#jackson x raven

[thespianontheair]

just little one shot from an AU I'm working on. It's a human+crossover AU for MH/EAH. This isn't really cannon to what the main story will be, but I wanted to write something while working on the main fic.

[sakeofpower]

[mj-102009]

I personally hate it when authors are writing dialog and its like:

Sarah said. "I really like feet," Carl's nose wrinkled in disgust as he subconsciously shifted his own feet. He replied. "Ew," and then-

I thought you're supposed to switch paragraphs when there's a new speaker? Was it just my school lmao? Someone tell me pls

[myshitnothingtoseehere]

X-men X PJO AU

Charles Xavier - son of Athena blessed by Hestia

Erik - son of Ares

Raven - daughter of Aphrodite with shape shifting abilities

Alex (and Scott) Summers - son of Apollo

Hank - a satyr

Moira - human, hunter of Artemis

Angel - daughter of Boreas

Sean aka Banshee - son of Apollo

Darwin - son of Hebe

Azazel - son of Hermes or Hades with Shadowtravel

Janos - son of Zephyrus

Emma Frost - daughter of Athena blessed by Aphrodite

Irene Adler - Oracle

[nixotinix]

Drawing some of my favourite Monster High ships part one!

This one is technically only *half* monster high ship- it's a rarepair I was introduced to via my friend and gam gam @emixion , so props to her! The ship itself issssss..

Jackson Jekyll x Raven Queen! It's like Raven x Dexter, but not bad (imo). And since em talks about it quite a lot, I wanted to draw a little something something for her ;)) anyways, enjoy the art!

[ravenswritingroom]

This probably won’t make sense to those who haven’t read the Percy jackson books but tav (my tav specifically) and astarions relationship reminds me a lot of Percy and Annabeths relationship. Tav is Percy, loyal to a fault, falls first, believes fully in their friends and would be more than willing to die to protect others, is smart but comes off as goofy to others, strong moral compass. And Astarion is Annabeth, headstrong, stand-off-ish, brutally honest, comes off as very confident and sure of themself but is still very much learning who they are, always has a smart quip or banter ready for tav/percy, through their friendship and eventual relationship becomes softer and more open to others. Plus I can just really see Astarion saying the ‘you drool in your sleep’ line. Plus the dialogue when you lose magic and Astarion makes the comment about getting it back and my tav responded with the option to tease him back and it reminded me so much of some of the banter Percy and Annabeth have in the first book.

Anyway, I love these fictional little idiots.

[yeehawstate]

nevermore modern + pjo au.... i don't have it all fleshed out but..

Annabel lee - daughter of aphrodite

Lenore - daughter of hades (least angst route imo bc it makes sense with her character and style) or daughter of zeus (most angst route bc she's the opposite of how he's perceived and hates him based off of morals)

For Lenore:

Lenore was locked away from the world with her brother, Theo, by being homeschooled in rural upper New York. She comes from an old money family, and only really mingled with the upper-class when she was allowed to see other people. One of the people they mingle with is a satyr-esque character (The Raven) who is undercover at these events to keep track of them and is supposed to convince them on going to the camp. He is mostly neutral on if they survive or not, and mostly sows seeds of doubt into Lenore about her home life.

Her character growth is similar to the webtoon where she is more meek/lets people walk all over her but still hotheaded in the beginning due to her upbringing to being more cocky and rebellious as she grows older (and is at camp longer and grows into her own person).

Both her and Theo are demigods because her parents sacrificed possessions (people, money, blood, etc.) to Hades or Zeus to be able to have children (an oracle said they could not conceive and that the family was cursed if they had 'children of their own' which Theo & Lenore still count as their kids).

Theo and Lenore are either both from one particular god or either or. Because of their family's ties, they have had ties to one or both of the gods throughout history due to their old and prestigious family line.

Because they were mostly hidden away and in a reclusive area, the pair was not tracked by monsters, until Lenore runs away from the family home after an argument with her father about her future and how she is 'supposed to grow into being a proper woman'. She runs away in a direction that 'The Raven' recommended she goes 'if she ever wants to get away from that dreaded place'. She is younger than canon when this happens, but Theo still chases after her to return her home.

Theo still dies, either on the way to the camp or in the beginning of their time at camp in a self-sacrificial manner, and Lenore manages to survive. She is burdened by the fact she lived and Theo didn't because she always believed Theo was the 'better person' out of the two of them. She lives in the Hermes Cabin as her godly parent does not claim her.

For Annabel Lee:

Born into a wealthy family across the pond, she moves to New York after she raises suspicion during her youth about her capability to best every chess opponent in the UK. She lived in New York City before she took residence at Camp Half-Blood. She was able to go undetected until she was 14, but then strange occurrences started to happen around her school and chess tournaments and her father confessed her godly relation to Aphrodite and sent her to Camp Half-Blood to protect her (Ira is a decent-er dad in this AU).

She takes after Aphrodite's beauty, but particularly she takes after Aphrodite's prowess as the goddess of war. She is cunning and always one step ahead of her opponents whilst hiding behind a pleasant and friendly smile.

Her father, and family by an extension, were always hard on her about appearing normal. Her father saw it as a way to have her stay undetected by monsters, but it was harmful for her mental health and how she thought of herself (similar in the way it was in the webtoon).

As for the AU as a whole:

The Deans are the directors of the camp in place of Dionysus. They are minor gods of different emotions who were punished to be the directors of the camp due to past behavior.

The Raven is a satyr-esque character, maybe not a satyr but has a similar role that is more neutral than positive.

Connection with the gods have been ceased (due to the Deans intervention), and the Deans control the camp and how people within perceive the problem at hand.

As for some of the cast, their potential godly parents goes as followed:

Duke - Son of Hermes / Hecate

Pluto - Son of Caerus / Hecate (Turned into cat & gave cats special treatment)

Morella - Daughter of Athena

Berenice - Daughter of Hephaestus

Eulalie - Daughter of Demeter or Iris

Montresor - Son of Ares

Will - Son of Hermes / Apollo

Ada - Daughter of Melpomene / Medusa / Nemesis

Prospero - Son of Thanatos

The Deans are basically the Titan (big bad) in this AU. They are trying to control the demigods to compete with one another to scheme a way to get back at the gods. They could care less about the demigods, but give special treatment to the 'good campers'.

Lenore does not like the gods because they let her grow up in a bad environment and has never been claimed. She plays a similar role to Percy in this AU. Annabel Lee is unique because she pretends to be on the side of the gods and to 'be a good camper and honor our godly parents', but aligns with Lenore. She wants to run away with Lenore to not have gods/the fates dictate who she should be or who she wants to be, similar to Lenore.

Annabel Lee's group finds comfort with the status quo and profit off of being related to 'powerful' gods/goddesses who claimed them immediately. They look down on the unclaimed campers or children of lesser gods/goddesses because they think their godly parents somehow make them better than other people.

Lenore's group all met in Hermes' cabin, and get claimed throughout the story as they stick up for one another and try to piece together why [plot] happens. Lenore does not get claimed and manages to survive with wit, strategy, and perseverance. There are hints to who her godly parent is throughout the story, based off of what captures her attention/preferences in fighting style, but she is not claimed at any 'heroic' or super important fighting moment.

Feel free to add or change anything from what I've come up with. Share your thoughts, suggestions, or questions in the comments as well. I would love to know what y'all think.

[ravenspjowrites]

Tickets get your tickets!

rules below

currently: closed

While we do invite you to enjoy your trip we have a few rules. I am rereading the books and haven’t had much free time so I just finished SoM (this will be updated) so no hoo requests or requests for characters that show up after SoM (at the moment). I may choose to write for hoo or the other pjo books but no requests for them please. also I don’t write anything worse than pg13 from requests it can be referenced but nothing more.

my faves are Percy, Luke,

but I will write platonic for all other characters

I only write fem or gender neutral reader, sorry guys.

thank you please enjoy your trip!

if your request doesn’t follow my rules your ticket will be politely declined/rejected/tossed out the window. Thank you for your time

I will not be writing super offen so please be patient

[ravenstorm2011]

i just had a thought.

i woke up this morning thinking ok so i am practically insane, i love acting, and love nonalcoholic versions of cocktails and stuff (my family has addiction problems so i refuse to drink the real stuff also I'm underage), i have been told i could be a Dionysus kid, but i also bought a instax camera and have taken it everywhere since then (@hopelesslyromanticshark i got this part of the thought from you) , i am an exceptional liar and secret keeper (this whole tumblr account is a secret/lie from/to everyone but one of my younger cousins), and i steel food from people all the time (i never get caught), so maybe i'm a Hermes kid), but i love the water and have since i was like 5, i love blue flavored/colored food, i was the fastest in my swim team before i left, and the official test said i am a Poseidon kid. what am i? this thought has been continuing for the last 3 hours, and probably wont stop until I know.

[daydreamxr17]

Did you ever just stop everything and thought about how every love triangle has it's own Betty, James and Augustine?

You didn't?

Then go ahead, don't let me interupt you

[polyaragorn]

its honestly still so funny to me that it created this parallel. like, they created an entirely movie-canonical female character specifically to shoehorn a straight love triangle into the series and gave her very little characterization outside of that, and then that interspecies doomed romance directly parallels the—likely not intended—interspecies gay doomed romance. like wow. they really hit the nail on the head with this one.

Thanks for the parallels, Peter Jackson. I like the way things become so obvious, but it hurts me even more

[sakeofpower]

vi and powders childhood memories

[xoxochb]

— prettiest eyes (ever seen) ꣑ৎ‧₊˚. pairing: percy jackson x fem! reader lyrics: “he has the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen” + “every piece of me holds parts of you” a/n: I’m thinking about a part two…

“look at me, my love”

you smile and percy opens his eyes with a similar expression. you’re truly like a silly school girl, a pink hue adorning your cheeks when he makes direct eye contact. you rub your thumb over his bottom lip before pecking him once. he pouts when you pull away far too quickly for his liking

“come back” he leans in himself this time and reclaims your lips, for longer this time, though you’re not complaining. when he breaks the kiss you sit back upright with a lovestruck expression. his sea green eyes bore into yours, into your soul, like there was more there than just simple irises. It makes you giddy to know these eyes are all yours to stare into

“percy” you whisper. he hums in response and you continue “you have pretty eyes”

“you think so?”

you nod and bite your bottom lip. you’re drowning. completely and utterly drowning in the eyes of his. your stomach feels all fluttery and all your skin feels warm and tingly. you remove your hands from his cheeks and search the sand until you come across a green rock. you pick it up and hold it to percy’s eyes

“perfect” you mumble absentmindedly

“what’s the rock for?”

your cheeks have surely turned red by now. “It matches your eyes. I think I’ll cut the edges off and put it in a necklace”

his eyes widen and he starts frantically searching the sand himself until he finds his own rock, repeating the same process and holding it to your eye this time

“does it match?” you inquire

“sure does. will you make me a necklace with it?”

“of course” you take the rock from his palms and place that one and the other, shoving them into your pocket for later

“come here, lovely girl” percy flashes you the softest of smiles and slots his lips with your own tenderly. it makes those butterflies in your tummy go crazy with the way he kisses you so lightly, un rushed, like he never wants to part from your warmth

and he doesn’t. continuing to kiss you breathless, in a needy manner, pulling you onto his lap, hands under your shirt. you’re not sure where this sudden urge came from, yet you can’t find it in yourself to stop him, you just as eagerly push his lips further into yours, if that was even possible to do. his fingers dig into your skin, bound to leave some kind of mark tomorrow. he tastes just like the ocean, salty, inviting, you need more of him you tug at the raven hair over the nape of his neck, tugging it urgently, eliciting him to groan into your mouth

percy pulls back for only a moment, and with his lips still lingering over yours he rasps, “want to go back to my cabin?”

and you so know the answer to that

[astralnymphh]

The Sweeter the Wheat

# pair: post-seattle!jackson!ellie x reader

## summary: There is no better birthday gift than loving her.

### reader discretion is advised: romance angst, fluff, bit suggestive towards the end, alcohol consumption, jesse is alive (he thought ahead this time), loser!ellie, sometimes!awkward!ellie, sometimes!cheekyandflirty!ellie, reader is sickenly envious and a bit nosy, but aware, ravenous and tipsy makeouts, sappy shit. #### a/n; listened to "to all of you" by syd matters + "cardigan" by taylor swift while writing parts of it.. got a love/hate relationship with this fic but it slaps i guess

WC: 7.7k+ | DON'T BUY TLOU | PALESTINE MASTERPOST | MASTERLIST | ART BY @trackinglessons | DISCORD SERVER

SPRING SUN

 

 “At least we got back before her birthday. Psh—‘magine that sweet tooth havin’ to commemorate her twentieth with nuts and jerky.”

Jackson tholes the bright spring against countless heavy hearts, numb from the death groans of winter. Under the melted snow, came old meadows, but nobody returned to comb through them. Only to pluck them bare of flora for a sole reason—a sole person—and not in the name of beauty. 

Some meadows were stabbed through. Pierced into, made into a final home for the dearly departed he.

Time slipped slowly.

“Huh?”

Jesse sits at the tail of the bar, mumbling somethings that fly right past your ears. The diner is packed and the jukebox softly plays, but that of joy and conversation rules, so all nearby speech that is spat has become hodgepodge, herding your brain to run where the world is quiet. Given that, and the subtle significance in the day around you, you feel less than yourself. Immaterial.

There's a rightful wager that you didn't hear Jesse at all. Something about birthdays, maybe.

You pull yourself from the stars with a head-shake, having to retire the tiny notepad in your clutch. “Sorry, I completely tripped out just then. Why are we talking about birthdays—whose birthday are we.. talking about?”

Jesse appeared to be in doubt that your star-scaping moments were over; his features contorting more and more into disbelief as you gave him that barely curious squint. Poor him for having to be offended for somebody else.

A special somebody else at that!

His drawl comes in handy, “Come on, man. Four years strong and now you wanna forget that girl's birthday?” a voice so versed in pettiness, you could smack it right from his clever, grinning lips.

At whim, you almost do. But then his words fall into perfect place; that subtle signifigance makes all the more sense.

Spring: dappled in sunlight and vigorous in the trees, seems lovelier than it would in March or May. Seas of crimson and clovers thrive in the middle of April, and so does the red in her hair—soft, auburn tines—and the meadows in her earnest and shiny eyes. Recently dim, bruised and disheartened. But there, and unplucked at least, above the freckles you least regret missing when vengeance and a clue drove her out of this large, timber sanctuary. Home.

Every year on this day, the sun is relentlessly beautiful. No wonder, you think, now that you remember.

It's Ellie's birthday.

“Shit,” you curse, chewing at your guilty lip. “Is Ellie hiding out today as well? Haven't noticed her walking the thoroughfare at all.” Through the idle-talk, your hands find stray porcelain to retrieve and pile in the sink, scoffing at the liters of coffee that inevitably go cold in forgotten mugs.

“Do you notice anything working behind that counter?”

“Duh, dipshit,” you spout, back-talking him shamelessly, “I noticed you ambling towards the window earlier and knew my ears were in for a grating punishment.” Minding your eyes on nothing but the various plates you grab, the clutter clears fast. Like a damn robot.

He raises his hands in defense. “Hey, not my fault patrol’s been on cruise control this week.” With a part of the counter graciously tidied by your speedy work, he reclines in the barstool and claims that space with his lower legs, off to the side. Blissfully permission-less. “Can't say the same for here, though.” 

You draw in a prefacing breath, tilting a cup at him. “You could if you hel—”

“No chance.”

“Fuck you, Jess,” you reply wielding a nickname given for occasions of defeat, little knives glaring from your eyes. “Thought this friendship had a no-questions-asked sort of thing. You've disgraced me.” Cueing that age-old love for drama, you gild the lily; mock a drama-queen. Hand to your heart and a pout to your mouth.

Hating Jesse is out of the picture, and hate is an easy pill to swallow. Sure, you two bark blank insults from time to time, but it's all in good humor. You just get each other too well. A hitch fated to click. A shoulder to violently sob into.

Jesse tuts at you, rolling a smug pair of eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Diners just aren't my thing, as infected aren't yours.” He reaches and grasps his mug of coffee that'd been basking there ever since you whipped up his usual, content in keeping his gob flat for the ‘noon.

And you're content in the casual peace and company. Always are. It coerces you to fulfill orders quicker, you would say. Here you stand, in perfect function, machine of the cogs.

That's how all days streak by here. A warm sun arises, and the hustle and bustle of human nature crowds every faded red booth in here, as your kin would have you sustain, and you sustain it fine enough. Even with the latching, mostly silent presence of your best bud Jesse to keep boredom a stranger and insanity a myth. Peckish lips, thirsty throats; everybody. All famished faces of Jackson, satisfied in the wake of your work. All, save one. 

Ding!

At the entrance, you hear the jingle of the tiny, golden bell topping the door, and it doesn't intrigue you to investigate. Everyone is a frequenter, and you're basically omnipresent; sensing who it is and where they're routed to before they even sit. Call that perfect function.

Abruptly, the vintage magazine Jesse blankly browsed through is smacked back in place, and his throat clears. “First customer to break the hour-long streak. Let's see who—” he trails, and a dramatic pause thickens the air. Surprise loudly ensues. “Oh, ain't that funny. Look what fate dragged in.”

“Is it not a regular?” you ask, and at last perk your chin up. Intrigue clasps you now, as Jesse thought it atypical enough to point out. 

Turns out, it isn't a regular at all.

Fate was a scary portrayal, as fate—and unfinished threads—would have you snuck into a corner and stranded for her to find. Plaid and blue, stood Ellie, lost as a doe in tangled woods, yet tall with purpose in front of that swinging glass door. From here, you notice her right arm supported in a white sling and twisted into her chest, right off the bat, as you did the night of return. Changes were made, obviously, sprigs of marker detailing the canvas-color of it, no doubt produced by those pesky kids in-town. Her tattoo is sorely invisible behind the bandages too; you've always liked that thing. 

She's a bona-fide crush. A red-headed angel.

There and then, you recall why your heart reawoke into a prance that night she returned head to toe in dry, aged blood. You felt the revival of an inner-warmth, tracing fingers over the stitches in her back as she hunched in repressive quietude. Felt the moon evaporate off your skin, felt her wrist tensen in your palm as you dressed the wounds in hers. Felt the elusive moment staying became going, as it wasn't right.

You went straight home and threw right up, that very night. Her cold, marred skin was as deathly-like as the skin of a corpse. And you trailed your fingertips, all over it. 

Strange. In a week, her flesh has been suppled of life. Hale, blushing and glowing as in younger days.

In your heart: a tremor. It reaches up every time you swallow, and blooms its beat, pounding at the pit of your throat. You don't feel real, you feel light, you feel fright. You feel the past, waking from a slumber in you, emerging breathless beyond the surface. So many things.

You feel fourteen again.

“Guess her ears were burning,” mumbled Jesse, polite enough to not transform your shared scrutiny into a scene, only so he could leave it in your hands. His head carefully turns, speaking softly, “You spoke to her at all, recently?” 

“No,” a weighted breath departs you, and your shoulders repose. “Only the night she returned, while I tended to some of her travel wounds. Conversation wasn't easy to digest.” Shunning her very blatant presence, you pick your wash rag and begin again, foraging distraction.

“Bet not. Shit got hectic on the route Tommy picked,” he hums, and his eyes pursue once more to secretly follow her walking the opposite direction. Eyes you expectantly the second she slips into a booth. “Gonna take her order?”

You glower at his smug stare, knowing full well he intends to badger you into jumping the gun. Well, you're employed to do that, but, fuck fate! “Uh, duh? Di—”

“—Ipshit. Stop stalling.” He aims his hand, escorting you. “Birthday girl awaits.” 

“Yeah, hold that smile. See what happens later.”

“Mhm.”

EXTRA SYRUP

 Spectral hands suffocate your heart, and now your chest is tightened. Gut nervously sickened. There, she sits, seemingly absorbed by the air, and the sun that ripens with it. Thumbing at her nails, but not anxiously. Blowing at her lip, but not boredly. Hair dark ochre as the earth, yet fiery as the flaxen ray that pours into it. Tucked into a neat bun, as it was in December, January, and every paving year before. You like her hair that way.

She halved it up when Joel passed, and Seattle howled her name. 

A lot about Ellie changed, really, but that is the perennial nature of water. Ellie is Neptune; a late-teenage girl experiencing a crucial shift into a new, individual season. Ones so seldom—they're cataclysmic, but temporary. 

So much of her is eclipsed to the naked eye. Buried to make burrowing space for others. Just not you, it seems.

Every now and then, she glances as you intricately work your way over, a fist cupped to itself as if it alone safekeeps her deep and untold intentions; the warrant for sitting there. And you too, glance when her eyes smoothly retreat, dedicating pockets of this single, cherished minute to drink in little glimpses of her face. Trying to read her, read the shapes on her face if they indicate trouble, or truce. Last time you talked, you declared your resentment for being left worried and sleepless in Jackson.

Was it out of love?

Through the fair-haired light, that scar-heavy look on her features has noticeably abated, recapturing the tender warmth that gave her face the kind, puppy-browed ambiance you hesitated the world for. Gently laid brows, scarred the same as ever.

Those fucking freckles, too; a constellated map. Hidden miles and miles away for one sun and moon too many. 

Not a mile bridges you both apart now, not anymore.

“Hey, Ellie,” you chime in, frail in respect of the one-mind conversation her idle stare partakes. Just her, and the spring sun. Sweet wheat skin is taken from its aerial shine as her head heeds your voice, a loose twine of auburn falling from place.

Your somber greeting fine-tuned the focus in her eyes, softening into a shape less spacious, more devoted.

And though away from underneath the boughs of sunlight, her eyes found a disembodied source. Dried moss, gleams into a violent sea glass, pupils taking in how you hold that notepad firm in thumbs and pointers.

For the first time in an age, you too, have changed.

The corners of her lips crease into her cheek. “Hey,” her reply mirrors the breathiness of yours, and her left arm low-arcs up to rest on the booth seat, body facing you head-on. Totally relaxed. “How come you didn't mention the job switch? Was lookin’ for you,” she asks curiously, a tinge of that sweet-talk peeking through her wide grin. 

Now that you've stepped closer and garnered her attention, you can see and feel every notched nicety of her face on yours. You can only imagine how a swollen, sliced lip feels, and the continual migraines a fractured nose brings. Weeks of healing have swept by, but her afflictions in particular weren't petty.

“Guess it felt irrelevant to bring up when you got back. But you're here now, and you found me. So?” your tone edges on.

“Well, yeah,” she chuckles. “Did you not miss me?” She feigns offense; brows quirking and her tone pitching slightly.

You did. 

A sigh starts in you, “Hard to not miss and worry for somebody when you picked up their slack in every patrol dating way back.” Barely nipping what you really felt with a snarky tease. “Oh shit, that rhymes,” you glance off and whisper to yourself, still loud enough to inspire mirth.

And it does; her forehead pinches and her voice rises in mirth, laughing casually and shifting in her seat to lean one elbow upon the table. “Ha— yeah,” she admits defeat. Ellie is undeniably cute when she does, always shrinks into herself and sinks into thoughtful conference, thinking of something—anything smart to knock you back into that corner. “Guess you're right. Hm, always were on my ass about that, huh?” 

You tut, “Mhm. Missed my scolding in Seattle?” crossing a leg and bearing weight upon it.

“Nah,” she confesses briefly, and you barely believe it. Wringing in doubt at that sly smile she tries to conceal from you. “I learned my lesson this time.” Ellie glances up, a prayer written on her face asking you to hold your scolds. “Trust me.”

“Hurt enough this time?”

“Fuck you!” She punts you playfully in the ankle and begins a laugh again. “You’re not allowed to point that out!”

That was the way of things; Ellie would charge into a fight wearing her life on her chest, slackening the rules, and you had to reel her in. Tug the leash. It had you suspecting her to have a foolproof reason as her backbone, like she was daring the devil with eyes fearlessly open. Steadfast intent. She would lure runners to her, grapple them from you, or push you away beyond safety. Leave you to watch an animalistic vigor fill every bind in her body until you're convinced she’s either coming out bitten or scathingly torn.

You wish she saw how worrying she truly looked; a sweet face splattered hair to chin in the blood of infected, catching her breath and shaking the arm of the croaking infected she just slaughtered off her ankle. Being way too blithe-hearted for the sacred sake of everyone involved.

“Don't worry about me.”

One day, when she asked you with her solemn eyes to be afraid, you thought she finally trusted you to handle yourself past her overprotective nature. Then, one clicker got too close for comfort, and she retracted the pact of fighting equally. Losing more than what her blade owes the earth would prove her fears to be a product of her unsacrifice.

Ellie figured it was half the reason you quit patrol duty, but not that it was fully the reason you anguished over her leaving for Seattle later on; her appetite for violence.

She accepts it so easily. But even when you had sworn she had place in something as simple as retiring from patrol and nothing else, she smelt the sugary scent of a white lie. Joel did it before. She never accepted it under a gentle radar. Instead, it had her wondering if she had upset you, if you would forgive the crimson melodrama and still take her up on breakfasts at ten when she returned. Regardless if you painted the full picture in the end, apologies spilled alike to winded waters out of this girl; sorry that she still could not stomach you tagging along for vengeance. Never-ending sorries, and you lapped each one up. Brought gaping arms around her and absorbed all the ugly and hopeless sounds. You wanted to prove her fears wrong, but perhaps it was time fear let you be the lamb. Live and let live.

Then, Dina would step in, and Ellie would be wrapped around her finger in sudden laughter. Happy and unhurt. Couldn't even remember what occurred before her sun entered the room, and dried those tears.

Crimson melodrama is all you preserved when abandoned, and is all you could look at her with when in longing.

The winter dance had your guts up to your throat.

Seattle, inexplainable.

You don’t hate Dina; your envy lies with the disconnection of it all.

“What do you recommend?” she questions, and her eyes anticipate you to be the ultimate apocalyptic-dining expert. Locked and attentive. She then begins to shake her head in gesture, planting the menu down. "I don't— I don't usually go to these kinds of places, so.. What do you think?" she awkwardly giggles, tapping the menu's plastic sleeve.

Tension presses a smile onto your lips at her inelegance. "Nobody does, not even people who went to these places before the outbreak," you opine, swapping the notepad to one hand and sliding into the booth. "It's okay. I mean.. hmm, what do you prefer? Sweet or salty?"

Her eyelids flick down, fingers coming to lace together as her eyes traverse the options. "Uh, I guess I— wait, wait," she interrupts herself. A swift finger draws you to look down at the menu, "You guys make pancakes here?" green eyes gaping at you with pupils more voracious than her stomach—or her sweet tooth.

"Yeah."

"I'll have that then."

It was a steadfast verdict. The sweet honey pancakes, she shall have, at the cost of a couple minutes and a couple ingredients. But it isn't traditional for birthdays, so you weigh in. “Just pancakes? I mean.. Faye is back there if you want something a little more celebrator—”

“—I'm not really a blow-the-candles-out and make-a-wish type of person,” she corrects you, brows cinched in as she rambles. Then, her free hand scoots the menu forward. “But you already knew that, you just insist otherwise,” she chuckles, unable to meet eye and eye.

True. Your soft insistence dawns from wanting nothing less than heaven inside everything for her, and maybe a dash of that sweet-sweet crush on her. But, Ellie is so staunch in being the humble girl that doesn't glorify every recorded happening with string lights and a wish hurled into the uncaring universe bent upon nurturing demised, late lights young girls reach for. She kept everything low-key: a small garage get-together on her last birthday, the one before that, and the one predating those two. Alcohol in your palms and movies playing back to back. Budding distorted laughs and tumbles into each other. Birthday things.

The remnants of her fifteen-year-old mind hangs aimlessly inside that museum. Dangled and stretched into archaic bones. On the day of return, she arrived happier than a sunflower drunk on the sun. Broad smiles and whatever else.

Wasn't for long.

“Forget you're so down-to-earth and reserved about all the fun things,” you snarkily deliver, retiring that still empty notepad behind your back. Memory shall serve. “Will that be it then?”

“Are you saying I'm not fun?” 

“I'm saying you need more of it.” You emphasize with a tiny bounce-up on your calves, tilting your head north. Though, nothing she uttered was wrong and so your voice silkily drones on, “And that.” You act the lack of a ruder way to insinuate. “But yeah, okay. One order of pancakes coming up.”

“Cool, I'll uh—have a 'celebratory' drink in the meantime?” She nudges the menu towards you once again, irises pulled thin on themselves. Thoroughly staring; your reflection in a bead of black.

You have to laugh, kindly laugh. “No alcohol here, dumbass.”

“Oh. Right.” Her doe-stare only crescendoed from there, shying away at the result of her asking. Something reluctant is lodged in her pale throat, stumbling out only when it feels imminent as you turn away. “D-Do you wanna chat, afterwards? There's so much bullshit surrounding Seattle I have to catch you up on and I-I didn't before, so.."

Swinging your head back, you gauge that mercurial girl there. Tripping up her request like it couldn't escape hibernation from her head any quicker than insult does.

Faye shouldn't mind. “'Course, I was left to wonder about everything since that night anyway.” Your boss might even encourage it; knowing that your long-standing crush for her—heartbreaking to fathom, beautiful to feel—never swept you from rambling Ellie into some fairytale, so she would use it to psych you into asking her out. Jesse, too. Damn the nosy ones!

But it's the one thing that keeps you worried now.

“Cool, cool. Oh, hey, add extra syrup will you?”

What does Ellie think of you?

“Mhm,” syrup is nowhere as sweet as your hum. “Got it.”

Does she think of you at all?

MOUTHS ALL-CONSUMING AND DEPRIVING

  Minutes in, minutes out, wallowing at that ruby-red booth fed the realization to Ellie that the nerves feeding off her anxious chest could not combat conversation alone. She needed an aid. Liquid courage. Velvety smooth and robust.

Fortunately for betting gods and heaven-watching anyones, leftover whiskey from the last bonfire made stock in her cloistered, chaotic cabinets. So it founded no surprise that it whirled to mind after the celebratory-drink fact; leading you here, in her bedroom, on her bed. She pours whiskey into stubby glasses, One for her, one for you, and a lucky extra two for further along this unexplored line. Nothing overflowing limits.

But, oh boy, did it make you all lovey-dovey.

Her lips move and they dance over words, but all you hear is your own enamoration of how heart-shaped they are. You see, but fail to hear and comprehend. Floating aimlessly into those freckles, again. Something a fourteen-aged, sanguine mind would do.

Ellie was relaying Seattle to you, she prefaced. Prefacing didn’t aid you in paying attention, though. Today is not your sharpest, it dates to be your most absentminded. Not your usual, at all.

Nods are swayed to every shock-value word that you manage to understand, but the star-crossed rest, you miss, and replace with whatever story her pupils trace. They flit to read your face after each end of her sentences, so it has you thinking too much of her time has slipped without the company of a listener, and now that her time slips into you, she can use it to stretch your expression with whatever witty remark she makes. 

She did one day blurt that your laugh compliments your smile—or however that fucking flirt threw it over the crackle of that bonfire.

In fact, when you begin to let parts of her body neck-down from her face distract you, only then do you decipher how much she has grown in a month.

She pitches her drink to sip, and your eyes are hot on that glassy trail, artistically concerned with the way she swills down whiskey: fluently gulped, throat bobbing, the scar on her lip licked clean. Her brows too, have thickened, much so as her leathered skin, her callouses. She traces her thigh in circles repeatedly—a fidgety habit—and her lips purse and tug and wrinkles hug and press said lips when they are prettily wide. 

Every high noon or low point of her body was different, and you have missed a great many things you care too much about to not appreciate every brink and midst. You don't want her to be lost to otherworld winds without studying her presence harshly. She is in your scrutiny, now more than ever.

“So, do I get to see my pancakes yet, or?”

“Oh, oops.” You snap out of your woolgathering, wagging your head left to right. Then briskly as you assented her invitation, you slide your knees under you, reorganizing your seating. “Can't blame me for being so invested in your epic tales. Could totally be a comic narrator for the school in town.”

Ellie had already been sat skyward. Sprawled at one leg and tucked at the other, arm in her lap, where her whiskey is nestled. “Oh, sure,” she says with a sarcastic edge. “Those kids are a bunch of little shits. They would probably interrupt me with fart jokes or make actual fart sounds than sit still and pay attention for thirty minutes.”

“Hmm,” you hum, short and atonal, peeling the corner of the plastic lid back. “And who do you think taught them those terrible jokes, huh?”

Soft lids narrow together to sharpen her gaze; glaring at your clever comment, lips propped slightly open. “Terrible?” An offended, toothy smile pulls on her lips. All sentences she could possibly muster up come crashing into each other; an agglomeration, “I—They aren't bad jokes—and they're puns, really, so they're actually pretty fuckin' smart,” she boasts with brows raised. “And It isn't my fault that every annoying kid picked them up and started repeating them.”

It most certainly is her fault. Hell, even you catch yourself reciting them at the crest of nightfall, giggling into your palm. Although, why she's trying so rigorously to plead her pun-enjoying case to you, might just be funnier. “Are you seriously trying to explain puns to me?”

“God,” she surrenders in a chuckle, and bows her head to introduce another quick sip to her parched lips. Ellie then eyes you for a blank second thereafter, tugging the plump of her lower lip through her teeth. Like contemplation has her hindered.

Around you, the lungs of the garage’s foundation inhale, and exhale; creaking and settling.

She dashes a huff. “You basically asked,” Ellie reminds you, her tone and eye-roll implying obviousness. “Can I eat my pancakes now? M'hungry.” Her face sutures into a pseudo-frown and encloses herself to a crisscross, impatiently behaving.

Now, as for the pancakes. Fluffy, biscuit brown, star-shaped, bountifully rivered in unrestricted syrup, topped off by a definitely-melted, humbled ingot of butter. Needless to say, you're pleased by what boredom and intact cooking-books taught you, and she hasn't even seen them yet.

The ask for a carryout-container was already in order the moment you set pace for her table, because you wound up in a near-catastrophe as she sought you out around the kitchens like a lost pup and maundered right into you. Thank patrol for instincts; it's the one thing you held an undying clutch to. And the sweet pancakes you proudly plated, making refuge on the counters as you cross-examined Ellie in case you injured her arm more.

Lucky girl was all fine and peachy, of course.

She only knocked you two right into that near-injury mess to invite you here. Persuasion sat readily in her throat incase you questioned her motives—most of her ideas turning out to be a little friend-group antic, never anything serious or singular—but you agreed to it in double-time. 

“Think you might just be one of those kids at this point.” You gingerly tweak the rim of the plate you kept the pancakes on and lift it outside the container, planting it between all four knees.

“Eh, you're not so innocent yourself,” Ellie contends before she even casts her first peek at the hillock of starry sweetness, totally taken aback when she does. “Holy shit,” she awes, just as if she were a young teen again, “Are you kidding me?”

Labor-intended nights never slip soft through the gaps of your fastened fingers, not even days where your work period is abridged, but hey, strange, space-brain girls are far beyond ordinary exception. Hell, Ellie is vital! Commemorating the red angel you worship in the patterned and soapy act of cooping up on her bed, toasting to the moonlight and letting her talk your ear off for old times' sake is your approach to telling her you love her.

“Know I'm not a pancake-connoisseur, but I gave it a unique whirl. Just for you.” You held a fork out, gracing her with first honors. “Don't blame me if it gives you a stomachache,” your forewarn is a doubtful one; in your mind, morningtime will arise with an extra punch to her gut.

Ellie, however, stares right into the baying eyes of a challenge, snatching the fork from you. "Hey, if it's good enough for my tongue, then it's good enough for ma' gut!" and promptly after exclaim, gashes and tears her fork into the sweet, airy texture of the pancake, popping it past her sweet, berried lips. “Mhh—and I will blame you. So you end up feeling sorry n'take care of me.”

God, whatever souls you would sell to spend paradisal afterlife with this fool. Talking with a gob flush of the birthday project you're humiliated to be proud of. You scoff, “Asshole,” lightheartedly scornful as can be, and it snaps something to mind. Head tilting eye-to-eye, “Dina wouldn't be the one to?” you ask, right after she swallows.

That particular question seemingly struck a chord as her brows cinched together, eyes dropping with allusion. “No,” she says meekly, soft in the sound, but you can tell it came up heavy. Shadowed by a sigh, and an untimely chuckle. “Do you want to know?” She throws on a shrug that ripples through her head, sending it to hang lopsidedly. As the stout willow grows.

“Guess so,” you agree temperately, not wanting to seem too eager—even though with this topic, you just might be. Camouflage those old, foul feelings of envy. “Did Seattle have you kicking more ass than just Wolves and infected? Couldn't have been a very romantic tr—”

“Dina's pregnant.”

Silence carves it's way after that. Thick, tense and unyielding. You had words lined up but like a shot in stark night they've just—vanished, sunk back into the chamber. Nothing prepared you to hear that, “Pregnant?” lowering a hand to your belly where you swear your heart has pummeled to.

Ellie glances up, once at your widened face and once at your hand. A bite of humor works it's way above her chin; smugly smirking. “God, don't tell me you're pregnant now too.”

“What? No!”

Damn idiot. Should punch her right in the—nevermind.

Ellie is way too quick to make serious things unserious. “You're a damn menace,” you unapprovingly giggle.

“Am I?” Amusement raises her brows, tearing into the pancake with her fork for another bite. “Cause you seem to like menace.”

You adjust onto propped elbows, “Do I?” playing all nonchalant. “I mean, what do you mean by that?” your voice dims, expending for the small space that separates you and her.

“Mhh,” she contemplates with a purring sound, and shrugs. “Dunno.” Ellie retreats those eyes downward where you won't compel her to smile. You can tell she battles the letch to look up again, which—as proven in her case—doesn't fucking work. She shoots up carefully, and it's a conflicted gaze this time. “Not with Dina anymore, though. That’s the other thing.”

And we're back.

Having reconciled the chance, you retrace. Look at her with somber concern. “Did something between the two of you happen?” It's a gentle question, reinforced by the bulletproof stare you offer her to unwind in.

The air in her voice softens, “Sort of,” and the meridians of your body then become easier to look at as she continues, wrinkles in her brows. “Said some things I shouldn't have, and we.. figured it best to leave it at that. For now.” her explanation sounds desolate and attemptless, like she has sat in shadow and vigil accepting this fact and has given up on hope. Crestfallen and quieter; this isn't like her. Bent at her wrist, dangling that glass above her crisscrossed lap like a sad child pokes at the food on their plate.

“For now?” You hate that you pry, but that sick greed in your gut from times before haunts with a hunger for knowledge. Your envy that is enlightenment. Still, you hesitate to seem nosy, wanting nothing than to possibly just console your friend in need. “What's holding you back from.. calling it quits? The pregnancy?” You crane your body upright slowly.

“Just still feelin' bad.” Her fingers begin a tap-dance at the glass' rim. “I'm an asshole.”

You duck at the neck, searching for her downcast eyes. “Come on, El. I've only ever seen you rant and rave at middle-aged grumpy men and infected, no way it was that bad.”

“You weren’t there,” she insists otherwise with an earnest voice, inciting a refreshed sigh as she swigs her whiskey.

“Well, what did you say?” You are relentless. No, normally you would not condone it, but tonight, tongues are loose and boundaries are blurry. You miss your happy girl. “I could talk to Dina, if it helps.”

“Wouldn’t change shit.”

“If you love her, you would try.” Even if it sickens you.

Ellie slots her drink in her lap, and grouches. “Dude.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and stifles a groan, frustrated. It draws out in words without proper footing, “It's weird. We just don't know what to say to each other—I don't know what to say to her, it.. it's just how it is—it was a mutual agreement. None of your business, really.” 

Her own tongue is a very obvious byproduct of nerves, whiskey, stress, by and large a lot of things. Being goaded, definitely.

How it is, is how it will be.

“She broke up with me.”

You didn't mean to goad her, but curiosity—and a kiss of alcohol and envy—ate your refrain. The lack of any eye contact or movements to stray from you thereafter her word is telling enough. That it aches her head, and a cold, guilty sweat crosses over your skin. It was a stupid thing to blurt. You feel fucking stupid for even saying that.

Fuck. 

Her dry sniffle is noisy on your shortcoming, and has you scrambling to think. “Sorry, just been worried for weeks.” But you shrink into a ball of abraded arms and legs, conserving yourself into a shy, spotted egg of curiosity that clads no hatching cracks to be convicted of. “Thought you two finally getting together would be the dream to end all dreams.” What the fuck do you know anyway?

Her eyes watch through you, into you like water; she notices, and the pancakes are slid to the side. Shuffles of fabric clamber closer as she eats the inches between you two, her breath brushing your forehead. “Hey, hey. I didn't mean anything by it. It's fuckin' great that I got somebody I can drink with and mope to. Really. Just been shitty all around—Tommy? Fuck, he's been the worst lately.” 

Everything ascends in temperature once her hand plants on the side of your neck, every nerve petrifies; unheard-of touch. She can feel the gasped tension in your throat, thumbing the muscles down. 

“Don't worry about it,” she says, and her saying that amuses you.

A moth-eaten phrase in particular is what was said. You scoff at it, plopping your legs back out. “Dude.” You bite a smile into your lips. Sucks that such a hackneyed thread of words does so; you're really chewing back the urge to call her any byname of dumbass, per usual. But damn that sincere face on her face that sweetens the teasing deal for you. You settle for low-hanging fruit. “You always say that, Ellie.”

“Ugh,” she seconded a scoff back at you, grimacing coyly. “Don't you start.” Ellie drags her hand off, not intending for it to land smack-dab on your thigh. It takes her a second to register the sound, the texture, slinking her hand behind her when you say nothing.

“Start what?” you stutter a laugh, bringing your thighs together.

“Nothin,”

“Don’t bullshit me, WIlliams.” To educe her, you dig your foot into her side, poking her. “Does it have anything to do with only me being here and not anybody else?” You lean into her.

Ellie does too, an exact mirror of you. “No..” The only thing that contrasted you, was her hand again, seeking what was left behind on your thigh. “Just wanted to see you first,” her lips barely move besides a slick smirk. Voice tiptoeing through the air, the noise-level two clandestine lovers live at, in secret song.

“You fuckin liar. No hang-outs for weeks before you left and suddenly you want to see me?” You call bull when she relucts to raise her hung head, witnessing the corners of her lip curl. Her head twists away more, and you spearhead the first, little move: tuck that irkful strand of auburn with a single finger. “C'mon.. what is it?”

“Stupid,” she blatantly spits, and at last confronts your face with her puckish one—glimpsing down, and up, and down. Watching her grip flex into your leg intermittently, chewing her lip. “Mhh, maybe 'm starting it.”

Ellie is heart-poundingly close; her breath is now yours to breathe. You whisper, “Maybe you are,” perking yourself right up to her cheek, unnoticing of the ardor her eyes spin over your face. Unsure where to stare. You pretend the pressure on your thigh flies under the radar, too, and that your heart isn't in the middle of a love-logged swell, and your cheeks aren't tender from smirking at the feeling of it perched there. Love-struck death befalls, if else confessed, so you tease, tease, and tease to stomach your excitement. “Maybe, you're stalling on those pancakes because they actually gave you a stomachache. You feeling good?”

Her bitten lips part, and the next sensations you feel—are transcendental.

Wisping whispers so hot, and intoxicating on your skin, you fail to catch her hand coming up from your thigh to clasp your face, or that hers has shifted in front of yours. She breathes out, “Won't you shut up already?” through lips pulled into a smirk, and rushes to press it fondly against your mouth.

You wince—somewhere between an electrified gasp and a reaction of delight—into the kiss she stole, and it only beckons her to starve more for you. The heat of her whiskey breath pours into your mouth, and you drape your eyes closed. Scoring these seconds by, she spends them concentratedly rolling the skin together, others pushing and shying from the kiss, until she stills and bleeds out the pressure in a slow, wet smack. Hazily eyeing you for a response.

Once you feel her no more, your eyes blurrily creak open, and the corners of her lips at soft upturn greet you. Single creases at either side, the few freckles above them outspread.

Judgement renounces you, leaving you with pathetic pickings for reply. You aren't sure what she wants—or needs you to say. “Ellie?” daintily, a mumble flows onto her lips, and is far from a frail sound of concern. Intrigue encapsulates you.

What does this mean?

You think you know, but self-reason has always proven itself to be naive and too eager to trust.

By cruel emotion, she misunderstands you. “Sorry,” she pants out breathlessly, blowing the shape of it into your cleft lips and hovering right upon. Her fingers gouge the fabric clothing your chest, mangling it into her fist—an attempting grasp. This proximity is all she could ever dream of. “Is this okay?” Yet, dreams always sever at the apotheosis. So when she comes in for the second kiss, she wants no more for dreaming; the reality she yawns with hunger into, is insurmountable.

A dewdrop of something cold dribbles between you. Tears.

In turn, you misunderstand her. Using your own stubbornness to create an enigma. To think, that out of the blue, all of this would transpire? After endless wishes unanswered? You doubt it.

You love her, but you refuse the reality of it happening upon you.

Separating from the plush, licked skin of her lips fleetingly, you speak. “Is this you being drunk?” Only to be drawn back in without her processing your words right away, and then drawn back out. Intricate intimacy.

“Please,” Ellie begs, “Answer me, before I feel like an asshole again,” and chuckles sobbingly before her teeth feel rapaciously empty, and cannot tolerate it any longer. Instinct, and teeth nip your bottom, vulnerable lip.

Neither of you could be totally drunk, having only drank a modest portion.

So this is raw.

Thinly pulled, she slowly stretches it across the air between, and watches it spring back beneath eyelids sunken low. The action entails nothing else for her to feed satisfaction from, already panting right in your mouth in search of more as soon as your tongue descries the answer. “More than okay,” you heave in a passioned breath along that all-consuming, deprived mouth. Your hand squeezes her fist confirmingly.

It quenches her lust to know, a hot-blooded, moaned and voiceless curse snapping into your mouth. “I fuckin' love you.” Her rage softens in meeker kisses, peppering them up to the corners of your lips until she pauses, and pulls herself away. Her eyes turn troubled and adrenaline-rushed. Stains of tears shimmer beneath, along new ones that begin to plunge, and for the first time ever, you know they're yours. But then the flesh between frowns, the mood shifting, and she croaks, “Am I.. an asshole?”

It breaks you to hear that.

You glare, and stammer, “W-What? You aren't.” Hooking dearly onto her wrist when her hand glides up to rest against your cheek. “Why?”

“Cause I sprung this on you, 'nd I don't wanna force you to..” Ellie cranks to a halt, mouth screwing shut like her thoughts were too much to bear hearing aloud. “Fuck,” she quietly spews, cowering her face near your neck.

“Said it was okay,” you coo, clarifyingly coo, raking your fingertips up and through the tied loops of her hair. “The only asshole thing you'd ever done was not let me come with you.”

“I know.” Her eyes search for uncomplicated plains. The sheets, her lap, your neck. A kiss is planted as she tips her head, the gust thereafter a warm reminder of her sorries.

“Thought you were going to die.” You awoken in violent patterns, cold nights restless in bed, tossing and turning. Waking and falling into daydreams of how Jackson would feel missing a cardinal component. A girl to rave against dying lights. Thorns scale your throat at the thought. “You're reckless, y'know?” you mean it as a gentle insult, chuckling as it leaves your lips, and sealing it into her scarred palm. Kissing reckless consequences.

Her lips loiter on the pulse of your throat. They drag, and they drag.. sloppily limping over your jaw as she makes her way to observe you in her palm, mumbling low, and gravelly, “How many times am I gonna have to say it?” Ellie deems it redundant to tell you that she knows again, resorting to her own little gentle insult, “Such a fuckin' sap.”

“Says you.”

Her hand is comfortingly warm; you aren't fain to break away. But her fingers are curious, thumb nearly making it into your mouth before she second-guesses herself, easing it at the verge of your lips instead.

A longing moment of Ellie staring at the way her thumb looks—a decoration to your mouth—passes, and she responds, “Still alive, aren't I?” to that loose thread of a plea you forgot you even said. It calls you right over, bidding you to look into her eyes again as space finds itself thinning again, her scratchy, band-aided nose caressing yours. “Dumbass.”

She chuckles into your mouth as you chuckle into hers, cutting yourself off with a kiss that ebbs, and flows. Suckles, and smacks, snaking her tongue in for a change. That sweet, sweet wheat. Saccharinity you can't explore anywhere else other than the outline of her mouth. And you—of grunted volitions in her chest—take exploration further, replacing the grasp of her shoulder with the coursing of fabric, sliding under the hem of her shirt and palming the skin there.

You feel her skin breathe, her belly breathe into your hand, and a content wrinkle pinch between her brows. Her skin, is as soft as nothingness.

“You're a dumbass.”

Air clings to your cheek as her hand reaches around you, pressing fingerprints into the base of your head as to prop you for her delightments. Ellie is no amateur, enjoying you as if she knew you were hers without explicit pledge.

“Sure, babe,” she scoffingly counters, and pulls her tongue out of you, lips messiy shining. She scouts you out; lays eyes on your expression with undertones of satisfaction and presses an appetent bite right back into your damp skin, grunting into the filthy kiss.

Your mind is one-pathed right now; in the most maddened form, you crave the story further down her throat. In that warm space, is air thinned and balmy with the scent of alcohol and syrup. In those whimpers, is the sincere confession she held tight in throatly gloaming, all those intimate times before. In all of your yearnings, your lips never parted for more.  

Two holes that want to consume each other.

Weeping, wailing, tormenting in an empty forever.

“Fuck you, Ellie,” you cathartically sob into the humid cavern of her, a hint of wanton—and other repressed things, taking form. That hand under her shirt wanders from her navel and tweaks the button of her jeans, pressing your body against all of her like it hurt to be inside your own, singular body. Overcame by a need you could not chew out.

Ellie cuts the kiss, quick to soothe the movement with her hand pressing down and collecting yours. “Hey, hey, too fast,” she laughs, distancing herself and giving you those eyes that could see you were overstrung, hectic to go somewhere you aren't prepared for.

She loves you, but that means appreciating you enough to wait until time is perfect.

Her head cocks, “Let's take shit slow, huh?” fingers weaving into the pliant gaps of yours and pulling your fist dear to her chin, kissing it.

You speak over the repeated sounds of her smooches, “Yeah, sorry,” cringing slightly at how fucking cheesy the scene became. But, when is Ellie not? Wonder clasps you now; intent to know what this makes out of the two of you, having held your feelings for forever. “Well, what does all this mean, then?”

“It means..” Ellie slants her body even more, stealing your wrist along with her. Planning something, no doubt. “You and me, breakfast tomorrow at ten, Tipsy Bison?” Her mouth stuck to the side of your hand like syrup, so firm in not letting you go.

It makes your ears simmer hearing her shamelessly set up a date, of all things she could have said. God. You errantly laugh, totally not giddy when her mouth starts sprinkling up your arm at an alarming pace. “Sounds more than good—hey! You slow down!” 

Happy birthday, asshole.

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[storywriter007]

You'll Remember Me - Percy Jackson x Fem!Reader

summary: in which y/n suffers the consequences of her and percy's tragic tale

warnings: cursing, heartbreak, character death, betrayal

genre: angst

word count: 869

-> heroes of olympus masterlist

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as y/n killed the monster, she felt herself get cut on the gut. she fell backwards and placed her hand on her stomach. she stood up shakily, lifting her sword. they were in the middle of a battle, she couldn't die now. she tried to swing, but her attempts were weak. she tried to walk, but her feet dragged. she fell to her knees, clutching her stomach. she looked at the cut that had grazed her abdomen, and realized it wasn't from any blade, it was from a poisonous spike on the monster. she'd been poisoned. she desperately searched the perimeter for someone who could help.

she saw her best friend, swinging rapidly and summoning hurricanes.

"percy!" she yelled.

he looked over, concern washing over his face, but he made no attempt to come her way. annabeth ran up and grabbed his arm.

"percy, this place is falling apart! we need to leave, now!" she yelled.

pieces of the ceiling began to fall as flames erupted. percy stayed in his spot. annabeth said something to him. y/n couldn't figure out what it was, but his gaze softened as he nodded his head. the two of them ran towards the exit. y/n laid on her side as the temperature rose. exhaustion took her over.

he had left her. her best friend, for six years, had left her to die. where was his loyalty now, when she needed it?

but y/n understood he had shown his loyalty. just not to her, to his girlfriend. to annabeth. and now she'd die, because his loyalty was her betrayal.

y/n felt blood spew out of her mouth. she was going out the way she had always wanted to, guns blazing in the middle of a fight that made a difference. it wasn't an unsatisfactory death. suddenly, y/n heard a voice.

"y/n!" the familiar voice called out. "don't give up on me!"

somebody desperately tried to drag her out of the burning building. she felt the concrete graze against her skin as the weak force tried to save her. he pulled her out and laid her in front of the broken building. she was barely alive.

"she doesn't have much time left!" he panicked. "c'mon y/n, just give me five minutes, we're going to get you to the ship and everthing's going to be okay!"

she knew the voice. she knew who it was. it was the boy she'd befriended when he was young. she'd practically been his sister. she knew it was nico di'angelo. he had come back for her. she felt another person kneel down by her. she could she his raven black hair and his sea green eyes.

"what the fuck percy!" nico yelled. "how could you do this! it was just the three of you!"

"i had no choice nico!" he defended.

"liar!" he screamed. "you told me the same thing when my sister died! and, now, now, i'm going to lose the only person who has ever cared about me because of you!"

y/n could tell nico was on the verge of tears.

"please, y/n, don't leave me now." percy pleaded.

"i've loved you a long time, percy. ever since you and i went on our first quest when we were eleven." she said, using her remaining energy to give a confession she should've given a long time ago. "it broke me to see you with annabeth. it still does."

"y/n.."

"you'll live a long time, percy. years without me." she continued. "you'll find camp half-blood strangely void, because when you come to find me, i won't be there."

he looked at her with tears in his sea green eyes. oh, those beautiful eyes.

"you'll remember me. when you see the stars, when you look at our photos, when you see friendship bracelets, when you talk to your mother and she'll ask, 'why don't we go visit y/n? she's only a block away.' always, your heart will be yearning for me." she paused. "and your mind will give you the unconvincing comfort that you had no choice." she spat, bitterly.

he kneeled besides her, speechless.

"nico." she said, lifting her hand up to hold his. she felt weak. "i'm sorry you have to see me like this."

tears fell from his eyes.

"but, i want you to know that i believe in you. i have faith in you. i always have, and i always will." she paused, knowing these were her last words. "you are a hero."

she felt her eyes shut.

"y/n!" nico shook her. "y/n!"

she didn't awake, she felt herself drifting.

"you destroy everything that matters to me!" nico screamed at percy. "you're a fucking monster!"

she felt at peace. she felt as if she was above the cruel world of unfair gods and tortured children.

✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒

percy sat next to annabeth in his home. the war was over. the demi-gods had won. but at what cost?

"percy." sally called.

"yeah?" he responded.

"why don't we go visit y/n? she's only a block away." sally asked, placing cookies in a box for the first real friend her son had ever made.

✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒

hope you guys liked it :) just had to remind you guys that i am an angst writer

yes i did reference dangerously yours

[notapradagurl7]

Sick Day In.

Black! Fem Readr x Orlando Johnson from All American: Homecoming.

(a/n: he is so fine. I loved writing this one.😫❤️)

Taglist: @lavnderluv @harmshake @sageispunk @soft-persephone @megamindsecretlair @westside-rot @siqueth @liatreads @torsiar @mypointlessdays @justhornyyme @cristallizednmesmerized @satoruya @planetblaque @hoodbarbiesims @harlemheiress @glitterperms @amplifiedmoan @avoidthings @judymfmoody @life-in-the-slut-house @keyera-jackson @tryingtograspctrl @nzia-writes @multiversefanfics @thecookiebratz

Summary: You were feeling under the weather in your college dorm so your boyfriend Orlando visited your dorm and helped you get better.

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You lay slouching against the white bed sheets, cocooned in light green blankets. Your fingers plucked another dark green tissue from the bedside tan table, as you blew your nose with a sniffle. Sliding off the twin bed, you peeled back the covers, revealing white socks gliding over the grey carpet. Frustration set in you as you tossed yet another tissue into the overflowing mint green bin, rolling your brown eyes, and pursing your lips.

A quick hand wash in the compact bathroom, and you returned to your bed, surrounded by the eggshell white cinder block walls in the average-sized dorm room, The walls were adorned with your own artwork, and a cherished family photo. Just then, a few gentle knocks on the door pulled your attention.

"Who's there?" you asked, you weren’t in the mood for company right now.

You were an art major and college student at Bringston University, an HBCU in Atlanta.

You were dedicated to your studies and held the position of club president in the art club.

Your strict academic schedule and demanding leadership role left you with little time to rest. Unfortunately, you fell ill and were forced to spend your summer cooped up alone in your dorm room, unable to enjoy the sunny Atlanta weather. Your hard work and dedication have taken a toll on your health.

You had been looking forward to the summer break to relax and recharge, but your plans were ruined by the cold. You missed your family and friends, who were all back home, and wished you could be there too.

Despite feeling sick, you had still managed to inform your boyfriend, Orlando about your not being able to make it for their date tonight. Although he empathized with your condition, he was still eager to spend some quality time with you. You appreciated your boyfriend's concern.

During your art class, the two college students crossed paths and soon became partners on a collaborative project. It was then that he witnessed your natural artistic talent, admiring every stroke and technique you used.

The two of you worked together, you found it endearing that he took such care in learning how to handle a paintbrush. Your partnership blossomed into a friendship, with you cheering him on at his baseball games and him buying your art supplies when you lost them.

Eventually, your friendship evolved into a romantic relationship and he proved to be an exceptional boyfriend. Attentive to every detail, he never missed a beat when it came to you.

You were grateful for Orlando's support and love and he was grateful for yours too, especially during times like this when you felt helpless and alone. You knew you could always count on him to lift your spirits and make you feel better.

In her comfortable attire, you sported a grey tee shirt that was matched with a pair of grey sweatpants that clung to your legs. You wore white tube socks on your feet, while your raven box braids, gently swayed in front of your face. Your hands were tucked away in your pockets, and the room was filled with the sweet aroma of vanilla, emanating from the trio of candles on your nightstand. The thin, white blinds allowed the gentle sunlight to peek through and shine upon your brown skin. Serene silence fills the room.

"It's Orlando." He said outside of your dorm room, made your heart leap with excitement. You practically skipped over to the door, your hand eagerly grasping the metal door handle.

You slowly swung the door open, your face broke into a smile at the sight of your boyfriend standing there. Without hesitation, you welcomed him inside your cozy dorm room, his hand holding a bag filled with everything you needed to combat the cold you had. Orlando holding a bouquet of red roses. You couldn't help but smile at the sweet gesture as you closed the door behind him.

"Hey, baby," Orlando greeted you with a gentle kiss on your forehead, "I brought you some soup, medicine, and your favorite snacks, your favorite movies. A bouquet of red roses to cheer you up."

"Orlando, Thank you. You're the best." Your eyes glinted with gratitude as you took the bag and bouquet from him, carefully placing it next to the nightstand while putting the flowers in the purple vase. He wrapped his arms around your waist, hugging her from behind. You felt your heart fill with affection for him as your cheeks grew hot.

"How are you feeling Y/N?" Orlando asked in a gentle tone, as he leaned in and rested his chin on your shoulder. His thumb gently rubbed over your stomach, hoping that his presence could bring some good to the summer that had been tough for you.

"Still pretty crappy, this cold won't go away but don't you have a baseball season this summer? I hope that I didn't get in the way of your games," you spoke in a gentle tone, shaking your head as you looked at him.

Orlando gently shook his head, his hands cupping your face as he turned around and

Faced you forward to meet your gaze. He locked eyes with you, his tender touch causing her chest to flutter with nerves. He didn't want you to think he didn't care about your well-being.

"I only care about being with you this summer. You've been overworking yourself and it pains me to see you like this. I'll skip another season." he mentioned softly, his thumb swiped over your cheek.

"Let me take care of you baby," Orlando said in a sultry voice, his gaze fixated on your. He nibbled on his lower lip, as if contemplating the next move.

Your heart raced as you soaked his words, understanding both senses but feeling unprepared for what he had planned. He leaned in for a kiss, but she quickly turned your head, redirecting his lips to your cheek. "I don't want you to get sick," you pouted.

"Let's wait until I get better." you added, you didn't want to risk his health for momentary pleasure.

Orlando let out a contented hum and turned his attention to your bottom lip. After a brief moment, he looked back into your eyes and uttered, "One of the many things I love about you." He then leaned in and planted a gentle kiss on your cheek.

You knew you were lucky to have someone like him in her life and so was he. The two of you sat on your bed, watching movies and enjoying the soup and snacks, you felt your cold slowly start to fade away. But more than that, you felt the warmth and comfort of your boyfriend's love.

—————

The night sky crept up on them faster than anticipated, but with the help of medication, a steaming bowl of soup, and some cough drops, your cold went away.

Orlando's back leaned against the light green plush pillows with your back nestled against his chest and he gently laid his chin on top of your head while he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer to him. "Feeling better?" he asked, his voice low and soothing.

You nodded, snuggling further into his embrace. "Yup, thanks to you," you replied, your voice still a bit hoarse.

Orlando chuckled. "I'm just glad I could help." They lay there in comfortable silence, enjoying each other's company. The only sound in the room was the soft hum of the air conditioner.

Orlando placed a gentle kiss on your cheek and used his index finger to lift your chin. "Now that you're feeling better, can I take care of you?" He whispered in a low tone. You flushed and nodded, "Yes, of course, baby."

Your lips met in a passionate kiss as you tilted your heads in different directions, exploring each other's mouths with your tongues. You let out a soft moan as the kiss intensified, leaving a trail of saliva between your lips as you parted.

"Orlando can you lock the door really quick?"

——————

Your naked back laid flat against the white bedsheets with his hands held your hips in place while his slim hips rocked into you, while your fingernails sunk into back muscles and your mouth hung open to let a chorus of moans, "Oh shitt! Orlando!" you moaned loudly, your eyes locked intensely, your thumb traced the outline of his lips while he smirked against your brown skin, he trailed kisses up to your breast. The bed creaked from their movement, you shivered with pleasure, sending tingles down yourr entire body. He plunged deeper into you while you arched your back off the bed.

Orlando lowers his head to pepper warm kisses on the sides of your neck and sinks his teeth into your neck gently, leaving hickeys on your brown skin while he gyrated into you making your toes curl in the air, "Talk to me, tell me how good it feels.." Orlando lulled to you, you gasped at the sensation of his tongue swiveling around your erect nipple while his other hand gently kneaded your other breast and the wet sounds of your skin colliding filled the room.

Orlando's mouth enveloped your nipple, the warmth of his lips sending shivers down your body. You pulled him closer, your hands moving to the back of his neck. "It's so good, Don't stop," you sputtered, pulling him closer to you as you whispered, motivating him more as he quickened his pace, your wet walls clenched around him so tightly "Damn...you're taking it so good baby.." he praised lowly, his nails digging into your hips while his middle finger circled her clit. Tilting their heads together to deepen the kiss, you moaned, "Mmhm!" unable to control the pleasure that was building inside of you.

His hips lunged faster, you could feel yourself getting closer and closer to your climax, "I'm gonna cum baby..." You gasped, He didn't slow down, instead, he pushed you over the edge with a few slow, sloppy thrusts. You cried out his name while your essence gushed around his dick, your body shaking with the intensity of your orgasm.

Orlando pulled out of you, "fuckk.." Orlando gripped the covers and laid them on their naked bodies while pulling you into his arms and he nuzzled his face into your neck, peppering kisses along your brown skin. "You're so beautiful," He hummed, his voice husky. You smiled, feeling completely content in his arms before kissing your lips tenderly again.

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