#anyway I had a hard time rereading the books

[cheriedivine]

𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 | Chapter 7

previous | chapter 7 | next

꩜ synopsis: you’re best friends. just best friends. except when she lingers a little too long at your door. except when she calls you her favorite, and it doesn’t feel like a joke. except when her fingers graze yours and neither of you pull away. except when you start to wonder if she’s wondering, too…

꩜ pairing: Ellie Williams x fem reader (No use of y/n)

꩜ content warnings: smoking, weed, smut (finally)

꩜ WC: 11.7k

꩜ Author’s note: THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING SMUT AND IM SO TERRIFIED PLZ… also thank u guys for the sweet comments and messages i’m over the moon grateful, this series is so special to me and it’s not even close to be done okay… y’all will get tired of my ass. Anyway enjoy the chapter love u happy pride month<3

୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧

"Wait, but when did you actually catch feelings for me, though?" you asked for what had to be the millionth time.

Honestly, Ellie didn’t mind repeating herself. If anything, she kind of loved it. The way you always wanted to hear it again, like replaying your favorite song over and over again. Every time she recalled it, she seemed to remember something new. Like the way your eyes lingered just a second too long on hers when you talked, or how your pinkies always seemed to find each other when you sat side by side. Small things. Things she could never forget.

September had slipped by quickly, and in the blink of an eye, October had arrived, trading warm evenings for cooler nights and scattering orange and brown leaves across the sidewalks. It had been a month since your first kiss, (Not like you were counting or whatever). A month of sleepovers, shared sweaters, tangled limbs, nonstop texting, and sneaking into the diner’s back office during your breaks for rushed makeout sessions. Maria had almost banned you from going back there altogether. Ellie had just grinned and said, “Worth the risk.”

“I’ve told you like, a hundred times,” she said now, clearly enjoying the way you whined for her to say it again.

The two of you were tangled up on her couch, limbs lazily thrown over each other. Ellie was supposed to be sorting through prints for her gallery, her best photos from the week. Some from your recent hangouts: walks in the park under trees turned orange, city crosswalks filled with motion blur, candids of you laughing or distracted, the occasional stray cat she couldn’t help but snap. She’d taken the gallery prep seriously. Of course she had to. But lately, it was like you kept happening to her, distracting and consuming in all the best, worst ways.

You sat curled up on the couch, legs tucked under yourself, a book open in your lap, rereading the same paragraph over and over. You weren’t even paying attention to the text. How were you supposed to focus when she looked like that? Her sleeves pushed up, veins visible along her tattooed forearm as she leaned over her table, elbows braced, studying the scattered prints.

“Your death stare is making it very hard for me to analyze these pictures,” she muttered without looking up.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm. I can feel it burning a hole through my skull.”

“Can’t help it,” you said, smiling. “You’re too pretty.”

God, the way that made her chest flutter. She shook her head, hiding a tiny smile. Trying to play it cool, but she was already blushing hard. She gathered up the prints and slid them into a folder, then walked over and dropped her full body weight onto you with a dramatic sigh. Her favorite move. Full body crush, almost knocking the air out of your lungs. Face buried in your chest like she could inhale you and forget the gallery pressure altogether.

You didn’t mind. Not even a little. You stroked her hair slowly, gently, like she was fragile, like you knew how much she needed softness. You stayed like that for a while, Ellie breathing you in, inhaling your scent like the oxygen she needed to live, her eyes were closed as you ran your fingers through her hair.

Both of you spent more time together. Even more than before. On the rare day you didn’t hang out because your schedules didn’t align, it felt like a tragedy. Like someone had sent her off to war. It was all so giddy, high school-level giddy. You felt like a teenager again…sneaking out of the group hangs early just to be alone with her. Play-fighting over who had to hang up first. So many dates, even if Ellie still stubbornly insisted on calling them hangouts like it made a difference. You’d been doing the romantic shit before you even kissed.

“C’monnn, just wanna make sure you weren’t secretly foolin’ me or something.” You pouted again, that same little face that made Ellie’s knees weak every time.

Ellie groaned and buried her face deeper into your chest, voice muffled. “I mean, what haven’t I told you?” Then she tilted her face to look up at you, cheeks slightly red from being squished against you.

“When we met I was basically obsessed with you. But I told myself, ‘Don’t be a creep, Ellie. This is why you only have one friend. Stop being delusional.’” She paused, a little smile tugging at her lips. “But with you, everything felt different. Like I didn’t have to hide. Still, I was too stubborn to admit I liked you like that. Lived in constant denial.”

You watched her talk. Taking in every expression, you could study her mouth and eyes for hours and never get bored. The way her brow furrowed when she talked about feelings. The way her voice softened at the edges when she looked at you like this. You’d heard this story before, at least a dozen times. And still, it made something warm unravel in your chest.

“So that explains the flirting with random girls?” you asked, raising an eyebrow in mock interrogation.

She groaned. “I had to cope in some way, plus seeing all those guys hit on you at the diner kinda ripped me apart, but didn’t say anything.”

“I told you,” you said, crossing your arms, “I laugh when I’m nervous. Doesn’t mean I liked it. Plus, I flirted with you all the time. You were just too hard-headed to notice.”

Ellie grabbed the nearest cushion and tossed it at your face.

Which of course triggered a full-blown pillow war.

You wrestled and squealed and laughed until Ellie gave up and surrendered. You were breathless, Ellie’s limbs sprawled on the couch, with you sitting between her legs, flushed and grinning.

And then she grabbed your face, gently leaning in, still catching her breath and kissed you like she’d been waiting all day to do it.

You think about it all the time. How everything but still nothing changed after the kiss, like it was always meant to go this way. There was no big moment or sudden change. Just small things that added up to everything.

Ellie started picking you up after your late shifts, waiting out front in her beat up truck with the heater cranked and a hoodie in the passenger seat for you to throw on. She always claimed you looked better in her clothes, especially that faded blue hoodie, the one she kept pretending she didn’t miss when you “accidentally” took it home.

Your hangouts had shifted into something else. There wasn’t that quiet, aching longing hanging in the air anymore, not in the same way. After that night at your apartment, Ellie promised she’d take you on a date. A real one.

Like the kind you’d gush about in those cheesy movies you love, and what better place to live out a cliché than the fair…where the air was thick with fried grease and too-loud pop music, and where she finally had a decent excuse to hold your hand on the roller coasters.

Neon lights blinked in seizure-inducing patterns while kids screamed on rickety rides in the distance. Ellie had dragged you from booth to booth, fully committed to her vendetta against rigged carnival games.

“I swear this is the one,” she said, squinting at the line of wobbling bottles.

“You said that about the ring toss. And basketball. And the darts.”

Her eyes locked on the duck shooting booth. Yellow plastic ducks glided across a narrow trough, jerking mechanically as bubbles popped around them.

“Oh,” she said, eyes glinting. “This is my game.”

You trailed behind her as she calmly gave the booth guy a crumpled five, taking her jacket off and handing it over to you.

She rolled up the sleeves of her flannel, revealing her forearms, tattoo on full display, veins trailing down to her hands like thunders on a stormy night and took her place at the mounted water gun like it was a sniper rifle.

You blinked. “Oh my god.”

She leaned in. Tongue poking out slightly. Face unreadably focused. Hands gripping the water gun with total control, like she’d done this before, maybe in a past life. The light caught the curve of her jaw just right, and your brain short-circuited.

You started to feel as if you had been lit up in fire, was it hot in here?

Ellie didn’t speak. She just adjusted her stance a little, lips pursed, and let the water stream rip. One by one, the ducks fell, each hit perfectly in the center like she had memorized the timing and rhythm.

By the time the buzzer rang, Ellie had cleared the whole line.

You stared at her, wide eyed. “What the fuck,” you breathed.

Ellie blew imaginary smoke from the tip of the gun. “Told you. My game.”

You gaped. “Are you secretly, like… ex-military?”

“Duck assassin,” she replied coolly, already pointing to a shelf of prizes.

She chose the smallest one, a crooked little stuffed bear with lopsided button eyes and shoved it into your arms in exchange of her jacket, like it wasn’t a big deal, even though she was clearly suppressing a smug smile.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Uh-huh.” She bumped her shoulder into yours. “You like the bear though.”

You did. Stupidly so.

You held it to your chest and muttered, “Yeah I do.”

She was grinning like stupid, tossing her jacket over your shoulders like a shield, as she grabbed your hand and dragged you to the next game.

You still sleep with that bear sometimes. Not that you’d ever tell her.

Another time, it was the planetarium. This one had been your idea, half-jokingly, you didn’t expect much when you pitched it, just a casual “we could go to the planetarium or whatever,” but when the words fell out of your lips Ellie’s eyes gleamed like a kid on christmas morning.

“No way,” she’d said, practically bouncing. “I thought you weren’t into that kind of stuff?”

“Wanna go or no?”

“Fuck yeah, I’m in.”

She’d shown up five minutes early, hair still damp from a rushed shower, hoodie zipped up to her chin, smelling faintly like mint and laundry detergent. Her eyes were wide, childlike, curious, like she wasn’t totally sure what she was about to walk into but her pulse rushed from the thrill.

Inside, the lights dimmed. The dome lit up. Stars bloomed across the ceiling like someone had torn open the sky. Ellie tilted her head all the way back, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. “Holy shit,” she whispered. “This is… fucking sick.”

You were already watching her more than the ceiling.

“Knew you’d like it,” you said, voice low.

She didn’t even respond. Just stared upward, entranced, like the stars were spelling out something only she could read.

Halfway through the show, during some slow narration about galaxies forming, you felt her hand brush against yours on the shared armrest. A light graze. Just the backs of your fingers, hesitant at first. Then she slid her pinky over yours, this time more purposeful. Like it was no big gesture, but you felt like the sun was imploding inside of you.

She didn’t say anything, didn’t look at you, just linked your fingers together, her thumb tracing small circles over yours, soft and delicate.

Her voice stayed low the whole time, whispering random facts on your ear, with the sweetest tone, like she couldn’t help herself.

“Neptune’s winds are faster than the speed of sound,” she muttered. “Like… hypersonic. That’s insane.”

“Mmhm,” you hummed, too distracted by the glint in her eye.

“And Jupiter’s Great Red Spot is a storm. Like a storm. It’s been raging for three hundred years and it’s big enough to fit Earth inside it, like—” she made a quiet whooshing sound, “—in one bite.”

Her hand squeezed yours a little. Like she got excited and forgot she was even holding you.

You nodded. “That’s… intense.”

She shot you a glance. “You’re not listening, are you?”

She could’ve told you the sun was made of hot dogs and you wouldn’t have noticed. You were too busy staring at her profile, glowing faintly blue under the artificial sky.

“Yeah, no sorry I got a bit lost, what did you say?”

Ellie smirked, a bit shy now. “Nothing.”

She leaned in slightly, placing a quick peck on the top of your head, breathing in your perfume, then turned away, but she saw the smile tug at your lips.

After the show, you walked out into the cool night air, fingers still brushing like they weren’t quite ready to let go.

“I’m not usually, like… a space person. But that was cool.” You said, as you walked out into the night.

Ellie bumped her shoulder into yours. “You’re a space person now. Deal with it.”

You gave her a look, maybe more earnest than you meant it to be. “Only because of you.”

She paused. Looking at you. Then shoved her hands in her hoodie pocket and looked away, clearly fighting a smile.

“Whatever,” she mumbled, ears a little pink. “You’re welcome.”

You both stood there for a second, silent.

But your favorite one was definitely the arcade date. You hadn’t planned it, it was just one of those random afternoons where Ellie showed up at the diner unannounced, leaning against the doorframe waiting for your shift to be over, with that smug little grin of hers.

“You busy?” she asked, truck keys twirling around her fingers.

You weren’t. Not even a little.

The drive was filled with chatter, windows rolled down, music loud, and Ellie’s hand tapping against the steering wheel, like she was playing the backup drums on whatever song was playing. You were both laughing, until you passed a neon sign that read ARCADE & PIZZA, you practically almost turned the wheel yourself.

“Wait Ellie turn around—pull over.”

Ellie flinched. “Okay okay— Jesus you scared me for a second.” You grinned, already unbuckling your seatbelt as Ellie pulled over the parking lot.

“I haven’t been to an arcade since I was like twelve I think” you said as you threw Ellie’s hoodie over your head.

“Wow. Nerd” she snorted, earning a small kick on her heel.

Inside, it smelled like childhood. Pizza and dusty carpets, it was oddly nostalgic. The place was loud, packed with kids and their parents, and a couple of teenagers. Neon lights were blindingly colorful, you felt like your twelve year old self again.

“Alright,” she said, cracking her knuckles dramatically. “Where the competition at?”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe over there, at Jason’s 9th birthday party.” you joked, pointing at the table surrounded by little kids.

Ellie scoffed, “Pffft, easy wins, where is the real competition at?" she glanced over at you.

Oh, you knew where this was going.

“Just say you want to get your ass kicked by me, Williams, not that hard.”

Her grin widened. “You’re on now. Loser pays for the winner’s pizza.”

“Deal.” Both of you squeezed your hands, like you were making some sort of business deal, but this was way more serious.

You didn’t know Ellie had a competitive streak until she practically shoved a 10-year-old out of the way to get to the skee-ball machine.

“Ellie,” you hissed. “You can’t just—”

“He was taking forever,” she snapped, already rolling the ball with deadly focus. “I got shit to prove.”

She won three games in a row.

“Okay, what the fuck,” you growled, staring at the air hockey scoreboard like it had insulted your ancestors. “You’re cheating. There’s no way.”

“You’re just bad,” she teased, throwing the small ball in the air and catching it with her hand. “Maybe I should give you lessons. Private ones.”

“Wow. Cocky.”

“I mean, I did just wipe the floor with you.”

“Oh yeah?” you leaned forward, tempting her, but then you turned around, spotting the motorcycle racing game. Two bikes. One screen. Destiny.

You dragged her over the machine, both mounted the fake bikes revving them like you’d trained your whole lives. Ellie leaned forward, focused her hands gripping the throttle. Her tongue poked out, focused. You knew that look.

Meanwhile you adjusted yourself on the seat, inserting the quarters on the coin slot, your back was slightly arched, causing your shirt to ride up a little and making the small dimples on your lower back visible. Ellie almost fell from her bike at the sight of that. And you weren’t even aware.

“It’s over for you Williams, prepare to eat dust.” you teased.

“You fucking wish.”

The countdown started and the game launched. You took the lead, she trailed behind you, both leaning into turns like you were actually swerving through a neon-lit city. At one moment, your eyes drifted toward Ellie’s arms, her forearm tattoo flexing, adorned by her pulsing veins from gripping the bike handle. God it was unfair—you almost forgot you were in a competition with her.

“Hey, eyes on the road,” she joked, but she was secretly enjoying your staring.

In the end? You won. Throwing your arms up in celebration. “HA. SUCK IT.”

Ellie blinked at the scoreboard in disbelief, “No. Rematch. Right now. My screen lagged.”

“Boohoo excuses are for losers.” you laughed so hard you almost fell off your bike.

The next stop was the dance machine.

Ellie looked skeptical. “I don’t know, dude…”

You were already dragging her by the hoodie. “Nope. No backing out. It’s fate.”

She rolled her eyes but followed. “If I break my ankle, I’m blaming you.”

The game started. The song was fast, the tiles lit up like a rave, and the both of you? Horrible dancers. Absolutely terrible.

You couldn’t stop laughing. Ellie missed the first five steps, almost fell twice, and kept yelling “this is a fucking death trap!” like the machine was out to get her.

But then, something shifted.

Halfway through, she got weirdly into it. Jaw set. Eyes sharp. She started nailing every step, stomping on the lit tiles like she was born in a dancing tournament. She even grabbed your waist at one point, spinning you into position like it was a choreographed number.

“Are you sabotaging me?” you shrieked.

“This is war,” she said, dead serious.

She won that round. You demanded a rematch. She won again.

“Okay,” you panted, doubled over. “You win this one.”

“Jealous.”

“You literally looked like you were summoning demons with your feet.”

“And?”

You played other games after that. Basketball hoops. Whack-a-mole. She tried to win you a prize at the claw machine and got so mad she almost kicked it.

But then— you saw it. The air hockey table.

You gasped. “Oh no.”

Ellie followed your gaze. “Oh yes.”

You both slammed quarters into the machine. Ellie narrowed her eyes, “I’m going to annihilate you.” she said.

You smirked. “You literally just lost the motorcycle race.”

Ellie sighed like a martyr. “Fine. But I’m not holding back.”

“You’ve never held back in your life.”

You both slid your coins in. The machine lit up with that familiar vvvvvmmm of the puck loading up. Ellie rolled her shoulders, cracked her knuckles, and positioned herself like she was about to defuse a bomb. You grabbed your paddle like it was a mortal weapon.

The puck dropped.

The first point? Yours. Quick and clean.

“Fuck yeah!” you whooped, lifting your arms.

Ellie pointed dramatically. “Beginner’s luck.”

The next round? She scored while you were still dancing from your previous win.

“Rude!” you cried.

“Focus up,” she said, eyes glinting.

You both got so intense. The puck clacked across the table like a bullet. Your knuckles started aching from the collisions. Ellie was muttering things like “calculated trajectory” and “this is physics, baby,” which was ridiculous and also extremely hot.

The score climbed. 4 to 4. 5 to 5. 6 to 6.

Final point.

She squinted at you over the rim of the table. “Winner gets a kiss.”

You blinked. “You just made that up.”

“So?”

“…Fair.”

The puck shot out again, and for a moment, everything slowed. Ellie lunged. You twisted your paddle. The puck bounced off the wall—

—and slid right into her goal.

You blinked. Slowly. Then looked up.

Victory.

Ellie just stood there, stunned. Paddle slack in her hand.

“I think you’re choking,” you said softly. “Want some victory soda?”

She groaned, dragging both hands down her face. “I hate this stupid game. This game is rigged. It’s broken.”

“You’re a bad loser, you know that?” you grinned, crossing your arms.

“Can I at least get a consolation prize?” she pouted, and gave her a small kiss on her cheek.

Those memories blurred together now. Warm and fast, like a highlight reel you couldn’t help but replay in your head. The way Ellie had looked at you in the planetarium, her face glowing with stars. The way her tongue poked out when she focused, sleeves rolled up, eyes sharp, and tattoo flexing. The way her hand gripped your waist during that stupid dance game, both of you laughing too hard to breathe.

You hadn’t slept together yet…not all the way, but the tension had started blooming between you in glances and lingering touches and shared hoodies, every moment a little more fragile. All of it, layered like sediment, the slow, quiet shift between friendship and whatever this had become.

Now, Ellie was lying on top of you like a human blanket, gallery prints long forgotten, the curve of her nose pressed into your chest. She was supposedly taking a break,though it had turned into her full-body flopping onto you with all the drama of someone who hadn’t slept in three days. You threaded your fingers through her hair, scratching lightly at her scalp the way you knew she liked. She let out a hum, breath slow and even against your collarbone.

“You’re supposed to be working on your gallery,” you reminded her softly, lips brushing the crown of her head.

“M’working,” she mumbled. “Just horizontally.”

“Ellie.”

She groaned into your chest. “Just five more minutes.”

“You said that fifteen minutes ago.”

“Well now I mean it.”

You smiled despite yourself, thumb brushing over her temple. Her whole body was warm and heavy and tangled with yours, one of her legs slung over both of yours, her arm wrapped lazily around your waist. She wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

Ellie sighed dramatically, face still smushed into your chest. “Mmm. Don’t wanna do the gallery. Hate the gallery. Gallery sucks.”

You laughed. “You’re the one who’s been obsessing over it for weeks.”

“Yeah, but right now I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Laying on top of the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Very important.”

You rolled your eyes, heart doing the embarrassing flutter it always did when she said shit like that. You ran your fingers through her hair again, feeling her melt further into you.

There was a pause. Soft. Heavy.

Then Ellie looked up, that specific gleam in her eye that always meant trouble.

“What if we ditched this gallery prep bullshit for a little while?” she said.

You raised a brow. “And do what, exactly?”

“I dunno. Go for a drive. Kidnap a raccoon. Smoke a joint on the beach. Something not involving fluorescent lights and burn out.”

You bit your lip. Thinking about it. The clock blinked past 10 pm. The apartment was quiet. The weight of October air clung outside the windows, thick and chilly.

You sat up slightly. “Wait. Beach?”

Ellie grinned. “Beach.”

You both got up immediately, snatching your jackets and hoodies, slipping into your shoes in a rush. You grabbed your bag as Ellie tossed a blanket at you and snatched her keys before the two of you hurried out of the studio.

The windows were cracked. Your hair whipped around your face in the night wind. Ellie drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting absentmindedly on your thigh, her thumb tracing light circles over the fabric of your jeans.

She looked free, wind in her hair, face lit up by the passing headlights, radio humming low.

You couldn’t stop smiling.

The beach was mostly deserted, just the soft hum of the tide and the faraway glow of streetlights behind you. You hopped out of the truck, the sand sticking on your shoes damp beneath your feet.

Ellie tossed you her hoodie, hitting you straight to your face.

“Hey!”

“You’ll thank me later,” she grinned.

You pulled it on without protest. It smelled like her cologne, warm and familiar. “Thanks.”

“Race you to the shore!” she shouted, already kicking off her boots.

“Wait!” you laughed, fumbling with your own shoes before taking off after her. Your bag bounced against your side with every step, slipping off your shoulder as you ran, breathless and giggling as the cold air filled your lungs.

At one point, Ellie turned suddenly and knocked you off balance, wrapping her arms around you as she spun you both around. You tumbled to the ground in a heap, landing right on top of her, both of you breathless, your cheeks flushed from the cold and the rush of it all.

You turned onto your side, propping yourself up on your elbow as you looked at her.

“It’s… really nice out here.”

“Yeah,” she murmured, brushing the sand from her jeans as she stood. Then she held out a hand. “Come on. Let’s take a walk.”

You slipped your fingers into hers without hesitation, like muscle memory. Like saying yes to her had always been easy.

The two of you wandered toward the water, the waves stretching out endlessly before you.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as you walked, a light breeze brushing over your skin, carrying the scent of salt and earth. Ellie’s jeans were cuffed above her ankles, feet bare, toes sinking into the wet sand beside yours.

She was quiet for a while, and you didn’t rush her. The silence was soft between you, not heavy.

Then, almost like she was thinking out loud, she said, “I think I’m burnt out.”

You glanced over, watching her eyes follow the moonlit waves. “From the gallery?”

She nodded. “Yeah. It’s like… the more I try to prepare, the more it feels like I’m running on empty. Like I’m squeezing everything out of myself and there’s nothing left to give.” She gave a small laugh, dry and tired. “Kinda pathetic.”

“It’s not pathetic,” you said gently. “You’ve been putting your whole heart into it. That’s a lot.”

Ellie didn’t answer right away. She just kept walking.

“Maybe,” you added after a beat, “you don’t need to squeeze anything out. Maybe you just need to breathe a little. Let yourself recharge.”

She looked at you then. Really looked at you. And something in her expression softened.

“Maybe some fresh air is exactly what you needed,” you said, nudging her shoulder lightly. “Who knows—maybe the ocean brings back your inspiration.”

But her inspiration was standing right in front of her, with wide eyes and a soft smile, that same smile that reassured her from her doubts and fears, that made her believe everything was gonna be alright.

Ellie snorted. “Yeah maybe.”

You kept walking a little farther until the sand grew softer and untouched, the sound of the waves a little gentler here. Ellie paused, scanning the area before she pulled the blanket out from where it had been tucked under her arm.

She laid it down carefully, smoothing it out before sinking onto it with a sigh. You sat beside her, legs crossed, watching as she leaned back on her hands and tilted her head toward the sky.

The stars were scattered and quiet tonight. The kind you could get lost staring at without realizing how much time had passed. A breeze passed over you both, cooler now, but comforting. Ellie’s arm brushed yours as she shifted slightly to get more comfortable.

The sound of the waves filled the silence between you, steady and calming. You both had your jeans cuffed, ankles cold and damp from the water. The blanket was barely big enough for two. Your knees were touching.

Ellie was rummaging through the pocket of her jacket with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Boom.”

She held up a perfectly rolled blunt between two fingers like she was revealing a magic trick.

You blinked, then burst out laughing. “You’re gonna get me fired, you know that?”

“Please,” she scoffed, pulling out a lighter, “you can just live with me and be my muse forever. I’ll make you coffee in the mornings. Feed you clementines while you read on the couch.”

She lit the blunt, taking a painfully slow drag, and passed it to you. The smoke curled around her lips and you wanted nothing else but to press yours against hers.

“Muse salary probably sucks.”

“It does,” she admitted. “But the benefits include me and… me, and cuddling 24/7.”

“Wow. How could I resist.”

You took a hit, coughing just a little on the exhale. The haze settled slowly over your limbs, warmth spreading through your chest and cheeks. Time slipped a little sideways.

The blunt moved back and forth between you in a rhythm as natural as breathing. The stars were pinpricks above the ocean, shimmering, scattered, infinite.

Ellie leaned back on her elbows, gaze fixed on the sky. “You ever think about how the light we’re seeing from some of those stars started traveling toward us before the human brain even existed?”

You tilted your head toward her, confused, blinking slowly. “What?”

“Like… we’re looking at the past. Some of those stars could already be dead. We’re just seeing the ghost of them.”

You stared at her, momentarily forgetting about the blunt burning between your fingers.

“You’re literally the nerdiest person I’ve ever met.”

“Thanks. I try.”

The blunt burned lower in Ellie’s fingers, smoke curling around her jawline, eyes soft and half-lidded as she looked at you.

“You’re staring again.” Her voice was low and teasing but not like before. This wasn’t about calling you out. This was about pulling you in.

You didn’t look away. You didn’t even try.

“You look really pretty right now.”

Her brows raised a little, almost surprised. But she didn’t deflect it, didn’t joke it away this time. Just blinked, slowly, lips parting.

She kept going, voice soft and raspy from smoke and salt air. “And Earth moves through space at like, 67,000 miles per hour. Which means no matter what we do, even if we’re just sitting here, we’re still flying through the void. Isn’t that kind of fucked up?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at her. With her messy hair, jeans cuffed like a little boy, freckled face lit up in moonlight and awe. She looked like she belonged up there, with all the stars and the galaxies, floating above you like in a dream. And she kept gesturing toward the sky, completely unaware of the way her words made your ribs tighten.

You blinked slowly, a breath catching behind your teeth.

God. I’m really falling in love with her. Was all you could think about.

Not in the loud, crashing way. Not like the movies. No. This felt quieter. More dangerous. Like something blooming in the dark. Like the soft ache of knowing, really knowing…that if you let yourself, you’d never stop wanting her. Not just her body, not just her kisses. But her.

The way she got really quiet when she was focused. The way she always turned down the volume on her phone before coming into your apartment. How she knew the difference between your tired silence and your mad silence. How she never let your coffee go cold. The way she let you rest your head on her lap without making a big deal about it. The way she touched you like she didn’t realize she was doing it.

Something that always came back. The way she looked at you like maybe, just maybe, she already knew.

You passed the blunt back to her with a shaky hand, trying not to exhale your whole damn soul.

“You okay?” she asked, catching your eyes for a second too long.

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek to ground yourself. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

She smiled at you, all teeth and freckles and affection. And you were doomed.

You wanted to kiss her and tell her how far fucking gone you were, that she has already ruined you and there is no turning back. Instead, you just smiled, barely.

“You ever just… forget how good this feels?” Ellie asked quietly, her voice rough with honesty. “Like the world gets so loud, and you forget how simple it can be to just stop for a second?”

You turned your head, so you could look at her. “Yeah. I think we forget to stop because we’re scared everything will fall apart if we do.”

Her eyes flicked to yours, gentle and tired. “Yeah...”

You smiled faintly, the sound of the tide folding over itself again in the background. “Guess that’s what fresh air’s good for.”

Ellie huffed a small laugh through her nose, and without thinking, she reached for your hand in the space between you. Her fingers grazed yours before curling around them, warm and sure.

Neither of you said anything after that. You didn’t need to.

She took another drag and leaned her head back to stare at the sky. “Fuck man, I should’ve brought my camera, the view is unbelieveable,”

You sighed dramatically, then reached into your bag. “Oh, Ellie…”

She glanced over, puzzled, until you pulled out her camera and held it up triumphantly.

“No fucking way,” she laughed, sitting up straighter, her entire face lighting up. “You’re the best. Are you kidding me?”

“You think I don’t know you by now?” you said, handing it over. “I saw it sitting by your keys and figured you'd regret leaving it behind.”

She shook her head in disbelief, already adjusting the lens. “God, you’re unreal.”

You blushed, trying to play it cool, but it was impossible with the way she was looking at you—like you were some rare artifact she'd just unearthed.

Then she brought the viewfinder to her eye. “Don’t move.”

You froze. “What?”

“Stay like that,” she said, voice softer now, focused. “You look—just stay.”

The shutter clicked once. Twice. She shifted slightly, capturing you from another angle, then tilted the camera up toward the sky, the stars, the waves behind you. The sound of the shutter was rhythmic and careful, like she was trying to memorize every second.

She lowered the camera slowly, then looked at you again, really looked. The way the moonlight enhanced your features and the air blew your hair in all the right directions, like slow motion, she couldn’t hold herself back, she didn’t have to anymore.

Ellie leaned in, cupping your face in both hands, her thumbs brushing just beneath your cheekbones. Her touch was warm and steady, like she was grounding herself through you.

Then she kissed you. Firm and certain.

It wasn’t soft, not this time. It was hungry. Her lips moved against yours with purpose, urgency threading through every second. You melted into her touch instantly, your hands finding her waist and pulling her closer until there was no space left between you.

Her hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, her blunt abandoned somewhere in the sand beside you. And you kissed her back like you could bury the ache under your tongue and hope she didn’t feel the way you melted against her.

She tasted like weed, salt and chapstick and something inherently her. Your fingers tangled in the fabric of her jacket, clinging to her like she was the only thing tethering you to the earth.

When you shifted, she followed, leaning into you as the kiss deepened, her hand slipping to the back of your neck, thumb still grazing your skin like she couldn’t stop touching you.

You broke apart just long enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together, your lips brushing as you smiled against her mouth.

She looked at you through half-lidded eyes, flushed and dazed. “You’re so fucking pretty,” she murmured. “It’s not fair.”

And when you finally pulled back, she didn’t move far, her forehead bumped gently against yours, eyes still closed. Neither of you said anything for a moment. You just breathed together.

“We should probably…” she whispered, voice hoarse, like she wasn’t sure where that sentence was going.

“Go home?” you offered, a little breathless, a little terrified.

Her eyes opened, hazy and low-lidded.

“Yeah. Home.”

But her fingers didn’t leave your cheek right away. And when you finally stood, brushing sand off your jeans, folding the blanket with shaking hands and adjusting your bag, you felt Ellie’s hand on your wrist.

“Wait.”

You turned just in time for her to grab your waist and hoist you up with a laugh, throwing you over her shoulder like you weighed nothing.

“Ellie!” you shrieked, kicking your legs, your fists beating half-heartedly against her back. “You’re gonna make me fall on my ass!”

“Relax,” she snorted. “I’ve got you.”

Your voice was muffled by your own laughter, face buried in the fabric of her jacket.

She finally set you down by the car, both of you breathless with laughter, your heart was still thudding from more than just the chaos. Her hand lingered at the small of your back as you climbed in, and you sat there for a second, staring out at the ocean one last time, still high from the weed and the kiss.

The car ride home was awfully quiet. But not the kind that meant nothing was happening. It was the kind of quiet that pulsed. That built up like crashing waves.

Ellie’s hand had been resting on your thigh the whole way. Her thumb traced slow, lazy circles into your skin over the fabric of your jeans, and the warmth of her touch was burning through you.

You shifted in your seat. Crossed and uncrossed your legs, then stilled, because the pressure of her hand there firm, warm, claiming, was making your brain short circuit.

The music was low. Just a beat, pulsing through the speakers. Her fingers flexed slightly against your thigh every time the bass dropped. You didn’t even know what song was playing. Neither of you said anything. But your skin was on fire, your mouth dry, and the only thing you could focus on was how badly you wanted her. Right here. Right now. And it was obvious, painfully, dangerously obvious…that she felt it too.

All you could think about was her mouth. The way she’d kissed you back on the beach. The way she tasted. The way her hand had cradled your jaw like you were precious and hers and ruinable all at once.

Your breath caught in your throat when her fingers squeezed your thigh a little, just enough. But she didn’t say anything. Just kept driving. Eyes focused on the road. Her lips parted, jaw set tight. Like she was holding herself back from something.

When she parked, neither of you moved.

A beat passed.

Then two.

And then you opened the door, heart hammering.

Ellie was behind you in a second, grabbing the blanket, your bag, the abandoned water bottle in the cupholder. And still, somehow, her hand found the small of your back as she guided you inside.

By the time she pushed open her apartment door, something had already shifted.

Because the second it clicked shut behind you…She dropped everything. Your bag hit the floor. The blanket was halfway off your arm when her hands grabbed your waist and yanked you in like she’d been starving.

Your back hit the wall with a soft thud. Her lips found yours instantly. Messy, hot, urgent.

You gasped, one hand flying to her shoulder, the other tugging at her jacket like it offended you that she was still wearing it.

The weed still in your system made everything so much more intense. Her mouth, her scent, the drag of her hands over your waist. It was like every nerve in your body had been rewired just for her.

She kissed you like she was burning up, rushed, teeth knocking, too much tongue, but somehow that just made it better. Sloppier. Desperate.

You smiled against her mouth, and her hand immediately grabbed your jaw, angling your face the way she wanted.

Your fingers dug into her shoulders, dragging her closer. “Ellie—”

“Yeah?” Her voice was ragged. Her lips brushed your jaw. Your throat. Your collarbone.

“Your room—”

You didn’t finish the sentence. Because she kissed you again, like she already knew.

You both stumbled messily toward her room, laughter and breath tangled between kisses. Ellie’s fingers tightened around your hand, grounding herself in the feeling of your skin. Her head was spinning, not just from the weed but from the fact that this was real. You were here, touching her like you needed her.

She silently thanked herself for tidying up earlier, the faint scent of cedarwood and laundry detergent curling around the space like an invitation. There were no distractions. Just you, her, and the electric charge buzzing between every touch. You kicked off your shoes without thinking, and she was already guiding you back, hands firm at your waist as she gently eased you onto the bed. Her body followed, urgent, reverent, starved—lips crashing against yours like waves meeting the shore. You didn’t hesitate. You pulled her closer. She hovered for just a beat, eyes devouring the sight of you, flushed and waiting.

No lens could ever even come close to capturing the way her eyes saw you, the glistening on your face, with your pupils dilated and lips puffy, something holy worth waking up to, like a small prayer whispered before risking everything you got.

She didn’t waste any second, she was all over you, like smoke lingering in the air after you’d shared a cigarette. Intimate. Sharing the object that had been around your lips and hers, she always inhaled a little too hard, like maybe she could taste you through the nicotine filling her lungs.

But now she could have you. In this moment, she laid on top of you, and you were looking at her with those wide, doe eyes. And right now, nothing else in this room, or in this world, mattered. You were waiting for her just as much as she had waited for you.

Your fingers grazed her collarbone, tugging slightly at the fabric of her shirt, pulling her in, as if you’d die if you didn’t taste her in this second, like your life depended on it. She reciprocated, lips hungry—slow, memorizing the crevices of your mouth, giving you entrance to her own, tongues swirling around, slow dancing together.

Ellie cupped your face, her calloused fingertips rough against your tender skin, tickling your flushed cheeks. She trailed kisses from your lips to your jaw, her mouth hot and open tingling on every spot, you sat up slightly, and Ellie took it as her cue to lower her lips to your neck, warm breath hovering the flesh of your neck, as she left open mouth kisses, like she was trying to memorize the rhythm of your pulse with her lips.

Your hands were tangled on her auburn hair, fingers pulling softly with each kiss.

A small moan slipped past your lips, you tried to cover it by snuggling your face into Ellie’s neck, but she noticed.

And oh lord—she wanted to replay that little sound for the rest of her life.

Something shifted in her. Primal. She was starving for you. She needed to cover every inch of your skin with her mouth, trace a map across your body, taking note of every sweet spot that made you squirm under her.

God she was high on you, just by kissing. Pathetic.

You pulled back to look at her again, and the look she gave you?

Fuck. It was unraveling you.

Slowly, you pressed your lips to hers again, the kiss deepened. Messy, sloppy, perfect.

Hands roamed slow and lazy, tangled in fabric and hair, fingers trailing like they had nowhere else to be. Then, suddenly, the weight shifted. You felt an arm slide beneath your back, the other steadying you both. And before you could say something , Ellie pulled you up, lifted like you weighed nothing and settled you gently into her lap. Your thighs bracketed hers now, knees sinking into the bed, your lips still locked together.

Now both of you were chasing dominance with your tongues, breathy moans and low groans spilling between kisses. Ellie's hands rested on each side of your hips, gripping the soft flesh, digging her fingers into your skin.

Meanwhile you lowered your hands down to her stomach, slipping under her shirt. Her skin was warm and soft, so soft. You traced little circles with your fingertips as your hands traveled to her back.

Ellie broke the kiss for a second, catching her breath, and when her eyes met yours, she knew—

You needed her as much as she needed you.

She gave you a small nod— permission, and you took it as a welcome sign.

You lifted her shirt slowly, as if you were giving her the chance to say something, to stop you. But she didn’t. She raised her arms letting you tug it off completely and tossed it aside. Bare freckled skin now only framed by the black sports bra she wore, muscles tensing from the shyness she suddenly felt.

She followed immediately, helping you out of your shirt, leaving you in your bra. Ellie had been waiting for this moment since that night she’d accidentally caught a glimpse through your door. The image of your bare back, the strap of your bra. It had been burned into her memory ever since.

She was so caught up in that thought, she didn’t even realize when you shifted your weight completely and she was now the one lying beneath you, with your knees caging her hips.

Ellie’s breath caught in her throat, her hands instinctively settling on your clothed thighs. You could feel her heartbeat pounding beneath your palms, a steady drum that matched your own. She looked up at you like you were a miracle. Her pupils were blown, partly from you and from the weed, lips parted, and you could see the faintest tremble in her chest as she tried to keep her breathing even.

You dipped your head, brushing your lips over hers, soft and slow. A kiss like a secret. One she’d never tell anyone else but you. You pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes—her lashes fluttered, lips chasing yours, already missing the contact.

Her hands moved, skimming up your thighs, slipping under the hem of your bra strap. Her touch was reverent, like she didn’t quite believe this was real.

“You’re so…” she whispered, voice barely there, but the rest of the sentence vanished in your mouth as you kissed her again. Deeper this time, your tongue sliding past her lips, tasting her like she was something you needed to survive.

Your hips shifted, rocking forward just slightly, and the sound Ellie made.

Fuck.

A soft, breathless whimper was enough to make your head spin.

Her fingers dug into your waist, pulling you closer, anchoring you to her. You could feel her muscles tense beneath you, her body responding to every inch of you.

“Tell me this is real,” she breathed, voice cracking around the edges, raw and so full of need it made your chest ache.

“It’s real,” you whispered against her lips. “I’m here.”

You leaned down again, trailing kisses along her jaw, down her neck, your lips brushing the shell of her ear. Ellie let out a shaky exhale, her hands sliding up your back, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine.

You smiled, teeth grazing her collarbone. Ellie groaned softly, arching into you as your kisses grew messier, more urgent, like you were trying to mark her soul with your mouth. She let you take your time, let you explore her inch by inch like she was sacred territory.

When you sat up again, her hands followed your movement. One trailing along your ribs, the other cradling your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. The way she was looking at you then? Like you were starlight. Like she’d never let anyone else touch you the way she did.

You leaned into her touch and whispered, “You okay?”

Ellie nodded, eyes glassy, lips swollen, chest rising and falling like she’d just run a mile.

“Better than ever.” She looked completely undone, flushed cheeks, strands of hair sticking to her forehead, eyes drunk on the sight of you.

You leaned in slowly, like you were about to worship her. Your lips ghosted over hers, brushing once, twice, teasing. Cruel. And when you finally kissed her, it was all teeth and tongue, heat and hunger.

She groaned into your mouth, hands sliding up your sides and gripping your waist like she was trying to keep herself grounded to the moment. But she couldn’t, not while you were grinding down on her, slowly, hips rolling just enough to make her curse against your lips.

“Fuck—” she gasped, breaking the kiss as her head fell back into the pillow, exposing the long line of her neck.

You didn’t waste the opportunity.

You pressed your mouth to her throat, biting softly just below her jaw, then trailing your tongue over the spot like an apology. Her fingers slipped under the band of your bra, thumbs brushing over the underside of your breasts, breath coming out in shallow, desperate pants.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” she muttered, voice rough and broken.

You pulled back to look at her, lips wet and a little swollen, eyes hazy.

“Yeah?” you whispered, breath brushing her cheek. “What are you gonna do about it?”

That lit something in her. She sat up just enough to crash your mouths together again, teeth clashing, tongue tangling with yours in a messy, frantic kiss. One of her hands slid down, gripping your ass, pulling your body harder against her lap, hips bucking up with zero shame.

You gasped into her mouth, nails dragging down her back, and Ellie cursed again. Low, and filthy.

“Can I?” she whispered into your mouth, hands moving to unclasp your bra, her voice trembling with restraint.

You let her—let her strip you bare, skin flushed and burning. She stared for a second, like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing, then she leaned forward and kissed the top of your breast, slowly, her mouth trailing lower. Her tongue flicked across your nipple and your head fell back with a moan, hips grinding down on instinct, desperate for friction.

Ellie groaned when she felt it, her hands grabbing your waist and helping you move, guiding you to rock against her in slow, aching circles.

“That’s it,” she whispered, her voice wrecked. “Just like that.”

Your hands tangled in her hair, tugging with each roll of your hips. Every kiss got sloppier, every sound louder, every breath more frantic. Ellie was everywhere—mouth on your chest, hands gripping your ass, hips thrusting up into you like she couldn’t fucking help it.

You felt drunk on her—on the heat, the pressure, the want of it all. And when she looked up at you again, eyes glassy, lips slick, it was over for you.

“I need you,” you said, barely audible, but it was enough.

Her hands stilled, holding you there. “You have me.”

Ellie was already breathless beneath you, her cheeks flushed, lips kissed swollen, chest rising and falling like she’d just run for miles, but it was nothing compared to what you were about to do to her.

You leaned in, brushing your lips against hers again, slower this time. A whisper of a kiss, soft and drawn out, like you were trying to memorize the way her mouth felt…like you had all the time in the world. And you did. This was yours. She was yours.

From her lips, your mouth began its descent, trailing to the edge of her jaw, to the spot just beneath her ear that made her inhale sharply. You kissed down her neck, stopping at the hollow of her throat to leave a lingering, open-mouthed kiss there. Your tongue grazed the skin, slow and warm. She whimpered, her hand instinctively gripping the sheets.

Your kisses continued down, over the curve of her collarbone, across the center of her chest. You mouthed over the black fabric of her sports bra, feeling the way her breath hitched when your teeth grazed her nipple through the fabric.

“Fuck,” she whispered, squirming slightly beneath you. “You’re—teasing.”

You didn’t say anything. You just smiled against her skin and kept going.

You pressed soft kisses down her stomach. Pausing just above her belly button, letting your breath tickle her skin. Every inch you touched left her gasping, her muscles twitching under your mouth. You looked up at her then, eyes locking with hers. She was already gone. Lips parted, gaze completely fixated on you.

Still not breaking eye contact, you reached the waistband of her pants. Your fingers toyed with the button, and you watched her nod without saying a word.

You undid them slowly, dragging them down her legs, eyes never leaving hers. She lifted her hips to help you, the soft hiss that left her lips making your thighs clench. You peeled them off, tossing them aside, leaving her in nothing but her dark boxers. The sight in front of you left you in awe, legs trembling, laid out just for you—was enough to make your core ache.

But you weren’t done yet.

You leaned in again, kissing along the sharp lines of her hips. One side, then the other. Slowly. Warmly. Her hands fisted the sheets, a sharp gasp escaping her lips when you mouthed at the sensitive skin right at the waistband, trailing down to place an open mouth kiss to the wet spot of her boxers. You looked up again—still holding her gaze, and hooked your fingers into the fabric.

“Okay?” you murmured.

She nodded quickly. “Yes. Fuck—please.”

Still keeping your eyes locked with hers, you reached for the waistband of her boxers and pulled them down, slow and careful, exposing her inch by inch. Ellie lifted her hips again, obedient and trembling, and you slid them down until she was bare in front of you.

You could’ve stopped just to stare. Her thighs were slightly parted, her breathing ragged, her tattoo curling along her forearm as she gripped the sheets. She looked like she could cry just from the anticipation.

You settled between her legs and let your fingers slide through her folds, wet, warm, already soaked. She gasped, hips jerking slightly.

“This all for me?” you asked, fingers teasing but not entering.

“Shut up,” she rasped, her voice thin, wrecked. “You know it is.”

You smirked, leaned in, and kissed her hip again, just to be cruel. Then, slowly, you pushed two fingers into her.

The way her mouth dropped open, the way her brows pinched like it physically hurt to feel this good, you never wanted to forget it. You curled your fingers just slightly, hitting the spot that made her whimper.

You kept your eyes on hers, and when her lips parted in another moan, you leaned in close, your voice a whisper. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

Ellie looked ruined with her hair spread across the pillow, hand covering her mouth now, trying to quiet the sounds that kept spilling out of her. But she couldn’t stop them. Not when you were fucking her this slow, this deep, your palm pressing against her clit with each thrust.

“Don’t hide,” you murmured. “I wanna hear you.”

You fucked her slow, deliberate, dragging your fingers in and out while your thumb circled her clit. Her hips moved with yours, chasing the friction, her thighs twitching with every movement.

“God—fuck, that’s it—don’t stop,” she breathed. Her voice was high, strained, like she was barely holding it together.

You sped up just slightly, enough to make her cry out. Her hands clutched your forearms now, nails digging leaving half crescent moons in your skin. She moaned again. Loud, desperate, and you knew she was close.

“Come on, Els,” you whispered. And somehow that made her walls clench harder against your fingers, pulsating with every thrust.You started speeding up, hitting just the right angle, her back arched and she choked on your name.

“I’m—fucking—fuck—” Her whole body tensed, then shattered. Back arching off the bed, head thrown back, a moan breaking open in her chest. You leaned in, kissing her as she came, swallowing her moans, keeping your rhythm until she was trembling beneath you. You only pulled out once her body stopped twitching. Then, with your eyes never leaving hers, you slipped your fingers into your mouth and licked them clean, savoring her orgasm

You grinned as you dragged your fingers out with that small “pop”.

Ellie choked on a gasp, eyes wide, pupils blown.

She didn’t waste a second.

After your little display and those fucking eyes locked on hers while you tasted her off your fingers…Ellie snapped. She rolled you onto your back like a rag doll, with a roughness that wasn’t aggressive, just desperate. Her mouth was on yours immediately, hands framing your jaw, tongue sliding in as if she couldn’t get deep enough.

“Mine,” she murmured, almost to herself, between kisses. “You’re fucking mine.”

Ellie hovered over you, flushed and breathing hard, her skin glistening, her eyes blown wide with lust and awe and something deeper—something that cracked you open just by looking at you like that. You were still panting from making her come apart on your fingers, but that didn’t stop her from slipping her hands under your thighs and flipping you onto your back, her mouth crashing against yours in a hungry, lingering kiss that tasted like heat and desperation.

“You think I’m gonna let you get away with that?” she rasped against your lips, her voice low and breathless. “No fucking way–”

Your breath caught. Your legs instinctively parted around her hips, your hands clutching at her arms, the muscles flexing beneath your fingers. Ellie leaned in, pressing kisses to your jaw, then your throat, open-mouthed and wet, letting her tongue drag along the curve of your neck.

You arched into her instinctively when her lips brushed your collarbone, then went lower. She kissed between your breasts, and you felt the cool air and her hot, roaming gaze, addicting.

“So pretty,” she murmured, her voice gone thick. “Fucking perfect.”

She wrapped her lips around one of your nipples, sucking slowly, letting her tongue flick over it before biting down just enough to make you gasp. Her hand came up to play with the other, thumb circling, pinching, teasing, until you were whining, thighs rubbing together beneath her.

And she wasn’t even close to done.

She switched sides, kissing the curve of your breast before giving the same treatment to the other nipple, slower this time, messier. Her teeth grazed your skin, and then she trailed lower…tongue dragging down your ribs, over your stomach, leaving tiny wet patches and hot breath in her wake.

But she didn’t rush. She took her time, leaving small hickeys on your chest, just above your heart, another on the soft swell beneath your breast, and one lower, just to the side of your belly button. She wanted to mark you, and she wanted you to feel it every time your shirt brushed against those spots later.

By the time she reached the waistband of your jeans, you were trembling.

She looked up at you from between your thighs, and fucking hell you could’ve just cummed at the sight of her beautiful green eyes looking at you like that, all desperate and needy, hands sliding to your hips.

“Still ok?” she smirked.

You could barely form words. Just a breathless, desperate nod.

She undid your jeans slowly, dragging the zipper down with purpose, fingers teasing at the waistband as she leaned in to kiss your lower belly, just above the fabric. You lifted your hips so she could tug them down, and she did—carefully, kissing every new inch of exposed skin. Your thighs, your inner knees, the dip just above your underwear. You were soaked already, and Ellie saw it, smelled it, her breath hitching.

“Fuck, look at you.”

She pressed a single kiss to the front of your panties, right over your clit. You whimpered, bucked into her mouth, and she just chuckled low, mouthing at the wet fabric. Her tongue dragged over it once, then again, leaving it wetter with her spit. Then she sucked at it, lightly, then harder right through the cloth, until you were gasping, your hips twitching beneath her grip.

“Tastes so fucking good, even through this.”

She hooked her fingers in the waistband and tugged them off in one smooth motion, tossing them aside without looking. Then she kissed your thigh again, and again, and again, until you were practically begging.

Then finally—finally, she spread you open with both hands and dove in.

Her tongue flattened against your pussy and dragged up in one slow, singular motion, like she wanted to study your body with her mouth. She moaned into you at the taste, low and guttural. Like it relieved something inside her. Her tongue flicked against your clit, soft and rhythmic, then she pulled back just long enough to spit on it, watching the mess drip and smear as she dove back in.

Your head fell back against the pillow.

“Ellie—fuck—”

She hummed again, arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you still, her face buried so deep you could feel her breath inside you. Her tongue teased your entrance, then pressed inside you, slow and firm, while the tip of her nose rubbed against your clit with every movement. Hitting just the right angle.

You gripped her hair hard—really hard. And she just groaned into your pussy like it made her wetter, grinding her own hips into the mattress while she fucked you stupid with her tongue and sucked your clit in between.

The tension coiled fast and hard in your stomach, your thighs beginning to tremble. Ellie felt it. And added two fingers without warning, curling them up just right, and doubled down with her tongue until you broke, cumming hard with a growly cry, hips jerking on her face, your hands pulling her impossibly closer.

But Ellie didn’t stop.

She didn’t even slow down.

She fucked you through it, licking up every drop, moaning into you like she’d drown there happily.

When she finally pulled back, her chin and lips were shining. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, breathing heavy, pupils dark and starving. Then she crawled up your body and kissed you, deep and messy, letting you taste yourself on her tongue.

“Didn’t get enough,” she panted against your lips. “Need you again.”

You felt her hips roll down into yours, and then again, more intentional, needy. You looked down.

She was already grinding against you, bare now, both of your slick combining. Your thighs instinctively spread wider, and Ellie settled between them, her cunt sliding against yours, hot and sticky and so fucking wet.

You gasped. “Oh my God—”

The friction was instant. The way your clits brushed together made you both cry out. She grabbed your thigh, threw it over her hip, angling you just right. Then she started to move, grinding slow and deep, her forehead pressed against yours, her breath stuttering every time your bodies slipped perfectly together.

“Feels so fucking good,” she groaned. “Shit—you’re perfect—”

You couldn’t even respond. You were too caught up in it. In the slippery, desperate rub of her cunt on yours, the raw eye contact, the sweat and tension and whimpers she couldn’t hold back.

Your hands clutched her back, your legs wrapped around her waist, and you met every grind with one of your own. You were soaked, overstimulated, and yet completely insatiable.

Ellie’s voice cracked as she picked up the pace, her hips stuttering, her sounds getting louder, higher.

“You gonna come again with me?” she begged, voice strained. “Please—*fuck—*I wanna feel you come on me.”

You nodded frantically. You could already feel it—your second orgasm, rolling in fast. Your muscles tensed, your thighs clenched around her, and then—

You both came.

Harder than before. Together.

Her body collapsed onto yours, her face buried in your neck, both of you shaking and soaked and breathless.

The room is quiet, save for the low hum of the fan in the corner and the echo of your breaths slowly syncing again. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and skin, heat still clinging to both of you, but you’re not in a rush to pull away.

Ellie’s lying on her back, arm stretched out, inviting, and you settle into her side without thinking, thigh slung over her hip, your chest rising and falling against hers. Her skin is still warm. Damp in places. You let your fingers wander on her skin, tracing the soft, faded scars scattered across her stomach.

She doesn’t flinch.

Instead, her hand finds your waist, and she’s holding onto you like she needs the reassurance that you’re real. That you’re still here.

Your fingertip drags in slow circles, skimming across her ribs, then trailing down again, stopping to gently trace the outline of a small mark near her navel. You wonder where she got it. If it hurt. If she ever thought to tell you.

Still, neither of you says anything. You shift slightly, arm draped across her middle now, and your other hand finds her forearm, the ink there familiar beneath your touch. You trace the edge of her tattoo, carefully, like you’re memorizing it with your skin.

Ellie’s breathing deepens. You feel it in the way her chest rises under your cheek, the way her thumb starts brushing gentle lines across the bare of your back.

And then, softly, almost like a thought slipping out by accident, she finally speaks.

“You are the most beautiful girl on this planet—” A pause. A breath. “No. This universe.”

You scoff, letting your lips curve into a smirk against her skin.

“Pffft—You say that to every girl you sleep with?” you mumble, teasing, but your voice comes out quieter than you meant. Too full of feeling.

Ellie huffs a laugh, but you feel the shift in her body. She’s still smiling, but there’s something quieter behind it, more serious. Something heavy in her chest that she doesn’t quite let out yet.

“No girl has gotten lucky enough.”

You lift your head, just slightly, eyes meeting hers.

She’s not grinning. Not smirking.

She’s looking at you like she wants to kiss you all over again, but not in a way that’s messy or frantic or lustful.

She’s just there. Staring. Open. Soft.

And you don’t say anything back.

You just curl into her again, one hand resting on her chest where her heart is beating like a marching band, the rhythm of her palpitations calms you down. And she lets you stay there. Quiet. Wrapped in each other like neither of you know how to ask for more. Even though it’s already written all over your skin.

Sunlight slips lazily through the slats in the blinds, casting pale golden stripes across the tangled sheets. Ellie stirs, arm reaching out instinctively to the other side of the bed, but it’s empty now. Still warm, just barely. She blinks groggily, eyes adjusting to the morning light, her limbs heavy with sleep and muscle ache.

There’s a second where panic flickers through her.

Did you leave? Was everything just a dream?

But then she smells you on her pillow. Faint traces of your shampoo, your skin, your sweat from the night before, and the corner of her mouth tugs upward, soft and slow.

She turns her head and sees it.

A little piece of paper on her desk, scrawled in your handwriting.

“Headed to work. U looked too cute to wake up. Pass by the diner if ur not busy ;)”

Ellie stares at it for a minute, then flips onto her back, one arm thrown over her eyes as a smile overtakes her entire face. It’s the kind of smile she couldn’t hide even if she tried.

Stupid. Giddy. Lightheaded.

You.

Her mind plays it all back in bits, your mouth, your hands, your body pressed to hers like it had always belonged there. The way you looked at her like you were afraid to blink and miss her. The way you touched her, so safe and sure, like you were tracing art into her skin.

And now you were just… gone.

Gone, but not far.

Her eyes flutter open again. The note’s still there. The sheets are still messy. Her chest still feels full in that unfamiliar, aching way. She sighs, long and dreamy, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

When she finally sat up, her hair was a mess, body sore in the best way. The note is still clutched between her fingers, and she reads it once more for no reason other than the way it makes her stomach flip.

She stretches, smiling like an idiot, already thinking about what she’ll say when she sees you again. Already wondering how she’s supposed to act around you now. Already imagining the way your face lights up when she walks into the diner.

Had she mentioned how irrevocably fucked she was? So completely, irreversibly, stupidly fucked for you.

How she felt like she dug a grave for herself, how this would either be the best thing ever or the worst heartbreak of her entire fucking life. And she didn’t wanna think about it, because she’s scared as shit.

She’s scared of herself more than anyone.

୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧

taglist ♡‧₊˚₊✧

@liasxeatt @80saturn @eleanorsghost @youusunshineyoutemptress @jazzyxox @lesoulew @fangirlinc @hitmehardmommy @liztreez @chwekriz00 @vahnilla @elliespotion @haithone @stwolfhardimaginez @thxtmarvelchick @purinukie @lavenderseedling @elliesfavwife @mikellie @iadorefineshyt @thebadwritersposts @gayandsuffering26 @flynnph0bias @adoreasellie @wwefan2002 @pinkcloudsmmr @ellliewilliamssgf @hufflepuffin92-blog @madsxh1022 @elliepoems @finnthehumanjakethedog @oneinameliann @sulliefimmie @lunshimmer @theangelwaltz @morticeras @elliessavagestarlight @ssijht @oatmatchalatte @sunflowerwinds

[mierstaer]

i’ve been rewatching the maze runner movies and rereading the books in the past weeks and now my brain can only focus on them

[tanoraqui]

I genuinely think it’s good for the soul to periodically stay up to 5am finishing an entire book. It’s cleansing. It’s the best way I know of fully turning your sense of reality off and then, after you sleep, on again.

[benevolenterrancy]

if you're not reading the last book of SVSSS right now do you mind me asking what you are reading? I'm just curious!

Definitely! (though I warn you, I'm fundamentally incapable of reading only one thing at a time)

For physical books, I'm currently reading The Warden by Daniel M. Ford, the novelization of My Neighbour Totoro, and trying to keep up on Dracula Daily (i am failing this)

For audiobooks, I've been relistening to The Series of Unfortunate Events (because I never actually read them all when they were originally coming out) and I juuust finished This Census-Taker by China Miéville and Ogres by Adrian Tchaikovsky this weekend. I'm about to start A Closed and Common Orbit by Becky Chambers.

[aperfecta]

Writing down all the ideas for the second draft of the thing I'm working on has made me want to. Work on it. My therapist was right sometimes one small step is all it takes (or for me a dozen small fake-out steps before I finally take off running)

[herbertwest]

What is the name of Rumpelstiltskin's mom?

Mumpelstiltskin.

[a-passing-storm]

I need to study for Comparative Government and maybe read a summary of Fight Club* but instead I am scrolling through TMA fanart and planning a concert trip for tomorrow.

*Fight Club, because while I've read Hamlet a million times and I've read a lot of other literature recently, FC is the thing that I've spent the most time analyzing and remember character names well enough in to use it on the AP Lit exam. I have been told it counts as A Work Of Literary Merit by my very conservative AP Lit teacher, so she better be right.

[em1i2a3]

Bob and falling asleep on his chest while he reads to you??

Late For The Sky

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Bob have a nightly routine where he reads to you the latest book he’s decided to buy.

Warnings: No Warnings, just pure fluff

Author's Note: I really liked this request, and after a whole weekend of writing smut, I thought a nice little fluff piece would be great to start off the week. I’ve got a lot of pieces on my platter this week, and I’m really looking forward to putting them out for y’all ❤️

Word Count: 4,040

It started innocently enough–just Bob leaning against the threshold of your workshop at the end of a mission debrief, with a well-worn paperback tucked under one arm and a sheepish sort of smile playing on his mouth like he was teetering on being excited but nervous all at the same time.

You were hunched over your workbench, goggles pushed up into your hair, sparks spitting gently from a soldering iron in your gloved hand. The air smelled like burnt copper and machine oil, and your concentration was laser-focused–until you sensed that he was hovering.

You didn’t look up right away. There was no need to. You knew he would start the conversation in his own time.

”I, uh…” Bob cleared his throat, fingers drumming lightly on the book’s cracked spine, “I finished t-that one about the guy with the g-genetic disorder where he’s able to t-time travel but it’s at unpredictable times.” You paused what you were doing, and glanced over your shoulder, pulling your goggles off to look at him–and to also give the skin around your eyes a rest.

“Already?” You asked, with your eyebrows raised. You were impressed, because you had taken a stab at reading that book but it took you weeks to finish it–that was more due to you getting busy with repairs, not because you didn’t like that book itself. Bob nodded at you, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly, more confident now that he actually had your attention.

”Y-Yeah, I couldn’t put it down. I-I didn’t really like how it jumped around a lot at first b-because i-it was a bit hard to keep up with things, b-but once it really got into the crazy stuff and a-all the elements started coming together I r-really needed to see how it e-ended.” That was Bob when he talked about books. He never just read them, he sunk himself into it and got lost in it. He spoke with his whole body when he really got into the nitty gritty details about the story itself–animated hands, wide eyes, and that faint breathless awe that made you want to reread books or add them to your mile long list that you had barely touched because you barely had time.

Bob hadn’t always been this way though.

He used to pace the compound, and wear down the floors until it creaked beneath his feet. When he was still under mandatory observation. When he felt like he was in a strange version of purgatory where everyone treated him well but he felt imprisoned in the walls that were supposed to keep him safe.

You had been unofficially tasked with keeping an eye on him during those first few weeks–mostly because you were the only one not actively going on missions, and you were behind on fixing some tech for the compound anyways.

At first, Bob would just linger in the background–standing in the doorway with his hands tucked up into the sleeves of his hoodie, watching the blue sparks of your arc welder with the quiet intensity of someone afraid to ask if they could stay or if they could help. But you learned pretty quickly that Bob didn’t do well with silence. Not for long.

So one rainy Tuesday, when you were sick of watching him pace and sigh and pretend like he wasn’t bored out of his skull, you told him to get ready and you dragged him into the city–to your favorite secondhand bookstore.

It was tucked between a locksmith and an old bakery, it was the kind of place that smelled like cracked leather and warm dust, where the aisles were narrow and the ceiling was low, and where books were stacked in precarious towering columns that made the air feel scarce. You had told him to look around while you spoke to the owner.

That day you saw it–you saw something in him soften. It was like his muscles were unclenching somewhere deep in his chest. He walked through every aisle, pausing to brush his fingers over cracked spines like they were ancient artifacts. You’d glance behind you once in a while to check to see if he was okay, and when you saw his face buried in the first few pages of a book, you knew the choice to bring him there was a good one.

He left that day with three books, and then he asked you the next day to take him back there to get more.

Ever since that day, it had become his thing–tucking paperbacks into the crook of his arm, disappearing into them for a few hours, and then, without fail, finding you when he finished to divulge every last thought he had about them.

It didn’t matter if your hands were elbow-deep in fried wiring or if you were halfway through fixing tactical gear–if he finished a book, he needed to talk to you about it, and only you…Because you truly listened to him.

You didn’t nod along blankly or tell him to save it for later. You engaged with him, you asked questions and remembered characters’ names. You pressed him on parts that made him anxious or thrilled or tear up a little, even if he pretended like it didn’t happen. You didn’t tease him when he stumbled or stuttered over his words from excitement. You leaned in and gave him the attention he wanted, because in your own odd way, you needed those moments too.

You never said that out loud, but Bob could tell. He could see it in the way your shoulders dropped an inch when he entered the room, or the way your lips twitched when he fumbled over a complicated plot. He could see it in how you never asked him to leave.

Then one night you knocked on his bedroom door.

You were worn out. Bone-tired, yet you couldn’t sleep because of how wound up you had been that week. Your voice had gone hoarse from an afternoon arguing with Val over calibration specs, and you’d barely made it through dinner. Your plate had gone mostly untouched, more because you kept taking calls and arguing with whoever was on the other end of the line. Your eyes had looked sunken beneath the weight of the lack of sleep.

So to say he wasn’t expecting a knock on his door–let alone a knock from you of all people would be an understatement.

It was past midnight, and the compound was quiet–save for the rhythmic hum of the ventilation system and the soft creak of the page he just turned. His lamp was still on, casting a golden spill of light across his comforter and the open paperback in his hands, spine worn and corners curling from hours of reading. His tea had gone cold but he hadn’t noticed or cared.

The knock was gentle. Barely there.

He blinked himself out of his trance, frowning faintly, before reaching up to rub at his dry eyes. He let out a small sigh and set the book beside him like a loyal dog, half-forgotten for the moment, getting up from the pile of linens and duvets that surrounded him.

When he opened the door, it was like the hallway itself had gone still.

You stood there, barefoot on the wooden tile, wearing a pair of soft sleep-shorts and a baggy old Thunderbolts t-shirt from that one disastrous PR event last year–the one where everyone was forced into color-coded teams and awkward staged interviews. The shirt hung off your frame like you were a ghost, the cotton threadbare in places from being worn and washed too many times. Your hair was damp, like you’d given up halfway through drying it, and there were faint creases along your cheek from a pillow you hadn’t quite managed to fall asleep on. Bob’s brows lifted, as concern bled into his expression before he could stop it.

”Hey…A-Are you…?” He glanced past you instinctively, then at the digital clock on his nightstand that glowed dimly behind him, “Is everything okay? I-It’s pretty late, I didn’t think–“

”I couldn’t sleep,” You interrupted quietly, rubbing at your forearm. Your voice was still scratchy but it wasn’t as bad as it was during dinner time, “I thought I heard you…” You added.

Bob squinted at you, more confused than anything else, “Heard me?”

“Yeah,” You nodded faintly, a ghost of a smile touching your mouth, “Heard you laugh, or–or something that sounded like it at least.” He felt the tips of his ears go warm at your comment, remembering that about half an hour before you came he had almost thrown the book across the room in excitement because of how good the plot was getting.

”Oh…Uh…Yeah s-sorry about that. There was–t-there was a plot twist.” Your smile grew a little at that.

”No need to apologize,” You replied, “I’ve had those moments before. When something hits you so hard you have to squeal…Or throw the book out the window.” This earned a small laugh from Bob, as you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed in the easy, tired sort of way that said you weren’t really in a rush to end the conversation any time soon. Your eyes flicked past him, just for a moment–curious, unassuming–but Bob caught it.

And then, you asked the burning question of the night.

”Can I come in?” Bob didn’t say anything at first, he just stared at you with a look of surprise plastered on his face, because he wasn’t expecting you to ask that, nor want that in general. After what was probably far too long, he stepped aside.

”Y-Yeah, of course.” You stepped past him slowly, and all your senses immediately started working overtime. The first thing that hit you though, was the smell.

It was Warm. Complex. Spiced, almost. Like cracked pepper and worn paper and the faded traces of his cologne lingering in the fibers of the room. It wasn’t overwhelming–wasn’t artificial or sharp–it was lived-in. Masculine in a gentle, quietly steady way. Like the soft base notes of cedarwood and clove that had sunk into the blankets and pillows mixing with the faintest wisp of black tea and honey.

It smelled like him, and it startled you–because you knew him. You knew his hands and his laugh and the way he stumbled through his excitement when he got overwhelmed. But stepping into his room felt like opening the cover of a book you thought you already read–only to find unfamiliar pages.

You had not seen the inside of his bedroom before. You had caught glimpses of it for sure. A cracked door when he was carrying his laundry. A half-glance from down the hall when he’d leaned into the doorframe to talk to you. But this–this was his inner sanctum and it was all of him.

There were books everywhere. Piled on the floor in loosely sorted stacks, balanced on windowsills, stuffed into a long shelf that sagged slightly under the weight. They ranged from battered sci-fi paperbacks with alien landscapes on the covers to dense philosophical texts and dog-eared literary fiction. A few comics peeked out from beneath the bedside table, alongside notebooks with half-tucked pens and sticky tabs poking from the edges like colored confetti. They looked damaged and battered, but it was from extensive use rather than carelessness.

The bed was massive. Not in a luxurious sense, but in a way that suggested someone needed space–maybe to move, maybe to breathe. The comforter was thick, gray-blue, rumpled from how he must’ve been lounging on it. A fleece throw was tangled near the bottom corner, and a pile of pillows–none matching–leaned against the headboard like they’d been shoved there without much thought. On the nightstand beside the bed there was a mug of tea on a heating coaster that was turned off–probably from being used for too long.

You turned back to him with a softer look than before, taking all of the little details in.

”This is pretty cozy,” You offered. Bob rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks going a deeper red now, suddenly sheepish and nervous that you were standing in the middle of his room at this time of night.

“Sorry i-it’s a little m-messy, I wasn’t really expecting–”

”No, no, it’s okay I meant that in a nice way…I wasn’t judging your room or anything.” Bob blinked at you, lips parting slightly like his brain short-circuited for just a moment. You could practically see the mental reboot happening behind his eyes.

“I actually came to ask…” You trailed off as you turned back toward the bed, brushing your fingers along the edge of the blanket, still warm from where he’d been lying. “If you had another chapter left in you.” Bob’s head tilted just slightly, his eyes widening, “Kind of thought you could read to me…Or talk me to sleep. Y’know.” The realization hit him like a gust of warm air straight to the chest, and his face felt like it was going to burst from how hot his cheeks were starting to get.

”Y-You want me to…Read t-to you?” He echoed, as if he was trying the words out on his tongue just to make sure they weren’t just a hallucination. You gave him a small nod, looking down at your feet.

“Only if you want to of course,” You said quickly, your voice gentle, in a casual way that always came out when you were asking for something that you pretended not to care about, “I just figured…You are always into the book and everything…And your voice is…Soothing. I thought maybe hearing you read would help turn my brain off.” Bob swallowed hard at the way you complimented his voice, how you found it soothing. He didn’t think that way, but it sure made his heart seize when you said it.

He had to consciously remind himself to breathe as you stood there, soft and sleepless in the dim light of his room, asking him to read to you like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like it didn’t unravel something in him to have you standing here, in his space, barefoot and tired and trusting him with the last moments of your day. He cleared his throat too quickly and nodded.

”S-Sure. Yeah, o-of course. I mean–I’ve never really done that b-before, but I could…I-If that’s what you want.” Your eyes met his, and they crinkled a little at the corners.

”First time for everything, right?” Bob gave a nervous laugh and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, motioning to the bed awkwardly.

”D-Do you…Do you wanna sit? Or–or I could make tea or something if that would help, I can warm mine up too–“ You shook your head gently.

”No…This is perfect,” You said, lowering yourself onto the edge of the bed with a quiet, grateful sigh “No tea…I think I just want…” You paused, fingers brushing the comforter again before you looked up at him with a soft, bleary gaze, “The chapter.” He smiled at that–small, crooked, and bashful.

”O-Okay…” You pulled your legs up under you and moved towards the headboard, settling against the fort of pillows he had made against the hardwood, while Bob grabbed the paperback and climbed in beside you. There was a bit of shuffling at first–he wasn’t sure how close was too close, or where to angle his body, or how to sit without making it weird–but eventually you both found the perfect positioning. He left a bit of space between you and him, about an arm’s length, and just like you he rested himself against the headboard, only he cross-crossed his legs.

Bob cleared his throat–too loud in the silence of the room–and adjusted the book in his hands, fingers curling slightly around the spine like he needed something to hold onto. His thumb brushed the crease between chapters as he flicked his gaze over to you again, nestled against the headboard like you belonged there, half-draped in the worn comforter.

“Okay…Chapter twelve,” He murmured, and began.

His voice was soft at first–shy, uncertain, as if afraid the words might shatter the quiet between you. But a few lines in, he found his rhythm. He always did. The cadence of his voice fell into step with the prose, rising and dipping in the right places, drawing the imagery to life as his thumb ghosted along the edges of the page. When he would take in a breath all he would smell was worn paper and your bay leaf and blueberry shampoo, and that felt like it was all he needed to settle himself.

Then–around three pages in–he heard it.

A soft exhale.

A breathy, wheezing little sound that made his voice falter for just a second.

Bob glanced over at you instantly, almost to confirm the inevitable.

Your head had tilted down toward your chest, mouth slack in the most exhausted kind of sleep. Your lashes rested on your cheeks, breath coming slow and just a little uneven, like your whole body had simply…Powered down. The sentence he had been reading drifted off into silence.

”Oh,” He whispered, more to himself than to you, “…Wow…You’re o-out.” He stared at you for a long second, book still in hand, watching the way your fingers were curled into the fabric of the blanket near your knee. You didn’t stir–not even when he gently reached over to the end of the bed and grabbed the lonesome blanket from the corner to settle it over your bare legs. You were deeply, and blissfully asleep.

And now he didn’t know what to do.

He glanced at the book in his hands, back at you, then sighed softly and reached for the top corner of the page. He dog-eared it carefully–marking exactly where he noticed you were asleep. Just in case you wanted to pick it up again tomorrow.

If you came back.

He closed the book, resting it on the nightstand, and stood slowly–carefully–like he was trying not to make any sound at all. You didn’t move. Your breath stayed soft and steady, and there was something about that that made Bob’s chest tighten.

He didn’t want to wake you.

So, instead, he grabbed an extra blanket from his closet and quietly padded out of the room, heading for the couch in the living room. It wasn’t as comfortable as his bed, and the cushions were flat–but he didn’t mind. He wanted to make sure you got some rest, and that mattered more to him than his comfort.

Much to Bob’s surprise you came back the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that.

Every time, the both of you got a little closer–a little softer. You started bringing a pillow from your own room, just for routine. You’d press your cheek against his shoulder sometimes as he read, and he’d try not forget what words were. Sometimes you didn’t even wait for him to start–you’d curl up under his covers like it was normal, and let your breathing even out, but he read anyway. For himself. For you. For the comfort of it. He never stayed after you fell asleep, he took refuge on the couch every time, and he’d be careful and quiet about his escape to make sure you didn’t wake up.

It became your shared ritual.

And then one night, everything shifted into place.

You came in quietly, curling up beside him, adjusting your pillow near his. Bob had his book open on his chest, waiting for you to get yourself situated, smiling at you like it was muscle memory. And without saying a word, you stretched out beside him–much closer this time–and gently rested your head on his chest, right over his heart. It was almost like you were silently communicating to him you wanted him to stay this time around, so you made it harder for him to make his usual escape.

Bob froze immediately at the contact, and at the warmth of you settling against his chest, the crown of your head brushing just beneath his collarbone. One of your arms snuck around his waist like it was second nature, and one leg curled over his like it always belonged there.

When you pressed your ear to his chest, his heartbeat was soft, steady and loud–embarrassingly eager to be heard by you. He looked down at you slowly, book still resting on his chest, his free hand clutching the edge of the page he hadn’t yet turned. You didn’t look at him–you were too focused, nestled in against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

”Wh-What are you doing?” You smiled into his shirt, just faintly.

”Want to read along with you,” You said, your voice soft and sleepy. He knew that must’ve been a lie, but he didn’t protest.

”O-Oh…Okay.” He murmured, shifting a bit.

Then, without lifting your head, you mumbled, “You can put your arm around me, y’know?” Bob could feel his breath stilling in his chest, and you heard the way it halted in his throat. You couldn’t help but smirk at his reaction, almost like he had to process your suggestion.

Then he very gently, very slowly slid his arm around your shoulders. His fingers brushed the curve of your upper arm, curling lightly around you until he held you snug against his side, cradled with just enough pressure to let you know he wouldn’t let go.

You exhaled through your nose–peaceful, like the tension had melted from your spine the moment he touched you.

Bob’s heart was racing.

But his hand stayed steady.

You shifted just slightly to get comfortable, your forehead now pressed to the center of his chest, your ear perfectly aligned with the rhythm of his heart.

And God, the way you heard it–felt it. That low, thudding warmth beneath his ribs. Steady, slow, like a drumbeat underwater. A living lullaby. You could hear every flutter, every quiet catch of breath when he turned the page. It was stronger than the ventilation hum, stronger than the turn of the fan, stronger than the slow rasp of the blanket as you moved against him.

It was him.

The cadence of someone who had spent years trying to hold himself still–and was now unraveling just enough to let you rest against the places that hurt.

Bob picked up the book again, adjusting it slightly in his hand, but he didn’t start reading right away.

He was listening too.

To your breathing.

To the way your fingers gently fisted the fabric of his shirt like you wanted to keep him close.

To the stillness.

Then he began to read–low and careful. He didn’t project. Didn’t fill the room the way he did when you were sitting up and alert. He just read for you. For the closeness. For the moment.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t shift.

You just listened.

And slowly, your hand went slack against his side. Your body softened. Your lashes lowered, then fluttered still.

You fell asleep on him, breath warm against his chest, face half-pressed into the fabric of his shirt like it was a pillow. You looked peaceful. Safe.

Bob didn’t stop reading right away.

He finished the page.

Then the next.

Eventually, he dog-eared the corner, turned the lamp off, and sank back into the pillows behind him, adjusting just slightly so you were fully wrapped in his arms.

He stayed.

For the first time, he stayed.

And when sleep took him, his last thought was simple, small, and true:

Please come back tomorrow.

[whisperedmeg]

RE-ENTRY BURN ―.✦ s.r. soft animal series ∘ part vi

pairing: spencer reid x fem!nurse!reader

summary: spencer returns to the field, and the soft parts of him begin to harden. together, they search for a way to hold on.

genre: hurt/comfort, like kinda fluff if you squint I guess?

w/c: 2.7k

tags/warnings: post-prison spencer, spencer goes back to work, reader gets anxious again but for a diff reason, spencer is still a reassuring sweetie pie, reader meets (part of) the bau, just some kissing but nothing more than that, big moment in their relationship !!

a/n: I wrote, erased, and rewrote the second half of this chapter like five separate times before I was happy with it and I’m still not 100% convinced, so I hope it turned out okay. no spoilers but there’s some major payoff at the end in this one 🙂‍↕️. as always, thank you sm to everyone who has followed this series so far 🫶🏼

series masterlist

The call came on a Thursday morning.

Spencer was sitting on my living room floor, back against the couch, flipping through a book of poetry he insisted he didn’t like but kept rereading anyway. I was in the kitchen in one of his old t-shirts, buttering toast and making an omelette and wondering if I had time for a shower before my shift. The air smelled like coffee and rain. It felt like a quiet, ordinary kind of day.

Then his phone rang. And I watched everything in his body go still.

“Yes,” he said after picking up. “This is Dr. Reid.”

His fingers tightened around the phone. His spine straightened. I turned off the burner.

I didn’t try to listen, but I didn’t leave the room either. He only said a few words: Okay. Thank you. I understand. See you soon. But when he hung up, he didn’t just look different — he looked lit up, like something dormant had just sparked back to life.

He stared at the phone in his hand for a second, then looked at me with wide, stunned eyes.

“That was them?”

He nodded slowly. Then, voice thick with disbelief and something close to awe: “They’re taking me back. I’m reinstated.”

For a beat, all we did was stare at each other.

Then I crossed the room and launched myself at him. He caught me, laughing, and spun us around so fast we nearly knocked over a vase.

“Oh my god,” I said, cupping his face. “Spencer, that’s amazing. You did that.”

“I didn’t think—” he broke off, blinking fast. “I thought it would take longer. Or that they’d changed their minds.”

I kissed him, hard and messy and happy and full of relief. He kissed me back just as fiercely, both hands buried in my hair. We were still tangled in each other when the real weight of it started to settle between us.

I pulled back slightly, breathless. “So… what happens now?”

“I report to Quantico next week. There’s some re-entry protocol — updated field certifications, paperwork, so on. Then I’m back on the team.” He paused, then added, “Back on the jet.”

I nodded, trying to keep my smile steady. “Right. Of course.”

But a quiet fear had already begun to curl into my chest — something I didn’t want to name. The fear that maybe the version of Spencer I’d come to know, the one who made me coffee with too much cinnamon and traced my shoulder blades with reverence, was only who he was here, with me.

Who was he when he was chasing monsters across state lines again? Who was I to him in that world?

“Hey,” he said gently, reaching for my hand. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I admitted. “I’m so, so happy for you. And I want this for you. I… I just don’t know what it means for us. I don’t know that version of you. Your life is about to get a lot bigger, and I’m still here, going back and forth to Millburn, in scrubs, on twelve-hour shifts, staying exactly the same.”

“You think I’m going to leave you behind?”

I paused. “I don’t really think that. But I still fear it. Which might be worse.”

His grip tightened slightly. “I’m not going anywhere. But… I know this will change things. I just don’t know how yet.”

We sat with that — the not-knowing. It was becoming a constant companion.

He exhaled slowly, his forehead resting against mine. “We’ll figure this out. I promise.”

—

His first day back, I packed him lunch.

It felt stupid and too intimate and maybe a little bit like denial, but I did it anyway. Hummus, cut-up vegetables, and fruit, plus two hardboiled eggs he’d probably forget to eat. Spencer had a habit of doing that — starting a meal but then getting too absorbed in his work or the documentary on TV or the book in his lap to remember to finish it. I tucked in a note before I could overthink it: You’ve survived worse. Just breathe. You’re gonna be great.

He texted me later to say thank you. Then I didn’t hear from him for six hours.

I tried not to spiral.

When he finally walked into his apartment, he looked… different. Not bad, but sharper. Like someone had ironed some of the softness out of him. I was already waiting for him on his couch — he’d given me my own key last week and told me to use it.

“How was it?” I asked.

“Strange,” he said honestly. “Good. Overwhelming.”

I kissed him and tried to pretend I wasn’t searching his eyes for cracks.

—

By day three, he was already packing an overnight bag.

“There’s a case,” he said, tucking mismatched socks into a duffel. “We think there’s an unsub targeting sex workers.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, watching. “That was fast.”

He shrugged a shoulder. “It’s the job.”

The words landed harder than he probably meant. I swallowed thickly.

“Will I get to know where you are?”

He turned, reaching for me. “You can know everything I’m allowed to tell you. I won’t shut you out.”

I nodded, because I didn’t trust my voice.

He kissed me once — soft and lingering — and then he was gone.

—

The next few days passed slowly.

He texted when he landed in Denver. Again when they reached the local precinct. That first night, he called me from his hotel room. His voice was tired but steady, full of soft reassurances: I’m okay. I’m thinking about you. I wish you were here.

But the check-ins were short. Sporadic. Sometimes twelve hours went by without a word, and I had to remind myself he was just busy. That it wasn’t about me. That he had bigger things to worry about. That he wasn’t retreating.

Still, I found myself staring at my phone more than I wanted to admit. Writing texts I didn’t send. Wondering if this low, quiet ache in my chest was normal or the beginning of something harder.

When he got back four days later, he smelled like airplane soap and adrenaline. His arms were around me the second he was through my front door, and for a moment, it felt like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

“I missed you,” he murmured against my hair.

I squeezed him closer. “I missed you every second.”

Then he pulled back, and I saw it — the part of him that was already half gone again.

“You okay?” he asked.

I nodded. “Are you?”

“I’m tired. But yeah.”

“Did you eat the eggs?”

He blinked. “What?”

“In the lunch I packed. On your first day back.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth. “I forgot.”

—

That weekend, Spencer’s work friends invited him out to a nice dinner downtown.

He insisted I join him. Said he wanted me there. That he wanted me to meet more of his team, and that they wanted to meet me, too.

I said yes because I could tell it meant a lot to him — and because I genuinely did want to meet the people closest to him — but I was a nervous wreck over it. I felt like I was going to be interviewed by the people who had known him for years, who had pulled him from blood-soaked crime scenes and watched him unravel and rebuild more than once. People — profilers — who could probably read body language as easily as breathing. People who would know if I was feeling even just a little bit off.

Penelope nearly vibrated with joy when Spencer and I walked into the restaurant, hugging me like I was a gift-wrapped surprise. JJ gave me her usual perceptive, friendly smile, the kind that made me feel both seen and slightly exposed.

But it was meeting Emily and Rossi for the first time that made me sweat.

Emily shook my hand with polite warmth, but her eyes were sharp. Measuring. Assessing. As if she couldn’t help it. As if it was hardwired into her, the way it was hardwired into me to check pupils and track vitals. Rossi gave me a smile so charming it almost felt intimidating — not because he was skeptical, but because he was paying close attention, the way you do when someone you love finally lets you see something they’ve been protecting.

I did my best to hold my own. I answered questions about myself — my job at the infirmary, the story of how Spencer and I met (they loved hearing how I’d given him my number via scrabble tiles), what I liked to do outside of work. I laughed when they teased Spencer about still being the worst at remembering to eat, and about the time he tried to explain string theory at a retirement party and knocked over an entire cheese platter mid-metaphor. He rolled his eyes and claimed it was an unfair exaggeration, but his ears turned pink.

There was a moment when Emily asked what had drawn me to Spencer, and a million different answers piled up in my throat all at once. I just smiled and said, “He’s easy to care about. Even at his lowest, he was still always the kindest person in the room. Plus, he even pretended to feel bad when he kicked my ass in chess.”

Garcia let out a delighted little sound, pressing her hand to her heart. JJ’s eyes softened with something almost protective. Rossi gave an approving nod and raised his glass. And Emily — she didn’t quite smile, but her shoulders loosened, like she was easing off an invisible trigger.

Still, the entire dinner felt a little like walking a tightrope — one foot in Spencer’s universe, the other still hovering over mine. I couldn’t tell if I was holding my breath or just trying to match their rhythm.

“You okay?” JJ asked gently while we waited for dessert. “It’s a lot, I know.”

“Being part of this world?”

She tilted her head. “Being with someone who spends half their life chasing ghosts.”

I smiled tightly. “I haven’t quite figured out where I fit yet.”

“You don’t have to know today,” she said. “But if you care about him — and it’s pretty clear you do — then hang on. He’s worth the turbulence.”

I looked over at Spencer, who was in the middle of arguing with Garcia about the probability of alien life as if the past six months hadn’t nearly broken him. His hands moved as he spoke, his expression animated, utterly absorbed in the debate. There was something so familiar about it — the way he lit up, the way he met the world with open palms and big questions. Like the worst thing had already happened, and now he was trying to believe in wonder again.

“I know he is,” I said softly. “But turbulence still leaves you breathless sometimes.”

—

Later, in the car, Spencer took my hand. “You okay? You’ve been kind of quiet.”

I shrugged, watching the city pass by through the window. “I’m just tired. It was a good night.”

He glanced over at me, unconvinced but gentle.

“I really like Penelope,” I added. “She always hugs me like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

“She thinks you are,” he said, no hesitation. “And she’s right.”

I smiled, feeling my cheeks warm. “And JJ. She’s… perceptive. And kind. Like she sees things but doesn’t make you feel too exposed.”

His thumb brushed across my knuckles, slow and steady.

“And Emily was warm in a scary, FBI-chief sort of way. I was terrified she hated me, but then she made that joke about your hair and I felt like I passed some kind of test.”

Spencer let out a soft laugh. “That’s exactly how you know she likes you.”

“And Rossi’s stories are even better than you said they’d be,” I continued. “Though I’m still not convinced that the one about the ambassador’s wife and Ringo Starr actually happened.”

“Oh, it definitely did.”

That made me laugh. I leaned my head back against the seat, exhaling. “It was a good night, Spence. Really.”

Spencer smiled softly, but didn’t say anything. His thumb moved in slow, absentminded circles against my hand — like he was trying to ground me without interrupting whatever was unraveling inside my head.

I hesitated. “It’s just…”

He waited, thumb still brushing lightly over my knuckles. I kept my gaze on the window.

“It’s strange,” I said slowly. “Watching you slip back into your world so naturally. Not in a bad way — it’s a good kind of strange. But I’m still figuring out where I fit.” I paused for a beat. “Sometimes I worry I’m just watching your life take off without me.”

He turned to look at me, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “That’s not what’s happening.”

“I know,” I murmured. “But it feels that way sometimes. You’re re-entering a life that’s so much bigger than I ever knew, and I’m still finding my place in it.”

His fingers tightened gently around mine. “You’re not on the outside of this. You never were. You’ve always had a place with me.”

I nodded, though the ache lingered. “I know, Spence. It’s just… kind of a lot, I guess. I wasn’t ready for how much of it existed before me, which I know sounds incredibly silly.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled the car over with a soft turn of the wheel, settling us into the stillness of a side street, headlights casting long shadows through the trees. Then he turned toward me fully.

“You’re part of my life,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “The best part. I just need you to trust that I’m still in this. Even when I’m gone on cases. Even when I come home wrecked and quiet. I’m still with you.”

I looked at him then, really looked. At the man who had once been shattered, who had let me see every broken edge, who had handed me the glue and trusted me not to cut myself as I helped him put the pieces back together. And who now was flying straight toward the storm again, because that’s what he was made to do.

“I trust that,” I said softly. “I really do. I just don’t want to be the thing that keeps you grounded if what you really need is flight.”

His brow softened, and he reached across the console to cup my jaw, thumb brushing just beneath my cheekbone, tender and steady. “You’re not holding me down,” he said. “You’re giving me a reason to land.”

My throat tightened. The knot in my chest loosened — not all the way, but enough. I nodded, blinking against the rush of everything that wanted to spill out.

He gave my hand a final squeeze and slowly pulled back onto the road.

And this time, I really did let myself believe him.

—

That night, we didn’t sleep right away. We just… laid there, wrapped around each other, quiet and breathing like the hush itself was sacred. His hand rested against my back, fingers tracing slow, absent-minded lines — like he was etching something into the moment to keep forever.

It all felt different now. Not just tender, but certain. Like something had settled between us that couldn’t be undone.

He shifted slightly, just enough to look at me. His eyes moved across my face like he was studying it, memorizing it, letting the silence stretch long enough to make my breath catch.

Then he said, softly but without hesitation, “I love you.”

No preamble. No buildup. Just the truth, laid bare between us.

It hit me like a tidal wave, sudden and warm and full. I think part of me had been waiting for him to say that — aching for it, really. I had felt it already, but still, actually hearing it aloud cracked something open in my chest.

I blinked hard and reached for him, tracing his cheek with the backs of my fingers.

“I love you too,” I whispered. “I think I have for a while now.”

Something in him shifted — softened, unknotted. He exhaled like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. And then his lips curled into a smile so bright it almost hurt.

“You mean it?”

I nodded, and his smile deepened, eyes full of hope. “I think I’ve been waiting to hear that since the moment I met you,” he murmured.

Then he kissed me — slow and deep. Not hurried or desperate, just honest. His lips on mine like he was saying it again with his mouth, his hands, his whole body:

I’m here. I’m yours. I’m trying. I love you.

ᝰ.ᐟ

part vii

[5soswfttwtaf]

sometimes it's so tiring to be me, the moral Ukrainian me. i find a new artist or person online i like and i become a stalker to see what they've said or haven't said about russia, about my country. every detail. it's so exhausting and time-consuming but i cannot stand seeing someone on my timeline who proudly talks about reading dostoyevsky or some shit

like I've read russian literature too, i never had a choice, after centuries of occupation and their influence, it was literally in our school curriculum. mandatory. I would have switched it for any Ukrainian reread anytime if i had had the chance. we have so many amazing authors (who were killed by russians but that's a topic for another time)

now I'm thinking about seeing one small artist on tour, considering traveling to a different country for her. she's a book girl, and I've been spending the last weeks just digging her every social media page, zooming in on photos of her bookshelves etc.

it's exhausting, and i wish more people understood how much even such small detail as reading someone's book can hurt people and literally drive them crazy.

I know i do this to myself and no one is forcing me to check every single person i see online—especially western people because let's be honest, most won't understand what I'm talking about anyway because "it's the war of the governments" and "russians have dictatorship and ordinary people are not guilty" and all that shit—but why is it so hard to find actual good people to be a fan of their art?

probably splitting rn hence such harsh b&w thinking but i had to spit it out because I'm tired of people constantly dismissing us when we warn them about the propaganda that is "russian culture"

[ebsmind]

⏾ SOMEWHERE IN THE HAZE, GOT A SENSE I'VE BEEN BETRAYED | jack hughes x singer!reader

summary : how y/n found out vince cheated the first time

word count : 1.3k

warning(s) : cheating (poor baby y/n ☹️), arguing, mentions of k wording Vince, Vince is a fucking asshole (sorry lol), crying (i hate to see my baby sad)

a/n : AHHHHHHH okay okay this is my first written part and I hope I did it justice bc as much as I love angst, it's hard to write it! anyways, I'm glad I decided to do this because it challenges me to not only go deeper for yall to understand reader it also kinda makes you see what she had to put up with (what the fuck vince) okay that's all I had to say! send me asks about this series bc I love talking about teehee OKAY BYE ILY

series masterlist

The stars glisten upon the midnight-colored skies. The clock that sits on your nightstand on the right side of the bed, has officially struck midnight, signifying a new day. You turn a page of the book you're reading, And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie, a re-read. The early January winds whip through the city of Seattle. Draped upon you is a lavender-colored fuzzy knitted blanket. Handmade by Vince's mom, Tracy.

In the far distance, you can hear the water leaving the showerhead; Vince is taking a shower. The thought of joining him crosses your mind, but you shake the thought away and continue reading. You go to turn the 129th page, but Vince's phone dings before the next page is revealed. It takes a small fragment of a moment for your eyes to find where it sits. Once you do, you make a B-line to its location. You don't notice how his phone was placed face down until you reach the dresser.

Your eyes burn holes into the back of the phone. The clock is ticking. The more time passes, the less time you have to decide whether or not you're going to snoop through your boyfriend's phone. Your internal dialogue fights between two actions: Pick up the phone and read the text messages waiting for a response, or ignore it and continue reading your book. The little devil on your right shoulder wins the battle.

Before you even think about any consequences if Vince were to catch you, you find your right hand already reaching for the phone. The screen illuminates your face, reflecting against the blue lenses that sit across the bridge of your nose. The first thing you notice is the time, 12:34 am. Who in the hell is texting him at this time? The second thing you notice is how Vince no longer has you as his lock screen. Instead, you're faced with a picture of him on a golf course with some of his buddies. If it weren't for the worry about who was texting Vince this late a night, you probably would have cared. The third and final thing you notice is the simple "D" that had given him a notification four minutes ago. You don't have to unlock Vince's phone to read the message, FaceID recognized your face the moment you picked up the phone.

D

goodnight, can't wait to see you tomorrow 💋

*one image*

Waves of anxiety hit you like a tsunami. You reread the text message over and over, thinking that it'll change every time your eyes scan the last half of the message. It's imprinted into your mind, no matter how hard you try, it will never go away. The thought of pressing the message to fully see the picture makes bile rise up in your throat. Knowing it most likely contained some type of nude picture. Whether it was a picture of some nice expensive midnight blue lingerie, maybe even clear water teal, or a picture of the girl's tits, it was going to taint you for eternity. You weren't stupid. Things like this happen to stupid girls, but not you. It couldn't.

You don't hear the water coming to an abrupt stop or Vince walk into the room until he questions what you're doing. "Why do you have my phone?"

Your head whips up to where Vince stands, at the door frame that connects his master bedroom to the master bathroom. His light caramel curls rest on his forehead, beads of water drip down his chest, and his right hand rests on the knot in the towel that's wrapped around his waist. You don't realize the tears that started falling just moments ago until Vince asks, "Why are you crying?"

The gut-wrenching sadness you once felt slowly simmers down and a deep rust color of rage clouds your vision. Without delay, you chuck Vince's phone at his chest and scoff.

"Why do you fucking think?" You wipe the tears that stream down your face with the sleeve of your cream-colored cotton long sleeve, mascara ruins the once-clean shirt. Vince contemplates whether he wants to deny or openly be truthful with you, he unfortunately chooses the first option.

"Babe, come on!" He looks away from the lasers that are practically coming out of your eyes. He knows deep down he's screwed.

"No, Vince! You fucking listen to me! You better be so fucking grateful that I leave first thing in the morning because I'd probably kill you if I didn't!" Lungs working overtime so you can get all of that out in one go. Vince still stands at the doorframe, he doesn't plan on moving anytime soon.

"Who is she?" The question leaves your mouth under a breath, afraid of the answer that might leave Vince's mouth.

"I'm not telling you that." It leaves Vince's mouth at lightning speed, but you move even faster. Your feet carry you rapidly to where Vince stands, once he's in arm's reach, your hands start hitting his chest. You switch between curling your hands into a fist and punching, to slapping his chest. Uncontrollable sobs leave the depths of your chest, and tears cloud your vision to the point where you can only make out the silhouette of the man you never would have thought would betray you.

"I lo-lo-loved you! An-and you d-d-do this to me?!" Your sobs interrupt your ability to say the sentence in one go. Your body finally begins to feel the heartbreak. Your chest and nostrils burn, your head finally starts to pound, and your legs start to feel like jelly. Letting the sobs control your body and legs giving out, you finally accept defeat.

Your eyes close and you start to drop to the ground, this is a fight you aren't going to win. You wait for your body to hit the ground but it never comes, instead you're met with Vince's damp hands on your arms. He steadies you, "Woah, hey there. You're okay I got you."

Wasting no time, you shove the 6'0 man off of you, and before he can say anything else you spit out, "Don't fucking touch me."

Vince puts his hands up in defeat, "Okay! okay, I won't." Following Vince's response, you dash your way to the front door. The professional hockey player follows hot in your trail.

"Hey hey hey! Where are you going?" He tries to grab a hold of your shoulder to turn you around, your reflexes do you wonder and you shove his hand with all the willpower you have left. Disregarding Vince's question, you take your purse and suitcase -which had been placed right next to the door after you finished packing before you got into bed.

"I'm staying at a hotel for the night." Exhaustion hits your body, a bed -not Vince's- sounds amazing right now.

"No, stay. You leave in the morning."

"I'd rather be in some cheap hotel than spend another night with you." The backhanded comment leaves the boy stunned, you take it as your chance to finally leave. You unlock the door and guide your suitcase to follow you out the door. Vince never intervenes. You don't even bother looking back when you slam the door in his face.

Adrenaline courses through your veins, it doesn't dissipate until you're sat on a hotel bed. The mattress is hard, but you've gotten used to it when touring throughout your career. You take notice that the comforter won't do you any justice during the night but that isn't the first thing that's disappointed you today. Tears that stopped falling start to pour again, your chest aches and your heart feels like it's missing. You take a moment to finally acknowledge everything that had happened 25 minutes ago, and once you forcefully come to terms with it, you fall into a deep sleep. Not noticing the 64 missed calls and messages from Vince.

[chaos-interwoven]

aftg floor plans

not that anyone asked but the way my brain works means that any time i read anything, i am piecing together every room, every house, and every space. i need to create an image in my head so i can see the characters in it and see how they interact with the space. except it’s always vague and sometimes a throw-away line places a window or a wall where i didn’t think it was and i have to redo the entire space in my head…… it’s a struggle but after so many times rereading aftg, i have a pretty solid idea

this is just a long way of saying i have decided to take what’s in my head and make it into reality and i have made floor plans for aftg lol

so far, i have done the foxes’ dorm (both how i think the entire floor is laid out and each of their three rooms), wymack’s apartment, and abby’s house. i plan on doing the cali places later, don’t even worry

of course tumblr is corrupting the quality but in my head there are five rooms to each side of the hall and the stairs are right next to the monsters' room. that stray white box is an elevator supposedly.... i had no idea how or where the elevator should be so i just kinda threw it there, don't laugh. and we know the soccer kids live on their floor so they have the rooms across the hall

i placed everything based on descriptions gathered from the first four books (thank you jean for telling us they do in fact have stoves even if they are just two burners). i gave kevin's desk an extra monitor to watch games on lol and andrew has to be by a window to smoke out of it. also, the beds are bunked. i know this looks big but it was hard to get the spacing right..........

for the girls, i mirrored the monsters' room because i know that piping tends to make apartments laid out so kitchens or bathrooms are back to back with your neighbors. they also get a fancy extra chair and a bigger tv bc allison is rich and you can't tell me their room wouldn't have the nicest furniture. i feel like dan would have the bottom bunk, renee the top, and allison the lone lofted bed but that's just me lol

we know matt and neil shoved their three desks by the windows and in my head, matt and neil's bunk is on the left while seth's lofted bed is on the right. and matt and neil have their dressers underneath seth's bed and his is by the window

this was actually interesting because we know that the front door is out of sight from the doorway of the study and that there are windows in the living room so i put in this turn to the hall. again, the space looks huge here but that's mainly because i didn't want to have to shrink and rearrange all the walls over and over again

abby's was the hardest by far. i went back and scoured the books for more information about her house because i was struggling and have struggled with it since my first read through. we know that there is a doorway to the kitchen (so i couldn't give her the open floor plan i wanted) and that the bedroom jean stayed in was just down the hall from the bathroom. i ended up giving abby her own master bath just because i felt like it but i have no idea if that is canon. and the hall bath seemed too large so i put in a laundry room randomly but whatever. we also know she has a two car driveway so i made the shape of the house a little funky. and in my head, during summer break aaron and nicky stay in one bedroom and andrew and kevin are in the other one. i put kandrew in the bedroom down the hall because it is farther from the front door and andrew would like that imo. that is also the bedroom jean is in after renee takes him from evermore. and of course she needed a huge dining room table to fit everyone

ANYWAY, if you made it this far i am surprised and thank you for entertaining this. i can also share all the passages i used to piece together these floor plans cause they are all bookmarked but that felt like too much to include here and i doubt anyone cares. feel free to debate wall placements in the comments, i would love to talk to you about it as you can probably tell

and if literally anyone is interested, i can and will make these in the sims and then they will be real cute and colorful floor plans. i will probably do it anyway for my own enjoyment but whether i post them is up in the air

pt. 2 pt. 3 (cali)

[traincat]

Your Spideytorch fics are handsdown my favourite in the fandom and I re-read them more than I'm brave enough to admit but the one where Johnny was a virgin made me absolutely OBSESSED! And anything with Peter being protective/possessive is S-Tier and I started wondering if you have any thoughts on how Peter could've been protective of him after the Lyja nonsense since comics never really handled that the way they should've [and still don't]

Thank you so much! I'm so glad you like my fic enough to reread it at all, let alone multiple times.

I also love Peter being protective/possessive (two sides of the same coin with him?) and just like, slowly cluing into all the terrible things that have happened to Johnny beyond just superhero stuff as they begin a relationship. And then being absolutely ready to snap something or someone in half.

An interesting thing is that Peter is more aware than most about what went down with Lyja. He's witness to some of it, even.

(Fantastic Four #299) "You're getting married? You?!?" Okay big talk from the man who would also be married within like five months. (Their weddings happen extremely close to each other.) So Johnny and "Alicia's" wedding was supposed to be a small, private affair which is, you know -- it's interesting. On the one hand, I can see Johnny wanting a small, intimate wedding because he is, at heart, a romantic. On the other hand, looking at the big picture, it does feel a little suspicious that he just didn't want to hype up his marriage at all or announce it anywhere or talk about it. Peter, Wyatt, and Jen are basically the only people in his life who know, and while that is basically the grand total of his personal social circle, it's easy to single Peter out here because Jen was on the FF at the time and Wyatt was dating her.

Anyway, to fast forward through Johnny's incredibly boring marriage and get to the point where it stops being boring but starts being actively terrible, Peter also reaches out to Johnny when he finds out he's "getting divorced." (He and the real Alicia are filing papers to dissolve the marriage Johnny had with Lyja, who at this point of time was thought to be dead.)

(FF #362)

And by "reaches out" I mean "annoys into a chase through New York City." But it's fine because he did it to make Johnny feel better, actually.

(FF #362) They're normal.

It should be noted at this time that Johnny was trying to attend college for the third time. (The first time being State U, where he dropped out because he was clearly trying to get his M.R.S. degree instead, and the second time being the Evil Supervillain College Peter rescued him.) He's attending ESU, which is Peter's alma mater.

Anyway, uh, Johnny's College Try Number Three isn't going to work out either, for different reasons than him kicking his feet and twirling his hair and thinking he's going to get married at nineteen or because he's actually being kidnapped by an evil hypnotist.

Because Lyja's not dead!

(FF #370) There she is. In her Revenge Assless Chaps.

Anyway, she tries to kill him and essentially forces him to go nova to save his own life, and in the process he burns down ESU. (No one dies in the fire, which is comic book logic, considering when he goes nova he explodes, but whatever.)

Johnny is arrested for the fire but, while being led through an angry crowd, he sees Lyja in the crowd, understandably freaks out, and flies away. Peter, who had been photographing Johnny's arrest for the Bugle, reacts.

(FF #372) "Oh, Johnny... what have you done to yourself? Can anyone save you now?" To be fair, Peter does protest coming down hard on Johnny in the Bugle, but it's also, you know, his job.

To Peter's credit, he does try. He spends hours swinging around in the rain, looking for Johnny, who is currently huddled among a bunch of garbage bags because he could not possibly be a sadder or wetter sad wet kitten.

(FF #372) "Even he's turned against me!" Johnny, though, traumatized and terrified, thinks everyone is out to get him.

Once Johnny is actually booked, Peter is there to take the picture, too. Rough.

(FF #376)

And then in the Spider-Man 1995 Christmas Special, Johnny and Peter discuss The Fake Egg Baby Drama, although not in great detail.

So Peter is about as aware of the situation as anyone who wasn't along for the ride the entire time. I'd say Wyatt probably knows more, but Peter's more in the know than most.

Peter's got a lot of his own stuff going on during this time period. (When doesn't he.) Very notably, at the same time Johnny was getting arrested, the Android Parents plot was happening over in Amazing Spider-Man and The Death of Vermin was happening in Spectacular Spider-Man, so Peter kind of had other things on his mind, and while it hadn't quite arrived yet, the Clone Saga was looming on the horizon. So yeah, a lot going on.

One thing that always interests me as a little experiment is to imagine what canon looks like if you get Johnny and Peter together at like -- any point in it. So what does it look like if, after Lyja's initial death, Peter and Johnny start a relationship? (You do have to discount the Spider-Marriage for this, but hey! Marvel already did that so there are no rules. She and Gwen are living in a luxury condo in Los Angeles.) Peter is very protective, and I can see him taking the Lyja situation very, very badly. He would definitely be suspicious about the egg baby and I can see it causing drama, because he'd want to support Johnny but he'd want to be rational about things, which is not Johnny's strong suit.

I do also like the idea of Peter finding Johnny while he's looking for him while Johnny's on the run and hiding him from the authorities while Peter tries to unravel exactly what happened and exonerate Johnny. Like a less fun roommates issue! Although Johnny could still cook in his underwear.

I think, no matter what, in a Spideytorch post-Lyja setting, once Peter and Johnny do get together, Peter will start slowly putting together the pieces that the Lyja situation was much, much worse than he initially believed, and that's going to cause drama, especially since Johnny tends to downplay his drama. I could see Peter getting into a fight with Sue over the fact that she invited Lyja to stay after Johnny told her he never wanted to see her again and just generally being very angry, and I think Johnny would have complicated feelings about that. On the one hand, Peter being protective over him is nice, and it's not something he's really had before, but on the other hand, he does downplay that trauma, and he's convinced himself things weren't that bad. It's fun to think about the different scenarios!

[borkunlimited]

Take Your Time, Miss Deer (Sylus x Reader) - Ch. 5

In a tailor shop tucked in the calmer side of the N109 zone is a little room where all clothes of many different designs come together under the delicate hands of an unassuming deer living in the den of all sorts of beasts and sitting on them is the dragon who wears your clothes.

Your many interactions with Skye, Mr. Sylus’ messenger or-

-Sylus is waiting for you to finally figure out he is playing his own messenger.

A Deer Hybrid! Reader x Dragon Hybrid! Sylus Fic

Tags: Sylus x Reader, Hybrid AU, Suggestive Themes, Fluff, Predator/Prey, Injury, Blood, Guns

Trigger Warning: Injury, Blood, Guns

Chapter Summary: He had pushed against all odds, defying every word they described him. If you let him kiss your wounds, he hopes you will kiss his real name in return.

Author's Note: Rereading Beastars in my spare time made me understand why people tend to wait for a series to finish even if it takes YEARS. Anyways, I am also catching up on Ancient Magus Bride as well. Really inspired me to draw better. Will I draw art for this series? Maybe?

AO3

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch.4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 / Ch. 9 / Ch. 10 / Side A / Side B

5: My Dearest, Frustrated

A walk usually helps you clear your head.

There are a few things you missed about the place that you used to live with your father. When the sewing machine refuses to cooperate and your fingers are beginning to tremble from hand stitching delicate fabrics, you always find your feet carrying you around Bloomshore District.

It is one of the only few places in the country where humans and hybrids can co-exist but even then, it still has its fair share of problems hidden beneath the idyllic place, subtle words and looks laced from mostly humans who believes you owe it to them that they see you as civilized.

Unfortunately, a short walk is one of the many privileges you have to let go when you move here in the N109 zone.

Today, everything is slowly becoming frustrating.

A slight pressure from your foot will have the sewing machine run too fast, out of control, and you are getting tired of ripping the seams of the same stitch too many times just to repeat the same mistake.

If you are not too careful, you might actually end up starting all over again because you have already stretched the expensive fabric too much.

Your father is very wise in accepting requests and even when you are fully booked for every month, he makes sure you have enough on your plate that you still have breathing space and keeps the business afloat.

Still, there are cases that clients often go straight to you to ask for favors.

Just like that sweet baker.

A sheep hybrid, a former close neighbor who also moved with you and your father here, asked you personally if you can prioritize her order. She was hesitant at first, saying that you can turn her down if it is a bit too much but you don’t mind, especially when it is her and her husband’s wedding anniversary and the offer of strawberry shortcake in return was something you can't resist.

It was supposed to be easy.

Then, the needle of the sewing machine hit the zipper, the sound was too loud as it thud harshly against the same spot and you panicked, stepping on the pedal too hard.

No.

No.

No!

No amount of ripping the seams would salvage this fabric now.

You wanted to cry but the sound of your frustrated scream remained deep in your chest and your lips trembled.

This is the only thing you are good at. You can’t fail at this. This is what feeds you and your father, what keeps the roof above your heads, one late order can affect the reputation of this shop and then you have to go back-

You don’t want to go back.

Mpehisto tilts its head at you, its optics zooming in to see the pinpricks of tears on the corner of your eyes and notices you are biting your bottom lip too hard.

It immediately pieced together that you are clearly upset so it did what it usually does to comfort you.

It does the dance.

Yes, that dance.

The steps are fairly simple.

Three little hops (Right, left, center. It should go in that order!), a twirl with its wings spread wide and then ends with its tail wagging, a dramatic bow.

Usually, that makes you clap at its performance and giggle softly.

Yet, you did not react at all when it tried to do the ‘silly dance’ as you called it in front of you just now.

What’s wrong? 

Why aren’t you laughing? 

Did it not do the twirl well enough?

Did it not practice enough?

“You should go home, Daisy,” you said quietly.

But it doesn’t want to go. This is exactly why its master sends it here after all.

To look after you, to listen to you. 

It is your confidant as much as it is to its master.

Daisy only stared back at you and you sighed, standing up and then opening the window wider.

“Come on, Daisy,” you beckoned, trying hard not to sound curt but failing miserably, “I am sure your nest needs a crow.”

It seemed to hesitate at first, flapping towards your windowsill and if crows can frown, Mephisto certainly did when the kiss you gave on top of its head was too forced.

The mechanical crow gave you one last look before flying away and there is only one thing running in its mind after it sent Sylus its data-

-If it can’t comfort you, then its master should surely know what to do.

────────────────────

There are people who are as stubborn as a mule.

It has been a terribly long day and Sylus’ initial plans of visiting you have already been delayed by an hour. 

An hour.

He has interacted with different kinds of people, humans and hybrids alike, but this one, this particular human takes the crown as the most annoying business partner Sylus had dealt with.

“These firearms are overpriced,” the human tried to haggle with him and Sylus has to commend this nuisance for not even trembling on his presence.

Such is the pride of every human, he supposed, the weakest among the bunch always think they are more superior to the strongest hybrid.

“The prices are non-negotiable,” he replied coldly, his eyes narrowed towards the human who is examining the firearms too many times and he is stopping himself from rolling his eyes because the human clearly thinks they are fake, “They are high-end models. Do you want them or not?”

This dragon is harder to bully than the rest. Most hybrids would cower to any demands laid down by a human but there is always that one hybrid among the rest who does not back down, even with threats.

You would have expected a rare hybrid would value his life more and concede just to survive but no, not this beast.

What does this beast call himself again? 

Right, Sylus. 

The hybrid who had built this city that is now crawling with his fellow abominations.

The brute must have been so lonely that he worked tooth and nail so that he carved out his own empire with his own subjects.

Of course, the human did his research ahead and who would have thought, this thing feared even by his kind actually had a heart.

These beasts run their mouths so much that he heard that Sylus over here is doting over a deer hybrid.

He stooped so low that of all the hybrids he could pick from, he chose a docile deer.

A complete opposite of him.

Now the human can’t help but wonder.

Is that poor deer Sylus has chosen his emergency ration or a feast for a special day?

“I do, but inflating your prices would not be too good for your business, don’t you think?”, the human asked.

This insolent human is so amusing, isn’t he?

“You’re not in any position to lecture me on how I should run my business,” Sylus answered, a subtle hint of anger creeping in his face.

This negotiation should have clearly ended earlier but Sylus still has half a mind to be at least cordial to these imbeciles whether he likes it or not, the last thing he wants is for the police to start sniffing again after he had paid them a hefty sum.

Sylus didn’t bother to know their names and he can hear the human whisper with his companions. 

These people. 

Barging here, demanding for quality goods, and then suddenly doubt their authenticity? Maybe they shouldn’t even be here.

He took a sip from his glass, the whisky burning on his throat when a certain weight pressed down on his left shoulder.

Mephisto?

His mechanical crow let out a caw.

How odd. 

His companion is basically glued to you at this point. Isn’t this one supposed to be hanging around you at this hour?

Did something happen? No, he had set up security alarms around your shop, he would have known if something or someone triggered it.

Sylus frowned at Mephisto, not caring if he was in the middle of business and his crow projected a hologram in front of him, just small enough for his eyes and the volume low.

“Go home, Daisy.”

No wonder why Mephisto is here.

You are clearly upset over something and oh, Sylus will certainly drop everything he is doing when he sees those pinpricks of tears in the corner of your eyes. 

His precious deer does not get easily upset, always patient and the look of frustration is a foreign expression Sylus had never seen before.

Whoever made you cry should certainly wish they had a plot already reserved in the cemetery.

“Deal’s off,” Sylus said, immediately standing up and his tail flicking in annoyance.

This conversation had already run past its course anyways and he had more pressing matters to attend to than listening to a human haggle with him until he gave his wares for free. Unbelievable.

“What?! You're leaving? You can’t just walk away-”

“Watch me.”

“You’re going to regret this, Sylus!”

The exit to the warehouse slammed shut and it was clear to everyone inside that no exchange was going to happen.

Sylus knows he could go look for another customer. There will always be another human or another hybrid who is willing to pay the price he had set.

The threats thrown by the human faded into white noise and the only thought running in his mind is that he needs to get to your shop as soon as he can. The human can go on and on about putting his head on a silver platter and even then, he could hardly care when he eats those words for breakfast.

His business can wait.

He had to wipe away those tears first.

The dark thread wind against the empty bobbin, your foot stepping on the pedal to refill it. After Daisy left, you have set aside the dress for now and have decided to work on Mr. Sylus’ shirt.

Sewing his clothes has become a regular task for you and because of that you don’t have to look at his measurements anymore because you already have it memorized.

Even when it is such a warm, sunny day here in the N109 zone, today is not your day from the looks of it but you are still struggling to accept that fact, pushing yourself to just work on something, anything so that you have at least progress.

Just one shirt. Anything. The fabrics have to come together and take a new shape today.

As much as you love random visits from your clients, you really hope none of them would come inside your studio. Not today because you are very close. Very close to snapping because the threads are refusing to listen to you, the end of the thread of the bobbin now stuck.

Again.

Now you have to manually unwind it.

Again.

You let out a sharp inhale, removing your foot from the pedal while you slowly untangle the thread and your hands faltered when the door opened to reveal the person you specifically hope to not come over, your anger and frustration mixing together and now simmering under the surface.

“Hello, Skye,” you greeted, your voice slightly strained but you still gave Mr. Sylus’ messenger the best smile you have, even if it was slightly forced.

Sylus’ gaze moved up and down, checking for anything that might be out of place but aside from the usual mess of threads that hang on your antlers every time you work, you seemed fine.

Except, not just your usual cheerful self.

“Hello, sweetie,” he greeted you, taking quick strides until he was standing beside where you were sitting, “Everything alright?”

Of all times your favorite visitor has to come over, it has to be today where all you want is to be left alone but you don’t want to be rude, you know Skye must be busy, being Mr. Sylus’ messenger/bodyguard/boss henchman, but he still made an effort to go here so you just sighed in defeat, thinking you should still be at your best behavior.

“I am fine,” you replied but the answer came out on your mouth too clipped, the corner of your lips twitched slightly.

“Something’s bothering you, miss seamstress.”

“Nothing’s bothering me.”

“Always a terrible liar, sweetheart.”

“I am not,” you replied, closing your eyes briefly to reel in the irritation threatening to break the surface only for you to once again step too hard on the pedal, the needle you just replaced running diagonally across the fabric and you let out a yelp, the sharp object piercing your finger.

“Darling-”

You were able to pull back just in time, letting go of the pedal and cradling the injury close to your chest.

“Let me see,” Sylus kneeled in front of you, his heart racing when he saw you curling up on your chair in silent pain and sobbing quietly.

You shook your head at first, trying to calm yourself.

“Please, sweetheart.”

His voice was soft, close to a plea, as if he is coaxing you, the frightened deer to step closer, that he meant no harm.

“Let me see how bad it is,” he pressed further, his fingers wrapping around your wrist and tugging it gently, waiting for you to loosen up.

Hot tears stream on your face but you finally let him check your wound, blood slowly pouring out.

It is a nasty cut, the needle that pierced your skin is certainly sharp and brand new, but with a quick clean-up, your wound should heal before you even know it.

“Sweetie, this is a pretty deep cut,” Sylus said softly, wrapping your injured finger with his own white handkerchief, the blood staining the fabric but at least it would stop the flow while he looked for a first aid kit.

He stood up, thinking of stepping out to ask your father where you keep the medical supplies even if your father’s first assumption might be because he finally decided to pounce on you, that he had a moment of weakness and decided to have your finger as an appetizer.

“Skye.”

Sylus heard you call out his name, his false name, but he was so used to it that he immediately spun around before he could even turn the handle of your studio door.

“I keep the bandages in the washroom,” you said quietly, your eyes moving at the door to your right.

“I’ll be back in a moment, sweetie,” he told you and you watched him walk towards the direction of the washroom, your ears perking upon hearing him opening the cabinet doors.

Must there always be a wound for you to realize that you are letting your emotions ahead of you?

It is an innate survival instinct, aside from the antlers that you also lose during the winter, to keep your emotions at bay because your naturally docile kind has nothing to protect themselves aside from sticks and stones.

Better to lay low than alert unwanted company, better to stay still for a moment than forever.

You watched him kneel in front of you again, taking your hand with the injured finger and unwrapping the white handkerchief before setting it aside. There is nothing but focus on his gaze, no hint of the dilated pupils that predator hybrids have when they catch a scent of blood.

“I can take care of it,” you said quietly, trying to pull away your hand but he held on to it firmly.

Afraid. You are afraid to see the reality of this uncommon situation where you have grown to cherish one of the few hybrids in the N109 zone and prove everyone’s words right-

“Dragons eat their prey alive.”

-That he and you are indeed very, very different.

Your heart skipped a bit when he moved your finger closed to his lips and his gaze trained towards you, a permission. Even then, his eyes remained the same. The same crimson eyes that looked at you fondly every time you talk.

There is no hint of hunger, no hint of any desire to devour you.

For a moment, you and him are almost close to being humans, just two conscious beings.

“I am not going to hurt you.”

“You won’t?”

“I would never harm you.”

You nodded slowly, a yes, and he took your wounded finger towards his mouth, placing a soft kiss at your fingertip before licking the cut, his tongue warm.

Vigor. Most predator hybrids specifically go to the black market for this. For blood. Sylus refused to partake in it, mostly because he is already powerful in his own right and he refused to be dependent on such.

The words are true, it is incredibly potent, just one drop alone. Your skin is soft, your blood sweet yet call it sheer willpower because he is not going to let those primitive instincts kick in, even when his sharp canines beckons him for a little nip.

Just a small bite.

It was never hunger that drove his attraction to you.

It was companionship, a longing.

May this be the lying dragon’s proof to you of his undying devotion, likely the last of his kind, the lonely fiend, a lowly liar, liar, liar, undeserving of your affection but here he is, on his knees, silently begging for more and never in his waking days and fitful nights he had ever dreamt of even laying a finger to the deer who willingly stepped out of the blurry line of her paradise to his so she can have a better look at the monster wearing a false name hiding in the foliage of the dark forest.

Let this be his unspoken promise from him to you. 

Let his actions be witness that he is nothing but honest to the affections he had reserved just for you.

There was a moment of silence that settled between the two of you, Sylus focused on cleaning your cut and even when the taste of you lingered in his tongue, he had swore in himself to wash it off, to never succumb to its allure.

“I was bad at Daisy,” you said softly, guilty at how you treated your little assistant. It even did the silly dance to cheer you up but you just looked at it, never giving it praise that it deserves.

Were you that frustrated? You really hope your crow friend visits again soon so you can apologize.

“I am sure Daisy understands, miss seamstress,” Sylus replied, dabbing your wound with antiseptic. He already played the rest of the recording on his way here, witnessing your frustration.

“I was mean to you too,” you added, your voice softer that you are unsure if he even heard you.

But Sylus did not miss your quiet confession laced with guilt. It seems that you are never used to expressing your anger, how you opt to stray away instead of lashing out, your deer and human sides clashing on processing such.

“I know you didn’t mean it, sweetie,” he answered gently.

He isn’t foreign to this. How many times did he lash out when he was young? He doesn’t even choose his targets, his anger directed at either hybrid or human, anyone who is in front of him. The anger still remained, the anger of losing his sense of belonging but it became bearable to carry, the burden smaller now.

Time made him realize that even when he might be the last of his kind, he certainly is not the last hybrid.

“There you go. All better now, sweetheart.”

The heavy emotions lingering in the air slowly drift off, replaced by a certain understanding only the two of you have, a deal Sylus has sealed by pressing another kiss on your bandaged finger.

His little doe, a genius in her own right, having a rainy day. It was obvious based on the state of your working desk and what he saw that your materials are refusing to follow the instructions of their beautiful maestro, refusing to follow the beat she has set.

His knuckles traced the path of your tears, pressing his lips on them, kissing away the lingering frustration while your sobs slowly turned into quiet whimpers.

“How about I sing it away until you forget it even ever existed, hm?”

He didn’t wait for you to reply, his baritone voice filled the room, soft. The high and low notes seemed to tumble out of his lips with no sense of consistency that you finally cracked a smile when he finished.

“You have a very silly way of singing, Skye,” you pointed, stifling your giggle.

Oh so his mechanical crow’s dance that he programmed himself was labelled as a ‘silly dance’ and now you are calling his singing ‘silly’ as well? After the effort he put on that little song.

“It’s called ‘unique’, miss seamstress, not ‘silly’”, he playfully corrected you, pinching your cheek and he grinned further when that familiar cheerful smile was slowly returning on your adorable face.

“Can you do it again for me soon, Skye?”, you asked, “If you don’t mind?”

Ah, his little deer, becoming so bold in asking for favors. Back then, you used to be so hesitant because you were worried you might be imposing on him.

“I will sing for you day or night as often as you want me to.”

His reply seemed to perk you up, your tail wagging and you glanced at the ruined shirt you were sewing for Mr. Sylus. The frustration of not getting it right seemed to ebb away and now replaced with a new determination but perhaps, that energy is reserved for tomorrow once your head is clearer.

“Can you also tell Mr. Sylus I am not delayed on his requests?”, you asked again but this time, slightly hesitant, “I am still on track, I promise.”

“I will. You’re never anything but efficient, miss seamstress,” Sylus answered. He already knows you always meet your deadlines, that you are such a diligent tailor that knows the importance of each clothes you make to your client.

There will be a time this game of pretend shall come to an end and he had always looked forward to that day but for now, his identity does not matter much to him.

Right now, as long as he sees his beautiful deer, unharmed, then-

-Everything is right with the world.

────────────────────

“Are you sure you are alright?”

Your father asked you again but you don’t mind, nodding before you took a bite of the salad he prepared for dinner.

“Yes, I think I am just a little stressed lately,” you answered, fiddling with your fork.

“I mean with your visitor earlier,” your father said quietly and his eyes lingered at your finger wrapped with a red bandage.

He doesn’t exactly dislike Sylus, no, far from that. Only a few people hold a certain respect for the dragon hybrid who was kind enough to let people settle here and he is one of them. If anything, he is more than grateful for his support.

Yet, uttering his name out loud when he is not around, your father always thinks he is going to summon Sylus by accident, knowing the dragon is always listening, especially when it comes to you.

“Oh, yes, it was a very pleasant visit.”

“You can tell me anything, you know.”

“But I am,” you replied, slightly confused as you tilt your head at him. “Skye didn’t do anything bad.”

Skye.

He still doesn’t know why you address Sylus as such. Is it a nickname only you and your favorite visitor understand? Perhaps it is because Sylus never bothered to correct you.

Your father is more than aware you are a very terrible liar ever since you are a child. Your bluntness does not come across sarcasm but an observation, and even when you lie, there are always tell tale signs.

Yet, right now, you are completely honest that you find Sylus’ visits enjoyable and it is undeniable you two are becoming closer. How your scent clung on the dragon hybrid’s horns, how Sylus is staying longer than usual, and the recent development-

-That cut on your finger was tended by the man himself.

Perhaps his worries are for nothing, that Sylus indeed has genuine intentions.

Still, when you almost lose everything, any new change comes with doubt and uncertainty.

Your father just smiled, piling more food on your plate and his gaze moved behind your back, at the shelves where both of you kept the expensive china gifted to your shop by one of your clients, towards the little drawer where the keys are kept and-

-He hopes that the little package wrapped in old newspaper will forever remain unopened.

────────────────────

Luke and Kieran had to immediately cover their noses when they caught the scent of blood in the air.

Let the humans in white coats tinker with you long enough that you will be able to pick out which scent belongs to who and well, this new scent is particularly potent.

Their pupils dilated and they looked at each other, their hands trembling and dropping the sheep plushies they were working on.

It wasn’t the first time they smelled blood. It is a general scent in the N109 zone after all but this one, no, this one utterly horrified them.

No, it can’t be.

Soft cotton and wildflowers. Springtime. Soil thawing out after a long winter.

This is yours.

No, that’s not possible.

Boss is a dangerous man but he isn’t a damn animal but what if-

-The blood spilling from your neck staining the fabric, the tailor’s chalk on the wooden floor and your hand, lifeless and pale, reaching for it but only for you to never do. 

It was an image too much to bear.

Sylus barely even touched the handle to the double doors of the base when it opened wide, the twins immediately going after him.

“Boss, what did you do to her?!”, Luke yelled at his face, his knife immediately going after his throat.

There is only one thought running in their heads.

They will kill him, even if he is leagues stronger than both of them combined.

Kieran was quick, aiming for his abdomen but Sylus is quicker than these two.

Prior from taking them in, these two tried to end him before so it has been awhile when he has seen the twins with their hackles raised, their tails tucked between their legs, and yes, snarling at him.

“Back down. Now.”

“We trusted you!”

“And I trusted you two not to jump to conclusions.”

This little display made him realize he still has more to teach to these wolf cubs that just end up following him but he doesn’t blame them. 

Any predator hybrid who doesn’t keep themselves in check would always jump toward its source, conscience gone and natural instincts kicking in without them realizing it.

Incredibly potent. An irreversible addiction.

He pulled out the handkerchief and the twins’ immediately covered their noses with their hands, turning away and flinching from the object.

“She had an accident while working earlier,” Sylus explained, returning the cloth back to his pocket but even then, the two refused to put down their hands.

“Is Miss Deer alright?”, Kieran asked.

“It’s nothing serious,” Sylus assured the two.

The two still stepped further from him, as long as he had that handkerchief with him, there is no way they are coming near the boss, even if he orders them too.

It was too overwhelming. Every blood from a prey hybrid is a trigger for a century old trait that should have faded away. They don’t know how the boss does it, how he is awfully calm even when they are close to salivating just from the scent alone.

Detestable. Their bodies acting against their wills, close to forcing them to step closer.

“Boss, we have to go,” Kieran said weakly.

“Then go,” Sylus said and the two wasted not another minute, disappearing back at the base and away from that scent.

Sure he is a fiend.

But he is certain he isn’t a lunatic.

And he has a strong will, relentless.

Even if he has his first taste, he isn’t a man that will back down on his oath.

.

.

.

Afterall, he is as much a human as he is a dragon.

────────────────────

Author's Note: This was based on an experience where I actually did had this accident and boy, it hurt like hell HAHA

AO3

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch.4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 / Ch. 9 / Ch. 10 / Side A / Side B

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

jason trying to flirt and reader freaking out gives me life. (dw jason i bet she wants to kiss you too (if she doesnt i might))

When you hesitated to name a book, afraid of being mocked maybe. Or afraid to be vulnerable, Jason took a shot in the dark. Looking up at the shelves. Looking for something well loved. Something you'd keep where you could reach it whenever you wanted comfort. Something you held close to your heart. That you'd read and reread. Worn but not destroyed. Venerated. It would almost feel like something sacred.

Every lonely kid had that book.

And when he locked eyes on it, he smiled. He got up off the floor and walked across the room, aware that he was being watched. He could feel a prickle of warning. A crackle of anxiety tugging at him. And he forced himself to breathe. Yeah, it was a kiddie book. A whole set of them. But, you liked books with happy endings.

"Convert me?" Jason hummed, "I never really liked fairy tales."

"No?"

"It's kinda hard to worry about chivalry when you live like I did," he said sitting back down- suppressing a pang with difficulty. He hadn't thought about his mom and dad in a long time. He kept them buried. It was easier. To not remember the way cancer had a smell. And the way that without insurance drugs just managed the pain. And his dad drank because it hurt. And because it hurt and he drank he couldn't hold a job. And because he couldn't hold a job he just kept doing crimes.

Books had to have a point. Fairy tales and delicate little "girl books" felt ephemeral and frivolous. Austen. Shelley. Poe. Homer. Christie. All that had a point.

"I'm sorry-"

"It's alright," he said exhaling roughly. It wasn't about him. And when he felt you try to pull back, trembling from the strain he shook his head and sank to the floor. "Don't worry about me, okay. Not right now anyway."

"It hurts-"

"Sometimes," he admitted. "But if I read this for a while maybe I'll forget-"

"You can borrow-"

"I was going to read it to you," he mumbled, cheeks heating. He meant to just come in and start doing it. He'd hoped you'd just curl up with him and doze off.

"Oh."

"Is that okay?" he asked, not sure what to make of your reaction. Or your feelings. They're still a snarl- and mostly self-hatred.

"Yeah," you murmur. "Your voice is nice when you're not being mean."

[feyburner]

saw a post of yours where you were breaking down your complex feelings about Jason and violence and catharsis (great post, 10/10, also love ur jaytim fic). Anyway maybe this a weird thing to get out of that but I was wondering, since your response was so articulate and interesting, if you could tell me about your ten-book bookshelf. You know how some people have a dream ten-car garage? Well, what are the ten books -- or even five of the ten, so you have room to change things -- that you would consider as your favourite books of all time? Would love some recommendations.

Oh man this is tough. Ok let me think. Ok.

THIS IS SO HARD!!!! Im gonna think about it like “if I had to be stranded on a desert island with only 10 books for the rest of my life.” Each of these books are literary feasts which could sustain my brain for years.

1. PIRANESI by Susanna Clarke. A pandemic novel and it shows (honorary). This is a book about isolation and hope and God and science and a really weird house. It is so good. It makes you remember why you love the world. I read it for the first time in like 2 hours flat without moving or pausing and have reread it many times since.

2. REAPER MAN or NIGHT WATCH or FEET OF CLAY by Terry Pratchett. Sorry I would pick with a gun to my head but not before. I love anything Pterry but these are the ones that have stuck with me the most so far & explore themes I find most interesting. I love Death and I love Sam Vimes. I accept that the Discworld in general cannot count as one book.

3. THE ROAD by Cormac McCarthy. Incredibly bleak novel that makes you feel so bad the whole time. 10/10.

4. GIOVANNI’S ROOM by James Baldwin. This book is about being a gay/bi American expat in Europe and feeling a shame that is inextricable from white American culture/masculinity. It is about being emotionally castrated by your own culture/country and briefly experiencing a taste of something real and raw and “dirty” and frightening and having to choose between deviance and conformity except you can’t even commit to that choice bc of who you are as a person bc of the culture that made you. So you’ll just be alienated and haunted and between worlds forever. 10/10.

5. THE LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy by Jolkien Rolkien Rolkien Tolkien. This counts as one book.

6. BELOVED by Toni Morrison. The prose in this book is without equal unless you count other Toni Morrisons. It’s one of those books that is so good and so masterful you leave it having been made anew after spending that time so wholly enmeshed in another person’s mind. I reread it a couple years ago for the first time in years and felt that same feeling all over again. It is stunning.

7. CIRCE by Madeline Miller. I know it’s cool to hate Madeline Miller on this website and everyone’s above SONG OF ACHILLES now but guess how much I give a shit. I loved this one and have reread it many times. It’s slow and internal with very little plot, mostly just a woman thinking, which is my favorite type of book.

8. THE TOMBS OF ATUAN or TEHANU or THE LEFT HAND OF DARKNESS by Ursula K. LeGuin. If I had to pick, probably TLHOD. It hits!!!

9. A STRANGER IN OLONDRIA by Sofia Samatar. This is a recently acquired favorite, I loved it from the first page. Beautifully written, a masterclass in specific perspective and “realistic” linguistic, cultural, and religious divides in fantasy (vs. the vaguely medieval Western European setting where everyone speaks the same language).

10. THE SIRENS OF TITAN or BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS by Kurt Vonnegut. I think TSOT wins by a hair. “A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved.”

This was hard and I only managed it by not including any books in categories other than Books That Changed Me Fundamentally, subcategory That I Could Read Over and Over.

Otherwise, shoutout to nonfiction books THE OLD WAYS and UNDERLAND by Robert Macfarlane, BRAIDING SWEETGRASS by Robin Wall Kimmerer, OTHERLANDS by Thomas Halliday, ENTANGLED LIFE by Merlin Sheldrake; “read for a fucked up horny romantic time” fantasy books the CAPTIVE PRINCE trilogy by C.S. Pacat and TIAN GUAN CI FU by Mo Xiang Tong Xiu; poetry collections by Mary Oliver, Jane Kenyon, Maya Angelou, Sylvia Plath, Tracy K. Smith, Zhai Yongming, Maggie Nelson, Fiona Benson, Mei-mei Berssenbrugge; short story collection LESSER KNOWN MONSTERS OF THE 21ST CENTURY by Kim Fu; and the epic graphic novel BONE by Jeff Smith.

Anyway, I am currently reading, among other things, JONATHAN STRANGE AND MR. NORRELL by Susanna Clarke, DEMOCRACY by Joan Didion, and GWENHWYFAR by Mercedes Lackey. I recently picked up LAND OF MILK AND HONEY by C Pam Zhang and I WHO HAVE NEVER KNOWN MEN by Jacqueline Harpman.

If anyone has any recs based on this list please do give them especially if it’s a sad book where nothing much happens, I love those.