Latest Posts by elliespassagerprincess - Page 2
Not an ask just some compliments bc your professor ellie headcanons are so good i love love love the way you write them
oh my word, thank you sm!! I'm glad you liked it:))) I was so nervous to post it, because I was unsure if people would like it!! This means so much to me<333
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I love your Professor Ellie series, god... it's beautiful, perfect. Ellie is so soft, fine, so right(? I don't know how to say it, it feels so good to read it, I'm in love with her and your way of writing.
P.S. I'm using a translator, sorry if there's a spelling mistake.
oh my word, thank you sm!! Messages like these mean the world to me, and this motives me sm!!I love you and i appreciate it!!
(P.s it's ok your English was just fine, I understand everything)
can you talk more about ellie’s grading and the feedback she gives? i wanna know how intellectual she is insane iq core 💔💔💔
Headcannons: professor!ellie williams x reader
masterlist
professor ellie masterlist
☆ Ellie uses red pens exclusively—not out of malice, but because she thinks it forces you to really see yourself. Her notes aren’t just critiques, they’re personal. “You know this theory, stop playing small” scrawled in the margins feels more like a confession than advice.
☆ She’s the professor everyone is a little scared of until they actually talk to her. Intense in lecture, terrifyingly smart—but she softens when she talks one-on-one. Her voice lowers, her eyes track yours as if she’s cataloguing your brain. She listens like your thoughts matter.
☆ If she sees potential in you, your returned paper ends up looking like a co-written piece. Whole blocks of her handwriting argue or build on your points, sometimes more verbose than your actual body paragraphs.
☆ Her most devastating feedback is always kind. “You hesitated here—why?” or “Don’t dilute a brilliant argument to make it sound ‘acceptable’.” You leave her office hours feeling like you just got psychoanalyzed and inspired.
☆ You notice she always returns your papers last. When you joke about it, she just says, “Yours require more... attention.” Her gaze lingers too long after. You think maybe she’s memorizing your arguments—or your face.
☆ You show up early. She pretends to be annoyed but always saves your favorite chair. Sometimes you catch her looking at your hands while you talk. She taps her pen when she’s holding back something.
☆ “Your phrasing here? Lethal. That’s how you cut through academic fluff.” It’s high praise from Ellie, but it feels like she’s talking about more than your essay.
☆ You don’t know this, but the first time you absolutely killed a complex theory with original thought, she kept a copy. She rereads it sometimes when she’s stuck in her own writing. She’d never tell you—but it’s annotated in the margins with her own thoughts. Like a conversation.
☆ She’ll slide your graded paper toward you and say, “Nice work,” before walking off. You find a sticky note inside later that says:
“Your logic here is brutal. You’d make a terrifying debater. You should come to my next seminar. If you're free.”
☆ If you ever push back on one of her comments (politely), she’ll go silent for a beat too long. Then she’ll smirk, lean back in her chair, and say, “Fair point.” But you catch the flush on her neck.
☆ When you lend her a book you love, she gives it back full of tabs and handwritten notes. Her handwriting shifts depending on emotion: neat when she agrees, sharp when she’s frustrated, small and slanted when something hit her too hard.
☆ She reads between the lines—not just in your essays, but in how you speak. If your writing suddenly lacks fire, she’ll ask, “What happened to your voice?” with more concern than she lets on.
☆ She has a private Spotify playlist titled after your most compelling paper. It’s full of moody, ambient instrumentals that make her think of you pacing a library aisle.
☆ Gives You Optional Extra Assignments That Are Secretly Dates “Analyze this journal article if you want... I’ll be in my office at 6.” She gives you wine after hours and calls it a discussion session.
☆ She never says it aloud, but in her mind, she calls you “Bright girl” or “My sharp one.” Sometimes those almost slip out.
☆ Has a Folder of Your Work. Digitally and physically. Not just because you’re a good student, but because she thinks you're one of the most important thinkers she's taught. It’s her little shrine.
☆ Can't Hide Her Pride When You Speak in Class. Even when she’s trying to stay composed, her eyes flicker with excitement when you raise your hand. Sometimes she smirks when you quote her back to herself.
☆ Touches Her Lip When She Reads Your Work. She doesn’t notice she does this. But whenever a line of yours punches through her, she’ll sit back, pen to her mouth, eyebrows slightly raised, like she’s just been got.
☆ Notices Your Scent. Once, you leaned over her desk and the smell of your perfume clung to her sweater. She wore it again the next day—“by accident.”
☆ You once mentioned a quote from a female philosopher you admire, and Ellie responded a little too coldly. Later you found your copy of that author’s book in her office—full of her annotations. She's studying your mind through what you love.
☆ Writes Feedback That’s Basically Poetry. Sometimes her comments feel like verses. “You bent truth until it screamed—good. Now own it.” You don’t know if she’s flirting or just brilliant.
☆ You Catch Her Staring at You During Lectures. She’ll be mid-lecture and pause just a second too long on you. It makes your stomach flip. She always looks away first.
☆ Hates Giving You Anything Below an A. If your work ever slips, she spends forever writing the feedback. It pains her to mark you down—but she refuses to baby you. You’d never respect her if she did.
☆ Has Dreams About Debating You. Sometimes she jolts awake after a dream where you out-argued her in front of a whole academic panel. She was proud and a little turned on.
☆ Knows Your Favorite Pen. She keeps a matching one in her desk drawer. She says it’s coincidence. It’s not.
☆ She’s the Only One Allowed to Critique You. If someone else in class makes a dismissive comment about your work, Ellie will eviscerate them—politely, devastatingly. You leave class blushing. They leave in silence.
☆ She Has Your Writing Style Memorized. If someone read her a passage of your work out loud, she’d know it was yours immediately—by cadence, syntax, and how you handle commas like you’re carving something open.
☆ Her Voice Softens When She Says Your Name. Even when she’s frustrated or passionate, your name is the one word that always comes out gentle. A pause in a storm.
☆ Writes You Into Her Lectures. Without naming you, she’ll quote your paper in front of the class. “A student once said something that stuck with me…” She knows you know it’s you.
☆ She’d Risk Her Career for You. She hasn't yet. But she’s thought about it. Late at night, with one of your essays open in her lap, wondering if knowing someone’s mind this intimately should feel like falling.
Headcannons: professor!ellie williams x reader
masterlist
professor ellie masterlist
☆ Ellie knows she’s going to marry you long before she tells you. She buys the ring three months into living together. Keeps it hidden in her desk drawer beside annotated books and letters from you.
☆ She proposes on the floor of your shared office. Not at a dinner, not with a crowd—just soft music, ink-stained fingers, and a whispered: “Be my always. My only. My mind, my muse, my wife.”
☆ The ring is engraved with a quote from your writing. Not hers. Yours. "You make knowledge feel like coming home."
☆ She asks your opinion on “proposals in literature” a week before. You think she’s researching. She’s just trying not to cry at the idea of you saying yes.
☆ When you say yes, she buries her face in your neck and shakes. Not from nerves. From relief. From awe. From the raw ache of being loved back.
☆ She starts referring to you as “my fiancée” constantly. In grocery stores. On campus. During panels. “My fiancée’s theory on this is actually quite relevant…”
☆ She changes your contact name to “Almost My Wife.” With 3 hearts and a lock emoji.
☆ She sleeps with her hand resting over yours every night. On your ring finger. She checks it like it’s her most sacred relic.
☆ She updates her entire academic bio to include you. “Currently lives with her partner, her muse, and greatest intellectual influence.”
☆ She teaches a lecture titled: “The Intersection of Intimacy and Intellectual Devotion” She’s talking about you. The class has no idea.
☆ Ellie wants a tiny wedding—just you, the vows, and a quiet lake. But if you want more, she’ll plan a thousand-guest celebration without blinking. “You say the word and I’ll build the world for you.”
☆ She insists on writing her vows by hand. In her favorite pen. On pages she slips under your pillow the night before.
☆ She practices saying “wife” alone in her car. Wife. Wife. Wife. She can’t stop smiling.
☆ She hides love notes inside the wedding checklist binder. You find one labeled: “Stop reading this and come kiss your future.”
☆ When you choose your dress, she sketches you in it from memory that same night. Adds it to her journal. Dates it. “The day I saw her and forgot how to breathe.”
☆ Her friends throw her a chill night in. But she sneaks off to call you every hour. “I can’t even pretend to want to be anywhere you’re not.”
☆ You write each other letters to read before the ceremony. She cries through hers. Has to reapply mascara. Still keeps the tear-streaked one folded in her breast pocket.
☆ She makes a playlist of songs that remind her of your earliest days. Plays it while getting ready. One track in, she’s sitting down, hand over heart, whispering: “Holy shit. I’m marrying her.”
☆ She starts dreaming of your last name beside hers on academic papers. No hyphen. No division. Just unity.
☆ You give her a watch as a pre-wedding gift. She whispers: “I’ll count every second I get with you.”
☆ When you walk down the aisle, Ellie mouths “mine.” Once. Quiet. Like a prayer.
☆ She cries when you hold her hands. Not one tear. A whole storm. Her lips tremble when you say her name.
☆ Her vows start academic and crumble into desperation. “I thought I understood devotion—until you. You rewrote me. I’m yours now. Completely.”
☆ Her fingers shake when she slips the ring on yours. But her voice never falters: “With this, I give you everything.”
☆ She kisses you like no one is watching. It’s not performative. It’s urgent. She’s been waiting forever.
☆ She refers to you as her wife every chance she gets. Out loud. On paper. In conversation. She beams every time.
☆ She can’t stop touching the ring on your hand. Kisses it. Spins it. Holds it during dinner. “Still feels like a dream.”
☆ She hangs your wedding photo above her desk. Right beside her degrees. “My greatest achievement.”
☆ She uses your wedding date as her new password. She’ll never forget it. She couldn’t.
☆ She journals the first 365 days of your marriage. Every little thing. Every breakfast. Every smile. Every time you say her name like it means everything.
☆ She changes her legal name just to have part of yours. No one expected it. But she wanted it.
☆She introduces herself at lectures as “Dr. Ellie Williams—but more importantly, a wife.” Every time. Her proudest title.
☆ She builds a library with your last name engraved at the entrance. It’s her gift to the university. Her devotion in bricks.
☆ She keeps a framed note that says “You said yes.” Next to the ring box. Beside her bed.
☆ When you fall asleep first, she whispers: “Married you. Won.”
☆ She keeps your wedding vows on her desk at all times. Reads them when she feels lost.
☆ She starts calling you “my forever” in texts. Even to herself. Especially when you're not around.
☆ She wears her ring when she lectures. And if she forgets it? She’ll cancel class. That’s how wrong it feels.
☆ She celebrates every mini-anniversary. First date, first kiss, first “I love you.” “Why wouldn’t we honor our history?”
☆ Her phone background is a photo of your hand in hers. Wedding rings shining. Sunlight catching on your fingers.
☆ She saves every note you leave her, even grocery lists. “Married girl handwriting,” she says with a grin. She signs every card, “your wife, your fool, your scholar.”
☆ When she wins awards, she thanks you before anyone. “For keeping my soul fed while I chase knowledge.”
☆ She keeps your last name on her lips like a spell. Soft. Reverent. Yours.
☆ She reads your vows aloud every year on your anniversary. Her voice always cracks by the second paragraph.
☆ She builds you a bench at the lake where you married. With a plaque that reads: “Where I became hers.”
☆ She keeps your bouquet dried and shadow-boxed in her office. Next to a note: “Every day since has been full bloom.”
☆ She still asks you to dance in the kitchen. Same song. Same rhythm. Same girl.
☆ She rereads the proposal letters every winter. Wears your old hoodie and says: “Still can’t believe.”
☆ And when she’s asked what love is, she says: “It’s when you look at someone and think: If I never wrote again, I’d still have said everything I ever needed—just by choosing her.”
Headcannons: professor!ellie williams x reader
masterlist
professor ellie masterlist
☆ Ellie doesn't just accept the job—she calculates how long it'll be until you graduate. She marks the date on her calendar and labels it “her freedom”. Yours, not hers.
☆ She visits the city three times before committing Not for the faculty or salary. To check if it’s somewhere you could be happy.
☆ She only signs the lease when she finds an apartment with room for both your desks. Not “a place for your things”—a place that makes space for your mind.
☆ She leaves notes in your old books before she moves Sticky tabs hidden on pages: “I’ll be thinking of you here.” You find them one by one while she’s gone.
☆ She makes you a Spotify playlist titled ‘One Month Closer to You’ Every song is about longing, intellect, tension. She updates it weekly.
☆ Her coworkers think she’s engaged Because she always calls you “my person,” “my muse,” “the smartest girl I know.” They just assume.
☆ When you arrive, she’s waiting outside the airport with a stack of books. No signs, no balloons. Just texts you: “Got these for you. Hurry. I missed you too loud.”
☆ She can’t stop hovering around you as you unpack Helping, folding, placing things like they’re sacred. “This goes here, right? I want it how you want it.”
☆ She buys you your own shelf in her office Not for books—for your brain. “Put anything here. I want to look up and think of you.”
☆ She sets alarms to remind herself to text you affirmations while she’s on campus
“I love your brain.”
“I reread your thesis again. Still obsessed.”
“Is it normal to miss someone this much in the next room?”
☆ She starts citing you before you publish anything
In class: “As my partner once said…”
In her drafts: “(See private conversation, 3am, living room floor).”
☆ She smells your shirts when you're gone Keeps one in her drawer at work. Wears it when she misses you too hard to focus.
☆ Her computer background is a photo of your annotations Not even your face—your thoughts. The page you marked with “why does this hurt so good?” and 7 underlines.
☆ She traces the rim of your teacup absentmindedly while she works You're not even in the room. But she still needs to touch something that touched you.
☆ She recreates your old dorm setup in the guest room In case you ever miss it. In case she misses the version of you from back then.
☆ She writes down everything you say in heated academic debates Even when it ends in silence, she jots it down and rereads it before bed.
☆ She insists you help decorate her office on campus. Lets you hang art. Places your poetry beside her degrees. “Now it’s complete.”
☆ Her colleagues start quoting you in meetings Because she talks about you so much, they start thinking in your voice.
☆ When you wake up groggy and smart-mouthed, she lights up “I’ve missed that mouth,” she’ll grin. “Say something else unreasonably brilliant.”
☆ She buys you matching pens “I think better when you’re writing too.”
☆ She brushes your hair behind your ear mid-argument Just to keep you talking. She needs your voice uninterrupted.
☆ She kisses the back of your hand before every academic panel. Her ritual. For luck. For grounding. For you.
☆ When you call her “Professor Williams” in public, her ears go pink. But later? She whispers, “Say it again.” Lower. Softer.
☆ She kisses you when you’re reading—just to taste the words on your lips Always mid-sentence. “You’re intoxicating,” she mumbles. “Keep going.”
☆ She makes love to you like she’s defending a thesis Point. Counterpoint. Proof. Passion. She takes her time—citing every reason she needs you.
☆ She cries when you cook dinner your first night Not because it’s good. Because it’s you, barefoot in her kitchen, laughing like this is your forever.
☆ You catch her staring at your reflection in the window “You look like a poem in a glass case,” she says. “Too good for this world.”
☆ She builds you a journal archive. Every notebook you fill, she catalogs. Dates, topics, favorite lines. No one’s allowed to touch them but her.
☆ She keeps your texts in a folder titled “primary source.”
☆ Her entire lecture about literary eros is built around your first kiss. The students have no idea. But she’s trembling by the end.
☆ She wears your perfume on her scarf. Just a spritz. For when she has to spend long hours away.
☆ She rereads your old essays with tea on Sundays. Like scripture. Like they’re holy.
☆ She corrects her students gently when they say something you’d challenge “Actually, my partner once made a really good point about that…”
☆ She keeps your graduation photo in her wallet Next to her ID. Smiles every time she pulls it out.
☆ When she misses you, she opens your drawer and organizes it. Just to feel close. Just to feel useful. Just to do something with her hands.
☆ She carves your initials in the underside of her desk Childish. Obsessive. True.
☆ She kisses the corner of your mouth when you’re mid-paper. “You make academia look so damn good,” she whispers.
☆ She proposes with a first edition of your favorite book. The ring hidden in a cut-out. Inside the cover: “You changed everything I thought I knew. Say yes?”
☆ She dreams of your children reciting your papers Not hers—yours. “Can you imagine them growing up in this house full of your words?”
☆ She records herself reading your poetry out loud Plays it when she travels. Falls asleep to the sound of you.
☆ She buys you a necklace with her initials—written in your handwriting. “I want to be yours in every way.”
☆ She thanks you at every speaking event. “None of this exists without her.”
☆ Her students ship you both like a novel couple. You walk into her class once and someone audibly gasps.
☆ You say something offhanded like, “I love your mind,” and she can’t function for hours. She sits at her desk, head in hands, overwhelmed. You undo her with so little.
☆ She keeps your first handwritten note inside her wallet. Folded, fading. Still the most important thing she owns.
☆Her favorite outfit is whatever you like best. She’ll ask what you think of a shirt and wear it to lectures three days in a row after you smile at it.
☆ She practices your name in different languages She says it like it’s sacred. She wants to know how it sounds in every tongue.
☆ She builds a Google calendar for your moods. Just so she can anticipate what kind of comfort to give you on tough days.
☆ She tells you she loved you the moment you challenged her in class “It wasn’t the words. It was the way you meant them. The way you looked at me like I should know better.”
☆ When people ask what home is, she doesn’t say a city. She says your name. Always. “I moved for her. I’d move again. A thousand times.”
Headcannons: professor!ellie williams x reader
masterlist
professor ellie masterlist
☆ Ellie starts wanting a baby years before she tells you. She doesn’t want to push. But god—she aches to see you round and glowing.
☆ She starts watching documentaries on child development “for work.” You catch her crying during one where a toddler says “mama.”
☆ She writes about generational memory in one of her lectures. But all she’s really thinking is: what will our child inherit from us?
☆ Her obsession turns tender when she starts sketching you as a mother. Always with a soft smile. Always holding a baby that has her freckles.
☆ She kisses your stomach even before there’s anything there. Whispers, “One day, okay? One day it’s gonna be you and me and them.”
☆ When she finally brings it up, it’s not even planned. You’re brushing your teeth and she just says: “I think I want to see you pregnant. Like… soon.”
☆ Ellie has spreadsheets. Timelines. Budget plans. She’s already read four peer-reviewed studies on IVF success rates.
☆ She insists you both go to the consultation together. She sits up straight. Takes notes. Holds your hand the entire time.
☆ She wants you to carry the baby. “You’re the heart. I’m just the idiot who fell first.”
☆ But if you say you want her to carry instead, she’ll agree in a heartbeat. As long as the baby’s ours. She doesn’t care whose blood. Just whose home.
☆ Ellie becomes obsessed with understanding every part of IVF. Hormones, egg retrieval, implantation timelines. She could teach a course by now.
☆ She schedules everything for you. Alarms. Calendar syncs. She’s even got backups if the power goes out.
☆ She brings a notebook to every appointment. Takes detailed notes and asks the doctor questions like she’s in a thesis defense.
☆ She cries the first time she sees the ultrasound of the fertilized embryo. It hasn’t even implanted yet. She’s already in love.
☆ She leaves sticky notes all over the apartment: “Drink water for them.” “Rest for them.” “I love both of you.”
☆ Ellie won’t let you lift a thing. “Let me,” she murmurs, grabbing grocery bags. “I’m doing this for them.”
☆ She talks to your belly even before implantation. “Hi, it’s me. The one who’ll embarrass you at soccer games.”
☆ She sets up the nursery the day after the positive test. You’re still in shock. Ellie’s already building a crib.
☆ She frames the first ultrasound. Carries it in her wallet. Kisses it when she misses you during lectures.
☆ Every student on campus knows you’re pregnant. Because Ellie won’t shut up about you. “My wife is growing life. What’d you do this week?”
☆ Ellie kisses your bump every morning like it’s ritual. Before brushing her teeth. Before breakfast. Before speaking.
☆ She reads to the baby. Lectures from her thesis. Sonnets. Journal entries about you.
☆ She updates her academic blog weekly about the “miracle of queer family-making.” All anonymously. But every post is full of you.
☆ She creates a playlist called “Songs for the Bump.” Track one is the song you danced to at your wedding.
☆ She sobs the first time she feels the baby kick. Full-body, trembling sobs. “They said hi. Did you feel that? They said hi!”
☆ Ellie becomes extra possessive in public. One stranger stares too long at your belly and she’s gripping your waist like a warning.
☆ She buys a fetal doppler monitor. She checks the heartbeat daily. Says it soothes her more than coffee.
☆ She makes the baby a custom stuffed dinosaur with your initials embroidered on it. “They’ll fall asleep with you before they even know your voice.”
☆ She’s at every check-up, every class, every session. If she can’t make it, she sends in a list of questions and Skypes in.
☆She talks to the bump like it’s already here. “We’re gonna have tea parties and talk about queer theory before you’re five, okay?”
☆ Ellie builds a rotating baby bookshelf by hand. Organized by age-appropriateness and genre.
☆ She writes a lullaby. Two versions: acoustic and violin. You catch her crying while recording the second.
☆ She attends parenting classes and brings three notepads. Her notes have subheadings and citations.
☆ She starts referring to herself as “Mama Ellie.” Even signs texts that way to you. “Do you want apples or pears? Love, Mama Ellie.”
☆ She keeps a pregnancy journal addressed to the baby. Starts each one: “Dear tiny scholar,”
☆ She makes a family crest. It has a book, a flower, and a dinosaur.
“This is who we are now.”
☆ She writes an academic paper on LGBTQ+ parenthood. And dedicates it: “To my wife and our soon-to-be reason to breathe.”
☆ She builds a playlist for labor. It starts with gentle indie, ends with your wedding vows in voice memo form.
☆ Ellie reads parenting blogs until 3am. Then wakes you up like, “Babe, did you know baby ears finish forming at 20 weeks?”
☆ She buys a tiny matching leather jacket for the baby. You didn’t even know they made them that small.
☆ Ellie stays calm—externally when you go into labor. Internally? She’s dying. Hyperventilating. “Is she okay? Is our baby okay?”
☆ She holds your hand and your leg. “Push, baby, you’ve got this—I’m here—I’ve got both of you.”
☆ The second the baby cries, she breaks. Drops to her knees. Sobs into your thigh. “She’s here. She’s here. She’s here.”
☆ She cuts the cord with trembling hands. Then kisses you, kisses the baby, kisses you again.
☆ it was a girl. The prettiest baby Ellie had ever seen. You named her: Aurora Bloom Williams
☆ She doesn’t sleep the first night. Just holds the baby against her chest and stares, whispering: "I’ve waited my whole life for you.”
☆ Ellie insists on skin-to-skin. “You were inside her. You were part of her. Let me hold that history.”
☆ She calls Aurora “little thesis.” “She’s proof. That love can be built. Studied. Protected.”
☆ Her phone is filled with photos—1,492 in the first week.
☆ She cries the first time she sees you breastfeeding. “You’re feeding our future. I don’t even have words.”
☆ She creates a lullaby version of your wedding song. Plays it every night while rocking the baby.
☆ Ellie refuses to work late anymore. “My whole world’s waiting at home. I’ve got nothing left to prove.”
☆ She makes flashcards for the baby before she's 6 months old. “Early stimulation is key, babe.”
☆ She tattoos the baby’s birthdate under her ribcage. Where you once carried her.
☆ Her office has a photo of the baby, you, and the first ultrasound. That’s her holy trinity.
☆ She kisses the baby’s forehead and says, “You have no idea how wanted you were.” Every. Single. Night.
☆ She gives the baby a “graduation ceremony” from tummy time. Cap, gown, little speech.
☆ She makes baby food from scratch. Then journals how each flavor went over.
☆ She makes you both matching shirts: “Professor Mama” / “Muse Mama” / “Tiny Intern”
☆ She introduces the baby to books like she’s meeting royalty. “This is The Very Hungry Caterpillar. You’ll love him.”
☆ She sobs at the first “mama.” “You heard that, right? That was me. That was me.”
☆ She wants another by year one. “We have room. And love. So much love.”
☆ She writes letters to the baby every birthday. Seals them in a box for their 18th.
☆ She never misses a milestone. First steps? She has a lecture cancelled.
☆ She paints a mural in the baby’s room. Night sky, constellations, dinosaurs. Your story.
☆ Ellie journals about motherhood. “This is the smartest thing I’ve ever done.”
☆ She teaches the baby to say “I love Mama and Mommy.” Cries every time.
☆ She celebrates you on Mother’s Day like a goddess. “You made life. You made me better.”
☆ She carries a picture of you both during lectures. “To remind me what all this is for.”
☆ At night, when the baby’s asleep, she whispers: “We made a life. And she made ours worth it.”
Abby is so hottttttt
I want to kiss her pretty little face after sex with her and telling her that shes pretty and sweet 🥺 and i want her to make me stay in bed even if we have patrol and being all clingy and cute 🥺
#need her
Stay in bed - abby anderson x reader
hi anon! this deadass made me sigh out of singleness... i hope you enjoy:)
Pairing: abby anderson x fem!reader
requests are open again! send me your silly thoughts:)
warnings: none
Summary: in which you stayed in bed
masterlist
The early morning sun filtered through the gaps in the blinds, casting golden stripes across Abby's bare back as she lay on her side, one muscled arm tucked under the pillow, the other draped across your waist. You were tangled in the warmth of her, limbs lazy and heavy, breaths slow. The blanket clung to your hips, your skin still humming from last night’s closeness.
You hadn’t meant to stay up so late. Patrol had been long and cold, but Abby had pulled you close the second you got back—no words, just warmth and need. The way she kissed you last night, with a mixture of urgency and tenderness, had left you aching in the best way.
And now, in the quiet hush of dawn, you traced the curve of her shoulder with your fingertips, marveling at how someone so strong could feel so gentle.
“I know you’re awake,” you whispered against her skin, your lips brushing just beneath her ear.
Abby groaned, pulling you tighter into her. “I don’t want to get up. Not if it means leaving this.”
You smiled, heart fluttering. “We have patrol in an hour.”
Her arm curled more securely around you. “Fuck patrol.”
You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to her collarbone. “That’s not very responsible of you, Anderson.”
Her head tilted up enough to look at you with sleep-heavy eyes. “What are they gonna do? Fire me?” She smirked, then softened when she saw your flushed cheeks, your thumb grazing her jaw. “You’re too pretty. You make it hard to care about anything else.”
Your breath caught. Abby didn’t always say things like that—not out loud. She was more action than words, more presence than poetry. But when she did speak like this, it was honest, and it hit you deep.
“I want to kiss your pretty little face forever,” you murmured, echoing the sentiment you’d once written anonymously in your journal. You leaned in and did just that—soft kisses at the corner of her mouth, down the curve of her jaw. “You’re so sweet when you’re like this.”
Abby’s hand slid under your shirt—her shirt, really—resting just at your waist. “You’re clingy,” she teased, but her voice was laced with affection. “I like it."
You laughed again, curling up closer, hiding your face in her chest. “You started it. You’re the one who pulled me in the second we walked through the door.”
“That’s different,” she said, kissing the top of your head. “You looked cold.”
“And now?”
“Now you look like mine,” she whispered.
There was a long silence after that. The kind that felt sacred. The kind that didn’t need filling.
Eventually, you felt her shift and sighed as she tried to move. “Nooo, stay.”
Abby chuckled and collapsed back onto the bed with exaggerated drama. “Fine. But just five more minutes.”
“Fifteen,” you bargained, arms locking around her waist.
She kissed your forehead. “Fifteen minutes. Then we do something irresponsible, like skip patrol and make breakfast naked.”
Your laugh turned into a snort. “We’ll get arrested.”
“Worth it,” she muttered sleepily, eyes already drifting closed again.
You stayed there, wrapped up in her, heart full. Maybe the world was still broken in a thousand different ways, but here, in this bed, you had a moment of peace. And Abby. That was enough.
I NEED MORE PROFESSOR ELLIEE
Headcannons: professor!ellie williams x reader
masterlist
professor ellie masterlist
☆ Ellie gets visibly irritated when you mention other professors. Even in passing. If you compliment how “funny” someone else’s lecture was, she tightens her jaw and changes the subject fast — she can’t stand the idea of you admiring anyone else.
☆ She checks your schedule obsessively. Ellie memorizes your timetable. Not just for logistics — she needs to know where you are, who you’re with. It gives her a sense of control over the chaos she feels when she’s around you.
☆ Ellie started sitting in on classes that aren't hers. Just to keep an eye on you. She pretends it’s departmental observation, but she’s watching to see how you interact with other faculty.
☆ If she sees another student get too close, she gets cold. The moment someone touches your shoulder or makes you laugh in a way that feels too casual, her demeanour ices over. You recognize the shift instantly.
☆ Ellie fantasizes about pulling you into her office mid-argument. Half because she wants to shut you up with a kiss, half because she wants to remind you that you’re hers — in private, in the dark, where no one else sees.
☆ She collects pieces of you. A forgotten scarf, a sticky note you left on a textbook, a doodle you made in your notebook. She keeps them all in her desk drawer, like a shrine.
☆ She dreams about being caught. Not in a ruinous way — in a way that feels freeing. She pictures slamming the door behind you, kissing you like she doesn’t care who knows, and the thrill makes her stomach flip.
☆ Ellie acts dismissive in public. She’ll barely make eye contact with you in the hallway, won’t even acknowledge your presence during staff meetings. But her eyes follow you like a storm cloud.
☆ She talks about you vaguely to her colleagues. She’ll say things like, “Some students are… incredibly driven. Borderline obsessive.” They don’t know it’s about you. But you’d recognize that tone anywhere.
☆ Her jealousy is worst when you're not speaking. If you argue or take space, she becomes consumed with the idea that you’re already moving on, already finding someone else to fill the void.
☆ She keeps a second phone. Just to talk to you. It’s not official university property. It's locked, private, and hidden under a loose floorboard in her apartment. She checks it more than her main phone.
☆ Ellie has you saved under a fake name. In her phone, you’re listed as “M.” Short for “Muse.” You thought it was ridiculous — until she whispered it in your ear one night, and it suddenly didn’t feel so silly.
☆ When she gets jealous, sex turns rougher. She’ll grab your hips hard enough to bruise, mutter things like “mine,” and leave marks on your neck she shouldn’t. The next morning, she’ll panic, gently trace them, and apologize with trembling fingers.
☆ Ellie spies on your Instagram using a burner account. She doesn’t follow you, of course. But she checks your stories obsessively, zooming in on every face you tag, every drink in your hand.
☆ She’s obsessed with your lipstick stains. On her coffee mug. On her collar. On her inner thighs. She hates herself for it, but sometimes she doesn’t wash it off — lets it linger like a secret message.
☆ Ellie’s biggest fear is you getting bored. That one day you’ll wake up and realize she’s too rigid, too cold, too closed off — and you'll leave her for someone who can love you publicly.
☆ She hates your ex. Doesn’t matter how long ago it was. If they text you or their name comes up, Ellie shuts down. She’ll kiss you with a quiet desperation that night, trying to erase every memory before her.
☆ When she's drunk, she lets it slip. One time, at a faculty party, she got tipsy and said something to a colleague that almost revealed how much she knows about your life. You had to drag her away before she said your name.
☆ Ellie keeps writing a resignation letter. Over and over. Never submits it. The thought of giving up her position — her career — for you is terrifying. But the thought of losing you feels worse.
☆ She hates hiding, but she loves it too. The adrenaline of stolen glances, the tension of brushing hands in a hallway, the risk — it drives her mad. Sometimes she touches herself to the memory of almost getting caught.
☆ She memorizes your perfume. You once wore something new and she spent all lecture distracted, breathing it in. She bought a bottle for herself the next day just to spray her pillow with it.
☆ Ellie keeps saying "this is the last time." After every heated night. After every reckless kiss behind her office door. She says it while your lips are still swollen. Neither of you ever believe it.
☆ She leaves coded messages in your feedback. “Brilliant insight.” “Could explore further.” “Unexpected depth.” It’s her way of saying: You’re brilliant. You consume me. I see every layer of you.
☆ When she’s jealous, she punishes you academically. Subtly. A harsher grade. A red mark through a paragraph she secretly loved. She always apologizes later, hands gripping your waist, voice full of guilt.
☆ Ellie bought you a necklace. Something simple, something that wouldn’t raise questions. She told you it was nothing. You wear it every day. She notices. Every time.
☆ She’s terrified you’ll leave first. That you’ll grow out of the danger. That you’ll crave stability. Someone your age. Someone who doesn’t flinch every time the dean walks by.
☆ Sometimes she whispers your name in her sleep. You’ve heard it. In her apartment, curled up beside her, while she dreams. You never tell her. But you smile.
☆ Ellie wants to take you away. She fantasizes about both of you disappearing to a city where no one knows her, where she can hold your hand in daylight and not look over her shoulder.
☆ She’s more in love than she knows how to handle. The intensity of it — the fear, the yearning, the possessiveness — it swallows her whole. Sometimes she thinks she might drown in it.
☆ She’s planning an endgame. Whether it’s after graduation or a new job or burning everything down — Ellie’s secretly working out how to make this real. Because despite all the fear, she wants you forever.
- Master List ☆
about me!
- Ellie Williams
- Abby Anderson
- Dina ???
"i would say i love you but saying it out loud is hard."
Dina ??? Masterlist
main master list
about me!
Stories｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ
- one chance: In which the popular girl asked you out
- guard dog: In which you protected her
- could've been: in which you could've been something special
- all that's left is us: in which you found eachother
Abby Anderson Masterlist
main master list
about me!
Stories𓂃⋆.˚
- what we bury in silence: You and Abby were close—more than friends, though no one dared to say it aloud. But after Joel's death, you went quiet. Abby thought you'd never forgive her. That silence breaks one night when guilt, rage, and buried desire finally ignite.
- look at us now: Caught between a turbulent past with Ellie and a slowly blossoming future with Abby, you're forced to confront everything you thought you knew about love, loyalty, and healing.
- stateside: After months apart, Abby finally comes home—but the distance hasn’t only been physical. As old feelings resurface and tension brews, you’re both forced to confront what was left unsaid before she left.
- new magic wand: Abby has never been good at letting things go. And she sure as hell isn't letting go of you.
- stay in bed: in which you stayed in bed
- mrs. postman: in which you fell for the post lady.
series𓂃⋆.˚
Milf Abby
part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4
Baby
part 1 part 2 part 3
drabbles, hcs and short stories𓂃⋆.˚
gamer abby (hcs)
ceo abby (hcs)
Ellie Williams Masterlist
main masterlist
about me!
Stories˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆
- drunk running: You and Ellie have always been a storm—chaotic, coiled tightly, unspoken things woven into the silence between glances. One night, everything boils over. Fueled by alcohol, memory, and all the words neither of you ever had the guts to say sober, you're both forced to confront the version of love you’ve built: broken, frantic, desperate.
- look at us now: Caught between a turbulent past with Ellie and a slowly blossoming future with Abby, you're forced to confront everything you thought you knew about love, loyalty, and healing.
- under her desk: You're her secretary—organized, polite, and always on time. She's the boss—cold, brilliant, and merciless. But every glance from Ellie lingers too long. Every touch burns. And every closed-door meeting gets harder to forget.
- to be near you: Ellie was quiet at first, just watching from the background — protective, helpful, always there. But her interest wasn’t harmless. What began as care turned into control, and slowly, you realized she was never going to let you go. Even when you stopped fighting, her obsession only grew stronger.
- the things we do in the dark: A late-night confession turns into something neither of you can take back. In the quiet moments between guilt and longing, you and Ellie finds yourself crossing a line — again and again — in the shadows of a relationship that was never meant to be theirs.
- don't take her from me: Ellie’s always had control—until someone threatens to take the one person she can’t live without
- she: When Ellie starts watching her a little too closely, it’s hard to tell where curiosity ends and obsession begins. What begins as quiet glances and subtle tension quickly turns into something darker—something neither of them fully understands, but both feel deeply.
- when the quiet breaks: Ellie Williams is living a peaceful life on the farmhouse with you—the woman who convinced her not to chase revenge. For a while, things feel almost perfect. But the past never stays buried.
- save your tears: Ellie Williams never wanted commitment. When you first tangled in each other’s sheets, it was her rules: casual, no strings, no complications. You agreed—half-heartedly. But feelings grew in the silence between skin and shadows.
- girlfriend: In a broken world, Ellie Williams becomes the one constant — protective, intense, and impossible to ignore. Their bond is complicated, but it’s all they have.
- drunk texting: After a night of drinking, a risky text is sent to Ellie — one that unravels buried feelings and turns their dynamic upside down.
- high enough: in which you wanted her
- your best friend: in which you wished she wasn't dating your best friend
- knee deep: in which ellie wanted you back
- sports car: in which she took you for a ride
- beneath the mask: in which she saved you
- one step forward, three steps back: In which your relationship always put you 3 steps back
- crimson days: in which she needed comfort
- quiet room: in which you needed comfort
- the cut that always bleeds: in which she left you bleeding
- Split ends: in which you needed help
- drunk words, sober eyes: in which you confessed
- planets: in which you went on a date
- latch: in which you were trapped
- frostbite: in which you shared a special moment with her
- losing sleep: in which you hated her
- dark red: in which she wanted you to herself
- wash day: in which she helps you with your hair
- rose: in which she cant forget you
- comfort: in which she helped you
- bubblegum: in which you fell in love
- I was all over her: in which she wanted to be all over you
- do you still dream of me?: In which you still dream about her
- laundry: In which you didn't fold the laundry
- bad dog: in which you treated her like a bad dog
- pretty girl: in which she showed her girl how pretty she really is
- mary (angst edition): in which you left her to rot
- things to do: In which they got their happily ever after
- satisfied: in which you were the perfect housewife
- in my feelings (angst edition): In which you fell for a loser
- dye it red: In which you dyed your hair red
- ultraviolence: In which she became the person, you've always wanted
- karma: In which you were her downfall
- twilight: In which you couldn't win Ellie's heart
- window: In which Ellie Williams made a big mistake
- in my feelings: In which you showed a loser, a great time
- mary (mental illness edition): In which Ellie wrote you a song.
- brooklyn baby: In which you were dating the world-famous Ellie Williams
- laugh it off: In which Ellie tries to fix your relationship after she was unfaithful
- cool about it: if Ellie couldn't have you, she'd make sure no one else ever will.
- she calls me daddy: You might be engaged but you still always go back to Ellie
- petals on the moon: In which Ellie regrets her decision
- night shift: In which you were the other women
- everybody here wants you: In which you fell in love with someone you couldn't have
- emily i'm sorry: In which Ellie is fucking crazy
- limit to your love: In which you got your heart broken
- I'm not a mountain: In which Ellie makes stupid decisions
- one night only: Ellie wanted needed to see you, but little did she know the one night she wanted to spend with you, would be her final night
- fake it: You and Ellie reminisce on how the two of you got together
- together: Your relationship was toxic, you both knew this... but yet both of you couldn't stay away from each other
- in hell: in which ellie had a taste of what hell felt like
- waste my time: Ellie questions if you really love her or if you were just using her to clean up your mess
- poision: Ellie knows your relationship is toxic, but she can’t help but go back to you.
- nobody; Ellie's biggest fear becomes a reality...
- is there someone else? All Ellie wanted was for you to forgive her
- infatuated: In which Ellie’s “small crush” turned into an obsession
- all the girls you've loved before: Two lost girls, finally found what they've been looking for in each other
- forever: What’s the point of living, if you aren’t by her side?
- moonlight : In which ellie gets high with her lover
series˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆
scream for me: In which not killing the pretty girl was the best mistake she ever made
part 1 part 2 part 3
Therefore, you and me: All you needed was Ellie
part 1 part 2 part 3
Her Sweet girl: in which you had enough
part 1 part 2
Loser Ellie
part 1 part 2
Professor Ellie
professor ellie masterlist
Brothers best friend Ellie
part 1 part 2
Simp Ellie
part 1 part 2
drabbles, hcs and short stories˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆
ellie taking care of sick reader (hcs)
toxic ellie (hcs)
douchebag ellie (hcs)
ellie warming you up (ss)
ellie saying you're a piece of art (ss)
that professor ellie was perfect. please do a nsfw one LOL i feel like she’d be so sweet but also lowkey not BUT ONLY SOMETIMES bc she’s usually gentle but other times she’s like I HAVE TO HAVE YOU HEHEHE but never too crazy but also is she??? im spiralling
Headcannons: professor!ellie williams x reader
masterlist
professor ellie masterlist
warning: NSFW content! MDNI 18+
☆ By day, she’s the composed, sarcastic, brilliant literature professor — but behind closed doors, Ellie becomes the kind of woman who whispers filth in your ear while holding your face like you’re precious.
☆ Her desk is definitely not just for grading. She’s taken you over it more than once, locking the door and muttering, “Need to teach you a real lesson.”
☆ Ellie buys you expensive lingerie “for her eyes only” — and makes you wear it under your clothes to class just to tease her. She'll smirk knowingly while lecturing, completely composed while you're squirming.
☆ That calm, slow professor tone? It drops an octave when she’s turned on, and it drives you wild. Especially when she reads poetry to you while touching you.
☆ She worships your body. Whispers “my good girl” while brushing your hair out of your face. Calls you brilliant, beautiful, irresistible — even when you’re falling apart beneath her.
☆ Subtle in public — a hand on your lower back, a kiss to your temple — but in private? She's feral. Leaves marks like she’s afraid someone else might look at you wrong.
☆ Ellie makes everything sound intellectual… even sex. “Let me illustrate this theory,” or “Let’s conduct an experiment,” as she pins your wrists down.
☆ Some nights it’s slow, candlelit, and gentle. Other nights she’s gripping your hips, leaving you breathless and blissed out because she needed you that bad.
☆ When she keeps the glasses on during sex, you know she means business. She looks down at you like you’re a book she’s studied a thousand times but still finds something new every time.
☆ Yes, she will continue a sentence or a theory while slowly sliding her fingers into you — “Pay attention. This part’s on the test.”
☆ Weekend mornings always start with lazy kisses, sleepy fingers, and Ellie growling, “Don’t get up. Not until I’m done with you.”
☆ Ellie lives to see how far she can push you. Fingers, mouth, toys — she’ll draw it out until you’re crying her name like it’s scripture.
☆ Once in a while she gets so turned on she loses it — hair messy, biting your shoulder, saying “I need you. Right now. Don’t care where.”
☆ Immediately after, Ellie’s soft as ever — running you a bath, wrapping you in one of her flannels, feeding you strawberries like you’re royalty.
☆ That locked drawer in her office? Yeah, it’s not just for documents. It holds your favorite toy, a silk blindfold, and one of your panties she “borrowed.”
☆ Reading You Erotica: She’ll find the filthiest passage from some obscure book and read it to you while you sit in her lap, grinding slowly, whimpering.
☆ If someone else flirts with you, Ellie pulls you close, kisses you hard, and whispers, “Mine. Let me remind you.”
☆ She doesn’t always need to speak. Sometimes it’s a look — those sharp green eyes locking on you — and you know to drop to your knees.
☆ She tells you she dreams about you. That she can’t concentrate in meetings because she’s thinking about how you taste, how you sound.
☆ She calls you her “thesis.” The one thing she’ll never stop studying, never stop learning, never stop needing.
☆ Her hand wraps around your throat, but it’s never rough — it’s possessive. She leans in, kisses your lips softly, and says, “Breathe for me. That’s my girl.”
☆ One time, she made you sit through one of her lectures with a remote-controlled vibe inside you. Smiled at you from the front like nothing was happening — then turned it up when she caught you squirming.
☆ Ellie isn’t flashy with bondage. She prefers silk ties, slow binding, and long stares as she murmurs, “You look better like this. All mine.”
☆ Ellie needs to hear every sound you make. She’ll edge you for hours just to hear the pitch of your moans change, cataloguing them like they’re part of a study.
☆ She tugs your hair not just to dominate, but to angle your head up — to kiss you, to praise you, to look you in the eye and say, “So fucking pretty like this.”
☆ If you're a student, she makes you earn your orgasms during finals. “Get an A, and I’ll ruin you. Fail, and I’ll really ruin you. Either way, baby, you’re not walking right.”
☆ Ellie has a thing for your hands on her — gripping her shoulders, clutching her shirt, leaving nail marks down her back. She thanks you for them like you gave her a gift.
☆ She once let you ride her while still wearing her full robe, glasses slipping down her nose, hand on your waist as she said, “Professor’s privilege.”
☆ If you ever admit to having a dream about her, Ellie insists you describe every detail — while she touches you exactly how you described it.
☆ In bed, she gets scary quiet. One word from her — strip, stay, come — and your body obeys before your brain catches up.
OR UUST LIKE THE FIRST TIME THEY DO IT SHES SO GENTLE
Headcannons: professor!ellie williams x reader
masterlist
professor ellie masterlist
warning: NSFW content! MDNI 18+
☆ Ellie’s stares linger — too long, too intense. She’s studied every detail of your face, from the way your lashes lower when you're flustered to how your lips twitch when you’re nervous.
☆ Even before anything happens, she’s gently possessive. Walking you to your car. Checking if you’ve eaten. Leaving you notes like: “Don’t skip meals. Your brain’s too pretty to starve.”
☆ Study sessions blur into deep, aching conversations. Ellie leans close, hand brushing yours “accidentally” more often, and when your knees touch, she doesn’t pull away.
☆ She tests the waters. A hand on your thigh during a shared laugh. Fingers brushing your lower back as she moves past you. Every time, she watches your reaction like it’s data.
☆ Ellie never rushes. She peels back your fears and walls with quiet intimacy — until you're exposed emotionally long before you are physically.
☆ She thinks about you constantly, but she buries the filthier thoughts — for now. She wants the first time to be something you remember forever. Something clean. Almost holy.
☆ It finally happens when you fall asleep in her office during a rainstorm. You’re curled up in her chair, cheeks soft, lips parted. She presses her hand to her heart and mutters, “Fuck, I love you.”
☆ Ellie is slow, deliberate. She asks, “Are you sure?” more than once. Not because she doubts you — but because she can’t believe she finally gets to have you like this.
☆ She doesn’t rush. Every kiss feels like a poem. Every touch is a sentence. She wants to memorize you.
☆ Ellie never stops looking at you. Her voice drops to a whisper, “Let me see you,” and every time your eyes flutter shut, she kisses them open.
☆ She undresses you like she’s unwrapping something sacred. Fingers trembling, voice low: “You’re so beautiful… God, you’re unreal.”
☆ She trails kisses down your neck, your chest, your stomach — pausing to breathe you in like she’s trying to brand the memory into her bones.
☆ She can’t shut up. “You’re perfect,” “You feel like heaven,” “I’ve waited so long for this.” Every word from her lips is soaked in reverence.
☆ She touches you with unbearable care — slow, attentive, gentle enough to make you cry. She whispers, “Tell me what feels good. I want to do it right.”
☆ She nearly tears up when you moan her name for the first time. “Don’t say it like that,” she chokes, “I’m gonna lose it.”
☆ She lets you undress her too — biting her lip as your hands explore. She’s shy, almost bashful, but you can tell how much it affects her.
☆ Between kisses, she leans her forehead against yours. “I’ve never wanted someone like this,” she murmurs, brushing her thumb over your cheek.
☆ There’s no teasing, no performance. It’s raw and honest — Ellie letting herself be soft and human in a way she never shows anyone else.
☆ She keeps whispering your name, like it’s a lifeline. “You’re mine, aren’t you?” she asks, not possessively — but like she’s in awe that it’s real.
☆ She laces your fingers together while inside you. It grounds her. Anchors her to the moment. “Don’t let go,” she says. “Please.”
☆ She wraps you in her arms after — tucks the blanket over you, tucks herself behind you, hand splayed across your stomach like she’s protecting something precious.
☆ She mumbles things in your hair. “You feel like home,” “I’ve wanted this for so long,” “You’re everything.” Half-asleep, full of emotion.
☆ In her mind, she promises: This is only the beginning. I’ll learn every inch of her body. I’ll make her fall apart in a thousand new ways.
☆ After that first time, Ellie starts asking questions. “Do you like it when I hold your wrists?” “What if I got rougher next time?”
☆ You catch glimpses — how her eyes darken when you whimper, how she clenches her jaw when you say please.
☆ She gently pins your hands one night — just to see how you react. When you moan? Her whole body shudders.
☆ The next time, she kisses you harder. Her voice gains weight. She starts giving soft orders. “Spread your legs. Good girl.”
☆ Ellie realizes she loves having control — not to dominate, but to cherish and undo you. Her obsession becomes deeper, darker.
☆ She brings it out a toy nervously, checking your expression. “We don’t have to—” but when you nod, the switch flips. She grins like she’s been waiting for this.
☆ She’s addicted to every reaction you give. The soft gasps. The bitten lip. The trust. She knows she could break you — and the only reason she doesn’t is because she loves you too much.
Headcannons: dad's best friend!abby anderson x reader
masterlist
☆ Abby is your dad’s closest friend, someone who’s always been around but never really close to you. You were just the kid in the background—until one day, you weren’t.
☆ She saw it change in real time. You grew up. You started speaking with confidence, dressing differently, looking her in the eye. And it scared the hell out of her.
☆ She resisted—tried to ignore the way your laugh lingered in her mind or the way you’d look at her like you knew. But she couldn’t stop noticing you.
☆ The first time it happened, it was a mistake. A late-night conversation on the porch after your dad went to bed. A shared bottle of whiskey. A too-long stare. Your hand brushing hers.
☆ She kissed you. Hard. Desperate. She pulled away like she'd been burned, pacing, swearing under her breath, apologizing.
☆ You told her you wanted it. She told you it couldn’t happen again. It did.
☆ She never stays the night. Never kisses you in the daylight. Never looks at you for too long in public.
☆ You sneak around like it’s life or death. Quick meetups. Locked doors. Lies stacked on lies. Sometimes it makes you sick with adrenaline. Sometimes it makes you cry.
☆ Abby keeps trying to end it—but she always comes back. She’s addicted to you, even if she won’t admit it.
☆ Abby is riddled with guilt. You’re too young. You’re your father's daughter. She’s betraying someone who trusts her with his life. But she wants you—needs you—in a way that’s primal.
☆ She hates herself for it, but you’re the only one who sees her vulnerability. When she’s with you, she lets the walls fall.
☆ You hate the hiding. Hate pretending like she’s just your dad’s friend when she’s the one who’s memorized the way your body moves and how you like your coffee.
☆ She’s older, bigger, more experienced—and sometimes, she uses that. When you’re bratty or push her buttons, she’ll pin you against a wall, palm flat beside your head, whispering, “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
☆ But you’re not powerless. You know how to get to her. How to sit in her lap like it’s innocent. How to call her “Miss Anderson” in a mocking tone just to watch her unravel.
☆ Every moment between you is coiled like a spring—either about to snap into intimacy or explode in a fight.
☆ She hates seeing you with people your age. If you flirt with someone at a party, she corners you in the hallway with fire in her eyes: “You really want to play that game, sweetheart?”
☆ She doesn’t call you hers, but she touches you like you are. Marks you where no one can see. Leaves bruises on your hips and hickeys on your inner thighs like she’s branding you.
☆ When someone else starts showing interest in you, she snaps. Shows up at your apartment. Kisses you like punishment.
☆ Every sound in the hallway makes you freeze when you're together. Every time your dad mentions Abby, your stomach flips.
☆ One close call nearly ends everything—your dad comes home early while she’s still there. You hide in your room, half-dressed, while she plays it cool like she hasn’t just kissed you breathless.
☆ After that, she disappears for days. No calls. No texts. Then she shows up in the middle of the night, eyes red, whispering “I can’t stay away.”
☆ There’s something sacred in the way she holds you in silence. Like you’re the only thing keeping her sane. The way she lets you trace the scars on her back. The way she murmurs your name like a confession.
☆ Sometimes she sneaks into your bed and stays until dawn, just holding you. You wake up to her running her fingers through your hair like she’s memorizing the way you breathe.
☆ She never says "I love you" out loud. But you hear it in the way she says your name. In the way she lingers after kissing you goodbye, her hand hesitating at the doorknob.
☆ The secrecy starts to eat at you. You want her in the open. You want her to fight for you. But she’s scared—scared of destroying your family, of losing everything.
☆ You fight. She pushes you away. You think it’s over. But then she shows up at your door during a storm, soaked, shaking, whispering, “I’d rather burn for this than live without you.”
☆ That night, you realize she loves you—but she doesn’t know how to love you in the light.
☆ There are only two options: get caught… or leave.
☆ Abby starts talking about running away. Not in a romantic way—more like survival. “If he finds out, it’s over for me. For us. I’d lose you both.”
☆ You tell her you’d follow her. She tells you not to say things like that if you don’t mean them.
☆ By day, she’s the picture of loyalty: dependable, trustworthy Abby Anderson—the friend your dad relies on, the one who helps fix the roof and grills on weekends like she’s part of the family.
☆ But by night? She’s slipping into your room when no one’s watching. Holding you like she’s starved. Kissing you like she’s trying to press her soul into your mouth.
☆ She hates the mirror lately. Hates seeing herself knowing what she’s doing. But the only time she doesn’t feel like a monster is when she’s buried in your arms.
☆ She cooks for you in secret. Not well, but she tries—burnt grilled cheese, bland pasta. You eat it anyway, legs wrapped around her hips at the kitchen counter.
☆ She keeps a drawer of your things in her apartment: a sweater, a scrunchie, a book you left behind. She told herself it was just until you took them back—but she likes seeing pieces of you there.
☆ You steal a pair of her dog tags. Wear them under your clothes like a talisman. She notices, and that night, she makes you wear nothing but them.
☆ You have a code phrase—“Are you free to talk?”—that means “I need you. Now.”
☆ You meet in quiet places: her truck parked on the cliffside at night, an old garage your dad doesn’t use, hotel rooms under fake names. Every touch is frantic. Every goodbye, heartbreaking.
☆ After every time, she tells you it’s the last. She never means it. You both pretend like the next time won’t happen, even though it always does.
☆ She hid her jealousy well—until she doesn’t. If someone else touches you, even innocently, she goes cold. Her voice sharpens. Her eyes darken. Later, she drags you into a quiet room and kisses you like she owns you.
“No one else gets to see you like this.”
“You shouldn’t be showing yourself to anyone but me.”
☆ It’s twisted, and it turns you on. But it scares her. She’s never felt this out of control before, and it makes her want to run—or hold on tighter.
☆ After she touches you, there’s always a pause. A moment of silence where she looks at you like she’s doing something unforgivable. Like she’s already lost you.
☆ Sometimes she sits at the edge of the bed, head in her hands. “I shouldn’t want this,” she whispers. “I shouldn’t want you.”
You crawl into her lap, cup her face, and say, “Then don’t make me beg.”
And that’s all it takes—her restraint shatters.
☆ She knows every inch of you—where to touch, where you’re ticklish, what makes you melt. But it’s not just sex. It’s the way her hands tremble when she unzips your hoodie. The way her breath catches when you say her name like a secret.
Her voice drops when she’s turned on. Low, rough, almost pleading.
“You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Tell me you’re mine. Even if it’s just here.”
☆ She can’t be soft in public, so she’s overwhelmingly soft in private. She holds you like a secret she’ll die to keep. Kisses your forehead. Tells you she dreams of a version of the world where this isn’t wrong.
☆ You want more. You start slipping up. Touching her shoulder when your dad’s in the room. Smiling at her too long. She panics when you get bold.
“You’re going to ruin this,” she hisses one day when you almost kiss her goodbye. “Someone will find out.”
“Then let them,” you challenge.
She grabs your wrist. “Don’t ever say that again.”
☆ It starts to hurt—loving someone in the shadows. The secrets eat at you. You wonder if she’ll ever really choose you.
☆ You tell her: “I want a life with you. I want to hold your hand in public. I want people to know you’re mine.”
☆ Abby’s voice breaks. “I want that too. But I want your dad to look me in the eye without seeing betrayal. I want to deserve you first.”
☆ A near-discovery shakes everything. Maybe someone sees you leaving her place at dawn. Maybe your dad borrows her phone and sees your contact.
☆ Abby freaks out. Cuts contact. Says it’s over. You cry. She watches from a distance, agonizing over it.
☆ Then, weeks later—she shows up at your door again. Hands shaking. Heart bare. “I tried. I can’t stop. I need you.”
☆ She finally asks you to leave with her. No more hiding. No more pretending.
“Let’s go somewhere no one knows us. I’ll build us a life. Just say the word.”
Headcannons: professor!ellie williams x reader
masterlist
professor ellie masterlist
☆ She teaches something cerebral—Literature, Creative Writing, or Philosophy—and has a cult following of students obsessed with her intellect and cold beauty.
☆ She’s the kind of professor that everyone crushes on, but no one dares approach. Sharp tongue. Impossibly high standards. A reputation for never mixing business with pleasure.
☆ She lectures with her sleeves rolled up, tattoos exposed, glasses perched low on her nose as she picks apart theories with quiet confidence.
☆ You challenge her in class. You’re clever, intuitive, and occasionally bold with your interpretations. That makes her look up from her notes more often than she should.
☆ She starts reading your papers more carefully than anyone else’s. Leaves long, thoughtful feedback. Starts quoting your insights in lectures.
☆ You feel her eyes on you. Not often—but enough to wonder if you’re imagining it.
☆ You start visiting her office under the guise of discussing assignments. She always looks up slowly when you enter. You swear her voice drops half an octave when she talks to you one-on-one.
☆ The air between you is thick. Tension buzzes under every conversation—your knees brushing under her desk, her lingering glances at your mouth.
☆ You leave every time a little breathless. Every time, you swear you’ll stop going. You never do.
☆ She’s calculated. She doesn’t take risks. But something about you breaks her pattern.
☆ She knows this could ruin everything—her job, her career, her integrity. But she can’t stop wondering what your skin would feel like under her fingers.
☆ She starts pulling away—cold in class, distant in office hours. You notice. It hurts.
☆ It happens late. You’re the last student at her seminar. The conversation turns personal. You say something that disarms her completely.
☆ You’re standing close. Her breath catches. She kisses you.
☆ She pulls away immediately. Apologizes. You tell her you wanted it. She tells you it can’t happen again (It does)
☆ You agree on rules: No affection on campus. No texting unless it’s academic. No being seen together in private spaces. Every rule falls apart quickly.
☆ She starts leaving books for you with hidden notes inside. You start staying after class even when you don’t have questions.
☆ When the door is locked, she’s softer. Takes off her glasses, lets her fingers trail across your cheek as she kisses you slowly.
☆ She lets you lie with your head in her lap while she reads aloud. Strokes your hair and calls you “baby” in a whisper.
☆ She admits she dreams about you. That sometimes she writes about you and deletes it in a panic.
☆ If someone flirts with you in class, her smile tightens. She calls on you more. Challenges your answers with sharp questions just to re-establish dominance.
☆ Outside class, she lets it out. Pulls you onto her lap and murmurs:
“You belong to me, you know that?”
“I see the way they look at you. But they’ll never know you like I do.”
☆ She tries to keep her distance, but it always ends the same—your lips on her neck, your hands under her shirt, her voice breathless: “God, I can’t stay away from you.”
☆ She’s never done this before. Never even thought about crossing the line. But for you, she’d risk it all.
☆ She scrubs your name from her personal phone. Starts using encrypted apps. Uses burner emails to talk about anything non-academic.
☆ Always looks around before letting you into her office. Never leaves a paper trail.
☆ She even gives you a code phrase—"What time is the seminar again?"—that means you want to see her alone.
☆ You like how commanding she is. How she takes control with her voice alone. She calls you “darling” or “sweet girl” only when no one else can hear.
☆ But you also love making her lose control. Love seeing her flustered. Love hearing her beg—only for you.
☆ She has a small couch. You both fall asleep tangled up after a long night of whispered confessions and kisses.
In the morning, she wakes you with soft kisses and regret in her eyes.
“We can’t keep doing this.”
“Then stop.”
She doesn’t.
☆ She writes about you. You find it once by accident. A half-finished poem with your favourite lipstick shade in the margin.
☆ She’s furious when you read it—then kisses you like she wants to drown in you.
☆ The first time she says she loves you it slips out during a quiet moment. She freezes. Looks at you with eyes full of fear and awe.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
She kisses you hard, like she’s trying to erase the fear.
☆ Only you are allowed in her apartment. She never brings anyone else. You cook together, read on the couch, listen to old vinyl records.
☆ She wears soft sweaters, no makeup, lets you sit between her legs while she grades. Sometimes she forgets the world is waiting outside.
☆ One day you accuse her of being ashamed of you. She snaps, tells you this could ruin everything. You scream that you’re worth the risk.
☆ She shows up the next day with red-rimmed eyes and a stack of your favourite books.
“I’m scared. But I want you.”
☆ She's always teaching you something new. Not just in class but in life too. She shows you how to break down arguments, how to write better, how to stand your ground in a debate.
☆ She’s fiercely proud of your mind. Tells you, “You’re the smartest person I’ve ever taught—and the only one I want.”
☆ You almost got caught a few times. A classmate sees you leaving her office late at night. Once in class you slip and say “Ellie” instead of “Professor.”
☆ You both panic. Lay low. Stop touching. Stop texting. It’s torture.
☆ She cracks first. Shows up at your dorm. “If we’re going down, I want one more night with you.”
☆ In whispered conversations at 3 a.m., you talk about a life after school. A place where she’s not your professor. A place you can be together without shame.
☆ She wants to publish a book. You want to teach. You want to love each other in the daylight.
☆ She gets offered a position at another university. She can leave—with a clean record. She asks if you’ll come.
“If we stay here, we lose. But if we go… we can finally be real.”
Can you do smt for abby with the song new magic wand by Tyler the creator?
I love her puppy eyes and muscles so much 🥺
Also, i love obsessive women so
New Magic Wand - abby anderson x reader
hi anon!! fictional obsessive women are so hot ughhhhhhhh. i hope you enjoy:) also abby in this pic??? i love her.
this story is based off the song new magic wand by tyler the creator. If you can please listen to the song as you're reading:)
pairing: abby anderson x fem!reader
requests are open, send me your thoughts:)
Warnings: dark themes, obsession, violence, psychological tension
Summary: Abby has never been good at letting things go. And she sure as hell isn't letting go of you.
Masterlist
You met Abby during a supply run in Jackson. Just two soldiers assigned to the same patrol, nothing special. But there was something about you—your laugh, maybe. The way you didn’t flinch when she barked orders. The way you looked at the world like it hadn’t completely fallen apart.
That was two months ago.
Now, she watches you from the shadows.
She doesn’t mean to. At first, it was casual. Coincidental. A walk past the stables. Lingering near the training yard. Asking around. But then she saw you with someone else. That girl—Mia, from the medbay. Too close. Touching your wrist. Whispering.
Abby’s jaw locked so tight her molars ached.
She waited. Quiet. Calculating.
She told herself you weren’t hers. But that wasn’t true. Not really.
You were hers. You just didn’t know it yet.
“She’s gonna be dead, I just got a magic wand.”
You started noticing strange things.
Your door left slightly ajar when you knew you closed it. The sweater you thought you lost suddenly reappearing on your cot. A shadow behind you in the glass of the dining hall. At first, you brushed it off. The world was full of paranoia and trauma—maybe it was just stress.
Then Mia disappeared.
She never showed up to her shift. Her bunk was untouched. No note. No signs of struggle.
You asked questions. Abby watched you from across the rec room as you begged the search party to look further. No one had the energy to care. People disappeared sometimes.
But Abby cared.
Abby had taken care of the problem.
She didn't use a "magic wand"—just her hands. Just enough pressure. She didn’t scream. Abby was proud of that. No mess. No loose ends.
She thought you'd notice her now. You didn’t.
You started pulling away. Spending more time alone. Your smile—her favorite thing about you—began to dim. She hated that. Hated that you didn’t know she was trying to protect you.
Abby tried to get closer. Leaving you small things. A can of your favorite peaches. A leather glove you mentioned needing. You thanked her, politely.
But not the way she wanted.
“I need to get her out the picture, she’s really fucking up my frame.”
Abby started dreaming about you. In those dreams, you kissed her like you meant it. You let her hold you. You begged her to stay. Woke up to soaked sheets and a clenched jaw.
Reality was uglier. You barely looked at her now. You were scared—she could see it in your eyes. That made her blood boil and her stomach twist.
It was that fucking patrol leader next.
Sergio.
Too friendly. Too smug. Too willing to walk next to you, show you how to hold a better grip on your rifle.
Abby followed him. Took his knee out behind the stables. Broke his arm and left him in the snow. Said she found him that way.
It wasn’t about jealousy, she told herself. It was about clarity. You and her—there was no room for anyone else in the picture.
They were ruining the shot. The life she could see so clearly with you.
She’d fix it.
“I wanna be found, passenger in your car.”
You knew it by the fourth disappearance. This wasn’t just coincidence. Someone was doing this.
Someone was doing this for you.
That’s when you found the journal.
Hidden under the floorboard in the old stables. Pages and pages of your name. Drawings of your face. A lock of your hair taped to the corner of a page. Abby’s messy handwriting scrawled beneath every entry:
“I saw her smile today. I think she smiled at me.”
“She wore her green coat. It suits her. She looked cold—I should bring her another.”
“She looked at her again. I want to rip her throat out.”
“She's mine. She just doesn't understand yet.”
Your breath caught. She was watching you. All this time.
“You got a new friend, it hurts. I’ll make you one, I’ll make you one.”
You confronted her. Cornered her in the greenhouse, where no one else went anymore.
"Abby," you said, voice trembling. "What the fuck did you do?"
She didn’t deny it. Just looked at you like she always had—like you were the sun burning through her skull.
“I protected you,” she said. “They didn’t deserve you. None of them did.”
“You killed them,” you whispered.
She stepped closer. You flinched. That hurt her—cut deep.
“I’d do it again,” Abby murmured, voice soft and low. “I’d do anything for you.”
You should’ve run. You should’ve screamed.
But something in her eyes—something fractured and sincere—rooted you in place.
She reached out, calloused fingers brushing your cheek. You didn’t move.
"You don’t have to be scared," she whispered. "I’m not gonna hurt you. I just want you to see. We can be good, you and me."
And despite everything—the deaths, the obsession, the blood on her hands—your heart stuttered.
Because some broken, desperate part of you wanted to believe her.
Wanted to believe you could be loved that completely.
“Please don’t leave me now.”
Abby kept you in a cabin miles from Jackson. Safe. Stocked. Secluded. A place where no one could come between you.
She made you tea. Lit the fireplace. Spoke softly. Touched you like you were made of glass.
You tried to run once. She found you hours later, frostbitten and sobbing.
She carried you back. Wrapped you in blankets. Kissed your forehead.
“You don’t get it,” she murmured against your skin. “You’re all I have left.”
And eventually...you stopped fighting. Let her touch linger. Let her hold you at night.
You told yourself it was survival. But when she kissed you the first time, your lips parted.
Not in protest.
But in surrender.
girlfriend - ellie williams x reader
this story is based off the song boyfriend by ariana grande, if you can please listen to the song as you're reading:)
Pairing: ellie williams x reader
Setting: Modern College AU
requests are open again! send me your silly thoughts:)
Warnings: Emotional angst, mutual jealousy, slow-burn tension, internal conflict, drinking, makeout scenes (no explicit smut)
Summary: In a broken world, Ellie Williams becomes the one constant — protective, intense, and impossible to ignore. Their bond is complicated, but it’s all they have.
Masterlist
Ellie’s hoodie still smelled like her shampoo. You knew that because you were still wearing it, weeks after she left it on your dorm bed like it didn’t mean anything.
But it did. Of course it did.
She knew it.
You knew it.
It was the only thing either of you seemed to know for sure.
You weren’t dating.
You didn’t kiss in public, didn’t hold hands, didn’t label anything. She didn’t ask you not to see other people—but she acted like you betrayed her if you did. You weren’t hers.
But she looked at you like she hated the thought of you belonging to anyone else.
Tonight, that look was on full display.
The party was packed. Bodies pressed too close in the too-small off-campus house, and you were perched on the arm of a couch beside some guy—Kieran?—laughing because he was charming and tall and most importantly, not Ellie.
She watched you from the kitchen, beer in hand, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack. You saw it in the way her knuckles whitened around the bottle. In how she ignored the pretty brunette trying to flirt with her.
You knew that look. You’d seen it in the mirror.
Kieran leaned closer, his hand resting casually on your thigh. “You’ve got that look in your eye.”
You blinked. “What look?”
“Like you’re trying not to look at someone.”
Your lips parted, but you didn’t deny it. Just glanced—briefly, too briefly—toward the kitchen. Ellie was gone.
You found her later. Out back on the steps, hoodie over her head, cigarette lit between her fingers—something she only did when she was pissed or spiraling. Maybe both.
“You’re mad,” you said.
Ellie didn’t look at you. “Didn’t know we were playing the jealousy game tonight.”
“We’re not.”
She exhaled smoke, bitter and sharp. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“Could say the same about you. Who was the girl in the kitchen?”
She smirked, humorless. “Didn’t catch her name. Didn’t matter.”
Your stomach twisted. “You’re such a hypocrite.”
“So are you,” she said, finally looking at you. “You sit there smiling like you’re in love with him, but you still wear my fucking clothes.”
The silence cracked.
You stepped forward. She didn’t move.
“You left that hoodie on purpose,” you said.
“Maybe I did.”
You were close now—close enough to hear her breath hitch.
“Why do you keep doing this?”
“Because I don’t know how not to want you.”
It felt like a confession, and you hated how badly you wanted to believe it.
It became a pattern. Nights out turned into emotional warfare. You flirted with people you didn’t care about. Ellie showed up with girls she never looked twice at. You exchanged long, loaded glances across crowded rooms.
Neither of you made a move.
Until the night you almost did.
It was late, the party thinning out. You found her alone in someone’s guest room, sitting on the bed with her head in her hands.
“You okay?” you asked.
She looked up, eyes bloodshot. “No.”
You didn’t say anything. Just sat beside her. Your thighs touched. She didn’t move away.
“I hate it,” she whispered. “Seeing you with someone else.”
You swallowed. “Then stop pretending you don’t care.”
“I can’t be with you,” she said, voice cracking. “But I don’t want you with anyone else either.”
Your breath caught. “That’s not fair.”
“I know.”
Then she kissed you.
It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate, aching, teeth and tongue and every word left unsaid. Your hands in her hair, hers on your hips, pulling you close, closer, too close—
Then she pulled back. “Fuck. I shouldn’t have done that.”
And just like that, she was gone again.
Weeks passed. You stopped texting. She stopped showing up. The hoodie stayed folded at the bottom of your drawer.
But you still saw her.
In the way your phone lit up at 2 AM with her name and no message.
In the missed glances across campus.
In the way she looked at you like she was drowning every time someone else touched your arm.
The last straw came during a house party in the city.
You were tipsy. Daring. Reckless. You kissed someone in front of her.
She left without a word.
You chased her outside. Rain had started to fall, light but cold.
“Ellie!” you called. “Wait—”
She turned. Her hair was damp, her eyes furious. “What do you want from me?”
“I don’t know!” you shouted. “I want—I want you to stop pretending like I don’t matter!”
“You matter,” she said, voice low, trembling. “You matter too fucking much.”
And then she kissed you again. This time slower. Angrier. Sadder.
Like a goodbye. But you didn’t let go.
You ended up at her apartment, clothes wet and clinging, hands tangled in each other like lifelines. She pushed you against the door, forehead resting against yours.
“You drive me insane,” she whispered.
“Then let me drive you insane forever.”
She didn’t answer with words. Just held you like she was terrified you’d disappear.
Later, tangled in her sheets, half dressed and heart aching, you whispered:
“This can’t just be nothing anymore.”
Ellie looked at you, green eyes soft for once.
“It’s not,” she said. “It’s never been.”
Drunk texting - ellie williams x reader
this story is based off the song drunk texting by (name i will not mention) and Jhene Aiko. If you can please listen to the song as you're reading:)
Pairing: ellie williams x fem!reader
requests are open, send me your thoughts:)
Warning: Alcohol use, emotional angst, late-night texting, mentions of sex, unresolved feelings, soft heartbreak.
Setting: Modern College AU
Summary: After a night of drinking, a risky text is sent to Ellie — one that unravels buried feelings and turns their dynamic upside down.
Masterlist
1:58 AM
The party had long since blurred.
You were stretched across the living room couch, head tilted back, red cup dangling loosely from your fingers. Bass still pulsed faintly through the floor, though the crowd had thinned. You should’ve gone home. You should’ve stayed home.
But you were tipsy now. And stupid.
Which meant only one thing:
You were about to text her.
Ellie Williams.
Your ex. Or almost-ex. Or not-quite-anything that still managed to hurt like hell.
Your finger hovered over her name.
You hadn’t spoken in weeks—not really, not since that fight.
Not since you said you were done pretending.
She never said you weren’t.
She just... let you go.
But your chest was too heavy, your brain too slow, and your fingers too fast.
you:
you up?
Delivered.
Read.
Nothing.
You dropped your head back and shut your eyes.
This was a bad idea.
The last time you saw her was a month ago. Cold air. Hot tears.
You yelling in the middle of her apartment while she stood still, staring at you like you were a puzzle she couldn’t solve anymore.
“You don’t say how you feel, Ellie,” you’d snapped. “You don’t do anything until it’s too late.”
“You always want more from me,” she said quietly. “And I never know how to give it without ruining it.”
“I’m not asking for perfect. I’m asking for real.”
She didn’t stop you when you left.
But her hand lingered on the door longer than it should have.
2:14 AM
Your phone buzzed.
Ellie:
what do you want?
Your breath caught.
She was always like this—short, cautious. But she answered.
you, you typed. Then erased it.
you:
to talk
A pause. Three dots. Then nothing.
2:22 AM
Ellie:
you’re drunk
You:
so?
Ellie:
you only miss me when you’re not sober
you only remember how we felt when you can’t feel anything else
You:
that’s not true.
I miss you every fucking day.
That one stung. You knew it would. You meant it to.
Your phone buzzed again.
Ellie:
then why did you leave?
Your thumb hovered over the screen.
You:
because you never asked me to stay.
Silence.
You waited, heart racing, guilt settling like fog in your chest. Maybe that was too much. Maybe she’d block you. Maybe—
Ellie:
i didn’t know how
i still don’t
You blinked hard. The room spun.
You:
i’m outside
You didn’t even remember walking to her place. You just knew your hand was curled into a fist, knuckles lightly tapping her apartment door in the cold.
It opened slowly.
Ellie stood there in a hoodie and sweats, bare feet, eyes tired and red-rimmed. Like she hadn’t slept in days.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said. Voice small.
“I know,” you whispered. “But I needed to see you.”
She stepped back. Just enough.
You walked inside.
The place looked the same—records on the floor, your old hoodie still slung over the back of the couch. You stared at it.
“You kept it.”
“I keep a lot of things I shouldn’t,” she said quietly.
You turned. She was watching you like you were a dream she couldn’t decide was good or bad.
“Why did you answer?” you asked.
Ellie’s throat bobbed. “Because I always do. Because I want to hate you, but I don’t. Because even now... I still think about you before I go to sleep.”
Silence stretched like a wound.
“I hate that you only come back when you’re drunk,” she whispered.
You stepped closer.
“I hate that it’s the only time I feel brave enough to.”
She didn’t pull away when you reached for her hand.
The couch was cold. Her body was warm. You sat beside each other in that too-familiar way, knees brushing, fingers playing with the hem of her sleeve.
“You think if we were better at talking, we wouldn’t have fallen apart?” you asked.
Ellie laughed softly. “No. I think if I’d told you how much I loved you, you might’ve stayed.”
You froze.
She never said it back when you did. Not once.
Now you didn’t know what to say.
She turned her head. Her green eyes were glassy. Raw.
“I did,” she whispered. “I just... couldn’t say it out loud.”
You leaned in before you could stop yourself.
It wasn’t a kiss, not yet. Just your foreheads pressed together, your breath mixing with hers, that ache rising again, warm and hungry and full of everything you never said.
“I still love you,” you said, barely audible.
Ellie closed her eyes. “God, I wish I didn’t.”
Then she kissed you.
And it tasted like regret. Like forgiveness. Like maybe this time, you wouldn’t let go.
stateside- abby anderson x reader
this story is based off the song state side by pinkpantheress, if you can please listen to the song as you're reading:)
Pairing: abby anderson x fem!reader
requests are open, send me your ideas:)
Warnings: Jealousy, emotional repression, post-situationship confusion, cursing, mentions of hookup culture, kissing, emotional vulnerability
Summary: After months apart, Abby finally comes home—but the distance hasn’t only been physical. As old feelings resurface and tension brews, you’re both forced to confront what was left unsaid before she left.
Setting: Modern College AU
Masterlist
You weren’t her girlfriend. Not officially. You weren’t even sure what you were.
Somewhere between a secret, a comfort, and a goddamn heartbeat.
Late-night car rides. Unspoken rules. Her breath at your neck when the world went quiet—but no hand-holding in public, no posting you on stories, no “this is my girl.”
You told yourself you were okay with it.
You weren’t.
So when Abby left for her out-of-state internship with no real goodbye—just a message that read:
“Headed out. Don’t wait up.”
—it cracked something open in you. And three months later, you still hadn’t sealed it shut.
It wasn’t just the photos (though they burned.)
The ones where she stood beside that medical student—Isla. Bright smile. Tank top. Hand on Abby’s shoulder like it belonged there.
It was the silence.
No texts. No late-night calls. No “I miss you.”
And yet every time you closed your eyes, you could feel her:
The weight of her hand on your thigh in the car.
The way she pulled you close but never close enough.
You tried to move on.
Hooked up once with someone too sweet and too soft.
But it wasn’t her. And the silence only got louder.
You found out she was back from some guy at a party.
“Didn’t you and Abby Anderson used to mess around?” he asked lazily, red cup in hand.
You froze. “What?”
“She’s back in town. Thought I saw her near the gym.”
The air shifted around you. Your ears rang. You left the party early.
Buzzing with resentment and longing, palms sweaty from the weight of things unsaid.
You didn’t text her.
But you stared at her contact all night, whispering to yourself, don’t be that girl. And then you were.
The next day, she was just there—in the café near campus, hoodie loose over her frame, head bent over her laptop.
You froze when you saw her. She looked up. Blinked. Took an AirPod out.
“Hey,” she said, like no time had passed. Like you weren’t breaking.
You sat across from her before you could change your mind. “You’re back.”
“Tuesday.”
You looked at your hands. “No text?”
She winced. “Didn’t think you’d want one.”
“You left without saying goodbye.”
“I didn’t think I deserved one,” she said, softer.
That shut you up. Because deep down… maybe she was right.
You left together. Neither of you said it out loud—but somehow, you ended up in her car. The way you always used to.
Same quiet roads. Same faint music.
Same ache in your chest.
You turned to her. “You seeing someone?”
She hesitated. “No. You?”
You shook your head. “Tried. Didn’t work.”
The air between you pulsed.
“Why didn’t you call?” you asked.
She tightened her grip on the wheel. “Because I knew if I did… I wouldn’t stop.”
Silence.
You stared ahead. “I would’ve answered.”
She pulled over.
“I missed you,” she admitted. “More than I should’ve.”
You didn’t know if it was closure or a beginning. But you kissed her anyway.
You slept in her bed that night.
She didn’t touch you—not at first. Just handed you an old hoodie, let you curl under her blanket, and sat down next to you like she was scared to break something fragile.
You wanted to ask her what this meant. If this was her way of coming back.
Instead, you whispered, “I missed your room.”
And she whispered back, “I missed your voice.”
That was enough—for now.
Over the next week, you kept pretending it was nothing.
Texts. “Wanna grab food?” “You still awake?” “Need a ride?”
But it wasn’t casual. Not really.
Not when she looked at you like that.
Not when her fingers brushed yours and lingered.
Not when she flinched every time someone else mentioned Isla.
You weren’t hers. She wasn’t yours.
But you were still something.
And that something was slowly burning the both of you alive.
The breaking point came on a Friday night.
You were at a mutual friend’s place, trying to play it cool. Abby walked in late—messy bun, grey t-shirt, muscle memory and heartbreak wrapped in denim.
And Isla was there too.
They didn’t touch. But she stood close. Laughed too loud. Looked too often.
Your heart fell into your stomach.
Abby caught your eye across the room. You held her gaze for one full second before walking out.
You didn’t even make it halfway down the street before she caught up.
“Wait,” she called.
You spun on her. “What are we doing, Abby?”
She blinked.
“I can’t keep pretending we don’t matter,” you said, voice cracking. “I can’t keep acting like this is casual when it never was.”
Silence.
Her jaw clenched. “You think I don’t want you?”
“I think you’re too scared to admit you do.”
That hit something deep.
She stepped forward, crowding into your space. “You’re wrong.”
“Then say it.”
She grabbed your face in both hands. “I want you.”
Your breath caught.
“God help me, I want you,” she said, forehead pressed to yours. “I left because I thought I’d ruin it. Because I’m not soft, and I don’t know how to be good at this—but I never stopped thinking about you.”
You kissed her like you were drowning.
And this time, she kissed you back like she meant it.
They don’t fix it all at once.
But they start over—this time with honesty. This time with intention.
No more hiding. No more maybe.
Just two people learning how to love each other out loud—even if it scares them.
High enough by k.flay is sooo obsessive ellie with a reader who doesnt know she exists but gets mad when jesse or dina warn her about ellies behaviour
high enough- ellie williams x reader
hi anon! thank you requesting this!! I'm so suprised ive never heard of this song. This is so obsessive ellie coded. I hope you enjoy:)
This story is based off the song High enough by K Flay, if you can please listen to the song as you're reading:)
pairing: ellie williams x fem!reader
requests are open, send me your thoughts:)
Warnings: obsession
Summary: In which you wanted her
Masterlist
You’d only been in Jackson a month when you first saw her.
She stood out—sharp jaw, freckled face, an intensity in her green eyes that made your chest clench. You noticed her on the patrol schedule, but she never said much. Just stared.
Sometimes you’d look up and catch her watching you across the dining hall. Not smiling. Just... looking.
It gave you chills. Not fear exactly—just something too heavy to name.
You didn’t know her name then. You would later.
“Hey,” Jesse said, sliding onto the bench beside you. “Word of advice?”
You blinked. “Yeah?”
He glanced over his shoulder, then leaned in. “Stay away from Ellie.”
You laughed, confused. “What? I don’t even know her.”
He didn’t laugh back. “Good. Keep it that way.”
You frowned. “Why?”
“She doesn’t… do normal. Gets fixated. You don’t want that kind of attention.”
You rolled your eyes. “Is this some protective crap? I can handle myself.”
Jesse sighed and left it alone. But he wasn’t the only one.
Later, Dina caught you patching up a horse near the stables.
“You seen Ellie around?” you asked casually.
Dina froze for a second too long.
“Why?”
You shrugged. “She keeps popping up. Figured I’d say hi.”
Dina stepped closer. “Don’t.”
Your brow furrowed. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“She gets obsessed,” Dina said flatly. “And you—you don’t see it. That’s how it starts.”
You crossed your arms. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know her,” Dina said. “And she’ll chew you up.”
You didn’t listen. Because Ellie started showing up more.
Always just… there.
When you were in the garden, she’d pass by. When you went for patrol, somehow your name ended up paired with hers. Once, when a gate latch broke and you slipped, she was there—grabbing your wrist so fast you didn’t even hit the ground.
“You okay?” she asked, voice low and steady.
You nodded, stunned.
And when you looked up, her face was too close. Eyes full of something unreadable.
“Don’t scare me like that,” she muttered. Then walked off.
Your stomach flipped.
You were starting to dream about her now. Waking up with her name on your lips.
You didn’t see the danger—not really.
Not until she showed up at your cabin at midnight.
You cracked the door open. She stood on the porch, hoodie soaked from the rain, hands clenched.
“Ellie?”
“I heard you were with Jesse,” she said, no greeting, no smile.
“What?”
“At the bar. You were laughing. He touched your arm.”
You stared. “So?”
“So you’re mine.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I mean—fuck,” she hissed, dragging a hand through her hair. “I just—I see you. All the time. And it’s like I can’t breathe when you look at anyone else.”
You took a step back. “Ellie, we’re not even—”
“I know,” she snapped. “But I watch you and I know things Jesse doesn’t. Dina doesn’t. I see you.”
She stepped inside without asking, closing the door behind her.
“I can’t get high enough to not feel you,” she whispered. “You don’t even know I exist and it’s driving me insane.”
You stood frozen as she stepped closer.
“Do you want me to go?” she asked, voice trembling. “Tell me. I’ll go.”
You should’ve said yes.
But you didn’t.
You reached up, touched her jaw. And when she kissed you, it was feverish. Messy. Desperate.
Like she’d been dying for this. Like you were air.
You were hers after that. Not officially. Not publicly.
But in the ways that mattered.
Ellie’s hands on your hips. Her breath on your neck. Her knife tucked in your bag when she thought you’d forgotten one. Her voice soft in your ear—“Don’t ever leave without telling me.”
When Jesse looked at you too long, she knocked over his drink and didn’t apologize.
When Dina gave you that look—worry, warning—Ellie cornered her outside and came back with blood on her knuckles.
“You’re scaring people,” you said one night, whispering into her skin.
“I don’t care,” she murmured, pulling you tighter. “Let them be scared. You’re mine.”
It wasn’t until you caught her in your room—reading your journal—that it really hit you.
“Ellie?”
She didn’t even flinch. Just looked up with that same calm obsession.
“You wrote about me,” she said.
You stared. “That doesn’t mean you can—”
“I just wanted to know how you see me,” she said softly. “I think about you every second. I needed to know if it was mutual.”
Your chest ached.
It was mutual. That was the worst part.
You’d fallen for a storm in human form.
You stopped asking questions. Let her in.
Let her love you like wildfire—burning, dangerous, beautiful.
You knew it wasn’t healthy. Knew people whispered.
But when her arms wrapped around you, when she kissed you like you were the only thing that kept her sane—
—it didn’t matter.
Because you weren’t high enough to care.
your best friend- ellie williams x reader
no one requested this lol, i just liked the song... do yall want me to make a spotify playlist off all the songs i've written about?
This story is based off the song your best friend by Kiana Lede, if you can please listen to the song as you're reading:)
Pairing: ellie williams x fem!reader
requests are open, send me your thoughts:)
Warnings: emotional cheating
Summary: in which you wished ellie wasn't dating your best friend
Masterlist
Ellie never planned to fall in love with you.
She always said your laugh was addictive. Always told Dina that you were “a good one” — loyal, grounded, funny. The kind of person who didn’t start shit, who didn’t push boundaries.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it?
You didn’t push the boundary.
Ellie did. And you let her.
It started with late-night walks through Jackson. Dina would stay behind to clean up or rest from patrol. You and Ellie would wander, shoulders brushing, voices soft, dancing around the things you never said.
It continued with touches that lingered — a hand at your waist that stayed too long. A look that lasted one second too much. Her compliments growing too precise. Yours returning just as sharp.
You told yourself: I would never betray her.
And Ellie told herself: I would never act on it.
But both of you were liars.
One night, while Dina slept upstairs, you and Ellie were in the kitchen, whispering about dumb shit, faces inches apart. You’d just said something funny, and she laughed — full and rare — and then she looked at you like she wanted to ruin everything. You saw it coming.
You didn’t stop it.
The kiss was slow, scared — like both of you knew you’d just ripped something open you couldn’t close.
“I’m sorry,” Ellie whispered, lips still brushing yours.
“No, you’re not.”
And you were right.
Guilt became your second skin.
You smiled in front of Dina. You helped her chop vegetables for dinner, listened to her talk about the new recruits, helped her clean out the horse stables.
But you couldn’t stop thinking about Ellie’s hands under your shirt two nights ago, the way she kept saying “fuck, I shouldn’t” while she didn’t stop.
You weren’t proud. But god, it felt real.
You hated yourself for loving it.
One evening, after too much whiskey, Ellie sat on your porch with red eyes.
“I can’t lie to her forever.”
“Then don’t,” you said. “End it. Or stop this.”
Ellie looked at you, jaw tight. “I don’t know how to stop.”
You both sat there in silence. You didn’t know either.
Dina found out in spring.
You never knew how much Ellie told her, but the fallout was brutal. Dina slammed the front door, threw Ellie’s jacket across the porch, and didn’t speak to you for a month.
Ellie moved out of their house.
She stayed in one of the abandoned cabins by the trees, didn’t talk to anyone for days.
You visited once, stood outside her door. “Ellie, say something.”
“I’m a fucking coward,” came her voice. “Don’t come back.”
You left.
But you didn’t stop loving her.
Time passed.
The pain dulled, but it never left. People stopped looking at you like you were contagious. Dina started laughing again, even made peace with you one afternoon when she found you alone by the stables.
“I’m not ready to forgive you,” she said. “But I know you loved her. That’s worse.”
You nodded. Because it was true.
Ellie stayed distant for months.
Then one day, you found a note slipped under your door.
“I’m still in love with you.
-E"
You found her at the lake, sitting on the edge of the dock, legs dangling in the water.
She didn’t look at you as you sat beside her.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said quietly.
“I almost didn’t,” you replied. “But I never stopped loving you either.”
She finally turned to face you — eyes green and heavy with regret.
“I ruined everything,” Ellie said.
“You broke her heart,” you agreed. “And mine. But I let you.”
Silence again.
Then: “Do you think we can try again? For real this time?”
You breathed out slowly. “Only if we stop lying. To everyone. To ourselves.”
Ellie nodded. “I want to love you right this time.”
It wasn’t perfect.
People judged. Dina kept her distance. Some friendships faded. But you and Ellie stood in it — the mess, the guilt, the consequences.
You built something real from the wreckage.
The touches became open. The glances weren’t stolen. Her hand on yours at the bar felt proud now. You kissed in daylight.
Sometimes, she still looked sad — when she remembered what she lost. What she broke.
But when she looked at you, there was love. Raw, honest, painful — but whole.
One night, in your shared bed, she whispered, “You’re not her best friend anymore.”
You smiled, touched her jaw. “No. I’m yours.”
Hi! Could you do dina x fem reader where they both love each other but are not together yet they are in Seattle and reader closes door or smth with dina on the other side to protect her and dina screaming for reader? Then they meet again and dina all angry punches reader screaming and they get together? Thank you! ❤️
All That’s Left Is Us - dina x reader
Hi anon! i love this idea!!! the tension... this is deadass something dina would do lmfao. I hope you enjoy:)
pairing: dina x fem!reader
requests are open, send me your thoughts:)
Warnings: angst, violence (Implied off-screen danger), dina hurting you, trauma undertones
Summary: In which you found eachother
Masterlist
Rain poured in sheets over Seattle, swallowing the city's broken skyline in a haze of grey. You and Dina had been on the move for hours, darting through ruins in search of supplies. Ellie had gone ahead to scout, but you and Dina had been tasked with clearing the east wing of an old hotel—the one that creaked like it could collapse any second.
Dina's flashlight flickered across the hallway as she glanced back at you. “You good?”
“Peachy,” you replied, offering her a crooked smile. You tried to play it off, but your heart was thudding. Not from fear of infected—but from her.
She was beautiful, even in the worst of it. Eyes sharp and warm, always alert. Lips you’d stared at too long. And though the two of you had never said it, not in words, it was always there between you. In the glances. The lingering touches. The way her hand would sometimes brush yours, and neither of you would pull away.
The hotel’s moan interrupted your thoughts.
“I hear something,” Dina said. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Basement. You go left, I’ll loop right?”
You nodded, heart sinking.
Five minutes later, you were pinned between a pair of infected and a failing security door. Dina shouted through the radio—she was on the other side, but the horde was between you now. You ran, feet slamming into wet tile, until you hit the emergency lockdown switch on instinct.
The door began to close.
“(Y/N)!” Dina’s voice crackled. She was close—too close.
You looked back. She was sprinting, eyes wild, arm outstretched. Behind you, the infected closed in.
“No!” she screamed. “Don’t close it! I’m right here!”
Your hand hovered over the override.
“I love you,” you whispered—too quiet for her to hear. “That’s why.”
Then you hit the button. The door slammed shut, cutting off her scream.
Her fists pounded the metal as you stumbled back, already pulling your knife. The infected rounded the corner and you screamed her name once before the fight swallowed you whole.
Then—black.
You woke up in a truck bed outside the city, barely breathing, ribs broken, blood caking your clothes. A patrol had found you—but you didn’t ask where Dina was. You were too ashamed.
She thought you were dead.
Good.
Let her hate you. Let her move on. Because at least she was alive.
You spent weeks healing. Every day felt like penance—until one morning, unable to carry the weight of her absence, you did what you swore you wouldn’t.
You went back to Jackson.
You looked nothing like yourself. Thinner. Bruised. Limps where there weren’t any before. You didn’t expect to be recognized.
But she was there—Dina—on the watchtower.
When she saw you, she froze. Her rifle slipped from her shoulder, clattering to the floor. Then she was running.
You barely had time to open your arms before she crashed into you.
And then her fist slammed into your jaw.
You hit the ground, dazed. Her scream pierced the air.
“You selfish piece of shit!”
You didn’t get up.
“You left me! I begged you—begged—and you shut that door anyway!”
“I had to,” you croaked. “They were—”
“I don’t care!” she shouted, sobbing now. “You let me think you were dead. Every day, I thought—I thought—”
She collapsed beside you, fists clenched.
“I couldn't lose you,” you whispered.
“You lost me anyway.”
Silence stretched. Only your broken breathing and her sobs remained.
Then, quietly, she asked, “Did you mean it?”
“What?”
She looked at you, her eyes wet and furious. “When you said you loved me.”
You didn’t answer with words.
You sat up, ignoring the pain, and kissed her.
Not soft. Not sweet.
It was angry. Raw. Desperate.
And when you broke apart, gasping for air, she grabbed your jacket and pulled you into her arms like she couldn’t let go.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I love you more.”
Dina let you stay with her. Said it was temporary. Said you were still on thin ice. But every night, she made room for you in her bed.
Every morning, her arm stayed wrapped around your waist long after the alarm went off.
She never said she forgave you. But she stopped flinching when you touched her. She stopped looking away when you said her name.
You learned to talk again. About what happened. About why. And one night, when the wind howled outside and the fire crackled low, she reached across the gap between you and said—
“You don’t get to leave again.”
You swallowed hard. “I won’t.”
“You promise?”
“I swear.”
She pressed her forehead to yours. “Then I’ll stay too.”
Seattle had taken so much from you both. But what it couldn’t take—what it never could—was this.
The choice to love.
To stay.
To come back, no matter how broken.
Because in the end, love wasn’t in the sacrifice. It was in the fight.
And you’d fight for her. Every single time.
I cant stop thinking about dark desperate ex gf ellie who broke up with you for cat a few years ago but now is knee deep in love and keeps trying to manipulate your relationship with your gf (jesse and dina try to stop her but... Young love what can we do)
Knee deep - ellie williams x reader
hi anon! I really like this idea... I lowkey wanna make a part 2 to this... i hope you enjoy:)
Pairing: ellie williams x fem!reader
requests are open, send me your thoughts:)
Warnings: Emotional manipulation, toxic behaviors, mention of infidelity (emotional), angst-heavy, complex feelings, swearing.
Summary: In which ellie wanted you back
Masterlist
Ellie Williams wasn’t supposed to come back. Not after what she did.
You’d built a life—steady, slow, whole—without her. Two years since she left you for Cat. Two years of grief, resentment, quiet rebuilding. Two years of convincing yourself that her absence was your freedom.
Now she stood outside the Tipsy Bison, a cigarette twitching between her fingers, hood up, green eyes tracking you like a mark.
“Hey,” she said when you stepped outside, your name low and husky on her tongue like a secret. “Been a while.”
Your stomach twisted. You hadn’t seen that face in two years—only through half-memories and the hollow ache of dreams you refused to admit you had. She still looked the same. Tired. Dangerous. Beautiful in a way that only hurt now.
You didn’t answer.
Ellie took a drag and blew out a slow breath. “You gonna ignore me forever?”
You wanted to. God, you wanted to.
But something about the way she said it—like she already knew you wouldn’t—cracked the surface.
“What do you want, Ellie?”
She shrugged like she didn’t already have a thousand motives stitched beneath her skin. “I just wanted to see you. Thought we could talk.”
You gave her a hard look. “After two years?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “After two years.”
Jesse didn’t believe it. Dina was pissed. Even Maria—who didn’t usually let things shake her—grew cold the moment Ellie’s name passed through your lips.
“She’s back?” Maria asked, arms crossed as she leaned against the kitchen counter, lips tight. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” you answered, which wasn’t a lie. Not really.
“She’s dangerous,” Dina added, always the realist. “Not in the ‘gonna hurt you physically’ way. In the ‘gonna pull your brain apart thread by thread’ way.”
You told yourself they were being dramatic. That you were stronger now. That Ellie couldn’t touch you anymore.
But then she started showing up.
Once at the diner where you worked—ordering coffee she never drank. Once near your cabin, claiming she “just happened to be walking by.” And once, late at night, waiting on your porch with a bottle of whiskey and a sad, slanted smile.
You didn’t let her in. Not that night.
The day she finally got to you was rainy. Thunder hung in the distance, and Cat was away on patrol. You’d been in the garden, hands dirty, hair damp, when Ellie showed up at the gate like a ghost resurrected.
“You still wear that necklace I gave you,” she said, voice soft and surprised.
You looked down. A slip of silver tucked beneath your shirt. You’d forgotten it was there. It pissed you off that she noticed. Pissed you off more that you hadn’t taken it off.
You wanted to tell her to leave, but she just kept going.
“I fucked up,” she whispered. “I thought Cat was… I don’t know. Simpler. Safer. But it was never like it was with you.”
You rolled your eyes, wiping mud on your pants. “You’re two years too late.”
“Are you happy?” she asked suddenly referring to the girl you had recently started dating.
Her name was Daisy. She was perfect, she gave you everything Ellie didn't. But you didn't love her like you loved Ellie.
No one could compare to Ellie.
The question landed like a gut punch. You weren’t expecting it. She leaned in then, crowding your space, eyes glassy and searching.
“Does she make you feel the way I did?”
You stared at her. “She doesn’t make me feel like shit. That’s the difference.”
Ellie flinched, and for a moment, you felt victorious.
But then she laughed—low, bitter. “You say that, but you’re not pushing me away.”
You did, then. Shoved her back with dirt-caked fingers and slammed the gate shut.
The problem was—Ellie didn’t stop.
She started leaving things. A drawing of you from memory, folded neatly in your mailbox. A song on a tape labeled "for the nights you still think of me." A note under your door that said, “She doesn’t know you like I do. She never will.”
You told yourself you hated it. You told yourself it was manipulation. You weren’t wrong. But you also didn’t tell Daisy.
The tension grew like a weed.
Daisy sensed it. Of course she did. She wasn’t stupid.
“You’ve been weird lately,” she said one night, her voice clipped. “Distant.”
You looked down at your hands. “Just tired.”
“You’re not still hung up on her, are you?”
Silence.
“Jesus,” Daisy muttered. “You are.”
“It’s not like that,” you insisted, even though it was exactly like that. Ellie was a wound that never fully healed. Just scarred over enough to convince you it had.
Daisy stood up, disgusted. “She left you. She replaced you. And now she comes back and suddenly you’re forgetting everything we’ve built?”
You didn’t answer.
Because Ellie had taken up space in your mind again. And you were letting her.
The night it all boiled over, the power had gone out.
A storm swept through Jackson and left the town flickering in candlelight. You were alone in your cabin when a knock hit your door. Slow. Measured.
You knew it was her.
Ellie didn’t wait to be invited. She stepped in, soaked to the bone, hair plastered to her forehead, and eyes wild with something between hope and desperation.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” she whispered. “Every time I close my eyes, it’s you. It’s always been you.”
You backed away, heart hammering. “You left me.”
“I know,” she said, voice breaking. “I was scared. I didn’t know how to love you the right way.”
“And now you do?”
She walked closer. “Now I’d rather fuck it up trying than live without you.”
You hated how your knees weakened. Hated how she knew just what to say.
“This is wrong,” you said.
“But it feels right,” she countered, and then she kissed you.
It was lightning in the bloodstream. Familiar. Addictive. Toxic.
And you kissed her back. Only for a moment.
Then you shoved her away. “I can’t do this.”
Ellie’s expression shattered. “You still love me.”
You hesitated. Then: “That’s not the point.”
The next day, you told Daisy everything.
It ended in shouting. Slamming doors. Tears. She left. Said she needed time.
And you stood in the wreckage, heart hollow, stomach twisted with guilt and something uglier: relief.
Ellie showed up that night. Like she knew.
“I heard,” she said, leaning against your porch railing. “You told her.”
You didn’t reply.
Ellie smiled, and it wasn’t kind. It was something darker. Hungrier.
“Guess it’s just us now.”
Sports car- ellie williams x reader
This story is based off the song Sports car by Tate Mcrae. If you can please listen to the song as you're reading:)
Pairing- ellie x fem!reader
requests are always open, feel free to leave one or just send me a song and I'll take it from there:)
Warnings: MDNI 18+ Mature content. Emotional detachment, lust, sexual themes, smut, strap-usage (r receiving)
Summary: in which she took you for a ride
masterlist
She drove like she kissed—reckless, sharp, and impossible to forget.
The city lights blurred through the passenger window as Ellie floored it, her hand resting casually on your thigh, fingers tapping out some beat only she knew. You had told yourself you weren’t going to fall again, but here you were—burning for someone who didn’t promise anything. Someone who wouldn’t slow down.
You turned your head and caught her smirk as the engine roared. She looked like she belonged behind the wheel of something fast. Something dangerous. Something just like her.
“You okay?” she asked, like she didn’t already know the answer.
“Are you?” you shot back.
Her fingers pressed a little firmer into your skin.
“Come here,” she muttered, taking a sharp turn that made your heart stutter. She pulled into the back of an empty parking garage, shadows swallowing the car whole.
The world fell quiet.
She leaned over the console and kissed you like she was trying to leave a mark. It wasn’t gentle—never was with Ellie. Her tongue pushed past your lips, one hand threading into your hair while the other slid up beneath your hoodie. She dragged her nails along your ribs, and your hips shifted toward her without thinking.
“Climb over,” she said, voice low and commanding.
You didn’t hesitate. You straddled her lap, knees pressed to the leather seat, hands in her hair. She pulled your hoodie off in one clean motion, mouthing along your collarbone, biting when you whimpered.
Her hands were everywhere—rough, searching, greedy.
“Think I’m obsessed with you,” she murmured, dragging her mouth down to your chest, tongue teasing a nipple before she sucked hard enough to make you gasp. “Or maybe I just like the way you fall apart for me.”
You tugged at her shirt, exposing the ink that curled around her ribs. Your fingers skimmed the scars on her shoulder, the ones she never talked about. She shivered, but not from the cold.
“You always drive this fast?” you asked, voice thick.
“Only when I’m trying to outrun something,” she said, pulling a condom from the glovebox with one hand while kissing you breathless with the other.
Her jeans were undone in seconds. You pushed her back, straddling her again as she guided you down slowly onto her strap. The stretch made your head fall to her shoulder.
“Fuck—” she hissed, hands gripping your waist as you started to move. “Just like that, baby…”
The car smelled like sweat and sex and the faint scent of pine from the old air freshener swinging by the mirror. You rode her hard, chasing that sharp edge, watching her eyes darken as she lost herself beneath you.
Your name fell from her lips like a confession.
She came first, hands trembling, mouth open against your throat. You followed seconds later, collapsing against her as your heart raced like her engine.
You stayed like that for a moment. Silent. Breathing each other in.
But Ellie was already lighting a cigarette, window cracked, profile cold in the moonlight.
You leaned back, pulling your hoodie over your bare chest.
“You always leave after?” you asked, knowing the answer.
She looked at you. Quiet. Apologetic in that way that never changed anything.
“I don’t know how to stay,” she said simply. You nodded. Like always.
Because she was a sports car—built for speed, not forever.
And you? You were just trying to survive the ride.
Hiii! Would you be able to write a fic with Spider-woman!ellie x reader, it can be about anything really! I just really like the concept of Ellie being spider-woman:)
Thank you bae<3
Beneath the mask - ellie williams x reader
hi anon!! i hope you enjoy... i lowkey had this in my drafts for a while, this gave me the perfect opportunity to post it:)
Pairing: spider-woman!ellie x journalist fem!reader
requests are open, send me your thoughts:)
Warnings: Violence, blood, injury, language, emotional intensity, sexual tension
summary: in which she saved you
masterlist
Rain battered your coat as you stepped onto the cracked sidewalk, neon lights casting puddles in green and pink. The tip had been simple: “Meet me at the docks. You want a real story? Come alone.”
Maybe you should’ve known it was a trap.
You only saw the glint of the knife when it was too late.
“Gotcha,” a man growled behind you, arms coiling around your waist like a vice. You struggled, panicked, your scream muffled by his gloved hand as you were dragged into the warehouse.
Inside, it smelled like rot and old metal. Four men. All armed. All staring at you like a problem they were about to solve with bullets or blades.
"You're the little journalist, huh?" one of them sneered, pacing toward you. "The one asking questions she shouldn't."
You were thrown to the ground. Pain exploded in your ribs. You tasted blood.
They circled.
You fought to stay conscious as a boot slammed into your gut, curling you up. Laughter echoed off the walls. And just as the knife rose above you—
Crash!!
Glass rained down. Something black and red dropped from the rafters like a meteor, slamming into the floor with bone-crunching force.
She stood there, tall and unshaken, the white spider emblazoned on her chest almost glowing in the dark. A mask with angry red lenses. Her suit was armored, sleek, and stained with what might’ve been someone else's blood.
Spider-Woman.
Everyone froze for one heartbeat. Then chaos erupted.
One of the men lunged. She moved like smoke, dodging low, and drove her elbow into his gut with a crack. He crumpled. Another fired—she twisted in mid-air, the bullet skimming off her shoulder with a shriek of metal. Webs shot from her wrists, pinning two of them to the wall in seconds.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t hesitate.
When the last one raised his gun, she leapt—arms wide, legs swinging—and drove him straight into a stack of crates with a deafening boom. He didn’t get up.
You were still gasping on the floor when she turned to you.
She didn’t say a word. Just stalked toward you and knelt down, scanning your face through that glowing mask.
"You're bleeding," she said—distorted, robotic.
"You noticed," you rasped, barely conscious.
Then you passed out in her arms.
You woke up on a worn-down cot in a room you didn’t recognize. A space heater buzzed softly in the corner. Concrete walls, dim lights, and the faint metallic scent of blood and antiseptic.
You sat up too fast. Pain screamed through your side. Bandages wrapped tight around your ribs. You blinked, heart pounding.
And then you saw her.
Spider-Woman stood in the shadows, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Mask still on. Silent.
"...You're the one who saved me," you said hoarsely.
She nodded. No words.
You exhaled shakily. “Why?”
Nothing.
“I—I could’ve died back there.”
“You almost did.” Her voice was softer now. Not robotic. Like she turned off the modulator. Your blood ran cold.
You’d heard that voice before. In a different place. A different life.
Your eyes narrowed.
“…Why do you sound familiar?”
She stiffened.
You sat up more, ignoring the pain. “Say something else.”
She turned away. “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”
Something in your chest twisted. “Wait. I know that voice. Ellie?”
She paused.
Then slowly, almost hesitantly, she lifted her fingers to the edge of her mask and pulled it back.
And there she was.
Messy auburn hair falling in sweaty strands. Green eyes that avoided yours. A busted lip. Blood on her cheek. And a look of guilt and fear so raw it made your throat close up.
Your best friend.
“Ellie?” you whispered again, stunned. “You’re Spider-Woman?”
She looked at you then, finally meeting your eyes.
“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” she said, her voice shaking. “But I couldn’t let them kill you.”
You stared. Shock warred with betrayal and something else—recognition. The bruised knuckles. The nights she disappeared. The lies. The pain in her eyes every time you asked where she’d been.
“You’ve been lying to me for years.”
“I was protecting you.”
“From what? The truth?”
“No. From them.” She stepped closer, jaw tight. “You don’t know what I’ve seen. What they’d do if they knew you mattered to me.”
You rose to your feet, adrenaline fueling your steps despite the pain. “You should’ve told me.”
“And then what? Let you look at me like I’m some freak? Let you walk into danger thinking I’d always be there to pull you out?”
“You were there,” you snapped. “You saved me.”
“I always save you,” she growled. “Even when you don’t know it.”
The air between you was hot. Sharp. Electric.
Her hands flexed at her sides.
You stepped even closer. “How many times?”
She swallowed hard. “Too many.”
You stared up at her. “Why?”
Silence.
And then, her voice broke. “Because I care about you. Because it’s always been you.”
Your breath caught. Your heart thudded.
You reached out—hand shaking—and cupped her jaw. She leaned into your touch like she hadn’t been touched in years.
“I should hate you,” you whispered.
“But you don’t.”
You didn’t. You wanted her.
So you kissed her.
It wasn’t soft. It was bruising. Desperate. Her hands gripped your waist, dragging you in like she couldn’t help it, her mouth opening against yours with a groan that came from somewhere deep in her chest. You clutched her suit, fingers tangling in the material, feeling the heat of her body through the armor.
When you pulled back, your foreheads touched. Breathless.
She whispered, “Say something.”
You opened your eyes.
“I still see you. Not the suit. Not the mask. You.”
She let out a shaky exhale—half-laugh, half-sob—and kissed you again.
Headcannons: ceo!abby anderson x fem!reader
masterlist
☆ Abby is the kind of CEO who commands a room the moment she walks in. Tailored suits, sharp jawline, low voice that cuts through the noise. People either fear her or fall in love with her—there’s no in-between.
☆ She didn’t inherit the company; she built her reputation through blood, sweat, and an iron will. Everyone knows the rumors: military background, strategic acquisitions, never smiles unless she’s already won.
☆ In meetings, she’s precise, no-nonsense. Employees scramble to meet deadlines because the idea of disappointing her is terrifying—but deep down, they respect her. She’s fair. She rewards loyalty, effort, and genius when she sees it.
☆ You work in one of the departments she rarely pays attention to—PR, internal communications, or perhaps you're an executive assistant brought in as a temp to cover someone’s maternity leave.
☆ She notices you because you’re not intimidated by her. You’re polite but blunt, you don’t fawn over her like others do. And when she gives you a task, you complete it perfectly—without needing a follow-up.
☆ The first time she really looks at you is when you correct a minor detail in one of her public statements. She stares at you for a beat too long, then nods. That’s when it all started.
☆ Abby is all control—she’s used to people submitting, obeying. But you? You don’t give her that satisfaction easily. It drives her insane and fascinates her at the same time.
☆ She tries to keep it professional, but her restraint cracks. She starts showing up near your desk more often than necessary, asking for “updates” she could have emailed about.
☆ You make her feel off-balance, and Abby hates being off-balance—but she keeps coming back for it.
☆ When the relationship starts, it’s secret. Very secret. Her rules: no one knows, no workplace displays, and absolutely no compromising your career because of her.
☆ But it doesn’t take long before those lines blur. She touches your wrist in meetings. She defends you publicly. She gets jealous when other execs talk to you.
☆ Abby’s bedroom persona is different—still dominant, but reverent. Like she’s worshipping something she doesn’t think she deserves.
☆ She tries to be gentle, but her hands are rough, and her need is overwhelming. She’ll press you into soft sheets in her penthouse, hair loose, voice husky as she murmurs your name like a prayer.
☆ Aftercare is where her walls drop: she wraps you in her arms, kisses your forehead, brushes your hair back. She doesn’t say much, but the way she holds you says it all.
☆ You’re the only person who’s seen Abby cry. It happened once after a brutal boardroom betrayal. You found her sitting alone in her office at 1AM, hands shaking, eyes red. She didn’t send you away.
☆ She doesn’t let anyone touch her unless she initiates—except you. If you brush your hand over hers during a bad day, she visibly relaxes. No one else has that power.
☆ She trusts you with her past. Military trauma, the father she lost, the fear of turning into a machine. You’re her anchor.
☆ Abby doesn’t get petty jealous—but if someone flirts with you at a company party, she’s by your side in seconds. Hand on your lower back, icy stare, soft command in your ear: “Come with me.”
☆ If you’re ever hurt, dismissed, or undermined at work, Abby becomes an unstoppable force. “They don’t work here anymore,” she’ll say flatly, her protectiveness quiet and lethal.
☆ Sends you flowers “anonymously” that somehow end up in the executive suite with your name on them.
☆ Leaves sticky notes on your monitor with short notes: “You killed it today.” “Dinner tonight, 8PM.” “Proud of you.”
☆ Hires a private chef for your birthday but insists on cooking breakfast herself the next morning in nothing but a shirt and boxers.
☆ Keeps a framed candid photo of you in her locked drawer. You don’t know about it, but she looks at it on the hardest days.
☆ Eventually, you’re not a secret anymore. Abby makes it public in her own way: attending a gala with you on her arm, no apology in her eyes.
☆ She promotes you—not because of your relationship, but because you’re damn good at what you do. She makes sure no one can question your worth.
☆ Talks about retirement one day. Not to quit, but to slow down. “Maybe we’ll move somewhere quieter,” she murmurs against your neck. “Somewhere with a garden.”
☆ You knew Abby loved her diary. She wrote everything in there, every emotion, every high and every low. You were never allowed to read it, until one day you were alone in her room you decided to take a peek:
January 3rd
11:47 PM – Office
I saw her again today.
Same desk. Same quiet smile. Same nerve to look me dead in the eye without flinching.
I shouldn’t notice. I shouldn’t care.
But I do. And it’s starting to piss me off.
-
February 9th
1:15 AM – Penthouse
She corrected me. In front of the team.
Tactfully. Respectfully. But it was still a correction.
And god, it turned me on.
What the hell is wrong with me?
-
March 2nd
10:06 PM – Gym Locker Room
She wore her hair up today. It pulled her features tighter, more severe. And yet, all I wanted to do was tug it loose and see her fall apart.
I made up a reason to call her into my office.
Five minutes of conversation about a report I didn’t read.
Her voice lingers longer than it should.
-
March 16th
12:22 AM – Office (again)
I touched her hand today.
Not by accident. Not in passing.
I could feel the pulse in her wrist—fast, unsure.
She didn’t pull away.
Neither did I.
I’m crossing lines now. I know it.
I don’t want to stop.
-
April 4th
2:02 AM – Bedroom
She kissed me first.
That’s what I’ll tell myself, even if I know it’s a lie.
We were in the elevator, alone. I leaned in. Maybe too close. She looked at me like she’d already forgiven the mistake I hadn’t made yet.
I kissed her like I hadn’t wanted anything else in years.
And she kissed me back.
I’m fucked.
-
April 22nd
3:35 AM – After she fell asleep
She sleeps like she trusts me.
That should terrify me.
Instead, I’m scared of how badly I want to earn it.
-
May 11th
11:11 PM – Office
Saw her laughing with one of the interns. I hated how it made me feel.
Possessive. Petty. Animal.
I smiled when she glanced over, but I wanted to drag her away and remind her who she belongs to.
No. Not "belongs."
That’s not right. She’s not mine.
But I’m hers.
And I don’t think she even knows it.
-
May 27th
9:49 PM – Her Apartment
She made dinner. It was bad. I ate every bite.
She looked so proud.
When she leaned over to kiss me, all I could think was: I’ve gone soft.
Then she whispered she loves me.
And just like that, I broke.
-
June 5th
Midnight – Private Jet
I’m bringing her to the gala. Publicly. No more secrets.
Let them talk. Let them guess.
She’s not a scandal.
She’s the only real thing I have.
-
July 1st
10:10 PM – Lake House (weekend getaway)
She made me promise I’d rest.
No emails. No meetings.
She’s outside reading a book right now. Feet in the water. Hair wind-blown.
I’m watching her through the window.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel... free.
Maybe love isn’t a weakness.
Maybe it’s the only reason I’ve survived this long.
Hello can you write a fic based off of ‘1 step forward and 3 steps back’ by Olivia Rodrigo ? thank you! <3
One Step Forward, Three Steps Back: ellie williams x reader
hi anon! i hope you like it:) I tried something new adding ellies pov.. i hope you dont mind:)
This story is based off the song one step forward, three steps back by olivia rodrigo. If you can, please listen to the song as you're reading:)
Pairing: ellie williams x fem!reader
requests are open, send me your thoughts:)
Warnings: Emotional manipulation, toxic patterns, heartbreak, strong language, emotional dependency, insecurity
Summary: In which your relationship always put you 3 steps back
Masterlist
"You got me fucked up in the head, boy."
You wish you could blame it on the trauma.
On the broken world. On the things she’s seen. The things you’ve seen.
But deep down, you know it’s more than that.
It’s her.
And it’s you.
And it’s this thing you keep calling love just to justify how much it hurts.
You’re sitting on her porch again, arms wrapped around your knees, watching as the sun dips behind the mountains. Her guitar is silent inside. So is she.
You said something wrong today.
You don’t know what, exactly—but her face changed. Her mouth pressed into that tight, unreadable line. She stopped laughing, handed you your coat, and mumbled something about needing to be alone. That was hours ago.
And you’re still here. Because she never told you to leave.
But she didn’t ask you to stay either.
Ellie’s hot and cold. Gentle and cruel. Soft one day, distant the next.
She kisses you like you’re the only thing anchoring her to the earth. Then pushes you away like she can’t stand to be touched.
You never know which version you’re going to get.
It’s always a guessing game.
A test you didn’t sign up for.
A trap she doesn’t even know she’s laying.
And every time you think you’re getting somewhere—one step forward—
She pulls away. Shuts down. Disappears.
Three steps back. Every. Time.
You remember the first time she let her walls down.
It was raining, the kind of cold that seeped through your bones. She had a nightmare and showed up at your door looking half-dead. You held her until she stopped shaking. She cried into your neck. Whispered “Don’t leave.” And you didn’t.
She kissed you like she meant it.
You thought it meant something.
Maybe it did.
Maybe it didn’t.
She never said.
"Do you love me, want me, hate me? Boy, I don’t understand."
Sometimes she calls you “baby.” Soft. Real.
Sometimes she calls you “dude,” or doesn’t say anything at all, just grunts and walks past you like you’re nothing.
It fucks you up.
You lay awake wondering what you did.
You second-guess everything you said, every look, every breath.
You practice conversations in your head, afraid that the wrong word will make her disappear again.
You used to be confident.
You used to be whole.
Now, you flinch when she raises her voice. You smile too quickly when she’s calm. You praise her for the bare minimum just because it means she isn’t angry.
You’re in love with someone who’s only ever half-there.
But god, when she’s there—
She’s everything.
ELLIE'S POV (ellie is refered to as you because its her pov! pls don't get confused. i tried writing it from her perspective lol)
“And maybe in some masochistic way, I kind of find it all exciting...”
You don’t mean to hurt her.
You really don’t.
But something in you breaks every time they get too close. Every time they see too much. Every time they look at you with those eyes full of hope and softness and trust.
You don’t deserve that.
You never did.
You love her. You know you do. But love feels like a leash—tight and terrifying. It means responsibility. It means hurting them, eventually. And you’ve already hurt too many people.
You don’t want to be that person again.
So you push. You pull.
You leave the room when things get too quiet. You snap at them when they ask what’s wrong. You disappear, come back, kiss them like they’re the air you breathe, and then say something that makes them question if any of it was real.
You hate yourself for it. But you don’t stop.
Because part of you—dark and broken and mean—likes the chaos.
At least you know how to survive in chaos. You don’t know how to survive in love.
YOUR POV
“Maybe I’m just not as interesting as the girls you had before.”
You hear her mention Dina in her sleep.
Just once.
A murmur. A sigh.
A name you’ve never asked about but always felt lingering.
You pretend you didn’t hear.
But the silence after that is louder than anything she’s ever said.
You try to leave. You pack your bag. You don’t say goodbye. You make it to the gate.
And she’s there.
Looking at you like she’s drowning. Like you’re the last thing keeping her above the surface.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just... I don’t know how to do this.”
You hate how fast you crumble.
You kiss her again. You stay again.
And it’s good. For a while.
Until the next wrong word. The next cold shoulder.
The next time you’re sitting on her porch wondering what the fuck you did wrong.
Because with Ellie Williams, it’s always one step forward... three steps back.
And you never know which one is coming next.
hii, i love your work!! could you write an ellie fanfic for periods mby? it could be user or her. tysmmm!!! <3
Crimson days - ellie willams x reader
hi queen!! I wrote this while on my period. I think we all need to be treated like this tbh.... I hope you enjoy:)
Pairing: ellie williams x fem!reader
requests are open, send me your thoughts:)
Warnings: Period cramps, implied period symptoms (bloating, mood swings), fluff overload, light cursing, domestic vibes
Summary: In which she needed comfort
Masterlist
“I’m not dying, I just feel like I am.”
Ellie’s curled on the couch like a defeated cat, hoodie pulled over her head, arms hugging a pillow to her stomach.
You hear her groan as you walk in, the kind of pained noise that makes you drop the supplies and immediately kneel beside her.
"Hey. That bad?"
She doesn’t answer—just gives a small, pathetic nod under the hoodie.
You brush some stray hair from her face and kiss her forehead. It’s hot—she always runs warm when she’s cramping. Her nose is pink. Her eyes watery.
“I brought chocolate,” you say softly. “And a hot water bottle. And those trashy action movies you like.”
She peeks at you with one eye. “The one where the guy jumps off the building with the motorcycle?”
You grin. “Director’s cut.”
She manages a half-smile, but it quickly fades when another cramp hits. She curls tighter, biting her lip.
“Okay,” you say gently. “Pants off.”
“What?”
“I’m putting the hot water bottle right where it hurts. Don’t argue.”
She blushes—Ellie, blushing—but obeys. You slide the warm bottle under the hoodie, pressing it gently to her lower stomach.
A breathy “fuck yes” escapes her mouth, and you chuckle.
Then, you lift her legs over your lap and start rubbing slow circles into her calves. She melts like butter—eyes fluttering shut, face relaxing.
“You’re too good to me.”
“You say that every month,” you murmur.
“Because it’s true every month.”
She opens her eyes again, softer this time. Vulnerable.
“I hate feeling like this,” she admits. “Like my body’s turning against me.”
You press your lips to her temple. “Your body’s just a little pissed off. It needs chocolate, heat, and a lot of love.”
She hums. “Got all three, huh?”
“All day, every day.”
You feed her tiny bites of chocolate while the movie plays, wiping a bit of it off her cheek with your thumb. She’s quiet now, calmer, one hand tracing lazy shapes on your thigh.
And when she finally drifts off—wrapped in warmth, comfort, and your arms—you don’t move.
Not even when your leg goes numb.
Because this is what love looks like:
Hot water bottles, stolen hoodies, and a girl tough enough to kill monsters but soft enough to need you.
hii!! I was wondering if you could maybe do Ellie taking care of an overwhelmed and overstimulated reader? in an anxiety attack context!
Quiet Room - ellie williams x reader
Hi anon!! I hope you enjoy:)
Pairing: Ellie Williams x Reader
requests are open, send me your thoughts and ideas:)
Warnings: Sensory overload, panic, anxiety attack symptoms, soft physical touch, protective!Ellie
Summary: in which you needed comfort
Masterlist
“Too much.”
It started with the noise.
The clink of silverware, someone’s loud laugh, the fireplace crackling, babies crying in another room.
Then the lights felt too bright. The air too thick. Your shirt too tight.
You tried to hold it in, to smile when Maria offered you pie, to nod along when Jesse joked about patrols.
But Ellie noticed.
Of course she did.
She always does.
She touched your arm—gentle, grounding.
“Hey. Wanna get some air?”
You nodded, maybe too quickly.
She didn’t say another word. Just grabbed your coat, your hand, and walked you out the back door without anyone noticing.
The moment the cold air hit your face, you exhaled like you hadn’t breathed in hours.
But it wasn’t enough.
Your chest still felt tight. Your skin itched. Your heart wouldn’t slow down.
You pressed your hands to your temples.
“I can’t—I can’t shut it off,” you whispered. “It’s too loud in my head.”
Ellie didn’t try to reason with you.
She didn’t say "you’re okay,” or “calm down.”
Instead, she nodded slowly, took both your hands in hers, and said:
“Okay. Then we’ll make it quiet.”
She led you to the stables, where it smelled like hay and saddle leather, not perfume and stress. Where the only noise was a soft whinny and your own uneven breathing.
She pulled you into an empty stall, sat you down, and knelt in front of you.
“Hands on me,” she said gently.
You hesitated.
“C’mon. Just... hold onto my jacket.”
You gripped the soft fabric, trembling.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Breathe in for four. Like this.”
She exaggerated her inhale, slow and deep.
You mirrored her.
“Now hold it... three... two... and let it go.”
You exhaled.
“Again.”
She did this with you for five minutes.
Every time your eyes darted to the shadows, she squeezed your knee.
Every time your breath hitched, she whispered: “With me.”
She didn’t leave you in that storm.
She sat in it with you.
And eventually… the waves calmed.
You opened your eyes. The buzzing was gone. The weight on your chest was lighter.
Ellie smiled softly.
“Hey. There you are.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “For ruining the night.”
She shook her head. “You didn’t ruin anything. You just needed space. That’s not a crime.”
You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to hers.
She stayed perfectly still—quiet, solid, safe.
“Next time,” she whispered, “we skip the party and hide in the barn from the start.”
You laughed, weakly. But real.