#The Conservative Brief | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nightwingsgypsyrep · 3 months ago

Text

Ok so might accidentally end up doxxing myself with this one but here we go…

The Himboification of Dick Grayson, and Why It Sucks From A Gypsy Perspective

Warning: this is a long one! Also tw for brief mentions of Dick’s canonical SA/rapes, and discussions of purity cultures.

And disclaimer: none of this is intended to slut-shame anyone, so hopefully it doesn’t come across like that. I’m just hoping to explain the weird sexualisation of gypsies in the media, vs our more conservative attitude to sex. This also isn’t meant to shame anyone or tell you how you must imagine Dick Grayson - if you like dark skinned, more-fem Dick, then you keep on enjoying that! This is just what I’ve noticed as someone who is a gypsy, and some patterns I’ve seen in how Dick is portrayed and received.

So, I have a lot of problems with the depiction/perception of Dick Grayson, and particularly the hyper-sexualisation we see. I am not alone in this, and I know it’s something which has been discussed a fair bit in the past.

Honestly, I don’t even know where a lot of this came from? It’s only really in the past decade or so that we start to see it emerge properly in canon; prior to this, whilst it was agreed that Dick is good looking, he was kind of able to get around as a normal guy, and was praised a lot more for his capabilities and athleticism than for his looks. But with the New 52, there seemed to be this shift where Dick is really reduced to his looks. The Grayson/Spyral comics are particularly guilty of this: so many times we see Dick called an idiot (even if somewhat affectionally), sexualised (even by teen-aged girls when he is in his twenties), and reduce himself to his looks (Dick himself even says something along the lines of ‘It’s a good thing I’m pretty’). You can argue that the whole point of Spyral is that Dick was undercover, but it’s something we still see today (I’m thinking the 2025 Valentine’s Day Damian storyline). We can dismiss this as being ‘out of character’, but with how it’s been a gradually accepted part of DC canon over the last decade especially, I don’t know how long we can reasonably make that excuse.

The gypsy perspective isn’t necessarily the main reason I hate this, it’s just one which I feel capable of offering. (if you’re new here, hi, I’m a traveller/gypsy/showman/whatever you want to call me from a fairground and circus family in the UK. I’ve always stuck to fairgrounds myself but a lot of my family were/are still with the circus so I’m not an idiot and it’s all closely related anyway. I also grew up speaking Romani so there’s that.)

Other reasons I hate it include: the double standards of objectifying Dick being treated as almost acceptable because Dick is a man; Dick as an SA/rape survivor; and the fact that it’s bloody stupid because Dick is a highly competent vigilante and detective - a partner of Batman, then Batman himself, who even on his sick days is solving cold cases for fun. He is a genius ffs.

But anyway, onto the potentially doxxing gypsy perspective.

I know that Dick’s ‘gypsy rep’ has been a bit touch and go over the years. Grayson’s run is quite infamous for her handling of this (the whole internalised racism she gave him during his Tevis mob era, and Bruce’s stereotyping in Gotham Knights still makes me feel icky), and it’s only recently that it’s really been discussed again, mostly being ignored by writers in between. However, I’ve also mentioned before that to me, the writer with the most accurate representation is ironically Morrison (because he wasn’t trying). The thing is, even if writers have kind of circumnavigated the whole ‘gypsy’ thing (a term I use because it’s common in the UK, and is one Dick uses himself, alongside ‘carney’ which is the American English version of the British ‘showman’, a subtype of “gypsy”), it’s been canon since Day One that Dick is from the circus. And due to how circuses work, especially with the hereditary nature and how it was more common for the gypsy family who ran the circus to perform in the 40s when Dick was introduced, even if it wasn’t explicitly stated, Dick Grayson has kind of canonically (or at the very least, subtextually) been a gypsy since his introduction.

So now that bit of house keeping is out of the way, why does the himboification of Dick Grayson really annoy me, as a gypsy/showman/carney myself?

So, the first issue I have is really the exoticism. There’s been a large push especially from fan-artists (though it has been very subtlety reflected in canon) to have Dick portrayed with darker skin, to more “accurately” portray him as Romani (spoiler: this is not accurate). There is a fantastic post which explains this further, but it’s actually kind of colourist to say that Dick Grayson is whitewashed. I’m a full gypsy, not a diddakoi or anything, and I’m pasty as fuck. Sure, my dad was often mistaken as South Asian in his youth, as his family are all very olive-skinned and tan dark in the summer, but my mum is white as a sheet (much to her own father’s annoyance) and I take after her. This is the case for a lot of us, especially in the North of Europe. And yet, I am still ethnically a gypsy. Dick does not lose his ‘gypsy card’ for being white. And the fact that many of the fandom view it as necessary for Dick to have a darker complexion to fit this perception of what a Romani person looks like (especially since this perception largely comes from gorjas who’ve never knowingly met a gypsy before in their lives) is not only inaccurate, but kind of problematic. I don’t mind seeing a darker Dick Grayson, but it’s how people act like he has to be dark skinned to be Romani which is frankly just incorrect.

This is doubly problematic when people use his being Romani to exoticise and sexualise Dick. Like with Esmerelda in the Hunchback of Notre Dame, I’ve often seen the fandom (and even canon, to some degree) use Dick’s heritage to make him seem other, and almost remove some barriers for proper conduct (i.e. be overly affectionate, etc). We see this kind of sexualisation with a lot of non-white characters, like Talia for example, and I think that the push for a visibly non-white, exotic Dick Grayson does fall in line with the same kind of racist hyper-sexualisation we see there. Alternatively, maybe this idea of a ‘sexy gypsy from the circus’ has its roots somewhat in real life, but actually results from major misunderstandings: until the sixties, it was common for circuses to have peep shows, with girls outside advertising it in their underwear; the misunderstanding comes in that these girls were not gypsies themselves (see my next point) but hired gorja staff who worked for or alongside us. It’s not unreasonable, then, that a child visiting the circus (and thus shaping their idea of what a circus is) up until the 60s might misinterpret this as being related to gypsies ourselves (songs like Cher’s Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves, also add to this misconception that we’re the ones in the peep shows when we are not, even if that song is a bop) - if that child then worked for DC or was in the fandom, as writers/artists/fan-fic authors/fanartists in their 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, from the 80s to the 2000s, they might have mistakenly thought this was part of our culture, and not a business running parallel to ours (I hope this makes sense?). This is just a theory, but one of the only places I can think of this stereotype coming from, besides just plain racism?

Anyway, this hyper-sexualisation is ironic because a big part of our culture is actually that it is a purity culture, with equal expectations on both sexes to maintain modesty and virginity prior to marriage (of course, it’s a bit more relaxed nowadays but the expectation is still there, even if you’re in your 30s and unmarried!). This is drilled into us from a very young age, so even if Dick was removed from his culture by the age of eight, in a real life situation, he would likely already be well versed in this aspect of our culture. As I mentioned earlier, even before Dick was explicitly stated to be a gypsy, I think it’s definitely possible to read a gypsy upbringing into his character, even if unintentional, as written pre-Grayson - there’s one discussion Dick has about his anxieties about moving in with Kory whilst unmarried (I forget which comic this is from), and I cannot help but feel this resonate with me as a gypsy.

Then there’s the element of dress. TV shows like ‘My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding’ have done a lot to convince people that we all dress immodestly, but first of all: MBFGW focuses on another subtype of gypsy, Irish travellers - not showmen/circus like Dick is portrayed to be; and secondly - it’s such a small percentage of the population who do dress like that, that it cannot be taken as truth. I’ve a fair few cousins who are half-Irish traveller, and none of them dress like that. You’re far more likely to find a gypsy man wearing a shirt, a jumper, a pair of jeans, and boots than any of the gelled hair and vest top combos you see on there.

It’s a big thing that Dick has some questionable fashion choices (which are often featured as justification for his supposed ‘himbo-ness’), and this is definitely true in canon (Discowing, that one polka dot shirt, the mullet era… oh Dick, you disaster), but I’ve seen a lot of people correlate that directly with his growing up in a circus. As someone from that background, let me tell you that is just a Dick thing. It has nothing to do with being from the circus, we all dress rather normally - I’m sat writing this in a blue T-shirt, a pair of navy jeans, and a pair of boots - aka the kind of thing Dick wears more often than not in later not-the-80s canon! The thing is, this kind of presumption is something I’ve experienced myself in real life. I was doing some charity work, and there was a press element - when the journalist found out I was a gypsy from a circus family, and that I had horses, I was told to come to the photoshoot in my ‘little pink sparkly dress or whatever it is I ride in.’ I ride in jeans and a T-shirt btw. They just presumed because my family owned circuses, I must do vaulting and perform and I don’t - I worked in the kiosk or on the rides. The point is, people make a lot of presumptions about us just because we’re from the circus, and it’s not accurate.

Then there’s also the fanon effeminising of Dick: often giving him softer, feminine features, make-up, etc, to make him ‘pretty’. Like with the skin-colour issue, draw Dick however you like. You do you. But don’t use his being a gypsy to justify that. Tbh, the vast majority of gypsy men I know are extremely masculine: physically, the cis-men of our community tend to be quite tall, stocky, with calloused hands and broad shoulders, by virtue of the fact that we have to build up everywhere we work, and that’s a lot of physical labour. In Europe, there’s a big drinking culture, and playing football, etc. Men also tend to dress quite masc and practically for blue-collar work. And whilst I am sure that there are some more gender-fluid gypsies out there (I have quite a few gypsy friends who are openly queer, or trans), I have seen so many posts on Tumblr with Dick presented as being quite soft and feminine looking, with make-up etc, and when people in the notes ask why he’s drawn like that, the artist replies ‘He’s Rom!’ and I just want to facepalm. You can be a gypsy and masc-presenting. You can be a gypsy and fem-presenting. However, being a gypsy ≠ being feminine, and I’m really sick of seeing it. As someone who studies ancient Persia (like, I have a degree in it and am writing an academic book), the similarities are so obvious with how the Greeks portrayed the Achaemenids as effeminate, and like with the Achaemenids, it’s just not accurate. Again, if that’s how you headcanon Dick, then that’s great, but let’s not pretend that Dick being a gypsy has anything to do with it.

So I’ve now discussed the sexualisation aspect of Dick’s character a bit (I’ve probably left something out but oh well), and now I’ll speak a bit about the ‘dumb’ part. This is a far more recent thing, I think, and I suspect it might be because: a) people have weirdly tagged Tim as the Smart!Robin (they’re all geniuses) and thought this somehow means the rest must be dumb?, b) because of how sexualised Dick is, they’ve gone full himbo (see: Dick in the Grayson comics saying ‘at least [he’s] pretty’). However, from a gypsy point of view, this really annoys me as well.

When travelling with the fairground/circus, it is difficult to get a stable education. We tend to go to school in the winter months, but in the warmer months, we are more homeschooled (maybe using education packs from our normal school), or at larger fairs/events, a special teacher may be present. It used to be common that if we were at a ground for two weeks or more, we’d be enrolled temporarily in a local school for that time, but this isn’t really realistic today. However, it is also true that traditionally, our schooling was quite halted. Whilst less common, it’s still fairly normal for us to leave school early - for example, I left school entirely aged 13 to work full time on the fairgrounds (yes this goes against child labour laws but nobody actually cares). As a result of this, a lot of us have very limited education (illiteracy is not unheard of in the older generations), so it’s not uncommon for people to mistake this for us being stupid. But the thing is, this isn’t true. My dad left school aged 11, and eventually got a gorja job in his late 30s - he is now the top in the country at his job. I left school when I was 13, but decided I wanted to go to university, so I sat my GCSEs without studying, got into college, and whilst also working a full time job, got my A Levels and got into what is ranked the number one university in the world. When I got in, people really could not believe that someone of my background could do it, so it was on national news and television. It’s not that other travellers/gypsies are incapable - for the most part, we just don’t see the point as we’ve got a job and a culture wrapped up in one which we want to keep alive and successful. The point is, it’s so common for us to be underestimated, and part of what I loved about Dick’s character is that he is unapologetically clever. But over the last decade especially, Dick is once again being reduced to just a pretty face. Now, growing up, it was a cultural expectation to take care of your looks, and whilst I think I always looked ok (washed hair every day, showered, ironed matching clothes), it was not my primary interest in the same way that it was for a lot of my peers. So having a character who was from the same background as me and allowed to be intelligent and respected for it in a way I sometimes wasn’t was really special. So to see that intellect being taken away from Dick, somewhat, does strike me. If Dick is reduced to just being pretty and flirty, that’s as stereotypical as it comes in my community, and I love it when he can be more. I’m not saying that Dick has to be super serious all the time (that’s what makes Dick’s character so great, even if he is a bit more serious in canon than in fanon, though to be fair that’s probably because canon is a lot harder on him than fanon), but he can be hot and flirty without being dumb and overly objectified.

I hope this makes sense and I also hope that none of my relatives or uni friends see this and immediately work out it’s me - there’s a reason I started a whole side blog to separate my silly little nerdy interests from anything my friends might see - but Himbo Dick Grayson is something which I can’t get behind. Let him be smart. Let him be hot but not overly exoticised.

#batman #dc comics #batfam #dick grayson #nightwing #dc robin #romani dick grayson

2K notes · View notes

doctormead · 1 year ago

Text

DP x DC prompt: Beekeeper Danny

Ooookay, Danny has moved to Gotham for <insert reason here> and is faced with a problem. Yes, Gotham has higher levels of ambient ectoplasm than your average city, but it's nowhere near those of Amity Park who has a goddamn artificial hell mouth smack in the center of it. Also, the ectoplasm which IS there is contaminated with some nasty shit that makes Danny feel ill when he takes too much of it in. Having his friends back in Amity Park ship him flasks of pure ecto on the sly is difficult to say the least, so he starts thinking about ways to both concentrate and purify Gotham's ecto so he's not one shipment interruption from being in really bad shape.

He get's his solution from Sam. On his bi-weekly video call with her and Tucker, she gets to ranting about bee conservation. Tucker makes a joking comment about honey being basically bee vomit, and Sam tears into him saying "That is a gross oversimplification at best and outright bee-slander at worst!" This perks Danny's curiosity, so he looks up the biological process by which bees turn nectar into honey...and he's found his answer. Blob ghosts are basically the filter feeders of the Ghost Zone/Infinite Realms. If he can get a bunch of them to behave kinda like honey bees, his ecto supply should be assured.

It works...a bit too well...

Now Danny has a swarm of glowing green honey bees that are roughly the size of carpenter bees buzzing happily about him. Their queen is roughly the size of a large hummingbird. He heaves a weary sigh and starts looking up how to ACTUALLY keep bees and making skips out of ghost-friendly material for them to build their hive in on top of his apartment building.

But, won't Danny get complaints from his neighbors? Here's the kicker. Unless you are a 1) ghost, 2) halfa, 3) wearing specialized Fenton Ecto-Visual Goggles or 4) a mage, you cannot see, hear or feel the bees! They're buzzing around Gotham happily, slurping up the ecto to take back to the hive for processing. And they slurp it up from EVERYWHERE...including certain people.

Jason Todd is slightly confused but not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Over the last few months, the Pit Rage has been decreasing gradually. He doesn't think much about it until he shows up at the BatCave for an all hands meeting that has been called because John Constantine needed to brief them on something...only for Con-job to take one look at Red Hood and shout that he's "COVERED IN FUCKING BEES!!!"

#danny phantom #batman #dp x dc crossover #john constantine #danny fenton #jason todd #bees

5K notes · View notes

easterneyenews · 2 years ago

Text

0 notes

mv1simp · 9 months ago

Text

requested: max + best friend + somnophilia + cum marking

Unforgettable ♥️

Max Verstappen x Best Friend!Reader

if you loved the girl then I’m so so sorry (i got to give it to her like we in a marriage)

You and Max grew up as childhood best friends, secretly enamoured with each other but prohibited to openly date by both your strict fathers. But as adults, there’s nothing to stop the naughty desires you two have for each other finally leading to pleasurable activities. You just had no idea how naughty your Max’s desires for you had become as of late…

Content includes: 18+ MDNI, smut, dom! Dark max, sub! Innocent reader, size kink, dub con/non con elements, brief mentions of some teen max x reader being kinky, but mostly as adults, HEAVY on the somno!!, cum play/cum marking, WC 4.2k

You’ve known Max Verstappen your whole life. First as his childhood best friend, meeting through your fathers who both had a keen interest in racing. The young Max immediately became enamoured with how cute you looked grasping onto his sleeve to loyally follow him everywhere. He welcomed your constant support and cheering, a comfort to the cold discipline his own father gave him daily. You were the one source of happiness and positivity for him, with your sunshine smile and blushing cheeks as you oohed and ahhed at his track performance.

Your friendship continued easily through your teens, and then into adulthood, with you naturally moving to Monaco at his invitation. Just like you’d always done - with Max leading, and you obediently following. Of course, for a boy and a girl to be as close friends as the two of you were led to more than a few eyebrows being raised and curious questions asked, especially when Max’s career skyrocketed and he became one of the most famous athletes worldwide. But you both swear multiple times to your family, friends and the media - nothing of the romantic sort happened between the two of you, it was all completely platonic, just a healthy friendship. And that was the truth, because Max’s father had forbidden him from getting entangled with the little girl following him around as he had a racing career to focus on, and after that countless models to date - much more fitting for an F1 driver than some shy, girl next door type. And your strict, conservative father had raised you traditionally, sending you to an all girl’s high school and banning any boyfriends or dates of any sort. Max was in fact the only boy you were allowed to speak to, given how close your fathers were. But you weren’t to think about any boys until it was time to get married, your father had told you sternly. There’s too many bad men that would hurt my baby girl, he added with a ruffle of your dark curls.

Your father would have had a heart attack if he’d known that the teenage Max had already begun sneaking into your bedroom window nightly once you’d been sent to a different school than him. You’d found it so sweet that he misses you so much, saying that it wasn’t enough time to just see you on the weekends. Soon enough he’d end up falling asleep in your bed after you spent hours talking and reading racing magazines together, just like the sleepovers you two would occasionally have as toddlers when the adults had too much to drink.

You loved that Max would always be there for you, especially when you started having a hard time at your new school with a group of mean older girls. Max’s normally soft blue eyes had narrowed as you sadly mentioned how they’d made fun of you. He wiped the tears away at the corner of your eyes and assured you he’d help take care of it. You weren’t sure exactly what he’d done the next day when the group of girls all avoided eye contact and apologised to you publically, telling you they didn’t realise you were the girlfriend of Max Verstappen - who by now, was a international karting champion and set to join the junior Redbull team at only 16.

You’d blushed, trying to dismiss their belief of you being Max’s girlfriend that had started to become a frequent rumour these days. While it was true you’d always had a crush on the handsome blonde Dutchman, he’d never once shown you that he reciprocated your feelings, always just being a good friend to you. Like that evening when he jumped through your windowsill with familiar movements, waving off your grateful thanks and telling you it’s what best friends did for each other. Besides, you’re so tiny and cute, just like a bunny, it’s my job to look after you if I’m called the lion! He declared, alluding to your individual favourite childhood animals. Later, he curiously asked what the girls had actually teased you about, saying he’d forgotten to ask because he had been too angry with them. You blush a little, because you’re not sure if it’s too embarrassing to tell him as it’s a girl thing, Maxie…

He encourages you to tell him, insisting there were no secrets between the two of you, who’d practically known each other since birth. You couldn’t argue with that, and shyly tell him that it was because the older girls had seen you changing for sports class last week and had said you must have gotten a good surgeon with boobs like that. I-I don’t know what they mean, Maxie, you said with an anxious bite of your lip. Do they look weird?

Oh, Max had said, caught off guard, pretty blue eyes suddenly wide as they automatically drifted down to your clothed chest. Even through the pink camisole you’re wearing to bed, it’s hard to miss the way your new assets stretched the thin material to its limits. I’m sure they look nice, bunny. But I - his cheeks go pink - I can look at them properly if you want?

Your brown doe eyes go starry eyed and you nod happily at his offer. Will you, Maxie? Thank you so much! It’s so kind of you. Beaming up at your friend, you thank him again for his thoughtful offer as you lift the singlet above your breasts. You don’t really have any other friends to show them too, because you spend all your spare time with the Dutch boy, and your mother is also too strict like your father to talk about your teenage troubles with. You’d be lost without Max!

The blonde teen in question swallows as he intently looks at your bare chest, now exposed for him. The night breeze stiffens your nipples, making them stick out against your caramel skin. They’re very pretty, schatje, he finally says, his voice sounding a strange and deeper than normal, after he stares at them so long you start to get worried that there had been something wrong, after all. You tell him this, to which he reassures you soothingly, but you’re still on edge. What if my future boyfriend doesn’t like them, Maxie? Your best friend’s eyes darken suddenly at the mention of some other boy seeing your body in a way only he had been allowed to so far. You're a little taken aback at the unfamiliar, cold expression on his normally warm face, but then you blink and he's back to his blushing self, eagerly showering you with his reassurances because he never wants you to doubt how perfect he thinks you are.

So that’s why, now as adults living in his Monaco penthouse, Max makes it his personal mission to make sure you know how beautiful you are. Your conservative parents have no idea that you live together, of course - they still think you live in the quaint 1 bedroom apartment a few minutes away from your university campus. But your modest apartment had mysteriously been shut down by the Housing Council of Monaco, who’d told you there had been a termite infestation and you were indefinitely out of a place to live. You’d been puzzled why your apartment was the only one on your floor that seemed to be affected by something so contagious - but when Max generously offered to ease all your financial troubles and let you crash in his guest bedroom, you gratefully accepted. You’d never told your strict parents about the move, of course, since it was only meant to be temporary and they’d kick up a fuss over nothing.

You were so thankful to your best friend, and made sure to always clean up around the house and bake his favourite treats to repay him in some way. Max’s favourite way to destress after a long day is to cuddle against you on the sofa, burying his face in your pillowy, soft chest as you giggle and run a comforting hand through his blonde locks. He complains about drama with his team and car this season, husky voice muffled against your clothed breasts. The low vibrations would make you involuntarily shiver and he’d always know when you were wearing a bra, because he wouldn’t be able to see your tempting nipples through your top. Schatje, he’d say sternly with a disapproving glare, yanking your pastel cardigan up and revealing a cute, lacy bralette. We talked about this, it restricts your circulation, it’s not healthy to wear a bra at home too, hmm? You apologise sweetly, pouting and telling him that you were sorry, it was just you’d had to wear one for your university tutorial earlier and sometimes your back really starts hurting if your bra isn’t supporting the weight of your chest…

Hmm, let’s see how we can fix that, okay bunny? He lifts you to sit in his lap, your back to his toned abs, and your underwear coming into direct contact with his jeans underneath your miniskirt. Sliding his large, strong hands over your smaller waist, he makes you gasp as he unclasps your bra and starts gently squeezing your bare breasts. The soft flesh fills his palms, and you shyly ask him what he was doing, he didn't have to trouble himself helping you. When he shushes you, reassuring you that he was just massaging the tension and pain out of your tits, see, doesn’t that feel good schat? You find yourself nodding, leaning back against his broad chest because and biting your lip because it did feel amazing. You didn’t know that being touched there would make you feel dirty things someplace else, like in the place between your legs that begins to feel warm and tingly. Especially when Max would roll your nipples in between his large fingers, or when he’d press his tongue in between your bare tits and lick at your caramel skin. You couldn’t resist arching your back into his talented mouth when he latched onto your areolas, unable to control the breathless moans that escaped. You were seriously so lucky to have a friend who took your comfort and health so seriously!

Of course, you were clueless that Max had taken the boundaries well beyond what would be considered acceptable for any other friendship. You still barely had any friends outside of Max - especially since your friendship with him kept you so busy, flying around the world with him constantly. But everything you two did felt so natural, like a progression of how you’d looked after each other other as kids, that you never felt weird or uncomfortable. You only ever felt good with Maxie. That was also why you’d always call him first when you were on a night out and had gotten a bit too tipsy - you didn’t trust anyone else to look after you. Max had warned you, just like your father had, about all the bad men who were out and would hurt you. He very rarely let you go out without him for this very reason.

But when you would, for a girlfriend’s birthday dinner or the other, he’d be the one to drive you home and carry you up to the apartment. He’d smirk at your drunk antics, where you’d whine it was too damn hot and start sloppily tearing off your cute, sweetheart minidresses. He loved when you got like this, obediently crawling into bed with him in scraps of lace, when normally sober you put up a fuss that only a couple slept like that, it was wrong, his girlfriend wouldn’t like this! Pulling your pliant form into his warm chest, he’s pressing kisses to your forehead before sliding his tongue into your open, pink mouth. You kiss him back passionately, breathlessly chanting his name, contently lost in how nice his lips feel. You loved the familiar feeling of Max’s arms around you, always making you feel safe and protected. And when his large, strong palms run up and down your sensitive body, sending electric shivers running when his bare skin touches yours, you can’t help but moan sweetly into his mouth. Mmmhh, feels good, Maxie you slur, eyes fluttering shut and thick ass grinding back against his clothed bulge, before you fall asleep from his slow, rhythmic movements as he explores your tired body.

Secretly, not that you’d ever admit it, you knew there was something a little naughty with the way he touched you. You’d watched enviously through cracked doors when he’d touched his girlfriends in the same way, hating when his attention was on some other girl and not on you. But you could never ask him sober to take care of you like that, not when you were sure he thought of you like a friend. So you frequently started to get a bit too tipsy out on a night out, knowing it was much easier to cross the line of friendship into something more when you could blame it all on the tequila. And your Maxie would never turn down a chance to reciprocate your touchiness - his love language was physical touch, after all!

You had no idea that after you'd fall asleep, your precious Maxie’s fun really began, every night that he managed to bring you into his Californian King. If you hadn’t been so naive you would know it was far from normal for a guy friend to climb into bed with his drunk girl friend, who was wearing nothing but some white lacy lingerie underneath her clubbing dress that's abandoned on the floor. Lingerie which he now pulls to the side as he squeezes your juicy tits and lightly fingers the entrance of your pussy. His dark, hungry gaze rake over your tempting form, taking in your curves that have now filled out. He lazily jerks himself off to the pretty little thing passed out in his bed, peppering kisses to your chubby cheeks, your delicate neck, and to your plush breasts which bounce with each sleepy breath you take.

And once your breaths turn heavy and slow when deep sleep claims you, there’s nothing stopping him from slipping his angry, leaking cockhead out and sliding it along your puffy folds. You unknowingly drip your wetness all over his shaft as he groans into your ear, his breath warm as he pants desperately above your peacefully sleeping face. Sometimes he can’t resist and slips just the tip into your tight little hole, the one you still thought was untouched by anyone.

You’d probably die if you knew the truth - that your cunt had in fact been abused many times by your best friend. Max regularly enjoyed teasing your puffy slit with his fingers, his tongue and of course his cockhead- all while you lay blissfully sleeping next to him. He’d take any chance he could, no matter how risky. One time you’d passed out on Max’s lap aboard his private jet, exhausted from the day at a boiling hot Qatar race. He’d stroked your curls lovingly, murmuring sweet nothings to you until you were in a deep sleep on his thick muscular thighs, even drooling a little onto his jeans. All he’d had to do was dim the cabin lights and half cover your face with a blanket under the guise of not disturbing you if anyone walked past.

Nobody would have been able to guess that underneath the privacy of the blanket, Max Verstappen was slowly sliding his aching, fat cock into your wet mouth. You’d instinctively started suckling on it like a lollipop, making him chuckle at what a natural slut you were for him. Grabbing a hold of your curls, he’d easily manoeuvred your soft, pliant lips up and down his shaft, enjoying the drool you left all over his warm length. Breathing heavier, his movements quickened and his thrusts became shallower until he finally goes still, tensing in your mouth and spurting ribbons of his cream down your throat. You’d slept straight through the dinner service, after all. Afterwards, you’d woken up with sticky lips and an unfamiliar taste on your tongue, dazedly blinking up at Max who was playing on his phone above your sleeping figure on his lap. Good nap, schatje? he croons adoringly at you, brushing your hair lovingly when he sees you’d awakened. You’d nodded happily, feeling content and secure in his hold.

Lately, sneaking around while you were asleep hadn’t been enough for the world champion. He wanted you all to himself, all the time. His new tactic involved making sure you knew that his latest girlfriend - or his model "pump and dump of the month" as his guy friends joked - had broken up with him. All because she’d heard you had climbed into bed with him naked, tipsy after a night out, Max would declare to your with a dramatic sigh. Or she’d found your lacy underwear mixed in with Max’s laundry, and had accused him of cheating before storming out. He wondered what his exes would have done if they found out the lacy things he’d had lying around were actually due to his dirty habit as a teen of stealing your underwear to sniff and guiltily keep in his stash. It was a twisted desire he hadn’t grown out of as an adult, instead just finding your new panties sexier and enjoying ruining them with his cum now. Some nights, when he was feeling particularly possessive of you, he’d pull one lacy side up to slide his length underneath, now rubbing his drooling cockhead against the juicy swell of your ass. One night he’d even just slipped your panties all the way off, jerked off slowly to them as his other hand explored your pliant body greedily, making you gasp breathlessly when he buried his face in between your jiggling tits and gently bit your cute nipples. After cumming a thick load into the pink lacey fabric, he then slid the ruined panties back over your curvy ass. You’d remained completely clueless to your best friend’s filthy nighttime acts in your bed, blissfully dreaming.

So after telling you that you must have left your panties in his bed the last time you passed out there drunk, and made his girlfriend angry, Max would sigh, rubbing his head and making sure to out on a grand show of looking tired and weary as he fed you some new lie about how you were the reason his girlfriends had called it quits.

You’d anxiously comfort him, your doe eyes worried as you studied his tense figure. Just like he’d hoped, you couldn’t resist offering to help him in any way he needed - including taking over any bedroom activities his girlfriends had been performing for him, if he wanted. You weren’t very good, because you still had never had a boyfriend…but you promised to try your best to do it just how Max liked it. After all, that’s what good friends were for, right?

So that’s why you obediently wake him up every morning with your lips on his heavy morning wood. All of his girlfriends woke him up like this, Max insisted, otherwise his balls would be too full for him to go to driving practise comfortably. And since he loved to sleep in late ever day, you had no choice but to miss your morning lectures. Instead of getting the college education you’d promised your parents, you’re worshipping your best friend’s large cock with eager strokes of your hand and wet licks of your tongue, following his instructions. You hadn’t liked going near the base, to his heavy balls at the start, finding them uncomfortable to fit in your small mouth. Max had noticed your dislike for then very quickly and soon kept a strong grip on your curls, pressing your thick lips into his morning wood to make sure you blew him just how he wanted it.

After your daily breakfast of Max’s thick cream down your throat, you two would shower together, just like he liked doing with all his ex girlfriends. This part you did know about, having come home early one day and overhearing Max fucking his latest up against the shower wall. You’d never imagine that one day you’d be getting to replace her, gasping out ah ah ahs! as Max rubbed his drooling, angry cockhead against your slick folds. You bite your lip as you dirtily fantasise about your tall, muscular best friend behind you forcing his way into your cunny. Just a little bit, of course, maybe just the tip, you dreamily thought.

Max had always been good at knowing what you wanted without you asking, given how long he'd known you. So he gives you exactly what you'd been naughtily thinking about, "accidentally" sliding his impossibly hard head into your dripping folds when he reached forward to adjust the already perfect water temperature. You squeal in shock, quickly trying to turn around and see what he was doing, but you're no match for his strength. Max's strong hands pin your thick hips in place as his much taller frame presses into you from behind, his lips brushing your ear to whisper dirty things and making your brain go foggy. Hearing your beloved Maxie huskily groan that your ass felt amazing, like it was built to take my cock, bunny made your heart beat rapidly in excitement. You didn't even notice that he'd bullied a good third of his massive erection into your clenching pussy, or when he came with a desperate groan, his face buried in your neck from behind. The warm shower water mixed with his creamy release and leaving you none the wiser about what he'd just pumped inside your virgin hole.

And little, naive you had no idea just how many times your possessive best friend had exposed your defenceless body to his thick cream. The twisted idea of training your holes to always welcome his, and only his cum, filled Max’s head with dark pleasure. He wanted to leave you begging and desperate for his release, even though you would have no idea just how or why you’d ended up developing such a craving for it. That was why he always made sure to touch and play with your over sensitive body, especially your cute, swollen clit and pretty nipples. Both because he loved feeling you up like you belonged to him, and because when he’d inevitably spurt his cum through your drooling, open mouth as you softly snore against his pillows. Your sleepy brain began to subconsciously associate the unfamiliar taste with delicious, tingly pleasure.

And if you’d make him mad when you spent too long talking to one of the other guys in his garage, instead of diligently at his side, he took his training of you to the next level. That meant cumming all over a batch of freshly baked and frosted white chocolate and rasberry cupcakes - your favourite! You always clapped your manicured hands in excitement when Max would pick up a box for you. They taste so good, you moaned as you eagerly dug into a second one, licking the white sticky frosting messily off your fingers. Even better than I remember!

The blonde Dutchman who’s eyeing you with a pleased smirk couldn’t stop the growing desire in his belly at the sight of you taking so much pleasure at eating his cum. So once he started this dirty habit of feeding you his release, he didn’t stop there - he was never one for half measures. He’d only have to close his eyes and picture your sleeping body, thin camisole mentally pulled up by his wandering hands to reveal your large tits. It’s a sight he’s been getting to enjoy almost nightly now, but it hasn’t stopped getting any less tempting. He easily spurts a generous load in a container of your favourite flavours of creamy vanilla ice cream. Slipping the box back into the freezer, he smirks to himself at the thought of getting to enjoy the sight of you licking it up off a spoon after dinner.

You've always had a major sweet tooth, and now that Max has started mixing his cum into your beloved desserts and sugary treats, you begin to associate his heady taste even more with raw desire. You start getting the same pleasurable high from deepthroating him as you do sucking on a strawberry lollipop. And your best friend just can't get enough of how addicted you've become to having his intoxicating, thick cum flood your mouth. So much so that you’re eager to fall to your knees to greet Max when you come home from class, obediently sucking his impressive cock as you show off your topless figure. And when you can tell he’s close, from how his handsome face is all flushed and he’s biting his pretty lips and murmuring fuck, schatje, it’s so fucking good, just like that-

You open your glossy lips wide, pink tongue poking out and brown doe eyes batting up at the huge cock in front of you adoringly. The sight of you so innocent yet desperate for him never fails to make Max cum, and with a few rapid pumps he finishes with a groan. His drooling, swollen cockhead is aimed right at your eagerly awaiting mouth, and soon his excessive load covers your tongue and drools past the corner of your lips as you struggle to contain it all in your small mouth. Splatters of white semen land on your chubby cheeks and drip down to your plush, caramel tits as well.

Just the taste of it has your eyes rolling and breath hitching, the months of subconscious training having done the job of making you addicted to Max’s cock very well. You swallow it all like the good girl you are, not letting any of his cum go to waste. And when you drop your mouth open again invitingly, shyly saying look Maxie, I drank it all as you display your now clean tongue - well, how is he meant to resist stuffing your tight little cunt next?

—————————————————————————

A/N: CANNOT BELIEVE OUR MANS WON BRAZIL WHAT AN ACHIEVEMENT FOR THE LATINA FANS ya’ll manifested the FUCK out of this. I have heard you all with your celebration sex requests and I am HERE for it stay tuned!!! 🧙‍♀️🧙‍♀️

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen #max verstappen smut #f1 imagine #f1 smut #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #max verstappen x you #18+ mdni #dark max verstappen #dark smut

3K notes · View notes

gloomwitchwrites · 1 month ago

Text

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Eleven

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, suggestive themes, brief alcohol use

Word Count: 7k

Task Force 141 preps for the coming mission. Kyle and Johnny have a serious talk with Simon. Simon takes you out on a date. A proposition is made.

Chapter Ten // Chapter Twelve

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

“It’s a bloody coup.”

Captain Price’s cigar smoke lingers in the air, stilted and stuffy and picking at Simon’s oral fixation. The pack of cigarettes and lighter are in Simon’s hand a second later. Balaclava off, the filtered end resting between his lips, a click as he pops the lighter, orange flame sparking to life.

Simon inhales, cherishes the burn.

“Attempted coup,” exhales Simon, a cloud of smoke circling his head. “A fucking mess of one.”

Pictures and paper litter the dark wood tabletop. A detailed map of the northern border of Washington and the southern border of Canada sits in the middle. Nearby, a small lamp provides a bit of warm light, and it’s all they’ll have at this hour. Late in the evenings, when most of the population is in bed, power is conserved and redirected. Only necessary infrastructure is allowed nightly clearance. Task Force 141 might be sitting in a small meeting room in the military district, but a building mainly used for clerical work isn’t high priority.

The fact that a singular lamp is even working is a bloody miracle.

Captain Price smooths his facial hair with his fingers, his expression pensive. “The masterminds went to ground. We’re being sent to sniff them out.”

Kyle gives a small shake of his head. “Fucking animals. Mowing unarmed civilians down like that.”

Simon takes a long drag on his cigarette, allowing the burn to take the place of his anger. Rage won’t help. There are no enemies to fight in this cramped room with smoke-stale air and fetid tempers. What he wants is to seek comfort with you, to have your warmth cradled in his arms before he’s forced to leave it behind.

“All that fighting and no one learned anything,” growls Johnny.

“Humans are fickle, sergeant,” replies Simon slowly, his thumb smoothing over the metal casing of the lighter. “Can’t always trust them.”

Johnny’s side-eye is sharp enough to slice steel. No one is in a good mood. This is their work and yet it’s different—too personal. In the beginning, Task Force 141 was bounced around from Safe Zone to Safe Zone, but it wasn’t unusual. Military personnel were on the move and hardly anyone stayed in one place for long. But that’s when humanity stopped fighting and organized. The old disagreements were put to rest and the new fractures had yet to crawl forth to sink their teeth in. The team was sent outward, to push back against external threats. Internal threats were unthinkable because the mandates were working and people wanted to live.

“When are we leaving?” asks Simon, pointedly ignoring Johnny’s cutting glare.

Price clears his throat. “In three days.”

“Why the delay?” probes Kyle. “Why not tonight? Or tomorrow?”

Leaning forward, Price shifts the map of Washington and Canada to reveal a detailed map of Safe Zone Thirty. It’s one of the smaller zones, mainly used for logging and growing certain crops like potatoes. Fringe and insignificant compared to the larger zones, which makes it the perfect target. A place like that flips with the right control and no ones the wiser until its absence leaves a dent.

Price’s mouth twitches with irritation. “One group wants us there. Another…not so much.”

“Fuck what those bastards think,” mutters Kyle with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Not my call,” replies Price, tapping his cigar against the glass ashtray. “But we are going. Despite the pushback.”

“We’ll root them out,” says Kyle confidently, settling back in his chair. “Always do.”

It’s all schematics after that, a draining process of the who and the why and the basic disregard of humanity. The end of the war was supposed to put all this to rest, to unify the remains, and forge a future out of bloodied scraps.

But humans love their violence—they adore consumption.

Why be at peace? Why be stagnant? Why not rip into the meat?

The walk to the pub downstairs is utterly silent except for Johnny’s off-key whistling. Of all the advantages of the military district, the free-flowing alcohol is a perk Simon will miss while they’re away. Pubs are always open. From sun up to sun down, soldiers of every rank frequent their stoop, spilling out into the street with bottles still in hand.

Simon sinks into a chair in the back of the pub while Johnny orders for them at the bar. There is no cost. No open tabs. Not for anyone willing to hold a gun in the name of global security. But money doesn’t exist anymore. It’s all been dissolved for the sake of harmony.

“Fucker gave me the whole bottle,” laughs Johnny as he cradles three rocks glasses and a half-full bottle of bourbon.

Kyle stands, reaching for the glasses before they topple to the ground. They’re distributed, and the whiskey is poured with a heavy hand.

“Another bloody trip,” mutters Kyle. “We just got home from the last one.” He sighs heavily, running his hand over his face is exhaustion. “How long will this one be.”

The wall sconces glow dimly, not from electricity, but half-melted candles. It’s the go-to when the power is yanked and distributed elsewhere. Everything in the pub is in shadow, which is fucking perfect for Simon. The balaclava can come off, and he can enjoy his bourbon without some wanker having a good stare about it.

Even in the shadows, Johnny’s smile is a sunbeam. “At least that bonny blonde from the social will be here when you come back.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “She spit or swallow?” Simon snorts into his glass as Kyle swipes at Soap’s head. Johnny cackles. “Oh, aye. You always liked the spitters.”

“Piss off, you wanker,” laughs Kyle, the earlier exhaustion dissipating. Moving his rocks glass around, Kyle shifts his attention to Simon, a knowing glint in his eye. “What about your woman? Have her hooked yet?”

Simon’s thumb rubs a bead of condensation off his glass. “Working on it.” The water melts into his skin. “She’s a stubborn thing.”

“I remember,” chuckles Kyle, bringing his own glass up for a sip. “She calm down any?”

“You mean does she knee me in the dick and flee?”

Johnny wheezes, covering his eyes with his hand as he falls into a fit of laughter. “Hells, Lt. That was fucking golden.” He lightly hits Kyle’s arm with the back of his hand. “Remember how hard he went down? Fucking beautiful it was.”

“True strike,” says Kyle with admiration.

Simon rubs at his eye, a small smile teasing the surface. “Goddamn pricks.” Kyle and Johnny both make jerking off gestures before they devolve into hysterical wheezing that leaves Johnny bent over and gasping for air. “Now you’re just taking the piss.”

“Go on then,” smiles Kyle. “Tell us how you’re wooing her?”

“Putting on that charm, aren’t ya, Lt?”

Gaz elbows Soap. “Buying her flowers.”

Soap winks. “Cracking jokes.”

“Romantic walks in the park.”

“Infinite orgasms.”

Simon remains silent, his good mood wavering slightly with the coming interrogation. There is no clear path of avoidance, no path he can take to steer the conversation away from you and how utterly shit he is at coaxing you into his arms. Kyle and Johnny won’t let this matter drop. Simon has asked too much of them already. They know the pursuit is active, and with him bringing them into it just to flame his own ego, they believe they have the right to know the details.

Maybe it’s Simon’s neutral expression that gives him away—the sudden shift from good mood to quiet hesitation—that triggers Kyle’s next question.

“Are you pursuing her?”

Simon runs his tongue over his teeth as he considers the bourbon in his glass. “I am.”

“You don’t sound happy about it,” states Gaz, resting his forearm on the tabletop.

Johnny stares at Simon with an odd expression. “You were up my ass at the social about her.”

“You weren’t keeping others away from her,” mutters Simon.

Johnny rolls his eyes. Kyle leans back in his chair; one hand raised slightly as the gears in his head process the situation.

“What are you doing, mate?” asks Gaz.

Simon runs his finger along the lip of the glass. “I’m being honest with her,” he replies.

“About what?” counters Kyle.

“About her situation.” Simon taps the rim of the glass. Once. Twice. Thrice. “That they’re going to make her choose. And she should choose me.”

Kyle and Johnny both let out exasperated groans, their movements exaggerated as they throw their hands in air.

“You’re got be bloody joking, Simon,” mutters Kyle.

Defensiveness rises. “It’s true,” retorts Simon. “I told her the truth. Showed her what I have to offer.”

Johnny has both elbows on the table, hands covering his face as he chortles.

Kyle drapes an arm across the back of the empty chair next to him. “And what do you have to offer?”

Simon purses his lips, tipping his head back to finish the last of the bourbon in his glass. “Protection. Safety. Security,” he lists, reaching for the bottle in the middle of the table. Simon refills his glass. “That I’d provide for her.”

“Jesus Christ,” guffaws Kyle. “How the fuck are you pulling women, mate?”

“What’s wrong with what I told her?”

“That’s what you said to entice her? Are you fucking serious?”

Simon stares, unamused and over this. “It’s what all the other women wanted from me.”

Kyle shakes his head, snagging the bottle of bourbon when Simon sets it down. “And you think she’s the same? That it’s enough?”

“I didn’t say that,” replies Simon, a threat of a growl rising in his voice.

“But you implied it,” says Kyle, pointing at him as Johhny sits up, sharing in Kyle’s skepticism. Kyle fills his glass and hands it over to Johnny. “What makes you think what you promised her is special? That you’re the only one who can do that?”

“Security isn’t guaranteed.”

“Just because the women that pursued you wanted those things, doesn’t mean she does. There are plenty of single women across this Safe Zone who don’t want those things. Most of them are perfectly fucking happy. And,” Kyle continues, shifting in his chair, “they’re picking men who couldn’t even shoot the side of a building if you handed them a gun.”

“And when things go south, as they always do, they’ll wish they did,” says Simon, unwilling to budge.

He’s not wrong. Simon knows this in his heart. The world might have been shattered, the pieces glued together to resemble what it is now, but Captain Price’s briefing tonight proved exactly why society is still fragile.

Kyle’s body language shifts. It’s subtle, but Simon sees it. He’s changing tactics.

“You promised her security and safety. Great,” shrugs Kyle. “You know who can also provide that?” His head tilts slightly. “Me.” He nods toward Johnny. “Soap.” He gestures toward the rest of the men in the pub. “All of them. Your offer isn’t special. And that’s where you’re missing the damn point.”

Gaz is stubbornly persistent, and as much as Simon is annoyed by it, the man isn’t wrong. Simon isn’t winning you over like he thought he would. You’re still resisting—pushing back. His actions were fucking selfish in taking you but it was also to protect you. You were not a citizen of the Safe Zones in that moment. The mandate requires that any human found outside the walls of a Safe Zone must be brought back if they are not an active threat. Simon had the highest rank. He was leading that team. He had the first right to declare intent on bringing you back with them. If he hadn’t, you’d have been a doe during hunting season.

It's barbaric. And it’s also a secret.

As much as the people in power reassure the general population that all outsiders are given proper due process and rights, that’s simply not the case. They change their tune depending on the situation, and for you, they would. You were a lone woman, a potential contributor to the gene pool, and they would have turned the other cheek if Simon had brought you back and insisted that you were to be his and his alone.

They would have granted it. Easily. Without a fucking question.

But Simon didn’t. He brought you back, claimed you at reintegration and processing, but only in that he was bringing you back into the fold, that in your file, it would simply have his name and rank for submitting personnel—not that he intended more. Shit like that stays under the table. It’s one of the easiest ways for military members to snag a wife and start a family.

Which is why Kyle isn’t even suggesting that Simon do it, or questioning why he didn’t.

“Have you even asked her what she wants?” asks Gaz. “Talked to her about what she wants in a partner?”

“I know what she needs,” replies Simon.

“And what’s that?”

“Me.”

Kyle smirks. “You ask her that?”

No.

Johnny settles back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked underneath his armpits. “Ya know, I’ve got a question for you, Lt.”

“Do you, Johnny?”

“Does she even know your name?”

Kyle’s laugh is clipped and short. “Seriously?”

Johnny nods, addressing Gaz. “Remember at the social? When she referred to Simon, she only said—”

“Lieutenant Riley,” finished Kyle. “Never Simon.”

“Nope.”

Gaz and Soap slowly turn their heads in his direction.

Goddamnit.

“I like it when she calls me by my rank.”

Johnny’s grin is feral. “What do you think, Kyle? Think you’d blow your load if your blonde bomb moaned your rank while you fucked her?”

Kyle shrugs. “Probably. Novelty might wear off though.”

“Oh, aye.” Johnny pretends to hump the air. “Sergeant,” he moans loudly and dramatically.

A few heads swivel in their direction and Simon punches Johnny’s arm. “Shut up, Soap.”

“In all seriousness,” says Kyle. “Does she really not know your name? Is it just…lieutenant?”

“No,” Simon admits. “Sometimes she says ‘Ghost.’”

“Thought you were trying to make her a wife,” heckles Johnny. “Wear your mask around her too?”

“Only when others are around,” states Simon flatly. “She’s seen my face.”

“And she hasn’t bolted?”

“Piss off.”

“You need to talk to her, mate,” advises Kyle. “Ask her about herself. Make an effort to know her.” Simon opens his mouth, a retort forming on his tongue, but Kyle holds up his hand. “And don’t fucking say you did because you didn’t.”

“Don’t make me pull rank, Garrick.”

“I already know what you’re thinking. The only shit you know about her comes from her fucking files. Reading a dossier doesn’t cut it. She’s a human being. Not a target.”

Kyle is right. He is right and it’s fucking infuriating. Simon’s lack of success is a sore spot, sure, but he doesn’t need to be smacked over the head with it.

“Thought you’d give me more credit than that.”

“And I don’t think you’re giving her enough,” counters Gaz. “Take her out on a proper date. Have a deep, meaningful conversation with her. Think it’s clear by the skull face,” and Kyle gestures with an open hand in front of his own, “that you’re a scary fucker who can and will protect those he cares about. No one is questioning that.”

Kyle reaches for the bottle, topping off Simon’s bourbon. Simon considers the dark liquid—and his next move. He has three—no—less than. Maybe a day. Perhaps two. Not nearly long enough to convince you, to bring you over to his side completely.

Johnny nods. “And if you can’t win her over with your stunning personality—”

“Here we fucking go,” mutters Simon.

“Could win her over with your huge—”

The last word is silenced as Kyle slaps his hand over Johnny’s mouth. Soap cocks an eyebrow and grasps Gaz’s wrist, playfully shoving him away. “Was going to say heart.”

“Right,” chuckles Kyle. “What about you, Soap? Manage to scrounge up some tail without his help.” He gestures with a thumb at Simon.

The two men start to jokingly bicker, giving one another shit over who is getting their dick wet more often. Simon only cuts in to goad, to poke at them, but mostly to fire Johnny up until he’s mouthing off in an accent so thick, not even his kin would be able to understand him.

This is the normal he knows. It’s what he clings to. There are no more walks along the streets of Manchester. No commutes into London. No trips north to the Scottish Highlands. The homeland is gone, the major cities all craters or shattered from constant bombardment. Habitable, thankfully, but it’ll take generations to return it to a fraction of what it used to be.

Home is now wherever one can make it. Home, for the moment, is this Safe Zone. His current posting. This mission might be temporarily moving him elsewhere, but it’s possible that different orders can come in after their time is up in Safe Zone Thirty. That might tear him away from you forever, unless he includes transfer referrals with your name on them. They’ll accept it, as long as you agree.

Long after the bourbon is gone, and Simon finishes his last cigarette, the three of them call it a night. A trio, meandering down the street, laughing as Johnny poorly sings every obscure drinking ballad he knows. Kyle joins in, on tune but spouting complete gibberish. The cheerful mood wanes as they approach your building. It’s a stark reminder of tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that.

Simon pauses at the entry door, knowing that the alcohol is telling him to go to you, rather than his fucking brain. If Johnny and Kyle weren’t here, he’d listen to that buzz, climb those stairs, knock on your door regardless of the fact that it’s the middle of the fucking night. Good decisions are never made while pissed on shitty, old bourbon.

Every step is agony, every forward movement like a barrage of daggers. Time is limited. Not only is Simon fucking leaving in three days, but your probationary period is up tomorrow. You’ll start your move out of military housing and into civilian life. You won’t be near Simon anymore, at least, not on a regular basis. His job requires him to be close to his work, but he’s a civilian, too, and he has his own designated space out amongst the plain clothes.

Not that you know that. Or that he tells people about it.

And at the ass-crack of dawn, Simon is standing at your front door, still a little buzzed and bleary-eyed from the bourbon, itching for a cigarette that isn’t there.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters to himself, rubbing his forehead.

There’s no way you’re up and about, but he’s already here. He can at least try.

A deep breath in. Raised fist. Skin meeting treated wood.

“Come in!”

Simon steps back, surprised that you even answer, and so quickly. Hesitantly, he places his hand on the doorknob. Giving it a gentle testing twist, the brass surrenders to him.

“Fucking unbelievable,” he murmurs, astounded by your lack of self-preservation. Anyone could walk in if they wanted to. Did you leave it unlocked all night?

As the door swings shut behind him, Simons makes sure the deadbolt is in place.

“Lieutenant!” you exclaim, glancing up from the spread of papers in front of you. Kneeling next to the coffee table by the worn sofa, your startled expression clearly leans into flustered frustration. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“It’s your last day,” states Simon. “On probation. Thought I’d come by. Offer my help.” The relief is palpable, sliding off of you as the tension in your shoulders dissipates. “And it’s Simon. You don’t need to use my rank to address me. That’s for Captain Price when he’s about to chew my ass out.”

“Oh,” you say, clipped. “Um. Yes. Thank you. Simon. I—” You glance down at the chaotic spread before you. “It’s just…a lot. And I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“Want me to go?”

“No,” you say quickly. “Sorry. That wasn’t meant to be dismissive. Or that I don’t want you here. I’m…”

“Overwhelmed?” finishes Simon.

You incline your head, sheepish.

Simon approaches the sofa, sinking down on the edge of the nearest cushion. “How can I help?” he gently murmurs, extending his hand to receive some of the paperwork. You pick something out from the pile and hand it to him.

“I don’t understand the money system that isn’t a money system but looks like a money system that is also a bartering system but also—"

“Slow down, dove,” he soothes, resting his hand on the back of your neck, thumb rubbing the space between where the tension is returning. “Set that aside. Start with something else.” As he smooths slow circles into your muscles, you lean into his touch, breathing deeply. “You have the address for your new place?”

A silly question. A diversion. Because Simon already knows. He made sure to pick it out, and Price made it happen.

“Yes,” you breathe, tone lighter. “It’s near the library, thankfully. Overlooks the park. Hannah came with me yesterday. To take a look.”

“You like it?” asks Simon, still rubbing your shoulder muscle.

The smile you give him is lovely and honey-drenched. “Much better than this. Lots of natural light. It’s a bit small, but it’s also just me. I can make it work.” You tilt your head back to look up at him. “And waking up to a park every day will be a nice change.”

That’s on purpose, love.

Simon might be a selfish asshole, but he listens. Screaming in his face also did the trick. He took you from your home, and while he can’t deliver you back to your porch hammock or garden outside your bedroom window, he can certainly give you something similar.

“You like the area?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Yes. It’s lovely.”

“Good.” Simon switches to your other shoulder. You sigh with contentment, and Simon ignores the fact that all the blood in his body is rushing toward his dick. “Did they give you all your proper identification?”

Under his touch, the muscles tighten.

“I honestly have no idea.” You lean forward and out of Simon’s grip. Shuffling through some of the papers, you present Simon with a small, thin, and rectangular shaped card. “This?”

“Yes,” confirms Simon. “Always keep that with you. It’s what identifies you, and it’s also how you can buy things.”

“But there isn’t any money. No currency.” You turn back to look at him. “Charles sent over,” you gesture at the mess, “packets of information and none of it makes any sense.”

“You’re right. There isn’t any paper money. No electronic bank accounts. That’s all been dissolved.”

“So how do I buy things?”

Explaining things in a condensed context but with enough clarity to communicate comprehension isn’t Simon’s strongest trait. He likes few words. Directness. Bluntness. Quickness. He has plenty of patience but sometimes it’s selective.

Simon taps the bronze circle on your identification card. “Everyone has a circle. Different colors mean different things.”

You frown. “This is already sounding a lot like something else.”

“It’s an allowance…of sorts,” reassures Simon. “Everyone receives the same baseline resources. Depending on what you do, you’re given a certain amount of…points. In your free hours, you can use them how you like.”

“So, it’s a caste system.”

Simon frowns. “No.”

“See,” you state matter-of-factly. “This is why I’m not getting it.”

He reaches into his pocket for his wallet. “If it were a caste system, everyone would be stagnant. No social mobility.” Finding his identification card, Simon presents the gold circle on his. “The circles are like a salary.”

Your gaze narrows slightly. “Instead of physical currency it’s a point system? You do this job and you get paid a certain number of points.”

“Exactly, dove.”

You stare at him a moment before you speak. “That’s stupid.”

Simon shrugs. “Didn’t make the decision.”

You playfully stick your tongue out at him, and Simon smiles, imitating the gesture right back at you. Your mouth forms into pure sunshine. Simon wants to bottle it. Save it for a rainy day.

“They give you a pickup schedule for your provisions?” asks Simon.

“For my what?”

“Food. Hygiene products. Basic necessities.” You blink, saying nothing. Simon leans forward and gently picks up the different papers and stapled packets they gave you. “Everyone receives them. Standard shit to keep you alive.”

Your lips slightly part, confusion setting in. A bolt of anger rises, not with you, but with Charles and his clear lack of preparation. The advisor they assign to people coming in from the outside is supposed to go over all of this in detail. They should be guiding you, teaching you, and if they’re too busy, there are entire fucking classes he could put you in. Either Charles doesn’t give a shit, or he’s terrible at his fucking job.

Simon rubs the back of his head. “You’re single. Living alone. Healthy. They’ll give you the standard. Nothing extra.”

“Like rations?”

He shrugs. “No. Equitable distribution. You don’t need calcium supplements like granny does. But she won’t need menstrual products like you will.”

“Oh,” you say quickly, glancing away to fidget with the edge of the table. “Then,” you say tentatively, “what are the points for if I’m provided the basics?”

“The extra,” answers Simon. “For you to go see a movie. Grab a coffee on your way to work. Go for drinks with Hannah and Eloise.”

“That—I can do that?”

Simon nods. “The Safe Zones weren’t built from nothing. They’re former cities. Converted to fit the needs of the present.”

You laugh like you can’t quite believe it. “But how? I—I thought…I thought the world was so much worse than all this. Pockets of nuclear wasteland. Scorched earth. Acid rain. Just…devastation.”

Simon shifts closer, the side of his thigh brushing against your shoulder. The contact is electric—a slice of sharpened metal that cuts cleanly. While your closeness sends a ripple of heat through his body, there are more pressing matters. Like the fact that don’t know anything, that you are truly in the dark. Simon is angry for you, that such things were kept secret. He’s not aware of what life was like for you before he took you, but did your community lie? Did they omit?

And then Charles. Your advisor clearly ignored every single one of his job requirements in order to be a lazy sack of shit. While Simon would love to sit here and walk through every little detail, there wouldn’t be enough time, and it would overwhelm you. Already, the tension is setting in again. Panic is there, too, hiding beneath but threatening to emerge.

What you need is a distraction. An escape.

You fidget with your sleeve, gaze averted. “I’m not sure if Charles sent anything about a provisions schedule.”

Leaning forward, Simon grabs a small stack of papers and flips through it.

There’s information about emergency services. The nearest hospital and walk-in clinics. A map of the bus and streetcar systems.

“Here,” he says, finding the correct one. “Looks like you have a form to fill out.”

“Fuck,” you groan, elongating the vowel. Your head tips back, resting against the sofa cushion next to his knee, hands over your face. With a heavy sigh, your hands fall away, gaze pointed upward at the ceiling. “I still need to pack.”

“I’ll handle it,” states Simon simply, returning the papers to the table.

“You don’t need to do that,” you insist.

Placing your hand on his thigh, you squeeze, and that one touch nearly sends him over the edge, diving into dark harbors where there is no anchor.

“S’all right, dove. Want to.” Simon reaches out and gently grasps your chin, tilting your face upward. Your lips part. An inhale. A shiver. Simon nearly moans. Nearly closes the distance. “Remember that outdoor market you saw on your first day?”

Your eyes widen, becoming eager. “Yes!”

“Want to go? Grab breakfast? Look around?”

With a delighted squeal, you throw your arms around his neck. The added weight startles him. Instinct ensnares him. Seizing your hips, Simon guides you into his lap, keeping you close to prevent you from taking him down to the floor with your happiness.

“That a ‘yes,’ dove?” he asks with a tease, tapping the tip of your nose.

You’re all flustered softness, a stark departure from your stubborn tongue and fiery gaze. Both suit you. Both are attractive.

“Can we go now?”

You’re asking permission, seeking his direction, and Simon nearly groans over this revelation. There is no power struggle here, no back-and-forth, no sharpened daggers to draw first blood. You’re waiting for him to lead, and to him, this is but a small fracture in the wall you’ve built around yourself.

“Right now,” he affirms.

Your eagerness carries in every step. From the flat to the open market, you’re bouncing on your toes, nearly coming off the ground. As the two of you approach the entrance, the amount of people thickens. You inch close to him, brushing up against the side of his arm. Simon reaches out to tuck you against him, and there is no resistance. You sink into him, placing your hand on his back, fingers lightly curled to anchor yourself. Sweet victory sings within him—a golden shine of pleasure. Not a single person here will question whether or not you belong to him. There is too much closeness, too much familiarity to believe otherwise.

Simon savors it as he guides you into the throng, relishing the way your eyes widen. Every booth and vendor have something different to offer. It’s…normal, and whenever Simon comes, he’s temporality transported back to Manchester during a market day or festival. Humanity isn’t gone. Not completely. There is still community—a sense of peace.

“Am I allowed to buy things?” you ask tentatively as you come to a stop at a booth selling canvas paintings.

“You bring your identification card?” You nod. “Then yes.”

“But how does it work?”

Simon’s gaze roams over the various paintings. “Which one caught your eye?”

You take a moment. “That one,” you murmur, pointing at a particular piece with various strokes of blue in different shades, speckled with white and gold. It reminds Simon of the ocean.

Reaching into his pocket, Simon withdraws his wallet. “I’ll take this one,” he says to the grey-haired woman puttering about inside the tent.

Her head lifts, a soft smile forming on her face. “Absolutely.” She retrieves the painting and sets sit down on a small folding table.

Simon turns his head to address you. “See that ledger there? She’ll write my name down and how much I spent at her stall.” He holds out his card and she takes it, pencil poised to write.

“And where does it go, exactly?” you ask, leaning forward slightly to watch the woman write.

“I have to send the ledger off at the end of the week,” the woman answers for him. “People at desks handle the rest.”

“The government tracks every purchase?” you question with disdain. “Sounds like overreach.”

“They’re not tracking what it is. Just how much.”

The woman glances up. “Are you new?” she asks, addressing you.

“Yes,” you answer slowly. “I came from…outside the wall.”

Her smile widens. “Welcome!” Picking up the painting, she holds it out to you. “You can have this one on the house.”

“Oh, no,” you laugh. “We can’t.”

“Nonsense. You’re new. I know you don’t have much. Take it.” She turns to Simon. “I’ll erase your name. Enjoy.”

Simon inclines his head, and ushers you away.

“I still don’t entirely understand,” you murmur, clutching the painting to your chest. “What prevents people from buying up everything?”

“Nothing,” shrugs Simon. “But expect some visitors.”

“Police?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s not very helpful, Lieutenant.”

“Told you to call me Simon.”

You come to a stop, glancing over your shoulder at him. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he reassures. “And going over your limit here and there won’t penalize you. It’s for people overconsuming. Being greedy. Wasting resources for a hit of dopamine.”

This time you nod. “That makes sense.”

“Hungry?” asks Simon, shifting the conversation elsewhere.

With another nod of agreement, Simon steers you toward the food. After stopping at each stall just so you can read the menus, the two of you finally circle back to a small bakery stand for warm blueberry coffee cake and a sausage roll.

The greasy meat melts on Simon’s tongue, chasing away the lingering aftereffects of last night’s excursion, but the real pleasure is watching you enjoy your food. Every bite is followed by a moan or a pleased sigh. Under the shade of a tree, your shoulders wiggle each time you go in for another fork-full.

When you’re done, the two of you head off again, meandering through the crowd, lingering to look at everything, stopping to listen to the live music. You’re perfectly content, swaying in the sunshine, and Simon has never been happier.

This could be us. This could be our normal.

But he’s not going to push. He’ll simply enjoy, admiring you as you find joy in the moment.

Your happiness is his happiness. Your pleasure is his pleasure.

This is what Kyle meant. To exist and be present. To offer you something other than protection and security.

But will you make me happy, is what you said to him in response to that offer. Is this what you meant? Even if it’s only a fraction of what you’re imagining. Is it enough to open the door? To allow him in?

“Oh my God!” you exclaim, releasing Simon’s hand to rush over to a booth overflowing with flowers and plants.

For a moment, you disappear amongst the greenery and color. Simon approaches slowly, frowning as he seeks you.

But then your head pops up with a massive smile on your face. “I can’t believe they have them!” You disappear again, only for Simon to find you on your knees before a spread of daisy-like flowers with a dark, cone-shaped disk in the middle. The stems are fuzzy, and while most of them are yellow, there are a few clusters in pale purple and pink.

“These were everywhere back home,” you sigh as Simon comes to a stop beside you. “Zac and his group went out on a supply run. Came back with a bunch of flower seeds and dug up wildflowers. No one knew if any would make it. But these,” you gesture toward the flowers, “survived. They were in everyone’s garden. Had a whole bunch right outside my bedroom window.”

They remind you of home. And that is enough of a reason.

Simon turns, seeking the owner of the stall. “I’ll take these.”

The man Simon addresses perks up at the sound of his voice. “They come in—”

“All of them,” interrupts Simon.

The man gawks, almost frozen to the spot. “All—all of them?”

He doubts, and that’s expected. Simon is hoarding a singular item for himself, but he could give a shit. This is for you, and he has the authority to do so.

Without speaking, Simon shows the stall’s owner the gold circle on his identification card. Like ice melting under the sun, the man moves to action. “Absolutely, sir.”

“Can you have someone deliver them?”

“Certainly.”

You’re still on your knees, mouth open in disbelief. There is a rebuttal forming. Simon can see it in your body language. But the man is already taking Simon’s information, addressing a younger man, likely his son, about moving the flowers.

As they move away to grab gloves, you stand abruptly, rushing up to Simon. “That’s too much,” you insist with a whisper. “You said—”

“I can. And I did.”

You swallow. Lick your lips. The surprise turns to elation. “Thank you,” you murmur, your eyes becoming watery. “I love them.”

“Grab a few for the walk,” urges Simon.

With flowers in hand—called coneflowers as you so happily inform him—the two of continue walking around the market, exploring every corner and stall. Morning becomes afternoon, and when you yawn, Simon takes you home.

“Oh—shit,” you laugh, placing your hand over your mouth as the you enter your flat.

The flowers were delivered while the two of you were still out, and Simon inwardly preens over it. The things are fucking everywhere, even in the bedroom.

“Thank you. Again,” you murmur, reaching for him.

Simon expects a small touch, but you go for his hand, squeezing gently. And you don’t let go. You step closer. Closer. There is silence, and yet Simon’s heart hammers, nearly buzzing in his ears as you cozy up to him. He is unable to reply—unable to gloat. This intimacy is different, and he’d hate to break the illusion.

Your voice is a ghost, hardly audible over his thudding heart. “Can I ask you something, Simon?”

His reply is automatic. “Course, dove.”

“When—” You pause. Lick your lips. Gather your courage. “Before. When we—” Another pause. You place your free hand between your breasts, rubbing slightly in nervousness. “Would you have pulled out? If I had asked?”

Before. Before.

When Simon had you spread wide and under him, your tongue lashing his heart with venom all while you still begged for him. Would he have pulled out? Would he have honored that if you asked?

“No.”

“And now?” you continue, moving your hand to his chest, palm flattening.

Simon inhales deeply, pressing into your touch. Fingers find skin and then he’s cradling the side of your face, thumb resting just below the curve of your bottom lip. The truth is best, and like he’s told you time and time again, he doesn’t lie.

“Answers the same,” and it ends on a possessive growl. “I want all of you.” Simon tightens his grip, pulls you in close. “That includes the right to come inside you.”

“You think that’s romantic?” you ask, but there’s no snark in it—no bite.

“No,” replies Simon. “But it’s the truth. It’s how I feel.”

Such a confession should be a sin.

But you have one of your own.

“I don’t think I would have cared.” Your voice is still so soft. So…gentle. “In the moment.”

“And now?” echoes Simon, needing you to answer, to give him any confirmation of a possible future.

Your gaze shifts upward, meeting his. “Maybe.”

There. A subtle shift. Simon notices the desire, and the hesitation. You do want him, but there is a barrier. A separation. There is more that you need. Perhaps reassurance, or a promise.

“I’m leaving for a while,” is all he says.

There is no point in hiding what’s coming, and he’d rather tell you now than right before he goes.

“You’re leaving?” you exhale. “You—but you just came home. You can’t—” But you catch yourself, shutting off that final word as if you’ve suddenly realized what you were about to say.

“I have to go,” he says for you. “It’s my job.”

Your hand on his chest lowers. Shifts to his waist. Fingers gripping his shirt. “How long?”

This is the part he hates the most.

“Could be a week or two. Could be a few months.”

“A few months?”

“We don’t know what we’re heading into.”

You shake your head. “Do you know where?”

“There’s unrest happening. A Safe Zone is under siege.”

“You’re heading into a warzone,” you state solemnly.

Simon releases your hand, only to wrap his arms around your waist. “Afraid so, dove.”

He hates this nervousness—this worry that clings to you. The attention and concern for him is confirmation that you care, but the downturned mouth needs to go.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” you whisper, and Simon holds you tighter.

Asking might be dangerous. You may reject him. If you do, that’s Simon’s final chance slipping away. But you might say ‘yes.’ You might let him in.

“I never finished,” he murmurs.

You arch an eyebrow. Laugh. “That’s not a question.”

Oh, dove. It is.

“Soap cut it short. Been long enough that I’ve forgotten what you taste like.”

Simon’s head dips, closing the distance until the tip of his nose brushes against your cheek. Yet you do not flee. There is no snapping reply, no sharpened spite to lash his veins. Every flutter of your eyelashes and subtle shift of your body indicates that you’re not opposed to it. And when you press into him, your lips parting slightly, hope surges within him, seizing bone and blood until he’s buzzing.

“That’s what you want.”

“It is,” he confirms.

Risk can have its reward, and Simon does just that. He moves in, lips hovering just shy of your own, your breath warm and panting against his skin. Your lids grow heavy, and with a groan, Simon grasps the nape of your neck, arching it to tilt your head back.

No asking. No seeking consent. Just his lips finding yours, wanting to be accepted but knowing rejection is the likely outcome.

But you, the sweet thing that you are, do not push him away.

The little moan you make as you grasp him in desperation is all the answer he needs.

515 notes · View notes

junojoel · 2 months ago

Text

Woman Inherits the Earth

Ellie Williams x fem!Reader, 6.6k

Summary: You came to Jurassic World for industry connections, a killer CV, and maybe a LinkedIn flex. You didn’t expect to fall for the raptor girl.

Warnings: dinosaurs (scary (not really)) and fluff

this came to me in a fucking vision. i love jurassic park so much and i love a nerdy dinosaur girl even more. HAPPY FUCKING PRIDE MONTH.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

You’d never seen trees this green.

Even from the window of the ferry, long before the first monorail glided into view, Isla Nublar looked like it had been pulled from a storybook. Unreal and mythical, lush in a way that didn’t seem modern. Like you’d time-travelled, or stepped into a planet no one had touched yet.

But of course, they had touched it. Touched, branded, monetised.

The first thing you saw when you stepped off the dock was a smile. Big, toothy, perfect. The kind that came with corporate training and a contract. The greeter handed you a cold drink and a pamphlet with a map of the island, the Jurassic World logo shimmered in glossy blue foil.

“Welcome to paradise,” they chirped.

You smiled back, polite, but your fingers clenched just a little too tight around the strap of your bag.

This wasn’t what you’d imagined when you applied for the communications internship. You thought you’d be documenting field conservation work. Real science. Camera in one hand, clipboard in the other, boots deep in the mud beside palaeobotanists and wildlife biologists.

Instead, it came with air conditioning, swipe access, and a smoothie bar. Your badge still felt surreal in your hand, no matter how many times you’d read the word COMMUNICATIONS next to your name.

You slung your bag over your shoulder and headed toward the staff gate, trying not to feel like an imposter. A monorail train whirred overhead, casting a brief shadow across the sun-bleached pavement. In the distance, a long-necked sauropod lifted its head above the treetops, and a group of tourists shrieked in delight.

It felt like a zoo.

“You lost?” came a voice from behind you, dry and amused. You turned. She stood with one hip cocked and a clipboard tucked under her arm, chewing the end of a pen which was leaving ink on her lip. Her uniform shirt was rumpled, sleeves rolled up, collar open like it’d been yanked loose. Her name badge was clipped to a carabiner on her belt, hanging with a mix of keys and decorative chains.

ELLIE WILLIAMS RAPTORS

A velociraptor had been doodled beside her name, the first you’d ever seen with sunglasses on. You glanced up at her, blinking once. “Uh, yeah,” you admitted. “Trying to find Admin.”

“Figures.” She jerked her chin toward the path curving behind the guest welcome pavilion. “You’re going the wrong way. That’s the tourist route and you want the staff tram.”

You followed her gesture. “Thanks.”

Ellie took a few steps down the path, then paused and turned to look over her shoulder. “You coming or what?”

You scrambled to follow her, jogging a few steps to catch up.

It was quieter here, just beyond the sound radius of the tour groups and audio guides. Jungle air hung thick and damp, fragrant with wildflowers. You could hear insects buzzing, cicadas thrumming like a heartbeat.

“Comms intern?” she asked eventually, as you both ducked under a low branch.

“Yeah, PR.”

Ellie snorted. “That’s cute.”

You looked at her, frowning. “You think that’s funny?”

“I think cloning ancient apex predators to entertain tourists and using PR to make it seem ethical is kind of hilarious.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So why do you work here?”

She stopped walking to turn to face you.

“Because they’re not monsters,” she said simply. “And someone needs to be here who sees them that way.”

Her voice changed when she said it. You saw the passion then—not just behind her eyes, but in the way she spoke. Devout, almost. She didn’t talk about dinosaurs like exhibits, she talked about them like people talked about art, or music, or something ancient and breathtaking and alive. She started walking again, but slower this time, allowing you to catch up.

“I’ve been obsessed with them since I was eight,” she said, almost absently. “Used to sleep with an encyclopaedia under my pillow. Drew feathers on every T Rex I saw in books and got in trouble in school for correcting my science teacher.”

You laughed. “Sounds familiar. I had an entire binder dedicated to Stegosaurus migration.”

Ellie looked at you sidelong. “You know they’re not actually that dumb, right? Their brain-to-body ratio is small, yeah, but that doesn’t mean they were stupid.”

“You’re preaching to the choir.”

Her smile—just for a second—was radiant.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The staff dorms were nestled behind a canopy of flowering trees, shaded and still. Just far enough from the bustle of the park to feel like their own little ecosystem. Your room was on the top floor of Dorm C, down a quiet corridor that smelled like lemon cleaner and warm pine. No roommates, just you and the view—a forest stretching endlessly beyond your window. Ellie had walked you there herself your first afternoon, pointing out the vending machine that never worked and the communal washer that always overflowed. She stood in the doorway while you unlocked the door, arms crossed, a little smirk on her face when you looked around and said, “Not bad.”

She’d only said, “You’ll get sick of the crickets,” and then wandered off.

That next morning, you reported to the marketing branch’s main office. The main conference room was glass-walled and aggressively minimalist. Every surface gleamed and succulents lined the windowsill in matching white marble pots.

Inside, women in sleek neutrals sat around a long matte-black table, each one with a tablet or stylus in hand. No one looked particularly stressed. They didn’t speak much, just tapped and swiped in perfect silence, like synchronised swimmers in Lululemon. Their hair was glossy, their nails minimalist. Someone sipped a matcha from a branded Jurassic World cup that probably cost more than your entire lunch budget for the week.

You lingered just outside the doorway, unsure if knocking was too formal or if speaking would ruin the mood. You opted for clearing your throat lightly.

“Hi,” you offered. “Marketing intern. Here for assignment placement?”

A woman near the head of the table looked up. She wore a navy linen suit that probably had a brand name you hadn’t heard of and her gold-rimmed glasses caught the overhead light. Her name badge said AUBREY in minimalist font, with the word STRATEGY underneath it. No drawings like Ellie’s.

“Oh, right,” she said, her voice creamy like the oat milk in her latte. “You’re the PR girl?”

You nodded, already regretting whatever energy you were bringing into this room. You felt too loud.

“Well,” Aubrey said, turning her tablet with a soft tap of manicured nails, “good news and bad news.”

You resisted the urge to sigh. Of course there was bad news. There was always bad news.

“The bad news is: you’re not in this building often.”

Of course not. You didn’t fit in here anyway. These women looked like they did Pilates before and after work. Like they carried moon water in their tote bags and gave each other skincare advice. You doubted any of them had ever gotten dirt under their nails, much less had a real conversation with a field biologist.

Aubrey gave a pleasant, symmetrical smile. “The good news is: you’ve been assigned to our highest-profile initiative.” A few swipes, and your personnel card floated across the screen like she manifested it. Your photo was awkward.

“We’re launching a new engagement campaign—Humans of Jurassic World. Emotional branding with candid moments with our top experts.”

You tried to picture the slide deck that had birthed that phrase. Probably beige, with animated transitions from Canva. You imagined the words relatability and authenticity in bold, overlaid on a stock photo of a tranquil-looking intern smiling at a stegosaurus.

“We want content that connects,” Aubrey continued. “Emotion-forward, but not messy.”

God forbid it ever be messy.

She tapped your card into a new category. “You’ll be shadowing Ellie Williams.”

Your mouth opened before you could catch it. “The… raptor girl?”

Aubrey blinked, her expression unchanged but visibly cooling by half a degree. “She prefers animal behaviourist,” she said. “And I’d watch your tone.”

You nodded, swallowing the embarrassment. Noted. No jokes. No personality, either, apparently. Not here.

“She’s a little...feisty and... temperamental,” Aubrey added, delicately. “But she’s one of our key experts. The higher-ups want her front and centre.”

You couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or a warning.

So, the highest-profile assignment on the island… and they were sending you into a paddock where you might get bitten. And there’ll be raptors there, too.

You gave a polite smile, even as your stomach folded itself neatly in half.

“Great,” you said.

Because what else could you say?

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

That afternoon, Ellie knocked and let herself into your dorm room like it was nothing.

“Hey,” she said, stepping inside without waiting. “I was… in the area.”

You turned from your half-folded laundry on the bed, one eyebrow raised. “This area?”

She leaned in the doorway, grinning like a cat in a sunbeam. “Okay, fine. I came to see if you had a clean towel. Mine’s still soaked from yesterday, and I figured you’re probably the organised type. Please, I need to dry my hair.”

“You could’ve asked literally anyone else on the floor.”

“Yeah,” Ellie said, shrugging. “But I didn’t want to.”

Your stomach fluttered. Weird. Probably nervous that she’d found out you were assigned to her and she’d come to bite your head off about it. Temperamental, remember.

You wordlessly walked to your wardrobe and tossed her one of the folded ones from the top shelf. She caught it with both hands, smiling with her eyes more than her mouth.

“Smells like citrus,” she said, lifting it to her face.

“Laundry sheet. Sorry if it’s too floral for your whole field-biology aesthetic.”

Ellie chuckled and stepped further inside, this time with purpose. “Please, I’ve smelled worse.”

You laughed and turned back to your laundry, only half paying attention as you folded a clean shirt, but you were acutely aware of the sound of boots thudding to the floor, of fabric rustling behind you. When you finally looked again, Ellie had stripped off her overshirt, now dressed in just a black tank that clung to the water she was unable to dry off. You noticed a patch of silvery scar tissue near her shoulder blade, like something long and narrow had raked across her.

You caught yourself looking too long and turned quickly back to your duffel bag.

Ellie noticed. Of course she did.

“They’re not from the raptors,” she said casually. “One’s from a thorn bush. The other one’s from a juvenile ankylosaur who didn’t like being sedated.”

You turned back, smiling faintly. “Is that better or worse?”

“Depends on your insurance.”

Her right forearm bore a black fern, curling in a slow spiral up her skin. A small moth nestled in the roots, wings outstretched like it had just landed to rest there. The lines were fresh, almost glossy in the dorm light.

Her other tattoo sat high on her left arm, above the curve of her bicep. It was older, slightly faded, but still striking: a raptor skull, drawn in precise anatomical detail, the kind you’d see in a museum display. Ferns and bones looped around it in a circular crown, delicate and wild at once.

“The moth one’s new.”

You cleared your throat. “Yeah?”

“Got it after I transferred out here. It’s a death’s-head. Some cultures say it’s bad luck.”

“Do you believe that?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I like it. That’s enough, right?”

You nodded, then gestured toward her shoulder. “What about that one?”

Ellie looked down at the raptor skull, smiling like it was an inside joke. “I got it when I was sixteen. Had to lie about my age.”

You laughed, but the sound caught in your throat. She was still close—too close, maybe—and the way she stood, so casual and self-assured, made something twist in your chest.

You smiled faintly, folding another shirt. “Hey,” you said after a moment, trying to keep your voice even. “I, uh—found out where I’m placed today.”

Ellie paused, mid-pat of her face with the towel. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” You swallowed. “Marketing’s doing some new campaign—Humans of Jurassic World or whatever. They’re assigning interns to departments for storytelling and engagement.”

Ellie raised a brow, sceptical. “Sounds fake.”

“It does,” you agreed. “But apparently I’m shadowing someone from the Raptor Program.”

Ellie blinked, then narrowed her eyes a little. “Wait. Me?”

“Yeah. Aubrey said you’re temperamental,” you added, smirking.

Ellie grinned, a little wild. “Temperamental’s just code for doesn’t suffer fools.”

You laughed. “Guess I’m in trouble.”

She studied you for a moment. “Nah. You look like you might surprise me.”

Your fingers brushed a fold in the laundry you weren’t folding anymore. “You could’ve just said you wanted to hang out.”

She tilted her head, voice low. “Would that’ve worked?”

“Maybe,” you said. “Next time, try it and see.”

Ellie stepped back toward the door but didn’t open it right away. She lingered, fingers brushing the frame.

“I like your room,” she said. “It suits you.”

“Is that your way of asking if you can come by again?”

“Not asking,” she said, grinning as she slipped out. “Just warning you.”

And with that, she was gone.

But your room still smelled faintly of sun and citrus and Ellie.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

You woke to the sound of your alarm playing the Jurassic World theme in low-fi synth—a joke you’d set up on your first night, which now felt vaguely threatening at 5:45 a.m.

Through the open window, the jungle was still waking up. The air was thick with dew, soft birdsong trilled between branches, and far off in the distance, something massive made a low groaning sound— Good Morning.

Your hands moved through routine before your brain caught up: quick shower, camera bag over your shoulder, badge clipped, shoes already damp from the dew on the steps as you headed out into the humidity of early morning.

Ellie had said to meet her at the raptor supply shed by 6:30. You arrived at 6:25 and she was already there, sitting cross-legged on top of a crate, sipping coffee from a dented thermos and picking grass off of her cargo pants. Her hair was tied back in a loose knot, her boots unlaced. Her face lit up when she saw you, and your stomach betrayed you with a little flip.

“You’re late,” she teased, hopping down.

You raised a brow. “I’m early.”

“I know,” she said, grinning as she handed you a cup. “But I wanted to say it. I was here at 5:45.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Also, the system flagged a motion trip around four. False alarm. Bird or something.”

You took a sip—strong, a little burnt. “God bless you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Ellie said, hopping off the crate. “You’re on raptor duty today.”

You blinked. “I thought I was just filming?”

“You are,” she said, already walking toward the gate. “You’re filming me and I’m working, so raptor duty.”

The raptor enclosure was larger than it looked on the map. Part jungle, part reinforced paddock, part bunker. The outer gate opened into a winding path lined with reinforced steel and topped with electric fencing.

Ellie moved through it like she was part of it—radio clipped to her belt, keys jangling from a carabiner, hands already gloved as she scanned a tablet for sensor data.

"You’re not gonna see this on the tours,” she said. “These girls don’t perform.”

Three of them, each moving with uncanny precision as they darted between the trees. One lifted her head, her gold eyes scanning the tree line. The other two circled near a feeding station. You felt a pulse of adrenaline as one of them lifted its snout and made direct eye contact.

“They’re watching us,” you whispered.

“They always are,” Ellie said.

The outer gate hissed open with a groan. Another handler pushed a steel cart in—two heavy haunches of meat, marked and logged. The scent hit immediately, the girls went still.

“That’s Jinx,” Ellie said. “Leader.”

“She doesn’t look aggressive.”

“She’s not. She’s calculating.”

You watched Jinx tilt her head, just slightly, then the others followed. Ellie nodded once, like she understood something no one else could hear.

“She knows you,” you said quietly.

Ellie’s mouth curved.

You blinked. “Imprint?”

“She was too old to imprint properly. But yeah. Something like that.”

“Is that… safe?”

Ellie shrugged. “Nothing here’s really safe.”

Then she glanced sideways. “But she’s never come for me. Not once.”

The cart was wheeled back out. The gates hissed closed behind the handler. The girls returned to the trees slowly.

“They’re amazing,” you breathed.

“They’re misunderstood,” Ellie said. “Everyone thinks they’re monsters.”

You turned to her. “Why do you think that is?”

She paused. “Because they’re smart. People don’t like being outsmarted, especially if who they’re being outsmarted by isn’t human.”

There was a long moment of silence between you, broken only by the whir of a distant drone circling above the canopy. Ellie leaned her weight on one hip, glancing down at her arm where her raptor skull tattoo peeked out from under her tank top.

Unfortunately, Ellie’s morning raptor routine was not fit for public consumption.

She barked into radios, swore when a feeding gate jammed, wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her glove. She talked to the raptors and they responded in a way with soft huffs and curious clicks.

You’d filmed interviews before. Sat through seminars, cut and edited dozens of high-gloss campaign reels for campus groups and charity drives. But this wasn’t that. Ellie Williams didn’t have a camera version of herself. There was just Ellie.

That meant she also had no interest in being directed.

“I don’t want to do the influencer crap,” she had said. “No offense.”

“Some offense taken.” You said, crouched beside a control panel, adjusting your camera. “Let’s try something for TikTok. Just, like, say your name and job? Maybe give a fun fact about the raptors?”

Ellie squinted at the lens like it had personally offended her. “Why would I do that?”

You blinked. “Because it’s part of the job?”

She turned toward the paddock instead, shielding her eyes to scan the treeline. “Fun fact: their eye sockets are larger than yours. Next question.”

You huffed. “Ellie.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “What?”

“You’re making this hard.”

Her mouth quirked. “I thought you PR types liked a challenge.”

You pointed the lens at her anyway, just to spite her. “Fine. I’ll work with what I’ve got.”

“If I catch you filming my ass without permission, I will feed you to them.”

Later, when she took a break in the shade of the fence wall, you passed her the water bottle from your bag.

“Don’t say I never give you anything,” you said.

She took it, eyeing you with mock suspicion. “You poison it?”

“Tempting.”

She drank anyway.

You sat beside her, back against the warm concrete. The raptor sounds faded behind you.

“Hey,” you said. “You’re really good with them.”

Ellie looked away, squinting at the sun breaking through the canopy.

“They’re predictable,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“They don’t lie. They don’t fake anything. If they like you, they show you. If they don’t… well. You find out fast.”

You nodded slowly. “Sounds refreshing.”

“People,” Ellie said, almost absently, “aren’t like that.”

You studied her profile—sharp jaw, sunburnt nose.

“No,” you said softly. “They’re not.”

For a moment, she looked at you like she wanted to say something else. Instead, she stood.

“Come on,” she said. “We’re not done.”

The juveniles—the babies, as she called them—were only slightly less terrifying than the adults. Half-sized, sleek, wicked fast. Ellie led you into a smaller enclosure for behavioural training.

“You can film,” she said. “Just don’t run.”

“Why not?”

“They chase.”

You laughed nervously. “Oh.”

One of them, a smoky blue female with a slitted golden eye, approached Ellie and bumped her thigh with its snout like a puppy.

She crouched, whispering something you couldn’t catch. The raptor tilted its head, then chirped. A moment later, it lay down and rolled onto its back, exposing its belly.

You caught the whole thing. Ellie laughing, hand buried in feathers, dirt smeared on her cheek, her whole face lit up.

That night, back in your dorm, you sat at your desk with the lights off, your laptop glowing.

You edited late into the night—cutting through shaky footage, filtering the sun just right, lining the audio to a soft indie track. You saved the file, but you didn’t upload it. Tomorrow, you’d show her first, just in case she wanted to see herself the way you saw her.

Before the rest of the world did.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The fluorescent light flickered above your desk like it, too, was tired of this job. Half your shift had been spent hunched over your laptop, headphones in, sorting through footage from the Raptor Paddock. You didn’t really mind.

The head of PR wanted more behind-the-scenes enrichment content for the park’s YouTube channel—playful but grounded, edgy but safe, and most of all, viral. Their emails used a lot of adjectives.

Your headset buzzed.

Minor incident, that’s how they phrased it.

“Minor,” in Jurassic World terms, meant no deaths, no lawyers yet.

You sat up straight.

A group of influencers had been taken too close to the Raptor Paddock. Someone thought it would be great content and someone else ignored the guest photography guidelines.

The raptor who lunged wasn’t Jinx. Thank god. It was Roo, the most skittish of the three. The flash went off and she reacted on instinct—leapt toward the fence, jaws wide, a blur of feathers and teeth. Now it was online.

Your screen lit up with hashtags you didn’t want to see. #DinoDanger, #SheAlmostDied. You stopped the autoplay, but the thumbnail was enough— Roo mid-snarl, one girl halfway into a dramatic faint. Her friend laughing, shakily.

You forwarded the footage to the Comms lead. A response came ten seconds later.

Get a statement from a trusted handler. Soften this. Now.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

You found Ellie behind the garage near the paddock gate, sitting on an overturned crate with a can of iced coffee sweating in her hand. She was coated in dust and grease, like she’d crawled straight out of a ventilation shaft. Which, knowing her, wasn’t impossible.

She looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Don’t you have press releases to copy and paste?”

You gestured toward her with your tablet. “Don’t you have raptors to whisper to?”

Ellie grinned, tired and amused. “Touché.”

You sat across from her on a cooler. She didn’t offer the coffee, you didn’t ask.

“I need a quote,” you said.

Her smile vanished. “About what?”

“The influencer thing,” you admitted.

She exhaled through her nose and rubbed the back of her neck. Grease smeared higher across her cheek.

“I told them,” she muttered. “Told them not to bring cameras near Roo. She doesn’t like flashing lights. Makes her nervous.”

You stayed quiet. Not the time to turn on a camera.

“They had a whole goddamn ring light,” Ellie said, voice low. “Pointed straight at her. The guests got scared, so did she. Then security panics and sets off the siren. Good job, everyone.”

Eventually, she stood.

“You want a soundbite?” she asked, brushing her hands off on her cargo pants.

You waited.

She looked down at you.

“Tell them this isn’t a petting zoo,” she said. “These animals aren’t props. They’re thinking, breathing creatures. If you poked a bear in the woods with a selfie stick, whose fault would that be?”

You swallowed. “That’s not exactly... soft.”

Ellie tilted her head. “You want me to lie?”

“No,” you said, softer. “I want you to keep your job.”

That got her. A flicker of something passed through her eyes—surprise maybe. She stepped closer and dropped her voice.

“Okay. Try this: ‘The handlers at Jurassic World prioritise the mental health of every creature in our care. Safety and respect come first—on both sides of the fence.’”

You typed as fast as you could.

Ellie leaned over, tapped your screen with a single finger.

“Then add: ‘Some animals, like Delta, are sensitive to sudden light. We ask all guests to follow our guidelines to protect both themselves and the dinosaurs they came to see.’”

You looked up at her. “That was... actually perfect.”

She smirked. “I can do optics. Doesn’t mean I like it.”

Later, you sat alone on the roof of Dorm C, tablet balanced on your knees, watching the video you shot yesterday before uploading.

In the final cut, you watched a shot of Ellie walking alongside the paddock fence with the sun burning gold behind her.

You clicked publish.

The video went live at 6:49 pm, by 7:03 it was trending and the comments poured in.

Hear me out, She’s so serious I love her, and Mother.

You didn’t tell Ellie, but you saved the top comment anyway.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

Every now and then, the schedule lined up just right. Two staff members off-duty. No emergency drills. No PR fires to put out. A window. A breath.

And Ellie took it.

You didn’t take one of the trams. Ellie drove you out herself—an old off-roader that smelled like engine oil, tires kicking up trails of red dust as she pulled away from the paved park roads and into the island’s interior. The farther you went, the more the sounds of the resort faded—until there was only jungle. It wasn’t on any map they gave guests, no visitor trails or attractions.

“You’re not gonna murder me out here, are you?” you joked, peering through the trees.

Ellie grinned. “Not unless you start talking about CGI inaccuracies again.”

She parked at the edge of a ridge overlooking a narrow river. The canopy opened above you into streaks of blue and gold. A breeze moved through the high branches, the air wet and fresh, bird calls echoed through the valley.

Ellie plopped down in the dirt like she’d been here a hundred times before. “This was all here before the board meetings, before the fences, before the holograms. And it’ll all still be here when the last attraction breaks down.”

You sat beside her. The earth was warm under your palms.

“You ever think about what you’d be doing if you hadn’t come here?”

You nodded. “All the time.”

“And?”

You shrugged. “Maybe still in PR. Just… for a less cursed brand.”

Ellie smirked. “Like cereal.”

You laughed. “Exactly. Something safe. Something where the biggest crisis is oat milk backlash.”

She picked up a stick and started absentmindedly dragging it through the dirt—first a spiral, then something more detailed: the suggestion of a raptor skull, curved and sharp and familiar. She was quiet for a while, drawing.

Then she said, “You know what I wanted to be when I was a kid?”

You shook your head.

“Astronaut.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Ellie smirked. “Yeah. Had the poster on my wall. Memorised the Apollo missions. Wrote a letter to NASA when I was nine asking if they’d let me bring my best friend.”

You laughed softly. “What’d they say?”

“They didn’t write back.” She gave a one-shouldered shrug, casual on the surface but threaded with something more tender. “I kept dreaming about it anyway. Floating above Earth. Being the first person to touch something that hadn’t been touched.” She paused. “Guess I still got that last part.”

You looked over at her. “What changed?”

Ellie pressed the stick into the soil. “I hit high school, and science was harder. Math was never fun. Biology clicked, and space didn’t.”

There was something in her voice that made your chest ache. Not regret, exactly. Just the trace of a fork in the road, a fig that hadn’t been taken from the tree. The version of her who might have gone up instead of underground.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The dorms weren’t glamorous.

Faux-wood floors, standard-issue twin bed, metal desk with drawers that stuck, a narrow kitchenette with two mugs that were never clean at the same time, one window that opened exactly three inches. Jurassic World spared no expense for the dinosaurs, but the interns? You learned quickly how to make do.

Somehow, though, the place felt luxurious when Ellie was in it.

She kept leaving things behind: a thermos, a hoodie, the Jurassic World issue of National Geographic with her notes scribbled in the margins. She always ended up back here, always found her way to your side of the compound when shifts ended and the park dimmed for the night.

Lunch wasn’t a planned thing.

It started after a meeting, both of you too tired to go back to work, the cafeteria mostly empty. Ellie dragged her tray to your table without asking, dropped into the seat across from you like she’d been doing it forever. She had her sleeves rolled up and a smudge of something dark under her cheekbone, like she’d leaned against the wall of the paddock and forgot about it.

She looked exhausted.

You slid your extra protein bar across the table without a word. She didn’t say thank you, just peeled it open and ate half in two bites.

“A trainer tried to feed Scylla a banana.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“She said she read somewhere that primates liked them and thought maybe—” Ellie cut herself off, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I can’t keep having these conversations.”

You bit your lip to hide your laugh. “Did Scylla eat it?”

“She spat it out!”

You pushed your tray closer to hers. Shared space, shared air. When she picked at the lettuce on your plate without asking, you didn’t stop her.

That afternoon, back in your dorm, Ellie dozed on your bed with one foot still on the ground. You sat at your desk, typing half-heartedly, sneaking glances every few lines.

Her breathing slowed. Softened.

You turned down the brightness on your screen and let yourself stare. There was something vulnerable about her when she was asleep. Less fire, less focus.

Her arm shifted, and her fingers brushed your pillow like she was reaching in her sleep.

Your heart jumped.

You turned away, flustered. Pretended to read a park protocol memo. Didn’t take in a word of it.

That evening, she cooked.

Not well or efficiently, but she refused any help. You offered, but she waved you off and handed you a drink instead. “This is a one-woman show. Sit and be amazed.”

She stood barefoot, chopping onions with the dullest knife in the drawer and humming something under her breath, maybe Fleetwood Mac or something from her endless playlist of 70s deep cuts, you weren’t sure. She burned the first round of garlic toast. She swore loudly. You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

Dinner turned out… edible. You both sat cross-legged on the floor, plates in laps, knees bumping.

“This is terrible,” you said around a mouthful.

“Shut up,” she said, grinning. “You’re eating it.”

“Only out of fear.”

She nudged your knee. “Coward.”

You leaned back on your palms, looked at her.

“I like this,” you said.

Her smile faltered slightly, became something smaller. “What?”

“This. You. Here.”

Ellie looked at you for a long moment, unreadable.

Then she reached for your plate and took the last piece of toast.

“Me too,” she said.

Later, when the lights were off and the window cracked open to let in island air, she curled up behind you without asking, one arm slung loosely around your waist. Her breath warmed the back of your neck.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The week hit like a monsoon, you barely had time to breathe. You fielded incident reports, coordinated guest services, drafted press responses in thirty-second bursts. You worked through lunch. You took dinner at your desk. You fell asleep in a chair two nights in a row.

And through it all, there was Ellie.

Sort of.

You saw her once—midweek. Briefly.

She caught you outside the main building, a clipboard tucked under one arm, sunglasses perched on her head. She looked flushed and windblown, like she’d just come from the raptor paddock. Her shirt stuck to her back. Her hands were dusty.

“Hey,” she said, jogging to catch up. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

You were already walking.

“Sorry,” you said quickly. “I’m heading to the office—there was a perimeter breach yesterday, and apparently that means communications has to rewrite the entire emergency script again because no one in legal can do their fucking jobs.”

She fell into step beside you, smile dipping a little. “Right. Yeah. No worries.”

You didn’t notice the shift in her tone. Or if you did, you ignored it.

Ellie gave a short nod, one hand hovering awkwardly like she’d meant to reach for your arm.

Then she said, “Don’t work yourself to death, okay?”

But the door had already closed behind you.

She didn’t come by that night, or the next.

You told yourself it didn’t matter, that she was busy too. If she needed you, she’d say so.

But every time you opened your dorm door and saw that she hadn’t left anything behind—no hoodie, no coffee cup, no scrawled note—something in you pinched.

The silence wasn’t cruel. It was worse than that.

It was polite.

By Friday, you were frayed at the edges. The comms team cleared out early. Some kind of mixer for the PR interns, catered with branded cupcakes and a weirdly peppy playlist of noughties throwbacks. You told them you had emails to finish, but you lingered in the empty office, lights half-dimmed, hands idle.

And finally, when you couldn’t stand it anymore, you grabbed your badge and left.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The raptor paddock was quiet at this hour.

The jungle edge glowed gold. You leaned against the low fence, heartbeat a little louder than it needed to be.

You weren’t even sure why you’d come.

But then—you heard her voice.

“Good. Good, Jinx, yeah, that’s it—move slow.”

You turned just in time to see Ellie moving through the inner track. She had one hand raised towards Jinx, her movements fluid, confident. She was in her element, every line of her body relaxed but alert. The trainers nearby deferred to her, stepping back when she approached.

She was magnetic.

You suddenly felt like a ghost.

You waited until Jinx was redirected, until Ellie handed off her radio to another staff member, until she peeled off her gloves and stepped toward the break area alone.

You followed.

“Hey,” you said.

She looked up.

The smile she gave you was faint. Careful. “Hey.”

“I—uh, I didn’t mean to blow you off the other day,” you started. “It’s just been… a lot.”

Ellie nodded. “I figured.”

You hated how neutral her voice sounded. Like she’d coached it into steadiness.

“I missed you,” you said, softer.

Ellie didn’t look at you right away. She stared out toward the trees, jaw tight.

“I didn’t want to make it weird,” she said finally.

You stepped closer. “It’s not weird.”

“It felt weird,” she replied, still not looking at you. “Like maybe I imagined more than what this is. Or was. I don’t even know if you even like— Forget it.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve.

“You didn’t imagine it.”

She looked at you then, maybe a little hurt.

“I’m bad at balance,” you said, a little broken. “I pour into the job until I forget there’s a me underneath it.”

Ellie’s shoulders eased slightly. “Yeah. I know that feeling.”

“I didn’t mean to make you doubt.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

She gave a small smile. “But I’m not going to chase you through it. I care about you. Enough to give you space. Just… don’t wait too long to come back.”

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

You stood outside her door for what felt like a full minute.

It was too quiet. The usual hum of the compound felt distant here, muffled behind thick walls and late-night haze. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears.

One knock, that’s all it took.

When the door opened, Ellie was standing there barefoot, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. She wore an oversized grey shirt that hung off one shoulder and loose black shorts that looked like she’d had them since high school. Her eyes were tired, like she hadn’t been sleeping.

You stepped inside.

Her dorm was nothing like yours. The lighting was dim—one warm bulb over the bed, the rest off. The smell was a mix of sandalwood and cedar that clung to her clothes. A raptor plush sat on the windowsill next to a sun-bleached paperback copy of The Lost World and a tin of black guitar picks. Her desk was half-covered in field notes, fossil diagrams, and a mug full of broken pencils. There were stars painted on her ceiling—tiny, glow-in-the-dark ones, peeling at the corners. A few had drifted down to the floor.

And in the far corner, propped against the wall next to a stack of old music magazines, was a handmade guitar, a moth delicately carved to match her arm. The strings were a little loose. One of them looked like it had been replaced with fishing wire.

She noticed you looking. “My dad made it.”

“Seriously?” You approached it gently, like it might crumble if you touched it wrong. “It’s beautiful.”

“Sounds like shit if it’s not tuned,” she said with a smile. “But yeah. It’s mine.”

There was a long pause.

Then, from her spot by the door, Ellie asked, “Did you come here to say something?”

You hesitated. “No. I just wanted to be near you.”

Her expression didn’t change. But something behind her eyes softened. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “I missed you.”

Ellie broke.

She reached for your face, and her touch was both careful and hungry. Her fingers brushed your jaw, your cheek, and then she kissed you.

And god, did she kiss you.

You melted into it, into her, into the way her lips moved slow and certain over yours, into the warmth of her hands sliding behind your neck. She tasted like mint, like she’d just brushed her teeth, ready for bed. The bed— you backed her towards it without even realising it, one hand tangled in the hem of her shirt, the other gripping her waist. She gasped when her knees hit the mattress, and then you were climbing into her lap, half-straddling her, mouths still locked together.

Ellie pulled back just long enough to breathe, her forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve wanted this,” she murmured.

You kissed her again, deeper this time, slower. Your hands roamed over her hips, the curve of her back. She made a sound in the back of her throat when your lips grazed the corner of her jaw, then her throat, then just below her ear.

“You smell like rain,” you whispered, lips brushing her skin.

“I have showered,” she said, voice shaky but smiling.

“Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

She shifted, pressing up into you, hands now sliding under your shirt, palms splayed warm across your spine. Her touch was reverent, exploratory, like she couldn’t believe you were really here.

You pulled away just enough to look at her.

Her cheeks were flushed, lips swollen, eyes wide and glassy like you were something she was still trying to process.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

“More than,” she whispered.

#ellie williams x reader #ellie williams #ellie x reader #ellie tlou #ellie williams x you #ellie williams fluff #ellie williams fanfic

713 notes · View notes