said roommate suddenly wants to come home with her for fall break or something.

you laugh, and can’t help but tease, saying her roommate is right, he did get hotter after you had the two of them, and that she and her brother don’t have way more siblings only because of the miracles of modern surgical medicine.

ew, mom.

you look over to see your husband blushing like he did on your first date. still got it.

you and him keep talking to your daughter until she insists she’s got to go, having an early morning tomorrow with freshmen orientation, and you both remind her she is loved and that you two are always in her corner.

you hang up the phone on the kitchen wall, but before you can leave, you hear eddie turn on the radio, a ballad that is not at all his style crooning over the airwaves.

when you turn, he’s asking you to dance.

you sway in each other’s arms until your legs could give out, trading sweet kisses and murmured words.

he tells you he’s so thankful that he got to do this life with you, that he’s had every adventure with you, that you chose him.

you tell him that, if given the chance, you know you’d do it all again.

[wispitty]

mihawk x reader | “venus & mars”

summary: you're a member of the cross guild. one night, in search of a quiet place to fall apart, you slip into the garden—only to end up in the arms of a certain swordsman... however, despite the way your heart aches for him, you refuse to fall in love with dracule mihawk. you know it could never work. you're venus, and he's mars. you were never meant to be what the other needs.

...right? tag list: mihawk x you, slow burn, mutual pining, so much pining lmao, soft angst, made from mihawk brainrot, cosmic metaphors

chapter list:

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

Chapter 1: Venus & Mars

The moon is a sharp sliver in the sky, like a blade left resting at the edge of darkness. Cold light spills in through the high windows, washing the hall in silver. You came here to be alone—where the marble echoes only your footsteps and not the tightness in your chest.

You sit on the stone railing of the balcony overlooking the garden, arms curled around your knees, chin tucked down as though you could fold in on yourself and disappear entirely. The wind tugs at your sleeves, whispering secrets you don’t want to hear. That you’re exhausted. That you’re unraveling. That something inside you is starting to give way.

And then—

A shift in the air.

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. There’s only one man whose presence feels like silence drawn taut over a sword’s edge.

“Mihawk,” you whisper, voice hoarse from holding too much in.

You expect him to say nothing. That’s what he usually does. Quiet glances, a tilted head, maybe a scoff if you’re being especially ridiculous. And perhaps you are, sitting here trembling like glass about to crack.

You wipe at your eyes, trying to pass it off as wind.

But Mihawk isn’t fooled by wind. Or lies.

“Your shoulders are shaking.”

You freeze. Your throat works to form a response, but it’s like trying to speak past a hand around your neck.

“You’ve held yourself together too long,” he adds, walking closer—not fast, not cautious, just... deliberate.

You still don’t look at him.

“I’m fine,” you mutter. Weakly. Poorly.

He stands behind you, saying nothing for a moment. Just... watching. Then comes a faint rustle of fabric. A hand reaches forward—not grabbing, not demanding—just the barest contact. The back of his knuckles brushes your cheek.

You flinch.

“I said I’m fine.”

He exhales. His voice soft, but impossible to argue with.

“And yet you’re not.”

You finally look up. Your eyes meet his—those unnervingly focused golden eyes, always cool and unblinking like they can see through the walls you’ve spent years building.

And maybe he can.

Your lip trembles.

“It’s just—” Your voice breaks. You turn away fast, wiping your eyes with your sleeve. “I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.”

“Then you should have crossed paths with someone less perceptive.”

A weak, breathless laugh escapes you. It cracks halfway through.

His gaze doesn’t waver.

“Come down from that ledge.”

“Why?”

“Because if you fall, I’ll catch you. But I’d prefer not to.”

You slide off the ledge slowly. Your feet touch the floor like you’re not sure they can hold your weight. Mihawk doesn’t reach out—he doesn’t need to. His presence alone is steadying.

You stand there, looking at him, trying to swallow the wave rising in your chest.

And then it hits you anyway.

Your eyes shut tight. Your shoulders shake. A breath escapes—raw and wrecked. You sway—

—And find yourself against him.

Not pulled, not snatched—just... there. His coat shifts open just enough to let you lean into the warmth beneath it. It’s not the warmth of comfort, not exactly. It’s the warmth of something solid.

Something real.

You don’t sob. Not loudly. But you tremble as though every thread inside you has been plucked loose.

Mihawk doesn’t speak. One hand rests at your back. The other slowly—almost cautiously—lifts to your cheek, tilting your head just enough so he can see your face.

His thumb brushes away a tear. Not like he doesn’t want to touch it. Like he refuses to let it stay.

“You are not weak,” he murmurs. “But even the strongest blades need rest. And care. Or they shatter.”

A soft, broken sound escapes you. It could be a laugh. It could be a sob.

“So I’m a sword now?”

“You are something far more dangerous,” he says, and there’s a softness in the corners of his mouth that few have ever seen.

“But even dangerous things bleed.”

Your breath catches. For a moment, you can’t look away.

“Why do you care?”

He stares at you. Then, slowly, one hand cups your face with a surprising gentleness.

“Because you’ve been bleeding for a while now.” He whispers.

“And I seem to be the only one who notices.”

His gaze didn’t flinch when you did.

Golden eyes locked onto yours—not demanding, not searching, but quietly watching for the moment you'd let yourself fall apart. Or maybe… let someone catch you before you did.

His hand was warm, and that surprised you. You always imagined him cold to the touch, like the steel he carried. But this—this was human. Grounded. Real.

He didn’t say anything else. He let the silence stretch—an invitation, not a demand.

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

His voice dipped a little lower, almost a whisper. “Not tonight.”

However, rather than lean further into his embrace, rather than a smile brought about by his gentility...

...You can't help but scowl.

“Mihawk. I consider you to be a smart man. Sensible and logistical. So you should understand what I mean when I say this.”

You tear your face up to look into his golden eyes while tears threaten to spill from yours.

Teeth, grit. Jaw, clenched.

“Don't open something you won't be able to close.”

He didn’t flinch. Not at your words. Not at the emotion behind them.

He simply studied you—silent, unreadable as stone, though something flickered beneath the surface. Not quite surprise. Not offense. Something heavier. Slower.

His hand didn’t drop from your face. If anything, his thumb moved the smallest bit—just enough to wipe away a tear that had begun to fall despite your warning.

“I am a sensible man. And I do not start what I do not intend to see through.”

His voice was quiet. A blade sheathed in calm.

Then, after a pause. “But I also know better than to close what should never have been sealed in the first place.”

He leaned in just slightly—not to close the distance, but to anchor you in it. His presence wasn’t overwhelming. It didn’t demand anything from you.

It was simply… there. Unmoving. Unyielding.

“If you want me to walk away, say it. And I will. You’ll never see me again. But if you don’t…”

He let the words hang there—letting the choice rest in your hands, not his.

Even now, even as he looked at you like you were the only thing that wasn’t breakable in this world—he would never force your heart open. Only wait. Only offer.

“…Then I won’t close this.”

A sharp inhale leaves you. And then...

His arms came around you without hesitation as you fell against his chest.

No dramatics. No gasp of surprise. Just quiet certainty—as though he’d already braced himself for this moment, as though he’d been standing on that edge for longer than you realized, waiting for you to fall not apart… but in.

Towards him.

The fabric of his coat was thick beneath your cheek, but his heartbeat was steady. Solid. A quiet drum that didn’t falter, even as your tears soaked into the black.

He held you—not like something delicate, not like something he didn’t understand—but like a man who had carried weight before.

And knew how not to drop it.

“I’m still here.” He whispers, low, by your ear.

No poetry. No promises. Just fact. Steady. Present. Unshaken.

One of his hands moved to cradle the back of your head, fingers weaving gently into your hair.

“You don't need to ask me to stay.”

He exhales, and it was the closest thing to a sigh you’d ever heard from him.

“You’ve already earned that.”

You grit your teeth as you hug him, your arms encircling his waist like a lifeline to a drowning man.

He accepted your embrace with the kind of stillness that wasn’t cold—but reverent.

One arm circled you tighter, anchoring you fully against him, while the other remained at the back of your head, a steady, grounding pressure. Not possessive. Not hesitant. Just there—as if holding you was a truth he didn’t need to speak aloud.

His cheek lowered slightly, brushing the crown of your head.

“There’s no shame in needing someone.” He says, quietly.

A beat passed. Then another. You felt his chest rise with a measured breath, slow and careful, like he was adjusting to the feel of you pressed so close.

“And even if there were… I wouldn’t let it touch you.”

His voice, usually so composed, had an edge of something raw now. Not emotion spilling over—but being held back. For your sake.

For his.

He says nothing else. Just let you stay. Let you breathe. Let you be—without pretending, without posture.

As if you were safe now. As if you'd been all along.

After some time, you calm down. Tears reduced into mere sniffles.

Your eyes red, puffy and exhausted. Mimicking the sorry state of your soul.

You remove yourself silently from his embrace, but don't step too far away as your eyes stare at the ground.

He let you go the moment you moved, but not without a final, brief press of his hand at your back—as if to say he was still there, even as you stepped out of his arms.

The distance between you now was only a breath. No more than a whisper of space. But he didn’t reach for you again. Why?

Because Mihawk was not a man who chased.

And you knew that. Quite too well.

Instead, he stood steady, offering presence in place of pressure.

His gaze followed you quietly. The wind shifted, brushing your hair out of place. He didn’t fix it. Just watched you, eyes low beneath the brim of his hat.

“…You look as though you’ve been in a war.”

It wasn’t mockery. It wasn’t even teasing. Just his way of saying he’d noticed the redness around your eyes. The quiet exhaustion behind your breath.

Then, gently: “Did it help?”

His voice was quieter now. Not uncertain—he never was—but softer. Like he didn’t want to make you feel small for having fallen apart.

Like he knew the courage it took just to let yourself be seen in parts.

You sigh. “Too much.”

He nodded once. Not with pity, not with sympathy—just understanding, like he’d seen people come apart before… but rarely trusted anyone enough to watch them rebuild.

“That tends to be the way of it.”

He shifted, just slightly, and his fingers reached up—slow and deliberate—to brush a strand of hair away from your damp cheek. The gesture was simple. Thoughtful.

And somehow more intimate than anything he’d said all night.

“You carry too much for one person.” A pause. “But you don’t have to.”

The words weren’t a command. They were a quiet offer.

He lowered his hand, but didn’t step back.

“If ever again you feel it’s too much…” His gaze held yours, clear and steady. “Come to me.”

And for the first time tonight, his voice wavered—not with weakness, but with something close to honesty. Something rare and precious.

“I would rather bear it with you than watch you brea—”

“—Mihawk. Don’t.”

You interrupt him, your tone poised like a knife to a throat.

“Don’t tread on a line you won't walk fully through.” A pause. A breath sucked in. “Because I'll get attached. And neither of us wants that, clearly.”

Your glare in that moment—wet-eyed and trembling—was anything but sharp. But it hit. Right between the ribs, where even a sword couldn’t reach.

Mihawk didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just… looked at you.

Not with coldness. Not with regret. But with something undeniably present.

“You’re wrong... I’m already attached.”

The silence that followed was deafening. The sea breeze stilled. Even the shadows seemed to hold their breath.

His tone didn’t rise. His expression barely shifted. But the weight of his words hung in the air between you—clean, unflinching, and irreversible.

He stepped forward, just enough to close the sliver of space between you again. Not to claim. Not to trap. Just to be nearer.

“I tread carefully not because I won’t follow through… but because I know the cost of crossing lines that can’t be uncrossed.”

His gaze lowered slightly, shadowing his eyes beneath his hat.

“But I won’t pretend I haven’t crossed it already.”

There it was. The thing you weren’t supposed to say aloud. The thing a man like him wasn’t supposed to feel. But there, in the moonlight and quiet, with your hurt still lingering between you, he gave it form.

He met your eyes again.

And this time, he didn’t look away.

However, you do. You avert your gaze from him with your cheeks stained red and a petulant little pout on your lips.

And you whisper: “You had too much wine.”

His lips curved—just slightly. Not a smirk, not quite a smile. But something dry and razor-thin, like the glint of steel under moonlight.

“I’ve had exactly one glass.”

A pause, then—

“Your deflections could use sharpening.”

He didn’t sound amused. Not fully. But there was a shift in the air—something lighter, almost imperceptible. As if he were offering you an out, if you wanted it. A way to step back from the weight of what had just been said.

But he wasn’t stepping back.

He stood there still, hands calm at his sides, watching you pout with flushed cheeks like you’d wounded him somehow.

“You may choose to pretend I said nothing.” Then, quieter: “But I won’t.”

“Hmph. I'll write this all off as an illusion then. A side effect of stress.”

Stubbornly, you mumble. Then clear your throat.

“For your presence tonight, though, you have my gratitude. I won't lie. Somehow, you always give me the strength to stand up again. It's... my most favorite thing about you.”

“However.” You sharply turn. Still glaring. Cheeks only redder.

“I won't fall in love with a man like you. We wouldn't make a good pair. You're Mars, I'm Venus. You observe, I act. You never chase, I seek it. It's not a good match.”

He stood still through your words—stoic and unreadable as always, the moonlight casting silver across the angles of his face. But your final declaration landed like a thrown dagger.

He didn’t move to dodge.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t argue.

Instead, he stepped forward again, just once—closing the space until there was nowhere else to retreat but into yourself.

His voice came quiet. Unshaken.

“Then don’t fall.”

A beat. A silence.

“Stand beside me instead.”

There was no heat to his words. No plea. Just a calm refusal to accept the version of the story where he was already dismissed.

Where this ended here, with you writing him off like a threat to your peace.

You accused him of being Mars, and yet—

“You chase what you want. I protect what I value.” A flicker of something behind his eyes. “If that makes us mismatched, then so be it.”

And for a moment—just a moment—his voice dropped low enough to almost sound like regret. Or longing disguised as reason.

“But don’t mistake my stillness for absence.”

He looked down at you now, gaze heavy, voice quieter still.

“I am here. I have always been here.”

His hand lifted again—almost reaching, almost touching—but halted just short of your cheek.

“You’ll believe it when you’re ready.”

In response, your teeth only grit tighter, but your face remains tomato-colored red as you glare at him.

And with one disdainful grunt, you mutter: “Way too much wine.”

And turn to leave.

He lets out a soft exhale—too composed to be a sigh, too deliberate to be laughter. And you didn’t see it, but one corner of his mouth curved upward, just barely.

A rare thing. A quiet thing.

The kind of expression a man like him only wore for things that struck deeper than they should.

“Sleep well, Venus.” He calls as you turn.

No mockery. Just the faintest gravity in the way he said it—like it was a name he’d remember.

And as your footsteps echoed down the corridor, he didn’t follow. True to form, he remained where you left him—silent, steady, immovable.

Meanwhile, as you storm away, you grumble under your breath.

Fists clenched at your sides, heart beating a mile a minute in your chest. Yet, your mind is convinced.

He'll never chase after me. I don't move his heart like that.

...And I'm not interested in hearts that don't yield for me.

Your boots struck the stone floor in sharp little echoes—stubborn and seething. Each step was meant to steady you. To put space between you and him. Between you and that unbearable warmth.

That unbearable truth.

But your chest ached. Because you knew—you knew—you were right.

He wouldn’t chase.

He wouldn’t call your name like a fool with something to lose. That wasn’t who he was. Mihawk was a fortress, not a flame.

And your heart didn’t want a fortress.

…Did it?

You clenched your fists. You told yourself you weren’t trembling. It was just the damn cold.

And yet—in the quiet behind you, where he should have remained…

There was a sound.

Footsteps.

Not fast. Not reckless. But real.

Measured. Intentional.

Closer.

“You said I’d never chase.”

A voice calls calmly from behind you as you stop.

Another step.

“Perhaps you’re right.”

And then—

“But for you… I’ll walk.”

He stopped just a few paces behind you. Close enough for his voice to wrap around you like a cloak.

“I won’t beg. I won’t pull. But I will follow.”

Quiet again.

“Is that enough?”

“—NO!”

You turned sharply, knuckles turning white at your sides, brow furrowed as if you were in physical pain.

“It's not enough! I'm a selfish woman who lives in the delusions of her own fantasies. S-So…”

Your voice trails off as your bravado falters. A scared, hurt look briefly flashes onto your face as you will yourself to look back into the golden eyes that haunt you.

“G-Go away. You’re a sword in a stone that I can’t break.”

He stills at your outburst—stone-faced, yes, but not untouched. Something in his expression shifts. Not pity. Not softness. Something like recognition.

Like he had seen this before. Or perhaps... felt it himself.

He took in the sight of you: fists clenched like a warrior with no weapon, eyes full of defiance and ache and that terrible, honest desperation.

And he did the most infuriating thing he could possibly do.

He stepped closer.

Not fast. Not loud. But undeniably closer.

Now just within arm’s reach, he stopped. Looked down at you—not as a man towering over, but one... meeting you where you stood.

“You say you’re selfish.”

His gaze swept over your eyes. Your trembling mouth. Your fists.

“Fine. Then be selfish.”

He opened his hands at his sides, empty, as if offering himself without ceremony.

“Demand the moon. Shatter stars. Curse me, if you must.”

“But do not—”

His voice catches. Just slightly.

“Do not ask me to go when we both know I’d stay.”

His golden eyes bore into yours. Heavy with everything he didn’t say. Everything he’d held back. And still, somehow, still—he yielded.

Not with weakness.

But with will.

“Perhaps I am stone, yes. But not one you must break.” He leaned in, just barely. “Only one you have to lean on.”

And then, quieter still: “Even if you hate me for it.”

“UGH! I'd hate you if I could, you infuriating man!”

You turned away from him, crossing your arms in a huff.

Pouting.

He let out the smallest sound—dry, low, the ghost of something between a breath and a chuckle. But it wasn’t amusement at your expense.

It was the sound of a man who had finally been wounded—and welcomed it. Like a blade drawn clean across old armor.

“Then I consider myself fortunate.” He mutters, deadpan, but faintly warmer.

A pause, before adding—

“I’d rather earn your frustration than your silence.”

You heard the gentle rustle of fabric as he stepped to your side—not in front of you, not behind. Beside you.

Close enough that the brush of his coat just barely grazed your arm.

He didn’t speak again. He didn’t reach for you.

He simply stood there.

Like the mountain you claimed he was—impossible to move. But for once, maybe… just maybe… choosing to stand with you, not in your way.

After a long pause, he glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

“…Still pouting?”

"Hmph. You don't chase, so you'll never see it." You grumble in an almost childish fashion, turning away from him yet again.

He raised a brow at that—subtle, unimpressed. But the glint in his eye betrayed him: not irritation… but something dangerously close to fondness.

“Lucky for me, you pout loud enough to feel it from here.”

A beat passed. Then, under his breath—so low it was almost to himself:

“…And yet I find I don’t mind it.”

He shifted just slightly to match your new angle, not letting you shake him off with your little turn.

If anything, he mirrored it—arms now folded across his own chest like a knight humoring a dragon guarding her treasure.

“If this is what awaits me at the end of walking instead of chasing…” A faint tilt of his head, lips barely quirked. “Then I suppose I’ll have to become a patient man.”

He turned his face toward the moonlight, letting the silence settle between you again—comfortable now. Close. Shared.

“Though if you plan to keep storming off, do let me know next time.”

A slow glance toward you.

“I’ll bring wine. Just one glass, of course.”

At that, you finally turn to look at him.

You say nothing, but you're still pouting, still glaring, cheeks red, eyes puffy, hair a little messy, but still there. Still endearing.

And he looks at you fully now.

Really looks.

At the puffiness around your eyes. The stubborn tilt of your chin. The mess in your hair that refused to obey the weight of the night. The blush that stained your cheeks like the petals of a storm-tossed rose.

And that gaze—that furious, wounded, resilient little glare that had no business being as heartbreakingly endearing as it was.

He didn’t smirk.

He didn’t tease.

He only softened.

A breath caught in his chest—barely noticeable. But there. Real.

“…You’re beautiful like this.”

Not flirtatious. Not flippant. Just honest.

He looked at you like a man who had seen many things—victories, tragedies, the rise and fall of kingdoms—and had never quite found something that stirred him quite like you did now, in this fragile, furious state.

“You think I wouldn’t chase, little Venus.” A breath. “But the truth is… I already have.”

“Liar.” You bite.

“You say you chase, but they're only on comet-paved roads in your orbit.”

You look at him one last time.

“Not mine.”

...He didn’t answer right away after that.

Because your words struck—not with heat, but with truth. A brutal, aching kind of truth. The kind that didn’t demand rebuttal. Only silence. And yet…

He still didn’t look away.

Even as you threw that final line like a closing door. Even as your voice trembled with the force of choosing distance over hope.

He stood his ground—not in pride, but in quiet defiance of the very fate you’d written for him.

“Then I suppose I will have to redraw the map.” He exhales softly, solemnly.

Yet his gaze is still steady. Golden. Unyielding.

“I do not chase comets. I wait for stars that dare fall near me.”

A step back.

A pause.

“If yours burns elsewhere… I will not stop it.”

And yet—

“But if it circles back, even once…” The faintest breath. “I will not let it go again.”

He inclined his head slightly, as if offering a final bow. Not of surrender. But respect. Of something unspoken, still held tight.

Then, quietly: “…Goodnight, Venus.”

And just like that—true to his word—he turned to walk away.

Not far. Not fast. But every step… still within reach.

“………”

“...Goodnight, Mars.”

The words sullenly leave your lips like the softest whisper as you retreat into the safety of your room.

But he heard it.

Your voice, soft and low, trailing behind like the tail of a comet refusing to vanish completely.

He didn’t stop walking.

But his pace slowed.

Just for a heartbeat.

Just enough to let the words land somewhere deep—where no blade could reach, but your voice always did.

“Goodnight, Mars.”

He would remember that. He’d carry it in silence, like he did most things that mattered.

And in the stillness that followed—beneath moonlight and tension and distance—neither of you saw it.

But the stars above burned just a little brighter.

As if, somewhere in the space between Venus and Mars…

A new orbit had quietly begun.

[marzipanloves]

💐 for you and MK? :3c

(EEE TYSM JJ♡!!!)

💐 — someone's recieving flowers; write about either f/o or s/i giving the other flowers! what's the occasion, or is it just because?

Another day, another set of deliveries and hope that no one attacks the city while he’s at it. MK breathes in the wind whipping past his face as he drives his delivery cart down the busy streets, relishing the smell of fresh air, the warm noodles in the to-go bags he holds onto and the rubber of the tires as he screeches a rather tight turn down a corner he nearly forgot to take.

He heaves a sigh of relief as he pulls the wheel steady again, chuckling nervously before he finds the place his phone dictates as the last order of this bunch.

He stares down at his phone for the destination before glancing up, eyes widening as he sees the bright and colorful array of flowers and plants all around the front of the building.

“Woahh…” He stares as he parks the cart and grabs the bag, walking in the front and hearing the chime of the door.

“Pigsy’s Noodles! Got your delivery!” He calls out as he steps in, immediately overwhelmed with sweet, floral scents.

“Oh! That was really fast! Thank you!” The shop clerk waves him down, smiling happily as he places the bag on the desk. He feels pride as he sees them open the bag and breathe in the warm scent of the food with a satisfied smile.

“Well, I pride myself on quick return time. Welp! Gotta head back!” MK turns on his heel but is quickly stopped as the clerk calls out again.

“Wait! Aren’t you that Monkie Kid guy?” they ask, head tilting. A somewhat sheepish smile lights MK’s face as he rubs the back of his neck.

“Yeah, aha…yeah that’s me.” He feels odd still being recognized so regularly but the clerk just gives another big smile.

“I thought you looked familiar! Tell you what, pick out a bouquet, on the house!”

“What? Well uh, I don’t really…” he trails off as he looks around at all the different types and colors bundled around every shelf and corner of the shop.

“Hey, don’t worry about it! Don’t’cha have someone you could gift to? Friend, family, partner?”

The clerk’s insistence makes it dawn on him that, oh. Yeah he does have someone now. He’d been so focused he hadn’t thought about it, but as it’s mentioned he suddenly feels a happier smile and warmer flush to his face as he thinks about his boyfriend. Mars, so sweet and kind, they’d given him tons of gifts in the past, even before they were dating, usually just extras of whatever they decided to bake or buy. He’d never given thought to things like this, flowers or candy in a romantic gesture, but now that they mention it…

“Yeah! Yeah I’ll totally get some.” He turns with a grin before it falters, suddenly aware he’s a bit out of his depth with the uncountable number of types around him, “Uhh….you got any suggestions?”

--

Mars hummed to the music playing in their headphones, glancing around the screen in front of them as they traced their stylus along their tablet, filling the once blank canvas with small doodles and sketches.

They let their whole focus drift to drawing, making another small doodle of their boyfriend, MK, after seeing footage of him blowing up online after he showed up in another of their friend’s livestreams, watching him somewhat sheepishly hold the phone and talk to the viewers. They couldn’t help but stare every time he was in frame, grinning ear to ear, noticing how his face scrunched when he laughed or how small tears pricked in his eyes as he was left in a small laughing fit as he and Mei goofed around in her garage.

They didn’t even notice how their feet swung a little faster and excitedly every time they heard his voice.

They also didn’t notice the thumping sound coming from another room, at least not at first but the second and third times they did, jumping in surprise as it grew a little louder. Somewhat anxiously they took their headphones off and walked around, trying to listen for the source of the sound before it happened again, making them realize it was some kind of clunky knocking at their door.

They hesitated at first, unsure if the odd clunky knocks were someone else in the apartment building or if someone just accidentally ran into it, but those thought were quickly dismissed as they heard a familiar voice.

“Mmph! Mars! Babe, you home?!”

Mars grinned as they nearly tripped over themself running to the door, quickly opening it only to jump back as they opened to see a giant bundle of different colored flowers waiting for them.

After a moment they heard more sputtering before their boyfriend’s face appeared above, stepping on his toes with a happy grin.

“MK? What’s all this?” They asked with a slight chuckle at the absurd size of the bundle he held, moving out of the way so he could come inside.

“Well,” MK grunted as he carefully stepped in, turning to the side so he could see them better without the flowers directly in front of him, “I had a delivery at a flower shop and they recognized me as the Monkie Kid! And, well, they said I could pick out whatever I wanted! For you know, saving the city a ton and stuff.” He grinned before looking down at the bundle and back at them with a sheepish chuckle.

“I guess I kinda went overboard. I couldn’t help it! I didn’t know which ones I should get! But the shopkeeper kept recommending stuff for love and appreciation and stuff, and I know you like purple and-- well...” he gave a small shrug with a chuckle at the realization of how silly he probably looked.

Mars laughed happily at the explanation and his sudden cute nervousness as he tried to find a place to set the bundle down before they stepped in and helped bring it to a table.

“They’re all so beautiful! I can see why it was hard to pick.” They smiled at him, and with his hands finally empty they quickly ran into his arms, squeezing him tightly which he happily returned, nuzzling his head against theirs.

“You like them?”

“I love them! I’ve never gotten so many! And I don’t usually get many to begin with.”

“Really?” MK pulled back, smile faltering at their confession. “But—you’re so cool and nice and awesome and stuff!”

Mars chuckled at the puppy eyes he gave but just leaned up and kissed his cheek.

“And so are you, especially for doing all this. Thank you, MK.”

His smile quickly returned as he pulled them into another hug, tightly holding them in his arms, shutting his eyes and enjoying the warmth in their voice and their embrace.

“You deserve it.”

[bambisafe]

rafe cameron / fem!bookish!reader

warnings : lighthearted teasing, reader reads a big book (genre not specified), reader is hinted at being a pogue, rafe is fiercely protective and unhinged (subtle threat towards random person).

author’s note : i’m scared of the obx fandom so i’m just gonna drop this self-indulgent piece here and go.

rafe with a bookish girlfriend would be a dynamic he never thought he’d have with someone, or even be interested in.

yet he can’t fight the affection that swells up in his chest when he finds you on the couch in tannyhill with a bookish girlfriend the side of a brick in your hands.

it throws him off, seeing you in your element. he’s used to being surrounded by rowdy, immature teens, so to see you, serene, immersed in hundreds of pages in the palms of your hands, it’s both intriguing and frustrating.

while your habit is cute, it also keeps your focus from being on him.

he’ll come right up to you, a lopsided grin on his peach lips and mutter, “nerd,” before pestering you with annoying questions.

“why’re you reading that when you could be with me?”, “what’s so interestin’ about this book that it’s keepin’ you from me?”

he’ll nudge your shoulder. “huh?” press you for further details.

you’ll huff a chuckle, shake your head, and whack him lightly on the arm.

“because it’s fun!”

“funner than me?”

he’ll rip whatever book you have out of your hands, won’t even bookmark your spot, before flopping into your lap.

over time, he’ll start to associate anything related to books with you. walks past a bookstore? instantly thinks of you. finds one of your bookmarks abandoned on his nightstand? you’re on his mind.

eventually, he’ll have moments when he’ll settle down, when he allows himself to feel; when he starts to trust you, love you, and he’ll lie on the couch, his form too big for the length of the sofa, and listen to you explain the plot of the newest book you’re reading.

he’ll start buying you books you never asked for. he’ll see it once on a tab you left open on your phone, he’ll see it in the way you stare longingly at a book through a window display, and the following day it’s left on your unassigned side of the bed.

and if you’re hobby is ever made fun of or mocked by anyone on the island, rafe’s whole demeanor would switch, expression deadly. protective. he’d get in their face, tower over them menacingly. “she’s the smartest person i know,” a warning once-over. “try to keep up.”

only he is allowed to pick on you for your reading habits. if anyone shames you, they better hope they see tomorrow.

[lambcultist]

　　　𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐆𝐄. 𝐸.𝒲.

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 — ‧₊˚ ⋅ young, beauteous, and aching. terrified. ellie has haphephobia; a fear deeply unfortunate and inescapable. she faces a reality built upon silence and lonesomeness. you are rattled with illness whenever ellie williams is around. you could accredit this to your anxiously needing to accommodate to her fears and earn her validation, but the truth comes down hard when you appear to cough up something unusual after you've waited for her a few years too many.

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — ‧₊˚ ⋅ MINORS DNI ( 18+ ) modern au. brother's best friend!ellie williams x fem!reader. ellie has haphephobia (fear of touch). reader has... something (hanahaki disease). reader also has anxiety and insecurities. angst. unrequited love, but not quite. disaster lesbians. vivid descriptions of: poor mental health, panic attacks + fear, terminal illness + symptoms of nausea, vomiting, bleeding, coughing, hallucinations — gross/graphic descriptions, warning for squeamish readers. miscommunication. hurt / comfort. reader is 19, ellie is 21.

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — ‧₊˚ ⋅ i'm really unwell and i don't know if this is a cry for help or nah. sorry or you're welcome depending on the damage done to you after reading this. you are loved, remember that. ++ you can read this on ao3 if you prefer! part two coming soon ♡

　　　　m.list　wc — 7k　mdni, please ♡

"think it's just a stomach bug, i can handle it."

the wind brushes over you with the force of a thousand men and it doesn't do much of anything to mend the churning of your stomach or the tightness in your throat. your body feels terribly light, floaty, almost.

that's what ellie does to you. she throws your balance off. being around ellie feels like rolling down a hill in your youth. giggling and reeling and shrieking with excitement, only for it to end abruptly and the memory to slip through your fingers. it passes by in fleeting moments, something tristful in the way that you yearn for it back.

ellie feels like nostalgia. she's been there for as long as you can remember. she's grown up alongside you, you've seen her so many times that you can chart each freckle on her face like the stars in the sky.

but she is more like nostalgia in the sense that she is as tangible as those memories themselves; she's untouchable. you have not felt her skin, not even the tickle of her breath. sometimes she feels like a figment of your imagination. you have no tactile sensations of her to remember. it's like when a tree falls in the forest but there is nobody around to witness it—did it ever truly happen?

but, if there is anything that proves her existence to you, it would be the nausea.

"well, let me know. you don't look well," says sebastian, his hand giving you quite the firm pat on the shoulder. "and don't throw up in my car."

"seb, i'm not going to throw up in your goddamn car." you glare at your brother before opening the door, and then, as always, he raises a hand.

"ellie's shotgunning. get in the back."

"you're the worst, to be frank," you mutter. you swing around on the balls of your feet and are soon face-to-face with her, your eyes wide as you pull back. "oh, jesus, sorry ellie."

holy fucking shit. another wave of dizziness overtakes you at the sight of her petrified flinching. her nose scrunches up, her brows pinch at the centre, and she blinks a few times before patting herself down.

"no, no, you're good," ellie says, "you didn't touch me."

you almost did. and there's this hollow feeling in your chest at the idea that you may have been close to even brushing against her clothes—it's purely guilt.

haphephobia: the fear of touching, and being touched. ellie will refuse contact; she will not touch skin, and skin will not touch her. you have seen what arises should this ever happen, and swore you'd never be the reason she panicked like that in your entire life.

you sit alone in the seat behind ellie, clicking the belt into place and watching the seat ahead move as she makes herself comfortable. so close, yet so far, at all times. she chats with seb, and you watch the streets pass you by as the whirring engine throttles you—something about it makes your heart hammer inside of you, a lump building in your throat—but you've never known yourself to be car sick before.

it's ellie.

and maybe it's sebastian's reckless driving, too.

he pulls into a parking lot and the three of you head towards the few vendors set up around the edge of the park. seb is making riveting conversation about what flavour of ice cream he's planning on getting, which neither you or ellie seem to care for.

you hang back. you watch her tug her gloves over her hands, pulling at the fabric like she's worried it's not enough protection. you've wondered if she ever takes them off. if so, what do her hands look like? they must be soft. they must be warm.

"what do you want? the usual?" seb asks, pulling you out of your head.

"i..." you take a gander at the ice cream van, and in the process your eyes catch on ellie's awkward posture. your stomach lurches. "still don't feel well. i think i'll pass."

"really?" he gives you an incredulous look, but shrugs either way. "that's not like you. i'm paying, you know."

"yeah, i know," you mumble, crossing your arms and letting out a sigh. you feel so faint suddenly that your knees buckle, and even after you look away from ellie, it remains. it feels worse to look away, almost. you miss her cute face, and it makes your heart tug uncomfortably. "i don't think ice cream is going to be of any assistance to my stomachache, though."

now they both look between themselves strangely. you are queasy sometimes. all you ever needed to say was, 'i think it's just a bit of anxiety. you know how i get'. now nobody but you has ever realised the real trigger behind these nerves, nobody has ever paid attention to the pattern.

disturbing to you, and odd to ellie and sebastian, is that this pattern is unfolding. it isn't changing; it's simply making itself known. it's demanding attention. now, it's 'just some stomach bug' that keeps rattling you every time they attempt at including you in their antics.

it can't be anything more than the increasing severity of feelings, you hypothesise. you thought you needed time away from ellie, to learn how to exist without desiring her.

you threw up the first time you tried to avoid hanging out with ellie and seb. you thought that you needed the distance, but you missed her like a desert misses rain. her lack of concern made you fucking sick. it pulled on your heart until you choked.

something you once had plenty of control over—the butterflies in your stomach whenever ellie is around—is beginning to spiral out of your control. you mustn't let it concern you too much, but it is certainly odd.

when you were small, you admired ellie. she's two years older than you, it was natural that you had a fascination and wanted to hang out with the older, cooler kids at any cost. you aged, and you realised that you liked girls when ellie and seb came back from summer camp and you were totally digging her new grungy style.

that was the day the seed was sown.

you liked her.

three years later, you think that it has grown unmanageable. you've yearned. you've prayed. you've wished on stars, which felt like your best bet at the universe listening to you—you can't get any luckier with ellie than to wish on stars, right? she loves them.

something told you it would never happen. actually, you're positive this is a fact. ellie doesn't look at you like that. hell, she doesn't look at anyone like that. you know that it scares her.

and that is just another thought that makes you ill.

if only she were not afraid of being loved.

she deserves it. something to put a smile on your face is the very act of loving her.

you love to love ellie, providing patience and care at every moment. observing whatever makes her tick, sending her pictures of things—the classic, 'this made me think of you'—even if all she does is send a heart reaction in response. you might watch your smile crack in the mirror when your efforts are met with nonchalance, or sometimes even scepticism. but you love to love her anyway.

you know your place. you aren't at the top of her list. and that's alright. you're sebastian's little sister. you don't take priority over her few genuine friendships or her heartache—said heartache being her fear. it's both a relationship and a war; that's how she described it to you once. it's an attempt to protect herself, and she doesn't know what from, but it's something like safety. but it's also a battle between a fulfilling life and a lonesome one.

you just think, maybe one day something will change. you have waited so many years, what is a few more? you can try to make room for yourself in her life. you try. always, until something reminds you that you are only sebastian's little sister.

ellie would never look at you like you're anything else.

you can't get her off your mind as it stands; auburn tufts and sage green eyes. flushed, freckle-dusted cheeks and chapped lips.

you can try to learn everything there is to know, but you'll never get close enough to know her skin, her scent, her temperature. you wish you knew how tight she'd hug you. you wish you knew how quickly or slowly she'd wipe your tears away.

if there is anything you know perfectly, it is her sillage. it's the feeling left behind when ellie isn't around.

you've developed a nasty cough, so you told them to go ahead without you today.

you sent ellie some stupid tiktok about how the new savage starlight film adaptation sucks. she ranted and raved about how incorrectly they wrote dr. daniela star's character all of last night. you didn't listen; she looks too cute when she's pissed off. her lips held a genuine pout.

seen two hours ago.

she's just busy. she obviously can't watch a whole mini-video-essay while out and about with seb.

or, maybe she's just sick of you inserting yourself into her life.

"holy shit, am i that annoying?" you murmur. you should leave her alone. she doesn't need you. definitely not you.

and suddenly your throat feels rough. an ugly tickle that you attempt to clear casually changes in an instant. your muscles clench and you wheeze into your hands. you can't stop, not for thirty seconds at least.

"ugh, gross," you mutter to yourself, wiping your cheek and getting up to wash your hands. it's your reflection that stops you in the doorway of the bathroom.

a red stripe across your cheek glints in the light.

"fuck?"

a pit forms in your stomach and your gaze drops to your hands, of course splattered with the source.

it's blood.

coughing up fucking blood.

downstairs you hear sebastian's voice booming louder as he unlocks the door and laughs at something ellie said. you try to drown it out by holding your hands beneath the tap and letting your worry run down the drain, but there are two sets of feet climbing the stairs and every step echoes in your ears like a kick drum.

you feel like an idiot as you fumble around and clear the blood off your face, but then you hear her dumb, raspy laugh, and you retch.

"kid, you in here?" sebastian calls, knocking on the door.

"yeah," you croak. your voice fails like you've never heard before, and when you try to speak up, this time you erupt into a full blown coughing fit. it feels hotter in here suddenly, and you can't see right with all the tears in your eyes but your hands are covered in gore.

"i'm getting mom to book you a doctor's appointment," seb yells out, and he doesn't sound pleased at all with what he's just heard. "you sound like shit."

yeah, you're not pleased to be experiencing it right now either—he doesn't even know the half of it.

ellie pulls the woollen blanket over her legs and leans against the side of the couch with a sigh. there's a fair bit of distance between you both, conquering the far sides of the couch like there's a chasm in the middle. she pushes hair out of her face before looking at the floor. "you know, we don't ever talk about life much."

"huh?" your eyes, as desperate as they are, move slowly to ellie and her relaxed figure. it's nice when she relaxes. you know it's because there's no place like home for ellie other than your own, she knows that your family are the most accommodating to her fear.

"yeah, i mean, we don't really get to talk about the serious stuff." ellie shrugs one shoulder and grins slightly. "like.. you got a crush on anyone?"

heat rushes into your face immediately and you quickly shake your head. if only she could know.

"c'mon, seb isn't getting back for a while. you can tell me..."

"there's nobody," you say quickly. it's mousy. it gives away far more than it shuts down, and ellie just snorts.

"yeah, same, i guess." she observes you, the way you pull your knees up to your chest and the way that you glare at the couch cushions. "i accepted it for myself. i don't know if i could ever just push past my anxiety. i don't know if any girl out there gets it."

you sigh. that sigh almost sparks a coughing fit, which you're quickly pushing down. sometimes you can try to clear your throat instead, and it might work. it still feels like something needs to come out. it doesn't feel like it's just blood anymore. there's something in the air your body is rejecting.

"does that make you sad?" you ask. say no—please, say no—maybe this would be easier if ellie were content with the silence in her bedroom.

"well, i guess it sucks," ellie answers. "if i weren't such a pussy, i'd definitely want to be with someone. my overall life, it'd just be better if i could get over it. i like to think about an alternate universe where i wouldn't need these stupid gloves. but nobody wants someone this weak."

that's wrong.

because you want her. you want her no matter if she is strong or if she is weak. you want her in every universe, touch be damned.

"i think there's someone out there for you," you whisper after a small pause. "you deserve it plenty."

"so do you," ellie replies. "you'll find someone soon. i know you will. you're, like, the shiniest star in the sky. but whoever it is will have to go through me and seb first, obviously. you know, we'll make sure they're good enough for you. and seb will punch their damn lights out if they ever hurt you, as all good brothers do."

"that won't happen," you murmur, resting your chin over your knees.

ellie snorts. "yes it will. seb would die for you. he's actually a sappy little bitch sometimes. huuuuge soft spot for his baby sister."

you can only find it in you to raise the corners of your lips just slightly. that wasn't what you were referring to. of course it wasn't. but ellie's conversation is enough to back you up. you will not find somebody soon.

because the person you want is sitting here, telling you that whoever you'll find will not be her.

because she thinks she is unworthy of love. that, and you are once again being reminded that you are nothing but her friend's little sister.

you don't feel like eating dinner anymore. your heart is beating so fast, and struggling to do so—as if there's some kind of rope squeezing it tight. your stomach churns.

you had never seen her so afraid. it hurt you almost as though you were the one experiencing it. how you wish you could take the pain from her and battle it yourself, even if just to understand exactly what she's going through.

you've seen ellie have small scares. you've seen her be knocked in public and how it winded her, you've seen her grimace as her gloved hands brushed against a stranger's when something is passed to her. but you hadn't ever seen what ellie looks like at her worst until today.

it is so vivid, playing back in your mind like a song on loop.

she said she'd been feeling off that morning.

she was hyper-vigilant all day.

it was small and simple. you were at the grocery store. a lady needed to get past, so she thought to politely catch ellie's attention by tapping her shoulder.

ellie shut down. seb took you both outside immediately, and she cried. you hadn't seen that before.

she cried. she looked a little bit like you do right now. the air suspended from her lungs, her face streaked with tears and, the worst part—her eyes, looking at the ground and filled with shame.

she puts up a front all of the time. she feels capable. she looks like she isn't bothered by the reality she's facing given her phobia.

but you know better.

ellie feels unlovable, and she won't even let herself be proven otherwise. she can't be saved. not by you. not by your brother. no amounts of patience and care would save ellie; it would be up to herself.

maybe she doesn't even want it.

sometimes, people have their work cut out for them in life. that's it for ellie, you think. you know too well the war-zone of a mind whirring and turning with anxiety and hate. you know what it's like to be too thoughtful. is that what it's like for her, maybe? you obsess over the best way to word your support. she obsesses over the best way to avoid people entirely.

you will never take priority over the hustle and bustle of haphephobia.

she doesn't love you.

she won't.

slowly, your stomach rumbles like boots creaking on a floorboard. slowly, shame pools in your eyes. slowly, you feel like your feet are lifting off the ground, something slithering around your heart and constricting until you gasp. like a vine or something; something alive, with a mind of its own.

so fucking sick.

your feet carry you to the bathroom with lightning speed and you just make it before you cough, retch, gag, without control. your body fights with itself, you start to choke.

five minutes later, and your throat burns. you rise to your feet and spot the contents you emptied into the toilet. the sight elicits a sound of pure fear, shaken and hoarse.

if you felt like you were floating before, now, you feel like you have sunk.

amidst bile and blood lies a rosebud.

small, but not imperceptible by any means. you are doubtless, that is a goddamn piece of flower you just vomited.

"oh, fuck!"

you wipe your forehead and your arm comes back hot and wet. the world is turning upside down, it's trying to throw you off balance, but all you can do is stare at the rotten rose.

"hey siri, what does it mean if i'm throwing up fucking flowers?"

lovesick? hanahaki; the world's rarest disease.

"what the hell does this fucking mean?" you talk through your teeth, scanning article after article, desperate for any answer besides this.

there is none.

the disease may be removed through surgery, along with it however, the love.

you begin to cry—you think about her all over again. your breath stutters and shakes when you picture her holding your hair back. that will only ever exist in reverie.

ellie does not love you, and she never will. ellie cannot touch you, and she never will.

there are flowers in your lungs. the vines will proceed to grow, and however beautiful they may be, they will tighten. they will spread to your heart.

one day, thorns will pierce it.

it isn't about if, it's about when.

this is the beginning of the end.

because she has given you these flowers, and if they are the only thing she will ever give you, so be it. surgery is not in the question and it never fucking will be. ellie needs somebody who loves her.

"bronchitis? it's been like, two months since she first got sick. are you sure?" ellie asks.

sebastian nods. "yeah, no, she'll be fine. can you quit bitching and lock in? or i'm gonna take that controller and do it myself."

ellie simply raises her eyebrows and glances from seb to the controller in her hands. "dude, is there something going on? you can tell me, like, i do care. you can't seriously not be worried about her."

of course sebastian is far from content with your state of health at the moment. ellie can tell that it is worrying him, and when someone who is usually an open book starts deflecting and dodging questions, there is always something awry.

"she's fine," he says quietly.

ellie sighs softly, and continues at trying to beat this level of crash bandicoot that she and seb have been stuck on for a while. her mind walks astray, all the way back to you.

you never hang out anymore. when ellie sees you, you move with a lethargy she's never seen before. your druxy complexion made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. it's like you're rotting away. you're weak and bruising and tired.

she hasn't seen much of you lately, but every time she does, it is worse than the last. she feels that she is starting to forget your voice and your posture and your little habits. it's like something is missing. your sillage is stronger than you think. ellie feels it intensely these days.

there's an abrupt cluster of noises outside of seb's room suddenly—doors slamming and footsteps barreling towards the bathroom. two seconds later, you were heaving.

"what the hell is that, is that your sister?"

"move."

seb rushes past ellie and into the bathroom where he finds you kneeling, tears gleaming on your cheeks as you gurgle and gag over the toilet. he closes the door and quickly the revolting scent of sick is elevated. it's almost cloying. overpowering. like a perfume.

"what's going on, huh?" a clammy hand pushes your hair back for you, another rubbing your back in circles. he's not looking, of course he's not looking. the blank wall is far more enticing than the toilet. but that smell is putrid enough to make seb sick too.

"it— it hurts." you clutch at your stomach, sitting against the wall and attempting to get some air in again. it feels like you're clawing at your own throat, it keeps constricting and tightening, and your lungs can barely expand enough without irritating the vines that confine them.

you cough, and out comes two little petals. faded and rusty maroon, the edges fraying. you cough again, and they are covered in blood.

you look up and sebastian is looking into the bowl with despair. "what the fuck is that? what the fuck is that?"

"just, calm down, i'll explain."

"does the doctor know about this? the fuck did you do, eat seeds?"

"i wish." you choke on your own breath again, it is this never-ending barrage of coughing and spluttering right now.

"you tell me why there's a whole flower head in the fucking toilet."

"seb," you protest, "it's just—"

"why'd you fucking keep this from me? what's wrong with you?" he talks rough but he means well, ripping off a piece of toilet paper to wipe your mouth.

"i'm dying, seb. it's hanahaki."

your big brother looks at you like you have disgraced him. his eyes are wide and you've never seen them so shiny. you've never seen him look scared.

"what?"

ellie looks up when seb enters the room again. she opens her mouth to speak, to ask if you are alright, but he looks grim. he looks older.

he looks pissed.

"you need to get out."

"what?"

"leave. now, ellie. get out."

ellie feels her heart sink into her stomach and she gets up immediately, pulling on her chucks and stuffing the untied laces in as she rushes to gather her things.

"what'd i do? what's going on?" she asks. "is your sister okay—"

"don't. just get out."

fuck?

"okay, okay, shit, i'm going."

ellie hurries down the hallway and in doing so she crosses paths with you stepping out of the bathroom.

she bumps into you.

"oh—" you both hit the walls opposite each other and ellie places a palm over her chest to steady her heart. it beats like it wants out. "f-fuck."

"are you okay?" you ask, looking up to see ellie. you never meant to walk into her. you never meant to touch her. you touched. for two seconds, you got to feel her. she was warm, impossibly so. it's the same warmth in the feeling you get when you think of her already.

"shit, yea."

but you never meant to be the cause of her quivering lips and fluttering eyes.

and when she looks at you, ellie sees your knees buckling under your weight. she sees the bags beneath your eyes. she sees that you didn't mean to touch her.

"ellie, i said get the fuck out of our house," sebastian barks.

the last ellie saw of you was how rotten you have become. she's never seen somebody so sick in her life.

streaks of honey-toned sunlight filter through the window like stained glass as you sit by the toilet. you're shaking and humming to yourself some awful song to relieve the tension in your heart every time you breathe in. you have been here all afternoon since ellie left. it's getting dark.

you don't know if it was because you finally have some memory of what she feels like, or if it is because she's gone. but you are sitting like the unfortunate host to some terrible parasite ravaging your body. nothing that you can do but bask in your love.

"she's your best friend," you croak, looking up at seb. "i told you not to blame her. you shouldn't have been so mean."

"i don't care. i'm supposed to protect you. you're my baby sister." he shakes his head as memories spanning years pour through his mind. he's done now. "i am never letting her into our home ever again."

you play with a petal in your hand. it's so soft and squishy, it falls apart the moment you roll it up. a teardrop, thick and glittering, lands in the centre of your palm.

"it's not her fault," you whisper.

that night you think about ellie. she's alone.

is she crying? is she wondering what she did?

you're glad, on some level, that she has no idea. you don't want to imagine a world where she is apologetic for existing.

your mother is as furious as sebastian. maybe there is some imaginary scenario in their minds where ellie cruelly rejected you. that is the only possible reasoning for their hate that you can think of.

if you don't hate her, why should they?

they want you to get the surgery.

it was the quickest no you've said in your life. because ellie deserves to be loved, and you'll do it until it kills you.

ellie drove. she went as far as the gas in her tank would allow. she stopped in a remote parking lot just to scream. what the hell happened? in half an hour, she lost the only people she ever really trusted in her life.

she punched the horn on her wheel. she sobbed. she threw her gloves into the backseat and tried not to scratch her eyes out as she rubbed tears away.

what the fuck did i do? what did i do? why don't they trust me anymore? why are you so fucking sick?

she lies in bed, tossing and turning. she rubs over her arm, feeling the sillage of your touch. she tells herself it's okay. it was only you, after all. but she knows it was the softest collision, it didn't harm her—definitely couldn't have harmed her more than it did you. you looked so frail.

she knows you didn't mean to, and she saw guilt flash in your eyes. she wanted to tell you it wasn't anything to stress about, but the words were caught in her throat.

no wonder seb is tired of her. she's a pussy. a coward who freaked out over an accidental touch.

she didn't get any sleep that night, and neither did you—both terrified, both aching.

seb means well, you know he does. you know he is just angry at the world. he thinks that he is protecting you by cutting contact with ellie.

it's only speeding up your decline. it was always going to happen. your death is inevitable. it has been agonisingly slow, but this is all part of the cards you have been dealt. it's a waiting game.

missing ellie is the most painful thing you could be forced to do right now.

your brittle body can barely sustain enough energy to dry yourself down post-shower. you sit on the bathmat and drag the towel along your cool skin, trembling and shivering. your head pounds. there is a tremendous amount of mess left in the wake of your presence. wherever you go remains the fragrance of rose and rotting petals scattered like muddy footsteps.

you reach up and grab your phone off the counter once dressed, knowing you haven't the strength to pick yourself up and get to bed. you've needed to do this a few times, texting seb so he can come and help you back to your room.

on your lock screen your eyes are drawn to a notification from a name that makes you tense.

ellie: hey sweet girl i know it's been a while, i just wanted to know if you're doing okay. or if you knew why your big bro hates me. i miss you a lot, both of you. please talk to me. <3

oh, shit. it hurts more than anything you've ever felt. it knocks the wind out of your lungs, and in your head flashes memories so bright that a whimper leaves your mouth.

it used to feel magical. loving ellie used to feel like nostalgia. memories that ended abruptly because you couldn't get a grasp on her tangibility.

memories of ellie now feel like tumbling down a high hill, your stomach flipping and butterflies swarming the flowers she gave you. it couldn't end abruptly enough.

you aren't sure what to say—if you should say anything at all. sebastian wouldn't be happy with you for it.

but it would hurt her to ignore her. fuck, it would hurt you too.

it does hurt.

you crawl your way to the toilet, each step heavier than the last—it feels so far away that you almost give up.

every letter you attempt to type pains you. you gag as you rack your brain for any word you could use to soothe ellie. but all you feel is an immeasurable amount of guilt.

she can feel you slipping through her fingers and now you know it.

lying would be wrong. but the truth—the gruesome, inescapable truth—it won't do any favours here.

in a dingy work break room, ellie's knee bounces and she watches the little bubble appear and disappear cyclically as you find the words to respond to her. she doesn't even blink. not until the typing bubble goes away for good.

no response.

ellie has never felt this kind of isolation before. she knows silence. she knows what it's like to be alone. she was orphaned terrifyingly young and put through the foster system. she doesn't know how to make physical contact with other people without erupting like a volcano of molten tears.

somewhere down the line she made a friend, and he was great. so was his family.

you were the only one ellie had ever been unconditionally welcomed by. in the time that she has been resigned to quiet, ellie has been able to think. who are you?

well, you were never just his little sister. you were kind and shy and observant. sometimes ellie could ask questions about her own life and you'd remember the answer before she could. you were thoughtful.

ever since she was thrown out and made a spectacle of, ellie has felt as if someone dug a whole through her earth and into the void. she's missing something.

it cannot just be connection—that, she always felt was lost—but now more than ever, ellie is able to notice the role you played.

she was at the store. she couldn't decide what flavour of ice cream to eat her sorrows into. her eyes landed on your favourite. she walked out with a big tub of cookies and cream.

she was buying a new pack of superhero cards and her intuition failed her—she couldn't tell what would have had the most rares. not like you always could. she got home, tore away the packaging, and every card was one she already owned.

she was getting dressed and noticed a missing button on her shirt. she could've taken it to you. you'd've fixed it for her in a heartbeat.

she was given a weird look for her gloves. you would've assured her that her habits were okay as long as they made her okay, no matter if some stranger thought it was odd.

nobody to call a nerd. she was missing her sweet girl. her really, really sweet girl. that nickname was always fitting. you'd give her a classic half smile. god, she misses those.

ellie couldn't ever tell why you seemed so reluctant to accept verbal affection. she couldn't tell why someone like you would have any reason to be so insecure.

now it's all suspended somewhere she can't reach. the last thing she wants is to let it rest; to kill it, bury it, forget it, or to remain bereft and confused.

it has been three months.

ellie's been isolated for three months.

she hasn't laughed since she last saw you. she hasn't relaxed since she last knew if you were well. she hasn't spoken a word that wasn't mandatory since then.

she's felt her life lacking in light. every day is cold black and white, missing the sepia warmth that days spent with her best friends felt like.

maybe somewhere down the line things got lost in translation; somewhere in the blockade between her phobia and her connections to others, the meanings of ellie's friendships were crushed.

the realisation felt cold. it felt like a pit opening. and then it became out of control.

it started as this seed of doubt. you always did laugh a little too hard at the jokes she made.

malaise crept in. you never smiled until she looked at you.

guilt flooded her veins. you went forgotten so often but you never seemed to anger.

you were patient. too patient—so much that it may have worn you down. you were the shiniest star in the sky, she would do anything to protect you. so would seb.

and that was when it clicked. it wasn't a grand self discovery, it didn't inspire her some journey to valiantly storm over and fix things.

it made her scream.

he is protecting you.

and she hasn't known what to think, or even do, since realising.

it makes her feel small. ellie has only known avoidance since she was born. she's been complacent in the disregarding of her people because of haphephobia.

sebastian, and most importantly, you, were insignificant. her mind only had room for irrational or intrusive thoughts. and she knows it because when she tries to think back to those days and how she responded to your behaviour, she can only remember needing to be two feet away and pulling at her gloves.

she wasn't present. she inadvertently pushed you away.

now she thinks about what she would do if she could see you again. if she should see you again. if she were free of fear? maybe she'd try to hold you.

if only she weren't hopeless enough that the idea of that made her start to tremble.

you can tell the end is nigh because your soul hurts less than your body. it has deteriorated to the point of being bedridden, your eyelids heavier than ever, and a constant scent of sick and flowers lingers in your room.

you try to beg for a moment alone, but your illness is enough cause for concern that your mother and brother think you need their constant surveillance.

breathing hurts.

every breath is spent thinking of her.

the most unrealistic of dreams and visions flow through your mind to cope. in one of them, she let you die in her arms. it was all you thought about for days. would she let you?

would she pity you enough to put aside her trepidations and hold you? not to give you the memory you lust for, but only to let you show her the love she has been ignorant of?

would she let you die at all, if she knew?

isolation is your only option—contention has risen between you and your family because you refused the surgery. you've cried rivers and they could only understand so much of your pain. they tried to reason with you. let her go. remove it. she wouldn't even touch you. how could you possibly still want her?

but you can't stand it—it's far from as simple as letting go. you think ellie deserves someone's unconditional devotion, even if she has been blind to it; maybe one day she will learn from what she's missing, and she'll find someone who can give her what you wish you could have.

you wake in the late afternoon to a room dark and sepulchral, shivers rattling your body. lifting your head, you hear what you think might be yelling downstairs, but you're never sure these days what's real or fake.

you move upright and sit, stomach lurching with the motion. your ears prick, you catch the indisputable voice of someone you have missed, pleading, downstairs. no mental battle, no stopping to question yourself—it's like something possesses you. like a princess to a spindle, you make your way down the hall. little by little, you descend the stairs.

ellie. ellie, standing in the doorway, pleading with a stern sebastian.

you fucking retch at the mere sight of her, and you really hope she isn't insulted by that.

the few seconds where your eyes capture hers takes you out of your trance. your knees buckle beneath your weight and you yelp, but sebastian catches you before you hit anything hard enough to bruise.

"what are you doing up? it's bedtime."

"no," you try to say. "i heard yelling."

ellie feels a lump in her throat as she watches your brother scoop you up and carry you back up the stairs—you look at her over his shoulder, eyes sunken and half-lidded. the softness in your gaze is louder than your voice. she missed that look.

ellie follows. she feels sick even looking at you like this. like her lungs are tight and her heart is beating faster than as if she had ran a marathon.

you're laid down and the pillow is adjusted beneath your head. you make some noise between a wheeze and a sob, wishing to claim independence again.

"you're not up for walking around," seb mutters. he smooths your hair back and closes the blinds, and when he takes a step back and looks at you, he sighs shakily. you look small; not precisely in the physical sense, but in the nostalgic. this reminds him of when you were little. "you just need to rest."

"i want ellie," you whisper, looking up through tears. "i just wanna see her."

said girl is peeking into your room and alarmed to say the least—arrangements of stray petals covering the floor, their aroma barely covering the thickest fragrance of blood and bile.

what has she done to you?

she knew something was wrong. but did it have to be this?

ellie watches sebastian tuck the comforter up to your chin and turn the lamp off through the crack of the door. she doesn't have any time left. he'll make her leave. this will be her last glimpse of love.

"go to sleep, kiddo."

the door clicks shut behind him and you whimper soft cries in the dark, each sob with a sting worse than the last.

your eyes feel anchored shut. you roll to the side and the comforter falls, goosebumps spreading across the skin of your bare shoulder.

you try to wait around for sleep to take you. soon, a whisper fills the room, and you almost think it is unreal, simply because it rivals those in your dreams.

"sweet girl."

you peel your eyes open as much as you can, and watch as a pair of army green gloves are placed on your nightstand. pale skin then catches your eye; hands, crossing quaintly in her lap as she pulls your desk chair forward to sit.

her hands are shaking like leaves.

she can see your eyes straining to stay awake, glassy and unfocused. she can see your hand twitching with how much it wants her. she can see the slowness of your chest's rise and fall.

you try to speak, but she hushes you.

"i know," she murmurs. "save your energy."

your eyes rake over her again. that familiar strand has fallen wayward and is resting on her cheekbone. the rest of her hair is pulled back loosely. she's pouting again.

"is this real?" you gasp.

ellie's breath stutters and she glances between you and your outstretched, limp hand. closer she leans, and with precision, she wraps your hand in her own.

the contact is brutal.

you flinch—not ellie, you. for seconds, ellie tries to ignore the deafening sound of her heartbeat and takes in your temperature. your skin, soft and bitten, starts to warm as she squeezes your fingers. it's all light, as your hand feels like dead weight. she knows you're weak.

her hand isn't soft like you always thought. but it is warm, and it does make you feel safe. it feels homely. it rouses a chapped smile onto your face.

"i'm so proud of you," you say.

and ellie smiles back. do you ever grow tired of being so kind, she wonders?

aren't you upset with her?

she misses the way you try to squeeze her hand back, your body too fragile to make the effort count.

"i'm sorry," ellie says lowly.

she came back to you.

"i know."

and you know exactly why.

"i love you."

🏷️ @abbysdollie @valeisaslut @eriiwaii @emmap3rkins @ellieshothousewife @piercedome @therealhexstrap @jinxedbambi @heyimrye @rhian88 @g4ys0n @yoosohh @marvelwomenarehot0 @l0veylace

thank you for reading, likes + reblogs are really appreciated ♡ or comments if you want to make a girl cry happy tears. love you !! happy pride month guys !! (not me saying that like i didn't just post the most anti-sapphic angst fic.)